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Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: "Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain, No contrefeted termes had she To semen wise." --CHAUCER. It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing as soon as she was securely alone. But she was presently roused by a knock at the door, which made her hastily dry her eyes before saying, "Come in." Tantripp had brought a card, and said that there was a gentleman waiting in the lobby. The courier had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at home, but he said he was a relation of Mr. Casaubon's: would she see him? "Yes," said Dorothea, without pause; "show him into the salon." Her chief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she had seen him at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon's generosity towards him, and also that she had been interested in his own hesitation about his career. She was alive to anything that gave her an opportunity for active sympathy, and at this moment it seemed as if the visit had come to shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent--to remind her of her husband's goodness, and make her feel that she had now the right to be his helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute or two, but when she passed into the next room there were just signs enough that she had been crying to make her open face look more youthful and appealing than usual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite smile of good-will which is unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to him. He was the elder by several years, but at that moment he looked much the younger, for his transparent complexion flushed suddenly, and he spoke with a shyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his manner with his male companion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a wondering desire to put him at ease. "I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Rome, until this morning, when I saw you in the Vatican Museum," he said. "I knew you at once--but--I mean, that I concluded Mr. Casaubon's address would be found at the Poste Restante, and I was anxious to pay my respects to him and you as early as possible." "Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he will be glad to hear of you, I am sure," said Dorothea, seating herself unthinkingly between the fire and the light of the tall window, and pointing to a chair opposite, with the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs of girlish sorrow in her face were only the more striking. "Mr. Casaubon is much engaged; but you will leave your address--will you not?--and he will write to you." "You are very good," said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidence in the interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping which had altered her face. "My address is on my card. But if you will allow me I will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely to be at home." "He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you can hardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are about to leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost from breakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us." Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had never been fond of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense of obligation, would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the idea of this dried-up pedant, this elaborator of small explanations about as important as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in a vendor's back chamber, having first got this adorable young creature to marry him, and then passing his honeymoon away from her, groping after his mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole)--this sudden picture stirred him with a sort of comic disgust: he was divided between the impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse to burst into scornful invective. For an instant he felt that the struggle, was causing a queer contortion of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolved it into nothing more offensive than a merry smile. Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone back from her face too. Will Ladislaw's smile was delightful, unless you were angry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve and line as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and banishing forever the traces of moodiness. The reflection of that smile could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, "Something amuses you?" "Yes," said Will, quick in finding resources. "I am thinking of the sort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated my poor sketch with your criticism." "My criticism?" said Dorothea, wondering still more. "Surely not. I always feel particularly ignorant about painting." "I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just what was most cutting. You said--I dare say you don't remember it as I do--that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you. At least, you implied that." Will could laugh now as well as smile. "That was really my ignorance," said Dorothea, admiring Will's good-humor. "I must have said so only because I never could see any beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thought very fine. And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome. There are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy. At first when I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, or with rare pictures, I feel a kind of awe--like a child present at great ceremonies where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myself in the presence of some higher life than my own. But when I begin to examine the pictures one by one the life goes out of them, or else is something violent and strange to me. It must be my own dulness. I am seeing so much all at once, and not understanding half of it. That always makes one feel stupid. It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine--something like being blind, while people talk of the sky." "Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must be acquired," said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directness of Dorothea's confession.) "Art is an old language with a great many artificial affected styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one gets out of knowing them is the mere sense of knowing. I enjoy the art of all sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment to pieces I should find it made up of many different threads. There is something in daubing a little one's self, and having an idea of the process." "You mean perhaps to be a painter?" said Dorothea, with a new direction of interest. "You mean to make painting your profession? Mr. Casaubon will like to hear that you have chosen a profession." "No, oh no," said Will, with some coldness. "I have quite made up my mind against it. It is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing a great deal of the German artists here: I travelled from Frankfort with one of them. Some are fine, even brilliant fellows--but I should not like to get into their way of looking at the world entirely from the studio point of view." "That I can understand," said Dorothea, cordially. "And in Rome it seems as if there were so many things which are more wanted in the world than pictures. But if you have a genius for painting, would it not be right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do better things than these--or different, so that there might not be so many pictures almost all alike in the same place." There was no mistaking this simplicity, and Will was won by it into frankness. "A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of that sort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doing well what has been done already, at least not so well as to make it worth while. And I should never succeed in anything by dint of drudgery. If things don't come easily to me I never get them." "I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience," said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode of taking all life as a holiday. "Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon's opinion. He and I differ." The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea. She was all the more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of her morning's trouble. "Certainly you differ," she said, rather proudly. "I did not think of comparing you: such power of persevering devoted labor as Mr. Casaubon's is not common." Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additional impulse to the new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr. Casaubon. It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping this husband: such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the husband in question. Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no murder. "No, indeed," he answered, promptly. "And therefore it is a pity that it should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr. Casaubon read German he would save himself a great deal of trouble." "I do not understand you," said Dorothea, startled and anxious. "I merely mean," said Will, in an offhand way, "that the Germans have taken the lead in historical inquiries, and they laugh at results which are got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass while they have made good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw that he deafened himself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he read a Latin treatise written by a German. I was very sorry." Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and was unable to imagine the mode in which Dorothea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep himself in German writers; but very little achievement is required in order to pity another man's shortcomings. Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of her husband's life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for the question whether this young relative who was so much obliged to him ought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speak, but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of that thought. Will, however, having given that annihilating pinch, was rather ashamed, imagining from Dorothea's silence that he had offended her still more; and having also a conscience about plucking the tail-feathers from a benefactor. "I regretted it especially," he resumed, taking the usual course from detraction to insincere eulogy, "because of my gratitude and respect towards my cousin. It would not signify so much in a man whose talents and character were less distinguished." Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual with excited feeling, and said in her saddest recitative, "How I wish I had learned German when I was at Lausanne! There were plenty of German teachers. But now I can be of no use." There was a new light, but still a mysterious light, for Will in Dorothea's last words. The question how she had come to accept Mr. Casaubon--which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying that she must be disagreeable in spite of appearances--was not now to be answered on any such short and easy method. Whatever else she might be, she was not disagreeable. She was not coldly clever and indirectly satirical, but adorably simple and full of feeling. She was an angel beguiled. It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for the melodious fragments in which her heart and soul came forth so directly and ingenuously. The Aeolian harp again came into his mind. She must have made some original romance for herself in this marriage. And if Mr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to his lair with his talons simply and without legal forms, it would have been an unavoidable feat of heroism to release her and fall at her feet. But he was something more unmanageable than a dragon: he was a benefactor with collective society at his back, and he was at that moment entering the room in all the unimpeachable correctness of his demeanor, while Dorothea was looking animated with a newly roused alarm and regret, and Will was looking animated with his admiring speculation about her feelings. Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, but he did not swerve from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will rose and explained his presence. Mr. Casaubon was less happy than usual, and this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and more faded; else, the effect might easily have been produced by the contrast of his young cousin's appearance. The first impression on seeing Will was one of sunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty of his changing expression. Surely, his very features changed their form, his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought they saw decided genius in this coruscation. Mr. Casaubon, on the contrary, stood rayless. As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhaps not insensible to the contrast, but it was only mingled with other causes in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalf which was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by the realities of his lot and not by her own dreams. Yet it was a source of greater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality was agreeable, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. She felt an immense need of some one to speak to, and she had never before seen any one who seemed so quick and pliable, so likely to understand everything. Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably as well as pleasantly in Rome--had thought his intention was to remain in South Germany--but begged him to come and dine to-morrow, when he could converse more at large: at present he was somewhat weary. Ladislaw understood, and accepting the invitation immediately took his leave. Dorothea's eyes followed her husband anxiously, while he sank down wearily at the end of a sofa, and resting his elbow supported his head and looked on the floor. A little flushed, and with bright eyes, she seated herself beside him, and said-- "Forgive me for speaking so hastily to you this morning. I was wrong. I fear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome." "I am glad that you feel that, my dear," said Mr. Casaubon. He spoke quietly and bowed his head a little, but there was still an uneasy feeling in his eyes as he looked at her. "But you do forgive me?" said Dorothea, with a quick sob. In her need for some manifestation of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her own fault. Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its neck and kiss it? "My dear Dorothea--'who with repentance is not satisfied, is not of heaven nor earth:'--you do not think me worthy to be banished by that severe sentence," said Mr. Casaubon, exerting himself to make a strong statement, and also to smile faintly. Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come up with the sob would insist on falling. "You are excited, my dear. And I also am feeling some unpleasant consequences of too much mental disturbance," said Mr. Casaubon. In fact, he had it in his thought to tell her that she ought not to have received young Ladislaw in his absence: but he abstained, partly from the sense that it would be ungracious to bring a new complaint in the moment of her penitent acknowledgment, partly because he wanted to avoid further agitation of himself by speech, and partly because he was too proud to betray that jealousy of disposition which was not so exhausted on his scholarly compeers that there was none to spare in other directions. There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire: it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism. "I think it is time for us to dress," he added, looking at his watch. They both rose, and there was never any further allusion between them to what had passed on this day. Aber Dorothea erinnerte sich bis zuletzt mit der Lebendigkeit, mit der wir uns alle Epochen in unserer Erfahrung merken, wenn eine liebe Erwartung stirbt oder ein neues Motiv geboren wird. Heute hatte sie begonnen zu erkennen, dass sie unter einer wilden Verblendung gewesen war, in der Erwartung einer Reaktion ihrer Gefühle von Mr. Casaubon, und sie hatte das Erwachen einer Vorahnung gespürt, dass es ein trauriges Bewusstsein in seinem Leben geben könnte, das sowohl auf seiner Seite als auch auf ihrer eine ebenso große Notwendigkeit mit sich brachte. Wir alle werden in moralischer Dummheit geboren, indem wir die Welt als Euter betrachten, der uns selbst ernährt: Dorothea hatte frühzeitig begonnen, sich aus dieser Dummheit herauszuentwickeln, aber es war ihr leichter gefallen, sich vorzustellen, wie sie sich Mr. Casaubon widmen würde und in seiner Stärke und Weisheit weise und stark werden würde, als mit dieser Deutlichkeit, die nicht mehr Reflexion, sondern Gefühl ist - eine Idee, die auf die Direktheit des Sinnes zurückgeführt wird, wie die Solidität der Objekte -, dass er ein gleichwertiges Selbstzentrum hatte, von dem immer mit einem gewissen Unterschied Licht und Schatten fielen. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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

Dorothea kehrt vom Vatikan zurück und bricht in Tränen aus, sobald sie alleine ist. Genau in diesem Moment kommt Will zu einem Höflichkeitsbesuch. Sie fasst sich wieder und trifft ihn. Will ist fassungslos, als er erfährt, dass sie alleine auf ihrer Hochzeitsreise ist. Er ist "mit einer Art komischer Abscheu" erfüllt, wenn er daran denkt, wie Casaubon "alleine in seiner muffigen Sinnlosigkeit herumstochert, während seine neue Braut zu Hause dahinsiecht". Er wird mitfühlend und sie reagiert mit warmer Freundlichkeit. Sie merkt, dass sie frei über ihre verwirrende Reaktion auf den römischen Glanz sprechen kann, ohne abgewiesen zu werden. Will kritisiert scharf Casaubons Vernachlässigung der deutschen Gelehrten, deren Forschung er für die Forschung des Letzteren für wesentlich hält. Dorothea verteidigt Casaubon. Ihre Loyalität zu Herrn Casaubon macht sie für Will noch attraktiver. Er ist hin- und hergerissen zwischen dem Ekel gegenüber Herrn Casaubon und der Schuldgefühle, undankbar gegenüber seinem Wohltäter zu sein. Sie unterhalten sich angeregt, als Casaubon hereinkommt. Er ist offensichtlich nicht glücklich über die Szene, die sich ihm bietet, und ist formell höflich zu Will. Er entlässt ihn mit einer Einladung zum Abendessen am nächsten Tag. Will geht und Dorothea versucht, Frieden nach dem Streit am Morgen zu stiften. Casaubon akzeptiert ihre Bemühungen, ohne Wärme.

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

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

Lucius ist in der Nähe von Rom mit den Goten versammelt und drängt sie dazu, ihre Niederlage zu rächen. In diesem Moment werden Aaron und sein Kind als Gefangene zu ihm gebracht. Lucius kann erraten, dass Tamora die Mutter von Aarons Kind ist und beschließt, das Baby zu töten. Im Austausch für das Leben seines Kindes verspricht Aaron Lucius wichtige Informationen zu geben. Er enthüllt Lucius die Identität der Verunstalter von Lavinia, die Intrige, die Quintus und Martius verurteilt hat, und den Trick, der dazu führt, dass Titus seine Hand verliert. Er gesteht auch, dass er hinter all den Verschwörungen gegen Titus' Familie steckt. Auf die Frage, ob es ihm leidtut, sagt er, dass er für nichts, was er getan hat, bereue. Lucius glaubt, dass das Erhängen für Aaron ein sehr einfacher und einfacher Tod sein wird. In diesem Moment kommt Aemilius mit Saturninus' Einladung zu einer Aussprache mit Lucius in Titus' Haus, die Lucius annimmt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 quite fell in with this intensity that one day, on returning from a walk with the housemaid, Maisie should have found her in the hall, seated on the stool usually occupied by the telegraph-boys who haunted Beale Farange's door and kicked their heels while, in his room, answers to their missives took form with the aid of smoke-puffs and growls. It had seemed to her on their parting that Mrs. Wix had reached the last limits of the squeeze, but she now felt those limits to be transcended and that the duration of her visitor's hug was a direct reply to Miss Overmore's veto. She understood in a flash how the visit had come to be possible--that Mrs. Wix, watching her chance, must have slipped in under protection of the fact that papa, always tormented in spite of arguments with the idea of a school, had, for a three days' excursion to Brighton, absolutely insisted on the attendance of her adversary. It was true that when Maisie explained their absence and their important motive Mrs. Wix wore an expression so peculiar that it could only have had its origin in surprise. This contradiction indeed peeped out only to vanish, for at the very moment that, in the spirit of it, she threw herself afresh upon her young friend a hansom crested with neat luggage rattled up to the door and Miss Overmore bounded out. The shock of her encounter with Mrs. Wix was less violent than Maisie had feared on seeing her and didn't at all interfere with the sociable tone in which, under her rival's eyes, she explained to her little charge that she had returned, for a particular reason, a day sooner than she first intended. She had left papa--in such nice lodgings--at Brighton; but he would come back to his dear little home on the morrow. As for Mrs. Wix, papa's companion supplied Maisie in later converse with the right word for the attitude of this personage: Mrs. Wix "stood up" to her in a manner that the child herself felt at the time to be astonishing. This occurred indeed after Miss Overmore had so far raised her interdict as to make a move to the dining-room, where, in the absence of any suggestion of sitting down, it was scarcely more than natural that even poor Mrs. Wix should stand up. Maisie at once enquired if at Brighton, this time, anything had come of the possibility of a school; to which, much to her surprise, Miss Overmore, who had always grandly repudiated it, replied after an instant, but quite as if Mrs. Wix were not there: "It may be, darling, that something WILL come. The objection, I must tell you, has been quite removed." At this it was still more startling to hear Mrs. Wix speak out with great firmness. "I don't think, if you'll allow me to say so, that there's any arrangement by which the objection CAN be 'removed.' What has brought me here to-day is that I've a message for Maisie from dear Mrs. Farange." The child's heart gave a great thump. "Oh mamma's come back?" "Not yet, sweet love, but she's coming," said Mrs. Wix, "and she has--most thoughtfully, you know--sent me on to prepare you." "To prepare her for what, pray?" asked Miss Overmore, whose first smoothness began, with this news, to be ruffled. Mrs. Wix quietly applied her straighteners to Miss Overmore's flushed beauty. "Well, miss, for a very important communication." "Can't dear Mrs. Farange, as you so oddly call her, make her communications directly? Can't she take the trouble to write to her only daughter?" the younger lady demanded. "Maisie herself will tell you that it's months and months since she has had so much as a word from her." "Oh but I've written to mamma!" cried the child as if this would do quite as well. "That makes her treatment of you all the greater scandal," the governess in possession promptly declared. "Mrs. Farange is too well aware," said Mrs. Wix with sustained spirit, "of what becomes of her letters in this house." Maisie's sense of fairness hereupon interposed for her visitor. "You know, Miss Overmore, that papa doesn't like everything of mamma's." "No one likes, my dear, to be made the subject of such language as your mother's letters contain. They were not fit for the innocent child to see," Miss Overmore observed to Mrs. Wix. "Then I don't know what you complain of, and she's better without them. It serves every purpose that I'm in Mrs. Farange's confidence." Miss Overmore gave a scornful laugh. "Then you must be mixed up with some extraordinary proceedings!" "None so extraordinary," cried Mrs. Wix, turning very pale, "as to say horrible things about the mother to the face of the helpless daughter!" "Things not a bit more horrible, I think," Miss Overmore returned, "than those you, madam, appear to have come here to say about the father!" Mrs. Wix looked for a moment hard at Maisie, and then, turning again to this witness, spoke with a trembling voice. "I came to say nothing about him, and you must excuse Mrs. Farange and me if we're not so above all reproach as the companion of his travels." The young woman thus described stared at the apparent breadth of the description--she needed a moment to take it in. Maisie, however, gazing solemnly from one of the disputants to the other, noted that her answer, when it came, perched upon smiling lips. "It will do quite as well, no doubt, if you come up to the requirements of the companion of Mrs. Farange's!" Mrs. Wix broke into a queer laugh; it sounded to Maisie an unsuccessful imitation of a neigh. "That's just what I'm here to make known--how perfectly the poor lady comes up to them herself." She held up her head at the child. "You must take your mamma's message, Maisie, and you must feel that her wishing me to come to you with it this way is a great proof of interest and affection. She sends you her particular love and announces to you that she's engaged to be married to Sir Claude." "Sir Claude?" Maisie wonderingly echoed. But while Mrs. Wix explained that this gentleman was a dear friend of Mrs. Farange's, who had been of great assistance to her in getting to Florence and in making herself comfortable there for the winter, she was not too violently shaken to perceive her old friend's enjoyment of the effect of this news on Miss Overmore. That young lady opened her eyes very wide; she immediately remarked that Mrs. Farange's marriage would of course put an end to any further pretension to take her daughter back. Mrs. Wix enquired with astonishment why it should do anything of the sort, and Miss Overmore gave as an instant reason that it was clearly but another dodge in a system of dodges. She wanted to get out of the bargain: why else had she now left Maisie on her father's hands weeks and weeks beyond the time about which she had originally made such a fuss? It was vain for Mrs. Wix to represent--as she speciously proceeded to do--that all this time would be made up as soon as Mrs. Farange returned: she, Miss Overmore, knew nothing, thank heaven, about her confederate, but was very sure any person capable of forming that sort of relation with the lady in Florence would easily agree to object to the presence in his house of the fruit of a union that his dignity must ignore. It was a game like another, and Mrs. Wix's visit was clearly the first move in it. Maisie found in this exchange of asperities a fresh incitement to the unformulated fatalism in which her sense of her own career had long since taken refuge; and it was the beginning for her of a deeper prevision that, in spite of Miss Overmore's brilliancy and Mrs. Wix's passion, she should live to see a change in the nature of the struggle she appeared to have come into the world to produce. It would still be essentially a struggle, but its object would now be NOT to receive her. Mrs. Wix, after Miss Overmore's last demonstration, addressed herself wholly to the little girl, and, drawing from the pocket of her dingy old pelisse a small flat parcel, removed its envelope and wished to know if THAT looked like a gentleman who wouldn't be nice to everybody--let alone to a person he would be so sure to find so nice. Mrs. Farange, in the candour of new-found happiness, had enclosed a "cabinet" photograph of Sir Claude, and Maisie lost herself in admiration of the fair smooth face, the regular features, the kind eyes, the amiable air, the general glossiness and smartness of her prospective stepfather--only vaguely puzzled to suppose herself now with two fathers at once. Her researches had hitherto indicated that to incur a second parent of the same sex you had usually to lose the first. "ISN'T he sympathetic?" asked Mrs. Wix, who had clearly, on the strength of his charming portrait, made up her mind that Sir Claude promised her a future. "You can see, I hope," she added with much expression, "that HE'S a perfect gentleman!" Maisie had never before heard the word "sympathetic" applied to anybody's face; she heard it with pleasure and from that moment it agreeably remained with her. She testified moreover to the force of her own perception in a small soft sigh of response to the pleasant eyes that seemed to seek her acquaintance, to speak to her directly. "He's quite lovely!" she declared to Mrs. Wix. Then eagerly, irrepressibly, as she still held the photograph and Sir Claude continued to fraternise, "Oh can't I keep it?" she broke out. No sooner had she done so than she looked up from it at Miss Overmore: this was with the sudden instinct of appealing to the authority that had long ago impressed on her that she mustn't ask for things. Miss Overmore, to her surprise, looked distant and rather odd, hesitating and giving her time to turn again to Mrs. Wix. Then Maisie saw that lady's long face lengthen; it was stricken and almost scared, as if her young friend really expected more of her than she had to give. The photograph was a possession that, direly denuded, she clung to, and there was a momentary struggle between her fond clutch of it and her capability of every sacrifice for her precarious pupil. With the acuteness of her years, however, Maisie saw that her own avidity would triumph, and she held out the picture to Miss Overmore as if she were quite proud of her mother. "Isn't he just lovely?" she demanded while poor Mrs. Wix hungrily wavered, her straighteners largely covering it and her pelisse gathered about her with an intensity that strained its ancient seams. "It was to ME, darling," the visitor said, "that your mamma so generously sent it; but of course if it would give you particular pleasure--" she faltered, only gasping her surrender. Miss Overmore continued extremely remote. "If the photograph's your property, my dear, I shall be happy to oblige you by looking at it on some future occasion. But you must excuse me if I decline to touch an object belonging to Mrs. Wix." That lady had by this time grown very red. "You might as well see him this way, miss," she retorted, "as you certainly never will, I believe, in any other! Keep the pretty picture, by all means, my precious," she went on: "Sir Claude will be happy himself, I dare say, to give me one with a kind inscription." The pathetic quaver of this brave boast was not lost on Maisie, who threw herself so gratefully on the speaker's neck that, when they had concluded their embrace, the public tenderness of which, she felt, made up for the sacrifice she imposed, their companion had had time to lay a quick hand on Sir Claude and, with a glance at him or not, whisk him effectually out of sight. Released from the child's arms Mrs. Wix looked about for the picture; then she fixed Miss Overmore with a hard dumb stare; and finally, with her eyes on the little girl again, achieved the grimmest of smiles. "Well, nothing matters, Maisie, because there's another thing your mamma wrote about. She has made sure of me." Even after her loyal hug Maisie felt a bit of a sneak as she glanced at Miss Overmore for permission to understand this. But Mrs. Wix left them in no doubt of what it meant. "She has definitely engaged me--for her return and for yours. Then you'll see for yourself." Maisie, on the spot, quite believed she should; but the prospect was suddenly thrown into confusion by an extraordinary demonstration from Miss Overmore. "Mrs. Wix," said that young lady, "has some undiscoverable reason for regarding your mother's hold on you as strengthened by the fact that she's about to marry. I wonder then--on that system--what our visitor will say to your father's." Miss Overmore's words were directed to her pupil, but her face, lighted with an irony that made it prettier even than ever before, was presented to the dingy figure that had stiffened itself for departure. The child's discipline had been bewildering--had ranged freely between the prescription that she was to answer when spoken to and the experience of lively penalties on obeying that prescription. This time, nevertheless, she felt emboldened for risks; above all as something portentous seemed to have leaped into her sense of the relations of things. She looked at Miss Overmore much as she had a way of looking at persons who treated her to "grown up" jokes. "Do you mean papa's hold on me--do you mean HE'S about to marry?" "Papa's not about to marry--papa IS married, my dear. Papa was married the day before yesterday at Brighton." Miss Overmore glittered more gaily; meanwhile it came over Maisie, and quite dazzlingly, that her "smart" governess was a bride. "He's my husband, if you please, and I'm his little wife. So NOW we'll see who's your little mother!" She caught her pupil to her bosom in a manner that was not to be outdone by the emissary of her predecessor, and a few moments later, when things had lurched back into their places, that poor lady, quite defeated of the last word, had soundlessly taken flight. 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.

Frau Wix erscheint bei Beale Farange. Fräulein Overmore kann es nicht fassen. Sie hasst Frau Wix wirklich und alles, wofür sie steht, einschließlich Frau Farange. Aber Frau Wix behauptet sich, schlägt mit überraschend scharfen Worten zurück und schafft es, Maisie die Botschaft zu überbringen, die sie gekommen ist zu geben: dass ihre Mutter einen Mann namens Sir Claude heiraten wird. Frau Wix zeigt Maisie auch ein Bild des besagten Mannes, und die kleine Maisie ist sehr beeindruckt vom Aussehen ihres baldigen Stiefvaters. Maisie überredet Frau Wix, ihr das Bild zu geben, und Frau Wix gibt es widerwillig her. Aus dem Nichts verkündet Fräulein Overmore, dass auch sie gerade geheiratet hat: Mr. Farange.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf; while he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was the one little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the straight wolf- stock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye himself, physically, with but a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one. The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see with steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt, tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even to squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise (the forerunner of the growl), as he worked himself into a passion. And long before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother--a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She possessed a gentle, caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over his soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her and to doze off to sleep. Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping; but now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of time, and he was coming to learn his world quite well. His world was gloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim- lighted; but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the lair; but as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never oppressed by the narrow confines of his existence. But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light. He had discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he had any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions. It had been an irresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it. The light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the optic nerves had pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fibre of his body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant urges it toward the sun. Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and sisters were one with him. Never, in that period, did any of them crawl toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew them as if they were plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the light as a necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled blindly and chemically, like the tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each developed individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and desires, the attraction of the light increased. They were always crawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their mother. It was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of his mother than the soft, soothing tongue. In his insistent crawling toward the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled him over and over with swift, calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt; and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not incurring the risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dodging and by retreating. These were conscious actions, and were the results of his first generalisations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled automatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he _knew_ that it was hurt. He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat- killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat. The milk he had sucked with his first flickering life, was milk transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes had been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat half-digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs that already made too great demand upon her breast. But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow- cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws tight-clenched. And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most trouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave. The fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to day. He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it for an entrance. He did not know anything about entrances--passages whereby one goes from one place to another place. He did not know any other place, much less of a way to get there. So to him the entrance of the cave was a wall--a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside dweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world. It attracted him as a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside at all. There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father (he had already come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the world, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a bringer of meat)--his father had a way of walking right into the white far wall and disappearing. The grey cub could not understand this. Though never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures, he left the walls alone. Without thinking about it, he accepted this disappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and half-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother. In fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the kind of thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways. Yet his conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men. He had a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore. In reality, this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed over why a thing happened. How it happened was sufficient for him. Thus, when he had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least disturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his father and himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make- up. Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine. There came a time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer came from his mother's breast. At first, the cubs whimpered and cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no more spats and squabbles, no more tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while the adventures toward the far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life that was in them flickered and died down. One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf, too, left her litter and went out in search of meat. In the first days after the birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times back to the Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting of the snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and that source of supply was closed to him. When the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far white wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced. Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew stronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no longer lifted her head nor moved about. His little body rounded out with the meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her. She slept continuously, a tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame flickered lower and lower and at last went out. Then there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father appearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep in the entrance. This had happened at the end of a second and less severe famine. The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no way by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub. Hunting herself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx, she had followed a day-old trail of One Eye. And she had found him, or what remained of him, at the end of the trail. There were many signs of the battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair after having won the victory. Before she went away, the she-wolf had found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she had not dared to venture in. After that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided the left fork. For she knew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the lynx for a fierce, bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was all very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and bristling, up a tree; but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf to encounter a lynx--especially when the lynx was known to have a litter of hungry kittens at her back. But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it; and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would venture the left fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath. Kannst du 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.

Das einzige graue Jungtier und das wildeste Mitglied der Wölfin-Brut zeigt frühzeitig eine besondere Sensibilität und Fähigkeit zum Überleben. Er entdeckt, dass eine Wand der Höhle zur Außenwelt führt. Alle Jungen werden von dem Licht angezogen, doch die Wölfin hält sie zunächst mit ihrer Nase, dann mit ihrer Pfote von der "Lichtwand" fern. "So lernte er Schmerz." Doch schließlich hören auch seine Versuche auf, die Lichtwand zu erreichen, als sich der Hunger breitmacht: "Die Jungen schliefen, während das Leben in ihnen flackerte und erlosch." Verzweifelt auf der Suche nach Nahrung für ihren Nachwuchs verbringen Ein Auge und die Wölfin viel Zeit außerhalb des Höhlenbaus. Mit fortschreitender Hungersnot überlebt nur das graue Jungtier. Ein Auge kehrt schließlich nicht mehr zum Bau zurück; die Wölfin entdeckt das Überbleibsel von Ein Auge am Ende eines bestimmten Weges, den physischen Beweis für die verlorene Schlacht gegen den Luchs.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 first snowfall came early in December. I remember how the world looked from our sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: the low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and disappearing in the red grass. Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the cornfield, there was, faintly marked in the grass, a great circle where the Indians used to ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they galloped round that ring the Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a stake in the center; but grandfather thought they merely ran races or trained horses there. Whenever one looked at this slope against the setting sun, the circle showed like a pattern in the grass; and this morning, when the first light spray of snow lay over it, it came out with wonderful distinctness, like strokes of Chinese white on canvas. The old figure stirred me as it had never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter. As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive about the country in a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by fastening a wooden goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a cabinet-maker in the old country and was very handy with tools. He would have done a better job if I had n't hurried him. My first trip was to the post-office, and the next day I went over to take Yulka and Antonia for a sleigh-ride. It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo robes into the box, and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. When I got to the Shimerdas' I did not go up to the house, but sat in my sleigh at the bottom of the draw and called. Antonia and Yulka came running out, wearing little rabbit-skin hats their father had made for them. They had heard about my sledge from Ambrosch and knew why I had come. They tumbled in beside me and we set off toward the north, along a road that happened to be broken. The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the glittering white stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As Antonia said, the whole world was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for familiar landmarks. The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound was now only a cleft between snow-drifts--very blue when one looked down into it. The tree-tops that had been gold all the autumn were dwarfed and twisted, as if they would never have any life in them again. The few little cedars, which were so dull and dingy before, now stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind had the burning taste of fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if some one had opened a hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same time delighted one. My horse's breath rose like steam, and whenever we stopped he smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their color under the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the sun and snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the actual impression of the stinging lash in the wind. The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; they kept shivering beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other for warmth. But they were so glad to get away from their ugly cave and their mother's scolding that they begged me to go on and on, as far as Russian Peter's house. The great fresh open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like wild things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go home again. Could n't we settle down and live in Russian Peter's house, Yulka asked, and could n't I go to town and buy things for us to keep house with? All the way to Russian Peter's we were extravagantly happy, but when we turned back,--it must have been about four o'clock,--the east wind grew stronger and began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky became gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it around Yulka's throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her head under the buffalo robe. Antonia and I sat erect, but I held the reins clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good deal of the time. It was growing dark when we got to their house, but I refused to go in with them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache terribly if I went near a fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my comforter, and I had to drive home directly against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks. The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days--like a tight little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day, husking corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down over their ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think they were like Arctic explorers. In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs darning, or making husking-gloves, I read "The Swiss Family Robinson" aloud to her, and I felt that the Swiss family had no advantages over us in the way of an adventurous life. I was convinced that man's strongest antagonist is the cold. I admired the cheerful zest with which grandmother went about keeping us warm and comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when she was preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was not like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, "very little to do with." On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat. She baked either pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made my favorite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a bag. Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most interesting things we had to think about. Our lives centered around warmth and food and the return of the men at nightfall. I used to wonder, when they came in tired from the fields, their feet numb and their hands cracked and sore, how they could do all the chores so conscientiously: feed and water and bed the horses, milk the cows, and look after the pigs. When supper was over, it took them a long while to get the cold out of their bones. While grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather read his paper upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the stove, "easing" their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into their cracked hands. Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, and Otto Fuchs used to sing, "For I Am a Cowboy and Know I've Done Wrong," or, "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairee." He had a good baritone voice and always led the singing when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse. I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; Otto's close-clipped head and Jake's shaggy hair slicked flat in front by a wet comb. I can see the sag of their tired shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good fellows they were, how much they knew, and how many things they had kept faith with! Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a bar-tender, a miner; had wandered all over that great Western country and done hard work everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had nothing to show for it. Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely read, wrote even his name with difficulty, and he had a violent temper which sometimes made him behave like a crazy man--tore him all to pieces and actually made him ill. But he was so soft-hearted that any one could impose upon him. If he, as he said, "forgot himself" and swore before grandmother, he went about depressed and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the cold in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and to meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare themselves. Yet they were the sort of men who never get on, somehow, or do anything but work hard for a dollar or two a day. On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the old stove that fed us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could hear the coyotes howling down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry cry used to remind the boys of wonderful animal stories; about gray wolves and bears in the Rockies, wildcats and panthers in the Virginia mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be persuaded to talk about the outlaws and desperate characters he had known. I remember one funny story about himself that made grandmother, who was working her bread on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with her bare arm, her hands being floury. It was like this:-- When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was asked by one of his relatives to look after a woman who was crossing on the same boat, to join her husband in Chicago. The woman started off with two children, but it was clear that her family might grow larger on the journey. Fuchs said he "got on fine with the kids," and liked the mother, though she played a sorry trick on him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but three! This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he was traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, who made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in Otto, and often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets were taken ashore at New York, he had, as he said, "to carry some of them." The trip to Chicago was even worse than the ocean voyage. On the train it was very difficult to get milk for the babies and to keep their bottles clean. The mother did her best, but no woman, out of her natural resources, could feed three babies. The husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture factory for modest wages, and when he met his family at the station he was rather crushed by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in some fashion to blame. "I was sure glad," Otto concluded, "that he did n't take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he had a sullen eye for me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young feller's having such hard luck, Mrs. Burden?" Grandmother told him she was sure the Lord had remembered these things to his credit, and had helped him out of many a scrape when he did n't realize that he was being protected by Providence. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Es beginnt im frühen Dezember zu schneien. Otto Fuchs baut einen Schlitten für Jim aus einer Holzkiste. Jim hakt den Schlitten an sein Pferd und fährt Antonia und Julka abholen. Die Mädchen sind nicht für den Winter angezogen, also frieren sie die ganze Zeit, aber dennoch freuen sie sich, draußen Spaß zu haben, anstatt den ganzen Tag in ihrem Höhlenhaus zu stecken und von ihrer Mutter ausgeschimpft zu werden. Die drei fahren zu Pavel und Peters altem Haus. Als sie nach Hause kommen, wird es dunkel und der Wind nimmt zu. Jim setzt sie vor ihrem Haus ab und beeilt sich nach Hause, aber er ist so durchgefroren, dass er sich eine Erkältung holt, die ihn zwei Wochen lang im Haus festhält. Die Küche im Keller ist ein warmer und sicherer Ort in einer sehr kalten Welt. Die Männer arbeiten den ganzen Tag draußen. Jim ist erstaunt über ihre Hingabe an ihre Aufgaben. Er bleibt drinnen und liest "Die Schweizer Familie Robinson" und denkt, dass sein eigenes Leben in Nebraska viel abenteuerlicher ist. Wenn die Männer abends hereinkommen, müssen sie den ganzen Abend arbeiten, um die Kälte aus ihren Knochen zu bekommen. Jim erinnert sich immer noch daran, wie Jake und Otto da saßen, abgekämpft und rieben Hammelfett auf ihre rissigen Hände. Fuchs hat viele Jobs gehabt: Cowboy, Kutschfahrer, Barkeeper und Bergarbeiter. Jake ist nicht so schlau wie Fuchs. Er ist fast analphabetisch. Er hat einen schrecklichen Zorn, der ihn manchmal verrückt erscheinen lässt. Er ist auch sehr einfühlsam. Wenn er versehentlich vor Mrs. Burden flucht, geht er tagelang beschämt herum. Die beiden Männer arbeiten sehr hart und beschweren sich nie. Jim fragt sich, warum sie nie mehr als Arbeiter geworden sind. Eines Nachts erzählt Otto die Geschichte, als er in die Vereinigten Staaten kam. Einer seiner Verwandten bat ihn, sich um eine Frau zu kümmern, die mit ihm auf demselben Schiff über den Ozean reiste. Sie hatte zwei Kinder und ein weiteres war unterwegs. Auf halbem Weg über den Ozean brachte sie Drillinge zur Welt. Jeder an Bord sah Otto an, als wäre er für etwas Monströses verantwortlich. Selbst als sie in den USA ankamen und ihr Ehemann die große Familie sah, schaute er Otto an, als wäre es seine Schuld. Frau Burden sagte ihm, Gott habe sich wahrscheinlich gut um ihn gekümmert, als Ausgleich für diese schwierige Reise.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 some two months later in the year, and the pair had met constantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering. One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers thereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude, who seemed sad. "I am going away," he said to her. "I think I ought to go. I think it will be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never begun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late to mend." Arabella began to cry. "How do you know it is not too late?" she said. "That's all very well to say! I haven't told you yet!" and she looked into his face with streaming eyes. "What?" he asked, turning pale. "Not...?" "Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me?" "Oh, Arabella--how can you say that, my dear! You KNOW I wouldn't desert you!" "Well then--" "I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have thought of this before... But, of course if that's the case, we must marry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?" "I thought--I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!" "You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even three, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans--I mean my plans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all! Dreams about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that. Certainly we'll marry: we must!" That night he went out alone, and walked in the dark self-communing. He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done, he was ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically. The banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books to buy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs, Arabella's parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of conduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The parson who married them seemed to think it satisfactory too. And so, standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every other time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired during the few preceding weeks. What was as remarkable as the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at what they swore. Fawley's aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of his living to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his father and mother. Of this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companions in the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet "_In remembrance of good advice_." The prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason's apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however, felt that all these make-shifts were temporary; she had gained a husband; that was the thing--a husband with a lot of earning power in him for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get frightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid books for practical undertakings. So to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving up his old room at his aunt's--where so much of the hard labour at Greek and Latin had been carried on. A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking-glass which he had bought her. "What--it wasn't your own?" he said, with a sudden distaste for her. "Oh no--it never is nowadays with the better class." "Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to be different. Besides, you've enough of your own, surely?" "Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more, and when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham--" "Barmaid at Aldbrickham?" "Well, not exactly barmaid--I used to draw the drink at a public-house there--just for a little time; that was all. Some people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the better in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town than all your Christminsters. Every lady of position wears false hair--the barber's assistant told me so." Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct towards artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts in counterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to think no more of it. A new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy. There is a certain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent awhile of the real. Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one market-day with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her former friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding. As usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them without saying it. "So it turned out a good plan, you see!" remarked the girl to the wife. "I knew it would with such as him. He's a dear good fellow, and you ought to be proud of un." "I am," said Mrs. Fawley quietly. "And when do you expect?" "Ssh! Not at all." "What!" "I was mistaken." "Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that's clever--it's a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought o', wi' all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the real thing--not that one could sham it!" "Don't you be too quick to cry sham! 'Twasn't sham. I didn't know." "My word--won't he be in a taking! He'll give it to 'ee o' Saturday nights! Whatever it was, he'll say it was a trick--a double one, by the Lord!" "I'll own to the first, but not to the second... Pooh--he won't care! He'll be glad I was wrong in what I said. He'll shake down, bless 'ee--men always do. What can 'em do otherwise? Married is married." Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Arabella approached the time when in the natural course of things she would have to reveal that the alarm she had raised had been without foundation. The occasion was one evening at bedtime, and they were in their chamber in the lonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked home from his work every day. He had worked hard the whole twelve hours, and had retired to rest before his wife. When she came into the room he was between sleeping and waking, and was barely conscious of her undressing before the little looking-glass as he lay. One action of hers, however, brought him to full cognition. Her face being reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she was amusing herself by artificially producing in each cheek the dimple before alluded to, a curious accomplishment of which she was mistress, effecting it by a momentary suction. It seemed to him for the first time that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face during his intercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the earlier weeks of their acquaintance. "Don't do that, Arabella!" he said suddenly. "There is no harm in it, but--I don't like to see you." She turned and laughed. "Lord, I didn't know you were awake!" she said. "How countrified you are! That's nothing." "Where did you learn it?" "Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when I was at the public-house; but now they won't. My face was fatter then." "I don't care about dimples. I don't think they improve a woman--particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you." "Most men think otherwise." "I don't care what most men think, if they do. How do you know?" "I used to be told so when I was serving in the tap-room." "Ah--that public-house experience accounts for your knowing about the adulteration of the ale when we went and had some that Sunday evening. I thought when I married you that you had always lived in your father's house." "You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was a little more finished than I could have been by staying where I was born. There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I went away for three months." "You'll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won't you?" "How do you mean?" "Why, of course--little things to make." "Oh." "When will it be? Can't you tell me exactly, instead of in such general terms as you have used?" "Tell you?" "Yes--the date." "There's nothing to tell. I made a mistake." "What?" "It was a mistake." He sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her. "How can that be?" "Women fancy wrong things sometimes." "But--! Why, of course, so unprepared as I was, without a stick of furniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn't have hurried on our affair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was ready, if it had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary to save you, ready or no... Good God!" "Don't take on, dear. What's done can't be undone." "I have no more to say!" He gave the answer simply, and lay down; and there was silence between them. When Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to see the world with a different eye. As to the point in question he was compelled to accept her word; in the circumstances he could not have acted otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail? There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social ritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed schemes involving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man's one opportunity of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of contributing his units of work to the general progress of his generation, because of a momentary surprise by a new and transitory instinct which had nothing in it of the nature of vice, and could be only at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he had done, or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught in a gin which would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a lifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate in the fact that the immediate reason of his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But the marriage remained. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Zwei Monate später erzählt Arabella Jude, dass sie schwanger ist. Obwohl er gesagt hat, dass es Zeit für ihn ist, nach Christminster zu gehen, verspricht er, sie zu heiraten und spricht von seinen unmöglichen Träumen. Sie heiraten und ziehen in ein Cottage in der Nähe der Straße zwischen dem Brown House und Marygreen. Jude entdeckt schnell einiges über seine Frau: dass sie eine Perücke trägt, dass sie einmal Bardame war und dass ihre Grübchen künstlich sind. Nachdem sie einem ihrer Freunde zugibt, dass sie überhaupt nicht schwanger ist, ist Arabella besorgt, es Jude zu sagen. Als sie es schließlich tut, erkennt er, wie unnötig die Ehe ist; Arabella ist zufrieden mit ihrem legalen Status. Er fragt sich in Gedanken über die Gerechtigkeit einer Gesellschaft, die einen Menschen zwingt, seine höchsten Ziele 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: On the morrow of that Monday, Earnshaw being still unable to follow his ordinary employments, and therefore remaining about the house, I speedily found it would be impracticable to retain my charge beside me, as heretofore. She got downstairs before me, and out into the garden, where she had seen her cousin performing some easy work; and when I went to bid them come to breakfast, I saw she had persuaded him to clear a large space of ground from currant and gooseberry bushes, and they were busy planning together an importation of plants from the Grange. I was terrified at the devastation which had been accomplished in a brief half-hour; the black-currant trees were the apple of Joseph's eye, and she had just fixed her choice of a flower-bed in the midst of them. 'There! That will be all shown to the master,' I exclaimed, 'the minute it is discovered. And what excuse have you to offer for taking such liberties with the garden? We shall have a fine explosion on the head of it: see if we don't! Mr. Hareton, I wonder you should have no more wit than to go and make that mess at her bidding!' 'I'd forgotten they were Joseph's,' answered Earnshaw, rather puzzled; 'but I'll tell him I did it.' We always ate our meals with Mr. Heathcliff. I held the mistress's post in making tea and carving; so I was indispensable at table. Catherine usually sat by me, but to-day she stole nearer to Hareton; and I presently saw she would have no more discretion in her friendship than she had in her hostility. 'Now, mind you don't talk with and notice your cousin too much,' were my whispered instructions as we entered the room. 'It will certainly annoy Mr. Heathcliff, and he'll be mad at you both.' 'I'm not going to,' she answered. The minute after, she had sidled to him, and was sticking primroses in his plate of porridge. He dared not speak to her there: he dared hardly look; and yet she went on teasing, till he was twice on the point of being provoked to laugh. I frowned, and then she glanced towards the master: whose mind was occupied on other subjects than his company, as his countenance evinced; and she grew serious for an instant, scrutinizing him with deep gravity. Afterwards she turned, and recommenced her nonsense; at last, Hareton uttered a smothered laugh. Mr. Heathcliff started; his eye rapidly surveyed our faces, Catherine met it with her accustomed look of nervousness and yet defiance, which he abhorred. 'It is well you are out of my reach,' he exclaimed. 'What fiend possesses you to stare back at me, continually, with those infernal eyes? Down with them! and don't remind me of your existence again. I thought I had cured you of laughing.' 'It was me,' muttered Hareton. 'What do you say?' demanded the master. Hareton looked at his plate, and did not repeat the confession. Mr. Heathcliff looked at him a bit, and then silently resumed his breakfast and his interrupted musing. We had nearly finished, and the two young people prudently shifted wider asunder, so I anticipated no further disturbance during that sitting: when Joseph appeared at the door, revealing by his quivering lip and furious eyes that the outrage committed on his precious shrubs was detected. He must have seen Cathy and her cousin about the spot before he examined it, for while his jaws worked like those of a cow chewing its cud, and rendered his speech difficult to understand, he began:-- 'I mun hev' my wage, and I mun goa! I _hed_ aimed to dee wheare I'd sarved fur sixty year; and I thowt I'd lug my books up into t' garret, and all my bits o' stuff, and they sud hev' t' kitchen to theirseln; for t' sake o' quietness. It wur hard to gie up my awn hearthstun, but I thowt I _could_ do that! But nah, shoo's taan my garden fro' me, and by th' heart, maister, I cannot stand it! Yah may bend to th' yoak an ye will--I noan used to 't, and an old man doesn't sooin get used to new barthens. I'd rayther arn my bite an' my sup wi' a hammer in th' road!' 'Now, now, idiot!' interrupted Heathcliff, 'cut it short! What's your grievance? I'll interfere in no quarrels between you and Nelly. She may thrust you into the coal-hole for anything I care.' 'It's noan Nelly!' answered Joseph. 'I sudn't shift for Nelly--nasty ill nowt as shoo is. Thank God! _shoo_ cannot stale t' sowl o' nob'dy! Shoo wer niver soa handsome, but what a body mud look at her 'bout winking. It's yon flaysome, graceless quean, that's witched our lad, wi' her bold een and her forrard ways--till--Nay! it fair brusts my heart! He's forgotten all I've done for him, and made on him, and goan and riven up a whole row o' t' grandest currant-trees i' t' garden!' and here he lamented outright; unmanned by a sense of his bitter injuries, and Earnshaw's ingratitude and dangerous condition. 'Is the fool drunk?' asked Mr. Heathcliff. 'Hareton, is it you he's finding fault with?' 'I've pulled up two or three bushes,' replied the young man; 'but I'm going to set 'em again.' 'And why have you pulled them up?' said the master. Catherine wisely put in her tongue. 'We wanted to plant some flowers there,' she cried. 'I'm the only person to blame, for I wished him to do it.' 'And who the devil gave _you_ leave to touch a stick about the place?' demanded her father-in-law, much surprised. 'And who ordered _you_ to obey her?' he added, turning to Hareton. The latter was speechless; his cousin replied--'You shouldn't grudge a few yards of earth for me to ornament, when you have taken all my land!' 'Your land, insolent slut! You never had any,' said Heathcliff. 'And my money,' she continued; returning his angry glare, and meantime biting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast. 'Silence!' he exclaimed. 'Get done, and begone!' 'And Hareton's land, and his money,' pursued the reckless thing. 'Hareton and I are friends now; and I shall tell him all about you!' The master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and rose up, eyeing her all the while, with an expression of mortal hate. 'If you strike me, Hareton will strike you,' she said; 'so you may as well sit down.' 'If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I'll strike him to hell,' thundered Heathcliff. 'Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse him against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into the kitchen! I'll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let her come into my sight again!' Hareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go. 'Drag her away!' he cried, savagely. 'Are you staying to talk?' And he approached to execute his own command. 'He'll not obey you, wicked man, any more,' said Catherine; 'and he'll soon detest you as much as I do.' 'Wisht! wisht!' muttered the young man, reproachfully; 'I will not hear you speak so to him. Have done.' 'But you won't let him strike me?' she cried. 'Come, then,' he whispered earnestly. It was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her. 'Now, _you_ go!' he said to Earnshaw. 'Accursed witch! this time she has provoked me when I could not bear it; and I'll make her repent it for ever!' He had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her locks, entreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff's black eyes flashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, and I was just worked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a sudden his fingers relaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to her arm, and gazed intently in her face. Then he drew his hand over his eyes, stood a moment to collect himself apparently, and turning anew to Catherine, said, with assumed calmness--'You must learn to avoid putting me in a passion, or I shall really murder you some time! Go with Mrs. Dean, and keep with her; and confine your insolence to her ears. As to Hareton Earnshaw, if I see him listen to you, I'll send him seeking his bread where he can get it! Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar. Nelly, take her; and leave me, all of you! Leave me!' I led my young lady out: she was too glad of her escape to resist; the other followed, and Mr. Heathcliff had the room to himself till dinner. I had counselled Catherine to dine up-stairs; but, as soon as he perceived her vacant seat, he sent me to call her. He spoke to none of us, ate very little, and went out directly afterwards, intimating that he should not return before evening. The two new friends established themselves in the house during his absence; where I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin, on her offering a revelation of her father-in-law's conduct to his father. He said he wouldn't suffer a word to be uttered in his disparagement: if he were the devil, it didn't signify; he would stand by him; and he'd rather she would abuse himself, as she used to, than begin on Mr. Heathcliff. Catherine was waxing cross at this; but he found means to make her hold her tongue, by asking how she would like _him_ to speak ill of her father? Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the master's reputation home to himself; and was attached by ties stronger than reason could break--chains, forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in avoiding both complaints and expressions of antipathy concerning Heathcliff; and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to raise a bad spirit between him and Hareton: indeed, I don't believe she has ever breathed a syllable, in the latter's hearing, against her oppressor since. When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I came in to sit with them, after I had done my work; and I felt so soothed and comforted to watch them, that I did not notice how time got on. You know, they both appeared in a measure my children: I had long been proud of one; and now, I was sure, the other would be a source of equal satisfaction. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off rapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been bred; and Catherine's sincere commendations acted as a spur to his industry. His brightening mind brightened his features, and added spirit and nobility to their aspect: I could hardly fancy it the same individual I had beheld on the day I discovered my little lady at Wuthering Heights, after her expedition to the Crags. While I admired and they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it returned the master. He came upon us quite unexpectedly, entering by the front way, and had a full view of the whole three, ere we could raise our heads to glance at him. Well, I reflected, there was never a pleasanter, or more harmless sight; and it will be a burning shame to scold them. The red fire-light glowed on their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with the eager interest of children; for, though he was twenty-three and she eighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn, that neither experienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober disenchanted maturity. They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff: perhaps you have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Catherine Earnshaw. The present Catherine has no other likeness to her, except a breadth of forehead, and a certain arch of the nostril that makes her appear rather haughty, whether she will or not. With Hareton the resemblance is carried farther: it is singular at all times, _then_ it was particularly striking; because his senses were alert, and his mental faculties wakened to unwonted activity. I suppose this resemblance disarmed Mr. Heathcliff: he walked to the hearth in evident agitation; but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young man: or, I should say, altered its character; for it was there yet. He took the book from his hand, and glanced at the open page, then returned it without any observation; merely signing Catherine away: her companion lingered very little behind her, and I was about to depart also, but he bid me sit still. 'It is a poor conclusion, is it not?' he observed, having brooded awhile on the scene he had just witnessed: 'an absurd termination to my violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two houses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and when everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a slate off either roof has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me; now would be the precise time to revenge myself on their representatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me. But where is the use? I don't care for striking: I can't take the trouble to raise my hand! That sounds as if I had been labouring the whole time only to exhibit a fine trait of magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing. 'Nelly, there is a strange change approaching; I'm in its shadow at present. I take so little interest in my daily life that I hardly remember to eat and drink. Those two who have left the room are the only objects which retain a distinct material appearance to me; and that appearance causes me pain, amounting to agony. About _her_ I won't speak; and I don't desire to think; but I earnestly wish she were invisible: her presence invokes only maddening sensations. _He_ moves me differently: and yet if I could do it without seeming insane, I'd never see him again! You'll perhaps think me rather inclined to become so,' he added, making an effort to smile, 'if I try to describe the thousand forms of past associations and ideas he awakens or embodies. But you'll not talk of what I tell you; and my mind is so eternally secluded in itself, it is tempting at last to turn it out to another. 'Five minutes ago Hareton seemed a personification of my youth, not a human being; I felt to him in such a variety of ways, that it would have been impossible to have accosted him rationally. In the first place, his startling likeness to Catherine connected him fearfully with her. That, however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my imagination, is actually the least: for what is not connected with her to me? and what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped in the flags! In every cloud, in every tree--filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day--I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women--my own features--mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her! Well, Hareton's aspect was the ghost of my immortal love; of my wild endeavours to hold my right; my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and my anguish-- 'But it is frenzy to repeat these thoughts to you: only it will let you know why, with a reluctance to be always alone, his society is no benefit; rather an aggravation of the constant torment I suffer: and it partly contributes to render me regardless how he and his cousin go on together. I can give them no attention any more.' 'But what do you mean by a _change_, Mr. Heathcliff?' I said, alarmed at his manner: though he was neither in danger of losing his senses, nor dying, according to my judgment: he was quite strong and healthy; and, as to his reason, from childhood he had a delight in dwelling on dark things, and entertaining odd fancies. He might have had a monomania on the subject of his departed idol; but on every other point his wits were as sound as mine. 'I shall not know that till it comes,' he said; 'I'm only half conscious of it now.' 'You have no feeling of illness, have you?' I asked. 'No, Nelly, I have not,' he answered. 'Then you are not afraid of death?' I pursued. 'Afraid? No!' he replied. 'I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and probably _shall_, remain above ground till there is scarcely a black hair on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe--almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so unwaveringly, that I'm convinced it will be reached--and soon--because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the anticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me; but they may account for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour which I show. O God! It is a long fight; I wish it were over!' He began to pace the room, muttering terrible things to himself, till I was inclined to believe, as he said Joseph did, that conscience had turned his heart to an earthly hell. I wondered greatly how it would end. Though he seldom before had revealed this state of mind, even by looks, it was his habitual mood, I had no doubt: he asserted it himself; but not a soul, from his general bearing, would have conjectured the fact. You did not when you saw him, Mr. Lockwood: and at the period of which I speak, he was just the same as then; only fonder of continued solitude, and perhaps still more laconic in company. For some days after that evening Mr. Heathcliff shunned meeting us at meals; yet he would not consent formally to exclude Hareton and Cathy. He had an aversion to yielding so completely to his feelings, choosing rather to absent himself; and eating once in twenty-four hours seemed sufficient sustenance for him. One night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go downstairs, and out at the front door. I did not hear him re-enter, and in the morning I found he was still away. We were in April then: the weather was sweet and warm, the grass as green as showers and sun could make it, and the two dwarf apple-trees near the southern wall in full bloom. After breakfast, Catherine insisted on my bringing a chair and sitting with my work under the fir-trees at the end of the house; and she beguiled Hareton, who had perfectly recovered from his accident, to dig and arrange her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by the influence of Joseph's complaints. I was comfortably revelling in the spring fragrance around, and the beautiful soft blue overhead, when my young lady, who had run down near the gate to procure some primrose roots for a border, returned only half laden, and informed us that Mr. Heathcliff was coming in. 'And he spoke to me,' she added, with a perplexed countenance. 'What did he say?' asked Hareton. 'He told me to begone as fast as I could,' she answered. 'But he looked so different from his usual look that I stopped a moment to stare at him.' 'How?' he inquired. 'Why, almost bright and cheerful. No, _almost_ nothing--_very much_ excited, and wild, and glad!' she replied. 'Night-walking amuses him, then,' I remarked, affecting a careless manner: in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain the truth of her statement; for to see the master looking glad would not be an every-day spectacle. I framed an excuse to go in. Heathcliff stood at the open door; he was pale, and he trembled: yet, certainly, he had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered the aspect of his whole face. 'Will you have some breakfast?' I said. 'You must be hungry, rambling about all night!' I wanted to discover where he had been, but I did not like to ask directly. 'No, I'm not hungry,' he answered, averting his head, and speaking rather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to divine the occasion of his good humour. I felt perplexed: I didn't know whether it were not a proper opportunity to offer a bit of admonition. 'I don't think it right to wander out of doors,' I observed, 'instead of being in bed: it is not wise, at any rate this moist season. I daresay you'll catch a bad cold or a fever: you have something the matter with you now!' 'Nothing but what I can bear,' he replied; 'and with the greatest pleasure, provided you'll leave me alone: get in, and don't annoy me.' I obeyed: and, in passing, I noticed he breathed as fast as a cat. 'Yes!' I reflected to myself, 'we shall have a fit of illness. I cannot conceive what he has been doing.' That noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped-up plate from my hands, as if he intended to make amends for previous fasting. 'I've neither cold nor fever, Nelly,' he remarked, in allusion to my morning's speech; 'and I'm ready to do justice to the food you give me.' He took his knife and fork, and was going to commence eating, when the inclination appeared to become suddenly extinct. He laid them on the table, looked eagerly towards the window, then rose and went out. We saw him walking to and fro in the garden while we concluded our meal, and Earnshaw said he'd go and ask why he would not dine: he thought we had grieved him some way. 'Well, is he coming?' cried Catherine, when her cousin returned. 'Nay,' he answered; 'but he's not angry: he seemed rarely pleased indeed; only I made him impatient by speaking to him twice; and then he bid me be off to you: he wondered how I could want the company of anybody else.' I set his plate to keep warm on the fender; and after an hour or two he re-entered, when the room was clear, in no degree calmer: the same unnatural--it was unnatural--appearance of joy under his black brows; the same bloodless hue, and his teeth visible, now and then, in a kind of smile; his frame shivering, not as one shivers with chill or weakness, but as a tight-stretched cord vibrates--a strong thrilling, rather than trembling. I will ask what is the matter, I thought; or who should? And I exclaimed--'Have you heard any good news, Mr. Heathcliff? You look uncommonly animated.' 'Where should good news come from to me?' he said. 'I'm animated with hunger; and, seemingly, I must not eat.' 'Your dinner is here,' I returned; 'why won't you get it?' 'I don't want it now,' he muttered, hastily: 'I'll wait till supper. And, Nelly, once for all, let me beg you to warn Hareton and the other away from me. I wish to be troubled by nobody: I wish to have this place to myself.' 'Is there some new reason for this banishment?' I inquired. 'Tell me why you are so queer, Mr. Heathcliff? Where were you last night? I'm not putting the question through idle curiosity, but--' "Du stellst die Frage aus bloßer Neugier," unterbrach er mich lachend. "Aber ich werde sie beantworten. Gestern Nacht stand ich an der Schwelle zur Hölle. Heute bin ich im Blickfeld meines Himmels. Ich habe meine Augen darauf gerichtet: kaum drei Fuß trennen mich davon! Und jetzt solltest du besser gehen! Du wirst nichts sehen oder hören, was dich erschrecken würde, wenn du nicht neugierig bist." Nachdem ich den Kamin gesäubert und den Tisch abgewischt hatte, ging ich weg; noch verwirrter als zuvor. An diesem Nachmittag verließ er das Haus nicht erneut und niemand störte seine Einsamkeit; bis um acht Uhr entschied ich mich, obwohl ungerufen, ihm eine Kerze und sein Abendessen zu bringen. Er lehnte an der Fensterbank eines offenen Fensters, jedoch nicht nach draußen schauend: sein Gesicht war dem dunklen Inneren zugewandt. Das Feuer war zu Asche verglüht; der Raum war erfüllt von der feuchten, milden Abendluft; und so still, dass nicht nur das Murmeln des Baches in Gimmerton zu hören war, sondern auch das Plätschern und Gurgeln über die Kieselsteine oder durch die großen Steine, die es nicht bedecken konnte. Als ich den düsteren Kamin sah, äußerte ich eine Unzufriedenheit und begann die Fenster zu schließen, eines nach dem anderen, bis ich zu seinem Fenster kam. 'No, I don't wish to go up-stairs,' he said. 'Come in, and kindle _me_ a fire, and do anything there is to do about the room.' 'I must blow the coals red first, before I can carry any,' I replied, getting a chair and the bellows. He roamed to and fro, meantime, in a state approaching distraction; his heavy sighs succeeding each other so thick as to leave no space for common breathing between. 'When day breaks I'll send for Green,' he said; 'I wish to make some legal inquiries of him while I can bestow a thought on those matters, and while I can act calmly. I have not written my will yet; and how to leave my property I cannot determine. I wish I could annihilate it from the face of the earth.' 'I would not talk so, Mr. Heathcliff,' I interposed. 'Let your will be a while: you'll be spared to repent of your many injustices yet! I never expected that your nerves would be disordered: they are, at present, marvellously so, however; and almost entirely through your own fault. The way you've passed these three last days might knock up a Titan. Do take some food, and some repose. You need only look at yourself in a glass to see how you require both. Your cheeks are hollow, and your eyes blood-shot, like a person starving with hunger and going blind with loss of sleep.' 'It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest,' he replied. 'I assure you it is through no settled designs. I'll do both, as soon as I possibly can. But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water rest within arms' length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then I'll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green: as to repenting of my injustices, I've done no injustice, and I repent of nothing. I'm too happy; and yet I'm not happy enough. My soul's bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy itself.' 'Happy, master?' I cried. 'Strange happiness! If you would hear me without being angry, I might offer some advice that would make you happier.' 'What is that?' he asked. 'Give it.' 'You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff,' I said, 'that from the time you were thirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian life; and probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all that period. You must have forgotten the contents of the book, and you may not have space to search it now. Could it be hurtful to send for some one--some minister of any denomination, it does not matter which--to explain it, and show you how very far you have erred from its precepts; and how unfit you will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before you die?' 'I'm rather obliged than angry, Nelly,' he said, 'for you remind me of the manner in which I desire to be buried. It is to be carried to the churchyard in the evening. You and Hareton may, if you please, accompany me: and mind, particularly, to notice that the sexton obeys my directions concerning the two coffins! No minister need come; nor need anything be said over me.--I tell you I have nearly attained _my_ heaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me.' 'And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and died by that means, and they refused to bury you in the precincts of the kirk?' I said, shocked at his godless indifference. 'How would you like it?' 'They won't do that,' he replied: 'if they did, you must have me removed secretly; and if you neglect it you shall prove, practically, that the dead are not annihilated!' As soon as he heard the other members of the family stirring he retired to his den, and I breathed freer. But in the afternoon, while Joseph and Hareton were at their work, he came into the kitchen again, and, with a wild look, bid me come and sit in the house: he wanted somebody with him. I declined; telling him plainly that his strange talk and manner frightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to be his companion alone. 'I believe you think me a fiend,' he said, with his dismal laugh: 'something too horrible to live under a decent roof.' Then turning to Catherine, who was there, and who drew behind me at his approach, he added, half sneeringly,--'Will _you_ come, chuck? I'll not hurt you. No! to you I've made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is _one_ who won't shrink from my company! By God! she's relentless. Oh, damn it! It's unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear--even mine.' He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went into his chamber. Through the whole night, and far into the morning, we heard him groaning and murmuring to himself. Hareton was anxious to enter; but I bid him fetch Mr. Kenneth, and he should go in and see him. When he came, and I requested admittance and tried to open the door, I found it locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned. He was better, and would be left alone; so the doctor went away. The following evening was very wet: indeed, it poured down till day-dawn; and, as I took my morning walk round the house, I observed the master's window swinging open, and the rain driving straight in. He cannot be in bed, I thought: those showers would drench him through. He must either be up or out. But I'll make no more ado, I'll go boldly and look.' Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I ran to unclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant; quickly pushing them aside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there--laid on his back. His eyes met mine so keen and fierce, I started; and then he seemed to smile. I could not think him dead: but his face and throat were washed with rain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that rested on the sill; no blood trickled from the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it, I could doubt no more: he was dead and stark! I hasped the window; I combed his black long hair from his forehead; I tried to close his eyes: to extinguish, if possible, that frightful, life-like gaze of exultation before any one else beheld it. They would not shut: they seemed to sneer at my attempts; and his parted lips and sharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with another fit of cowardice, I cried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled up and made a noise, but resolutely refused to meddle with him. 'Th' divil's harried off his soul,' he cried, 'and he may hev' his carcass into t' bargin, for aught I care! Ech! what a wicked 'un he looks, girning at death!' and the old sinner grinned in mockery. I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenly composing himself, he fell on his knees, and raised his hands, and returned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock were restored to their rights. I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness. But poor Hareton, the most wronged, was the only one who really suffered much. He sat by the corpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand, and kissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank from contemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs naturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel. Mr. Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master died. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble, and then, I am persuaded, he did not abstain on purpose: it was the consequence of his strange illness, not the cause. We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighbourhood, as he wished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance. The six men departed when they had let it down into the grave: we stayed to see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming face, dug green sods, and laid them over the brown mould himself: at present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion mounds--and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country folks, if you ask them, would swear on the Bible that he _walks_: there are those who speak to having met him near the church, and on the moor, and even within this house. Idle tales, you'll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire affirms he has seen two on 'em looking out of his chamber window on every rainy night since his death:--and an odd thing happened to me about a month ago. I was going to the Grange one evening--a dark evening, threatening thunder--and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him; he was crying terribly; and I supposed the lambs were skittish, and would not be guided. 'What is the matter, my little man?' I asked. 'There's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab,' he blubbered, 'un' I darnut pass 'em.' I saw nothing; but neither the sheep nor he would go on so I bid him take the road lower down. He probably raised the phantoms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the nonsense he had heard his parents and companions repeat. Yet, still, I don't like being out in the dark now; and I don't like being left by myself in this grim house: I cannot help it; I shall be glad when they leave it, and shift to the Grange. 'They are going to the Grange, then?' I said. 'Yes,' answered Mrs. Dean, 'as soon as they are married, and that will be on New Year's Day.' 'And who will live here then?' 'Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and, perhaps, a lad to keep him company. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut up.' 'For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it?' I observed. 'No, Mr. Lockwood,' said Nelly, shaking her head. 'I believe the dead are at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with levity.' At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were returning. '_They_ are afraid of nothing,' I grumbled, watching their approach through the window. 'Together, they would brave Satan and all his legions.' As they stepped on to the door-stones, and halted to take a last look at the moon--or, more correctly, at each other by her light--I felt irresistibly impelled to escape them again; and, pressing a remembrance into the hand of Mrs. Dean, and disregarding her expostulations at my rudeness, I vanished through the kitchen as they opened the house-door; and so should have confirmed Joseph in his opinion of his fellow-servant's gay indiscretions, had he not fortunately recognised me for a respectable character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his feet. My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even in seven months: many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in coming autumn storms. I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff's still bare. I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Tag verbünden sich Hareton und Catherine gegen Heathcliff, und er droht Catherine zu schlagen, kann sich aber beherrschen. Immer mehr sieht Heathcliff Cathy in Hareton und er enthüllt Nelly, dass er kein Verlangen mehr hat, seine Rache zu vollenden. Sowohl drinnen als auch draußen auf Wuthering Heights wird er ständig an Cathy erinnert. Er isst kaum noch und ein paar Tage später bleibt er die ganze Nacht weg, vermutlich auf den Mooren. Als er zurückkehrt, benimmt er sich ungewöhnlich freundlich, lehnt aber weiterhin jegliches Essen ab. Nelly möchte, dass er den Pfarrer ruft, aber er lacht nur und erinnert sie an seine Begräbniswünsche. Der Arzt kommt, um ihn zu sehen, aber Heathcliff lehnt ab. In dieser Nacht stirbt Heathcliff. Außer Hareton trauert niemand um seinen Tod. Er wird gemäß seinen Wünschen beerdigt, aber die abergläubischen Dorfbewohner schwören, dass er und ein anderer auf den Mooren herumwandeln.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words--trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated--hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies' beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim. Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers. Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, 'I'll do it!' He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest. He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. 'Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, 'what is this, ma'am? Has anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me: I'm on--on--' Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word 'tenterhooks,' so he said 'broken bottles.' 'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' cried the lady, 'I have been so dreadfully put out!' 'Put out, ma'am!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble; 'who has dared to--? I know!' said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, 'this is them wicious paupers!' 'It's dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shuddering. 'Then _don't_ think of it, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'I can't help it,' whimpered the lady. 'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble soothingly. 'A little of the wine?' 'Not for the world!' replied Mrs. Corney. 'I couldn't,--oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner--oh!' Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. 'I'm better now,' said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. 'Peppermint,' exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. 'Try it! There's a little--a little something else in it.' Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. 'It's very comforting,' said Mrs. Corney. 'Very much so indeed, ma'am,' said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her. 'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Corney. 'I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.' 'Not weak, ma'am,' retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. 'Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?' 'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. 'So we are,' said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. 'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. 'Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble. 'I can't help it,' said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. 'This is a very comfortable room, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble looking round. 'Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing.' 'It would be too much for one,' murmured the lady. 'But not for two, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. 'Eh, Mrs. Corney?' Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. 'The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?' inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. 'And candles,' replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. 'Coals, candles, and house-rent free,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!' The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. 'Such porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. 'You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?' 'Yes,' replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. 'He can't live a week, the doctor says,' pursued Mr. Bumble. 'He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!' Mrs. Corney sobbed. 'The little word?' said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. 'The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?' 'Ye--ye--yes!' sighed out the matron. 'One more,' pursued the beadle; 'compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?' Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was 'a irresistible duck.' Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. 'Very good,' said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; 'I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?' 'It wasn't anything particular, dear,' said the lady evasively. 'It must have been something, love,' urged Mr. Bumble. 'Won't you tell your own B.?' 'Not now,' rejoined the lady; 'one of these days. After we're married, dear.' 'After we're married!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble. 'It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as--' 'No, no, love!' interposed the lady, hastily. 'If I thought it was,' continued Mr. Bumble; 'if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance--' 'They wouldn't have dared to do it, love,' responded the lady. 'They had better not!' said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. 'Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!' Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised. The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted. 'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do; only this one.' 'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. 'What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?' 'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte. 'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't yer fond of oysters?' 'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte. 'I like to see you eat 'em, Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself.' 'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!' 'Have another,' said Charlotte. 'Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!' 'I can't manage any more,' said Noah. 'I'm very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer.' 'What!' said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. 'Say that again, sir.' Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror. 'Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' said Mr. Bumble. 'How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. 'Faugh!' 'I didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering. 'She's always a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.' 'Oh, Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully. 'Yer are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah. 'She's always a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!' 'Silence!' cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. 'Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!' cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. 'The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take their abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!' With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises. And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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

Als wir zurück zu Herrn Bumble gelangen, finden wir ihn immer noch in Mrs. Cornys Zimmer wartend. Um die Zeit zu vertreiben, macht er erneut eine Bestandsaufnahme von Witwe Cornys Besitz. Da niemand herankommt, weitet Bumble seine Untersuchung auf eine Kommode aus. Unter den hochwertigen Inhalten befindet sich eine verschlossene Schachtel, die beim Schütteln einen beruhigenden Geldklang von sich gibt. Bumble nimmt wieder seinen Platz vor dem Kamin ein und verkündet für sich selbst: "Ich werde es tun!" Mrs. Corney kehrt in aufgeregter Weise zurück. Sie lehnt einen Teil des Weins ab, den Bumble mitgebracht hat, nimmt jedoch einen Schluck von ihrem eigenen Vorrat, den Bumble so weise billigt, dass er ihren Becher leert. Die Sturheit der Armen wird abgetan, während Bumble ernsthaft mit dem Werben fortfährt. "Kohlen, Kerzen und mietfreie Unterkunft", sagt Bumble; "Oh, Mrs. Corney, du bist ein Engel!" In seinem eigenen Namen erwähnt der selbstlose Liebhaber den bevorstehenden Tod von Mr. Slout, dem Leiter des Armenhauses, und deutet an, dass die Stelle an ihn fallen muss. Bei einer weiteren Tasse medizinischem Getränk erzählt Bumbles Verlobte ihm, dass Sally tot ist, und sagt, dass sie ihm die genauen Einzelheiten nach der Hochzeit geben werde. Bumble verlässt das Haus, um Sowerberry mitzuteilen, dass er Arbeit zu erledigen hat. Der Leichenbestatter und seine Frau sind nicht zu Hause, also wird das Geschäft vernachlässigt. Noah Claypole und Charlotte nutzen die Gelegenheit und genießen ein privates Fest. In dem Moment, in dem Noah seine verehrte Begleiterin nach einem Kuss fragt, kommt Bumble herein, wird wütend und weicht der moralischen Entrüstung nach, als er den Grund seines Besuchs mitteilt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin, knew what went on inside their brains. "Listen to that, will you!" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night. Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight. "I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said. Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words. "What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded. "That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a wolf in California?" But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging him in a non-committal sort of way. "White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him." "He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment. Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously. "It would never do," he said decisively. "It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man 'specially to take care of 'm." The other's suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then the long, questing sniff. "There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said. The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my own mind and what's best!" "I'm agreein' with you, only . . . " "Only what?" Scott snapped out. "Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know your own mind." Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently: "You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the trouble." "Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he broke out after another pause. "I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him. "But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently. "It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the head. Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also, there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind. That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe. Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed. "He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk. There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets. "From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder this time but what he died." The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably. "Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than a woman." "I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered. The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he watched the operation. Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to the door and called White Fang inside. "You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl." But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the master's arm and body. "There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!" The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs. "You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along." "Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!" Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting upward again with a rush upon rush of grief. The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers, all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang. The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only look in wonder. "Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and asked, "How about the back?" "You just bet I did," was the fervent reply. White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was, making no attempt to approach. "I'll have to take 'm ashore with me." Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him. But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt obedience. "Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out that you're the boss." Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes. Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly. "We plumb forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath. Must 'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!" But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The _Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott grasped the dog-musher's hand. "Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see, I've . . . !" "What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?" "The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him." Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank. "He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in warm weather!" The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White Fang, standing by his side. "Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears. White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled. Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had associated power with godhead. And never had the white men seemed such marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco. The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings. The streets were crowded with perils--waggons, carts, automobiles; great, straining horses pulling huge trucks; and monstrous cable and electric cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods. All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all, was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his mastery over matter. It was colossal, stunning. White Fang was awed. Fear sat upon him. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his smallness and puniness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his full-grown stature and pride of strength, he was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many gods! He was made dizzy by the swarming of them. The thunder of the streets smote upon his ears. He was bewildered by the tremendous and endless rush and movement of things. As never before, he felt his dependence on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happened never losing sight of him. But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city--an experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage-car by the master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises. Here a squat and brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to other gods who awaited them. And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White Fang deserted by the master. Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled out the master's canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to mount guard over them. "'Bout time you come," growled the god of the car, an hour later, when Weedon Scott appeared at the door. "That dog of yourn won't let me lay a finger on your stuff." White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished. The nightmare city was gone. The car had been to him no more than a room in a house, and when he had entered it the city had been all around him. In the interval the city had disappeared. The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears. Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with quietude. But he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and manifestations of the gods. It was their way. There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the master. The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the neck--a hostile act! The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from the embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling, raging demon. "It's all right, mother," Scott was saying as he kept tight hold of White Fang and placated him. "He thought you were going to injure me, and he wouldn't stand for it. It's all right. It's all right. He'll learn soon enough." "And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is not around," she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright. She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bristled and glared malevolently. "He'll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement," Scott said. He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice became firm. "Down, sir! Down with you!" This had been one of the things taught him by the master, and White Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly. "Now, mother." Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang. "Down!" he warned. "Down!" White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching as he rose, sank back and watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the clothes-bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth. At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage swung in through a stone gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut trees. On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and there by great sturdy-limbed oaks. In the near distance, in contrast with the young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt hay-fields showed tan and gold; while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures. From the head of the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level, looked down the deep-porched, many-windowed house. Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this. Hardly had the carriage entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright- eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was between him and the master, cutting him off. White Fang snarled no warning, but his hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush. This rush was never completed. He halted with awkward abruptness, with stiff fore-legs bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on his haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was in the act of attacking. It was a female, and the law of his kind thrust a barrier between. For him to attack her would require nothing less than a violation of his instinct. But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female, she possessed no such instinct. On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her instinctive fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen. White Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and braced himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made no offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with self-consciousness, and tried to go around her. He dodged this way and that, and curved and turned, but to no purpose. She remained always between him and the way he wanted to go. "Here, Collie!" called the strange man in the carriage. Weedon Scott laughed. "Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll adjust himself all right." The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang's way. He tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but she ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him with her two rows of gleaming teeth. Back he circled, across the drive to the other lawn, and again she headed him off. The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught glimpses of it disappearing amongst the trees. The situation was desperate. He essayed another circle. She followed, running swiftly. And then, suddenly, he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick. Shoulder to shoulder, he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown. So fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation. White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was all he had wanted. She took after him, never ceasing her outcry. It was the straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could teach her things. She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground. As he rounded the house to the _porte-cochere_, he came upon the carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting. At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack from the side. It was a deer-hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried to face it. But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close. It struck him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled clear over. He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping together as the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat. The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in and deliver the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie arrived. She had been out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that of a tornado--made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild. She struck White Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his feet and rolled over. The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White Fang, while the father called off the dogs. "I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the Arctic," the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his caressing hand. "In all his life he's only been known once to go off his feet, and here he's been rolled twice in thirty seconds." The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared from out the house. Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this act. No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly not threatening. These gods also made overtures to White Fang, but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with word of mouth. At such times White Fang leaned in close against the master's legs and received reassuring pats on the head. The hound, under the command, "Dick! Lie down, sir!" had gone up the steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping a sullen watch on the intruder. Collie had been taken in charge by one of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and caressed her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried, whining and restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident that the gods were making a mistake. All the gods started up the steps to enter the house. White Fang followed closely at the master's heels. Dick, on the porch, growled, and White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back. "Take Collie inside and leave the two of them to fight it out," suggested Scott's father. "After that they'll be friends." "Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief mourner at the funeral," laughed the master. The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick, and finally at his son. "You mean . . .?" Weedon nodded his head. "I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick inside one minute--two minutes at the farthest." He turned to White Fang. "Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to come inside." White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and across the porch, with tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard against a flank attack, and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce manifestation of the unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interior of the house. But no thing of fear pounced out, and when he had gained the inside he scouted carefully around, looking at it and finding it not. Then he lay down with a contented grunt at the master's feet, observing all that went on, ever ready to spring to his feet and fight for life with the terrors he felt must lurk under the trap-roof of the dwelling. Not only was White Fang adaptable by nature, but he had travelled much, and knew the meaning and necessity of adjustment. Here, in Sierra Vista, which was the name of Judge Scott's place, White Fang quickly began to make himself at home. He had no further serious trouble with the dogs. They knew more about the ways of the Southland gods than did he, and in their eyes he had qualified when he accompanied the gods inside the house. Wolf that he was, and unprecedented as it was, the gods had sanctioned his presence, and they, the dogs of the gods, could only recognise this sanction. Dick, perforce, had to go through a few stiff formalities at first, after which he calmly accepted White Fang as an addition to the premises. Had Dick had his way, they would have been good friends; but White Fang was averse to friendship. All he asked of other dogs was to be let alone. His whole life he had kept aloof from his kind, and he still desired to keep aloof. Dick's overtures bothered him, so he snarled Dick away. In the north he had learned the lesson that he must let the master's dogs alone, and he did not forget that lesson now. But he insisted on his own privacy and self-seclusion, and so thoroughly ignored Dick that that good-natured creature finally gave him up and scarcely took as much interest in him as in the hitching-post near the stable. Not so with Collie. While she accepted him because it was the mandate of the gods, that was no reason that she should leave him in peace. Woven into her being was the memory of countless crimes he and his had perpetrated against her ancestry. Not in a day nor a generation were the ravaged sheepfolds to be forgotten. All this was a spur to her, pricking her to retaliation. She could not fly in the face of the gods who permitted him, but that did not prevent her from making life miserable for him in petty ways. A feud, ages old, was between them, and she, for one, would see to it that he was reminded. So Collie took advantage of her sex to pick upon White Fang and maltreat him. His instinct would not permit him to attack her, while her persistence would not permit him to ignore her. When she rushed at him he turned his fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and walked away stiff-legged and stately. When she forced him too hard, he was compelled to go about in a circle, his shoulder presented to her, his head turned from her, and on his face and in his eyes a patient and bored expression. Sometimes, however, a nip on his hind-quarters hastened his retreat and made it anything but stately. But as a rule he managed to maintain a dignity that was almost solemnity. He ignored her existence whenever it was possible, and made it a point to keep out of her way. When he saw or heard her coming, he got up and walked off. There was much in other matters for White Fang to learn. Life in the Northland was simplicity itself when compared with the complicated affairs of Sierra Vista. First of all, he had to learn the family of the master. In a way he was prepared to do this. As Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch had belonged to Grey Beaver, sharing his food, his fire, and his blankets, so now, at Sierra Vista, belonged to the love-master all the denizens of the house. But in this matter there was a difference, and many differences. Sierra Vista was a far vaster affair than the tepee of Grey Beaver. There were many persons to be considered. There was Judge Scott, and there was his wife. There were the master's two sisters, Beth and Mary. There was his wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Weedon and Maud, toddlers of four and six. There was no way for anybody to tell him about all these people, and of blood-ties and relationship he knew nothing whatever and never would be capable of knowing. Yet he quickly worked it out that all of them belonged to the master. Then, by observation, whenever opportunity offered, by study of action, speech, and the very intonations of the voice, he slowly learned the intimacy and the degree of favour they enjoyed with the master. And by this ascertained standard, White Fang treated them accordingly. What was of value to the master he valued; what was dear to the master was to be cherished by White Fang and guarded carefully. Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked children. He hated and feared their hands. The lessons were not tender that he had learned of their tyranny and cruelty in the days of the Indian villages. When Weedon and Maud had first approached him, he growled warningly and looked malignant. A cuff from the master and a sharp word had then compelled him to permit their caresses, though he growled and growled under their tiny hands, and in the growl there was no crooning note. Later, he observed that the boy and girl were of great value in the master's eyes. Then it was that no cuff nor sharp word was necessary before they could pat him. Yet White Fang was never effusively affectionate. He yielded to the master's children with an ill but honest grace, and endured their fooling as one would endure a painful operation. When he could no longer endure, he would get up and stalk determinedly away from them. But after a time, he grew even to like the children. Still he was not demonstrative. He would not go up to them. On the other hand, instead of walking away at sight of them, he waited for them to come to him. And still later, it was noticed that a pleased light came into his eyes when he saw them approaching, and that he looked after them with an appearance of curious regret when they left him for other amusements. All this was a matter of development, and took time. Next in his regard, after the children, was Judge Scott. There were two reasons, possibly, for this. First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master's, and next, he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie at his feet on the wide porch when he read the newspaper, from time to time favouring White Fang with a look or a word--untroublesome tokens that he recognised White Fang's presence and existence. But this was only when the master was not around. When the master appeared, all other beings ceased to exist so far as White Fang was concerned. White Fang allowed all the members of the family to pet him and make much of him; but he never gave to them what he gave to the master. No caress of theirs could put the love-croon into his throat, and, try as they would, they could never persuade him into snuggling against them. This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he reserved for the master alone. In fact, he never regarded the members of the family in any other light than possessions of the love-master. Also White Fang had early come to differentiate between the family and the servants of the household. The latter were afraid of him, while he merely refrained from attacking them. This because he considered that they were likewise possessions of the master. Between White Fang and them existed a neutrality and no more. They cooked for the master and washed the dishes and did other things just as Matt had done up in the Klondike. They were, in short, appurtenances of the household. Outside the household there was even more for White Fang to learn. The master's domain was wide and complex, yet it had its metes and bounds. The land itself ceased at the county road. Outside was the common domain of all gods--the roads and streets. Then inside other fences were the particular domains of other gods. A myriad laws governed all these things and determined conduct; yet he did not know the speech of the gods, nor was there any way for him to learn save by experience. He obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to some law. When this had been done a few times, he learned the law and after that observed it. But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master's hand, the censure of the master's voice. Because of White Fang's very great love, a cuff from the master hurt him far more than any beating Grey Beaver or Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him; beneath the flesh the spirit had still raged, splendid and invincible. But with the master the cuff was always too light to hurt the flesh. Yet it went deeper. It was an expression of the master's disapproval, and White Fang's spirit wilted under it. In point of fact, the cuff was rarely administered. The master's voice was sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right or not. By it he trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass by which he steered and learned to chart the manners of a new land and life. In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other animals lived in the Wild, and were, when not too formidable, lawful spoil for any dog. All his days White Fang had foraged among the live things for food. It did not enter his head that in the Southland it was otherwise. But this he was to learn early in his residence in Santa Clara Valley. Sauntering around the corner of the house in the early morning, he came upon a chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang's natural impulse was to eat it. A couple of bounds, a flash of teeth and a frightened squawk, and he had scooped in the adventurous fowl. It was farm-bred and fat and tender; and White Fang licked his chops and decided that such fare was good. Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray chicken near the stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White Fang's breed, so for weapon he took a light buggy-whip. At the first cut of the whip, White Fang left the chicken for the man. A club might have stopped White Fang, but not a whip. Silently, without flinching, he took a second cut in his forward rush, and as he leaped for the throat the groom cried out, "My God!" and staggered backward. He dropped the whip and shielded his throat with his arms. In consequence, his forearm was ripped open to the bone. The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang's ferocity as it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still protecting his throat and face with his torn and bleeding arm, he tried to retreat to the barn. And it would have gone hard with him had not Collie appeared on the scene. As she had saved Dick's life, she now saved the groom's. She rushed upon White Fang in frenzied wrath. She had been right. She had known better than the blundering gods. All her suspicions were justified. Here was the ancient marauder up to his old tricks again. The groom escaped into the stables, and White Fang backed away before Collie's wicked teeth, or presented his shoulder to them and circled round and round. But Collie did not give over, as was her wont, after a decent interval of chastisement. On the contrary, she grew more excited and angry every moment, until, in the end, White Fang flung dignity to the winds and frankly fled away from her across the fields. "He'll learn to leave chickens alone," the master said. "But I can't give him the lesson until I catch him in the act." Two nights later came the act, but on a more generous scale than the master had anticipated. White Fang had observed closely the chicken-yards and the habits of the chickens. In the night-time, after they had gone to roost, he climbed to the top of a pile of newly hauled lumber. From there he gained the roof of a chicken-house, passed over the ridgepole and dropped to the ground inside. A moment later he was inside the house, and the slaughter began. In the morning, when the master came out on to the porch, fifty white Leghorn hens, laid out in a row by the groom, greeted his eyes. He whistled to himself, softly, first with surprise, and then, at the end, with admiration. His eyes were likewise greeted by White Fang, but about the latter there were no signs of shame nor guilt. He carried himself with pride, as though, forsooth, he had achieved a deed praiseworthy and meritorious. There was about him no consciousness of sin. The master's lips tightened as he faced the disagreeable task. Then he talked harshly to the unwitting culprit, and in his voice there was nothing but godlike wrath. Also, he held White Fang's nose down to the slain hens, and at the same time cuffed him soundly. White Fang never raided a chicken-roost again. It was against the law, and he had learned it. Then the master took him into the chicken-yards. White Fang's natural impulse, when he saw the live food fluttering about him and under his very nose, was to spring upon it. He obeyed the impulse, but was checked by the master's voice. They continued in the yards for half an hour. Time and again the impulse surged over White Fang, and each time, as he yielded to it, he was checked by the master's voice. Thus it was he learned the law, and ere he left the domain of the chickens, he had learned to ignore their existence. "You can never cure a chicken-killer." Judge Scott shook his head sadly at luncheon table, when his son narrated the lesson he had given White Fang. "Once they've got the habit and the taste of blood . . ." Again he shook his head sadly. But Weedon Scott did not agree with his father. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he challenged finally. "I'll lock White Fang in with the chickens all afternoon." "But think of the chickens," objected the judge. "And furthermore," the son went on, "for every chicken he kills, I'll pay you one dollar gold coin of the realm." "But you should penalise father, too," interpose Beth. Her sister seconded her, and a chorus of approval arose from around the table. Judge Scott nodded his head in agreement. "All right." Weedon Scott pondered for a moment. "And if, at the end of the afternoon White Fang hasn't harmed a chicken, for every ten minutes of the time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him, gravely and with deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench and solemnly passing judgment, 'White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.'" From hidden points of vantage the family watched the performance. But it was a fizzle. Locked in the yard and there deserted by the master, White Fang lay down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over to the trough for a drink of water. The chickens he calmly ignored. So far as he was concerned they did not exist. At four o'clock he executed a running jump, gained the roof of the chicken-house and leaped to the ground outside, whence he sauntered gravely to the house. He had learned the law. And on the porch, before the delighted family, Judge Scott, face to face with White Fang, said slowly and solemnly, sixteen times, "White Fang, you are smarter than I thought." But it was the multiplicity of laws that befuddled White Fang and often brought him into disgrace. He had to learn that he must not touch the chickens that belonged to other gods. Then there were cats, and rabbits, and turkeys; all these he must let alone. In fact, when he had but partly learned the law, his impression was that he must leave all live things alone. Out in the back-pasture, a quail could flutter up under his nose unharmed. All tense and trembling with eagerness and desire, he mastered his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the will of the gods. And then, one day, again out in the back-pasture, he saw Dick start a jackrabbit and run it. The master himself was looking on and did not interfere. Nay, he encouraged White Fang to join in the chase. And thus he learned that there was no taboo on jackrabbits. In the end he worked out the complete law. Between him and all domestic animals there must be no hostilities. If not amity, at least neutrality must obtain. But the other animals--the squirrels, and quail, and cottontails, were creatures of the Wild who had never yielded allegiance to man. They were the lawful prey of any dog. It was only the tame that the gods protected, and between the tame deadly strife was not permitted. The gods held the power of life and death over their subjects, and the gods were jealous of their power. Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley after the simplicities of the Northland. And the chief thing demanded by these intricacies of civilisation was control, restraint--a poise of self that was as delicate as the fluttering of gossamer wings and at the same time as rigid as steel. Life had a thousand faces, and White Fang found he must meet them all--thus, when he went to town, in to San Jose, running behind the carriage or loafing about the streets when the carriage stopped. Life flowed past him, deep and wide and varied, continually impinging upon his senses, demanding of him instant and endless adjustments and correspondences, and compelling him, almost always, to suppress his natural impulses. There were butcher-shops where meat hung within reach. This meat he must not touch. There were cats at the houses the master visited that must be let alone. And there were dogs everywhere that snarled at him and that he must not attack. And then, on the crowded sidewalks there were persons innumerable whose attention he attracted. They would stop and look at him, point him out to one another, examine him, talk of him, and, worst of all, pat him. And these perilous contacts from all these strange hands he must endure. Yet this endurance he achieved. Furthermore, he got over being awkward and self-conscious. In a lofty way he received the attentions of the multitudes of strange gods. With condescension he accepted their condescension. On the other hand, there was something about him that prevented great familiarity. They patted him on the head and passed on, contented and pleased with their own daring. But it was not all easy for White Fang. Running behind the carriage in the outskirts of San Jose, he encountered certain small boys who made a practice of flinging stones at him. Yet he knew that it was not permitted him to pursue and drag them down. Here he was compelled to violate his instinct of self-preservation, and violate it he did, for he was becoming tame and qualifying himself for civilisation. Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He had no abstract ideas about justice and fair play. But there is a certain sense of equity that resides in life, and it was this sense in him that resented the unfairness of his being permitted no defence against the stone-throwers. He forgot that in the covenant entered into between him and the gods they were pledged to care for him and defend him. But one day the master sprang from the carriage, whip in hand, and gave the stone-throwers a thrashing. After that they threw stones no more, and White Fang understood and was satisfied. One other experience of similar nature was his. On the way to town, hanging around the saloon at the cross-roads, were three dogs that made a practice of rushing out upon him when he went by. Knowing his deadly method of fighting, the master had never ceased impressing upon White Fang the law that he must not fight. As a result, having learned the lesson well, White Fang was hard put whenever he passed the cross-roads saloon. After the first rush, each time, his snarl kept the three dogs at a distance but they trailed along behind, yelping and bickering and insulting him. This endured for some time. The men at the saloon even urged the dogs on to attack White Fang. One day they openly sicked the dogs on him. The master stopped the carriage. "Go to it," he said to White Fang. But White Fang could not believe. He looked at the master, and he looked at the dogs. Then he looked back eagerly and questioningly at the master. The master nodded his head. "Go to them, old fellow. Eat them up." White Fang no longer hesitated. He turned and leaped silently among his enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and growling, a clashing of teeth and a flurry of bodies. The dust of the road arose in a cloud and screened the battle. But at the end of several minutes two dogs were struggling in the dirt and the third was in full flight. He leaped a ditch, went through a rail fence, and fled across a field. White Fang followed, sliding over the ground in wolf fashion and with wolf speed, swiftly and without noise, and in the centre of the field he dragged down and slew the dog. With this triple killing his main troubles with dogs ceased. The word went up and down the valley, and men saw to it that their dogs did not molest the Fighting Wolf. The months came and went. There was plenty of food and no work in the Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy. Not alone was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished like a flower planted in good soil. And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs. He knew the law even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about him a suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept. He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived, so far as his kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In his puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack, and in his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed aversion for dogs. The natural course of his life had been diverted, and, recoiling from his kind, he had clung to the human. Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion. He aroused in them their instinctive fear of the Wild, and they greeted him always with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred. He, on the other hand, learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them. His naked fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches. But there was one trial in White Fang's life--Collie. She never gave him a moment's peace. She was not so amenable to the law as he. She defied all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang. Ever in his ears was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl. She had never forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the belief that his intentions were bad. She found him guilty before the act, and treated him accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a policeman following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even so much as glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an outcry of indignation and wrath. His favourite way of ignoring her was to lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep. This always dumfounded and silenced her. With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang. He had learned control and poise, and he knew the law. He achieved a staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance. He no longer lived in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not lurk everywhere about him. In time, the unknown, as a thing of terror and menace ever impending, faded away. Life was soft and easy. It flowed along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by the way. He missed the snow without being aware of it. "An unduly long summer," would have been his thought had he thought about it; as it was, he merely missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way. In the same fashion, especially in the heat of summer when he suffered from the sun, he experienced faint longings for the Northland. Their only effect upon him, however, was to make him uneasy and restless without his knowing what was the matter. White Fang had never been very demonstrative. Beyond his snuggling and the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of expressing his love. Yet it was given him to discover a third way. He had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughter had affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage. But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love. He could not be angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the master laughed harder than before. In the end, the master laughed him out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little, and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour came into his eyes. He had learned to laugh. Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth together in snaps that had all the seeming of deadly intention. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered on the empty air. At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl were fast and furious, they would break off suddenly and stand several feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly, like the sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song. But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it. He stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and bristling mane were anything but playful. That he allowed the master these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love. The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him was one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he had evidenced his fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were no sleds in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their backs. So he rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's horse. The longest day never played White Fang out. His was the gait of the wolf, smooth, tireless and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he would come in jauntily ahead of the horse. It was in connection with the riding, that White Fang achieved one other mode of expression--remarkable in that he did it but twice in all his life. The first time occurred when the master was trying to teach a spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and closing gates without the rider's dismounting. Time and again and many times he ranged the horse up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse became frightened and backed and plunged away. It grew more nervous and excited every moment. When it reared, the master put the spurs to it and made it drop its fore-legs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with its hind-legs. White Fang watched the performance with increasing anxiety until he could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in front of the horse and barked savagely and warningly. Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and the master encouraged him, he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's presence. A scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the horse's feet, a violent sheer, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken leg for the master, was the cause of it. White Fang sprang in a rage at the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's voice. "Home! Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his injury. White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he commanded White Fang to go home. The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and whined softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his ears, and listened with painful intentness. "That's all right, old fellow, you just run along home," ran the talk. "Go on home and tell them what's happened to me. Home with you, you wolf. Get along home!" White Fang knew the meaning of "home," and though he did not understand the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was his will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder. "Go home!" came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed. The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when White Fang arrived. He came in among them, panting, covered with dust. "Weedon's back," Weedon's mother announced. The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him. He avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a rocking-chair and the railing. He growled and tried to push by them. Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction. "I confess, he makes me nervous around the children," she said. "I have a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day." Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted them, telling them not to bother White Fang. "A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge Scott. "There is no trusting one." "But he is not all wolf," interposed Beth, standing for her brother in his absence. "You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the judge. "He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance--" He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling fiercely. "Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded. White Fang turned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest. He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of the incommunicable something that strained for utterance. "I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother. "I told Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal." "He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced. At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of barking. "Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively. They were all on their feet now, and White Fang ran down the steps, looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in his life he had barked and made himself understood. After this event he found a warmer place in the hearts of the Sierra Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slashed admitted that he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf. Judge Scott still held to the same opinion, and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by measurements and descriptions taken from the encyclopaedia and various works on natural history. The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the Santa Clara Valley. But as they grew shorter and White Fang's second winter in the Southland came on, he made a strange discovery. Collie's teeth were no longer sharp. There was a playfulness about her nips and a gentleness that prevented them from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made life a burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he responded solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than ridiculous. One day she led him off on a long chase through the back-pasture land into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door. White Fang hesitated. But there was that in him deeper than all the law he had learned, than the customs that had moulded him, than his love for the master, than the very will to live of himself; and when, in the moment of his indecision, Collie nipped him and scampered off, he turned and followed after. The master rode alone that day; and in the woods, side by side, White Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, and old One Eye had run long years before in the silent Northland forest. It was about this time that the newspapers were full of the daring escape of a convict from San Quentin prison. He was a ferocious man. He had been ill-made in the making. He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork. He was a beast--a human beast, it is true, but nevertheless so terrible a beast that he can best be characterised as carnivorous. In San Quentin prison he had proved incorrigible. Punishment failed to break his spirit. He could die dumb-mad and fighting to the last, but he could not live and be beaten. The more fiercely he fought, the more harshly society handled him, and the only effect of harshness was to make him fiercer. Strait-jackets, starvation, and beatings and clubbings were the wrong treatment for Jim Hall; but it was the treatment he received. It was the treatment he had received from the time he was a little pulpy boy in a San Francisco slum--soft clay in the hands of society and ready to be formed into something. It was during Jim Hall's third term in prison that he encountered a guard that was almost as great a beast as he. The guard treated him unfairly, lied about him to the warden, lost his credits, persecuted him. The difference between them was that the guard carried a bunch of keys and a revolver. Jim Hall had only his naked hands and his teeth. But he sprang upon the guard one day and used his teeth on the other's throat just like any jungle animal. After this, Jim Hall went to live in the incorrigible cell. He lived there three years. The cell was of iron, the floor, the walls, the roof. He never left this cell. He never saw the sky nor the sunshine. Day was a twilight and night was a black silence. He was in an iron tomb, buried alive. He saw no human face, spoke to no human thing. When his food was shoved in to him, he growled like a wild animal. He hated all things. For days and nights he bellowed his rage at the universe. For weeks and months he never made a sound, in the black silence eating his very soul. He was a man and a monstrosity, as fearful a thing of fear as ever gibbered in the visions of a maddened brain. And then, one night, he escaped. The warders said it was impossible, but nevertheless the cell was empty, and half in half out of it lay the body of a dead guard. Two other dead guards marked his trail through the prison to the outer walls, and he had killed with his hands to avoid noise. He was armed with the weapons of the slain guards--a live arsenal that fled through the hills pursued by the organised might of society. A heavy price of gold was upon his head. Avaricious farmers hunted him with shot-guns. His blood might pay off a mortgage or send a son to college. Public-spirited citizens took down their rifles and went out after him. A pack of bloodhounds followed the way of his bleeding feet. And the sleuth-hounds of the law, the paid fighting animals of society, with telephone, and telegraph, and special train, clung to his trail night and day. Sometimes they came upon him, and men faced him like heroes, or stampeded through barbed-wire fences to the delight of the commonwealth reading the account at the breakfast table. It was after such encounters that the dead and wounded were carted back to the towns, and their places filled by men eager for the man-hunt. And then Jim Hall disappeared. The bloodhounds vainly quested on the lost trail. Inoffensive ranchers in remote valleys were held up by armed men and compelled to identify themselves. While the remains of Jim Hall were discovered on a dozen mountain-sides by greedy claimants for blood- money. In the meantime the newspapers were read at Sierra Vista, not so much with interest as with anxiety. The women were afraid. Judge Scott pooh- poohed and laughed, but not with reason, for it was in his last days on the bench that Jim Hall had stood before him and received sentence. And in open court-room, before all men, Jim Hall had proclaimed that the day would come when he would wreak vengeance on the Judge that sentenced him. For once, Jim Hall was right. He was innocent of the crime for which he was sentenced. It was a case, in the parlance of thieves and police, of "rail-roading." Jim Hall was being "rail-roaded" to prison for a crime he had not committed. Because of the two prior convictions against him, Judge Scott imposed upon him a sentence of fifty years. Judge Scott did not know all things, and he did not know that he was party to a police conspiracy, that the evidence was hatched and perjured, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged. And Jim Hall, on the other hand, did not know that Judge Scott was merely ignorant. Jim Hall believed that the judge knew all about it and was hand in glove with the police in the perpetration of the monstrous injustice. So it was, when the doom of fifty years of living death was uttered by Judge Scott, that Jim Hall, hating all things in the society that misused him, rose up and raged in the court-room until dragged down by half a dozen of his blue- coated enemies. To him, Judge Scott was the keystone in the arch of injustice, and upon Judge Scott he emptied the vials of his wrath and hurled the threats of his revenge yet to come. Then Jim Hall went to his living death . . . and escaped. Of all this White Fang knew nothing. But between him and Alice, the master's wife, there existed a secret. Each night, after Sierra Vista had gone to bed, she rose and let in White Fang to sleep in the big hall. Now White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permitted to sleep in the house; so each morning, early, she slipped down and let him out before the family was awake. On one such night, while all the house slept, White Fang awoke and lay very quietly. And very quietly he smelled the air and read the message it bore of a strange god's presence. And to his ears came sounds of the strange god's movements. White Fang burst into no furious outcry. It was not his way. The strange god walked softly, but more softly walked White Fang, for he had no clothes to rub against the flesh of his body. He followed silently. In the Wild he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the advantage of surprise. The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened, and White Fang was as dead, so without movement was he as he watched and waited. Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love- master's dearest possessions. White Fang bristled, but waited. The strange god's foot lifted. He was beginning the ascent. Then it was that White Fang struck. He gave no warning, with no snarl anticipated his own action. Into the air he lifted his body in the spring that landed him on the strange god's back. White Fang clung with his fore-paws to the man's shoulders, at the same time burying his fangs into the back of the man's neck. He clung on for a moment, long enough to drag the god over backward. Together they crashed to the floor. White Fang leaped clear, and, as the man struggled to rise, was in again with the slashing fangs. Sierra Vista awoke in alarm. The noise from downstairs was as that of a score of battling fiends. There were revolver shots. A man's voice screamed once in horror and anguish. There was a great snarling and growling, and over all arose a smashing and crashing of furniture and glass. But almost as quickly as it had arisen, the commotion died away. The struggle had not lasted more than three minutes. The frightened household clustered at the top of the stairway. From below, as from out an abyss of blackness, came up a gurgling sound, as of air bubbling through water. Sometimes this gurgle became sibilant, almost a whistle. But this, too, quickly died down and ceased. Then naught came up out of the blackness save a heavy panting of some creature struggling sorely for air. Weedon Scott pressed a button, and the staircase and downstairs hall were flooded with light. Then he and Judge Scott, revolvers in hand, cautiously descended. There was no need for this caution. White Fang had done his work. In the midst of the wreckage of overthrown and smashed furniture, partly on his side, his face hidden by an arm, lay a man. Weedon Scott bent over, removed the arm and turned the man's face upward. A gaping throat explained the manner of his death. "Jim Hall," said Judge Scott, and father and son looked significantly at each other. Then they turned to White Fang. He, too, was lying on his side. His eyes were closed, but the lids slightly lifted in an effort to look at them as they bent over him, and the tail was perceptibly agitated in a vain effort to wag. Weedon Scott patted him, and his throat rumbled an acknowledging growl. But it was a weak growl at best, and it quickly ceased. His eyelids drooped and went shut, and his whole body seemed to relax and flatten out upon the floor. "He's all in, poor devil," muttered the master. "We'll see about that," asserted the Judge, as he started for the telephone. "Frankly, he has one chance in a thousand," announced the surgeon, after he had worked an hour and a half on White Fang. Dawn was breaking through the windows and dimming the electric lights. With the exception of the children, the whole family was gathered about the surgeon to hear his verdict. "One broken hind-leg," he went on. "Three broken ribs, one at least of which has pierced the lungs. He has lost nearly all the blood in his body. There is a large likelihood of internal injuries. He must have been jumped upon. To say nothing of three bullet holes clear through him. One chance in a thousand is really optimistic. He hasn't a chance in ten thousand." "But he mustn't lose any chance that might be of help to him," Judge Scott exclaimed. "Never mind expense. Put him under the X-ray--anything. Weedon, telegraph at once to San Francisco for Doctor Nichols. No reflection on you, doctor, you understand; but he must have the advantage of every chance." The surgeon smiled indulgently. "Of course I understand. He deserves all that can be done for him. He must be nursed as you would nurse a human being, a sick child. And don't forget what I told you about temperature. I'll be back at ten o'clock again." White Fang received the nursing. Judge Scott's suggestion of a trained nurse was indignantly clamoured down by the girls, who themselves undertook the task. And White Fang won out on the one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon. The latter was not to be censured for his misjudgment. All his life he had tended and operated on the soft humans of civilisation, who lived sheltered lives and had descended out of many sheltered generations. Compared with White Fang, they were frail and flabby, and clutched life without any strength in their grip. White Fang had come straight from the Wild, where the weak perish early and shelter is vouchsafed to none. In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness, nor in the generations before them. A constitution of iron and the vitality of the Wild were White Fang's inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creatures. Bound down a prisoner, denied even movement by the plaster casts and bandages, White Fang lingered out the weeks. He slept long hours and dreamed much, and through his mind passed an unending pageant of Northland visions. All the ghosts of the past arose and were with him. Once again he lived in the lair with Kiche, crept trembling to the knees of Grey Beaver to tender his allegiance, ran for his life before Lip-lip and all the howling bedlam of the puppy-pack. He ran again through the silence, hunting his living food through the months of famine; and again he ran at the head of the team, the gut-whips of Mit-sah and Grey Beaver snapping behind, their voices crying "Ra! Raa!" when they came to a narrow passage and the team closed together like a fan to go through. He lived again all his days with Beauty Smith and the fights he had fought. At such times he whimpered and snarled in his sleep, and they that looked on said that his dreams were bad. But there was one particular nightmare from which he suffered--the clanking, clanging monsters of electric cars that were to him colossal screaming lynxes. He would lie in a screen of bushes, watching for a squirrel to venture far enough out on the ground from its tree-refuge. Then, when he sprang out upon it, it would transform itself into an electric car, menacing and terrible, towering over him like a mountain, screaming and clanging and spitting fire at him. It was the same when he challenged the hawk down out of the sky. Down out of the blue it would rush, as it dropped upon him changing itself into the ubiquitous electric car. Or again, he would be in the pen of Beauty Smith. Outside the pen, men would be gathering, and he knew that a fight was on. He watched the door for his antagonist to enter. The door would open, and thrust in upon him would come the awful electric car. A thousand times this occurred, and each time the terror it inspired was as vivid and great as ever. Then came the day when the last bandage and the last plaster cast were taken off. It was a gala day. All Sierra Vista was gathered around. The master rubbed his ears, and he crooned his love-growl. The master's wife called him the "Blessed Wolf," which name was taken up with acclaim and all the women called him the Blessed Wolf. He tried to rise to his feet, and after several attempts fell down from weakness. He had lain so long that his muscles had lost their cunning, and all the strength had gone out of them. He felt a little shame because of his weakness, as though, forsooth, he were failing the gods in the service he owed them. Because of this he made heroic efforts to arise and at last he stood on his four legs, tottering and swaying back and forth. "The Blessed Wolf!" chorused the women. Judge Scott surveyed them triumphantly. "Out of your own mouths be it," he said. "Just as I contended right along. No mere dog could have done what he did. He's a wolf." "A Blessed Wolf," amended the Judge's wife. "Yes, Blessed Wolf," agreed the Judge. "And henceforth that shall be my name for him." "He'll have to learn to walk again," said the surgeon; "so he might as well start in right now. It won't hurt him. Take him outside." And outside he went, like a king, with all Sierra Vista about him and tending on him. He was very weak, and when he reached the lawn he lay down and rested for a while. Then the procession started on, little spurts of strength coming into White Fang's muscles as he used them and the blood began to surge through them. The stables were reached, and there in the doorway, lay Collie, a half-dozen pudgy puppies playing about her in the sun. White Fang looked on with a wondering eye. Collie snarled warningly at him, and he was careful to keep his distance. The master with his toe helped one sprawling puppy toward him. He bristled suspiciously, but the master warned him that all was well. Collie, clasped in the arms of one of the women, watched him jealously and with a snarl warned him that all was not well. The puppy sprawled in front of him. He cocked his ears and watched it curiously. Then their noses touched, and he felt the warm little tongue of the puppy on his jowl. White Fang's tongue went out, he knew not why, and he licked the puppy's face. Handgeklatsche und zufriedene Rufe der Götter begrüßten die Aufführung. Er war überrascht und schaute sie verwirrt an. Dann machte sich seine Schwäche bemerkbar und er legte sich hin, die Ohren gespitzt, den Kopf zur Seite geneigt, während er dem Welpen zusah. Die anderen Welpen kamen auf ihn zugesprungen, zur großen Empörung von Collie; und er erlaubte ihnen ernsthaft, über ihn zu klettern und herumzutollen. Zunächst zeigte er, begleitet vom Beifall der Götter, etwas von seiner alten Selbstbewusstlosigkeit und Ungeschicklichkeit. Dies verging, während die Streiche und Rauheiten der Welpen anhielten, und er lag mit halb geschlossenen, geduldigen Augen in der Sonne, halb schlummernd. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Etwas kommt, etwas Schlimmes. White Fang spürt es und es jagt ihm einen Schauer über den Rücken. Scott muss nach Kalifornien zurückkehren und weiß nicht, ob er White Fang mitnehmen kann. Scott fängt an, seine Sachen zu packen, und White Fang wird noch besorgter. Als Scott geht, sagt er White Fang, er solle ihn mit einem Abschiedsknurren verabschieden. White Fang heult stattdessen traurig. Es ist alles sehr traurig. Scott und Matt kommen auf dem Dampfschiff an und finden White Fang auf dem Deck wartend vor: Der Hund hatte das Fenster zerbrochen, als Scott ging, und war zu ihm gelaufen. Wirklich. Matt versucht, sein Kopftuch zu lösen und White Fang zurückzuziehen, aber Scott hält ihn auf. Es ist offensichtlich, dass der Hund mitkommt. White Fang kommt in San Francisco an. Er mag es überhaupt nicht. Überhaupt nicht. Bald ist er in einem Frachtwagen angekettet und alleine gelassen. Noch mehr Nicht-Gefallen. Der Wagen bringt ihn zu Scotts Haus, wo Scott von seiner Mutter umarmt wird. White Fang, der seine eigenen Mama-Probleme hat, greift sie an und denkt, sie sei eine Bedrohung. Scott sagt ihm "Nein" und bringt ihm bei, die Tatsache zu akzeptieren, dass Mütter umarmen dürfen. Sie gehen zum Haus und ein empörter Schäferhund kommt auf White Fang zu. Sie ist eine Hündin, was ihn schwach werden lässt. Er macht sich auf den Weg zum Haus und die Collie folgt ihm. Ein Bracken springt ihn an der Vorderseite des Hauses an, und die Collie greift ein, um das Leben des anderen Hundes zu retten. White Fang muss nach drinnen kommen, sonst bringt er den Bracken in einer New Yorker Minute um. White Fang gewöhnt sich an sein neues Zuhause, Sierra Vista, wo Scott und seine Familie leben. Die Collie macht ihm weiterhin Probleme, auch nachdem die anderen Hunde gelernt haben, ihn in Ruhe zu lassen. Es ist fast so, als wären sie füreinander gemacht... Er lernt allmählich, wer Scotts Familie ist und warum er ihnen nicht die Kehle herausreißen sollte. Er akzeptiert sie nach und nach, behandelt Bedienstete jedoch immer noch wie Bedienstete. Scotts Missbilligung tut ihm viel mehr weh als die Schläge von Grey Beaver oder Beauty. So ist die Natur der wahren Liebe. Eines Tages entdeckt er ein streunendes Huhn und frisst es. Er entdeckt ein zweites Huhn und versucht auch, es zu fressen. Ein Stallknecht kommt mit einer Peitsche zur Rettung und wird für seine Bemühungen brutal attackiert. Scott wettet mit seinem Vater: Sperrt White Fang mit den Hühnern ein und schaut, was passiert. Für jedes tote Huhn zahlt Scott seinem Vater einen Dollar. Für jede zehnminütige Zeitspanne ohne ein totes Huhn muss der Vater sagen: "White Fang, du bist schlauer, als ich dachte." White Fang weigert sich, die Hühner zu fressen, und der Vater muss einen heißen, dampfenden Teller Krähe essen. White Fang lernt allmählich, welche Tiere leckere Mahlzeiten sind und welche nicht. Im weiteren Sinne lernt er die zivilisierte Kunst der Selbstkontrolle. Mit der Zivilisation hat er immer noch Schwierigkeiten. Zum Beispiel wenn böse kleine Jungen Steine nach ihm werfen oder wenn die Hunde aus der örtlichen Kneipe ihn schikanieren. Mit Erlaubnis seines Herrn tötet er drei der Kneipenhunde. White Fang wird dick und glücklich mit Scott, aber es gibt immer etwas, das anders an ihm ist. Er hat immer noch etwas von dem bösen Jungen an sich und die anderen Hunde mögen das nicht. Die Collie hingegen wird verschont. Sie macht ihm die ganze Zeit Schwierigkeiten und hat ihm das Spätunangenehme mit den Hühnern nie verziehen. Er lernt es zu genießen, zu lachen, und begleitet den Herrn, wenn Scott zu Pferd reitet. Kein Schlitten zum Ziehen, also ein großer Pluspunkt für ihn. Eines Tages wirft das Pferd Scott ab. White Fang hat die Chance, Lassie zu spielen und Hilfe zu holen, indem er die Familie zu dem Ort führt, an dem Scott liegt. Bravo, White Fang. Nach etwa einem weiteren Jahr entscheidet die Collie, dass sie ihn mag, und sie – ähem – haben eine Übernachtung. Ein Sträfling namens Jim Hall entkommt aus dem Gefängnis von San Quentin. Er ist großes Unheil: Scotts Vater, Richter Scott, hat den Mann verurteilt und – obwohl Hall ein böser, böser Mann war – er war nicht schuldig an dem Verbrechen, für das er verurteilt wurde. Wie der Zufall es will, taucht er eines Nachts in Sierra Vista auf. Zum Glück lässt Scotts Frau Alice White Fang in der großen Halle schlafen. Der Sträfling kommt an und White Fang zeigt all seine Ninja-Fähigkeiten, um ihn zu Fall zu bringen. Er tötet den Mann, wird dabei jedoch mit drei Schusswunden verwundet. Der Richter ruft einen Arzt, der sich um White Fang kümmern soll. Der Chirurg erklärt ihn für verloren, aber White Fang ist viel widerstandsfähiger, als er aussieht. Über Wochen hinweg heilt er und die Familie nennt ihn "Den Gesegneten Wolf". Als sie den Gips abnehmen, torkelt er in den Stall, wo die Collie gerade ihre Welpen zur Welt gebracht hat. Er leckt einem der Welpen das Gesicht, was die Menschen begeistert. Er legt sich hin und lässt die Welpen um ihn herum spielen, im Halbschlaf und endlich glücklich.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Abend nach der Beerdigung saßen meine junge Dame und ich im Bibliothekszimmer; mal traurig nachdenkend - einer von uns verzweifelt - über unseren Verlust, mal Vermutungen über die düstere Zukunft anstellend. Wir waren uns gerade einig geworden, dass das beste Schicksal, das Catherine erwarten konnte, wäre, weiterhin auf dem Grange zu bleiben; zumindest während Lintons Leben: ihm würde erlaubt sein, sich ihr dort anzuschließen, und ich konnte als Haushälterin bleiben. Das schien eine etwas zu günstige Vereinbarung zu sein, um darauf zu hoffen; und dennoch hoffte ich und begann, mich über die Aussicht zu freuen, mein Zuhause und meine Arbeit, und vor allem meine geliebte junge Herrin, behalten zu können; als ein Diener - einer der entlassenen, aber noch nicht abgereist war - eilig hereinplatzte und sagte, dass 'der Teufel Heathcliff' durch den Hof kam: Sollte er ihm die Tür vor der Nase verriegeln? Wenn wir verrückt genug gewesen wären, diesen Vorgang anzuordnen, hätten wir keine Zeit gehabt. Er machte keine Zeremonie des Klopfens oder Ankündigens seines Namens: Er war der Herr und machte sich das Recht des Herrn zunutze, ohne ein Wort gerade hereinzugehen. Der Klang der Stimme unseres Informanten wies ihn auf die Bibliothek hin; er trat ein und wies ihn hinaus und schloss die Tür. Es war der gleiche Raum, in den er vor achtzehn Jahren als Gast eingeführt worden war: der gleiche Mond schien durch das Fenster; und die gleiche Landschaft im Herbst lag draußen. Wir hatten noch keine Kerze angezündet, aber das ganze Zimmer war sichtbar, selbst die Porträts an der Wand: der prächtige Kopf von Frau Linton und der graziöse Kopf ihres Mannes. Heathcliff ging zum Kamin. Die Zeit hatte sein Aussehen kaum verändert. Er war immer derselbe Mann: Sein dunkleres Gesicht wirkte eher fahler und ruhiger, sein Körper war vielleicht einen oder zwei Steine schwerer, und es gab keinen anderen Unterschied. Catherine war aufgestanden und hatte den Impuls, rauszulaufen, als sie ihn sah. "Stopp!" sagte er und hielt sie am Arm fest. "Kein Weglaufen mehr! Wohin würdest du gehen? Ich bin gekommen, um dich nach Hause zu bringen; und ich hoffe, du wirst eine gehorsame Tochter sein und meinen Sohn nicht zu weiterem Ungehorsam ermutigen. Als ich seine Beteiligung an dieser Angelegenheit entdeckte, wusste ich nicht, wie ich ihn bestrafen sollte: er ist so ein dünnes Etwas, dass er in einem Hauch vergehen würde; aber an seinem Blick siehst du, dass er sein Verdientes bekommen hat! Ich habe ihn einen Abend vorvorgestern mitgebracht und ihn einfach in einen Stuhl gesetzt und danach nicht mehr angerührt. Ich habe Hareton nach draußen geschickt, und wir hatten das Zimmer für uns allein. In zwei Stunden habe ich Joseph gerufen, um ihn wieder hochzubringen; und seitdem ist meine Anwesenheit auf seinen Nerven so wirksam wie ein Geist; und ich glaube, er sieht mich oft, obwohl ich nicht in der Nähe bin. Hareton sagt, er wacht schreiend in der Nacht stundenlang auf und ruft nach dir, um ihn vor mir zu beschützen; und egal, ob du deinen kostbaren Gefährten magst oder nicht, du musst kommen: er ist jetzt dein Anliegen; ich übergebe all mein Interesse an ihm dir." "Warum lassen wir Catherine nicht hier bleiben?" flehte ich, "und schicken wir Master Linton zu ihr? Da du sie beide hasst, würden sie dir nicht fehlen: sie können nur eine tägliche Plage für dein unnatürliches Herz sein." "Ich suche einen Mieter für das Grange", antwortete er, "und ich will meine Kinder um mich herum haben, versteht sich. Außerdem schuldet mir dieses Mädchen ihre Dienste für ihr Brot. Ich habe nicht vor, sie nach Lintons Tod in Luxus und Faulheit zu erziehen. Beeil dich jetzt und mach dich bereit und veranlasse mich nicht, dich zwingen zu müssen." "Das werde ich", sagte Catherine. "Linton ist alles, was ich auf der Welt zu lieben habe, und obwohl du alles mögliche getan hast, um ihn mir zu hassen, und mir, um ihn zu hassen, kannst du uns nicht dazu bringen, uns gegenseitig zu hassen. Und ich fordere dich heraus, ihm wehzutun, wenn ich da bin, und ich fordere dich heraus, mich zu erschrecken!" "Du bist eine stolze Kämpferin", antwortete Heathcliff, "aber ich mag dich nicht genug, um ihm wehzutun: du wirst von der Qual voll profitieren, solange sie anhält. Es bin nicht ich, der dich dazu bringen wird, ihn zu hassen - es ist sein eigener süßer Geist. Er ist so verbittert wie Gallenflüssigkeit über deine Verlassung und deren Folgen: erwartet keinen Dank für diese edle Hingabe. Ich habe gehört, wie er Zillah ein angenehmes Bild davon gemalt hat, was er tun würde, wenn er so stark wäre wie ich: die Neigung ist da, und seine Schwäche wird seine Cleverness schärfen, einen Ersatz für Stärke zu finden." "Ich weiß, dass er eine schlechte Natur hat", sagte Catherine, "er ist dein Sohn. Aber ich bin froh, dass ich eine bessere habe, um ihm zu vergeben; und ich weiß, dass er mich liebt, und deshalb liebe ich ihn. Mr. Heathcliff, _dich_ liebt _niemand_, und wie unglücklich du auch sein magst, wir werden immer die Rache haben, zu denken, dass deine Grausamkeit aus deinem größeren Elend herrührt. Du _bist_ elend, nicht wahr? Einsam wie der Teufel und neidisch wie er? _Niemand_ liebt d ich - _niemand_ wird um dich weinen, wenn du stirbst! Ich möchte nicht du sein!" Catherine sprach mit einer Art düsterem Triumph: Es schien, als hätte sie beschlossen, sich in den Geist ihrer zukünftigen Familie einzufügen und Freude am Leid ihrer Feinde zu haben. "Du wirst dich gleich wünschen, du selbst zu sein", sagte ihr Schwiegervater. "Wenn du noch eine Minute dort stehst. Verschwinde, Hexe, und hol deine Sachen!" Sie zog verächtlich ab. In ihrer Abwesenheit begann ich, um Zillahs Stelle am Heights zu bitten und ihr meine zu überlassen; aber er ließ es auf keinen Fall zu. Er befahl mir zu schweigen und erlaubte sich dann zum ersten Mal einen Blick im Raum und auf die Gemälde. Nachdem er sich Mrs. Lintons angesehen hatte, sagte er: "Dieses Haus werde ich haben. Nicht weil ich es brauche, sondern--" Er wandte sich abrupt dem Kamin zu und fuhr mit dem zurück, was ich aus Mangel an einem besseren Wort als Lächeln bezeichnen muss: "Ich werde dir erzählen, was ich gestern getan habe! Ich habe den Totengräber, der Lintons Grab schaufelte, dazu gebracht, die Erde von ihrem Sargdeckel wegzunehmen, und ich habe ihn geöffnet. Ich dachte, ich würde dort bleiben: als ich ihr Gesicht wieder sah - es ist immer noch ihres! - hatte er große Mühe, mich zu bewegen; aber er sagte, es würde sich ändern, wenn die Luft darauf wehte, und deshalb habe ich eine Seite des Sargs lose gemacht und ihn bedeckt: nicht Lintons Seite, verdammt nochmal! Ich wünschte, er wäre in Blei gelötet worden. Und ich habe den Totengräber bestochen, ihn wegzuziehen, wenn ich dort liege, und meinen wegzurutschen; ich werde es so machen lassen: und wenn Linton zu uns kommt, wird er nicht wissen, wer wer ist!" "Du warst sehr böse, Mr. Heathcliff!" rief ich aus, "hast du dich nicht geschämt, die Toten zu stören?" "Ich habe niemanden gestört, Nelly", antwortete er, "und ich habe mir etwas Erleichterung verschafft. Ich werde jetzt viel bequemer sein; und du wirst eine bessere Chance haben, mich unter der Erde zu halten, wenn ich dort angekommen bin. Ich habe sie gestört? Nein! Sie hat mich gestört, Tag und Nacht, achtzehn Jahre lang - unaufhörlich - unerbittlich - bis gestern Nacht; und gestern Nacht war ich ruhig. Ich träumte, ich würde den letzten Schlaf neben dieser Schläferin schlafen, mit meinem stillstehenden Herzen und meiner eingefrorenen Wange gegen ihre." "Wenn sie in die Erde aufgelöst oder noch Schlimmeres gewesen wäre, wovon hättest du dann getr 'Von ihr zu verschmelzen und noch glücklicher zu sein!' antwortete er. 'Glaubst du, dass ich vor einer solchen Veränderung Angst habe? Ich erwartete eine solche Transformation, als ich den Deckel hob – aber ich bin zufriedener, dass sie nicht beginnt, bis ich daran teilhabe. Außerdem hätte ich diese seltsame Empfindung kaum entfernen können, wenn ich nicht einen klaren Eindruck von ihren leidenschaftslosen Gesichtszügen erhalten hätte. Es begann seltsam. Du weißt, dass ich verrückt war, nachdem sie starb; und unermüdlich betete ich von Morgengrauen bis zum nächsten Morgen zu ihrem Geist, dass sie zu mir zurückkehren möge! Ich habe starken Glauben an Geister: Ich bin überzeugt, dass sie existieren können und auch unter uns existieren! Am Tag ihrer Beerdigung fiel Schnee. Am Abend ging ich zum Friedhof. Es blies rau wie im Winter – alles war einsam. Ich fürchtete nicht, dass ihr Dummkopf von Ehemann so spät den Hügel hochwandern würde; und niemand anderes hatte einen Grund, sie dort hin zu bringen. Da ich allein war und wusste, dass nur zwei Meter lose Erde uns trennten, sagte ich zu mir selbst – "Ich werde sie wieder in meinen Armen haben! Wenn sie kalt ist, werde ich denken, dass es dieser Nordwind ist, der mich frieren lässt; und wenn sie bewegungslos ist, dann schläft sie." Ich holte mir eine Schaufel aus dem Geräteschuppen und begann mit aller Kraft zu graben – sie kratzte am Sarg; dann fing ich an, mit meinen Händen zu arbeiten – das Holz begann um die Schrauben zu knacken; ich war kurz davor, mein Ziel zu erreichen, als es schien, als ob ich ein Seufzen von jemandem über mir gehört hätte, ganz nah am Rand des Grabes, und hinuntergebeugt. "Wenn ich das nur abziehen könnte", sagte ich vor mich hin, "ich wünschte mir, dass sie uns beide mit Erde überschütten würden!" und ich wackelte noch verzweifelter daran. Es gab ein weiteres Seufzen, ganz in meiner Nähe. Es schien, als könnte ich den warmen Atem spüren, der den mit Schneeregen gefüllten Wind vertrieb. Ich wusste, dass es kein lebendiges Wesen aus Fleisch und Blut war; aber genauso sicher, wie man sich an die Nähe eines greifbaren Körpers im Dunkeln erinnert, auch wenn er nicht zu erkennen ist, wusste ich, dass Cathy da war: nicht unter mir, sondern auf der Erde. Ein plötzliches Gefühl des Trostes strömte von meinem Herzen durch jede Gliedmaße. Ich gab die Qual meines Leidens auf und fühlte mich sofort getröstet: unaussprechlich getröstet. Ihre Anwesenheit war bei mir: sie blieb, während ich das Grab wieder füllte und führte mich nach Hause. Du kannst lachen, wenn du willst; aber ich war sicher, dass ich sie dort sehen würde. Ich war sicher, dass sie bei mir war, und ich konnte nicht anders, als mit ihr zu reden. Als ich die Anhöhe erreichte, stürmte ich ungeduldig zur Tür. Sie war abgeschlossen; und ich erinnere mich daran, dass dieser verfluchte Earnshaw und meine Frau den Eintritt verweigerten. Ich erinnere mich, dass ich stehen blieb, um den Atem aus ihm herauszutreten, und dann die Treppe hinauf zu meinem und ihrem Zimmer eilte. Ich schaute mich ungeduldig um – ich fühlte ihre Nähe – ich konnte sie fast sehen, und dennoch konnte ich es nicht! Ich hätte damals Blut schwitzen sollen, vor Sehnsucht vor Schmerz – von der Glut meiner Bitten, nur einen Blick zu erhaschen! Aber ich hatte keinen. Sie zeigte sich, so wie sie oft im Leben war, ein Teufel für mich! Und seitdem, manchmal mehr und manchmal weniger, bin ich das Spiel dieser unerträglichen Folter! Infernale! Sie zieht meine Nerven so sehr an, dass, wenn sie nicht wie Darmsehnen wären, sie längst in die Schwäche von Lintons entspannt wären. Wenn ich im Haus mit Hareton saß, schien es, als würde ich sie treffen, wenn ich auf den Mooren ging, schien es, als würde ich sie kommen sehen. Als ich von zu Hause wegging, eilte ich zurück; sie _muss_ irgendwo auf den Heights sein, da war ich mir sicher! Und als ich in ihrem Zimmer schlief – wurde ich daraus vertrieben. Ich konnte dort nicht liegen; denn sobald ich die Augen schloss, war sie entweder draußen am Fenster oder schob die Paneelen zurück oder betrat das Zimmer oder legte sogar ihren geliebten Kopf auf das gleiche Kissen wie damals als Kind; und ich musste meine Augen öffnen, um zu sehen. Und so öffnete und schloss ich sie hundertmal in einer Nacht – immer wieder enttäuscht! Es schmerzte mich! Oft stöhnte ich laut, bis dieser alte Schurke Joseph zweifellos glaubte, dass mein Gewissen den Teufel in mir spielte. Jetzt, seit ich sie gesehen habe, bin ich etwas beruhigt. Es war eine seltsame Art zu töten: nicht nach und nach, sondern in Bruchteilen von Haarbreiten, um mich mit dem Geist einer Hoffnung 18 Jahre lang zu täuschen!' Mr. Heathcliff hielt inne und wischte sich die Stirn ab; sein Haar klebte daran, nass vom Schweiß; seine Augen waren auf die roten Glutkohlen des Feuers gerichtet, die Brauen nicht zusammengezogen, sondern nahe den Schläfen angehoben; und verliehen seinem Gesichtsausdruck ein seltsames Leiden und eine schmerzhafte Spannung, die auf ein einziges Thema zusteuerte. Er sprach nur halb zu mir, und ich schwieg. Ich mochte es nicht, ihn reden zu hören! Nach einer kurzen Zeit setzte er seine Betrachtung des Bildes fort, nahm es herunter und lehnte es gegen das Sofa, um es besser betrachten zu können; und während er so beschäftigt war, betrat Catherine den Raum und verkündete, dass sie bereit sei, wenn ihr Pony gesattelt sei. ''Schick das morgen rüber'', sagte Heathcliff zu mir und wandte sich dann ihr zu und fügte hinzu: ''Du kannst auf dein Pony verzichten: Es ist ein schöner Abend, und du wirst keine Ponys auf Wuthering Heights brauchen; für die Reisen, die du unternimmst, werden deine eigenen Füße ausreichen. Komm mit.'' ''Auf Wiedersehen, Ellen!'' flüsterte meine liebe kleine Herrin. Als sie mich küsste, fühlten sich ihre Lippen eiskalt an. ''Komm und besuch mich, Ellen; vergiss es nicht.'' ''Hüte dich, das zu tun, Mrs. Dean!'' sagte ihr neuer Vater. ''Wenn ich mit dir sprechen möchte, werde ich hierher kommen. Ich möchte nichts von deinem Spionieren in meinem Haus!'' Er gab ihr das Zeichen, ihm vorauszugehen, und warf dabei einen Blick zurück, der mir das Herz schnitt. Sie gehorchte. Ich beobachtete sie vom Fenster aus, wie sie den Garten hinuntergingen. Heathcliff hakte sich bei Catherine ein, obwohl sie sich offenbar anfangs dagegen wehrte; und mit schnellen Schritten führte er sie in die Allee, deren Bäume sie verbargen. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Heathcliff kam auf den Grange, um Catherine nach Wuthering Heights zu holen, um sich um Linton zu kümmern, der vor Angst vor seinem Vater im Sterben lag. Als Ellen ihn bat, Cathy und Linton im Grange wohnen zu lassen, erklärte Heathcliff, dass er einen Pächter für das Anwesen finden wollte. Catherine stimmte zu zu gehen, weil Linton alles war, was sie liebte, und erklärte, dass sie Mitleid mit Heathcliff hatte, weil niemand ihn liebte. Dann verließ sie den Raum. Heathcliff, in einer seltsamen Stimmung, erzählte Ellen, was er in der Nacht zuvor getan hatte. Er hatte den Totengräber bestochen, der Edgars Grab grub, um den Sarg von Catherine freizulegen, damit er ihr Gesicht noch einmal sehen konnte - er sagte, es sei noch ihres. Der Totengräber sagte ihm, dass das Gesicht sich verändern würde, wenn Luft darauf blies, also riss er sich davon los, es zu betrachten, und löste eine Seite des Sarges und bestach den Totengräber, seinen Körper zusammen mit Catherine's in den Sarg zu legen, wenn er tot war. Ellen war schockiert und schalt ihn, dass er die Toten störte, worauf er erwiderte, dass sie ihn im Gegenteil 18 Jahre lang Tag und Nacht heimgesucht habe und "vorgestern Nacht war ich ruhig. Ich träumte, ich würde meinen letzten Schlaf schlafen, bei diesem Schlafenden, mit meinem Herz still und meiner Wange an der ihren gefroren". Heathcliff erzählte Ellen dann, was er in der Nacht nach Catherines Beerdigung getan hatte. Er war auf den Friedhof gegangen und hatte den Sarg ausgegraben "um sie wieder in meinen Armen zu haben", aber während er an den Schrauben riss, spürte er plötzlich ihre lebendige Gegenwart. Er war getröstet, aber auch gequält: Ab dieser Nacht spürte er 18 Jahre lang ständig, als ob er sie fast sehen könnte, aber eben nicht ganz. Er versuchte, in ihrem Zimmer zu schlafen, aber öffnete ständig die Augen, um zu sehen, ob sie da war, so sicher war er. Heathcliff beendete seine Geschichte und Cathy verabschiedete sich traurig von Ellen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. KAPITEL: KAPITEL VI. VERSCHIEDENE TRICKS DES AUTORS, UM DEN KÖNIG UND DIE KÖNIGIN ZU BEWIRTEN. ER ZEIGT SEIN KÖNNEN IN MUSIK. DER KÖNIG FRAGT NACH DEM ZUSTAND VON ENGLAND, DEN DER AUTOR IHM BERICHTET. DIE BEHÄLTNISSE DES KÖNIGS DARÜBER. Ich pflegte einmal oder zweimal pro Woche den Empfang des Königs zu besuchen, und hatte ihn oft unter dem Barbier gesehen, was tatsächlich zuerst sehr furchterregend war; denn das Messer war fast doppelt so lang wie eine gewöhnliche Sichel. Seine Majestät ließ sich, gemäß der Sitte des Landes, nur zweimal pro Woche rasieren. Ich konnte den Barbier einmal dazu bewegen, mir etwas von dem Schaum oder Rasierschaum zu geben, aus dem ich vierzig oder fünfzig der stärksten Haarwurzeln herausnahm. Dann nahm ich ein Stück feines Holz und schnitt es wie den Rücken eines Kammes, indem ich mit einer kleinen Nadel, die ich von Glumdalclitch bekam, in gleichmäßigen Abständen Löcher hineinbohrte. Ich befestigte die Haarwurzeln so geschickt darin, indem ich sie mit meinem Messer abschrägte und nach vorne zuspitzte, dass ich einen ziemlich guten Kamm herstellte. Es war eine willkommene Ergänzung, da meiner so von Zähnen zerbrochen war, dass er fast nutzlos war. Ich kannte auch keinen Künstler in diesem Land, der so akribisch und genau war, dass er versuchen würde, mir einen anderen anzufertigen. Und das erinnert mich an eine Unterhaltung, der ich viele meiner freien Stunden widmete. Ich bat die Hofdame der Königin, mir die abgeschnittenen Haare ihrer Majestät aufzubewahren, von denen ich mit der Zeit eine gute Menge bekam. Nachdem ich mich mit meinem Freund, dem Schreiner, beraten hatte, der allgemeine Anweisungen erhalten hatte, um für mich kleinere Arbeiten auszuführen, wies ich ihn an, zwei Stuhlrahmen anzufertigen, nicht größer als die, die ich in meiner Kiste hatte, und dann kleine Löcher mit einer feinen Ahle an den Stellen zu bohren, an denen ich die Lehnen und Sitze vorgesehen hatte. Durch diese Löcher flocht ich die stärksten Haare ein, die ich finden konnte, genau wie bei den Sesseln in England mit Rohrgeflecht. Als sie fertig waren, machte ich der Königin ein Geschenk daraus, die sie in ihrem Kabinett aufbewahrte und sie als Kuriositäten zeigte, denn sie waren wirklich das Staunen jedes, der sie sah. Aus diesen Haaren (ich hatte schon immer einen mechanischen Sinn) machte ich auch ein hübsches kleines Portemonnaie, etwa fünf Fuß lang, mit dem Namen ihrer Majestät in goldenen Buchstaben entziffert, das ich Glumdalclitch mit der Zustimmung der Königin gab. Um die Wahrheit zu sagen, es war mehr zur Schau als zum Nutzen gedacht, denn es war nicht stark genug, um das Gewicht der größeren Münzen zu tragen, und daher hatte sie darin nichts aufbewahrt, außer einigen kleinen Münzen, die Mädchen mögen. Der König, der Musik liebte, hatte häufige Konzerte am Hof, zu denen ich manchmal gebracht wurde und in meiner Kiste auf einem Tisch saß, um sie zu hören; aber der Lärm war so groß, dass ich die Melodien kaum unterscheiden konnte. Ich bin sicher, dass alle Trommeln und Trompeten einer königlichen Armee, die gleichzeitig in deinen Ohren schlagen und tönen, dies nicht übertreffen konnten. Ich pflegte meine Kiste so weit wie möglich von dem Ort fernhalten zu lassen, an dem die Musiker saßen, dann schloss ich die Türen und Fenster und zog die Fenstervorhänge. Danach fand ich ihre Musik nicht unangenehm. [Illustration] In meiner Jugend habe ich ein wenig Spinett spielen gelernt. Glumdalclitch hatte eines in ihrem Zimmer, und zweimal pro Woche kam ein Lehrer, um sie zu unterrichten. Ich nannte es ein Spinett, weil es diesem Instrument einigermaßen ähnelte und auf die gleiche Weise gespielt wurde. Es kam mir in den Sinn, den König und die Königin mit einer englischen Melodie auf diesem Instrument zu unterhalten. Aber das schien äußerst schwierig zu sein, denn das Spinett war fast sechs Fuß lang, jede Taste war fast ein Fuß breit, so dass ich mit ausgestreckten Armen nur bis zu fünf Tasten erreichen konnte und um sie niederzudrücken eine gute feste Schlagkraft mit der Faust erforderlich war, was zu anstrengend und zwecklos wäre. Die Methode, die ich mir überlegt hatte, war folgende: Ich bereitete zwei runde Stöcke vor, etwa so dick wie gewöhnliche Knüppel; sie waren an einem Ende dicker als am anderen, und ich überzog die dickere Enden mit einem Stück Mäusehaut, damit ich sie anschlagen konnte, ohne die Spitzen der Tasten zu beschädigen oder den Klang zu unterbrechen. Vor das Spinett wurde eine Bank gestellt, etwa vier Fuß unterhalb der Tasten, und ich wurde darauf gesetzt. Ich rannte seitwärts darauf, mal so schnell, mal so, schlug mit meinen beiden Stöcken auf die richtigen Tasten und schaffte es, eine Jig zu spielen, worüber sich ihre Majestäten sehr erfreuten; aber es war die anstrengendste Übung, die ich je gemacht habe. Dennoch konnte ich nicht mehr als sechzehn Tasten anschlagen und folglich nicht Bass und Diskant wie andere Künstler gleichzeitig spielen, was ein großer Nachteil für meine Darbietung war. Der König, der, wie ich bereits erwähnte, ein Fürst von ausgezeichnetem Verstand war, ordnete häufig an, dass ich in meiner Kiste hereingebracht und auf den Tisch in seinem Arbeitszimmer gesetzt werden sollte. Dann befahl er mir, einen meiner Stühle aus der Kiste zu holen und mich in drei Meter Entfernung auf die Oberseite des Kabinetts zu setzen, wodurch ich fast auf Augenhöhe mit seinem Gesicht war. Auf diese Weise führte ich mehrere Gespräche mit ihm. Eines Tages nahm ich mir die Freiheit, seiner Majestät zu sagen, dass die Geringschätzung, die er gegenüber Europa und dem Rest der Welt zeigte, den ausgezeichneten geistigen Fähigkeiten, die er besaß, nicht angemessen zu sein schien, und dass sich der Verstand nicht mit der Körpergröße entfaltet; im Gegenteil, wir beobachteten in unserem Land, dass die größten Menschen in der Regel am schlechtesten damit ausgestattet waren. Dass unter anderen Tieren Bienen und Ameisen den Ruf von mehr Fleiß, Kunstfertigkeit und Weisheit als viele der größeren Arten hatten; und dass ich, so belanglos er mich auch halten möge, hoffe, dass ich imstande sein werde, seiner Majestät einmal einen bedeutenden Dienst zu erweisen. Der König hörte mir aufmerksam zu und begann, ein viel besseres Bild von mir zu bekommen als je zuvor. Er bat mich, ihm eine möglichst genaue Beschreibung der Regierung Englands zu geben, weil er, so sehr die Fürsten gewöhnlich an ihren eigenen Bräuchen hängen (denn von anderen Monarchen schloss er aufgrund meiner vorherigen Reden), gerne von etwas hören würde, das eine Nachahmung verdient. Stelle dir vor, gnädiger Leser, wie oft ich mir damals die Zunge des Demosthenes oder Cicero gewünscht habe, die es mir ermöglicht hätte, das Lob meines lieben Heimatlandes in einer dem Verdienst und der Glückseligkeit ebenbürtigen Sprache zu feiern. [Illustration: "DIE ANSTRENGENDSTE ÜBUNG, DIE ICH JE GEMACHT HABE." S.71.] Ich begann meine Rede, indem ich Seine Majestät darüber informierte Daraufhin stieg ich hinab zu den Gerichtshöfen, über die die Richter, jene ehrwürdigen Weisen und Ausleger des Gesetzes, präsent waren, um über umstrittene Rechte und Eigentum der Menschen zu entscheiden sowie zur Bestrafung von Vergehen und zum Schutz der Unschuld. Ich erwähnte die vorsichtige Verwaltung unserer Schatzkammer, den Mut und die Errungenschaften unserer Streitkräfte zu Lande und zu Wasser. Ich berechnete die Anzahl unserer Menschen, indem ich abschätzte, wie viele Millionen es von jeder religiösen Sekte oder politischen Partei unter uns geben könnte. Ich ließ sogar unsere Sportarten und Freizeitaktivitäten oder sonstige Einzelheiten nicht aus, von denen ich dachte, dass sie zur Ehre meines Landes beitragen könnten. Und zum Schluss gab ich einen kurzen historischen Überblick über die Angelegenheiten und Ereignisse in England in den letzten hundert Jahren. Dieses Gespräch dauerte nicht weniger als fünf Anhörungen, von mehreren Stunden jeweils. Der König hörte mir mit großer Aufmerksamkeit zu und machte häufig Notizen zu dem, was ich sagte, sowie Gedächtnisstützen für die Fragen, die er mir stellen wollte. Als ich diese langen Reden beendet hatte, unterbreitete Seine Majestät in einer sechsten Anhörung nach Konsultation seiner Notizen viele Zweifel, Fragen und Einwände zu jedem einzelnen Punkt. Er fragte, welche Methoden angewendet wurden, um die Geister und Körper unserer jungen Adligen zu fördern und womit sie in der ersten und lehrbaren Phase ihres Lebens üblicherweise beschäftigt waren. Welcher Weg eingeschlagen wurde, um dieses Gremium zu ergänzen, wenn eine Adelsfamilie ausstarb? Welche Qualifikationen notwendig waren, um neue Lords zu ernennen; ob der Geschmack des Prinzen, eine Summe Geldes an eine Hofdame als Premierministerin oder die Absicht, eine Partei zu stärken, die dem öffentlichen Interesse entgegengesetzt ist, jemals Beweggründe für solche Beförderungen waren? Welchen Wissensstand diese Lords in den Gesetzen ihres Landes hatten und wie sie dazu kamen, um in letzter Instanz über das Eigentum ihrer Mitbürger zu entscheiden? Ob sie immer so frei von Habgier, Parteilichkeit oder Mangel waren, dass Bestechungsgelder oder andere betrügerische Absichten keinen Platz bei ihnen hatten? Ob diese heiligen Lords, von denen ich sprach, immer aufgrund ihres Wissens in religiösen Angelegenheiten und der Heiligkeit ihres Lebens zu diesem Rang befördert wurden; ob sie sich niemals als Verfasser mit den Gegebenheiten der Zeit abgefunden hatten, während sie einfache Priester waren oder hörige Hofkapläne einiger Adligen, deren Meinungen sie auch weiterhin sklavisch folgten, nachdem sie in dieses Gremium aufgenommen wurden? Er wollte dann wissen, welche Praktiken bei der Wahl der von mir als Bürger bezeichneten Personen angewendet wurden; ob ein Fremder mit einer prall gefüllten Börse nicht die gewöhnlichen Wähler beeinflussen könnte, um ihn anstelle des eigenen Grundherren oder des bedeutendsten Gentlemans in der Nachbarschaft zu wählen? Wie es dazu kam, dass Menschen so sehr darauf erpicht waren, in dieses Gremium zu gelangen, was ich als große Mühe und Kosten betrachtete, oft zum Ruin ihrer Familien, ohne irgendein Gehalt oder eine Pension: weil dies so eine erhabene Tugend und ein so hoher Gemeinschaftssinn zu sein schien, dass seine Majestät daran zweifelte, ob es möglicherweise nicht immer aufrichtig war; und er wollte wissen, ob solche eifrigen Gentlemen möglicherweise Pläne hatten, sich die Ausgaben und Mühen, die sie auf sich nehmen, durch Opferung des öffentlichen Wohls zugunsten der Pläne eines schwachen und lasterhaften Prinzen, gemeinsam mit einer korrupten Regierung, wieder zurückzuerstatten? Er vervielfachte seine Fragen und durchleuchtete mich gründlich zu jedem Teil dieses Themas, indem er unzählige Untersuchungen und Einwände vorbrachte, die ich nicht für klug oder zuträglich erachte, wiederzugeben. Zu dem, was ich über unsere Gerichtshöfe sagte, wollte seine Majestät in verschiedenen Punkten Aufklärung haben; und das konnte ich umso besser geben, da ich selbst einst beinahe durch eine langwierige Klage vor dem Kanzlergericht ruiniert wurde, die für mich mit Kosten entschieden wurde. Er fragte, wie viel Zeit in der Regel für die Entscheidung zwischen Recht und Unrecht aufgewendet wurde und welcher Grad an Aufwand damit verbunden war. Ob Anwälten und Rednern die Freiheit gewährt wurde, in Fällen zu plädieren, die offenkundig als unrechtmäßig, lästig oder unterdrückend bekannt waren? Ob in Religion oder Politik eine Partei als gewichtig in der Waagschale der Gerechtigkeit angesehen wurde? Ob diese plädierenden Redner Personen waren, die in allgemeinem Gerechtigkeitsverständnis ausgebildet waren oder nur in regionalen, nationalen und anderen lokalen Bräuchen? Ob sie oder ihre Richter einen Anteil an der Abfassung der Gesetze hatten, die sie sich die Freiheit nahmen, nach Belieben zu interpretieren und zu erklären? Ob sie jemals zu unterschiedlichen Zeiten für oder gegen dieselbe Sache plädiert und Präzedenzfälle zitiert hatten, um gegenteilige Meinungen zu belegen? Ob es sich um eine reiche oder arme Körperschaft handelte? Ob sie eine finanzielle Belohnung für das Plädieren oder das Abgeben ihrer Meinungen erhielten? Und insbesondere, ob sie als Mitglieder in den unteren Senat aufgenommen wurden? Dann ging er zur Verwaltung unseres Finanzwesens über und sagte, er halte es für einen Fehler meiner Erinnerung, da ich unsere Steuern auf etwa fünf oder sechs Millionen pro Jahr schätzte und als ich dann die Ausgaben erwähnte, fand er heraus, dass sie manchmal mehr als das doppelte davon betrugen; denn die von ihm gemachten Notizen waren in diesem Punkt sehr detailliert, da er hoffte, dass das Wissen über unser Handeln für ihn nützlich sein könnte und er in seinen Berechnungen nicht getäuscht werden könne. Aber wenn das, was ich ihm sagte, wahr sei, war er immer noch ratlos, wie ein Königreich wie ein Privatmann in Schwierigkeiten geraten konnte. Er fragte mich, wer unsere Gläubiger waren und woher wir das Geld fanden, um sie zu bezahlen. Es erstaunte ihn zu hören, dass ich von so kostspieligen und teuren Kriegen sprach; dass wir sicherlich ein streitsüchtiges Volk sein müssten oder unter sehr schlechten Nachbarn leben und dass unsere Generäle wohlhabender sein müssten als unsere Könige. Er fragte, was wir außerhalb unserer eigenen Inseln zu suchen hatten, es sei denn im Hinblick auf den Handel oder ein Abkommen oder zur Verteidigung der Küsten mit unserer Flotte. Vor allem war er erstaunt zu hören, dass ich von einer stehenden Söldnerarmee inmitten des Friedens und unter einem freien Volk sprach. Er sagte, wenn wir mit unserem eigenen Einverständnis, vertreten durch unsere Abgeordneten, regiert würden, könne er sich nicht vorstellen, vor wem wir Angst hatten oder gegen wen wir kämpfen sollten; und er wollte meine Meinung hören, ob das Haus eines Privatmanns nicht besser von ihm selbst, seinen Kindern und seiner Familie verteidigt werden könnte als von einer Handvoll Schurken, die in den Straßen für einen geringen Lohn aufgelesen wurden und sich hundertmal mehr verdienen könnten, indem sie sich die Kehlen durchschnitten? Er lachte über meine eigenartige Art der Mathematik (wie er es nannte) bei der Berechnung der Bevölkerungszahlen unseres Volkes anhand der religiösen und politischen Sekten unter uns. Er sagte, er wisse nicht, warum jene, die Meinungen haben, die dem Gemeinwohl abträglich sind, gezwungen sein sollten, diese zu ändern oder sie nicht gezwungen sein sollten, sie zu verbergen. Und genauso wie es in einer Regierung Tyrannei war, das erste zu verlangen, war es Schwäche, das zweite nicht durchzusetzen: Denn einem Mann darf es erlaubt sein, Gift in seinem Schrank zu behalten, aber nicht, es wie stärkende Mittel zu vertreiben. Er merkte an, dass ich unter den Vergnügungen unseres Adels und der Gentry das Glücksspiel erwähnte: er wollte wissen, in welchem Alter diese Art der Unterhaltung üblicherweise aufgenommen und aufgegeben wurde, wie viel Zeit sie beanspruchte, ob es jemals so weit ging, dass es sich auf ihre Vermögen auswirkte: ob geme Seine Majestät bemühte sich in einer weiteren Audienz, die Summe dessen, was ich gesagt hatte, zusammenzufassen; er verglich die Fragen, die er gestellt hatte, mit den Antworten, die ich gegeben hatte. Dann nahm er mich in seine Hände, streichelte mich sanft und sprach in Worten, die ich niemals vergessen werde, noch die Art und Weise, wie er sie aussprach: "Mein kleiner Freund Grildrig, du hast ein äußerst bewundernswertes Loblied auf dein Land gesungen; du hast deutlich bewiesen, dass Unwissenheit, Faulheit und Laster die richtigen Zutaten sind, um einen Gesetzgeber auszubilden; dass Gesetze am besten von denen erklärt, interpretiert und angewendet werden können, deren Interessen und Fähigkeiten darin liegen, sie zu verdrehen, zu verwirren und zu umgehen. Ich habe hier in eurer Institution einige Regeln entdeckt, die in ihrer Ursprünglichkeit erträglich gewesen sein mögen, doch diese wurden zur Hälfte gelöscht und der Rest von Korruptionen völlig verschmiert und verschandelt. Aus allem, was du gesagt hast, geht nicht hervor, dass irgendeine Vollkommenheit zur Erlangung einer bestimmten Position erforderlich ist; geschweige denn, dass Männer aufgrund ihrer Tugend erhoben werden, Priester wegen ihrer Frömmigkeit oder ihres Wissens, Soldaten wegen ihrer Führung oder Tapferkeit, Richter wegen ihrer Integrität, Senatoren wegen ihrer Liebe zum Vaterland oder Berater wegen ihrer Weisheit. Was dich betrifft, fuhr der König fort, der einen Großteil deines Lebens mit Reisen verbracht hat, bin ich geneigt zu hoffen, dass du bisher vielen Lastern deines Landes entkommen bist. Aber aus dem, was ich aus deiner eigenen Erzählung und aus den Antworten, die ich dir mit viel Mühe abgerungen und herausgepresst habe, erkennen kann, muss ich den Schluss ziehen, dass der Großteil deiner Landsleute die zerstörerischste Rasse von widerlichen kleinen Ungeziefern ist, die die Natur je zugelassen hat, über die Erdoberfläche zu kriechen." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Ein- oder zweimal pro Woche nimmt Gulliver an der königlichen Levee teil, einer Art Empfang, der jeden Morgen stattfindet, wenn ein König aufsteht. Er sammelt die Haare, die beim zweimal wöchentlichen Rasieren des Königs abfallen, um sich einen Kamm zu machen. Gulliver verwendet auch einige Haare der Königin aus ihrer Bürste, um einen Satz Stühle herzustellen, die die Königin als Kuriositäten aufbewahrt. Glumdalclitch spielt das Spinett, das wie ein Miniaturklavier ist - miniaturisiert für Glumdalclitch, aber riesig für Gulliver. Gulliver weiß, dass der König Musik mag, also macht er sich einige Stöcke, um die Tasten des Instruments herunterzudrücken, aber es ist so harte Arbeit, dass er nicht richtig spielen kann. Der brobdingnagische König bittet Gulliver, ihm einen genauen Bericht über die englische Regierung zu geben, weil der König wissen möchte, ob es dort etwas gibt, das es wert ist, nachgeahmt zu werden. Gulliver erklärt zuerst, dass sein Zuhause ein Reich ist, das England, Irland, Schottland und Plantagen in Amerika unter einem König vereint. Dieses Königreich wird von einem Parlament regiert, das aus zwei Häusern besteht. Das erste ist das House of Peers, heute bekannt als House of Lords, eine Versammlung von Mitgliedern des Landadels. Das zweite Haus ist das House of Commons, das frei von den Menschen gewählt wird. Gulliver fügt Informationen über Englands Gerichtsbarkeit, Finanzen, Streitkräfte, Religion und jüngste Geschichte hinzu. Nachdem der brobdingnagische König alles gehört hat, fragt er Gulliver mehrere schwierige Fragen, darunter: Wie werden Lords ausgebildet, um für die Regierung geeignet zu sein? Wie erlassen Lords Gesetze, ohne persönliche Interessen oder Gier zu berücksichtigen? Wie stellt die Regierung sicher, dass ihre gewählten Beamten zum Wohl des Staates und nicht zu ihrem eigenen Ruhm oder Gewinn handeln? Der König fragt auch nach dem Gerichtssystem: Spielen Religion oder Politik jemals eine Rolle bei rechtlichen Entscheidungen? Wie können Richter Gesetze auslegen, die sie nicht erlassen haben? Was ist mit Steuern? Der König findet es sehr seltsam, dass ein Staat kein Geld mehr haben kann und wie eine Privatperson Geld leihen kann. Und was ist mit Unterschieden im politischen und religiösen Empfinden - warum sollten diese privaten Meinungen überhaupt öffentlich bekannt oder von Belang sein? Was ist außerdem mit dem Glücksspiel? Gibt dies den Menschen nicht die Möglichkeit, viel Geld ohne eigene Arbeit zu verdienen? Was Gullivers Berichte über die jüngste englische Geschichte betrifft, so klingt das alles für den König von Brobdingnag nur nach einer Ansammlung von Morden, Massakern und Revolutionen. Tatsächlich, obwohl sich Gulliver sehr bemüht hat, den König von der Größe seines Heimatlandes zu überzeugen, kommt der König zu dem Schluss, dass England von einer Gruppe korrupter, unqualifizierter, gieriger Diebe regiert wird. Der König von Brobdingnag glaubt, dass die meisten Engländer "die anstößigste und widerlichste Rasse von kleinen, stinkenden Ungeziefern sind, die die Natur je auf der Erdoberfläche hat krabbeln lassen" - mit anderen Worten, eine ekelhafte, böse Bande kleiner Kriecher.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Scene II. Elsinore. A passage in the Castle. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Safely stow'd. Gentlemen. (within) Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! Ham. But soft! What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ros. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin. Ros. Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence And bear it to the chapel. Ham. Do not believe it. Ros. Believe what? Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king? Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? Ham. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouth'd, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have glean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again. Ros. I understand you not, my lord. Ham. I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King. Ham. The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing- Guil. A thing, my lord? Ham. Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. Exeunt. 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. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Das Hauptproblem hier ist nun der Aufenthaltsort von Polonius' Leichnam. Rosencrantz und Guildenstern wurden losgeschickt, um Hamlet und somit den Körper zu finden. Hamlet nennt sie bloße Schwämme und Parasiten des Hofes. Sie sind weit unter ihm, den Söhnen eines Königs. Vor dem gesamten Hof gibt Claudius vor, besorgt um seinen Neffen zu sein, weil er so beliebt beim Volk ist. Allerdings muss er für den Tod von Polonius bestraft werden und ins Exil geschickt werden. Guildenstern und die Wachen bringen Hamlet herein, und Claudius verlangt zu wissen, wo der Körper ist. Hamlet nutzt erneut sein Sprachgeschick, um die Situation zu verwirren. Er erzählt eine Geschichte von einem Wurm und sagt, dass Würmer alle Körper in der Erde fressen und genauso wie ein Fischer einen Fisch isst, der einen Wurm gegessen hat, der sich im Grab eines Königs befand, kann jeder Mann durch die Eingeweide eines Bettlers fortschreiten. Er sagt Claudius, dass ihm nicht einmal ein Bote vom Himmel sagen könnte, wo der Körper des alten Mannes ist, weil Polonius sicherlich in der Hölle ist, aber dass in etwa einem Monat der Geruch die Treppe hinauf in den Eingangsbereich den Aufenthaltsort des Körpers enthüllen wird. Diener gehen los, um Polonius' Leichnam zu holen, und Claudius teilt Hamlet mit, dass ein Boot bereitsteht, um ihn nach England zu bringen. Der König überlegt für sich, dass England den Prinzen schnell erledigen wird, da sie ihm einen Gefallen schulden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 VII. Verona. JULIA'S house Enter JULIA and LUCETTA JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long! JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return. JULIA. O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love. Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JULIA. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays, With willing sport, to the wild ocean. Then let me go, and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium. LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along? JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men; Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. JULIA. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots- To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? JULIA. That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale.' Why ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta. LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd. LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin, Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd. LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. JULIA. Nay, that I will not. LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone. I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal. JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men. JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth; His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. LUCETTA. Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him. JULIA. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong To bear a hard opinion of his truth; Only deserve my love by loving him. And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently; I am impatient of my tarriance. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze verfassen?

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Zurück in Verona brainstormen Julia und Lucetta darüber, wie Julia nach Mailand reisen kann, ohne ihre "Ehre" zu verlieren. Lucetta rät Julia, Zuhause zu bleiben und abzuwarten - Proteus wird schließlich wieder zurückkommen. Julia will aber nichts davon hören. Sie ist verliebt und möchte sofort bei Proteus sein. Julia beschließt, sich wie ein Junge zu verkleiden, um "unerwünschten Begegnungen mit lasterhaften Männern" vorzubeugen. Sie bindet ihre Haare in modische Knoten, um älter auszusehen, und Lucetta wird ihr eine Hose machen. Lucetta rät Julia auch, einen Schamwulst zu tragen. Julia macht sich Sorgen, dass alleine zu reisen und sich als Junge zu verkleiden ihren Ruf ruinieren wird, aber sie entscheidet, dass es das wert ist, weil Proteus der treueste und loyalste Mann der Welt ist. Julia und Lucetta bereiten sich auf die Reise vor.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 rainy night had ushered in a misty morning--half frost, half drizzle--and temporary brooks crossed our path--gurgling from the uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low; exactly the humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things. We entered the farm-house by the kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr. Heathcliff were really absent: because I put slight faith in his own affirmation. Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces of toasted oat-cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Catherine ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was in? My question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had grown deaf, and repeated it louder. 'Na--ay!' he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. 'Na--ay! yah muh goa back whear yah coom frough.' 'Joseph!' cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner room. 'How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now. Joseph! come this moment.' Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate, declared he had no ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one gone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew Linton's tones, and entered. 'Oh, I hope you'll die in a garret, starved to death!' said the boy, mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant. He stopped on observing his error: his cousin flew to him. 'Is that you, Miss Linton?' he said, raising his head from the arm of the great chair, in which he reclined. 'No--don't kiss me: it takes my breath. Dear me! Papa said you would call,' continued he, after recovering a little from Catherine's embrace; while she stood by looking very contrite. 'Will you shut the door, if you please? you left it open; and those--those _detestable_ creatures won't bring coals to the fire. It's so cold!' I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The invalid complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough, and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper. 'Well, Linton,' murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed, 'are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good?' 'Why didn't you come before?' he asked. 'You should have come, instead of writing. It tired me dreadfully writing those long letters. I'd far rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will you' (looking at me) 'step into the kitchen and see?' I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to run to and fro at his behest, I replied--'Nobody is out there but Joseph.' 'I want to drink,' he exclaimed fretfully, turning away. 'Zillah is constantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it's miserable! And I'm obliged to come down here--they resolved never to hear me up-stairs.' 'Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?' I asked, perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances. 'Attentive? He makes them a little more attentive at least,' he cried. 'The wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton laughs at me! I hate him! indeed, I hate them all: they are odious beings.' Cathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher in the dresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a spoonful of wine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed a small portion, appeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind. 'And are you glad to see me?' asked she, reiterating her former question and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile. 'Yes, I am. It's something new to hear a voice like yours!' he replied. 'But I have been vexed, because you wouldn't come. And papa swore it was owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing; and said you despised me; and if he had been in my place, he would be more the master of the Grange than your father by this time. But you don't despise me, do you, Miss--?' 'I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,' interrupted my young lady. 'Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I love you better than anybody living. I don't love Mr. Heathcliff, though; and I dare not come when he returns: will he stay away many days?' 'Not many,' answered Linton; 'but he goes on to the moors frequently, since the shooting season commenced; and you might spend an hour or two with me in his absence. Do say you will. I think I should not be peevish with you: you'd not provoke me, and you'd always be ready to help me, wouldn't you?' 'Yes,' said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair: 'if I could only get papa's consent, I'd spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton! I wish you were my brother.' 'And then you would like me as well as your father?' observed he, more cheerfully. 'But papa says you would love me better than him and all the world, if you were my wife; so I'd rather you were that.' 'No, I should never love anybody better than papa,' she returned gravely. 'And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their sisters and brothers: and if you were the latter, you would live with us, and papa would be as fond of you as he is of me.' Linton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy affirmed they did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father's aversion to her aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. I couldn't succeed till everything she knew was out. Master Heathcliff, much irritated, asserted her relation was false. 'Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,' she answered pertly. '_My_ papa scorns yours!' cried Linton. 'He calls him a sneaking fool.' 'Yours is a wicked man,' retorted Catherine; 'and you are very naughty to dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to have made Aunt Isabella leave him as she did.' 'She didn't leave him,' said the boy; 'you sha'n't contradict me.' 'She did,' cried my young lady. 'Well, I'll tell you something!' said Linton. 'Your mother hated your father: now then.' 'Oh!' exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue. 'And she loved mine,' added he. 'You little liar! I hate you now!' she panted, and her face grew red with passion. 'She did! she did!' sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair, and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other disputant, who stood behind. 'Hush, Master Heathcliff!' I said; 'that's your father's tale, too, I suppose.' 'It isn't: you hold your tongue!' he answered. 'She did, she did, Catherine! she did, she did!' Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to fall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough that soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that it frightened even me. As to his cousin, she wept with all her might, aghast at the mischief she had done: though she said nothing. I held him till the fit exhausted itself. Then he thrust me away, and leant his head down silently. Catherine quelled her lamentations also, took a seat opposite, and looked solemnly into the fire. 'How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?' I inquired, after waiting ten minutes. 'I wish _she_ felt as I do,' he replied: 'spiteful, cruel thing! Hareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I was better to-day: and there--' his voice died in a whimper. '_I_ didn't strike you!' muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent another burst of emotion. He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept it up for a quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin apparently, for whenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and pathos into the inflexions of his voice. 'I'm sorry I hurt you, Linton,' she said at length, racked beyond endurance. 'But I couldn't have been hurt by that little push, and I had no idea that you could, either: you're not much, are you, Linton? Don't let me go home thinking I've done you harm. Answer! speak to me.' 'I can't speak to you,' he murmured; 'you've hurt me so that I shall lie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it you'd know what it was; but _you'll_ be comfortably asleep while I'm in agony, and nobody near me. I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful nights!' And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself. 'Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,' I said, 'it won't be Miss who spoils your ease: you'd be the same had she never come. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps you'll get quieter when we leave you.' 'Must I go?' asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him. 'Do you want me to go, Linton?' 'You can't alter what you've done,' he replied pettishly, shrinking from her, 'unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a fever.' 'Well, then, I must go?' she repeated. 'Let me alone, at least,' said he; 'I can't bear your talking.' She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome while; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a movement to the door, and I followed. We were recalled by a scream. Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and lay writhing in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child, determined to be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thoroughly gauged his disposition from his behaviour, and saw at once it would be folly to attempt humouring him. Not so my companion: she ran back in terror, knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated, till he grew quiet from lack of breath: by no means from compunction at distressing her. 'I shall lift him on to the settle,' I said, 'and he may roll about as he pleases: we can't stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, Miss Cathy, that you are not the person to benefit him; and that his condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. Now, then, there he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care for his nonsense, he'll be glad to lie still.' She placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; he rejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were a stone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably. 'I can't do with that,' he said; 'it's not high enough.' Catherine brought another to lay above it. 'That's too high,' murmured the provoking thing. 'How must I arrange it, then?' she asked despairingly. He twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and converted her shoulder into a support. 'No, that won't do,' I said. 'You'll be content with the cushion, Master Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you already: we cannot remain five minutes longer.' 'Yes, yes, we can!' replied Cathy. 'He's good and patient now. He's beginning to think I shall have far greater misery than he will to-night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit: and then I dare not come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I musn't come, if I have hurt you.' 'You must come, to cure me,' he answered. 'You ought to come, because you have hurt me: you know you have extremely! I was not as ill when you entered as I am at present--was I?' 'But you've made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion.--I didn't do it all,' said his cousin. 'However, we'll be friends now. And you want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, really?' 'I told you I did,' he replied impatiently. 'Sit on the settle and let me lean on your knee. That's as mamma used to do, whole afternoons together. Sit quite still and don't talk: but you may sing a song, if you can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting ballad--one of those you promised to teach me; or a story. I'd rather have a ballad, though: begin.' Catherine repeated the longest she could remember. The employment pleased both mightily. Linton would have another, and after that another, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and so they went on until the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton in the court, returning for his dinner. 'And to-morrow, Catherine, will you be here to-morrow?' asked young Heathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly. 'No,' I answered, 'nor next day neither.' She, however, gave a different response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped and whispered in his ear. 'You won't go to-morrow, recollect, Miss!' I commenced, when we were out of the house. 'You are not dreaming of it, are you?' She smiled. 'Oh, I'll take good care,' I continued: 'I'll have that lock mended, and you can escape by no way else.' 'I can get over the wall,' she said laughing. 'The Grange is not a prison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I'm almost seventeen: I'm a woman. And I'm certain Linton would recover quickly if he had me to look after him. I'm older than he is, you know, and wiser: less childish, am I not? And he'll soon do as I direct him, with some slight coaxing. He's a pretty little darling when he's good. I'd make such a pet of him, if he were mine. We should never quarrel, should we after we were used to each other? Don't you like him, Ellen?' 'Like him!' I exclaimed. 'The worst-tempered bit of a sickly slip that ever struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr. Heathcliff conjectured, he'll not win twenty. I doubt whether he'll see spring, indeed. And small loss to his family whenever he drops off. And lucky it is for us that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious and selfish he'd be. I'm glad you have no chance of having him for a husband, Miss Catherine.' My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his death so regardlessly wounded her feelings. 'He's younger than I,' she answered, after a protracted pause of meditation, 'and he ought to live the longest: he will--he must live as long as I do. He's as strong now as when he first came into the north; I'm positive of that. It's only a cold that ails him, the same as papa has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn't he?' 'Well, well,' I cried, 'after all, we needn't trouble ourselves; for listen, Miss,--and mind, I'll keep my word,--if you attempt going to Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton, and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be revived.' 'It has been revived,' muttered Cathy, sulkily. 'Must not be continued, then,' I said. 'We'll see,' was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to toil in the rear. We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such awhile at the Heights had done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and during three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties: a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am thankful to say, since. Meine kleine Herrin benahm sich wie ein Engel, als sie kam, um mich zu bedienen und meine Einsamkeit zu erheitern; die Einengung machte mich sehr schwach. Es ist ermüdend für einen rührigen, aktiven Körper, aber wenige hatten weniger Grund zur Klage als ich. Im Moment, als Catherine Mr. Lintons Zimmer verließ, erschien sie an meinem Bett. Ihr Tag wurde zwischen uns aufgeteilt; keine Unterhaltung raubte uns eine Minute: Sie vernachlässigte ihre Mahlzeiten, ihr Lernen und ihr Spielen; und sie war die liebevollste Krankenschwester, die jemals gewacht hat. Sie muss ein warmherziges Mädchen gewesen sein, wenn sie ihren Vater so sehr liebte, um so viel für mich zu tun. Ich sagte, ihre Tage seien zwischen uns aufgeteilt, aber der Herr zog sich früh zurück, und ich brauchte in der Regel nichts nach sechs Uhr, so dass der Abend ihr gehörte. Armes Ding! Ich habe nie darüber nachgedacht, was sie mit sich selbst nach dem Tee gemacht hat. Und obwohl ich oft bemerkte, wenn sie hereinkam, um mir gute Nacht zu sagen, eine frische Farbe in ihren Wangen und ein Rosarot über ihren schlanken Fingern, anstatt anzunehmen, dass sie sich von einer kalten Fahrt über die Moore geliehen hat, schrieb ich es der Hitze des Feuers in der Bibliothek zu. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Am nächsten Morgen fahren Catherine und Nelly im Regen nach Wuthering Heights, wo sie Linton wie gewohnt am Wehklagen antreffen. Er spricht mit Catherine über die Möglichkeit einer Ehe. Genervt schiebt Catherine seinen Stuhl im Zorn. Linton fängt an zu husten und sagt, dass Catherine ihn angegriffen und seine bereits fragile Gesundheit verletzt hat. Er füllt Catherine mit Schuld und bittet sie, ihn selbst gesund zu pflegen. Nachdem Nelly und Catherine nach Hause gefahren sind, stellt Nelly fest, dass sie sich eine Erkältung beim Reisen im Regen zugezogen hat. Catherine pflegt sowohl ihren Vater als auch Nelly tagsüber, aber nachts beginnt sie heimlich, um Linton 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: THE BOOK OF THE GROTESQUE The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer's room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long life, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end he wrote a book which he called "The Book of the Grotesque." It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before. The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's book. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Als Sherwood Anderson sein Manuskript von "Winesburg, Ohio" bei einem Verlag einreichte, hatte es einen anderen Titel; er hatte es "Das Buch des Grotesken" genannt. Obwohl der Verleger den Titel des Buches geändert hat, ließ er den Titel der Einleitung gleich, sodass "Winesburg" mit einer Skizze beginnt, die nicht von Winesburg oder George Willard handelt, sondern von dem Konzept des Grotesken. Die Skizze beschreibt einen älteren Schriftsteller, der einen alten Zimmermann engagiert, um sein Bett auf irgendeine Weise zu erhöhen, so dass er, während er dort liegt, aus dem Fenster schauen kann. Der alte Zimmermann erzählt dem Schriftsteller von seinen Erfahrungen im Bürgerkrieg und, während er spricht, fängt er an zu weinen. Der weinende alte Mann ist lächerlich, er erinnert den Schriftsteller jedoch an die vielen traurigen Menschen, die er in seinem Leben gekannt hatte. Er erkennt, dass sie alle Grotesken sind, und beschließt, über sie zu schreiben. Er erklärt ihre Groteskheit damit, dass jeder von ihnen eine Wahrheit ergriffen und versucht habe, danach zu leben, aber die Wahrheit, die jeder ergriffen habe, sei zu einer Lüge geworden. Mit dieser einführenden Skizze schlägt Anderson eines der verbindenden Elemente des Buches vor, das folgen wird - denn die meisten Charaktere von Winesburg sind auf groteske oder verzerrte Weise dargestellt. Wie der Zimmermann scheinen auch sie alle begierig zu sein, jemandem von sich zu erzählen, und jeder von ihnen wählt oft den jungen George Willard aus, weil er eine Art Schriftsteller ist und er beabsichtigt, so schnell wie möglich ein Schriftsteller zu werden. Diese Skizze, wie viele der Geschichten, findet in einem Zimmer statt, ein Symbol, das im Buch nicht für Sicherheit und Wärme steht, sondern für Isolation und Gefangenschaft. Wir bemerken jedoch, dass der alte Schriftsteller seinem Zimmer eine Aussicht verschafft, vielleicht symbolisiert dies die Fähigkeit des Autors, seiner eigenen Isolation zu entkommen und mehr zu sehen als die meisten Menschen sehen können. Es ist interessant, dass Anderson selbst sein Bett erhöht hat, damit er aus dem Fenster auf die Loop in Chicago schauen kann. Diese Skizze, wie auch die folgenden Geschichten, wird vom allwissenden Autor, vermutlich Anderson selbst, erzählt, der gelegentlich mit dem Leser spricht. Hier sagt er zum Beispiel, dass er das Buch des Grotesken des alten Schriftstellers gesehen hat, und er kommentiert: "Indem ich mich daran erinnerte, habe ich viele Menschen und Dinge verstehen können, die ich zuvor nie verstehen konnte." Ebenso werden wir, wenn wir dieses Konzept des Grotesken im Hinterkopf behalten, in der Lage sein, die vielen ungewöhnlichen Charaktere zu verstehen, die Anderson in "Winesburg, Ohio" beschreibt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: The same, all but De Guiche. CHRISTIAN (entreatingly): Roxane! ROXANE: No! FIRST CADET (to the others): She stays! ALL (hurrying, hustling each other, tidying themselves): A comb!--Soap!--My uniform is torn!--A needle!--A ribbon!--Lend your mirror!--My cuffs!--Your curling-iron!--A razor!. . . ROXANE (to Cyrano, who still pleads with her): No! Naught shall make me stir from this spot! CARBON (who, like the others, has been buckling, dusting, brushing his hat, settling his plume, and drawing on his cuffs, advances to Roxane, and ceremoniously): It is perchance more seemly, since things are thus, that I present to you some of these gentlemen who are about to have the honor of dying before your eyes. (Roxane bows, and stands leaning on Christian's arm, while Carbon introduces the cadets to her): Baron de Peyrescous de Colignac! THE CADET (with a low reverence): Madame. . . CARBON (continuing): Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,--Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, Chevalier d'Antignac-Juzet, Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan de Castel Crabioules. . . ROXANE: But how many names have you each? BARON HILLOT: Scores! CARBON (to Roxane): Pray, upon the hand that holds your kerchief. ROXANE (opens her hand, and the handkerchief falls): Why? (The whole company start forward to pick it up.) CARBON (quickly raising it): My company had no flag. But now, by my faith, they will have the fairest in all the camp! ROXANE (smiling): 'Tis somewhat small. CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance): But--'tis of lace! A CADET (to the rest): I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach--were it but a nut! CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly): Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . . ROXANE: But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassee, old wines--there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here. (Consternation.) A CADET: All that? ANOTHER: But where on earth find it? ROXANE (quietly): In my carriage. ALL: How? ROXANE: Now serve up--carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will! THE CADETS (rushing pellmell to the carriage): 'Tis Ragueneau! (Acclamations): Oh, oh! ROXANE (looking after them): Poor fellows! CYRANO (kissing her hand): Kind fairy! RAGUENEAU (standing on the box like a quack doctor at a fair): Gentlemen!. . . (General delight.) THE CADETS: Bravo! bravo! RAGUENEAU: . . .The Spaniards, gazing on a lady so dainty fair, overlooked the fare so dainty!. . . (Applause.) CYRANO (in a whisper to Christian): Hark, Christian! RAGUENEAU: . . .And, occupied with gallantry, perceived not-- (His draws a plate from under the seat, and holds it up): --The galantine!. . . (Applause. The galantine passes from hand to hand.) CYRANO (still whispering to Christian): Prythee, one word! RAGUENEAU: And Venus so attracted their eyes that Diana could secretly pass by with-- (He holds up a shoulder of mutton): --her fawn! (Enthusiasm. Twenty hands are held out to seize the shoulder of mutton.) CYRANO (in a low whisper to Christian): I must speak to you! ROXANE (to the cadets, who come down, their arms laden with food): Put it all on the ground! (She lays all out on the grass, aided by the two imperturbable lackeys who were behind the carriage.) ROXANE (to Christian, just as Cyrano is drawing him apart): Come, make yourself of use! (Christian comes to help her. Cyrano's uneasiness increases.) RAGUENEAU: Truffled peacock! FIRST CADET (radiant, coming down, cutting a big slice of ham): By the mass! We shall not brave the last hazard without having had a gullet-full!-- (quickly correcting himself on seeing Roxane): --Pardon! A Balthazar feast! RAGUENEAU (throwing down the carriage cushions): The cushions are stuffed with ortolans! (Hubbub. They tear open and turn out the contents of the cushions. Bursts of laughter--merriment.) THIRD CADET: Ah! Viedaze! RAGUENEAU (throwing down to the cadets bottles of red wine): Flasks of rubies!-- (and white wine): --Flasks of topaz! ROXANE (throwing a folded tablecloth at Cyrano's head): Unfold me that napkin!--Come, come! be nimble! RAGUENEAU (waving a lantern): Each of the carriage-lamps is a little larder! CYRANO (in a low voice to Christian, as they arrange the cloth together): I must speak with you ere you speak to her. RAGUENEAU: My whip-handle is an Arles sausage! ROXANE (pouring out wine, helping): Since we are to die, let the rest of the army shift for itself. All for the Gascons! And mark! if De Guiche comes, let no one invite him! (Going from one to the other): There! there! You have time enough! Do not eat too fast!--Drink a little.- -Why are you crying? FIRST CADET: It is all so good!. . . ROXANE: Tut!--Red or white?--Some bread for Monsieur de Carbon!--a knife! Pass your plate!--a little of the crust? Some more? Let me help you!--Some champagne?- -A wing? CYRANO (who follows her, his arms laden with dishes, helping her to wait on everybody): How I worship her! ROXANE (going up to Christian): What will you? CHRISTIAN: Nothing. ROXANE: Nay, nay, take this biscuit, steeped in muscat; come!. . .but two drops! CHRISTIAN (trying to detain her): Oh! tell me why you came? ROXANE: Wait; my first duty is to these poor fellows.--Hush! In a few minutes. . . LE BRET (who had gone up to pass a loaf on the end of a lance to the sentry on the rampart): De Guiche! CYRANO: Quick! hide flasks, plates, pie-dishes, game-baskets! Hurry!--Let us all look unconscious! (To Ragueneau): Up on your seat!--Is everything covered up? (In an instant all has been pushed into the tents, or hidden under doublets, cloaks, and beavers. De Guiche enters hurriedly--stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.) Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Kohlenstoff stellt Roxane das Unternehmen vor und zu ihrer Überraschung und Freude bringt sie Ragueneau - und das Fest, das er für die Kadetten vorbereitet hat - aus dem Wagen vor. Die Männer stopfen sich voll, aber als de Guiche wieder auftaucht, verstecken sie das Essen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Actus Quartus. Enter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in ambush. Lord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge corner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible Language you will: though you vnderstand it not your selues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand him, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce for an Interpreter 1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter Lor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not thy voice? 1.Sol. No sir I warrant you Lo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs againe 1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me Lo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th aduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all neighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one be a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak one to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight our purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme very politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile two houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear the lies he forges. Enter Parrolles. Par. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill be time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue done? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries it. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of late, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue is too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue Lo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue was guiltie of Par. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake the recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say, came you off with so little? And great ones I dare not giue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put you into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another of Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these perilles Lo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and be that he is Par. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue the turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword Lo.E. We cannot affoord you so Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem Lo.E. 'Twould not do Par. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript Lo.E. Hardly serue Par. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the Citadell Lo.E. How deepe? Par. Thirty fadome Lo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be beleeued Par. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I would sweare I recouer'd it Lo.E. You shall heare one anon Par. A drumme now of the enemies. Alarum within. Lo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo Par. O ransome, ransome, Do not hide mine eyes Inter. Boskos thromuldo boskos Par. I know you are the Muskos Regiment, And I shall loose my life for want of language. If there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch, Italian, or French, let him speake to me, Ile discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine Int. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake thy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome Par. Oh Inter. Oh pray, pray, pray, Manka reuania dulche Lo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco Int. The Generall is content to spare thee yet, And hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe Something to saue thy life Par. O let me liue, And all the secrets of our campe Ile shew, Their force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that, Which you will wonder at Inter. But wilt thou faithfully? Par. If I do not, damne me Inter. Acordo linta. Come on, thou are granted space. Exit A short Alarum within. L.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother, We haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled Till we do heare from them Sol. Captaine I will L.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues, Informe on that Sol. So I will sir L.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt. Exit Enter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana. Ber. They told me that your name was Fontybell Dia. No my good Lord, Diana Ber. Titled Goddesse, And worth it with addition: but faire soule, In your fine frame hath loue no qualitie? If the quicke fire of youth light not your minde, You are no Maiden but a monument When you are dead you should be such a one As you are now: for you are cold and sterne, And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet selfe was got Dia. She then was honest Ber. So should you be Dia. No: My mother did but dutie, such (my Lord) As you owe to your wife Ber. No more a'that: I prethee do not striue against my vowes: I was compell'd to her, but I loue thee By loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer Do thee all rights of seruice Dia. I so you serue vs Till we serue you: But when you haue our Roses, You barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues, And mocke vs with our barenesse Ber. How haue I sworne Dia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth, But the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true: What is not holie, that we sweare not by, But take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me, If I should sweare by Ioues great attributes, I lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes, When I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding To sweare by him whom I protest to loue That I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes Are words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd At lest in my opinion Ber. Change it, change it: Be not so holy cruell: Loue is holie, And my integritie ne're knew the crafts That you do charge men with: Stand no more off, But giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires, Who then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer My loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer Dia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre, That wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring Ber. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power To giue it from me Dia. Will you not my Lord? Ber. It is an honour longing to our house, Bequeathed downe from manie Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In me to loose Dian. Mine Honors such a Ring, My chastities the Iewell of our house, Bequeathed downe from many Ancestors, Which were the greatest obloquie i'th world, In mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome Brings in the Champion honor on my part, Against your vaine assault Ber. And be it so, I give you my assets, my house, my honor, even my life will be yours, and I will do as you bid me. Dia. When midnight comes, knock on my chamber window. I will make sure my mother doesn't hear. Now, I will tell you the truth. When you have conquered my virgin bed, stay there for only an hour and don't speak to me. I have strong reasons for this, and you will know them when I receive this ring back. And in the night, I will put another ring on your finger that will symbolize the future based on our past actions. Farewell until then, don't fail me. You have won me as your wife, even though there is no hope for me. Ber. I have gained heaven on earth by wooing you. Dia. For that, I hope you live long to thank both heaven and me. Par. And truly, as I hope to liue Int. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke is strong. What say you to that? Par. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable: the troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders verie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to liue Int. Shall I set downe your answer so? Par. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which way you will: all's one to him Ber. What a past-sauing slaue is this? Cap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur Parrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase that had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his scarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger Cap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping his sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing in him, by wearing his apparrell neatly Int. Well, that's set downe Par. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true, or thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth Cap.G. He's very neere the truth in this Ber. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he deliuers it Par. Poore rogues, I pray you say Int. Well, that's set downe Par. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the Rogues are maruailous poore Interp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a foot. What say you to that? Par. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present houre, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred & fiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so many: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred fiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene thousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake the snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues to peeces Ber. What shall be done to him? Cap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand of him my condition: and what credite I haue with the Duke Int. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of him, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether he thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing summes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you to this? What do you know of it? Par. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of the intergatories. Demand them singly Int. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine? Par. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool with childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him nay Ber. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I know his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals Int. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences campe? Par. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie Cap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of your Lord anon Int. What is his reputation with the Duke? Par. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore Officer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne him out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket Int. Marry we'll search Par. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there, or it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my Tent Int. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you? Par. I do not know if it be it or no Ber. Our Interpreter do's it well Cap.G. Excellently Int. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold Par. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement to a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to take heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a foolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you sir put it vp againe Int. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour Par. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the behalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity, and deuours vp all the fry it finds Ber. Damnable both-sides rogue Int. Let. When he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and take it: After he scores, he neuer payes the score: Halfe won is match well made, match and well make it, He nere payes after-debts, take it before, And say a souldier (Dian) told thee this: Men are to mell with, boyes are not to kis. For count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it, Who payes before, but not when he does owe it. Thine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare, Parolles Ber. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this rime in's forehead Cap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold Linguist, and the army-potent souldier Ber. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and now he's a Cat to me Int. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall be faine to hang you Par. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to dye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent out the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon, i'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue Int. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse freely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine: you haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour. What is his honestie? Par. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for rapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes not keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then Hercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you would thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best vertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he does little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him: but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I haue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie thing that an honest man should not haue; what an honest man should haue, he has nothing Cap.G. I begin to loue him for this Ber. For this description of thine honestie? A pox vpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat Int. What say you to his expertnesse in warre? Par. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English Tragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his souldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine Cap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the raritie redeemes him Ber. A pox on him, he's a Cat still Int. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede not to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt Par. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of his saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from all remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually Int. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain? Cap.E. Why do's he aske him of me? Int. What's he? Par. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so great as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in euill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes any Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the Crampe Int. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray the Florentine Par. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion Int. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his pleasure Par. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes, onely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition of that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run into this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush where I was taken? Int. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the Generall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd the secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports of men very nobly held, can serue the world for no honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman, off with his head Par. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death Int. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your friends: So, looke about you, know you any heere? Count. Good morrow noble Captaine Lo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles Cap.G. God saue you noble Captaine Lo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafew? I am for France Cap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count Rossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell it of you, but far you well. Exeunt. Int. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe, that has a knot on't yet Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? Inter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but women were that had receiued so much shame, you might begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I am for France too, we shall speake of you there. Exit Par. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great 'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more, But I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft As Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart Let him feare this; for it will come to passe, That euery braggart shall be found an Asse. Rust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue Safest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue; There's place and meanes for euery man aliue. Ile after them. Enter. Enter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana. Hel. That you may well perceiue I haue not wrong'd you, One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneele. Time was, I did him a desired office Deere almost as his life, which gratitude Through flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth, And answer thankes. I duly am inform'd, His grace is at Marcellae, to which place We haue conuenient conuoy: you must know I am supposed dead, the Army breaking, My husband hies him home, where heauen ayding, And by the leaue of my good Lord the King, Wee'l be before our welcome Wid. Gentle Madam, You neuer had a seruant to whose trust Your busines was more welcome Hel. Nor your Mistris Euer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour To recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen Hath brought me vp to be your daughters dower, As it hath fated her to be my motiue And helper to a husband. But O strange men, That can such sweet vse make of what they hate, When sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts Defiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play With what it loathes, for that which is away, But more of this heereafter: you Diana, Vnder my poore instructions yet must suffer Something in my behalfe Dia. Let death and honestie Go with your impositions, I am yours Vpon your will to suffer Hel. Yet I pray you: But with the word the time will bring on summer, When Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes, And be as sweet as sharpe: we must away, Our Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs, All's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne; What ere the course, the end is the renowne. Exeunt. Enter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew. Laf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt taffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue made all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this houre, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd by the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak of La. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death of the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature had praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh and cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could not haue owed her a more rooted loue Laf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee may picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another hearbe Clo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the sallet, or rather the hearbe of grace Laf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes Clowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not much skill in grace Laf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue or a foole? Clo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a mans Laf. Your distinction Clo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his seruice Laf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed Clo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe her seruice Laf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue and foole Clo. At your seruice Laf. No, no, no Clo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as great a prince as you are Laf. Whose that, a Frenchman? Clo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie is more hotter in France then there Laf. What prince is that? Clo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse, alias the diuell Laf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue him still Clo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued a great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good fire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie remaine in's Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to enter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie will be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the flowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great fire Laf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee, and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd too, without any trickes Clo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee Iades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of Nature. Exit Laf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie Lady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe much sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines heere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse, and indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will Laf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and that my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I moued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of my daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his Maiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first propose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and to stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against your sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your Ladyship like it? La. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish it happily effected Laf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as able bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere to morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldome fail'd La. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till they meete together Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted Lad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge Laf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but I thanke my God, it holds yet. Enter Clowne. Clo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with a patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't or no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch of Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a halfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare Laf. A scarre nobly got, Or a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor, So belike is that Clo. But it is your carbinado'd face Laf. Let vs go see your sonne I pray you, I long to talke With the yong noble souldier Clowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at euerie man. Exeunt. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Szene spielt im Haus der Witwe in Florenz. Helena versucht, die Witwe davon zu überzeugen, dass sie Bertrams Ehefrau ist. Sie ist verzweifelt und sagt, dass sie nicht weiß, wie sie der Witwe sonst versichern kann, dass sie die Wahrheit spricht. Die Witwe ist misstrauisch und möchte nicht in Helenas Plan verwickelt werden, Bertram zurückzugewinnen. Helena bietet der Witwe eine Tasche mit Goldmünzen im Austausch für ihre Hilfe an, mit zusätzlicher Bezahlung, wenn der Plan abgeschlossen ist. Helena erzählt der Witwe, dass wenn Bertram wieder auftaucht, Diana vortäuschen soll, seinen Annäherungen nachzugeben und von ihm den Ring fordern sollte, den er immer am Finger trägt. Da der Ring ein Familienerbstück ist, das von einer Generation zur nächsten weitergegeben wurde, wird Bertram nur ungern davon trennen, aber letztendlich doch, um Diana zu gewinnen. Diana sollte einen Zeitpunkt und Ort für ein geheimes Treffen zwischen den beiden festlegen, und wenn Bertram ankommt, wird Helena den Platz des Mädchens im Bett mit Bertram einnehmen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Akt III mit dem Titel "Roxanes Kuss" spielt auf der Straße unter Roxanes Balkon. Es eröffnet mit Ragueneau, der der Erzieherin von Roxane erzählt, dass seine Frau Lise mit dem Musketier davongelaufen ist. Er versuchte, sich aufzuhängen, aber Cyrano rettete ihn und brachte ihn zu Roxane, um ein Verwalter in ihrem Haushalt zu sein. Cyrano betritt die Szene, gefolgt von Musikern, die er ständig verbessert. Er erklärt, dass er sie mit einer Wette über einen feinen sprachlichen Punkt für einen Tag gewonnen hat. Roxane erzählt Cyrano, dass Christian ein Genie ist: Er wird einen Moment ruhig und abgelenkt sein und dann die schönsten Dinge sagen. Cyrano neckt sie über einige von Christians Reden.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 HAVE already mentioned that the influence exerted over the people of the valley by their chiefs was mild in the extreme; and as to any general rule or standard of conduct by which the commonality were governed in their intercourse with each other, so far as my observation extended, I should be almost tempted to say, that none existed on the island, except, indeed, the mysterious 'Taboo' be considered as such. During the time I lived among the Typees, no one was ever put upon his trial for any offence against the public. To all appearance there were no courts of law or equity. There was no municipal police for the purpose of apprehending vagrants and disorderly characters. In short, there were no legal provisions whatever for the well-being and conservation of society, the enlightened end of civilized legislation. And yet everything went on in the valley with a harmony and smoothness unparalleled, I will venture to assert, in the most select, refined, and pious associations of mortals in Christendom. How are we to explain this enigma? These islanders were heathens! savages! ay, cannibals! and how came they without the aid of established law, to exhibit, in so eminent a degree, that social order which is the greatest blessing and highest pride of the social state? It may reasonably be inquired, how were these people governed? how were their passions controlled in their everyday transactions? It must have been by an inherent principle of honesty and charity towards each other. They seemed to be governed by that sort of tacit common-sense law which, say what they will of the inborn lawlessness of the human race, has its precepts graven on every breast. The grand principles of virtue and honour, however they may be distorted by arbitrary codes, are the same all the world over: and where these principles are concerned, the right or wrong of any action appears the same to the uncultivated as to the enlightened mind. It is to this indwelling, this universally diffused perception of what is just and noble, that the integrity of the Marquesans in their intercourse with each other, is to be attributed. In the darkest nights they slept securely, with all their worldly wealth around them, in houses the doors of which were never fastened. The disquieting ideas of theft or assassination never disturbed them. Each islander reposed beneath his own palmetto thatching, or sat under his own bread-fruit trees, with none to molest or alarm him. There was not a padlock in the valley, nor anything that answered the purpose of one: still there was no community of goods. This long spear, so elegantly carved, and highly polished, belongs to Wormoonoo: it is far handsomer than the one which old Marheyo so greatly prizes; it is the most valuable article belonging to its owner. And yet I have seen it leaning against a cocoanut tree in the grove, and there it was found when sought for. Here is a sperm-whale tooth, graven all over with cunning devices: it is the property of Karluna; it is the most precious of the damsel's ornaments. In her estimation its price is far above rubies--and yet there hangs the dental jewel by its cord of braided bark, in the girl's house, which is far back in the valley; the door is left open, and all the inmates have gone off to bathe in the stream.* *The strict honesty which the inhabitants of nearly all the Polynesian Islands manifest toward each other, is in striking contrast with the thieving propensities some of them evince in their intercourse with foreigners. It would almost seem that, according to their peculiar code of morals, the pilfering of a hatchet or a wrought nail from a European, is looked upon as a praiseworthy action. Or rather, it may be presumed, that bearing in mind the wholesale forays made upon them by their nautical visitors, they consider the property of the latter as a fair object of reprisal. This consideration, while it serves to reconcile an apparent contradiction in the moral character of the islanders, should in some measure alter that low opinion of it which the reader of South Sea voyages is too apt to form. So much for the respect in which 'personal property' is held in Typee; how secure an investment of 'real property' may be, I cannot take upon me to say. Whether the land of the valley was the joint property of its inhabitants, or whether it was parcelled out among a certain number of landed proprietors who allowed everybody to 'squat' and 'poach' as much as he or she pleased, I never could ascertain. At any rate, musty parchments and title-deeds there were none on the island; and I am half inclined to believe that its inhabitants hold their broad valleys in fee simple from Nature herself; to have and to hold, so long as grass grows and water runs; or until their French visitors, by a summary mode of conveyancing, shall appropriate them to their own benefit and behoof. Yesterday I saw Kory-Kory hie him away, armed with a long pole, with which, standing on the ground, he knocked down the fruit from the topmost boughs of the trees, and brought them home in his basket of cocoanut leaves. Today I see an islander, whom I know to reside in a distant part of the valley, doing the self-same thing. On the sloping bank of the stream are a number of banana-trees I have often seen a score or two of young people making a merry foray on the great golden clusters, and bearing them off, one after another, to different parts of the vale, shouting and trampling as they went. No churlish old curmudgeon could have been the owner of that grove of bread-fruit trees, or of these gloriously yellow bunches of bananas. From what I have said it will be perceived that there is a vast difference between 'personal property' and 'real estate' in the valley of Typee. Some individuals, of course, are more wealthy than others. For example, the ridge-pole of Marheyo's house bends under the weight of many a huge packet of tappa; his long couch is laid with mats placed one upon the other seven deep. Outside, Tinor has ranged along in her bamboo cupboard--or whatever the place may be called--a goodly array of calabashes and wooden trenchers. Now, the house just beyond the grove, and next to Marheyo's, occupied by Ruaruga, is not quite so well furnished. There are only three moderate-sized packages swinging overhead: there are only two layers of mats beneath; and the calabashes and trenchers are not so numerous, nor so tastefully stained and carved. But then, Ruaruga has a house--not so pretty a one, to be sure--but just as commodious as Marheyo's; and, I suppose, if he wished to vie with his neighbour's establishment, he could do so with very little trouble. These, in short, constituted the chief differences perceivable in the relative wealth of the people in Typee. Civilization does not engross all the virtues of humanity: she has not even her full share of them. They flourish in greater abundance and attain greater strength among many barbarous people. The hospitality of the wild Arab, the courage of the North American Indian, and the faithful friendship of some of the Polynesian nations, far surpass anything of a similar kind among the polished communities of Europe. If truth and justice, and the better principles of our nature, cannot exist unless enforced by the statute-book, how are we to account for the social condition of the Typees? So pure and upright were they in all the relations of life, that entering their valley, as I did, under the most erroneous impressions of their character, I was soon led to exclaim in amazement: 'Are these the ferocious savages, the blood-thirsty cannibals of whom I have heard such frightful tales! They deal more kindly with each other, and are more humane than many who study essays on virtue and benevolence, and who repeat every night that beautiful prayer breathed first by the lips of the divine and gentle Jesus.' I will frankly declare that after passing a few weeks in this valley of the Marquesas, I formed a higher estimate of human nature than I had ever before entertained. But alas! since then I have been one of the crew of a man-of-war, and the pent-up wickedness of five hundred men has nearly overturned all my previous theories. There was one admirable trait in the general character of the Typees which, more than anything else, secured my admiration: it was the unanimity of feeling they displayed on every occasion. With them there hardly appeared to be any difference of opinion upon any subject whatever. They all thought and acted alike. I do not conceive that they could support a debating society for a single night: there would be nothing to dispute about; and were they to call a convention to take into consideration the state of the tribe, its session would be a remarkably short one. They showed this spirit of unanimity in every action of life; everything was done in concert and good fellowship. I will give an instance of this fraternal feeling. One day, in returning with Kory-Kory from my accustomed visit to the Ti, we passed by a little opening in the grove; on one side of which, my attendant informed me, was that afternoon to be built a dwelling of bamboo. At least a hundred of the natives were bringing materials to the ground, some carrying in their hands one or two of the canes which were to form the sides, others slender rods of the habiscus, strung with palmetto leaves, for the roof. Every one contributed something to the work; and by the united, but easy, and even indolent, labours of all, the entire work was completed before sunset. The islanders, while employed in erecting this tenement, reminded me of a colony of beavers at work. To be sure, they were hardly as silent and demure as those wonderful creatures, nor were they by any means as diligent. To tell the truth they were somewhat inclined to be lazy, but a perfect tumult of hilarity prevailed; and they worked together so unitedly, and seemed actuated by such an instinct of friendliness, that it was truly beautiful to behold. Not a single female took part in this employment: and if the degree of consideration in which the ever-adorable sex is held by the men be--as the philosophers affirm--a just criterion of the degree of refinement among a people, then I may truly pronounce the Typees to be as polished a community as ever the sun shone upon. The religious restrictions of the taboo alone excepted, the women of the valley were allowed every possible indulgence. Nowhere are the ladies more assiduously courted; nowhere are they better appreciated as the contributors to our highest enjoyments; and nowhere are they more sensible of their power. Far different from their condition among many rude nations, where the women are made to perform all the work while their ungallant lords and masters lie buried in sloth, the gentle sex in the valley of Typee were exempt from toil, if toil it might be called that, even in the tropical climate, never distilled one drop of perspiration. Their light household occupations, together with the manufacture of tappa, the platting of mats, and the polishing of drinking-vessels, were the only employments pertaining to the women. And even these resembled those pleasant avocations which fill up the elegant morning leisure of our fashionable ladies at home. But in these occupations, slight and agreeable though they were, the giddy young girls very seldom engaged. Indeed these wilful care-killing damsels were averse to all useful employment. Like so many spoiled beauties, they ranged through the groves--bathed in the stream--danced--flirted--played all manner of mischievous pranks, and passed their days in one merry round of thoughtless happiness. During my whole stay on the island I never witnessed a single quarrel, nor anything that in the slightest degree approached even to a dispute. The natives appeared to form one household, whose members were bound together by the ties of strong affection. The love of kindred I did not so much perceive, for it seemed blended in the general love; and where all were treated as brothers and sisters, it was hard to tell who were actually related to each other by blood. Let it not be supposed that I have overdrawn this picture. I have not done so. Nor let it be urged, that the hostility of this tribe to foreigners, and the hereditary feuds they carry on against their fellow-islanders beyond the mountains, are facts which contradict me. Not so; these apparent discrepancies are easily reconciled. By many a legendary tale of violence and wrong, as well as by events which have passed before their eyes, these people have been taught to look upon white men with abhorrence. The cruel invasion of their country by Porter has alone furnished them with ample provocation; and I can sympathize in the spirit which prompts the Typee warrior to guard all the passes to his valley with the point of his levelled spear, and, standing upon the beach, with his back turned upon his green home, to hold at bay the intruding European. As to the origin of the enmity of this particular clan towards the neighbouring tribes, I cannot so confidently speak. I will not say that their foes are the aggressors, nor will I endeavour to palliate their conduct. But surely, if our evil passions must find vent, it is far better to expend them on strangers and aliens, than in the bosom of the community in which we dwell. In many polished countries civil contentions, as well as domestic enmities, are prevalent, and the same time that the most atrocious foreign wars are waged. How much less guilty, then, are our islanders, who of these three sins are only chargeable with one, and that the least criminal! The reader will ere long have reason to suspect that the Typees are not free from the guilt of cannibalism; and he will then, perhaps, charge me with admiring a people against whom so odious a crime is chargeable. But this only enormity in their character is not half so horrible as it is usually described. According to the popular fictions, the crews of vessels, shipwrecked on some barbarous coast, are eaten alive like so many dainty joints by the uncivil inhabitants; and unfortunate voyagers are lured into smiling and treacherous bays; knocked on the head with outlandish war-clubs; and served up without any prelimary dressing. In truth, so horrific and improbable are these accounts, that many sensible and well-informed people will not believe that any cannibals exist; and place every book of voyages which purports to give any account of them, on the same shelf with Blue Beard and Jack the Giant-Killer. While others, implicitly crediting the most extravagant fictions, firmly believe that there are people in the world with tastes so depraved that they would infinitely prefer a single mouthful of material humanity to a good dinner of roast beef and plum pudding. But here, Truth, who loves to be centrally located, is again found between the two extremes; for cannibalism to a certain moderate extent is practised among several of the primitive tribes in the Pacific, but it is upon the bodies of slain enemies alone, and horrible and fearful as the custom is, immeasurably as it is to be abhorred and condemned, still I assert that those who indulge in it are in other respects humane and virtuous. 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Tommo beschäftigt sich nun damit, das Konzept von Governance und Gesetz im Typee-Tal zu erklären. "Tabus" sind die einzigen Regeln, auf die er gestoßen ist, und er fragt sich, wie alles in so guter Ordnung bleibt. Die Leute kümmern sich selbst um ihren Besitz, ohne sich Sorgen zu machen, dass jemand etwas stiehlt, zum Beispiel. Sie nehmen sich, was sie brauchen, wenn sie es brauchen, und obwohl es eine Vorstellung von Reichtum gibt, hat jeder angemessene Unterkunft und Nahrung. Tommo diskutiert die Einschränkungen des Konzepts der Zivilisation: Es kann organisieren, aber es lässt keine menschliche Freundlichkeit zu, die die Typee natürlich haben. Die Typee sind auch sehr emotional demonstrativ und scheinen sich in fast allem einig zu sein, und Tommo bezeugt keinen einzigen Kampf. Eines Tages hat Tommo die Gelegenheit, fast hundert männliche Dorfbewohner beim Bau einer Behausung zuzusehen. Sie tun dies intuitiv und arbeiten wie eine Einheit. Die Frauen des Tals machen diese Arbeit nicht, sie halten das Haus in Ordnung und fertigen Materialien nach Bedarf an, nehmen jedoch nichts zu Schweres in die Hand. Tommo hält inne, um sicherzugehen, dass wir nicht denken, er schönt die Dinge auf der Seite mehr, als sie im wirklichen Leben sind. Das tut er nicht. Dann wendet er sich dem Thema des Kannibalismus zu und weist darauf hin, dass viele europäische Bösewichte Schlimmeres getan haben und dass die Typee in jeder anderen Hinsicht gute Menschen sind, selbst wenn es so schlimm 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: SZENE II. Fife. Ein Raum in Macduffs Schloss. [Betreten Lady Macduff, ihr Sohn und Ross.] LADY MACDUFF. Was hat er getan, um das Land zu verlassen? ROSS. Du musst Geduld haben, Madame. LADY MACDUFF. Er hatte keine: Sein Flucht war Wahnsinn: Wenn unsere Taten es nicht tun, Unsere Ängste machen uns zu Verrätern. ROSS. Du weißt nicht, Ob es seine Klugheit oder seine Angst war. LADY MACDUFF. Klugheit! Seine Frau zu verlassen, seine Kinder zu verlassen, Sein Anwesen und seine Titel, an einem Ort Von dem er selbst flieht? Er liebt uns nicht: Er hat nicht die natürliche Zuneigung; denn der arme Zaunkönig, Der kleinste aller Vögel, wird kämpfen, Seine Jungen in seinem Nest, gegen die Eule. Es ist nur die Angst, und nichts ist die Liebe; Die Weisheit ist ebenso gering, wenn die Flucht Gegen jeglichen Grund verstößt. ROSS. Meine liebste Kusine, Ich bitte dich, fasse dich: Aber was deinen Ehemann betrifft, Er ist edel, klug, vernünftig und weiß am besten Um die Stimmungen der Zeit. Ich kann nicht viel weiter sprechen: Doch grausam sind die Zeiten, wenn wir Verräter sind, Und uns selbst nicht kennen; wenn wir Gerüchten folgen, Vor dem fürchten, von dem wir nichts wissen, Aber auf wildem und stürmischem Meer dahintreiben In jede Richtung. - Ich verabschiede mich von dir: Ich werde nicht lange weg sein, aber ich werde wieder hier sein: Die Dinge werden sich zum Schlechteren wenden oder aufsteigen Zu dem, was sie vorher waren. - Mein hübsches Kusinchen, Gottes Segen auf dich! LADY MACDUFF. Er wurde gezeugt, und dennoch ist er vaterlos. ROSS. Ich bin so sehr ein Dummkopf, würde ich länger bleiben, Wäre es meine Schande und dein Unbehagen: Ich verabschiede mich sofort. [Hinausgehen.] LADY MACDUFF. Kerl, dein Vater ist tot; Und was wirst du nun tun? Wie wirst du leben? SOHN. Wie die Vögel, Mutter. LADY MACDUFF. Was, mit Würmern und Fliegen? SOHN. Mit dem, was ich bekomme, meine ich; und so machen sie es auch. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Vogel! Du hättest niemals vor dem Netz oder Kleber Angst, Der Grube oder der Falle. SOHN. Warum sollte ich, Mutter? Arme Vögel sind nicht dafür gemacht. Mein Vater ist nicht tot, trotz all deinen Behauptungen. LADY MACDUFF. Ja, er ist tot: Wie wirst du jetzt ohne Vater auskommen? SOHN. Na und, wie wirst du ohne Ehemann auskommen? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, ich kann mir zwanzig kaufen auf jedem Markt. SOHN. Dann wirst du sie wieder verkaufen. LADY MACDUFF. Du sprichst mit all deinem Verstand; und doch, im Glauben, Mit genug Verstand für dich. SOHN. War mein Vater ein Verräter, Mutter? LADY MACDUFF. Ja, das war er. SOHN. Was ist ein Verräter? LADY MACDUFF. Nun, einer der schwört und lügt. SOHN. Und sind alle Verräter, die das tun? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder, der das tut, ist ein Verräter und muss gehängt werden. SOHN. Und müssen sie alle gehängt werden, die schwören und lügen? LADY MACDUFF. Jeder Einzelne. SOHN. Wer soll sie hängen? LADY MACDUFF. Die ehrlichen Männer. SOHN. Dann sind die Lügner und Schwörer Narren: denn es gibt genug Lügner und Schwörer, um die ehrlichen Männer zu schlagen und sie aufzuhängen. LADY MACDUFF. Nun, Gott helfe dir, armer Affe! Aber wie willst du ohne Vater auskommen? SOHN. Wenn er tot wäre, würdest du um ihn weinen: Wenn nicht, wäre es ein gutes Zeichen, dass ich bald einen neuen Vater haben würde. LADY MACDUFF. Armer Schwätzer, wie du redest! [Betrete ein Bote.] BOTE. Segne dich, schöne Dame! Ich bin dir nicht bekannt, Obwohl ich in deinem ehrenwerten Zustand perfekt bin. Ich fürchte, es nähert sich dir Gefahr: Wenn du den Ratschlag eines einfachen Mannes annehmen willst, Bleib hier nicht; Geh mit deinen Kleinen weg. Euch so zu erschrecken, scheint mir zu wild; Euch schlimmeres anzutun wäre grausame Grausamkeit, Was zu nahe bei dir ist. Der Himmel schütze dich! Ich wage es nicht, länger zu bleiben. [Hinausgehen.] LADY MACDUFF. Wohin soll ich fliehen? Ich habe nichts Böses getan. Aber ich erinnere mich jetzt Dass ich in dieser irdischen Welt bin; wo Böses tun Oft lobenswert ist; Gutes zu tun manchmal Als gefährlicher Fehler gilt: Warum dann, leider, Setze ich diese weibliche Verteidigung auf, Zu sagen, dass ich nichts Schlimmes getan habe? - Was sind das für Gesichter? [Betreten Mörder.] ERSTER MÖRDER. Wo ist dein Ehemann? LADY MACDUFF. Ich hoffe, nirgends so unsakrosankt Wo du ihn finden könntest. ERSTER MÖRDER. Er ist ein Verräter. SOHN. Du lügst, du struppiger Schurke! ERSTER MÖRDER. Was, du Wurm! [Ihn erstechend.] Junge Brut des Verrats! SOHN. Er hat mich getötet, Mutter: Lauf weg, ich bitte dich! [Er stirbt. Lady Macduff geht ab und ruft Mord, verfolgt von den Mördern.] Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Auf Macduffs Schloss spricht Lady Macduff Ross an und fordert ihn auf, ihr zu erklären, warum ihr Mann geflohen ist. Sie fühlt sich verraten. Ross besteht darauf, dass sie auf das Urteilsvermögen ihres Mannes vertraue und verlässt sie dann bedauernd. Sobald er verschwunden ist, erzählt Lady Macduff ihrem Sohn, dass sein Vater tot ist, aber der kleine Junge argumentiert wahrnehmend, dass dem nicht so ist. Plötzlich kommt ein Bote hereingeeilt und warnt Lady Macduff, dass sie in Gefahr sei und fordert sie auf, zu fliehen. Lady Macduff protestiert und argumentiert, dass sie nichts Falsches getan habe. Eine Gruppe von Mördern betritt daraufhin den Raum. Als einer von ihnen Macduff anklagt, nennt Macduffs Sohn den Mörder einen Lügner und wird von ihm erstochen. Lady Macduff dreht sich um und rennt weg, während die Gruppe von Mördern ihr folgt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: (The same scene. All the doors are standing open. The lamp is still burning on the table. It is dark outside, except for a faint glimmer of light seen through the windows at the back. MRS. ALVING, with a shawl over her head, is standing in the conservatory, looking out. REGINA, also wrapped in a shawl, is standing a little behind her.) Mrs. Alving. Everything bured--down to the ground. Regina. It is burning still in the basement. Mrs. Alving. I can't think why Oswald doesn't come back. There is no chance of saving anything. Regina. Shall I go and take his hat to him? Mrs. Alving. Hasn't he even got his hat? Regina (pointing to the hall). No, there it is, hanging up. Mrs. Alving. Never mind. He is sure to come back soon. I will go and see what he is doing. (Goes out by the garden door. MANDERS comes in from the hall.) Manders. Isn't Mrs. Alving here? Regina. She has just this moment gone down into the garden. Manders. I have never spent such a terrible night in my life. Regina. Isn't it a shocking misfortune, sir! Manders. Oh, don't speak about it. I scarcely dare to think about it. Regina. But how can it have happened? Manders. Don't ask me, Miss Engstrand! How should I know? Are you going to suggest too--? Isn't it enough that your father--? Regina. What has he done? Manders. He has nearly driven me crazy. Engstrand (coming in from the hall). Mr. Manders--! Manders (turning round with a start). Have you ever followed me here! Engstrand. Yes, God help us all--! Great heavens! What a dreadful thing, your reverence! Manders (walking up and down). Oh dear, oh dear! Regina. What do you mean? Engstrand. Our little prayer-meeting was the cause of it all, don't you see? (Aside, to REGINA.) Now we've got the old fool, my girl. (Aloud.) And to think it is my fault that Mr. Manders should be the cause of such a thing! Manders. I assure you, Engstrand-- Engstrand. But there was no one else carrying a light there except you, sir. Manders (standing still). Yes, so you say. But I have no clear recollection of having had a light in my hand. Engstrand. But I saw quite distinctly your reverence take a candle and snuff it with your fingers and throw away the burning bit of wick among the shavings. Manders. Did you see that? Engstrand. Yes, distinctly. Manders. I can't understand it at all. It is never my habit to snuff a candle with my fingers. Engstrand. Yes, it wasn't like you to do that, sir. But, who would have thought it could be such a dangerous thing to do? Manders (walking restlessly backwards and forwards) Oh, don't ask me! Engstrand (following him about). And you hadn't insured it either, had you, sir? Manders. No, no, no; you heard me say so. Engstrand. You hadn't insured it--and then went and set light to the whole place! Good Lord, what bad luck! Manders (wiping the perspiration from his forehead). You may well say so, Engstrand. Engstrand. And that it should happen to a charitable institution that would have been of service both to the town and the country, so to speak! The newspapers won't be very kind to your reverence, I expect. Manders. No, that is just what I am thinking of. It is almost the worst part of the whole thing. The spiteful attacks and accusations--it is horrible to think of! Mrs. Alving (coming in from the garden). I can't get him away from the fire. Manders. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Alving. Mrs. Alving. You will escape having to make your inaugural address now, at all events, Mr. Manders. Manders. Oh, I would so gladly have-- Mrs. Alving (in a dull voice). It is just as well it has happened. This Orphanage would never have come to any good. Manders. Don't you think so? Mrs. Alving. Do you? Manders. But it is none the less an extraordinary piece of ill luck. Mrs. Alving. We will discuss it simply as a business matter. Are you waiting for Mr. Manders, Engstrand? Engstrand (at the hall door). Yes, I am. Mrs. Alving. Sit down then, while you are waiting. Engstrand. Thank you, I would rather stand. Mrs. Alving (to MANDERS). I suppose you are going by the boat? Manders. Yes: It goes in about an hour-- Mrs. Alving. Please take all the documents back with you. I don't want to hear another word about the matter. I have something else to think about now. Manders. Mrs. Alving-- Mrs. Alving. Later on I will send you a power of attorney to deal with it exactly as you please. Manders. I shall be most happy to undertake that; I am afraid the original intention of the bequest will have to be entirely altered now. Mrs. Alving. Of course. Meanders. Provisionally, I should suggest this way of disposing of it: Make over the Solvik property to the parish. The land is undoubtedly not without a certain value; it will always be useful for some purpose or another. And as for the interest on the remaining capital that is on deposit in the bank, possibly I might make suitable use of that in support of some undertaking that promises to be of use to the town. Mrs. Alving. Do exactly as you please. The whole thing is a matter of indifference to me now. Engstrand. You will think of my Sailors' Home, Mr. Manders? Manders. Yes, certainly, that is a suggestion. But we must consider the matter carefully. Engstrand (aside). Consider!--devil take it! Oh Lord. Manders (sighing). And unfortunately I can't tell how much longer I may have anything to do with the matter--whether public opinion may not force me to retire from it altogether. That depends entirely upon the result of the inquiry into the cause of the fire. Mrs. Alving. What do you say? Manders. And one cannot in any way reckon upon the result beforehand. Engstrand (going nearer to him). Yes, indeed one can; because here stand I, Jacob Engstrand. Manders. Quite so, but-- Engstrand (lowering his voice). And Jacob Engstrand isn't the man to desert a worthy benefactor in the hour of need, as the saying is. Manders. Yes, but, my dear fellow-how--? Engstrand. You might say Jacob Engstrand is an angel of salvation, so to speak, your reverence. Manders. No, no, I couldn't possibly accept that. Engstrand. That's how it will be, all the same. I know someone who has taken the blame for someone else on his shoulders before now, I do. Manders. Jacob! (Grasps his hand.) You are one in a thousand! You shall have assistance in the matter of your Sailors' Home, you may rely upon that. (ENGSTRAND tries to thank him, but is prevented by emotion.) Manders (hanging his wallet over his shoulder). Now we must be off. We will travel together. Engstrand (by the dining-room door, says aside to REGINA). Come with me, you hussy! You shall be as cosy as the yolk in an egg! Regina (tossing her head). Merci! (She goes out into the hall and brings back MANDERS' luggage.) Manders. Good-bye, Mrs. Alving! And may the spirit of order and of what is lawful speedily enter into this house. Mrs. Alving. Goodbye, Mr. Manders. (She goes into the conservatory, as she sees OSWALD coming in by the garden door.) Engstrand (as he and REGINA are helping MANDERS on with his coat). Goodbye, my child. And if anything should happen to you, you know where Jacob Engstrand is to be found. (Lowering his voice.) Little Harbour Street, ahem--! (To MRS. ALVING and OSWALD.) And my house for poor seafaring men shall be called the "Alving Home," it shall. And, if I can carry out my own ideas about it, I shall make bold to hope that it may be worthy of bearing the late Mr. Alving's name. Manders (at the door). Ahem--ahem! Come along, my dear Engstrand. Goodbye--goodbye! (He and ENGSTRAND go out by the hall door.) Oswald (going to the table). What house was he speaking about? Mrs. Alving. I believe it is some sort of a Home that he and Mr. Manders want to start. Oswald. It will be burned up just like this one. Mrs. Alving. What makes you think that? Oswald. Everything will be burned up; nothing will be left that is in memory of my father. Here am I being burned up, too. (REGINA looks at him in alarm.) Mrs. Alving. Oswald! You should not have stayed so long over there, my poor boy. Oswald (sitting down at the table). I almost believe you are right. Mrs. Alving. Let me dry your face, Oswald; you are all wet. (Wipes his face with her handkerchief.) Oswald (looking straight before him, with no expression in his eyes). Thank you, mother. Mrs. Alving. And aren't you tired, Oswald? Don't you want to go to sleep? Oswald (uneasily). No, no--not to sleep! I never sleep; I only pretend to. (Gloomily.) That will come soon enough. Mrs. Alving (looking at him anxiously). Anyhow you are really ill, my darling boy. Regina (intently). Is Mr. Alving ill? Oswald (impatiently). And do shut all the doors! This deadly fear-- Mrs. Alving. Shut the doors, Regina. (REGINA shuts the doors and remains standing by the hall door. MRS. ALVING takes off her shawl; REGINA does the same. MRS. ALVING draws up a chair near to OSWALD'S and sits down beside him.) That's it! Now I will sit beside you-- Oswald. Yes, do. And Regina must stay in here too; Regina must always be near me. You must give me a helping hand, you know, Regina. Won't you do that? Regina. I don't understand-- Mrs. Alving. A helping hand? Oswald. Yes--when there is need for it. Mrs. Alving. Oswald, have you not your mother to give you a helping hand? Oswald. You? (Smiles.) No, mother, you will never give me the kind of helping hand I mean. (Laughs grimly.) You! Ha, ha! (Looks gravely at her.) After all, you have the best right. (Impetuously.) Why don't you call me by my Christian name, Regina? Why don't you say Oswald? Regina (in a low voice). I did not think Mrs. Alving would like it. Mrs. Alving. It will not be long before you have the right to do it. Sit down here now beside us, too. (REGINA sits down quietly and hesitatingly at the other side of the table.) And now, my poor tortured boy, I am going to take the burden off your mind-- Oswald. You, mother? Mrs. Alving. --all that you call remorse and regret and self-reproach. Oswald. And you think you can do that? Mrs. Alving. Yes, now I can, Oswald. A little while ago you were talking about the joy of life, and what you said seemed to shed a new light upon everything in my whole life. Oswald (shaking his head). I don't in the least understand what you mean. Mrs. Alving. You should have known your father in his young days in the army. He was full of the joy of life, I can tell you. Oswald. Yes, I know. Mrs. Alving. It gave me a holiday feeling only to look at him, full of irrepressible energy and exuberant spirits. Oswald. What then? Mrs. Alving, Well, then this boy, full of the joy of life--for he was just like a boy, then--had to make his home in a second-rate town which had none of the joy of life to offer him, but only dissipations. He had to come out here and live an aimless life; he had only an official post. He had no work worth devoting his whole mind to; he had nothing more than official routine to attend to. He had not a single companion capable of appreciating what the joy of life meant; nothing but idlers and tipplers... Oswald. Mother--! Mrs. Alving. And so the inevitable happened! Oswald. What was the inevitable? Mrs. Alving. You said yourself this evening what would happen in your case if you stayed at home. Oswald. Do you mean by that, that father--? Mrs. Alving. Your poor father never found any outlet for the overmastering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no holiday spirit into his home, either. Oswald. You didn't, either? Mrs. Alving. I had been taught about duty, and the sort of thing that I believed in so long here. Everything seemed to turn upon duty--my duty, or his duty--and I am afraid I made your poor father's home unbearable to him, Oswald. Oswald. Why didn't you ever say anything about it to me in your letters? Mrs. Alving. I never looked at it as a thing I could speak of to you, who were his son. Oswald. What way did you look at it, then? Mrs. Alving. I only saw the one fact, that your father was a lost man before ever you were born. Oswald (in a choking voice). Ah--! (He gets up and goes to the window.) Mrs. Alving. And then I had the one thought in my mind, day and night, that Regina in fact had as good a right in this house--as my own boy had. Oswald (turns round suddenly), Regina--? Regina (gets up and asks in choking tones). I--? Mrs. Alving. Yes, now you both know it. Oswald. Regina! Regina (to herself). So mother was one of that sort too. Mrs. Alving. Your mother had many good qualities, Regina. Regina. Yes, but she was one of that sort too, all the same. I have even thought so myself, sometimes, but--. Then, if you please, Mrs. Alving, may I have permission to leave at once? Mrs. Alving. Do you really wish to, Regina? Regina. Yes, indeed, I certainly wish to. Mrs. Alving. Of course you shall do as you like, but-- Oswald (going up to REGINA). Leave now? This is your home. Regina. Merci, Mr. Alving--oh, of course I may say Oswald now, but that is not the way I thought it would become allowable. Mrs. Alving. Regina, I have not been open with you-- Regina. No, I can't say you have! If I had known Oswald was ill-- And now that there can never be anything serious between us--. No, I really can't stay here in the country and wear myself out looking after invalids. Oswald. Not even for the sake of one who has so near a claim on you? Regina. No, indeed I can't. A poor girl must make some use of her youth, otherwise she may easily land herself out in the cold before she knows where she is. And I have got the joy of life in me too, Mrs. Alving! Mrs. Alving. Yes, unfortunately; but don't throw yourself away, Regina. Regina. Oh, what's going to happen will happen. If Oswald takes after his father, it is just as likely I take after my mother, I expect.--May I ask, Mrs. Alving, whether Mr. Manders knows this about me? Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders knows everything. Regina (putting on her shawl). Oh, well then, the best thing I can do is to get away by the boat as soon as I can. Mr. Manders is such a nice gentleman to deal with; and it certainly seems to me that I have just as much right to some of that money as he--as that horrid carpenter. Mrs. Alving. You are quite welcome to it, Regina. Regina (looking at her fixedly). You might as well have brought me up like a gentleman's daughter; it would have been more suitable. (Tosses her head.) Oh, well--never mind! (With a bitter glance at the unopened bottle.) I daresay someday I shall be drinking champagne with gentlefolk, after all. Mrs. Alving. If ever you need a home, Regina, come to me. Regina. No, thank you, Mrs. Alving. Mr. Manders takes an interest in me, I know. And if things should go very badly with me, I know one house at any rate where I shall feel at home. Mrs. Alving. Where is that? Regina. In the "Alving Home." Mrs. Alving. Regina--I can see quite well--you are going to your ruin! Regina. Pooh!--goodbye. (She bows to them and goes out through the hall.) Oswald (standing by the window and looking out). Has she gone? Mrs. Alving. Yes. Oswald (muttering to himself). I think it's all wrong. Mrs. Alving (going up to him from behind and putting her hands on his shoulders). Oswald, my dear boy--has it been a great shock to you? Oswald (turning his face towards her). All this about father, do you mean? Mrs. Alving. Yes, about your unhappy father. I am so afraid it may have been too much for you. Oswald. What makes you think that? Naturally it has taken me entirely by surprise; but, after all, I don't know that it matters much to me. Mrs. Alving (drawing back her hands). Doesn't matter!--that your father's life was such a terrible failure! Oswald. Of course I can feel sympathy for him, just as I would for anyone else, but-- Mrs. Alving. No more than that! For your own father! Oswald (impatiently). Father--father! I never knew anything of my father. I don't remember anything else about him except that he once made me sick. Mrs. Alving. It is dreadful to think of!--But surely a child should feel some affection for his father, whatever happens? Oswald. When the child has nothing to thank his father for? When he has never known him? Do you really cling to that antiquated superstition--you, who are so broad-minded in other things? Mrs. Alving. You call it nothing but a superstition! Oswald. Yes, and you can see that for yourself quite well, mother. It is one of those beliefs that are put into circulation in the world, and-- Mrs. Alving. Ghosts of beliefs! Oswald (walking across the room). Yes, you might call them ghosts. Mrs. Alving (with an outburst of feeling). Oswald! then you don't love me either! Oswald. You I know, at any rate-- Mrs. Alving. You know me, yes; but is that all? Oswald. And I know how fond you are of me, and I ought to be grateful to you for that. Besides, you can be so tremendously useful to me, now that I am ill. Mrs. Alving. Yes, can't I, Oswald! I could almost bless your illness, as it has driven you home to me. For I see quite well that you are not my very own yet; you must be won. Oswald (impatiently). Yes, yes, yes; all that is just a way of talking. You must remember I am a sick man, mother. I can't concern myself much with anyone else; I have enough to do, thinking about myself. Mrs. Alving (gently). I will be very good and patient. Oswald. And cheerful too, mother! Mrs. Alving. Yes, my dear boy, you are quite right. (Goes up to him.) Now have I taken away all your remorse and self-reproach? Oswald. Yes, you have done that. But who will take away the fear? Mrs. Alving. The fear? Oswald (crossing the room). Regina would have done it for one kind word. Mrs. Alving. I don't understand you. What fear do you mean--and what has Regina to do with it? Oswald. Is it very late, mother? Mrs. Alving. It is early morning. (Looks out through the conservatory windows.) The dawn is breaking already on the heights. And the sky is clear, Oswald. In a little while you will see the sun. Oswald. I am glad of that. After all, there may be many things yet for me to be glad of and to live for-- Mrs. Alving. I should hope so! Oswald. Even if I am not able to work-- Mrs. Alving. You will soon find you are able to work again now, my dear boy. You have no longer all those painful depressing thoughts to brood over. Oswald. No, it is a good thing that you have been able to rid me of those fancies; if only, now, I could overcome this one thing-- (Sits down on the couch.) Let us have a little chat, mother. Mrs. Alving. Yes, let us. (Pushes an armchair near to the couch and sits down beside him.) Oswald. The sun is rising--and you know all about it; so I don't feel the fear any longer. Mrs. Alving. I know all about what? Oswald (without listening to her). Mother, isn't it the case that you said this evening there was nothing in the world you would not do for me if I asked you? Mrs. Alving. Yes, certainly I said so. Oswald. And will you be as good as your word, mother? Mrs. Alving. You may rely upon that, my own dear boy. I have nothing else to live for, but you. Oswald. Yes, yes; well, listen to me, mother, You are very strong-minded, I know. I want you to sit quite quiet when you hear what I am going to tell you. Mrs. Alving. But what is this dreadful thing--? Oswald. You mustn't scream. Do you hear? Will you promise me that? We are going to sit and talk it over quite quietly. Will you promise me that, mother? Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, I promise--only tell me what it is. Oswald. Well, then, you must know that this fatigue of mine--and my mot being able to think about my work--all that is not really the illness itself-- Mrs. Alving. What is the illness itself? Oswald. What I am suffering from is hereditary; it--(touches his forehead, and speaks very quietly)--it lies here. Mrs. Alving (almost speechless). Oswald! No--no! Oswald. Don't scream; I can't stand it. Yes, I tell you, it lies here, waiting. And any time, any moment, it may break out. Mrs. Alving. How horrible--! Oswald. Do keep quiet. That is the state I am in-- Mrs. Alving (springing up). It isn't true, Oswald! It is impossible! It can't be that! Oswald. I had one attack while I was abroad. It passed off quickly. But when I learned the condition I had been in, then this dreadful haunting fear took possession of me. Mrs. Alving. That was the fear, then-- Oswald. Yes, it is so indescribably horrible, you know If only it had been an ordinary mortal disease--. I am not so much afraid of dying; though, of course, I should like to live as long as I can. Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes, Oswald, you must! Oswald. But this is so appallingly horrible. To become like a helpless child again--to have to be fed, to have to be--. Oh, it's unspeakable! Mrs. Alving. My child has his mother to tend him. Oswald (jumping up). No, never; that is just what I won't endure! I dare not think what it would mean to linger on like that for years--to get old and grey like that. And you might die before I did. (Sits down in MRS. ALVING'S chair.) Because it doesn't necessarily have a fatal end quickly, the doctor said; he called it a kind of softening of the brain--or something of that sort. (Smiles mournfully.) I think that expression sounds so nice. It always makes me think of cherry-coloured velvet curtains--something that is soft to stroke. Mrs. Alving (with a scream). Oswald! Oswald (jumps up and walks about the room). And now you have taken Regina from me! If I had only had her, she would have given me a helping hand, I know. Mrs. Alving (going up to him). What do you mean, my darling boy? Is there any help in the world I would not be willing to give you? Oswald. When I had recovered from the attack I had abroad, the doctor told me that when it recurred--and it will recur--there would be no more hope. Mrs. Alving. And he was heartless enough to-- Oswald. I insisted on knowing. I told him I had arrangements to make--. (Smiles cunningly.) And so I had. (Takes a small box from his inner breast-pocket.) Mother, do you see this? Mrs. Alving. What is it? Oswald. Morphia powders. Mrs. Alving (looking at him in terror). Oswald--my boy! Oswald. I have twelve of them saved up-- Mrs. Alving (snatching at it). Give me the box, Oswald! Oswald. Not yet, mother. (Puts it lack in his pocket.) Mrs. Alving. I shall never get over this! Oswald, You must. If I had had Regina here now, I would have told her quietly how things stand with me--and asked her to give me this last helping hand. She would have helped me, I am certain. Mrs. Alving. Never! Oswald. If this horrible thing had come upon me and she had seen me lying helpless, like a baby, past help, past saving, past hope--with no chance of recovering-- Mrs. Alving. Never in the world would Regina have done it. Oswald. Regina would have done it. Regina was so splendidly light-hearted. And she would very soon have tired of looking after an invalid like me. Mrs. Alving. Then thank heaven Regina is not here! Oswald. Well, now you have got to give me that helping hand, mother. Mrs. Alving (with a loud scream). I! Oswald. Who has a better right than you? Mrs. Alving. I! Your mother! Oswald. Just for that reason. Mrs. Alving. I, who gave you your life! Oswald, I never asked you for life. And what kind of a life was it that you gave me? I don't want it! You shall take it back! Mrs. Alving. Help! Help! (Runs into the hall.) Oswald (following her). Don't leave me! Where are you going? Mrs. Alving (in the hall). To fetch the doctor to you, Oswald! Let me out! Oswald (going into the hall). You shan't go out. And no one shall come in. (Turns the key in the lock.) Mrs. Alving (coming in again). Oswald! Oswald!--my child! Oswald (following her). Have you a mother's heart--and can bear to see me suffering this unspeakable terror? Mrs. Alving (controlling herself, after a moment's silence). There is my hand on it. Oswald. Will you--? Mrs. Alving. If it becomes necessary. But it shan't become necessary: No, no--it is impossible it should! Oswald. Let us hope so. And let us live together as long as we can. Thank you, mother. (He sits down in the armchair, which MRS. ALVING had moved beside the couch. Day is breaking; the lamp is still burning on the table.) Mrs. Alving (coming cautiously nearer). Do you feel calmer now? Oswald. Yes. Mrs. Alving (bending over him). It has only been a dreadful fancy of yours, Oswald. Nothing but fancy. All this upset has been bad for you. But now you will get some rest, at home with your own mother, my darling boy. You shall have everything you want, just as you did when you were a little child.--There, now. The attack is over. You see how easily it passed off! I knew it would.--And look, Oswald, what a lovely day we are going to have? Brilliant sunshine. Now you will be able to see your home properly. (She goes to the table and puts out the lamp. It is sunrise. The glaciers and peaks in the distance are seen bathed in bright morning fight.) Oswald (who has been sitting motionless in the armchair, with his back to the scene outside, suddenly says:) Mother, give me the sun. Mrs. Alving (standing at the table, and looking at him in amazement). What do you say? Oswald (repeats in a dull, toneless voice). The sun--the sun. Mrs. Alving (going up to him). Oswald, what is the matter with you? (OSWALD seems to shrink up in the chair; all his muscles relax; his face loses its expression, and his eyes stare stupidly. MRS. ALVING is trembling with terror.) What is it! (Screams.) Oswald! What is the matter with you! (Throws herself on her knees beside him and shakes him.) Oswald! Oswald! Look at me! Don't you know me! Oswald (in an expressionless voice, as before). The sun--the sun. Mrs. Alving (jumps up despairingly, beats her head with her hands, and screams). I can't bear it! (Whispers as though paralysed with fear.) I can't bear it... I Never! (Suddenly.) Where has he got it? (Passes her hand quickly over his coat.) Here! (Draws back a little spay and cries:) No, no, no!--Yes!--no, no! (She stands a few steps from him, her hands thrust into her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.) Oswald (sitting motionless, as before). The sun--the sun. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Szene spielt immer noch im Haus von Frau Alving, aber es ist nun Nacht. Inzwischen ist das Feuer erloschen und das gesamte Waisenhaus bis auf den Grund niedergebrannt. Während Frau Alving gegangen ist, um Oswald zu holen, empfangen Regina und Manders Engstrand. "Gott helfe uns allen", sagt er fromm und kluckt mitfühlend und sagt, dass das Gebetstreffen das Feuer verursacht hat. Flüsternd erzählt er Manders, dem Einzigen mit einer Kerze, dass er den Pastor das Licht ausblasen und den brennenden Docht unter die Späne werfen sah. Der aufgeregte Pastor ist außer sich. Das Schlimmste an dieser Angelegenheit, sagt er, werden die Angriffe und verleumderischen Vorwürfe der Zeitungen sein. Inzwischen ist Frau Alving zurückgekehrt. Sie betrachtet das Feuer nur als einen geschäftlichen Verlust; was das Eigentum und das verbleibende Kapital in der Bank betrifft, darf Manders es nutzen, wie er will. Er glaubt immer noch, das Anwesen in eine "nützliche Gemeinschaftseinrichtung" umwandeln zu können, und Engstrand hofft auf seine Unterstützung für das Seemannsheim. Bedrückt antwortet Manders, dass er zunächst die veröffentlichten Ergebnisse der Untersuchung zur Brandursache abwarten muss. Engstrand bietet sich als "ein Engel des Heils" an und sagt, er werde selbst für die Anklageantworten. Erleichtert und außer Atem ergreift Manders begierig seine Hand. "Du bist einer von tausend," erklärt er. "Du wirst bei der Angelegenheit deines Seemannsheims Hilfe bekommen, darauf kannst du zählen." Engstrand und Manders machen sich vereint in Freundschaft bereit, gemeinsam zu gehen. Ankündigend, dass sein Unternehmen "Das Alving-Heim" genannt werden soll, schließt der Zimmermann mit den Worten: "Und wenn ich meine eigenen Vorstellungen dazu durchsetzen kann, werde ich es würdig machen, den Namen des verstorbenen Herrn Alving zu tragen." Das doppeldeutige Wortspiel ist von jedem außer Manders unverkennbar. Oswald kehrt so deprimiert zurück, dass Regina vermutet, er könnte krank sein. Frau Alving bereitet sich jetzt darauf vor, ihnen beiden zu erzählen, was sie in der vorherigen Szene angefangen hat preiszugeben. Was Oswald ihr über die Freude am Leben erzählt hat, erhellt plötzlich alles in ihrem eigenen Leben, erzählt sie ihnen, denn sein Vater, so voller "ununterdrückbarer Energie und überschäumender Lebensfreude" in seiner Jugend, "bescherte mir allein durch seinen Anblick ein Urlaubsgefühl". Dann musste dieser Junge sich in einer zweitklassigen Stadt niederlassen, die ihm keine Lebensfreude, sondern nur Zerstreuungen bot: Er musste hierherkommen und ein zielloses Leben führen; er hatte nur einen offiziellen Posten. Er hatte keine Arbeit, die es wert war, seine ganze Aufmerksamkeit darauf zu richten; er hatte nichts weiter als dienstliche Routine zu erledigen. Er hatte keine einzige Begleitung, die in der Lage war zu schätzen, was die Freude am Leben bedeutet; nichts als Tagediebe und Trinker -- und so geschah das Unvermeidliche. Was war das Unvermeidliche, fragt Oswald, und seine Mutter antwortet, dass er selbst beschrieben hat, wie er zu Hause degenerieren würde. "Meinst du damit Vater - ?" Und sie nickt: Dein armer Vater fand niemals einen Ausweg für die alles beherrschende Lebensfreude, die in ihm steckte. Und ich brachte auch keine Urlaubsstimmung in sein Zuhause. Hier in mir lebte ich so sehr für Pflicht und ähnliches. Alles schien sich um Pflicht zu drehen - meine Pflicht oder seine Pflicht - und ich fürchte, ich habe deinem armen Vater das Leben unerträglich gemacht, Oswald. Warum hat sie ihm dann nicht die Wahrheit in ihren Briefen geschrieben, verlangt der Sohn zu wissen, und sie kann nur sagen, dass sie es nie als etwas betrachtet hat, was ein Kind wissen sollte. "Dein Vater war ein verlorener Mensch, noch bevor du geboren wurdest," sagt Frau Alving, und all diese Jahre hat sie im Kopf behalten, dass Regina "das gleiche Recht in diesem Haus hatte - wie mein eigener Junge". Zu ihrer Verwirrung antwortet sie ruhig: "Ja, jetzt wisst ihr es beide." "Also war Mutter auch so eine," grübelt Regina. Dann kündigt sie ihren Wunsch an, sie zu verlassen, um ihre Jugend gut zu nutzen, bevor sie vergeudet wird. Da Oswald krank ist, möchte sie nicht ihr Leben damit verbringen, sich um einen Kranken zu kümmern, denn "auch ich habe die Freude am Leben in mir, Frau Alving." Von nun an will sie in dem "Alving-Heim" ein Zuhause finden. Mutter und Sohn sind allein auf der Bühne. "Lass uns ein wenig plaudern", sagt Oswald und bittet sie, sich neben ihn zu setzen. Bevor er ihr die Wahrheit über seine Erschöpfung und Unfähigkeit zu arbeiten enthüllt, warnt er sie, dass sie nicht schreien darf. Die Krankheit selbst ist erblich, fährt er fort, und "sie liegt hier und wartet. Jederzeit kann sie ausbrechen." Sie unterdrückt einen Schrei. Als er in Paris einen schweren Anfall hatte, erzählt Oswald weiter, sagte ihm der Arzt, dass er sich von einem weiteren Anfall nie erholen würde. Die Krankheit ist eine langwierige - der Arzt verglich sie mit einer "Versumpfung des Gehirns" - und sie wird ihn hoffnungslos wie ein Gemüse zurücklassen. Zeigend auf eine Dutzend Morphia-Tabletten, sagt Oswald, er habe Reginas Stärke und Mut gebraucht, um "diese letzte helfende Hand" zu verabreichen. Jetzt, da Regina weg ist, muss seine Mutter schwören, dass sie ihm die Tabletten selbst geben wird, wenn es notwendig ist. Frau Alving schreit und versucht, zum Arzt zu rennen, aber Oswald erreicht die Tür zuerst und schließt ab. "Hast du ein mütterliches Herz und kannst ertragen, mich dieses unsäglichen Schreckens leiden zu sehen?" ruft er. Frau Alving versucht, sich zu beherrschen, zittert aber heftig. "Hier ist meine Hand darauf", sagt sie. Draußen bricht der Tag an. Oswald sitzt ruhig in einem Sessel in der Nähe der Lampe. Vorsichtig beugt sich Frau Alving über ihn und richtet sich erleichtert auf: Es war nur eine schreckliche Einbildung von dir, Oswald... Aber jetzt wirst du dich ausruhen, zu Hause bei deiner eigenen Mutter, mein lieber Junge... So, der Anfall ist vorbei. Du siehst, wie leicht er vorübergegangen ist... Und sieh nur, Oswald, was für ein schöner Tag uns bevorsteht. Jetzt wirst du dein Zuhause richtig sehen können. Sie erhebt sich und löscht die Lampe. Im Sonnenaufgang werden die Gletscher und Gipfel in der Ferne von hellem Morgenlicht gebadet. Oswald, mit dem Rücken zum Fenster, spricht plötzlich. "Mutter, gib mir die Sonne." Sie schaut ihn erstaunt an und sagt: "Was hast du gesagt?" Dumpf wiederholt Oswald: "Die Sonne - die Sonne." Sie schreit seinen Namen. Wie zuvor sagt er nur: "Die Sonne - die Sonne." Sie schlägt sich mit den Händen gegen den Kopf. "Ich halte es nicht aus! Niemals!" schreit sie. Dann sucht sie mit den Händen in seiner Jacke nach der Pillenpackung. "Wo hat er sie? Hier!" Dann ruft sie: "Nein, nein, nein! - Ja! - Nein, nein!" Frau Alving starrt ihren Sohn mit sprachloser Angst an. Oswald bleibt regungslos. "Die Sonne - die Sonne", wiederholt er monoton, und der Vorhang fällt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Two years had passed since I entered Dr. Flint's family, and those years had brought much of the knowledge that comes from experience, though they had afforded little opportunity for any other kinds of knowledge. My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her orphan grandchildren. By perseverance and unwearied industry, she was now mistress of a snug little home, surrounded with the necessaries of life. She would have been happy could her children have shared them with her. There remained but three children and two grandchildren, all slaves. Most earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was the will of God: that He had seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed hard, we ought to pray for contentment. It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call her children her own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. We reasoned that it was much more the will of God that we should be situated as she was. We longed for a home like hers. There we always found sweet balsam for our troubles. She was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met us with a smile, and listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke so hopefully, that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for the town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for us. But, alas! Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us to our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave. My brother William, now twelve years old, had the same aversion to the word master that he had when he was an urchin of seven years. I was his confidant. He came to me with all his troubles. I remember one instance in particular. It was on a lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing here and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness. For my master, whose restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night, seeking whom to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching words; words that scathed ear and brain like fire. O, how I despised him! I thought how glad I should be, if some day when he walked the earth, it would open and swallow him up, and disencumber the world of a plague. When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his command in _every_ thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will must and should surrender to his, never before had my puny arm felt half so strong. So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that I neither saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of William sounded close beside me. "Linda," said he, "what makes you look so sad? I love you. O, Linda, isn't this a bad world? Every body seems so cross and unhappy. I wish I had died when poor father did." I told him that every body was _not_ cross, or unhappy; that those who had pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love them, were happy. But we, who were slave-children, without father or mother, could not expect to be happy. We must be good; perhaps that would bring us contentment. "Yes," he said, "I try to be good; but what's the use? They are all the time troubling me." Then he proceeded to relate his afternoon's difficulty with young master Nicholas. It seemed that the brother of master Nicholas had pleased himself with making up stories about William. Master Nicholas said he should be flogged, and he would do it. Whereupon he went to work; but William fought bravely, and the young master, finding he was getting the better of him, undertook to tie his hands behind him. He failed in that likewise. By dint of kicking and fisting, William came out of the skirmish none the worse for a few scratches. He continued to discourse, on his young master's _meanness_; how he whipped the _little_ boys, but was a perfect coward when a tussle ensued between him and white boys of his own size. On such occasions he always took to his legs. William had other charges to make against him. One was his rubbing up pennies with quicksilver, and passing them off for quarters of a dollar on an old man who kept a fruit stall. William was often sent to buy fruit, and he earnestly inquired of me what he ought to do under such circumstances. I told him it was certainly wrong to deceive the old man, and that it was his duty to tell him of the impositions practised by his young master. I assured him the old man would not be slow to comprehend the whole, and there the matter would end. William thought it might with the old man, but not with _him_. He said he did not mind the smart of the whip, but he did not like the _idea_ of being whipped. While I advised him to be good and forgiving I was not unconscious of the beam in my own eye. It was the very knowledge of my own shortcomings that urged me to retain, if possible, some sparks of my brother's God-given nature. I had not lived fourteen years in slavery for nothing. I had felt, seen, and heard enough, to read the characters, and question the motives, of those around me. The war of my life had begun; and though one of God's most powerless creatures, I resolved never to be conquered. Alas, for me! If there was one pure, sunny spot for me, I believed it to be in Benjamin's heart, and in another's, whom I loved with all the ardor of a girl's first love. My owner knew of it, and sought in every way to render me miserable. He did not resort to corporal punishment, but to all the petty, tyrannical ways that human ingenuity could devise. I remember the first time I was punished. It was in the month of February. My grandmother had taken my old shoes, and replaced them with a new pair. I needed them; for several inches of snow had fallen, and it still continued to fall. When I walked through Mrs. Flint's room, their creaking grated harshly on her refined nerves. She called me to her, and asked what I had about me that made such a horrid noise. I told her it was my new shoes. "Take them off," said she; "and if you put them on again, I'll throw them into the fire." I took them off, and my stockings also. She then sent me a long distance, on an errand. As I went through the snow, my bare feet tingled. That night I was very hoarse; and I went to bed thinking the next day would find me sick, perhaps dead. What was my grief on waking to find myself quite well! I had imagined if I died, or was laid up for some time, that my mistress would feel a twinge of remorse that she had so hated "the little imp," as she styled me. It was my ignorance of that mistress that gave rise to such extravagant imaginings. Dr. Flint occasionally had high prices offered for me; but he always said, "She don't belong to me. She is my daughter's property, and I have no right to sell her." Good, honest man! My young mistress was still a child, and I could look for no protection from her. I loved her, and she returned my affection. I once heard her father allude to her attachment to me, and his wife promptly replied that it proceeded from fear. This put unpleasant doubts into my mind. Did the child feign what she did not feel? or was her mother jealous of the mite of love she bestowed on me? I concluded it must be the latter. I said to myself, "Surely, little children are true." One afternoon I sat at my sewing, feeling unusual depression of spirits. My mistress had been accusing me of an offence, of which I assured her I was perfectly innocent; but I saw, by the contemptuous curl of her lip, that she believed I was telling a lie. I wondered for what wise purpose God was leading me through such thorny paths, and whether still darker days were in store for me. As I sat musing thus, the door opened softly, and William came in. "Well, brother," said I, "what is the matter this time?" "O Linda, Ben and his master have had a dreadful time!" said he. My first thought was that Benjamin was killed. "Don't be frightened, Linda," said William; "I will tell you all about it." It appeared that Benjamin's master had sent for him, and he did not immediately obey the summons. When he did, his master was angry, and began to whip him. He resisted. Master and slave fought, and finally the master was thrown. Benjamin had cause to tremble; for he had thrown to the ground his master--one of the richest men in town. I anxiously awaited the result. That night I stole to my grandmother's house; and Benjamin also stole thither from his master's. My grandmother had gone to spend a day or two with an old friend living in the country. "I have come," said Benjamin, "to tell you good by. I am going away." I inquired where. "To the north," he replied. I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his firm, set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my words. He said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke more galling. He had raised his hand against his master, and was to be publicly whipped for the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and hardships he must encounter among strangers. I told him he might be caught and brought back; and that was terrible to think of. He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were not preferable to our treatment in slavery. "Linda," he continued, "we are dogs here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that's mean. No, I will not stay. Let them bring me back. We don't die but once." He was right; but it was hard to give him up. "Go," said I, "and break your mother's heart." I repented of my words ere they were out. "Linda," said he, speaking as I had not heard him speak that evening, "how _could_ you say that? Poor mother! be kind to her, Linda; and you, too, cousin Fanny." Cousin Fanny was a friend who had lived some years with us. Farewells were exchanged, and the bright, kind boy, endeared to us by so many acts of love, vanished from our sight. It is not necessary to state how he made his escape. Suffice it to say, he was on his way to New York when a violent storm overtook the vessel. The captain said he must put into the nearest port. This alarmed Benjamin, who was aware that he would be advertised in every port near his own town. His embarrassment was noticed by the captain. To port they went. There the advertisement met the captain's eye. Benjamin so exactly answered its description, that the captain laid hold on him, and bound him in chains. The storm passed, and they proceeded to New York. Before reaching that port Benjamin managed to get off his chains and throw them overboard. He escaped from the vessel, but was pursued, captured, and carried back to his master. When my grandmother returned home and found her youngest child had fled, great was her sorrow; but, with characteristic piety, she said, "God's will be done." Each morning, she inquired if any news had been heard from her boy. Yes, news _was_ heard. The master was rejoicing over a letter, announcing the capture of his human chattel. That day seems but as yesterday, so well do I remember it. I saw him led through the streets in chains, to jail. His face was ghastly pale, yet full of determination. He had begged one of the sailors to go to his mother's house and ask her not to meet him. He said the sight of her distress would take from him all self-control. She yearned to see him, and she went; but she screened herself in the crowd, that it might be as her child had said. We were not allowed to visit him; but we had known the jailer for years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the jail door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we entered the cell not a sound broke the stillness. "Benjamin, Benjamin!" whispered my grandmother. No answer. "Benjamin!" she again faltered. There was a jingle of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the bars of the window. We knelt down and took Benjamin's cold hands in ours. We did not speak. Sobs were heard, and Benjamin's lips were unsealed; for his mother was weeping on his neck. How vividly does memory bring back that sad night! Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon for the suffering he had caused her. She said she had nothing to forgive; she could not blame his desire for freedom. He told her that when he was captured, he broke away, and was about casting himself into the river, when thoughts of _her_ came over him, and he desisted. She asked if he did not also think of God. I fancied I saw his face grow fierce in the moonlight. He answered, "No, I did not think of him. When a man is hunted like a wild beast he forgets there is a God, a heaven. He forgets every thing in his struggle to get beyond the reach of the bloodhounds." "Don't talk so, Benjamin," said she. "Put your trust in God. Be humble, my child, and your master will forgive you." "Forgive me for _what_, mother? For not letting him treat me like a dog? No! I will never humble myself to him. I have worked for him for nothing all my life, and I am repaid with stripes and imprisonment. Here I will stay till I die, or till he sells me." The poor mother shuddered at his words. I think he felt it; for when he next spoke, his voice was calmer. "Don't fret about me, mother. I ain't worth it," said he. "I wish I had some of your goodness. You bear every thing patiently, just as though you thought it was all right. I wish I could." She told him she had not always been so; once, she was like him; but when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to lean upon, she learned to call on God, and he lightened her burdens. She besought him to do likewise. We overstaid our time, and were obliged to hurry from the jail. Benjamin had been imprisoned three weeks, when my grandmother went to intercede for him with his master. He was immovable. He said Benjamin should serve as an example to the rest of his slaves; he should be kept in jail till he was subdued, or be sold if he got but one dollar for him. However, he afterwards relented in some degree. The chains were taken off, and we were allowed to visit him. As his food was of the coarsest kind, we carried him as often as possible a warm supper, accompanied with some little luxury for the jailer. Three months elapsed, and there was no prospect of release or of a purchaser. One day he was heard to sing and laugh. This piece of indecorum was told to his master, and the overseer was ordered to re-chain him. He was now confined in an apartment with other prisoners, who were covered with filthy rags. Benjamin was chained near them, and was soon covered with vermin. He worked at his chains till he succeeded in getting out of them. He passed them through the bars of the window, with a request that they should be taken to his master, and he should be informed that he was covered with vermin. This audacity was punished with heavier chains, and prohibition of our visits. My grandmother continued to send him fresh changes of clothes. The old ones were burned up. The last night we saw him in jail his mother still begged him to send for his master, and beg his pardon. Neither persuasion nor argument could turn him from his purpose. He calmly answered, "I am waiting his time." Those chains were mournful to hear. Another three months passed, and Benjamin left his prison walls. We that loved him waited to bid him a long and last farewell. A slave trader had bought him. You remember, I told you what price he brought when ten years of age. Now he was more than twenty years old, and sold for three hundred dollars. The master had been blind to his own interest. Long confinement had made his face too pale, his form too thin; moreover, the trader had heard something of his character, and it did not strike him as suitable for a slave. He said he would give any price if the handsome lad was a girl. We thanked God that he was not. Could you have seen that mother clinging to her child, when they fastened the irons upon his wrists; could you have heard her heart-rending groans, and seen her bloodshot eyes wander wildly from face to face, vainly pleading for mercy; could you have witnessed that scene as I saw it, you would exclaim, _Slavery is damnable_! Benjamin, her youngest, her pet, was forever gone! She could not realize it. She had had an interview with the trader for the purpose of ascertaining if Benjamin could be purchased. She was told it was impossible, as he had given bonds not to sell him till he was out of the state. He promised that he would not sell him till he reached New Orleans. With a strong arm and unvaried trust, my grandmother began her work of love. Benjamin must be free. If she succeeded, she knew they would still be separated; but the sacrifice was not too great. Day and night she labored. The trader's price would treble that he gave; but she was not discouraged. She employed a lawyer to write to a gentleman, whom she knew, in New Orleans. She begged him to interest himself for Benjamin, and he willingly favored her request. When he saw Benjamin, and stated his business, he thanked him; but said he preferred to wait a while before making the trader an offer. He knew he had tried to obtain a high price for him, and had invariably failed. This encouraged him to make another effort for freedom. So one morning, long before day, Benjamin was missing. He was riding over the blue billows, bound for Baltimore. For once his white face did him a kindly service. They had no suspicion that it belonged to a slave; otherwise, the law would have been followed out to the letter, and the _thing_ rendered back to slavery. The brightest skies are often overshadowed by the darkest clouds. Benjamin was taken sick, and compelled to remain in Baltimore three weeks. His strength was slow in returning; and his desire to continue his journey seemed to retard his recovery. How could he get strength without air and exercise? He resolved to venture on a short walk. A by-street was selected, where he thought himself secure of not being met by any one that knew him; but a voice called out, "Halloo, Ben, my boy! what are you doing _here_!" His first impulse was to run; but his legs trembled so that he could not stir. He turned to confront his antagonist, and behold, there stood his old master's next door neighbor! He thought it was all over with him now; but it proved otherwise. That man was a miracle. He possessed a goodly number of slaves, and yet was not quite deaf to that mystic clock, whose ticking is rarely heard in the slaveholder's breast. "Ben, you are sick," said he. "Why, you look like a ghost. I guess I gave you something of a start. Never mind, Ben, I am not going to touch you. You had a pretty tough time of it, and you may go on your way rejoicing for all me. But I would advise you to get out of this place plaguy quick, for there are several gentlemen here from our town." He described the nearest and safest route to New York, and added, "I shall be glad to tell your mother I have seen you. Good by, Ben." Benjamin turned away, filled with gratitude, and surprised that the town he hated contained such a gem--a gem worthy of a purer setting. This gentleman was a Northerner by birth, and had married a southern lady. On his return, he told my grandmother that he had seen her son, and of the service he had rendered him. Benjamin reached New York safely, and concluded to stop there until he had gained strength enough to proceed further. It happened that my grandmother's only remaining son had sailed for the same city on business for his mistress. Through God's providence, the brothers met. You may be sure it was a happy meeting. "O Phil," exclaimed Benjamin, "I am here at last." Then he told him how near he came to dying, almost in sight of free land, and how he prayed that he might live to get one breath of free air. He said life was worth something now, and it would be hard to die. In the old jail he had not valued it; once, he was tempted to destroy it; but something, he did not know what, had prevented him; perhaps it was fear. He had heard those who profess to be religious declare there was no heaven for self-murderers; and as his life had been pretty hot here, he did not desire a continuation of the same in another world. "If I die now," he exclaimed, "thank God, I shall die a freeman!" He begged my uncle Phillip not to return south; but stay and work with him, till they earned enough to buy those at home. His brother told him it would kill their mother if he deserted her in her trouble. She had pledged her house, and with difficulty had raised money to buy him. Would he be bought? "No, never!" he replied. "Do you suppose, Phil, when I have got so far out of their clutches, I will give them one red cent? No! And do you suppose I would turn mother out of her home in her old age? That I would let her pay all those hard-earned dollars for me, and never to see me? For you know she will stay south as long as her other children are slaves. What a good mother! Tell her to buy _you_, Phil. You have been a comfort to her, and I have been a trouble. And Linda, poor Linda; what'll become of her? Phil, you don't know what a life they lead her. She has told me something about it, and I wish old Flint was dead, or a better man. When I was in jail, he asked her if she didn't want _him_ to ask my master to forgive me, and take me home again. She told him, No; that I didn't want to go back. He got mad, and said we were all alike. I never despised my own master half as much as I do that man. There is many a worse slaveholder than my master; but for all that I would not be his slave." While Benjamin was sick, he had parted with nearly all his clothes to pay necessary expenses. But he did not part with a little pin I fastened in his bosom when we parted. It was the most valuable thing I owned, and I thought none more worthy to wear it. He had it still. His brother furnished him with clothes, and gave him what money he had. They parted with moistened eyes; and as Benjamin turned away, he said, "Phil, I part with all my kindred." And so it proved. We never heard from him again. Uncle Phillip came home; and the first words he uttered when he entered the house were, "Mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New York." She stood looking at him with a bewildered air. "Mother, don't you believe it?" he said, laying his hand softly upon her shoulder. She raised her hands, and exclaimed, "God be praised! Let us thank him." She dropped on her knees, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Then Phillip must sit down and repeat to her every word Benjamin had said. He told her all; only he forbore to mention how sick and pale her darling looked. Why should he distress her when she could do him no good? The brave old woman still toiled on, hoping to rescue some of her other children. After a while she succeeded in buying Phillip. She paid eight hundred dollars, and came home with the precious document that secured his freedom. The happy mother and son sat together by the old hearthstone that night, telling how proud they were of each other, and how they would prove to the world that they could take care of themselves, as they had long taken care of others. We all concluded by saying, "He that is _willing_ to be a slave, let him be a slave." Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Sklave, der es wagte, sich wie ein Mensch zu fühlen Harriets Großmutter war nun die Herrin ihres eigenen "gemütlichen kleinen Zuhauses" und wünschte sich, dass ihre Enkelkinder es mit ihr teilen könnten. Benjamin und Harriet sehnten sich danach, sich ihr anzuschließen. William war jetzt zwölf. Die drei von ihnen hassten Dr. Flint leidenschaftlich. Harriet schreibt: "Als er mir sagte, dass ich für seinen Gebrauch gemacht sei, dass ich seinem Befehl in allem gehorchen und nichts weiter als eine Sklavin sei, deren Wille sich ihm unterwerfen müsse und solle, hatte mein schwacher Arm noch nie so stark gefühlt. William und Harriet bedauerten ihr Schicksal gemeinsam. Harriet drängte ihn, "gut und vergebend" zu sein, wusste jedoch, dass sie heuchlerisch war, weil sie ähnlich schlecht über ihr Los dachte. In ihrem Inneren schwor sie, niemals besiegt zu werden. Leider half ihr dieser Entschluss nicht weiter. Das erste Mal, als sie bestraft wurde, war, als sie von ihrer Großmutter neue Schuhe bekam. Die Herrin mochte den Lärm, den sie verursachten, nicht, also befahl sie Harriet, sie auszuziehen und nie wieder anzuziehen. Später musste Harriet barfuß in den Schnee laufen, um Besorgungen zu erledigen. Dr. Flint weigerte sich, Harriet zu verkaufen, obwohl er hohe Angebote dafür bekam. Harriet freute sich, dass ihre kleine Herrin sie liebte, war aber vorsichtig, als Dr. Flint sagte, dass seine Tochter ihre Zuneigung nur vortäuschte. Eines Tages kam William zu Harriet und erzählte ihr, dass Benjamin und der Herr einen Streit hatten. Benjamin weigerte sich, sich auspeitschen zu lassen und warf Dr. Flint um. Benjamin kam, um Abschied zu nehmen, und Harriet bat ihn, nicht zu gehen, aber Benjamin war voller gerechten Zorns. Sie tauschten Abschiedsworte aus und Benjamin ging weg. Er schaffte es auf ein Schiff, aber wurde erkannt und zu seinem Herrn zurückgeschickt. Danach wurde er ins Gefängnis gebracht. Der Gefängniswärter kannte Harriets Großmutter und erlaubte ihr, Harriet und William heimlich zu ihm zu schleichen und ihn zu besuchen. Benjamin war wütend und sagte, dass er nicht mehr an Gott glauben könne. Drei Monate vergingen und Benjamin wurde weder freigelassen noch verkauft. Er war schmutzig und melancholisch, und jeglicher Trost, den Harriets Großmutter ihm geschickt hatte, erreichte ihn nicht. Harriets Großmutter war verzweifelt. Harriet schrieb von ihrer Verzweiflung: "Hättest du die Mutter sehen können, die sich an ihr Kind klammerte, als sie ihm die Handschellen um die Handgelenke legten; hättest du ihr herzzerreißendes Stöhnen hören und ihre blutunterlaufenen Augen sehen können, wie sie vergeblich von Gesicht zu Gesicht irrten und um Gnade flehten; hättest du diese verdammt Szene gesehen, wie ich sie sah, würdest du ausrufen: Sklaverei ist verdammt." Harriets Großmutter widmete ihre Zeit dem Versuch, Benjamin zu befreien. Sie schrieb an einen weißen Gentleman-Freund von ihr, der daran arbeitete, Benjamin zu befreien. Benjamin schaffte es schließlich nach New York. Dort traf er auf seinen Bruder Phillip, der dort geschäftlich für seinen Herrn unterwegs war. Benjamin bat Phillip, nicht zurückzukehren, aber letzterer sagte, er müsse bei ihrer Mutter bleiben. Die beiden verabschiedeten sich emotional voneinander, und niemand hörte je wieder von Benjamin. Als Phillip jedoch nach Hause kam, verkündete er der Familie, dass Benjamin frei war, und sie freuten sich von Herzen. Später gelang es Harriets Großmutter, Phillip zu kaufen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: "Harriet, poor Harriet!"--Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much _his_ behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith."--She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.--"But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to do." She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"is not this the oddest news that ever was?" "What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?"--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly." "Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill." "I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--"What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said, "Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?" "Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet. Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.--But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:--The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain. On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question. "Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit. "Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it." When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope. "I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful." The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say on reply, "Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does." Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. "She could not compose herself-- Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma's feelings: "Oh God! that I had never seen her!" The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.--How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness. To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind. How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?-- When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back; she compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all! This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.--She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.--Every other part of her mind was disgusting. With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every body's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief. She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr. Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of Harriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly. Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could it be?--No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate? Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been. How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!--But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.--Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt.--She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley's.--Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es durchzuckte sie wie ein Pfeil, dass Mr. Knightley niemand anderen als sie selbst heiraten muss. Emma ist besorgt um Harriet. Sie ist wütender auf sich selbst als auf Frank, weil sie glaubt, dass sie Harriets Bindung zu ihm hätte entmutigen sollen. Auch Janes Verhalten seit ihrer Ankunft in Highbury wird in Perspektive gesetzt. Emma erkennt, dass Jane sie gemieden hat, weil sie sie als Rivalin gesehen hat. Emma fürchtet sich davor, Harriet die Nachricht mitzuteilen, aber als Harriet in Hartfield ankommt, hat sie die Geschichte bereits von Mr. Weston gehört. Emma ist überrascht über Harriets Fassung, und es stellt sich heraus, dass Harriet nie etwas für Frank empfunden hat; sie hegt Gefühle für Mr. Knightley. Harriet weiß, dass Mr. Knightley einen höheren Rang hat als sie, aber sie versichert, dass Emma ihr Hoffnung gegeben hat, sich genug zu verbessern, um für ihn akzeptabel zu sein. Emma macht eine überraschende Entdeckung - sie selbst ist in Mr. Knightley verliebt. Sie verbirgt ihre Emotionen vor Harriet und fragt Harriet, ob sie Grund zu der Annahme hat, dass Knightley ihre Gefühle erwidert. Harriet zählt mehrere Situationen auf, in denen Knightley ihr besondere Aufmerksamkeit geschenkt hat, von denen Emma sich erinnern kann. Als Harriet geht, bleibt Emma allein zurück und reflektiert, dass sie bei allem falsch gelegen hat, auch bei ihrem eigenen Herzen. Jetzt kann Knightley sich erniedrigen, indem er Harriet heiratet, und sie hat all das möglich gemacht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of sight of land; cruising after the sperm-whale beneath the scorching sun of the Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling Pacific--the sky above, the sea around, and nothing else! Weeks and weeks ago our fresh provisions were all exhausted. There is not a sweet potato left; not a single yam. Those glorious bunches of bananas, which once decorated our stern and quarter-deck, have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious oranges which hung suspended from our tops and stays--they, too, are gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us but salt-horse and sea-biscuit. Oh! ye state-room sailors, who make so much ado about a fourteen-days' passage across the Atlantic; who so pathetically relate the privations and hardships of the sea, where, after a day of breakfasting, lunching, dining off five courses, chatting, playing whist, and drinking champagne-punch, it was your hard lot to be shut up in little cabinets of mahogany and maple, and sleep for ten hours, with nothing to disturb you but 'those good-for-nothing tars, shouting and tramping overhead',--what would ye say to our six months out of sight of land? Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass--for a snuff at the fragrance of a handful of the loamy earth! Is there nothing fresh around us? Is there no green thing to be seen? Yes, the inside of our bulwarks is painted green; but what a vile and sickly hue it is, as if nothing bearing even the semblance of verdure could flourish this weary way from land. Even the bark that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been gnawed off and devoured by the captain's pig; and so long ago, too, that the pig himself has in turn been devoured. There is but one solitary tenant in the chicken-coop, once a gay and dapper young cock, bearing him so bravely among the coy hens. But look at him now; there he stands, moping all the day long on that everlasting one leg of his. He turns with disgust from the mouldy corn before him, and the brackish water in his little trough. He mourns no doubt his lost companions, literally snatched from him one by one, and never seen again. But his days of mourning will be few for Mungo, our black cook, told me yesterday that the word had at last gone forth, and poor Pedro's fate was sealed. His attenuated body will be laid out upon the captain's table next Sunday, and long before night will be buried with all the usual ceremonies beneath that worthy individual's vest. Who would believe that there could be any one so cruel as to long for the decapitation of the luckless Pedro; yet the sailors pray every minute, selfish fellows, that the miserable fowl may be brought to his end. They say the captain will never point the ship for the land so long as he has in anticipation a mess of fresh meat. This unhappy bird can alone furnish it; and when he is once devoured, the captain will come to his senses. I wish thee no harm, Pedro; but as thou art doomed, sooner or later, to meet the fate of all thy race; and if putting a period to thy existence is to be the signal for our deliverance, why--truth to speak--I wish thy throat cut this very moment; for, oh! how I wish to see the living earth again! The old ship herself longs to look out upon the land from her hawse-holes once more, and Jack Lewis said right the other day when the captain found fault with his steering. 'Why d'ye see, Captain Vangs,' says bold Jack, 'I'm as good a helmsman as ever put hand to spoke; but none of us can steer the old lady now. We can't keep her full and bye, sir; watch her ever so close, she will fall off and then, sir, when I put the helm down so gently, and try like to coax her to the work, she won't take it kindly, but will fall round off again; and it's all because she knows the land is under the lee, sir, and she won't go any more to windward.' Aye, and why should she, Jack? didn't every one of her stout timbers grow on shore, and hasn't she sensibilities; as well as we? Poor old ship! Her very looks denote her desires! how deplorably she appears! The paint on her sides, burnt up by the scorching sun, is puffed out and cracked. See the weeds she trails along with her, and what an unsightly bunch of those horrid barnacles has formed about her stern-piece; and every time she rises on a sea, she shows her copper torn away, or hanging in jagged strips. Poor old ship! I say again: for six months she has been rolling and pitching about, never for one moment at rest. But courage, old lass, I hope to see thee soon within a biscuit's toss of the merry land, riding snugly at anchor in some green cove, and sheltered from the boisterous winds. . . . . . . 'Hurra, my lads! It's a settled thing; next week we shape our course to the Marquesas!' The Marquesas! What strange visions of outlandish things does the very name spirit up! Naked houris--cannibal banquets--groves of cocoanut--coral reefs--tattooed chiefs--and bamboo temples; sunny valleys planted with bread-fruit-trees--carved canoes dancing on the flashing blue waters--savage woodlands guarded by horrible idols--HEATHENISH RITES AND HUMAN SACRIFICES. Such were the strangely jumbled anticipations that haunted me during our passage from the cruising ground. I felt an irresistible curiosity to see those islands which the olden voyagers had so glowingly described. The group for which we were now steering (although among the earliest of European discoveries in the South Seas, having been first visited in the year 1595) still continues to be tenanted by beings as strange and barbarous as ever. The missionaries sent on a heavenly errand, had sailed by their lovely shores, and had abandoned them to their idols of wood and stone. How interesting the circumstances under which they were discovered! In the watery path of Mendanna, cruising in quest of some region of gold, these isles had sprung up like a scene of enchantment, and for a moment the Spaniard believed his bright dream was realized. In honour of the Marquess de Mendoza, then viceroy of Peru--under whose auspices the navigator sailed--he bestowed upon them the name which denoted the rank of his patron, and gave to the world on his return a vague and magnificent account of their beauty. But these islands, undisturbed for years, relapsed into their previous obscurity; and it is only recently that anything has been known concerning them. Once in the course of a half century, to be sure, some adventurous rover would break in upon their peaceful repose, and astonished at the unusual scene, would be almost tempted to claim the merit of a new discovery. Of this interesting group, but little account has ever been given, if we except the slight mention made of them in the sketches of South-Sea voyages. Cook, in his repeated circumnavigations of the globe, barely touched at their shores; and all that we know about them is from a few general narratives. Among these, there are two that claim particular notice. Porter's 'Journal of the Cruise of the U.S. frigate Essex, in the Pacific, during the late War', is said to contain some interesting particulars concerning the islanders. This is a work, however, which I have never happened to meet with; and Stewart, the chaplain of the American sloop of war Vincennes, has likewise devoted a portion of his book, entitled 'A Visit to the South Seas', to the same subject. Within the last few, years American and English vessels engaged in the extensive whale fisheries of the Pacific have occasionally, when short of provisions, put into the commodious harbour which there is in one of the islands; but a fear of the natives, founded on the recollection of the dreadful fate which many white men have received at their hands, has deterred their crews from intermixing with the population sufficiently to gain any insight into their peculiar customs and manners. The Protestant Missions appear to have despaired of reclaiming these islands from heathenism. The usage they have in every case received from the natives has been such as to intimidate the boldest of their number. Ellis, in his 'Polynesian Researches', gives some interesting accounts of the abortive attempts made by the ''Tahiti Mission'' to establish a branch Mission upon certain islands of the group. A short time before my visit to the Marquesas, a somewhat amusing incident took place in connection with these efforts, which I cannot avoid relating. An intrepid missionary, undaunted by the ill-success that had attended all previous endeavours to conciliate the savages, and believing much in the efficacy of female influence, introduced among them his young and beautiful wife, the first white woman who had ever visited their shores. The islanders at first gazed in mute admiration at so unusual a prodigy, and seemed inclined to regard it as some new divinity. But after a short time, becoming familiar with its charming aspect, and jealous of the folds which encircled its form, they sought to pierce the sacred veil of calico in which it was enshrined, and in the gratification of their curiosity so far overstepped the limits of good breeding, as deeply to offend the lady's sense of decorum. Her sex once ascertained, their idolatry was changed into contempt and there was no end to the contumely showered upon her by the savages, who were exasperated at the deception which they conceived had been practised upon them. To the horror of her affectionate spouse, she was stripped of her garments, and given to understand that she could no longer carry on her deceits with impunity. The gentle dame was not sufficiently evangelical to endure this, and, fearful of further improprieties, she forced her husband to relinquish his undertaking, and together they returned to Tahiti. Not thus shy of exhibiting her charms was the Island Queen herself, the beauteous wife of Movianna, the king of Nukuheva. Between two and three years after the adventures recorded in this volume, I chanced, while aboard of a man-of-war to touch at these islands. The French had then held possession of the Marquesas some time, and already prided themselves upon the beneficial effects of their jurisdiction, as discernible in the deportment of the natives. To be sure, in one of their efforts at reform they had slaughtered about a hundred and fifty of them at Whitihoo--but let that pass. At the time I mention, the French squadron was rendezvousing in the bay of Nukuheva, and during an interview between one of their captains and our worthy Commodore, it was suggested by the former, that we, as the flag-ship of the American squadron, should receive, in state, a visit from the royal pair. The French officer likewise represented, with evident satisfaction, that under their tuition the king and queen had imbibed proper notions of their elevated station, and on all ceremonious occasions conducted themselves with suitable dignity. Accordingly, preparations were made to give their majesties a reception on board in a style corresponding with their rank. One bright afternoon, a gig, gaily bedizened with streamers, was observed to shove off from the side of one of the French frigates, and pull directly for our gangway. In the stern sheets reclined Mowanna and his consort. As they approached, we paid them all the honours due to royalty;--manning our yards, firing a salute, and making a prodigious hubbub. They ascended the accommodation ladder, were greeted by the Commodore, hat in hand, and passing along the quarter-deck, the marine guard presented arms, while the band struck up 'The King of the Cannibal Islands'. So far all went well. The French officers grimaced and smiled in exceedingly high spirits, wonderfully pleased with the discreet manner in which these distinguished personages behaved themselves. Their appearance was certainly calculated to produce an effect. His majesty was arrayed in a magnificent military uniform, stiff with gold lace and embroidery, while his shaven crown was concealed by a huge chapeau bras, waving with ostrich plumes. There was one slight blemish, however, in his appearance. A broad patch of tattooing stretched completely across his face, in a line with his eyes, making him look as if he wore a huge pair of goggles; and royalty in goggles suggested some ludicrous ideas. But it was in the adornment of the fair person of his dark-complexioned spouse that the tailors of the fleet had evinced the gaiety of their national taste. She was habited in a gaudy tissue of scarlet cloth, trimmed with yellow silk, which, descending a little below the knees, exposed to view her bare legs, embellished with spiral tattooing, and somewhat resembling two miniature Trajan's columns. Upon her head was a fanciful turban of purple velvet, figured with silver sprigs, and surmounted by a tuft of variegated feathers. The ship's company, crowding into the gangway to view the sight, soon arrested her majesty's attention. She singled out from their number an old salt, whose bare arms and feet, and exposed breast, were covered with as many inscriptions in India ink as the lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus. Notwithstanding all the sly hints and remonstrances of the French officers, she immediately approached the man, and pulling further open the bosom of his duck frock, and rolling up the leg of his wide trousers, she gazed with admiration at the bright blue and vermilion pricking thus disclosed to view. She hung over the fellow, caressing him, and expressing her delight in a variety of wild exclamations and gestures. The embarrassment of the polite Gauls at such an unlooked-for occurrence may be easily imagined, but picture their consternation, when all at once the royal lady, eager to display the hieroglyphics on her own sweet form, bent forward for a moment, and turning sharply round, threw up the skirt of her mantle and revealed a sight from which the aghast Frenchmen retreated precipitately, and tumbling into their boats, fled the scene of so shocking a catastrophe. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Wir lernen unseren Erzähler Tommo kennen, einen amerikanischen Seemann, der seit sechs Monaten auf See ist. Er beschreibt sein Schiff und seine trostlose Sehnsucht nach festem Land. Auf dem Schiff befindet sich nur ein armer Hahn im Hühnerstall, da die Hühner zuvor für Nahrung getötet wurden. Tommo erklärt, solange der Hahn lebt, kann Kapitän Vangs noch auf den Geschmack von frischem Fleisch hoffen und wird weniger wahrscheinlich das Schiff an Land bringen. Die Farbe des Schiffes blättert ab und die Bewohner sind zerlumpt, gelangweilt vom Leben und dem Verzehr harter Kekse. Kapitän Vangs kündigt der Mannschaft an, dass sie Kurs auf die Marquesas-Inseln nehmen werden, Heimat von Völkern, die trotz ihrer Begegnung mit Europäern seit 1595 "seltsam und barbarisch wie eh und je" sind und angeblich Kannibalen sein sollen. Obwohl protestantische Missionare versucht haben, die Marquesas-Einheimischen zu bekehren, hatten sie wenig Erfolg. Zur Verdeutlichung erzählt Tommo die Geschichte der schönen Frau eines Missionars, die anfangs von den Einheimischen verehrt wurde. Als sie jedoch herausfanden, dass sie eine Frau war, fühlten sie sich betrogen und machten das deutlich. Aus Furcht, wie sie behandelt werden würde, ließ sie ihren Mann die Inseln sofort verlassen. Andererseits, sagt Tommo, waren die Frauen der Insel unverblümt und zeigt auf die Zeit, als die Königin von Nukuheva, einer Marquesas-Insel, bewundernd auf einen tätowierten französischen Seemann zukam und ihm ihre eigene Tinte zeigen wollte, indem sie ihre Röcke ohne jegliche europäische Bescheidenheit hob.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XXXVII THE MYSTICAL MASTER INTRODUCES THE PRACTICAL DISCIPLE. "Both, the subject and the interlocutor," replied the stranger rising, and waiting the return towards him of a promenader, that moment turning at the further end of his walk. "Egbert!" said he, calling. Egbert, a well-dressed, commercial-looking gentleman of about thirty, responded in a way strikingly deferential, and in a moment stood near, in the attitude less of an equal companion apparently than a confidential follower. "This," said the stranger, taking Egbert by the hand and leading him to the cosmopolitan, "this is Egbert, a disciple. I wish you to know Egbert. Egbert was the first among mankind to reduce to practice the principles of Mark Winsome--principles previously accounted as less adapted to life than the closet. Egbert," turning to the disciple, who, with seeming modesty, a little shrank under these compliments, "Egbert, this," with a salute towards the cosmopolitan, "is, like all of us, a stranger. I wish you, Egbert, to know this brother stranger; be communicative with him. Particularly if, by anything hitherto dropped, his curiosity has been roused as to the precise nature of my philosophy, I trust you will not leave such curiosity ungratified. You, Egbert, by simply setting forth your practice, can do more to enlighten one as to my theory, than I myself can by mere speech. Indeed, it is by you that I myself best understand myself. For to every philosophy are certain rear parts, very important parts, and these, like the rear of one's head, are best seen by reflection. Now, as in a glass, you, Egbert, in your life, reflect to me the more important part of my system. He, who approves you, approves the philosophy of Mark Winsome." Though portions of this harangue may, perhaps, in the phraseology seem self-complaisant, yet no trace of self-complacency was perceptible in the speaker's manner, which throughout was plain, unassuming, dignified, and manly; the teacher and prophet seemed to lurk more in the idea, so to speak, than in the mere bearing of him who was the vehicle of it. "Sir," said the cosmopolitan, who seemed not a little interested in this new aspect of matters, "you speak of a certain philosophy, and a more or less occult one it may be, and hint of its bearing upon practical life; pray, tell me, if the study of this philosophy tends to the same formation of character with the experiences of the world?" "It does; and that is the test of its truth; for any philosophy that, being in operation contradictory to the ways of the world, tends to produce a character at odds with it, such a philosophy must necessarily be but a cheat and a dream." "You a little surprise me," answered the cosmopolitan; "for, from an occasional profundity in you, and also from your allusions to a profound work on the theology of Plato, it would seem but natural to surmise that, if you are the originator of any philosophy, it must needs so partake of the abstruse, as to exalt it above the comparatively vile uses of life." "No uncommon mistake with regard to me," rejoined the other. Then meekly standing like a Raphael: "If still in golden accents old Memnon murmurs his riddle, none the less does the balance-sheet of every man's ledger unriddle the profit or loss of life. Sir," with calm energy, "man came into this world, not to sit down and muse, not to befog himself with vain subtleties, but to gird up his loins and to work. Mystery is in the morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery is everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that mouth and purse must be filled. If, hitherto, you have supposed me a visionary, be undeceived. I am no one-ideaed one, either; no more than the seers before me. Was not Seneca a usurer? Bacon a courtier? and Swedenborg, though with one eye on the invisible, did he not keep the other on the main chance? Along with whatever else it may be given me to be, I am a man of serviceable knowledge, and a man of the world. Know me for such. And as for my disciple here," turning towards him, "if you look to find any soft Utopianisms and last year's sunsets in him, I smile to think how he will set you right. The doctrines I have taught him will, I trust, lead him neither to the mad-house nor the poor-house, as so many other doctrines have served credulous sticklers. Furthermore," glancing upon him paternally, "Egbert is both my disciple and my poet. For poetry is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of thought and act, and, in the latter way, is by any one to be found anywhere, when in useful action sought. In a word, my disciple here is a thriving young merchant, a practical poet in the West India trade. There," presenting Egbert's hand to the cosmopolitan, "I join you, and leave you." With which words, and without bowing, the master withdrew. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Puritaner wechselt sein Thema und sucht sich einen neuen Gesprächspartner. Der Puritaner ruft Egbert herbei, einen Geschäftsmann in den Dreißigern, der nicht wie jemand aussieht, der mit dem Puritaner unterwegs wäre. Der Puritaner, von dem wir jetzt erfahren, dass er Mark Winsome heißt, will aufbrechen, aber Egbert ist sein Jünger. Oh, ja - es stellt sich heraus, dass Winsome eine Philosophie entwickelt hat. Er lässt Egbert zurück, um Frank davon zu erzählen. Frank ist überrascht, weil Winsome zwar wie ein Träumer wirkt, aber darüber spricht, dass seine Philosophie praktische Anwendungen hat. Was denn nun? Winsome: Meine Philosophie ist mega praktisch. Egbert wird dir alles erzählen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 23 THE RENDEZVOUS D'Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o'clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure. Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity. He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey. Planchet*, whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hotel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him. _*The reader may ask, "How came Planchet here?" when he was left "stiff as a rush" in London. In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses._ "Has anyone brought a letter for me?" asked d'Artagnan, eagerly. "No one has BROUGHT a letter, monsieur," replied Planchet; "but one has come of itself." "What do you mean, blockhead?" "I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom." "And where is that letter?" "I left it where I found it, monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people's houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no--all was hermetically sealed. Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath." Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter. It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms: "There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o'clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d'Estrees.--C.B." While reading this letter, d'Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers. It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love! "Well, monsieur," said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, "did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?" "You are mistaken, Planchet," replied d'Artagnan; "and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health." "I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he had given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses--" "Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven." "Then Monsieur is satisfied?" asked Planchet. "My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!" "And I may profit by Monsieur's happiness, and go to bed?" "Yes, go." "May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter--" And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of d'Artagnan had not entirely effaced. Left alone, d'Artagnan read and reread his billet. Then he kissed and rekissed twenty times the lines traced by the hand of his beautiful mistress. At length he went to bed, fell asleep, and had golden dreams. At seven o'clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who at the second summons opened the door, his countenance not yet quite freed from the anxiety of the preceding night. "Planchet," said d'Artagnan, "I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till seven o'clock in the evening; but at seven o'clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses." "There!" said Planchet. "We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways." "You will take your musketoon and your pistols." "There, now! Didn't I say so?" cried Planchet. "I was sure of it--the cursed letter!" "Don't be afraid, you idiot; there is nothing in hand but a party of pleasure." "Ah, like the charming journey the other day, when it rained bullets and produced a crop of steel traps!" "Well, if you are really afraid, Monsieur Planchet," resumed d'Artagnan, "I will go without you. I prefer traveling alone to having a companion who entertains the least fear." "Monsieur does me wrong," said Planchet; "I thought he had seen me at work." "Yes, but I thought perhaps you had worn out all your courage the first time." "Monsieur shall see that upon occasion I have some left; only I beg Monsieur not to be too prodigal of it if he wishes it to last long." "Do you believe you have still a certain amount of it to expend this evening?" "I hope so, monsieur." "Well, then, I count on you." "At the appointed hour I shall be ready; only I believed that Monsieur had but one horse in the Guard stables." "Perhaps there is but one at this moment; but by this evening there will be four." "It appears that our journey was a remounting journey, then?" "Exactly so," said d'Artagnan; and nodding to Planchet, he went out. M Bonacieux was at his door. D'Artagnan's intention was to go out without speaking to the worthy mercer; but the latter made so polite and friendly a salutation that his tenant felt obliged, not only to stop, but to enter into conversation with him. Besides, how is it possible to avoid a little condescension toward a husband whose pretty wife has appointed a meeting with you that same evening at St. Cloud, opposite D'Estrees's pavilion? D'Artagnan approached him with the most amiable air he could assume. The conversation naturally fell upon the incarceration of the poor man. M. Bonacieux, who was ignorant that d'Artagnan had overheard his conversation with the stranger of Meung, related to his young tenant the persecutions of that monster, M. de Laffemas, whom he never ceased to designate, during his account, by the title of the "cardinal's executioner," and expatiated at great length upon the Bastille, the bolts, the wickets, the dungeons, the gratings, the instruments of torture. D'Artagnan listened to him with exemplary complaisance, and when he had finished said, "And Madame Bonacieux, do you know who carried her off?--For I do not forget that I owe to that unpleasant circumstance the good fortune of having made your acquaintance." "Ah!" said Bonacieux, "they took good care not to tell me that; and my wife, on her part, has sworn to me by all that's sacred that she does not know. But you," continued M. Bonacieux, in a tine of perfect good fellowship, "what has become of you all these days? I have not seen you nor your friends, and I don't think you could gather all that dust that I saw Planchet brush off your boots yesterday from the pavement of Paris." "You are right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, my friends and I have been on a little journey." "Far from here?" "Oh, Lord, no! About forty leagues only. We went to take Monsieur Athos to the waters of Forges, where my friends still remain." "And you have returned, have you not?" replied M. Bonacieux, giving to his countenance a most sly air. "A handsome young fellow like you does not obtain long leaves of absence from his mistress; and we were impatiently waited for at Paris, were we not?" "My faith!" said the young man, laughing, "I confess it, and so much more the readily, my dear Bonacieux, as I see there is no concealing anything from you. Yes, I was expected, and very impatiently, I acknowledge." A slight shade passed over the brow of Bonacieux, but so slight that d'Artagnan did not perceive it. "And we are going to be recompensed for our diligence?" continued the mercer, with a trifling alteration in his voice--so trifling, indeed, that d'Artagnan did not perceive it any more than he had the momentary shade which, an instant before, had darkened the countenance of the worthy man. "Ah, may you be a true prophet!" said d'Artagnan, laughing. "No; what I say," replied Bonacieux, "is only that I may know whether I am delaying you." "Why that question, my dear host?" asked d'Artagnan. "Do you intend to sit up for me?" "No; but since my arrest and the robbery that was committed in my house, I am alarmed every time I hear a door open, particularly in the night. What the deuce can you expect? I am no swordsman." "Well, don't be alarmed if I return at one, two or three o'clock in the morning; indeed, do not be alarmed if I do not come at all." This time Bonacieux became so pale that d'Artagnan could not help perceiving it, and asked him what was the matter. "Nothing," replied Bonacieux, "nothing. Since my misfortunes I have been subject to faintnesses, which seize me all at once, and I have just felt a cold shiver. Pay no attention to it; you have nothing to occupy yourself with but being happy." "Then I have full occupation, for I am so." "Not yet; wait a little! This evening, you said." "Well, this evening will come, thank God! And perhaps you look for it with as much impatience as I do; perhaps this evening Madame Bonacieux will visit the conjugal domicile." "Madame Bonacieux is not at liberty this evening," replied the husband, seriously; "she is detained at the Louvre this evening by her duties." "So much the worse for you, my dear host, so much the worse! When I am happy, I wish all the world to be so; but it appears that is not possible." The young man departed, laughing at the joke, which he thought he alone could comprehend. "Amuse yourself well!" replied Bonacieux, in a sepulchral tone. But d'Artagnan was too far off to hear him; and if he had heard him in the disposition of mind he then enjoyed, he certainly would not have remarked it. He took his way toward the hotel of M. de Treville; his visit of the day before, it is to be remembered, had been very short and very little explicative. He found Treville in a joyful mood. He had thought the king and queen charming at the ball. It is true the cardinal had been particularly ill-tempered. He had retired at one o'clock under the pretense of being indisposed. As to their Majesties, they did not return to the Louvre till six o'clock in the morning. "Now," said Treville, lowering his voice, and looking into every corner of the apartment to see if they were alone, "now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your happy return has something to do with the joy of the king, the triumph of the queen, and the humiliation of his Eminence. You must look out for yourself." "What have I to fear," replied d'Artagnan, "as long as I shall have the luck to enjoy the favor of their Majesties?" "Everything, believe me. The cardinal is not the man to forget a mystification until he has settled account with the mystifier; and the mystifier appears to me to have the air of being a certain young Gascon of my acquaintance." "Do you believe that the cardinal is as well posted as yourself, and knows that I have been to London?" "The devil! You have been to London! Was it from London you brought that beautiful diamond that glitters on your finger? Beware, my dear d'Artagnan! A present from an enemy is not a good thing. Are there not some Latin verses upon that subject? Stop!" "Yes, doubtless," replied d'Artagnan, who had never been able to cram the first rudiments of that language into his head, and who had by his ignorance driven his master to despair, "yes, doubtless there is one." "There certainly is one," said M. de Treville, who had a tincture of literature, "and Monsieur de Benserade was quoting it to me the other day. Stop a minute--ah, this is it: 'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,' which means, 'Beware of the enemy who makes you presents." "This diamond does not come from an enemy, monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "it comes from the queen." "From the queen! Oh, oh!" said M. de Treville. "Why, it is indeed a true royal jewel, which is worth a thousand pistoles if it is worth a denier. By whom did the queen send you this jewel?" "She gave it to me herself." "Where?" "In the room adjoining the chamber in which she changed her toilet." "How?" "Giving me her hand to kiss." "You have kissed the queen's hand?" said M. de Treville, looking earnestly at d'Artagnan. "Her Majesty did me the honor to grant me that favor." "And that in the presence of witnesses! Imprudent, thrice imprudent!" "No, monsieur, be satisfied; nobody saw her," replied d'Artagnan, and he related to M. de Treville how the affair came to pass. "Oh, the women, the women!" cried the old soldier. "I know them by their romantic imagination. Everything that savors of mystery charms them. So you have seen the arm, that was all. You would meet the queen, and she would not know who you are?" "No; but thanks to this diamond," replied the young man. "Listen," said M. de Treville; "shall I give you counsel, good counsel, the counsel of a friend?" "You will do me honor, monsieur," said d'Artagnan. "Well, then, off to the nearest goldsmith's, and sell that diamond for the highest price you can get from him. However much of a Jew he may be, he will give you at least eight hundred pistoles. Pistoles have no name, young man, and that ring has a terrible one, which may betray him who wears it." "Sell this ring, a ring which comes from my sovereign? Never!" said d'Artagnan. "Then, at least turn the gem inside, you silly fellow; for everybody must be aware that a cadet from Gascony does not find such stones in his mother's jewel case." "You think, then, I have something to dread?" asked d'Artagnan. "I mean to say, young man, that he who sleeps over a mine the match of which is already lighted, may consider himself in safety in comparison with you." "The devil!" said d'Artagnan, whom the positive tone of M. de Treville began to disquiet, "the devil! What must I do?" "Above all things be always on your guard. The cardinal has a tenacious memory and a long arm; you may depend upon it, he will repay you by some ill turn." "But of what sort?" "Eh! How can I tell? Has he not all the tricks of a demon at his command? The least that can be expected is that you will be arrested." "What! Will they dare to arrest a man in his Majesty's service?" "PARDIEU! They did not scruple much in the case of Athos. At all events, young man, rely upon one who has been thirty years at court. Do not lull yourself in security, or you will be lost; but, on the contrary--and it is I who say it--see enemies in all directions. If anyone seeks a quarrel with you, shun it, were it with a child of ten years old. If you are attacked by day or by night, fight, but retreat, without shame; if you cross a bridge, feel every plank of it with your foot, lest one should give way beneath you; if you pass before a house which is being built, look up, for fear a stone should fall upon your head; if you stay out late, be always followed by your lackey, and let your lackey be armed--if, by the by, you can be sure of your lackey. Mistrust everybody, your friend, your brother, your mistress--your mistress above all." D'Artagnan blushed. "My mistress above all," repeated he, mechanically; "and why her rather than another?" "Because a mistress is one of the cardinal's favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious. A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah. You are acquainted with the Scriptures?" D'Artagnan thought of the appointment Mme. Bonacieux had made with him for that very evening; but we are bound to say, to the credit of our hero, that the bad opinion entertained by M. de Treville of women in general, did not inspire him with the least suspicion of his pretty hostess. "But, A PROPOS," resumed M. de Treville, "what has become of your three companions?" "I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?" "None, monsieur." "Well, I left them on my road--Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crevecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining." "See there, now!" said M. de Treville; "and how the devil did you escape?" "By a miracle, monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry." "There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal's men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea." "Speak, monsieur." "In your place, I would do one thing." "What?" "While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part." "The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out." "Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?" "This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business." "Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening." "Impossible, monsieur." "You have given your word, then?" "Yes, monsieur." "Ah, that's quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow." "I promise it." "Do you need money?" "I have still fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall want." "But your companions?" "I don't think they can be in need of any. We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket." "Shall I see you again before your departure?" "I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen." "Well, a pleasant journey." "Thanks, monsieur." D'Artagnan left M. de Treville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his Musketeers. He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Neither of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either the one or the other. He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was neither acquainted with Porthos's nor Aramis's, and as to Athos, he had none. As he passed the Hotel des Gardes, he took a glance in to the stables. Three of the four horses had already arrived. Planchet, all astonishment, was busy grooming them, and had already finished two. "Ah, monsieur," said Planchet, on perceiving d'Artagnan, "how glad I am to see you." "Why so, Planchet?" asked the young man. "Do you place confidence in our landlord--Monsieur Bonacieux?" "I? Not the least in the world." "Oh, you do quite right, monsieur." "But why this question?" "Because, while you were talking with him, I watched you without listening to you; and, monsieur, his countenance changed color two or three times!" "Bah!" "Preoccupied as Monsieur was with the letter he had received, he did not observe that; but I, whom the strange fashion in which that letter came into the house had placed on my guard--I did not lose a movement of his features." "And you found it?" "Traitorous, monsieur." "Indeed!" "Still more; as soon as Monsieur had left and disappeared round the corner of the street, Monsieur Bonacieux took his hat, shut his door, and set off at a quick pace in an opposite direction." "It seems you are right, Planchet; all this appears to be a little mysterious; and be assured that we will not pay him our rent until the matter shall be categorically explained to us." "Monsieur jests, but Monsieur will see." "What would you have, Planchet? What must come is written." "Monsieur does not then renounce his excursion for this evening?" "Quite the contrary, Planchet; the more ill will I have toward Monsieur Bonacieux, the more punctual I shall be in keeping the appointment made by that letter which makes you so uneasy." "Then that is Monsieur's determination?" "Undeniably, my friend. At nine o'clock, then, be ready here at the hotel, I will come and take you." Planchet seeing there was no longer any hope of making his master renounce his project, heaved a profound sigh and set to work to groom the third horse. As to d'Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning home, went and dined with the Gascon priest, who, at the time of the distress of the four friends, had given them a breakfast of chocolate. 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.

D'Artagnan rennt nach Hause. Es ist jetzt drei Uhr morgens. D'Artagnan rennt zurück in seine Wohnung und fragt, ob jemand einen Brief gebracht hat. Planchet sagt nein, aber dass ein Brief auf mysteriöse Weise aufgetaucht ist. Er hat einen Brief im Schlafzimmer von D'Artagnan gefunden und ihn unberührt gelassen. Er hält es für unnatürlich und warnt D'Artagnan, dass es böse ist. D'Artagnan eilt hinüber und öffnet den Brief. Es steht darin, dass D'Artagnan um zehn Uhr zu einem Pavillon in St. Cloud gehen soll. D'Artagnan ist vor Freude überwältigt, aber Planchet wird besorgt. D'Artagnan gibt Planchet etwas Geld. Es besänftigt Planchet jedoch nicht, da er immer noch wissen will, woher der Brief kommt und was darin steht. D'Artagnan sagt, er komme aus dem Himmel. D'Artagnan geht ins Bett und kuschelt sich an seinen Brief. Um sieben Uhr morgens verlässt D'Artagnan das Haus und sagt Planchet, dass er um sieben Uhr abends zurückkehren wird und erwartet, dass zwei Pferde bereit sind. Planchet ist nicht glücklich; er ist überzeugt, dass sie sich auf ein weiteres gefährliches Abenteuer begeben werden. Die beiden streiten sich weiter, und D'Artagnan gewinnt, indem er Planchets Männlichkeit hinterfragt. D'Artagnan geht, stößt jedoch auf dem Weg Monsieur Bonacieux. Sie fangen an, über Bonacieux' kurzen Gefängnisaufenthalt zu sprechen. Bonacieux fragt dann, wo D'Artagnan in den letzten Tagen war, und D'Artagnan antwortet, dass er mit seinen Freunden unterwegs war. D'Artagnan sagt seinem Vermieter, er solle sich keine Sorgen machen, wenn er die ganze Nacht draußen bleibt. Bonacieux wird blass und versucht, seine heftige Reaktion zu entschuldigen. Dann sagt er D'Artagnan, dass seine Frau die Nacht im Palast verbringt. Die beiden trennen sich schließlich, ohne dass D'Artagnan während ihres Gesprächs bemerkt hat, dass Bonacieux etwas im Schilde führen könnte. D'Artagnan besucht Treville und bespricht die vergangene Nacht. Der Kardinal war sehr wütend und ist früh gegangen, aber der König und die Königin haben bis sechs Uhr morgens getanzt. Treville erkundigt sich dann nach D'Artagnans Wohlbefinden. Er warnt D'Artagnan, dass der Kardinal wütend ist und wissen möchte, wer seinen Plan, die Königin bloßzustellen, durchkreuzt hat. Treville bemerkt D'Artagnans Diamantring; D'Artagnan erklärt, dass der Ring von der Königin ist. Treville rät ihm, ihn zu verkaufen. Er warnt D'Artagnan davor, dass der Ring ihn verraten wird - er muss auf der Hut sein. D'Artagnan fragt, ob er auf etwas Bestimmtes achten sollte, aber Treville sagt, dass der Kardinal allerlei Tricks im Ärmel hat. Er sagt D'Artagnan, dass das Schlimmste, was er erwarten kann, Verhaftung ist. Schließlich sagt Treville D'Artagnan, dass er niemandem trauen soll - vor allem nicht seiner Geliebten. D'Artagnan errötet. Treville sagt, dass das Lieblingsmittel des Kardinals, einen Mann zu vernichten, eine schöne Frau ist. D'Artagnan denkt an Madame Bonacieux, verdächtigt sie aber überhaupt nicht. Treville wechselt das Thema und fragt, wie es D'Artagnans drei Freunden geht. D'Artagnan hat keine Ahnung. D'Artagnan selbst ist nur knapp dem Comte de Wardes entkommen, indem er gegen ihn kämpfte. Treville bemerkt, dass De Wardes Rocheforts Cousin ist und einer von des Kardinals Männern. Treville schlägt D'Artagnan vor, seine drei Freunde zu suchen. D'Artagnan sagt, er werde morgen abreisen, was sofort Trevilles Misstrauen weckt, und er warnt D'Artagnan erneut davor, vorsichtig mit Frauen zu sein. D'Artagnan verlässt Treville berührt von der Sorge des Mannes. Er besucht die Häuser seiner Freunde, aber es gibt keine neuen Informationen. D'Artagnan findet dann Planchet, der die Pferde pflegt. Planchet fragt seinen Meister, ob er Monsieur Bonacieux vertraut, und bemerkt, dass D'Artagnan während des Gesprächs mehrmals die Farbe gewechselt hat. Planchet sagt, dass Bonacieux direkt nach D'Artagnan gegangen ist, aber in die entgegengesetzte Richtung. D'Artagnan nimmt Planchets Warnungen nicht ernst und ist entschlossen, seinen Termin um zehn Uhr einzuhalten. Er weist Planchet an, um neun Uhr bereit zu sein. D'Artagnan, vorsichtig, besucht stattdessen einen gasconischen Priester zum Abendessen anstatt nach Hause zurückzukehren.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 another night came the columns, changed to purple streaks, filed across two pontoon bridges. A glaring fire wine-tinted the waters of the river. Its rays, shining upon the moving masses of troops, brought forth here and there sudden gleams of silver or gold. Upon the other shore a dark and mysterious range of hills was curved against the sky. The insect voices of the night sang solemnly. After this crossing the youth assured himself that at any moment they might be suddenly and fearfully assaulted from the caves of the lowering woods. He kept his eyes watchfully upon the darkness. But his regiment went unmolested to a camping place, and its soldiers slept the brave sleep of wearied men. In the morning they were routed out with early energy, and hustled along a narrow road that led deep into the forest. It was during this rapid march that the regiment lost many of the marks of a new command. The men had begun to count the miles upon their fingers, and they grew tired. "Sore feet an' damned short rations, that's all," said the loud soldier. There was perspiration and grumblings. After a time they began to shed their knapsacks. Some tossed them unconcernedly down; others hid them carefully, asserting their plans to return for them at some convenient time. Men extricated themselves from thick shirts. Presently few carried anything but their necessary clothing, blankets, haversacks, canteens, and arms and ammunition. "You can now eat and shoot," said the tall soldier to the youth. "That's all you want to do." There was sudden change from the ponderous infantry of theory to the light and speedy infantry of practice. The regiment, relieved of a burden, received a new impetus. But there was much loss of valuable knapsacks, and, on the whole, very good shirts. But the regiment was not yet veteranlike in appearance. Veteran regiments in the army were likely to be very small aggregations of men. Once, when the command had first come to the field, some perambulating veterans, noting the length of their column, had accosted them thus: "Hey, fellers, what brigade is that?" And when the men had replied that they formed a regiment and not a brigade, the older soldiers had laughed, and said, "O Gawd!" Also, there was too great a similarity in the hats. The hats of a regiment should properly represent the history of headgear for a period of years. And, moreover, there were no letters of faded gold speaking from the colors. They were new and beautiful, and the color bearer habitually oiled the pole. Presently the army again sat down to think. The odor of the peaceful pines was in the men's nostrils. The sound of monotonous axe blows rang through the forest, and the insects, nodding upon their perches, crooned like old women. The youth returned to his theory of a blue demonstration. One gray dawn, however, he was kicked in the leg by the tall soldier, and then, before he was entirely awake, he found himself running down a wood road in the midst of men who were panting from the first effects of speed. His canteen banged rhythmically upon his thigh, and his haversack bobbed softly. His musket bounced a trifle from his shoulder at each stride and made his cap feel uncertain upon his head. He could hear the men whisper jerky sentences: "Say--what's all this--about?" "What th' thunder--we--skedaddlin' this way fer?" "Billie--keep off m' feet. Yeh run--like a cow." And the loud soldier's shrill voice could be heard: "What th' devil they in sich a hurry for?" The youth thought the damp fog of early morning moved from the rush of a great body of troops. From the distance came a sudden spatter of firing. He was bewildered. As he ran with his comrades he strenuously tried to think, but all he knew was that if he fell down those coming behind would tread upon him. All his faculties seemed to be needed to guide him over and past obstructions. He felt carried along by a mob. The sun spread disclosing rays, and, one by one, regiments burst into view like armed men just born of the earth. The youth perceived that the time had come. He was about to be measured. For a moment he felt in the face of his great trial like a babe, and the flesh over his heart seemed very thin. He seized time to look about him calculatingly. But he instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from the regiment. It inclosed him. And there were iron laws of tradition and law on four sides. He was in a moving box. As he perceived this fact it occurred to him that he had never wished to come to the war. He had not enlisted of his free will. He had been dragged by the merciless government. And now they were taking him out to be slaughtered. The regiment slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream. The mournful current moved slowly on, and from the water, shaded black, some white bubble eyes looked at the men. As they climbed the hill on the farther side artillery began to boom. Here the youth forgot many things as he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity. He scrambled up the bank with a speed that could not be exceeded by a bloodthirsty man. He expected a battle scene. There were some little fields girted and squeezed by a forest. Spread over the grass and in among the tree trunks, he could see knots and waving lines of skirmishers who were running hither and thither and firing at the landscape. A dark battle line lay upon a sunstruck clearing that gleamed orange color. A flag fluttered. Other regiments floundered up the bank. The brigade was formed in line of battle, and after a pause started slowly through the woods in the rear of the receding skirmishers, who were continually melting into the scene to appear again farther on. They were always busy as bees, deeply absorbed in their little combats. The youth tried to observe everything. He did not use care to avoid trees and branches, and his forgotten feet were constantly knocking against stones or getting entangled in briers. He was aware that these battalions with their commotions were woven red and startling into the gentle fabric of softened greens and browns. It looked to be a wrong place for a battle field. The skirmishers in advance fascinated him. Their shots into thickets and at distant and prominent trees spoke to him of tragedies--hidden, mysterious, solemn. Once the line encountered the body of a dead soldier. He lay upon his back staring at the sky. He was dressed in an awkward suit of yellowish brown. The youth could see that the soles of his shoes had been worn to the thinness of writing paper, and from a great rent in one the dead foot projected piteously. And it was as if fate had betrayed the soldier. In death it exposed to his enemies that poverty which in life he had perhaps concealed from his friends. The ranks opened covertly to avoid the corpse. The invulnerable dead man forced a way for himself. The youth looked keenly at the ashen face. The wind raised the tawny beard. It moved as if a hand were stroking it. He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare; the impulse of the living to try to read in dead eyes the answer to the Question. During the march the ardor which the youth had acquired when out of view of the field rapidly faded to nothing. His curiosity was quite easily satisfied. If an intense scene had caught him with its wild swing as he came to the top of the bank, he might have gone roaring on. This advance upon Nature was too calm. He had opportunity to reflect. He had time in which to wonder about himself and to attempt to probe his sensations. Absurd ideas took hold upon him. He thought that he did not relish the landscape. It threatened him. A coldness swept over his back, and it is true that his trousers felt to him that they were no fit for his legs at all. A house standing placidly in distant fields had to him an ominous look. The shadows of the woods were formidable. He was certain that in this vista there lurked fierce-eyed hosts. The swift thought came to him that the generals did not know what they were about. It was all a trap. Suddenly those close forests would bristle with rifle barrels. Ironlike brigades would appear in the rear. They were all going to be sacrificed. The generals were stupids. The enemy would presently swallow the whole command. He glared about him, expecting to see the stealthy approach of his death. He thought that he must break from the ranks and harangue his comrades. They must not all be killed like pigs; and he was sure it would come to pass unless they were informed of these dangers. The generals were idiots to send them marching into a regular pen. There was but one pair of eyes in the corps. He would step forth and make a speech. Shrill and passionate words came to his lips. The line, broken into moving fragments by the ground, went calmly on through fields and woods. The youth looked at the men nearest him, and saw, for the most part, expressions of deep interest, as if they were investigating something that had fascinated them. One or two stepped with overvaliant airs as if they were already plunged into war. Others walked as upon thin ice. The greater part of the untested men appeared quiet and absorbed. They were going to look at war, the red animal--war, the blood-swollen god. And they were deeply engrossed in this march. As he looked the youth gripped his outcry at his throat. He saw that even if the men were tottering with fear they would laugh at his warning. They would jeer him, and, if practicable, pelt him with missiles. Admitting that he might be wrong, a frenzied declamation of the kind would turn him into a worm. He assumed, then, the demeanor of one who knows that he is doomed alone to unwritten responsibilities. He lagged, with tragic glances at the sky. He was surprised presently by the young lieutenant of his company, who began heartily to beat him with a sword, calling out in a loud and insolent voice: "Come, young man, get up into ranks there. No skulking'll do here." He mended his pace with suitable haste. And he hated the lieutenant, who had no appreciation of fine minds. He was a mere brute. After a time the brigade was halted in the cathedral light of a forest. The busy skirmishers were still popping. Through the aisles of the wood could be seen the floating smoke from their rifles. Sometimes it went up in little balls, white and compact. During this halt many men in the regiment began erecting tiny hills in front of them. They used stones, sticks, earth, and anything they thought might turn a bullet. Some built comparatively large ones, while others seemed content with little ones. This procedure caused a discussion among the men. Some wished to fight like duelists, believing it to be correct to stand erect and be, from their feet to their foreheads, a mark. They said they scorned the devices of the cautious. But the others scoffed in reply, and pointed to the veterans on the flanks who were digging at the ground like terriers. In a short time there was quite a barricade along the regimental fronts. Directly, however, they were ordered to withdraw from that place. This astounded the youth. He forgot his stewing over the advance movement. "Well, then, what did they march us out here for?" he demanded of the tall soldier. The latter with calm faith began a heavy explanation, although he had been compelled to leave a little protection of stones and dirt to which he had devoted much care and skill. When the regiment was aligned in another position each man's regard for his safety caused another line of small intrenchments. They ate their noon meal behind a third one. They were moved from this one also. They were marched from place to place with apparent aimlessness. The youth had been taught that a man became another thing in a battle. He saw his salvation in such a change. Hence this waiting was an ordeal to him. He was in a fever of impatience. He considered that there was denoted a lack of purpose on the part of the generals. He began to complain to the tall soldier. "I can't stand this much longer," he cried. "I don't see what good it does to make us wear out our legs for nothin'." He wished to return to camp, knowing that this affair was a blue demonstration; or else to go into a battle and discover that he had been a fool in his doubts, and was, in truth, a man of traditional courage. The strain of present circumstances he felt to be intolerable. The philosophical tall soldier measured a sandwich of cracker and pork and swallowed it in a nonchalant manner. "Oh, I suppose we must go reconnoitering around the country jest to keep 'em from getting too close, or to develop 'em, or something." "Huh!" said the loud soldier. "Well," cried the youth, still fidgeting, "I'd rather do anything 'most than go tramping 'round the country all day doing no good to nobody and jest tiring ourselves out." "So would I," said the loud soldier. "It ain't right. I tell you if anybody with any sense was a-runnin' this army it--" "Oh, shut up!" roared the tall private. "You little fool. You little damn' cuss. You ain't had that there coat and them pants on for six months, and yet you talk as if--" "Well, I wanta do some fighting anyway," interrupted the other. "I didn't come here to walk. I could 'ave walked to home--'round an' 'round the barn, if I jest wanted to walk." The tall one, red-faced, swallowed another sandwich as if taking poison in despair. But gradually, as he chewed, his face became again quiet and contented. He could not rage in fierce argument in the presence of such sandwiches. During his meals he always wore an air of blissful contemplation of the food he had swallowed. His spirit seemed then to be communing with the viands. He accepted new environment and circumstance with great coolness, eating from his haversack at every opportunity. On the march he went along with the stride of a hunter, objecting to neither gait nor distance. And he had not raised his voice when he had been ordered away from three little protective piles of earth and stone, each of which had been an engineering feat worthy of being made sacred to the name of his grandmother. In the afternoon the regiment went out over the same ground it had taken in the morning. The landscape then ceased to threaten the youth. He had been close to it and become familiar with it. When, however, they began to pass into a new region, his old fears of stupidity and incompetence reassailed him, but this time he doggedly let them babble. He was occupied with his problem, and in his desperation he concluded that the stupidity did not greatly matter. Once he thought he had concluded that it would be better to get killed directly and end his troubles. Regarding death thus out of the corner of his eye, he conceived it to be nothing but rest, and he was filled with a momentary astonishment that he should have made an extraordinary commotion over the mere matter of getting killed. He would die; he would go to some place where he would be understood. It was useless to expect appreciation of his profound and fine senses from such men as the lieutenant. He must look to the grave for comprehension. The skirmish fire increased to a long chattering sound. With it was mingled far-away cheering. A battery spoke. Directly the youth would see the skirmishers running. They were pursued by the sound of musketry fire. After a time the hot, dangerous flashes of the rifles were visible. Smoke clouds went slowly and insolently across the fields like observant phantoms. The din became crescendo, like the roar of an oncoming train. A brigade ahead of them and on the right went into action with a rending roar. It was as if it had exploded. And thereafter it lay stretched in the distance behind a long gray wall, that one was obliged to look twice at to make sure that it was smoke. The youth, forgetting his neat plan of getting killed, gazed spell bound. His eyes grew wide and busy with the action of the scene. His mouth was a little ways open. Plötzlich spürte er eine schwere und traurige Hand auf seiner Schulter liegen. Als er aus seiner Trance der Beobachtung erwachte, drehte er sich um und sah den lauten Soldaten. "Es ist meine erste und letzte Schlacht, alter Junge", sagte Letzterer mit intensiver Schwermut. Er war ganz blass und seine lippen waren zitternd wie die einer Mädchen. "Eh?", murmelte der Jugendliche völlig verblüfft. "Es ist meine erste und letzte Schlacht, alter Junge", fuhr der laute Soldat fort. "Etwas sagt mir -" "Was?" "Ich bin beim ersten Mal erledigt und - und ich möchte, dass du diese Sachen zu meinen Leuten bringst." Er endete mit einem zitternden Schluchzen des Bedauerns über sich selbst. Er reichte dem Jugendlichen ein kleines Päckchen, das in einen gelben Umschlag eingewickelt war. "Warum zum Teufel -" begann der Jugendliche erneut. Aber der andere warf ihm einen Blick wie aus den Tiefen eines Grabes zu und erhob seine schlaffe Hand auf prophetische Weise und ging weg. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Das Regiment marschiert weitere zwei Tage und beschleunigt am letzten Tag das Tempo. Die Männer werden müde, heiß und mürrisch. Sie lassen einen Teil ihrer Vorräte zurück, um ihr Gewicht zu verringern. Sie bewegen sich schnell wie erfahrene Soldaten, aber sie haben immer noch nicht den Blick von erfahrenen Soldaten, da ihre Uniformen zu hell und zu neu sind. Eines Morgens tritt der große Soldat Henry wach. Die Männer rennen plötzlich im Nebel. Sie hören die entfernten Geräusche von Schießereien. Regimenter und andere Männer werden allmählich sichtbar, als die Sonne aufgeht und der Nebel zu schmelzen beginnt. Das Regiment erklimmt schließlich einen Hügel. Als sie dessen Gipfel erreichen, erwartet Henry eine Schlachtszene zu sehen. Unterhalb tobt eine Scharmützel. Es gibt Linien von Kämpfern, die über das Feld verteilt sind, und eine Fahne flattert. Die Scharmützler tauchen nur sporadisch in der Szene auf. Henry ist vertieft und versucht, alles zu beobachten. Sein eigenes Regiment befindet sich immer noch in einem bewaldeten Gebiet. Sie passieren schließlich den leblosen Körper eines Soldaten. Seine Uniform ist gelb-braun und seine Schuhsohlen sind papierdünn. Der Körper fesselt Henry. Während das Regiment marschiert, denkt er weiter nach. Die Landschaft bedroht ihn. Er sieht sie als voller furchterregender Feinde an. Plötzlich misstraut er seinen Vorgesetzten. Er ist sich sicher, dass sie die Männer in eine Falle geführt haben. Er muss entkommen; er muss der einzige sein, der die Gefahr erkennt. Die Stimmung der Truppen ist jetzt sehr ernst. Sie stehen kurz vor einer echten Bewährungsprobe, und das beeinflusst sie auf unterschiedliche Weise. In erster Linie sind jedoch die unerfahrenen Männer ruhig und vertieft und warten darauf, endlich auf den Krieg vorbereitet zu werden. Ihnen wird zunächst befohlen, sich einzugraben, dann aber zurückzuziehen. Die Soldaten werden verärgert und fragen, warum sie so weit marschiert wurden, wenn sie dem Feind nicht gegenüberstehen sollen. Dann werden sie an eine andere Position versetzt, dann wieder an eine andere. Die Vorfreude beginnt Henry zu nerven, der lieber ins Lager zurückkehren oder in die Schlacht ziehen möchte. Die Männer essen ihr Mittagessen und sprechen über ihre Verärgerung. Der laute Soldat Wilson und der große Soldat Jim streiten weiter darüber, ob sie wirklich daran interessiert sind, zu kämpfen. Am Nachmittag geht das Regiment über das Land, das sie erobert haben, dasselbe Land, das Henry am Morgen betrachtet hat. Es bedroht die Jugend nicht mehr; er fühlt sich damit vertraut. Dennoch ändert er ständig seine Meinung über die bevorstehende Schlacht. Er beginnt zu denken, dass es besser ist, direkt getötet zu werden und seine Probleme zu beenden. Aus dem Augenwinkel betrachtet erscheint ihm der Tod wie Ruhe und Wertschätzung, viel besser als die gegenwärtigen Umstände von Angst und Unsicherheit. Während grauer Rauch über dem Regiment aufsteigt, legt Wilson prophetisch seine Hand auf Henrys Schulter und sagt mit zitternder Lippe, dass dies sein erster und letzter Kampf sein wird. Er gibt Henry ein Paket Briefe für seine Familie und wendet sich dann unter Tränen ab.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say "yesterday I was happy, today I am not." At no one moment did Lilia realize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer and autumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be. She had no unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband. He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do "business," which, as far as she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia. He usually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room and slept. In the evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air on the ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning till midnight or later. There were, of course, the times when he was away altogether--at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna--for he delighted in travel, and seemed to pick up friends all over the country. Lilia often heard what a favorite he was. She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not see how. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little town. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that would be stranger still--vast slopes of olives and vineyards, with chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olives and more farms, and more little towns outlined against the cloudless sky. "I don't call this country," she would say. "Why, it's not as wild as Sawston Park!" And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness in it--some of those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousand years. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and its continued presence made Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect. She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a time she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not "married properly," and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she called it, "Santa Deodata's." Gino approved; he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home. The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few left for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question; they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would "do," and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I'm older than you, and I'll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I've got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you'd better mend your manners," she continued, "for you'd find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, "None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?" She crossed herself. "Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta's arms. Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right. "Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be different. I know he wants a son." Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves our tears. She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as she had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that the semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left her cold. Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest of women could hardly have suffered more. As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquities like a feather. A favourite speech of his was, "Ah, one ought to marry! Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him. Not till marriage does one realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life." So saying, he would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly as a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her. One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer. It was September. Sawston would be just filling up after the summer holidays. People would be running in and out of each other's houses all along the road. There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs. Herriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the C.M.S. It seemed impossible that such a free, happy life could exist. She walked out on to the loggia. Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky. The walls of Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. But the house faced away from them. Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past the kitchen door. But the stairs up to the attic--the stairs no one ever used--opened out of the living-room, and by unlocking the door at the top one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for ten minutes walk in freedom and peace. The key was in the pocket of Gino's best suit--the English check--which he never wore. The stairs creaked and the key-hole screamed; but Perfetta was growing deaf. The walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they were in shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round the town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the rising moon. She looked anxiously at the house, and started. It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside the ramparts. The few people she met wished her a civil good-night, taking her, in her hatless condition, for a peasant. The walls trended round towards the moon; and presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough towers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the ramparts into cliffs of pearl. She had no great sense of beauty, but she was sentimental, and she began to cry; for here, where a great cypress interrupted the monotony of the girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was looking at the view and sketching. Round the corner was the Siena gate, from which the road to England started, and she could hear the rumble of the diligence which was going down to catch the night train to Empoli. The next moment it was upon her, for the highroad came towards her a little before it began its long zigzag down the hill. The driver slackened, and called to her to get in. He did not know who she was. He hoped she might be coming to the station. "Non vengo!" she cried. He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the corner. As the diligence came round she saw that it was empty. "Vengo..." Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry. The horses swung off. "Vengo! Vengo!" He had begun to sing, and heard nothing. She ran down the road screaming to him to stop--that she was coming; while the distance grew greater and the noise of the diligence increased. The man's back was black and square against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she would be saved. She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumbling over the great clods of earth, large and hard as rocks, which lay between the eternal olives. She was too late; for, just before she regained the road, the thing swept past her, thunderous, ploughing up choking clouds of moonlit dust. She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust in her mouth, and dust down her ears. There is something very terrible in dust at night-time. "What shall I do?" she moaned. "He will be so angry." And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking her garments as she went. Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Gino happened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing plates, while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently. At the sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming than he had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Lilia gained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from her good one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissolute upstart, and spoke in return. Perfetta screamed for she told him everything--all she knew and all she thought. He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out of him, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfully cornered. When had a husband so given himself away before? She finished; and he was dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity of his own position grew upon him, and he laughed--as he would have laughed at the same situation on the stage. "You laugh?" stammered Lilia. "Ah!" he cried, "who could help it? I, who thought you knew and saw nothing--I am tricked--I am conquered. I give in. Let us talk of it no more." He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and half penitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to himself, ran quietly out of the room. Perfetta burst into congratulations. "What courage you have!" she cried; "and what good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!" Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of all the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a little attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the struggle was national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or indifferent, forbad the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern woman, the northern woman to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton foresaw it from the first. Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea or some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of letters? Friends cannot travel through the post. Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. "Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. God bless your miserable mother." Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma's placid childhood would have been destroyed for ever. Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal condolences. It nearly drove her mad. "Gently! gently!" said her husband. They were sitting together on the loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite. "It's nothing." She went in and tore it up, and then began to write--a very short letter, whose gist was "Come and save me." It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino's, and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter. So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the darkened room. "My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved any one but you." She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering to make sarcastic repartees. Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, "I have prayed all night for a boy." Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, "You are a boy yourself, Gino." He answered, "Then we shall be brothers." He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and his face was wet with tears. As for Lilia, some one said to her, "It is a beautiful boy!" But she had died in giving birth to him. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Es dauert eine Weile, bis Lilia realisiert, dass sie ihren Ehemann nicht liebt und niemals glücklich mit ihm sein könnte, und dass er sie nur wegen ihres Geldes geheiratet hatte. Oh, auweia. Aber damals konnte man nicht für eine schnelle Scheidung nach Reno fliegen. Jetzt, da die Flitterwochen vorbei sind, geraten Lilia und Gino ständig aneinander. Und das Thema der meisten ihrer Streitigkeiten ist, dass Lilia alleine ausgeht. Gino verbietet ihr, das Haus alleine zu verlassen, aber Lilia argumentiert, dass sie in England alleine ausgegangen ist, wann immer es ihr gefiel. Während eines dieser hitzigen Streitgespräche zieht Lilia die Geldkarte und sagt, dass sie Gino nicht mehr unterstützen wird, wenn er aufhört, ihr herumzukommandieren. Aber Lilia wünschte sich sofort, dass sie ihre Worte zurücknehmen könnte - Ginos Persönlichkeit ändert sich plötzlich komplett. Seine Augen werden hart und ausdruckslos, und er fängt an, den Arm zu heben, als wollte er Lilia schlagen. Zufällig kommt die Magd Perfetta gerade in diesem Moment ins Zimmer und holt Gino in die Realität zurück. Aber von da an versucht Lilia nie wieder, Ginos Autorität herauszufordern. Verdammt, diese Ehe ist schrecklich. Selbst als sie herausfindet, dass Gino sie betrogen hat, hat sie zu viel Angst, es zu erwähnen, aus Furcht, seinen Zorn zu sehen. Lilia wird immer depressiver, als sie erkennt, dass sie niemanden hat, an den sie sich wenden kann. Die Herritons haben sie praktisch verstoßen; sie wird nie wieder in die englische Gesellschaft zurückkehren können. Lilia letzte Hoffnung, ihre Ehe zu retten, ist ein Kind zu bekommen, und sie weiß, dass Gino sich sehnlichst einen Sohn wünscht. Während ihr Leiden anhält, erreicht Lilia eines Abends ihren Tiefpunkt, als Gino nicht zu Hause ist. Sie kann es nicht mehr ertragen, zu Hause festzusitzen, und beschließt, einen Spaziergang zu machen. Während ihres Spaziergangs hört sie einen Postkutschenfahrer auf der Straße auf sie zukommen - der Fahrer nimmt Fahrgäste mit zum Bahnhof und fragt, ob Lilia mitfahren möchte. Zuerst lehnt sie ab, aber als die Postkutsche losfährt, fühlt sie plötzlich eine Woge der Panik. Überwältigt von ihrem Wunsch, ihrem elenden Leben zu entkommen, ruft Lilia den Fahrer an, um anzuhalten. Aber es ist zu spät... er ist außerhalb der Hörweite, und Lilia fällt vor Erschöpfung in Ohnmacht. Als sie aufwacht, liegt sie auf der Straße, bedeckt mit Staub. Es ist inzwischen lange nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit, und sie erkennt mit Schrecken, dass Gino wütend auf sie sein wird. Als sie nach Hause kommt, beginnt der Kampf mit Gino mit voller Wucht, er schreit sie an, so laut er kann. Aber dieses Mal schweigt Lilia nicht. Sie greift Gino an und lässt all ihre aufgestauten Gefühle heraus und lässt Gino völlig sprachlos zurück. Der Kampf endet in einem Patt, ohne dass eine Seite als Sieger hervorgeht. Die Tage vergehen ohne jede Veränderung. Einmal, als sich Lilia besonders verzweifelt fühlt, schreibt sie Irma einen Brief über ihr Unglück, aber der Brief wird von Mrs. Herriton abgefangen, und es kommt nichts dabei heraus. Lilia wird krank, und während der ganzen Herbstsaison bleibt sie im Bett. Eines Nachts bringt Lilia einen Jungen zur Welt, aber alles geht sehr schnell, und als Gino hereinkommt, um seinen Sohn kennenzulernen, erfährt er, dass Lilia bei der Geburt gestorben ist. Mist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: ACT III. SCENE I. The wood. TITANIA lying asleep Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING BOTTOM. Are we all met? QUINCE. Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke. BOTTOM. Peter Quince! QUINCE. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? BOTTOM. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT. By'r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not kill'd indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourself to bring in- God shield us!- a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to't. SNOUT. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same effect: 'Ladies,' or 'Fair ladies, I would wish you' or 'I would request you' or 'I would entreat you not to fear, not to tremble. My life for yours! If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are.' And there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things- that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. SNOUT. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. SNOUT. You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom? BOTTOM. Some man or other must present Wall; and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. QUINCE. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin; when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so every one according to his cue. Enter PUCK behind PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swagg'ring here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. BOTTOM. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet- QUINCE. 'Odious'- odorous! BOTTOM. -odours savours sweet; So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear. Exit PUCK. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here! Exit FLUTE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. FLUTE. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that would never tire, I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. QUINCE. 'Ninus' tomb,' man! Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all. Pyramus enter: your cue is past; it is 'never tire.' FLUTE. O- As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head BOTTOM. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help! Exeunt all but BOTTOM and PUCK PUCK. I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. Exit BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Re-enter SNOUT SNOUT. O Bottom, thou art chang'd! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? Exit SNOUT Re-enter QUINCE QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! Thou art translated. Exit BOTTOM. I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can; I will walk up and down here, and will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [Sings] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed? BOTTOM. [Sings] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay- for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. BOTTOM. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. TITANIA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. BOTTOM. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. TITANIA. Out of this wood do not desire to go; Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate; The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee; therefore, go with me. I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep; And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and MUSTARDSEED PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. Where shall we go? TITANIA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. Hail! BOTTOM. I cry your worships mercy, heartily; I beseech your worship's name. COBWEB. Cobweb. BOTTOM. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? MUSTARDSEED. Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devour'd many a gentleman of your house. I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a wat'ry eye; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower; Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. Exeunt Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

In der Eröffnung dieser Szene kehrt die Komik zurück zum Stück. Peter Quince und seine Truppe proben ihre Inszenierung von Pyramus und Thisbe. Bottom hat ernsthafte Bedenken bezüglich des Stücks: Pyramus bringt sich mit einem Schwert um und der Löwe ist erschreckend - beides Faktoren, die sicherlich die Frauen im Publikum in Angst versetzen werden. Die anderen Schauspieler sind sich einig und fragen sich, ob das Stück abgebrochen werden sollte, aber Bottom hat eine Lösung. Ein Prolog muss geschrieben werden, um zu erklären, dass Pyramus nur ein Schauspieler ist und der Schauspieler, der den Löwen spielt, während seiner Performance sein wahres Gesicht zeigen und dem Publikum seine wahre Identität verraten muss. Mit diesen Problemen erfolgreich gelöst, erwähnt Quince zwei weitere Schwierigkeiten für die bevorstehende Aufführung: Es wird Mondlicht und eine Wand benötigt. Nachdem sie einen Kalender zu Rate gezogen haben, stellen sie fest, dass der Mond in der Nacht der Aufführung scheinen wird, so dass sie einfach ein Fenster offen lassen können. Die Wand ist ein größeres Dilemma für diese albernen Männer. Schließlich entdeckt Bottom eine Lösung: Ein mit Gips bedeckter Schauspieler wird die Rolle der Wand spielen. Alle stimmen zu und die Probe beginnt. Puck belauscht die Aufführung und amüsiert sich darüber, wie diese Schauspieler ihre Texte vermasseln. Der eitle Bottom sitzt im Gebüsch und wartet auf seinen Einsatz, und Puck kann es nicht lassen, einen Streich mit ihm zu spielen: Er gibt Bottom einen Eselskopf. Als Bottom hereinkommt und seine Liebe zu Thisbe verkündet, flüchten die anderen erschreckten Schauspieler in den Wald. Unwissend von seiner Verwandlung, hat Bottom keine Ahnung, was sie erschreckt hat. Während er singend durch den Wald geht, erwacht Titania mit dem Liebessaft auf ihren Augen und verliebt sich sofort in den äußerlich hässlichen Bottom. Sie ernennt vier Feen - Erbsenblüte, Spinne, Staub und Senfkorn - um den Bedürfnissen ihres neuen Geliebten gerecht zu 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: Elizabeth verbrachte den größten Teil der Nacht im Zimmer ihrer Schwester und hatte am Morgen das Vergnügen, eine akzeptable Antwort auf die Anfragen von Mr. Bingley zu senden, die sie sehr früh von einer Haushälterin und einige Zeit später von den beiden eleganten Damen erhielt, die seine Schwestern bedienten. Trotz dieser Verbesserung bat sie jedoch darum, eine Notiz nach Longbourn zu schicken, in der sie ihre Mutter bat, Jane zu besuchen und sich selbst ein Urteil über ihre Situation zu bilden. Die Notiz wurde sofort verschickt und ihr Inhalt ebenso schnell erfüllt. Mrs. Bennet kam zusammen mit ihren beiden jüngsten Mädchen kurz nach dem Frühstück der Familie in Netherfield an. Hätte Mrs. Bennet Jane in offensichtlicher Gefahr vorgefunden, wäre sie sehr unglücklich gewesen, aber da sie zufrieden war, dass ihre Krankheit nicht besorgniserregend war, hatte sie keinen Wunsch, dass sie sich sofort erholt, da ihre Genesung sie wahrscheinlich von Netherfield entfernen würde. Sie wollte also nicht auf den Vorschlag ihrer Tochter eingehen, nach Hause gebracht zu werden, auch der Apotheker, der zur gleichen Zeit ankam, hielt es nicht für ratsam. Nachdem sie eine Weile mit Jane gesessen hatte, wurden die Mutter und die drei Töchter von Miss Bingleys Erscheinen und Einladung in das Frühstückszimmer begleitet. Bingley begrüßte sie mit der Hoffnung, dass Mrs. Bennet Miss Bennet nicht schlechter vorgefunden hatte als er erwartet hatte. "Tatsächlich habe ich das, Sir", lautete ihre Antwort. "Sie ist viel zu krank, um bewegt zu werden. Mr. Jones sagt, wir dürfen nicht daran denken, sie zu bewegen. Wir werden also noch etwas länger auf Ihre Freundlichkeit zurückgreifen müssen." "Bewegt!" rief Bingley. "Das darf nicht einmal in Erwägung gezogen werden. Meine Schwester wird sicherlich nicht von ihrer Entfernung hören wollen." "Sie können sich darauf verlassen, Madame", sagte Miss Bingley mit kühler Höflichkeit, "dass Miss Bennet während ihres Aufenthalts bei uns alle mögliche Aufmerksamkeit erhalten wird." Mrs. Bennet war überschwänglich in ihrer Dankbarkeit. "Ich bin sicher", fügte sie hinzu, "wenn wir nicht solch gute Freunde hätten, weiß ich nicht, was aus ihr geworden wäre, denn sie ist wirklich sehr krank und leidet sehr, obwohl sie die größte Geduld der Welt hat, was immer der Fall bei ihr ist, denn sie hat zweifellos das süßeste Temperament, dem ich je begegnet bin. Ich sage meinen anderen Mädchen oft, dass sie nichts "ihrem" Temperament gleicht. Sie haben hier ein schönes Zimmer, Mr. Bingley, und eine bezaubernde Aussicht auf diesen Kiesweg. Ich kenne keinen Ort auf dem Land, der Netherfield gleichkommt. Ich hoffe, Sie werden nicht daran denken, es in Eile zu verlassen, obwohl Sie nur einen kurzen Mietvertrag haben." "Alles, was ich tue, tue ich in Eile", antwortete er, "und deshalb würde ich wahrscheinlich in fünf Minuten Netherfield verlassen, wenn ich beschließen würde, es zu verlassen. Im Moment betrachte ich mich jedoch als vollkommen hier festgelegt." "Das ist genau das, was ich von Ihnen vermutet hätte", sagte Elizabeth. "Verstehen Sie mich jetzt?", rief er und wandte sich ihr zu. "Oh ja - ich verstehe Sie perfekt." "Ich wünschte, ich könnte dies als Kompliment nehmen, aber so leicht durchschaut zu werden, fürchte ich, ist erbärmlich." "Das kommt darauf an. Es bedeutet nicht zwangsläufig, dass ein tiefgründiger, komplizierter Charakter mehr oder weniger schätzenswert ist als jemand wie Sie." "Lizzy", rief ihre Mutter, "erinnere dich daran, wo du bist, und gerate nicht in die wilde Art und Weise, wie du es zu Hause tun darfst." "Ich wusste vorher nicht", fuhr Bingley fort, "dass Sie ein Studium des Charakters betreiben. Es muss ein unterhaltsames Studium sein." "Ja, aber komplizierte Charaktere sind am unterhaltsamsten. Sie haben zumindest diesen Vorteil." "Das Land", sagte Darcy, "kann im Allgemeinen nur wenige Themen für ein solches Studium liefern. In einer ländlichen Umgebung bewegt man sich in einer sehr begrenzten und stets gleichbleibenden Gesellschaft." "Aber die Menschen selbst ändern sich so sehr, dass es für immer etwas Neues an ihnen zu beobachten gibt." "Ja, in der Tat", rief Mrs. Bennet entrüstet über seine Art, von einer ländlichen Umgebung zu sprechen. "Ich versichere Ihnen, dass auf dem Land genauso viel "davon" geschieht wie in der Stadt." Alle waren überrascht, und Darcy, nachdem er sie einen Moment lang angesehen hatte, wandte sich schweigend ab. Mrs. Bennet, die glaubte, einen vollständigen Sieg über ihn errungen zu haben, setzte ihren Triumph fort. "Ich kann nicht sehen, dass London irgendeinen großen Vorteil gegenüber dem Land hat, abgesehen von den Geschäften und öffentlichen Plätzen. Das Land ist um einiges angenehmer, nicht wahr, Mr. Bingley?" "Wenn ich auf dem Land bin", antwortete er, "möchte ich es nie verlassen, und wenn ich in der Stadt bin, ist es so ziemlich dasselbe. Sie haben beide ihre Vorzüge, und ich kann in beiden gleichermaßen glücklich sein." "Aber das liegt daran, dass Sie die richtige Einstellung haben. Aber dieser Herr", sie sah Darcy an, "scheint zu denken, dass das Land überhaupt nichts ist." "Tatsächlich, Mama, Sie irren sich", sagte Elizabeth und errötete für ihre Mutter. "Sie haben Mr. Darcy völlig missverstanden. Er meinte nur, dass es auf dem Land nicht so viele verschiedene Menschen gibt wie in der Stadt, was Sie sicherlich zugeben müssen." "Gewiss, mein Liebes, niemand hat behauptet, dass es so wäre, aber was das Treffen vieler Menschen in dieser Nachbarschaft betrifft, glaube ich, dass es wenige Nachbarschaften gibt, die größer sind. Ich weiß, dass wir mit vierundzwanzig Familien zu Abend essen." Nur Elizabeths Besorgnis um Jane konnte Bingley dazu bringen, sein Gesichtsausdruck zu wahren. Seine Schwester war weniger subtil und warf Mr. Darcy mit einem sehr aussagekräftigen Lächeln einen Blick zu. Elizabeth fragte nun, um ihrer Mutter etwas zu sagen, ob Charlotte Lucas seit ihrer Abreise nach Longbourn gekommen sei. "Ja, sie kam gestern mit ihrem Vater. Ein angenehmer Mann, den Sir William da hat, Mr. Bingley, nicht wahr? So sehr ein Mann von Mode! So vornehm und so ungezwungen! Er hat immer etwas zu sagen zu jedem. Das ist meine Vorstellung von guter Erziehung; und diejenigen Menschen, die sich für sehr wichtig halten und nie den Mund aufmachen, verstehen die Sache völlig falsch." "Hat Charlotte bei Ihnen zu Abend gegessen?" "Nein, sie wollte nach Hause gehen. Ich vermute, sie wurde wegen der Kleinen Fleischpasteten gebraucht. Was mich betrifft, Mr. Bingley, habe ich immer Diener, die ihre Arbeit selbst erledigen können; meine Töchter werden anders erzogen. Aber jeder soll für sich selbst urteilen, und die Lucases sind eine sehr gute Sorte Mädchen, das versichere ich Ihnen. Es ist schade, dass sie nicht hübsch sind! Nicht dass ich Charlotte für sehr schlicht halte, aber sie ist unsere besondere Freundin." "Sie scheint eine sehr angenehme junge Frau zu sein", sagte Bingley. "Oh ja, absolut--aber Sie müssen zugeben, dass sie sehr schlicht ist. Lady Lucas selbst hat das oft gesagt und mir Janes Schönheit beneidet. Ich mag es nicht, mit meinem eigenen Kind anzugeben, aber um sicher zu gehen, Jane - man Lydia war ein kräftiges, gut gewachsenes Mädchen von fünfzehn Jahren mit einem schönen Teint und einem gutmütigen Gesichtsausdruck; eine Lieblingstochter ihrer Mutter, deren Zuneigung sie bereits in jungen Jahren ins Rampenlicht gebracht hatte. Sie hatte einen lebhaften Charakter und eine Art natürliche Selbstsicherheit, die durch die Aufmerksamkeiten der Offiziere, denen ihre Onkel's guten Dinner und ihr eigenes freundliches Wesen empfahlen, zu Überheblichkeit angewachsen war. Daher hatte sie keine Schwierigkeiten, das Thema des Balls gegenüber Mr. Bingley anzusprechen und erinnerte ihn abrupt an sein Versprechen, wobei sie hinzufügte, dass es eine schreckliche Sache wäre, wenn er es nicht einhalten würde. Seine Antwort auf diesen plötzlichen Angriff war Musik in den Ohren ihrer Mutter. "Ich versichere Ihnen, ich bin vollkommen bereit, mein Versprechen einzuhalten; und wenn Ihre Schwester wieder gesund ist, können Sie, wenn Sie möchten, den genauen Tag für den Ball festlegen. Aber Sie würden sicherlich nicht tanzen wollen, während sie krank ist." Lydia erklärte sich zufrieden. "Oh ja - es wäre viel besser zu warten, bis Jane gesund ist, und bis dahin wird höchstwahrscheinlich auch Captain Carter wieder in Meryton sein. Und wenn Sie schon Ihren Ball geben", fügte sie hinzu, "werde ich darauf bestehen, dass sie ebenfalls einen geben. Ich werde Colonel Forster sagen, dass es eine Schande wäre, wenn er es nicht tut." Frau Bennet und ihre Töchter verließen daraufhin den Raum und Elizabeth kehrte sofort zu Jane zurück, ließ das Verhalten sowohl von ihr selbst als auch von ihren Verwandten den Bemerkungen der beiden Damen und Mr. Darcy überlassen; letzterer konnte jedoch nicht überredet werden, sich ihrer Kritik an _ihr_ anzuschließen, trotz aller geistreichen Bemerkungen von Miss Bingley über _schöne Augen_. 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.

Mrs. Bingley und ihre beiden jüngsten Töchter kommen nach Netherfield, um Jane zu besuchen. Obwohl es ihr jetzt viel besser geht, wurde beschlossen, dass sie noch nicht bewegt werden sollte. Lydia erinnert Bingley daran, dass er gesagt hat, er würde einen Ball veranstalten, und er stimmt zu, einen zu haben, wenn Jane gesund ist. Mrs. Bennet und die anderen diskutieren das Leben in der Stadt im Vergleich zum Landleben, und später wird Mrs. Bennet von den Bingley-Schwestern verspottet. Darcy hingegen kann nicht dazu gebracht werden, sich über Elizabeth lustig zu machen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness! Heavens, how I should have respected myself, then. I should have respected myself because I should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could have believed myself. Question: What is he? Answer: A sluggard; how very pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself! It would mean that I was positively defined, it would mean that there was something to say about me. "Sluggard"--why, it is a calling and vocation, it is a career. Do not jest, it is so. I should then be a member of the best club by right, and should find my occupation in continually respecting myself. I knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a connoisseur of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil, but with a triumphant conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a simple one, but, for instance, one with sympathies for everything sublime and beautiful. How do you like that? I have long had visions of it. That "sublime and beautiful" weighs heavily on my mind at forty But that is at forty; then--oh, then it would have been different! I should have found for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking to the health of everything "sublime and beautiful." I should have snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to drain it to all that is "sublime and beautiful." I should then have turned everything into the sublime and the beautiful; in the nastiest, unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the sublime and the beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all that is "sublime and beautiful." An author has written AS YOU WILL: at once I drink to the health of "anyone you will" because I love all that is "sublime and beautiful." I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute anyone who would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so that everyone would have said, looking at me: "Here is an asset! Here is something real and solid!" And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age. 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.

Hier verliert sich der Untergrundmensch in Nebensächlichkeiten und erklärt, dass er sich selbst wirklich respektieren würde, wenn er ein Faulenzer wäre. Er sinniert darüber, wie sein Leben anders wäre, wenn er sich nur einen faulen Säufer nennen könnte, der sein Leben dem "Schönen und Erhabenen" widmete. Tatsächlich erwähnt und zitiert er die Worte "Schönheit und Erhabenheit" in diesem Kapitel so oft, dass sie schnell zu einem sardonischen Angriff auf die utopischen Ideale werden, die Dostojewski und sein UM so verachteten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Gegen Mittag am nächsten Tag, als der Dodger und Meister Bates ihre üblichen Beschäftigungen verfolgten, nutzte Herr Fagin die Gelegenheit, um Oliver eine lange Predigt über die schreiende Sünde der Undankbarkeit zu halten. Er zeigte deutlich, dass Oliver sich in außergewöhnlichem Maße schuldig gemacht hatte, indem er sich absichtlich von der Gesellschaft seiner besorgten Freunde fernhielt und noch schlimmer, indem er versuchte, nach so viel Mühe und Aufwand zu entkommen, die in seine Genesung investiert worden waren. Herr Fagin legte großen Wert darauf, dass er Oliver aufgenommen und ihn gepflegt hatte, als er ohne seine rechtzeitige Hilfe vor Hunger hätte sterben können. Er erzählte die traurige und bewegende Geschichte eines jungen Burschen, den er in seiner Philanthropie unter vergleichbaren Umständen unterstützt hatte, der sich jedoch als unwürdig seines Vertrauens erwies und den Wunsch bekundete, Kontakt mit der Polizei aufzunehmen. Leider wurde er eines Morgens am Old Bailey gehängt. Herr Fagin versuchte nicht, seinen Anteil an der Katastrophe zu verbergen, bedauerte aber mit Tränen in den Augen das eigensinnige und verräterische Verhalten der betreffenden jungen Person, das es notwendig gemacht hatte, dass er zum Opfer bestimmter Beweise für die Krone wurde, die, wenn sie auch nicht präzise wahr waren, für die Sicherheit von ihm (Herr Fagin) und einigen ausgewählten Freunden unverzichtbar waren. Herr Fagin schloss damit ab, ein eher unangenehmes Bild des Unbehagens beim Hängen zu zeichnen, und drückte mit großer Freundlichkeit und Höflichkeit seine Hoffnung aus, dass er Oliver Twist niemals dazu zwingen müsse, sich dieser unangenehmen Operation zu unterziehen. Kleiner Oliver bekam kalte Füße, als er den Worten des Juden lauschte und die düsteren Bedrohungen, die in ihnen verborgen waren, nur unvollständig verstand. Dass es selbst der Gerechtigkeit möglich war, den Unschuldigen mit den Schuldigen zu verwechseln, wenn sie zufällig zusammentrafen, wusste er bereits. Und als er sich an die allgemeine Natur der Auseinandersetzungen zwischen diesem Herrn und Herrn Sikes erinnerte, schien es ihm durchaus nicht unwahrscheinlich, dass gut vorbereitete Pläne zur Vernichtung von unbequemen oder zu viel verratenen Personen tatsächlich vom Juden entworfen und ausgeführt wurden. Als er schüchtern aufblickte und den durchdringenden Blick des Juden traf, spürte er, dass sein blasses Gesicht und seine zitternden Glieder von diesem wachsamen alten Herrn weder unbemerkt noch ungern gesehen wurden. Der Jude tätschelte Oliver grinsend den Kopf und sagte, dass sie sehr gute Freunde wären, wenn er ruhig bliebe und sich auf seine Arbeit konzentriere. Dann nahm er seinen Hut und bedeckte sich mit einem alten geflickten Mantel, ging hinaus und schloss die Zimmertür hinter sich ab. Und so blieb Oliver den ganzen Tag über und den größten Teil vieler folgender Tage allein, sah niemanden zwischen dem frühen Morgen und Mitternacht und blieb während dieser langen Stunden mit seinen Gedanken allein. Diese kehrten immer wieder zu seinen freundlichen Freunden und der Meinung, die sie längst von ihm gebildet haben mussten, zurück und waren wirklich traurig. Nach etwa einer Woche ließ der Jude die Zimmertür unverschlossen; Oliver war frei, im Haus herumzustreifen. Es war ein sehr schmutziger Ort. Die Zimmer oben hatten hohe Holzkamine und große Türen, mit vertäfelten Wänden und Stuckdecken, die zwar vor Vernachlässigung und Staub schwarz waren, aber auf verschiedene Arten verziert waren. All dies ließ Oliver darauf schließen, dass es vor langer Zeit, bevor der alte Jude geboren wurde, besseren Leuten gehört hatte und vielleicht ganz elegant und schön war. Trübselig und düster wie es jetzt aussah. Spinnen hatten ihre Netze in den Winkeln der Wände und Decken gebaut; manchmal, wenn Oliver leise in ein Zimmer trat, rannten die Mäuse über den Boden und rannten erschrocken in ihre Löcher zurück. Abgesehen davon gab es weder Sicht noch Geräusch von irgendetwas Lebendigem, und oft, wenn es dunkel wurde und er es satt hatte, von Raum zu Raum zu wandern, kauerte er in der Ecke des Flurs neben der Haus- und Straßentür, um so nah wie möglich bei lebenden Menschen zu sein. Er blieb dort und lauschte und zählte die Stunden, bis der Jude oder die Jungen zurückkehrten. In allen Zimmern waren die morschen Fensterläden fest geschlossen; die Halterungen, die sie hielten, waren fest in das Holz geschraubt; das einzige Licht, das Einlass fand, drang durch runde Löcher oben ein, wodurch die Zimmer düsterer wurden und mit seltsamen Schatten gefüllt waren. Es gab ein Dachfenster mit rostigen Gitterstäben, das keine Fensterläden hatte; und von dort aus starrte Oliver oft stundenlang mit melancholischem Gesicht hinaus; aber außer einem wirren und überfüllten Gewirr von Dächern, schwarzen Kaminen und Giebeln war nichts zu erkennen. Manchmal konnte man allerdings einen griesgrämigen Kopf sehen, der über die Brüstung einer entfernten Hauswand spähte, aber er wurde schnell wieder zurückgezogen; und da das Fenster von Olivers Aussichtspunkt aus zugenagelt und durch den Regen und den Rauch der Jahre getrübt war, konnte er die Formen der verschiedenen Gegenstände dahinter nur schwer erkennen, ohne einen Versuch zu unternehmen, selbst gesehen oder gehört zu werden - wozu er genauso wenig Chance hatte, als ob er in der Kugel der St. Paul's Kathedrale gelebt hätte. Eines Nachmittags entschloss sich der Dodger, da er an diesem Abend beschäftigt war, einige Besorgnis hinsichtlich der Verzierung seiner Person zu zeigen (gerechterweise war dies bei ihm keineswegs eine häufige Schwäche). Um dieses Ziel zu erreichen, befahl er Oliver gnädig, ihm sofort bei seiner Toilette behilflich zu sein. Oliver war nur zu froh, nützlich sein zu können; zu glücklich, einige Gesichter, wenn auch schlechte, anzusehen; zu sehr darauf bedacht, diejenigen um ihn herum zu besänftigen, wenn er es ehrlich tun konnte, um diesem Vorschlag irgendwelche Einwände entgegenzusetzen. Also drückte er sofort seine Bereitschaft aus und kniete auf dem Boden, während der Dodger auf dem Tisch saß und seinen Fuß in den Schoß nahm. Er widmete sich einem Prozess, den Mr. Dawkins als "Lackieren seiner Stiefelfälle" bezeichnete. In Klartext bedeutete dies, dass er seine Stiefel säuberte. Ob es das Gefühl von Freiheit und Unabhängigkeit war, das ein vernunftbegabtes Tier vermutlich verspürt, wenn es in einer bequemen Haltung auf einem Tisch sitzt, eine Pfeife raucht, das eine Bein leicht hin und her schwingt und seine Stiefel die ganze Zeit geputzt werden, ohne dass er sich über die Mühe gemacht hat, sie auszuziehen oder die kommende Misere, sie wieder anzuziehen, seine Gedanken zu stören. Oder ob es die Güte des Tabaks war, die die Gefühle des Dodgers besänftigte oder die Sanftheit des Bieres, die seine Gedanken milderte; er war offensichtlich für kurze Zeit mit einem Hauch von Romantik und Enthusiasmus infiziert, der "Er ist ein glühender Christ", sagte Charley. Dies war lediglich als Würdigung der Fähigkeiten des Tieres gedacht, aber es war in anderer Hinsicht ein treffender Kommentar, wenn Master Bates es nur gewusst hätte; denn es gibt viele Damen und Herren, die behaupten, glühende Christen zu sein, zwischen denen und Mr. Sikes' Hund starke und bemerkenswerte Ähnlichkeiten bestehen. "Nun, nun", sagte der Dodger und kehrte zu dem Punkt zurück, von dem sie abgeschweift waren, mit der Achtsamkeit seines Berufs, die all sein Handeln beeinflusste. "Das hat nichts mit dem jungen Green hier zu tun." "Stimmt", sagte Charley. "Warum schließt du dich nicht Fagin an, Oliver?" "Und machst dir dein Glück auf die schnelle?", fügte der Dodger mit einem Grinsen hinzu. "Und du kannst dich zur Ruhe setzen und deinen Besitz genießen und fein raus sein, so wie ich es vorhabe, im nächsten Schaltjahr, das jemals kommt, und am zweiundvierzigsten Dienstag in der Dreifaltigkeitswoche", sagte Charley Bates. "Mir gefällt es nicht", erwiderte Oliver ängstlich. "Ich wünschte, sie würden mich gehen lassen. Ich - ich - würde viel lieber gehen." "Fagin würde das auch LIEBER nicht tun!" entgegnete Charley. Das wusste Oliver nur zu gut, aber da er dachte, dass es gefährlich sein könnte, seine Gefühle offener auszudrücken, seufzte er nur und machte mit dem Putzen seiner Stiefel weiter. "Los!", rief der Dodger. "Warum fehlt dir der Mut? Holst du dir keine Anerkennung ? Würdest du hingehen und von deinen Freunden abhängig sein?" "Oh, das können wir vergessen!", sagte Master Bates, zog zwei oder drei Seidentücher aus seiner Tasche und warf sie in einen Schrank. "Das ist zu geizig, das ist es." "Ich könnte das nicht tun", sagte der Dodger mit einem Hauch von hochmütigem Ekel. "Aber du kannst deine Freunde verlassen", sagte Oliver mit einem halben Lächeln, "und sie für das bestraft werden lassen, was du getan hast." "Genau das", erwiderte der Dodger und winkte mit seiner Pfeife, "war alles aus Rücksicht auf Fagin, denn die Bullen wissen, dass wir zusammenarbeiten und er wäre in Schwierigkeiten geraten, wenn wir nicht unseren Glücksfall gehabt hätten; das war der Plan, oder nicht, Charley?" Master Bates nickte zustimmend und hätte etwas dazu gesagt, aber die Erinnerung an Olivers Flucht kam plötzlich auf ihn zu, sodass der Rauch, den er inhalierte, sich in einem Lachen verfing, in seinen Kopf hochstieg, in seinem Hals hinunterrann und einen fünfminütigen Hustenanfall und ein Herumstampfen verursachte. "Schau her!", sagte der Dodger, holte eine Handvoll Schillinge und Heller heraus. "Hier ist ein fröhliches Leben! Was spielt es für eine Rolle, woher es kommt? Hier, fang an; es gibt noch viele mehr, woher diese kamen. Willst du nicht, willst du nicht? Oh, du wertlose Flasche!" "Das ist böse, oder, Oliver?", fragte Charley Bates. "Er wird aufgehängt werden, oder?" "Ich weiß nicht, was das bedeutet", antwortete Oliver. "So in etwa, alter Kumpel", sagte Charley und hob dabei ein Ende seines Halstuchs hoch, hielt es in der Luft, legte seinen Kopf auf seine Schulter und stieß dabei merkwürdige Geräusche zwischen seinen Zähnen hervor, womit er pantomimisch darstellte, dass strangulieren und aufhängen dasselbe ist. "Das bedeutet es", sagte Charley. "Schau mal, wie er starrt, Jack! Ich habe wirklich noch nie so eine coole Gesellschaft wie diesen Jungen gesehen; er wird mich noch umbringen, das weiß ich." Meister Charley Bates kicherte wieder herzlich und nahm seine Pfeife mit Tränen in den Augen wieder auf. "Du bist schlecht erzogen worden", sagte der Dodger, als Oliver seine Stiefel poliert hatte und er sie zufrieden betrachtete. "Fagin wird etwas aus dir machen, oder du wirst der Erste sein, den er hatte, der sich als unrentabel erwiesen hat. Du solltest lieber sofort anfangen; denn du wirst das Handwerk viel früher beherrschen, als du denkst; und du vergeudest nur deine Zeit, Oliver." Master Bates unterstützte diesen Rat mit verschiedenen moralischen Ermahnungen seiner eigenen, die erschöpft waren. Zusammen mit seinem Freund Mr. Dawkins beschrieb er in leuchtenden Farben die zahlreichen Freuden, die mit dem Leben einhergehen, welches sie führen, und gab Oliver eine Vielzahl von Hinweisen, dass das Beste, was er tun könnte, darin bestünde, Fagins Gunst ohne weitere Verzögerung zu sichern, mit den Mitteln, die sie selbst angewendet hatten. "Und vergiss das nie, Nolly", sagte der Dodger, als der Jude gehört wurde, wie er die Tür oben aufschloss, "wenn du keine Taschenuhren und Ticker schnappst -" "Welchen Sinn hat es, so zu reden?", mischte sich Master Bates ein, "er weiß nicht, was du meinst." "Wenn du keine Taschentücher und Uhren schnappst", sagte der Dodger und senkte seine Konversation auf Oliviers Niveau, "wird es jemand anderes tun. Damit sind die Armleuchter, die sie verlieren, nur noch ärmer dran und du wirst genauso arm dran sein, und niemand wird sich um eine halbe Ha'pence besser fühlen, außer den Jungs, die sie bekommen - und du hast genauso viel Anrecht darauf wie sie." "Natürlich, natürlich!", sagte der Jude, der von Oliver unbemerkt eingetreten war, "Das ist alles in einer Nussschale, mein Lieber; in einer Nussschale, nimm das Wort des Dodger dafür. Ha! Ha! Ha! Er kennt das Einmaleins seines Handwerks." Der alte Mann rieb sich vergnügt die Hände, als er die Argumentation des Dodgers in diesen Worten bestätigte, und freute sich über die Fähigkeiten seines Schülers. Das Gespräch wurde zu diesem Zeitpunkt nicht weiter fortgesetzt, denn der Jude war zusammen mit Miss Betsy nach Hause zurückgekehrt und brachte einen Herrn mit, den Oliver noch nie zuvor gesehen hatte, aber der vom Dodger als Tom Chitling angesprochen wurde und der, nachdem er auf der Treppe stehen geblieben war, um ein paar Galanterien mit der Dame auszutauschen, nun erschien. Mr. Chitling war älter als der Dodger und hatte vielleicht achtzehn Winter gezählt, aber sein Benehmen gegenüber diesem jungen Herrn zeigte eine gewisse Unterwürfigkeit, die darauf hindeutete, dass er sich bewusst einer gewissen Unterlegenheit in Bezug auf Genialität und berufliche Fähigkeiten fühlte. Er hatte kleine, blitzende Augen und ein mit Pickeln übersätes Gesicht, trug eine Pelzmütze, eine dunkle Cord-Jacke, fettige Fustian-Hosen und eine Schürze. Seine Garderobe war wahrlich etwas in Reparaturbedarf, aber er entschuldigte sich bei der Gesellschaft damit, dass seine "Dienstzeit" erst eine Stunde zuvor abgelaufen war und dass er aufgrund des sechs Wochen langen Tragens der Uniformen in letzter Zeit keine Aufmerksamkeit auf seine Privatkleidung hatte richten können. Mr. Chitling fügte mit starken Anzeichen von Ärger hinzu, dass die neue Art, dort oben Kleidung zu fumigieren, höchst verfassungswidrig sei, weil sie Löcher darin verbrennt und es keine Abhilfe gegen das County gibt. Dasselbe gelte seiner Meinung nach für die ordnungsgemäße Haarschnittmethode, die er für eindeutig rechtswidrig hielt. Mr. Chitling schloss seine Beobachtungen damit ab, dass er in zweiundvierzig harten Arbeitstagen moralisch nichts getrunken habe und dass er "geplatzt sein wünschte, wenn er nicht durstiger als ein Kalkkorb wäre". "Woher glaubst du, dass der Herr kommt, Oliver?", fragte der Jude mit einem Grinsen, als die anderen Jungen eine Flasche Schn Nach einigen Worten zwischen dem letzten Ankömmling und Fagin rückten sie ihre Stühle zum Feuer und der Jude sagte Oliver, er solle zu ihm kommen und sich setzen. Er führte das Gespräch zu den Themen, die am meisten das Interesse der Zuhörer weckten. Diese waren die großen Vorteile des Handels, die Geschicklichkeit des Dodgers, die Freundlichkeit von Charley Bates und die Großzügigkeit des Juden selbst. Schließlich zeigten diese Themen Anzeichen davon, dass sie gründlich erschöpft waren, und auch Mr. Chitling war erschöpft, denn das Besserungsheim wird nach ein oder zwei Wochen anstrengend. Miss Betsy zog sich dementsprechend zurück und ließ die Gruppe in Ruhe. Von diesem Tag an wurde Oliver selten alleine gelassen, sondern stand fast ständig in Verbindung mit den beiden Jungen, die jeden Tag das alte Spiel mit dem Juden spielten: Ob zum eigenen Fortschritt oder zum Fortschritt von Oliver, wusste nur Mr. Fagin. Zu anderen Zeiten erzählte der alte Mann ihnen Geschichten von Raubüberfällen, die er in jungen Jahren begangen hatte: Vermischt mit so viel Komischem und Kuriosem, dass Oliver trotz all seiner besseren Gefühle herzlich lachen musste und zeigen musste, dass ihm unterhalten wurde. Kurz gesagt hatte der listige alte Jude den Jungen in seinen Klauen. Nachdem er seinen Geist durch Einsamkeit und Dunkelheit darauf vorbereitet hatte, jede Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft seiner eigenen traurigen Gedanken in einem so düsteren Ort vorzuziehen, träufelte er nun langsam das Gift in seine Seele, von dem er hoffte, dass es sie schwarz machen und für immer verändern würde. Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze verfassen?

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Am nächsten Tag rügte Fagin Oliver und sperrte ihn für ein paar weitere Tage in sein Zimmer ein. Nach Ablauf dieser Zeit durfte er sich alleine im Haus umherbewegen, wenn niemand den ganzen Tag unterwegs war und er nichts zu tun hatte außer nachzudenken. Eines Nachts bat Dodger Oliver, seine Schuhe für ihn zu putzen, und glücklich, Gesellschaft zu haben, stimmte er zu. Währenddessen hörte Oliver zu, wie sie versuchten, ihn davon zu überzeugen, von Fagin alles über Diebstahl zu lernen, weil es ein guter Beruf für ihn sei. Fagin hörte sie so sprechen und hielt seine eigene Rede an sie alle, einschließlich eines neuen Diebes, der gekommen war, Tom Chitling. Von diesem Tag an blieb Oliver nicht allein und war dankbar dafür. Stattdessen brachte Fagin ihm langsam die Wege des Diebstahls bei, indem er ihn trainierte, dass ihre schwarzgewandete Gesellschaft immer noch besser war als völlige Einsamkeit.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. searching through his mind for an appropriate way to start a conversation. Finally, he decided to simply state the truth. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the approaching man, "but is your name Mr. Hyde?" The man started, and looked somewhat apprehensive. "Yes," he replied cautiously. "Why do you ask?" "I have been trying to find you, Mr. Hyde," Utterson explained. "I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you." Mr. Hyde's face grew even more suspicious. "And who are you, sir?" he asked. "I am Mr. Utterson, a lawyer and a friend of Dr. Jekyll," Utterson replied. "I have some concerns regarding Dr. Jekyll's will, which states that in the event of his disappearance, you are to assume his assets and responsibilities." Mr. Hyde's eyes narrowed. "I have not seen Dr. Jekyll in quite some time," he said. "And as for his will, I am not aware of the details." Utterson studied Mr. Hyde carefully. There was something about him that made Utterson uneasy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "I would strongly advise you to come with me to my office," he said firmly. "There are matters that need to be clarified, and it is in your best interest to cooperate." Mr. Hyde hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Very well," he said. "Lead the way." aware of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the court. The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed, and the look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against the watcher's inclination. But he made straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home. Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. "Mr. Hyde, I think?" Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered coolly enough: "That is my name. What do you want?" "I see you are going in," returned the lawyer. "I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll's--Mr. Utter- 18) son of Gaunt Street--you must have heard my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me." "You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home," replied Mr. Hyde, blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up, "How did you know me?" he asked. "On your side," said Mr. Utterson, "will you do me a favour?" "With pleasure," replied the other. "What shall it be?" "Will you let me see your face?" asked the lawyer. Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. "Now I shall know you again," said Mr. Utterson. "It may be useful." "Yes," returned Mr. Hyde, "it is as well we have, met; and a propos, you should have my address." And he gave a number of a street in Soho. "Good God!" thought Mr. Utterson, "can he, too, have been thinking of the will?" But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address. "And now," said the other, "how did you know me?" "By description," was the reply. "Whose description?" 19) "We have common friends," said Mr. Utterson. "Common friends?" echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. "Who are they?" "Jekyll, for instance," said the lawyer. "He never told you," cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. "I did not think you would have lied." "Come," said Mr. Utterson, "that is not fitting language." The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house. The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing, and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him. "There must be some- 20) thing else," said the perplexed gentleman. "There is something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan's signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend." Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men: map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers, and the agents of obscure enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for the fan-light, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door. "Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?" asked the lawyer. "I will see, Mr. Utterson," said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall, paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. "Will you wait here by the 21) fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining room?" "Here, thank you," said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor's; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. But to-night there was a shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out. "I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting-room door, Poole," he said. "Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?" "Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir," replied the servant. "Mr. Hyde has a key." "Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole," resumed the other musingly. "Yes, sir, he do indeed," said Poole. "We have all orders to obey him." "I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?" asked Utterson. "O, dear no, sir. He never dines here," replied the butler. "Indeed we see very little of 22) him on this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes by the laboratory." "Well, good-night, Poole." "Good-night, Mr. Utterson." And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. "Poor Harry Jekyll," he thought, "my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, PEDE CLAUDO, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault." And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded a while on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many that he had come so near to doing, yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. "This Master Hyde, if he were studied," thought he, "must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll's worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature stealing like a 23) Ein Dieb am Bett von Harry; armer Harry, was für ein Erwachen! Und die Gefahr dabei; denn wenn dieser Hyde das Vorhandensein des Testaments ahnt, könnte er ungeduldig werden, es zu erben. Ja, ich muss mich anstrengen, wenn Jekyll mich nur lässt", fügte er hinzu, "wenn Jekyll mich nur lässt." Denn noch einmal sah er in seiner Vorstellung, so klar wie eine Durchsicht, die seltsamen Klauseln des Testaments. Könnten Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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An jenem Abend nach seinem Spaziergang mit Enfield kehrt Utterson nach Hause zurück und untersucht das Testament von Dr. Jekyll, an das er sich erinnert hatte, dass es seltsame Bestimmungen gab, die sich auf den von Enfield erwähnten Mr. Hyde bezogen. Das Testament besagt, dass im Falle des Todes oder Verschwindens von Henry Jekyll all sein Besitz an Edward Hyde gehen soll. Utterson fühlte sich unwohl, als Jekyll ursprünglich diese Bestimmung forderte, und ist nach der Kenntnis von Mr. Hydes abscheulichem Verhalten darüber noch mehr verärgert. Nachdem er die Auswirkungen des Testaments mit dem, was er über Edward Hyde gelernt hat, in Betracht gezogen hat, besucht Utterson Dr. Lanyon, einen anderen guten Freund von Dr. Jekyll. Als die Männer über Jekyll zu sprechen beginnen, entdeckt Utterson, dass Lanyon schon lange nicht mehr mit Jekyll gesprochen hat, wegen eines Streits über "unwissenschaftlichen Unsinn". Utterson erfährt auch, dass Lanyon noch nie von Hyde gehört hat. Nachdem er Lanyon verlassen hat, wird Utterson von schrecklichen Albträumen über den bösen Hyde heimgesucht, der in dem Traum gesichtslos ist. Er trampelt ein junges Mädchen nieder und steht dann am Bett von Jekyll und befiehlt ihm aufzustehen. Beim Erwachen kommt Utterson zu dem Schluss, dass er, wenn er nur das Gesicht von Hyde sehen könnte, vielleicht einen Grund für die Beziehung seines Freundes mit dem Mann verstehen würde. Von diesem Moment an beginnt Utterson, die Straßen um die geheimnisvolle Tür herum zu verfolgen, auf der Suche nach Mr. Hyde, der das Portal betreten oder verlassen könnte. Eines Nachts läuft er endlich Mr. Hyde über den Weg und stellt ihn zur Rede, als er gerade dabei ist, das Gebäude zu betreten. Utterson stellt sich als alter Freund von Dr. Jekyll vor. Hyde bittet dann um Uttersons Adresse und Utterson gibt ihm daraufhin eine Visitenkarte. Utterson bittet Hyde, ihm einen Gefallen zu tun - sein Gesicht zu sehen. Nachdem er dem Wunsch nachgekommen ist, fragt Hyde, wie Utterson von ihm wusste, und Utterson antwortet, dass er ihn anhand der Beschreibung erkannt hat und behauptet, dass sie gemeinsame Freunde wie Jekyll haben. Mr. Hyde antwortet wütend, dass er mit Sicherheit weiß, dass Jekyll Utterson nichts über ihn erzählt hat, und verschwindet prompt in dem Gebäude. Nach dieser Szene geht Utterson zu Dr. Jekyll, aber Poole, Jekylls Butler, berichtet, dass der Arzt nicht zuhause ist. Aus diesem Gespräch erfährt Utterson, dass Jekylls Haus, um die Ecke von der geheimnisvollen Tür, L-förmig ist und dass die geheimnisvolle Tür von Hyde tatsächlich ein Eingang zu Jekylls altem Sezierraum ist. Utterson erfährt auch, dass Hyde nie im Haus speist, aber häufig zu Besuch kommt. Nachdem er Jekylls Haus verlassen hat, geht Utterson nach Hause und entscheidet, dass Hyde Jekyll erpressen muss, vielleicht wegen einer schrecklichen Tat, die er früher in seinem Leben begangen 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: I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in her course to that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk--silver-white and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn; I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain. Good God! What a cry! The night--its silence--its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall. My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere it could repeat the effort. It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And overhead--yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling--I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a half-smothered voice shouted-- "Help! help! help!" three times rapidly. "Will no one come?" it cried; and then, while the staggering and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster:-- "Rochester! Rochester! for God's sake, come!" A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and there was silence. I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one looked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and "Oh! what is it?"--"Who is hurt?"--"What has happened?"--"Fetch a light!"--"Is it fire?"--"Are there robbers?"--"Where shall we run?" was demanded confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable. "Where the devil is Rochester?" cried Colonel Dent. "I cannot find him in his bed." "Here! here!" was shouted in return. "Be composed, all of you: I'm coming." And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram. "What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Speak! let us know the worst at once!" "But don't pull me down or strangle me," he replied: for the Misses Eshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail. "All's right!--all's right!" he cried. "It's a mere rehearsal of Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous." And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming himself by an effort, he added-- "A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She's an excitable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames" (to the dowagers), "you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill gallery any longer." And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it. Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that had been uttered, had probably been heard only by me; for they had proceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not a servant's dream which had thus struck horror through the house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry, struggle, and call. No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door. "Am I wanted?" I asked. "Are you up?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's. "Yes, sir." "And dressed?" "Yes." "Come out, then, quietly." I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light. "I want you," he said: "come this way: take your time, and make no noise." My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and stood at his side. "Have you a sponge in your room?" he asked in a whisper. "Yes, sir." "Have you any salts--volatile salts?" "Yes." "Go back and fetch both." I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me again. "You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?" "I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet." I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness. "Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit." I put my fingers into his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned the key and opened the door. I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a door apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me, "Wait a minute," and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin ha! ha! _She_ then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed the door behind him. "Here, Jane!" he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the exception of his coat; he was still; his head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face--the stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in blood. "Hold the candle," said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a basin of water from the washstand: "Hold that," said he. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast down. "Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr. Mason. "Pooh! No--a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man: bear up! I'll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you'll be able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane," he continued. "Sir?" "I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext--and--Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her: open your lips--agitate yourself--and I'll not answer for the consequences." Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear, either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as he had done. He watched me a second, then saying, "Remember!--No conversation," he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard. Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes--that was appalling--the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole bursting out upon me. I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly countenance--these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose--these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite--whose front, divided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ. According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John's long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and threatening a revelation of the arch-traitor--of Satan himself--in his subordinate's form. Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since Mr. Rochester's visit it seemed spellbound: all the night I heard but three sounds at three long intervals,--a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan. Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?--what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night? What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman's face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey? And this man I bent over--this commonplace, quiet stranger--how had he become involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him? What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below--what brought him here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why _did_ Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former: the few words which had passed between them assured me of this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester's dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason's arrival? Why had the mere name of this unresisting individual--whom his word now sufficed to control like a child--fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak? Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered: "Jane, I have got a blow--I have got a blow, Jane." I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester. "When will he come? When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered--as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to Mason's white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts: my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him. The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has seemed shorter. Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch. "Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all." "But is he fit to move, sir?" "No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work." Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling. "Now, my good fellow, how are you?" he asked. "She's done for me, I fear," was the faint reply. "Not a whit!--courage! This day fortnight you'll hardly be a pin the worse of it: you've lost a little blood; that's all. Carter, assure him there's no danger." "I can do that conscientiously," said Carter, who had now undone the bandages; "only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have bled so much--but how is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!" "She bit me," he murmured. "She worried me like a tigress, when Rochester got the knife from her." "You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at once," said Mr. Rochester. "But under such circumstances, what could one do?" returned Mason. "Oh, it was frightful!" he added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at first." "I warned you," was his friend's answer; "I said--be on your guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had me with you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone." "I thought I could have done some good." "You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but, however, you have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I'll say no more. Carter--hurry!--hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must have him off." "Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this other wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think." "She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart," said Mason. I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he only said-- "Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don't repeat it." "I wish I could forget it," was the answer. "You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and buried--or rather, you need not think of her at all." "Impossible to forget this night!" "It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There!--Carter has done with you or nearly so; I'll make you decent in a trice. Jane" (he turned to me for the first time since his re-entrance), "take this key: go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them here; and be nimble." I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them. "Now," said he, "go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don't leave the room: you may be wanted again." I retired as directed. "Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?" inquired Mr. Rochester presently. "No, sir; all was very still." "We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You can't travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room?--Jane, run down to Mr. Mason's room,--the one next mine,--and fetch a cloak you will see there." Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur. "Now, I've another errand for you," said my untiring master; "you must away to my room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!--a clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass you will find there,--quick!" I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels. "That's well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dose myself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan--a fellow you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water." He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle on the washstand. "That will do;--now wet the lip of the phial." I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason. "Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so." "But will it hurt me?--is it inflammatory?" "Drink! drink! drink!" Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now: he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm-- "Now I am sure you can get on your feet," he said--"try." The patient rose. "Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; step out--that's it!" "I do feel better," remarked Mr. Mason. "I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard--or just outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement--to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem." It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside. I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the servants' chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else was still. The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed. "Take care of him," said Mr. Rochester to the latter, "and keep him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?" "The fresh air revives me, Fairfax." "Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind--good-bye, Dick." "Fairfax--" "Well what is it?" "Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be: let her--" he stopped and burst into tears. "I do my best; and have done it, and will do it," was the answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away. "Yet would to God there was an end of all this!" added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates. This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call "Jane!" He had opened the portal and stood at it, waiting for me. "Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments," he said; "that house is a mere dungeon: don't you feel it so?" "It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir." "The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes," he answered; "and you see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now _here_" (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) "all is real, sweet, and pure." He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them. "Jane, will you have a flower?" He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to me. "Thank you, sir." "Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and light clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm--this placid and balmly atmosphere?" "I do, very much." "You have passed a strange night, Jane." "Yes, sir." "And it has made you look pale--were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?" "I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room." "But I had fastened the door--I had the key in my pocket: I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb--my pet lamb--so near a wolf's den, unguarded: you were safe." "Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?" "Oh yes! don't trouble your head about her--put the thing out of your thoughts." "Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays." "Never fear--I will take care of myself." "Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?" "I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and spue fire any day." "But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is evidently potent with him: he will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure you." "Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me--but, unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness." "Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him how to avert the danger." He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it from him. "If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him 'Do that,' and the thing has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming me, Richard;' for it is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you not?" "I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right." "Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and mien, your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me--working for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say, '_all that is right_:' for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale, and would say, 'No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong;' and would become immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once." "If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir, you are very safe." "God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down." The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood before him. "Sit," he said; "the bench is long enough for two. You don't hesitate to take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?" I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise. "Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew--while all the flowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the early bees do their first spell of work--I'll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in staying." "No, sir; I am content." "Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:--suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive that you there commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from what motives, but one whose consequences must follow you through life and taint all your existence. Mind, I don't say a _crime_; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is _error_. The results of what you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable; you take measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure--I mean in heartless, sensual pleasure--such as dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance--how or where no matter: you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back--higher wishes, purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being. To attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom--a mere conventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment approves?" He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain aspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate. Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query: "Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?" "Sir," I answered, "a wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation should never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die; philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and erred, let him look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal." "But the instrument--the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the instrument. I have myself--I tell it you without parable--been a worldly, dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in--" He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes--so long was the silence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me. "Little friend," said he, in quite a changed tone--while his face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic--"you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don't you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?" He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he came back he was humming a tune. "Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with your vigils: don't you curse me for disturbing your rest?" "Curse you? No, sir." "Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again?" "Whenever I can be useful, sir." "For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her." "Yes, sir." "She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?" "Yes, sir." "A strapper--a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there's Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket." As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully-- "Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I rose at four to see him off." Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Später am Abend liegt Jane im Bett und schaut auf das Mondscheinlicht, das durch ihr Fenster scheint. Plötzlich hört sie einen herzzerreißenden Hilfeschrei. Jane zieht sich hastig an, während Horror ihren Körper erschüttert. Alle Mitglieder der Gesellschaft haben sich im Flur versammelt und fragen sich, ob das Haus brennt oder ob Einbrecher eingedrungen sind. Rochester versichert ihnen, dass der Lärm einfach von einem Diener stammt, der einen schlechten Traum hatte, und schickt sie zurück in ihre Betten. Jane weiß, dass das eine Lüge ist, denn sie hat den seltsamen Schrei gehört, einen Kampf und dann einen Hilferuf. Bald darauf klopft Rochester an ihre Tür und fragt, ob sie ihm helfen kann, solange sie keine Angst vor Blut hat. Zusammen gehen sie zum geheimnisvollen dritten Stock des Hauses. Dort entdecken sie Richard Mason mit einem blutigen Arm. Rochester bittet Jane, das Blut aufzuwischen, während er den Arzt ruft, besteht aber darauf, dass Mason und Jane nicht miteinander sprechen; falls sie es tun, kann Rochester für "die Konsequenzen nicht garantieren". Jane starrt auf einen Schrank im Raum, der ein düsteres Design trägt: die zwölf christlichen Apostel mit einem sterbenden Jesus, der über ihnen an einem Kreuz hängt. Als der Morgen naht, kehrt Rochester endlich mit dem Arzt zurück. Während er Masons Wunden versorgt, sprechen die Männer in unklaren Andeutungen über die Frau, die Mason gebissen und gestochen hat. Rochester schickt Jane nach unten, um einen speziellen Likör zu finden, den er von einem italienischen Quacksalber gekauft hat. Er misst zwölf Tropfen der Flüssigkeit in ein Glas und lässt Mason das Gemisch trinken, wobei er behauptet, dass es ihm für eine Stunde oder so das "Herz" geben wird, das ihm fehlt. Nachdem Mason gegangen ist, gehen Jane und Rochester durch die Gärten. Rochester erzählt Jane die hypothetische Geschichte von einem verwöhnten wilden Jungen, der aus Kindertagen stammt und einen "kapitalen Fehler" begeht, während er sich in einem abgelegenen fremden Land aufhält. Eine Weile lebt er in Ausschweifungen und versucht dann, ein glückliches, reines Leben mit einem freundlichen Fremden wieder aufzunehmen, aber ein "bloß konventionelles Hindernis" steht ihm im Weg. Was würde Jane in einer solchen Situation tun, fragt Rochester? Janes Antwort ist, dass die Reformation eines Sünders niemals von einer anderen Person abhängen sollte; stattdessen sollte er Trost bei Gott suchen. Rochester fragt Jane dann ohne Parabel, ob die Heirat mit Blanche ihm Regeneration bringen würde? Er beschreibt Blanche als eine "strapping" Frau, groß und wohlgestaltet, wie die Frauen von Karthago, und eilt dann zu den Stallungen, um mit Dent und Lynn zu sprechen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Ich lasse alles aus, was in der Schule passiert ist, bis mein Geburtstag im März kam. Außer dass Steerforth bewundernswerter denn je war, erinnere ich mich an nichts. Er würde am Ende des Halbjahres, wenn nicht früher, gehen und in meinen Augen noch temperamentvoller und unabhängiger sein und daher noch anziehender sein als zuvor; aber darüber hinaus erinnere ich mich an nichts. Die große Erinnerung, die diese Zeit in meinem Gedächtnis markiert, scheint alle kleineren Erinnerungen verschlungen zu haben und allein zu existieren. Es fällt mir sogar schwer zu glauben, dass zwischen meiner Rückkehr nach Salem House und der Ankunft dieses Geburtstags ganze zwei Monate vergangen waren. Ich kann nur verstehen, dass es so war, weil ich weiß, dass es so sein musste; sonst würde ich glauben, dass es keine Pause gab und eine Gelegenheit auf die andere folgte. Wie gut ich mich an den Tag erinnere! Ich rieche den Nebel, der um den Ort hängt; ich sehe den Reif, geisterhaft, durch ihn hindurch; ich spüre, wie mein vereister Haar klamm auf meine Wange fällt; ich schaue auf die trübe Perspektive des Klassenzimmers, mit einer schwächelnden Kerze hier und da, um den nebligen Morgen zu erleuchten, und den Atem der Jungen, der sich in der kalten Kälte kräuselt und raucht, während sie auf ihre Finger pusten und mit ihren Füßen auf den Boden klopfen. Es war nach dem Frühstück, und wir wurden vom Spielplatz hereinbeordert, als Herr Sharp eintrat und sagte: "David Copperfield soll ins Wohnzimmer gehen." Ich erwartete einen Korb von Peggotty und freute mich über den Befehl. Einige Jungen um mich herum beanspruchten ebenfalls, nicht beim Verteilen der guten Dinge vergessen zu werden, als ich mit großer Bereitwilligkeit aufstand. "Eile dich nicht, David", sagte Mr. Sharp. "Es ist genug Zeit, mein Junge, habe keine Eile." Überrascht von dem Ton, in dem er sprach, wäre ich gewesen, wenn ich darüber nachgedacht hätte, aber ich dachte nicht darüber nach, bis später. Ich eilte ins Wohnzimmer; und dort fand ich Mr. Creakle, der mit dem Rohrstock und einer Zeitung vor sich frühstückte, und Mrs. Creakle mit einem geöffneten Brief in der Hand. Aber kein Korb. "David Copperfield", sagte Mrs. Creakle und führte mich zu einem Sofa und setzte sich neben mich. "Ich möchte sehr speziell mit dir sprechen. Ich habe etwas zu sagen, mein Kind." Herr Creakle, zu dem ich natürlich schaute, schüttelte den Kopf, ohne mich anzusehen, und unterdrückte einen Seufzer mit einem sehr großen Stück gebuttertem Toast. "Du bist zu jung, um zu wissen, wie sich die Welt jeden Tag verändert", sagte Mrs. Creakle, "und wie die Menschen darin vergehen. Aber wir müssen es alle lernen, David, einige von uns, wenn wir jung sind, einige, wenn wir alt sind, einige zu allen Zeiten unseres Lebens." Ich schaute sie ernsthaft an. "Als du am Ende der Ferien von zu Hause weggingst", sagte Mrs. Creakle nach einer Pause, "waren sie alle wohlauf?" Nach einer weiteren Pause: "War deine Mama gesund?" Ich zitterte, ohne genau zu wissen warum, und schaute sie immer noch ernst an, ohne zu antworten. "Weil", sagte sie, "es betrübt mich, dir sagen zu müssen, dass ich heute Morgen gehört habe, dass deine Mama sehr krank ist." Ein Nebel stieg zwischen Mrs. Creakle und mir auf und ihre Gestalt schien sich für einen Moment darin zu bewegen. Dann spürte ich, wie die brennenden Tränen über mein Gesicht liefen, und es war wieder ruhig. "Sie ist sehr gefährlich krank", fügte sie hinzu. Jetzt wusste ich alles. "Sie ist tot." Es war nicht nötig, es mir zu sagen. Ich hatte bereits einen verzweifelten Schrei ausgestoßen und fühlte mich wie eine Waise in der weiten Welt. Sie war sehr nett zu mir. Sie behielt mich den ganzen Tag dort und ließ mich manchmal alleine; und ich weinte, und machte mich müde zum Schlafen, und wachte auf und weinte wieder. Als ich nicht mehr weinen konnte, fing ich an nachzudenken; und dann war die Beklemmung auf meiner Brust am schwersten und mein Schmerz ein dumpfer Schmerz, für den es keine Erleichterung gab. Und doch waren meine Gedanken unproduktiv; nicht darauf bedacht, über das Unglück nachzudenken, das auf meinem Herzen lastete, sondern in der Nähe davon zu verweilen. Ich dachte daran, wie unser Haus verschlossen und still war. Ich dachte an das kleine Baby, das, wie Frau Creakle sagte, seit einiger Zeit dahinsiechte und von dem sie glaubten, dass es ebenfalls sterben würde. Ich dachte an das Grab meines Vaters auf dem Friedhof neben unserem Haus und an meine Mutter, die dort unter dem Baum lag, den ich so gut kannte. Als ich alleine gelassen wurde, stellte ich mich auf einen Stuhl und schaute in den Spiegel, um zu sehen, wie rot meine Augen waren und wie traurig mein Gesicht aussah. Nachdem einige Stunden vergangen waren, überlegte ich, wenn meine Tränen jetzt wirklich schwer zu fließen waren, wie es schien, was in Zusammenhang mit meinem Verlust es mich am meisten beeinflussen würde, wenn ich mich dem Zuhause näherte – denn ich ging nach Hause zur Beerdigung. Mir wurde bewusst, dass ich mich unter den anderen Jungen als würdevoll empfand und dass ich in meinem Leid wichtig war. Wenn jemals ein Kind von aufrichtiger Trauer getroffen wurde, dann war ich es. Aber ich erinnere mich daran, dass mir diese Bedeutung eine gewisse Befriedigung verschaffte, als ich an diesem Nachmittag über den Schulhof ging, während die Jungen in der Schule waren. Als ich sah, wie sie beim Aufsteigen in ihre Klassen aus den Fenstern zu mir schielten, fühlte ich mich herausragend und sah melancholischer aus und ging langsamer. Als die Schule vorbei war und sie herauskamen und mit mir sprachen, fand ich es eher gut, dass ich mich keinem von ihnen gegenüber stolz zeigte und sie alle genau so beachtete wie zuvor. Ich sollte am nächsten Abend nach Hause kommen; nicht mit der Post, sondern mit dem schweren Nachtbus, der Farmer genannt wurde und hauptsächlich von Landbewohnern genutzt wurde, die kurze Strecken auf der Straße zurücklegten. An diesem Abend hatten wir keine Geschichten erzählt und Traddles bestand darauf, mir sein Kopfkissen zu leihen. Ich weiß nicht, was er dachte, dass es mir bringen würde, denn ich hatte mein eigenes; aber es war alles, was er geben konnte, der arme Kerl, außer einem Blatt Briefpapier voller Skelette; und das gab er mir zum Abschied, als Beruhigung für meine Sorgen und als Beitrag zu meiner geistigen Ruhe. Am nächsten Nachmittag verließ ich Salem House. Ich dachte damals nicht, dass ich es verlassen würde, um nie zurückzukehren. Wir reisten die ganze Nacht über sehr langsam und kamen erst um neun oder zehn Uhr morgens in Yarmouth an. Ich suchte nach Mr. Barkis, aber er war nicht da; und anstatt seiner kam ein fetter, kurzatmiger, fröhlich aussehender alter Mann in Schwarz, mit rostigen kleinen Schleifen an den Knien seiner Beinkleider, schwarzen Strümpfen und einem breitkrempigen Hut, zum Coach-Fenster gepustet und sagte: "Master Copperfield?" "Ja, Sir." "Wollen Sie mitkommen, junger Herr, wenn es Ihnen beliebt", sagte er und öffnete die Tür. "Ich werde das Vergnügen haben, Sie nach Hause zu bringen." Ich legte meine Hand "Nun, ich weiß nicht, wie es ist, mein Lieber", antwortete er und überlegte. "Ich bin eher so." "Du bist so ein bequemer Mann, siehst du", sagte Minnie. "Du nimmst alles so leicht." "Es hat keinen Zweck, sie anders zu nehmen, mein Lieber", sagte Herr Omer. "Nein, wirklich nicht", erwiderte seine Tochter. "Wir sind hier alle ziemlich fröhlich, Gott sei Dank! Nicht wahr, Vater?" "Ich hoffe es, mein Lieber", sagte Herr Omer. "Da ich jetzt wieder zu Atem gekommen bin, denke ich, ich werde diesen jungen Schüler vermessen. Würden Sie in den Laden gehen, Master Copperfield?" Ich ging Herrn Omer voraus, wie er es wünschte, und nachdem er mir einen Ballen Stoff gezeigt hatte, den er als extra super bezeichnete und der für alles außer für Eltern zu guter Trauerkleidung war, nahm er meine verschiedenen Maße und notierte sie in einem Buch. Während er sie aufzeichnete, lenkte er meine Aufmerksamkeit auf seinen Warenbestand und auf bestimmte Modetrends, die gerade "in" waren, sowie auf bestimmte andere Modetrends, die gerade "out" waren. "Und durch solche Dinge verlieren wir oft ein kleines Vermögen", sagte Herr Omer. "Aber Modetrends sind wie Menschen. Sie kommen, niemand weiß wann, warum oder wie, und sie gehen, niemand weiß wann, warum oder wie. Alles ist wie das Leben, meiner Meinung nach, wenn man es aus dieser Perspektive betrachtet." Ich war zu betrübt, um die Frage zu diskutieren, die unter allen Umständen möglicherweise zu schwer für mich gewesen wäre, und Herr Omer brachte mich unter Schwierigkeiten zurück in das Wohnzimmer. Dann rief er eine kleine, steile Treppe hinter einer Tür hinunter: "Bring den Tee und das Butterbrot herauf!", was nach einiger Zeit auf einem Tablett erschien, während ich um mich saß und nachdachte und dem Sticken im Raum und der Melodie, die im Hof gehämmert wurde, lauschte. "Haben Sie mich schon lange gekannt?", fragte ich. "My dear, ich kenne dich schon lange", sagte Herr Omer. "Ich kann sagen, sogar bevor du geboren wurdest. Ich kannte deinen Vater schon vor dir. Er war einen Meter siebenundachtzig groß und er liegt in fünfundsiebzig Fuß Boden begraben." "RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat," über den Hof. "Er liegt fünfundsiebzig Fuß tief im Boden, wenn er in einem Bruchteil liegt", sagte Herr Omer freundlich. "Das war entweder sein Wunsch oder ihre Anweisung, ich erinnere mich nicht genau." "Wissen Sie, wie es meinem kleinen Bruder geht, Sir?", fragte ich. Herr Omer schüttelte den Kopf. "RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat." "Er liegt in den Armen seiner Mutter", sagte er. "Oh, der arme kleine Kerl! Ist er tot?" "Versuche nicht, mehr daran zu denken, als du musst", sagte Herr Omer. "Ja, das Baby ist tot." Meine Wunden brachen bei dieser Nachricht wieder auf. Ich verließ das kaum angerührte Frühstück und legte meinen Kopf auf einen anderen Tisch in einer Ecke des kleinen Raumes, den Minnie hastig aufräumte, aus Angst, dass ich die dort liegende Trauerkleidung mit meinen Tränen beflecken könnte. Sie war ein hübsches, gutmütiges Mädchen und strich mir sanft die Haare aus den Augen. Aber sie war sehr fröhlich, fast schon fröhlicher als ich! Schließlich hörte die Melodie auf und ein gut aussehender junger Mann kam über den Hof in den Raum. Er hatte einen Hammer in der Hand und seinen Mund voller kleiner Nägel, die er erst herausnehmen musste, bevor er sprechen konnte. "Nun, Joram!" sagte Herr Omer. "Wie läuft es?" "Alles in Ordnung", sagte Joram. "Fertig, Sir." Minnie wurde ein wenig rot und die anderen beiden Mädchen lächelten einander an. "Was? Du hast gestern Abend bei Kerzenlicht daran gearbeitet, als ich im Club war? Hast du das?" sagte Herr Omer und schloss ein Auge. "Ja", sagte Joram. "Wie Sie sagten, könnten wir eine kleine Reise daraus machen und gemeinsam hingehen, wenn es fertig ist, Minnie und ich - und Sie." "Oh! Ich dachte, du wolltest mich komplett außen vor lassen", sagte Herr Omer lachend, bis er hustete. "Da Sie so freundlich waren zu sagen", fuhr der junge Mann fort, "habe ich mich ordentlich angestrengt, verstehen Sie. Würden Sie mir Ihre Meinung dazu geben?" "Ja", sagte Herr Omer, erhob sich. "Mein Lieber." Er hielt inne und wandte sich mir zu. "Möchten Sie es sehen?" "Nein, Vater", mischte sich Minnie ein. "Ich dachte, es könnte angenehm sein, mein Lieber", sagte Herr Omer. "Aber vielleicht hast du recht." Ich kann nicht sagen, wie ich wusste, dass es der Sarg meiner lieben Mutter war, den sie ansehen gingen. Ich hatte nie einen gehört, der gemacht wurde; ich hatte nie einen gesehen, soweit ich wusste. Aber während es geschah, kam mir der Gedanke, was das Geräusch war; und als der junge Mann eintrat, wusste ich sicher, was er getan hatte. Nachdem die Arbeit nun beendet war, entfernten die beiden Mädchen, deren Namen ich nicht gehört hatte, die Fäden und Fusseln von ihren Kleidern und gingen in den Laden, um Ordnung zu machen und auf Kunden zu warten. Minnie blieb zurück, um das Gemachte zusammenzufalten und in zwei Körben zu verpacken. Das tat sie auf den Knien, dabei summte sie eine lebhafte kleine Melodie. Joram, von dem ich keinen Zweifel hatte, dass er ihr Liebhaber war, kam herein und stahl ihr einen Kuss, während sie beschäftigt war (es schien ihm nichts auszumachen, dass ich da war) und sagte, ihr Vater sei für den Kutschwagen gegangen und er müsse sich beeilen und sich fertig machen. Dann ging er wieder hinaus, und dann steckte sie ihren Fingerhut und die Schere in die Tasche, und steckte eine mit schwarzem Faden bestückte Nadel ordentlich in die Brust ihres Kleides und zog sich geschickt ihre Oberbekleidung an, vor einem kleinen Spiegel hinter der Tür, in dem ich die Reflexion ihres erfreuten Gesichts sah. All dies beobachtete ich, während ich am Tisch in der Ecke saß, meinen Kopf auf die Hand gestützt, und meine Gedanken waren bei ganz anderen Dingen. Der Kutschenwagen kam bald vor das Geschäft, und nachdem die Körbe als erstes verstaut waren, wurde ich als Nächstes hineingelegt, gefolgt von den drei anderen. Ich erinnere mich, dass es eine Art Halb-Kutschenwagen, halb-Klaviertransporter war, in einer düsteren Farbe gestrichen und von einem schwarzen Pferd mit langem Schweif gezogen. Es gab genügend Platz für uns alle. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich je ein so seltsames Gefühl in meinem Leben hatte (ich bin jetzt vielleicht weiser), als bei ihnen zu sein, mich daran zu erinnern, womit sie beschäftigt waren, und sie die Fahrt genießen zu sehen. Ich war nicht wütend auf sie; ich hatte eher Angst vor ihnen, als wäre ich unter Geschöpfen gestrandet, mit denen ich keinen gemeinsamen Nenner hatte. Sie waren sehr fröhlich. Der alte Mann saß vorne und fuhr, und die beiden jungen Leute saßen hinter ihm und lehnten sich immer dann vor, wenn er mit ihnen sprach, der eine auf die eine Seite seines pummeligen Gesichts und der andere auf die andere, und sie machten viel Aufhebens um ihn. Sie hätten auch mit mir gesprochen, aber ich hielt mich zurück und grübelte in meiner Ecke Herr Murdstone beachtete mich nicht, als ich in das Wohnzimmer ging, in dem er saß, sondern saß schweigend am Kamin und grübelte in seinem Armsessel. Miss Murdstone, die beschäftigt an ihrem Schreibtisch saß, der mit Briefen und Papieren bedeckt war, gab mir ihre kalten Fingernägel und fragte mich in einem eisernen Flüsterton, ob ich mich für meine Trauerkleidung habe vermessen lassen. Ich antwortete: "Ja." "Und deine Hemden", sagte Miss Murdstone, "hast du sie nach Hause gebracht?" "Ja, Ma'am. Ich habe alle meine Kleidung nach Hause gebracht." Das war der einzige Trost, den ihre Entschlossenheit mir spendete. Ich zweifle nicht daran, dass sie eine besondere Freude daran hatte, das zu zeigen, was sie ihre Selbstbeherrschung, ihre Entschlossenheit, ihre geistige Stärke, ihren gesunden Menschenverstand und das ganze diabolische Verzeichnis ihrer unsympathischen Eigenschaften nannte, bei einer solchen Gelegenheit. Sie war besonders stolz auf ihr Geschäftstalent; und sie zeigte es jetzt, indem sie alles in Tinte und Feder umwandelte und von nichts bewegt wurde. An diesem Tag und von morgens bis abends danach saß sie an diesem Schreibtisch, kratzte ruhig mit einer harten Feder und flüsterte dabei jedermann gegenüber in demselben unerschütterlichen Flüsterton; sie entspannte nie einen Muskel ihres Gesichts, machte nie einen Ton ihrer Stimme weicher und zeigte nie eine Unordnung in ihrer Kleidung. Ihr Bruder nahm manchmal ein Buch zur Hand, las es aber meiner Ansicht nach nie. Er öffnete es und sah es an, als würde er lesen, blieb dann jedoch eine ganze Stunde lang ohne umzublättern und legte es anschließend weg und ging im Zimmer auf und ab. Ich saß mit verschränkten Händen da und beobachtete ihn, stundenlang seine Schritte zählend. Er sprach sehr selten mit ihr und nie mit mir. Er schien das einzige ruhelose Ding zu sein, außer den Uhren, im ganzen bewegungslosen Haus. In diesen Tagen vor der Beerdigung sah ich Peggotty kaum, außer dass ich sie auf und ab die Treppe gehen sah und sie jedes Nacht zu mir kam und an meinem Bett saß, während ich einschlief. Einen Tag oder zwei vor der Beerdigung - ich glaube, es war einen oder zwei Tage vorher, aber ich bin mir bewusst, dass ich in meiner Erinnerung an diese schwere Zeit verwirrt bin, ohne etwas zu haben, was ihren Fortschritt markiert - führte sie mich in das Zimmer. Ich kann mich nur daran erinnern, dass unter einer weißen Decke auf dem Bett, von einer wunderschönen Sauberkeit und Frische umgeben, für mich die feierliche Stille verkörpert schien, die im Haus herrschte; und als sie behutsam die Decke zurückziehen wollte, rief ich: "Oh nein! Oh nein!" und hielt ihre Hand fest. Wenn die Beerdigung gestern gewesen wäre, könnte ich mich nicht besser daran erinnern. Die Atmosphäre des besten Zimmers, als ich durch die Tür trat, der hell leuchtende Zustand des Feuers, das Schimmern des Weins in den Karaffen, die Muster der Gläser und Teller, der schwache süße Geruch des Kuchens, der Geruch von Miss Murdstones Kleid und unsere schwarzen Kleider. Herr Chillip ist im Zimmer und kommt auf mich zu. "Und wie geht es Meister David?" sagt er freundlich. Ich kann es ihm nicht genau sagen. Ich gebe ihm meine Hand, die er festhält. "Ach du liebe Zeit!" sagt Herr Chillip, demütig lächelnd, mit etwas Glänzendem in seinen Augen. "Unsere kleinen Freunde wachsen um uns herum. Sie wachsen uns über den Kopf, nicht wahr, Ma'am?" Das sagt er zu Miss Murdstone, die nicht antwortet. "Hier gibt es eine große Verbesserung, Ma'am", sagt Herr Chillip. Miss Murdstone antwortet nur mit einer finsteren Miene und einer förmlichen Verneigung; Herr Chillip, verlegen, geht in eine Ecke, behält mich bei sich und sagt kein Wort mehr. Ich merke das, weil ich alles bemerke, was passiert, nicht weil es mich interessiert oder seit meiner Rückkehr interessiert hat. Und nun beginnt die Glocke zu läuten, und Herr Omer und ein anderer kommen, um uns bereit zu machen. Wie mir Peggotty früher sagte, wurden die Begleiter meines Vaters zum selben Grab in demselben Raum bereitgemacht. Da sind Herr Murdstone, unser Nachbar Herr Grayper, Herr Chillip und ich. Als wir zur Tür hinausgehen, sind die Träger und ihre Last im Garten; und sie bewegen sich vor uns den Weg hinunter, an den Ulmen vorbei, durch das Tor und in den Friedhof, wo ich schon so oft vögel singen hörte an einem sommerlichen Morgen. Wir stehen um das Grab herum. Der Tag scheint mir anders zu sein als jeder andere Tag, und das Licht nicht von derselben Farbe - von einer traurigeren Farbe. Jetzt herrscht eine feierliche Stille, die wir aus dem Haus mitgebracht haben, mit dem, was in der Erde ruht; und während wir mit unbedeckten Köpfen stehen, höre ich die Stimme des Pfarrers, die fern in der freien Luft klingt und doch deutlich und klar sagt: "Ich bin die Auferstehung und das Leben, spricht der Herr!" Dann höre ich Schluchzen; und während ich unter den Zuschauern stehe, sehe ich den guten und treuen Diener, den ich von allen Menschen auf Erden am meisten liebe und von dem mein kindliches Herz sicher ist, dass der Herr eines Tages zu ihm sagen wird: "Gut gemacht." Es gibt viele Gesichter in der kleinen Menge, die ich kenne; Gesichter, die ich in der Kirche kannte, als mein Geist dort immer gewundert hat; Gesichter, die meine Mutter zum ersten Mal gesehen haben, als sie in ihrer jugendlichen Blüte ins Dorf kam. Sie sind mir egal - nichts ist mir wichtig außer meinem Kummer - und doch sehe und erkenne ich sie alle; und selbst im Hintergrund, weit entfernt, sehe ich Minnie zuschauen, und ihr Blick fällt auf ihren Geliebten, der neben mir ist. Es ist vorbei, und die Erde ist aufgefüllt, und wir wenden uns zum Gehen. Vor uns steht unser Haus, so hübsch und unverändert, so mit meiner Erinnerung an die junge Idee von dem, was vergangen ist, verbunden, dass all mein Kummer nichts im Vergleich zu dem Kummer ist, den es hervorruft. Aber sie nehmen mich mit, und Herr Chillip spricht mit mir; und als wir nach Hause kommen, hält er mir etwas Wasser an die Lippen; und als ich um Erlaubnis bitte, in mein Zimmer zu gehen, entlässt er mich mit der Sanftheit einer Frau. All das, sage ich, ist das Ereignis von gestern. Ereignisse aus neuerer Zeit sind von mir ans Ufer geschwemmt worden, wo alle vergessenen Dinge wieder auftauchen werden, aber dies steht wie ein hoher Felsen im Ozean. Ich wusste, dass Peggotty zu mir in mein Zimmer kommen würde. Die Sabbatstille der Zeit (der Tag war so ähnlich wie ein Sonntag! Das habe ich vergessen) passt gut zu uns beiden. Sie setzte sich neben mich auf mein kleines Bett und hielt meine Hand, legte sie manchmal an ihre Lippen und strich sie manchmal mit ihrer eigenen Hand glatt, als würde sie meinen kleinen Bruder trösten, und erzählte mir auf ihre Weise alles, was sie über das, was passiert war, zu erzählen hatte. "Sie war lange Zeit nicht gesund", sagte Peggotty. "Sie war verwirrt und nicht glücklich. Als ihr Kind geboren wurde, dachte ich anfangs, sie würde es besser "Ich habe sie danach nie mehr verlassen", sagt Peggotty. "Sie hat oft mit ihnen unten gesprochen - denn sie liebte sie; sie konnte es nicht ertragen, niemanden zu lieben, der in ihrer Nähe war - aber wenn sie von ihrem Bett weg sind, wandte sie sich immer mir zu, als ob es Ruhe dort geben würde, wo Peggotty war, und schlief niemals auf andere Weise ein. "In der letzten Nacht, am Abend, hat sie mich geküsst und gesagt: "Wenn auch mein Baby sterben sollte, Peggotty, bitte lass sie ihn mir in den Armen legen und uns zusammen begraben." (Es wurde gemacht; denn das arme Lamm lebte nur einen Tag länger als sie.) "Lass meinen liebsten Jungen uns zu unserem Ruheplatz begleiten", sagte sie, "und sag ihm, dass seine Mutter, als sie hier lag, ihn nicht nur einmal, sondern tausendmal gesegnet hat." Es folgte eine weitere Stille und erneutes sanftes Klopfen auf meiner Hand. "Es war ziemlich spät in der Nacht", sagte Peggotty, "als sie mich um etwas zu trinken bat; und als sie es genommen hatte, gab sie mir so ein geduldiges Lächeln, das Liebes! - so schön! "Der Tagesanbruch war gekommen und die Sonne ging auf, als sie zu mir sagte, wie freundlich und rücksichtsvoll Mr. Copperfield immer zu ihr gewesen war und wie er mit ihr ausgehalten hatte und ihr gesagt hatte, als sie selbst an sich zweifelte, dass ein liebevolles Herz besser und stärker wäre als Weisheit und dass er ein glücklicher Mann in ihrem sei. "Peggotty, mein Liebes", sagte sie dann, "lege mich näher zu dir", denn sie war sehr schwach. "Lege deinen guten Arm unter meinen Nacken", sagte sie, "und drehe mich zu dir, denn dein Gesicht entfernt sich weit und ich möchte, dass es nah ist." Ich tat es, wie sie es bat; und oh Davy! Der Zeitpunkt war gekommen, als meine ersten Abschiedsworte an dich wahr waren - als sie froh war, ihren armen Kopf auf den dummen, alten Arm von Peggotty zu legen - und sie starb wie ein Kind, das eingeschlafen war!" So endete Peggottys Erzählung. Ab dem Moment, als ich vom Tod meiner Mutter erfuhr, verschwand die Vorstellung von ihr, wie sie in letzter Zeit gewesen war, von mir. Ich erinnerte mich ab diesem Augenblick nur noch an die junge Mutter meiner frühesten Eindrücke, die gewohnt war, ihre glänzenden Locken um ihren Finger zu wickeln und mit mir in der Dämmerung im Salon zu tanzen. Was Peggotty mir jetzt erzählt hatte, brachte mich so weit davon entfernt, in die spätere Zeit zurückzukehren, dass es das frühere Bild in meinem Kopf festigte. Es mag seltsam sein, aber es ist wahr. Mit ihrem Tod flog sie zurück in ihre ruhige unbeschwerte Jugend und löschte alles andere aus. Die Mutter, die im Grab lag, war die Mutter meiner Kindheit; das kleine Wesen in ihren Armen war ich selbst, wie ich einst war, für immer auf ihrem Schoß zum Schweigen gebracht. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Ich habe einen unvergesslichen Geburtstag In der Mitte des nächsten Schulabschnitts stirbt Davids Mutter. Die Schule schickt David nach Hause und Herr Omer, ein Bestattungsunternehmer und Allround-Dienstleister, holt ihn am Bus ab. Herr Omer bringt David in seinen Laden, wo er Herrn Omers Tochter Minnie und ihren Liebsten, Herrn Joram, kennenlernt. Herr Joram baut den Sarg von Davids Mutter hinter dem Laden und David sitzt den ganzen Tag da und hört dem Geräusch des Hammers zu. Herr Omer erzählt David, dass Davids kleiner Bruder wenige Tage nach seiner Mutter gestorben ist. Die Familie Omer ist recht fröhlich, aber David sitzt mit gesenktem Kopf im Laden. Als David zu Hause ankommt, begrüßt ihn Peggotty und tröstet ihn. Miss Murdstone fragt ihn nur, ob er sich an seine Kleidung erinnert hat. Im Rückblick gibt David zu, dass er sich nicht an die genaue Reihenfolge aller Ereignisse um diese Zeit erinnern kann, beschreibt aber, wie er mit den wenigen Menschen, die an der Beerdigung seiner Mutter teilnehmen, zur Beerdigung geht. Danach kommt Peggotty zu ihm und erzählt ihm von den letzten Momenten seiner Mutter. Sie sagt, dass seine Mutter mit dem Kopf auf Peggottys Arm + gestorben ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER. IV. OF SLAVERY. Sect. 22. THE natural liberty of man is to be free from any superior power on earth, and not to be under the will or legislative authority of man, but to have only the law of nature for his rule. The liberty of man, in society, is to be under no other legislative power, but that established, by consent, in the commonwealth; nor under the dominion of any will, or restraint of any law, but what that legislative shall enact, according to the trust put in it. Freedom then is not what Sir Robert Filmer tells us, Observations, A. 55. a liberty for every one to do what he lists, to live as he pleases, and not to be tied by any laws: but freedom of men under government is, to have a standing rule to live by, common to every one of that society, and made by the legislative power erected in it; a liberty to follow my own will in all things, where the rule prescribes not; and not to be subject to the inconstant, uncertain, unknown, arbitrary will of another man: as freedom of nature is, to be under no other restraint but the law of nature. Sect. 23. This freedom from absolute, arbitrary power, is so necessary to, and closely joined with a man's preservation, that he cannot part with it, but by what forfeits his preservation and life together: for a man, not having the power of his own life, cannot, by compact, or his own consent, enslave himself to any one, nor put himself under the absolute, arbitrary power of another, to take away his life, when he pleases. No body can give more power than he has himself; and he that cannot take away his own life, cannot give another power over it. Indeed, having by his fault forfeited his own life, by some act that deserves death; he, to whom he has forfeited it, may (when he has him in his power) delay to take it, and make use of him to his own service, and he does him no injury by it: for, whenever he finds the hardship of his slavery outweigh the value of his life, it is in his power, by resisting the will of his master, to draw on himself the death he desires. Sect. 24. This is the perfect condition of slavery, which is nothing else, but the state of war continued, between a lawful conqueror and a captive: for, if once compact enter between them, and make an agreement for a limited power on the one side, and obedience on the other, the state of war and slavery ceases, as long as the compact endures: for, as has been said, no man can, by agreement, pass over to another that which he hath not in himself, a power over his own life. I confess, we find among the Jews, as well as other nations, that men did sell themselves; but, it is plain, this was only to drudgery, not to slavery: for, it is evident, the person sold was not under an absolute, arbitrary, despotical power: for the master could not have power to kill him, at any time, whom, at a certain time, he was obliged to let go free out of his service; and the master of such a servant was so far from having an arbitrary power over his life, that he could not, at pleasure, so much as maim him, but the loss of an eye, or tooth, set him free, Exod. xxi. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Locke urteilt, dass der natürliche Zustand des Menschen darin besteht, frei von der Herrschaft anderer Menschen und ihrer Gesetze zu sein. Wenn ein Mensch der Macht des Gesetzes unterworfen ist, sollte es nur mit seiner eigenen Zustimmung geschehen. Wenn er sich dazu entscheidet, regiert zu werden, können die Gesetze nicht über das hinausgehen, was das Vertrauen in die Regierung rechtfertigt. Locke bestreitet die Definition von Freiheit durch Filmer, wonach alle Menschen tun können, was sie wollen und keinen Gesetzen unterliegen. Unter einer Regierung wird Freiheit tatsächlich durch ein gemeinsames Gesetz definiert, dem alle Menschen unterliegen; die Menschen behalten ihre Autonomie und Willensfreiheit, solange sie das akzeptierte Gesetz nicht verletzen, und die Autorität sollte nicht willkürlich, sprunghaft oder ungenau handeln. Wenn ein Mensch nicht frei von absoluter und willkürlicher Macht sein kann, ist sein eigenes Leben bedroht. Wenn er keine Kontrolle über sein Leben hat, kann er keinen Vertrag eingehen, sich niemandem versklaven oder sich allgemein unter die absolute Kontrolle von irgendjemandem stellen. Ein Mensch kann keine größere Macht geben, als er selbst hat; das gilt auch für sein eigenes Leben, das er keinem anderen Menschen geben kann. Wenn er ein Verbrechen begangen hat, das den Tod verdient, gehört sein Leben nun demjenigen, dem er durch sein Verbrechen Unrecht getan hat. Dieser Mann kann das Leben des Verbrechers verzögern und ihn solange unter seine Dienste stellen, solange er ihm nicht schadet. Wenn der Verbrecher feststellt, dass seine Versklavung anstrengender ist als das Leben selbst, kann er seinen Vertrag brechen und Selbstmord begehen. Sklaverei ist nicht mehr als ein Zustand des Krieges zwischen einem Eroberer mit absoluter Macht und dem Besiegten. Der Eroberer und der Besiegte können sich darauf einigen, einen Vertrag zu schließen, bei dem der Eroberer einer begrenzten Herrschaft zustimmt und der Besiegte Gehorsam verspricht; in diesem Fall sind Krieg und Sklaverei vorbei. Locke bemerkt, dass die alten Juden sich verkauft haben, aber nicht als reine Sklaven unter absoluter Herrschaft; der Herr durfte den Sklaven nicht töten oder sogar verletzen, und er war frei, jederzeit zu gehen. Dies unterscheidet sich vom Kriegszustand, den Locke zuvor beschrieben hat.

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

Eine Enttäuschung Charles Darnay wird beschuldigt, zwischen Frankreich und England hin und her zu pendeln, um Spionage zu betreiben. John Barsad, der sein Freund war, ist der Hauptzeuge gegen ihn. Darnay soll angeblich vor fünf Jahren während des Ausbruchs der amerikanischen Revolution in verräterische Aktivitäten verwickelt gewesen sein. Mr. Lorry wird aufgefordert, als Zeuge gegen Charles Darnay auszusagen, und er identifiziert Darnay als den Mann, der mitten in der Nacht in Calais an Bord kam auf dem Weg von Frankreich nach England. Miss Manette wird gerufen und obwohl sie ihn identifiziert, bedauert sie zutiefst, dass ihre Aussage ihm Schaden zufügen könnte. Lucie bezeugt, dass der Gefangene ihr anvertraut hat, dass er unter einem falschen Namen auf einer heiklen Mission reist. Dr. Manette bezeugt auch, dass er den Mann erkennt. Der Fall gerät jedoch in Aufruhr und wird fruchtlos, als sich ein Mr. Carton zu erkennen gibt. Carton sieht Darnay so ähnlich, dass eine eindeutige Identifizierung des Angeklagten unmöglich wird. Darnays Verteidiger, Mr. Stryver, zeigt, dass Barsad selbst ein Verräter war. Die Jury berät lange. Lucie fällt in Ohnmacht und wird aus dem Gerichtsgebäude gebracht. Mr. Lorry sagt Jerry, er solle bleiben, um das Urteil Tellson's zu überbringen. Jerry erhält einen Zettel, auf dem steht, dass Darnay freigesprochen 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: Eine Rettung und eine Katastrophe Freund Rawdon fuhr dann zum Herrenhaus von Mr. Moss in der Cursitor Street und wurde ordnungsgemäß in diesen trostlosen Ort der Gastfreundschaft eingeführt. Als der rappelnde Wagen die Echos aufweckte, brach der Morgen über den fröhlichen Dächern der Chancery Lane an. Ein kleiner pinkäugiger jüdischer Junge mit einem Kopf so rötlich wie der aufgehende Morgen ließ die Gruppe ins Haus und Rawdon wurde von Mr. Moss, seinem Reisebegleiter und Gastgeber, herzlich in den Erdgeschossräumen begrüßt. Moss fragte ihn fröhlich, ob er nach der Fahrt gerne ein Glas von etwas Warmem hätte. Der Colonel war nicht so niedergeschlagen wie manch andere Menschen, die einen Palast und eine placens uxor verlassen und sich in einem Schuldgefängnis wiederfinden. Denn, um die Wahrheit zu sagen, hatte er schon einmal oder zweimal in Mr. Moss' Einrichtung gewohnt. Wir haben es nicht für nötig gehalten, in dem Verlauf dieser Erzählung diese banalen kleinen häuslichen Vorfälle zu erwähnen, aber der Leser kann versichert sein, dass sie im Leben eines Mannes, der von nichts lebt, nicht selten vorkommen. Bei seinem ersten Besuch bei Mr. Moss war der Colonel noch Junggeselle und wurde durch die Großzügigkeit seiner Tante befreit. Beim zweiten Missgeschick hatte die kleine Becky mit großem Geist und Freundlichkeit eine Summe Geld von Lord Southdown geliehen und ihren Ehemanns Gläubiger (der ihr Schal-, Samtkleid-, Spitzen-Taschentuch-, Schmuck- und Firlefanzlieferant war) dazu überredet, einen Teil des geforderten Geldes sowie Rawdons Wechsel für den Restbetrag anzunehmen. Auf beiden Seiten also wurden die Gefangennahme und die Freilassung mit größtem Mut durchgeführt, und Moss und der Colonel waren daher in bester Verfassung. "Sie werden Ihr altes Bett wiederfinden, Colonel, und alles komfortabel", sagte dieser Herr, "ich kann das ehrlich sagen. Gewiss wurde es belegt und zwar von den besten Gesellschaften. Vorgestern Nacht schlief darin der ehrenwerte Captain Famish von den Fiftieth Dragoons, dessen Frau ihn nach zwei Wochen rauswarf, um ihn zu bestrafen, wie sie sagte. Aber, Gott schütze Sie, ich verspreche Ihnen, hier hat er stattdessen meinen Champagner bestraft und jeden Abend eine Party gegeben - richtige feine Kerle, von den Clubs und dem West End, wie Captain Ragg, der ehrenwerte Deuceace, der im Temple lebt, und einige Kerle, die sich mit einem guten Glas Wein auskennen, darauf können Sie sich verlassen. Ich habe einen Doktor der Theologie oben, fünf Herren im Café und Mrs. Moss hat um halb sechs Uhr 'ne heiße Mahlzeit für Eilige, danach Karten spielen oder Musik, wenn wir Sie willkommen heißen dürfen." "Ich rufe, wenn ich etwas möchte", sagte Rawdon und ging ruhig in sein Schlafzimmer. Er war ein alter Soldat, wie wir gesagt haben, und ließ sich nicht von kleinen Schicksalsschlägen beeinflussen. Ein schwächerer Mann hätte sofort einen Brief an seine Frau geschickt, nachdem er gefangen genommen wurde. "Aber was nützt es, ihren Nachtschlaf zu stören?", dachte Rawdon. "Sie wird nicht wissen, ob ich in meinem Zimmer bin oder nicht. Es ist noch früh genug, ihr zu schreiben, wenn sie ausgeschlafen hat und auch ich. Es sind nur hundertsiebzig und es würde mich überraschen, wenn wir das nicht zusammenbringen können." Und so, in Gedanken an den kleinen Rawdon (der ja nicht wissen sollte, dass er sich in solch einem seltsamen Ort befand), legte sich der Colonel ins Bett, das kurz zuvor von Captain Famish belegt wurde, und schlief ein. Er wachte erst um zehn Uhr auf, und der rothaarige Junge brachte ihm mit stolzem Bewusstsein einen feinen silbernen Rasierkoffer, mit dem er sich rasieren könnte. Tatsächlich war Mr. Moss' Haus, wenn auch etwas schmutzig, durchweg prächtig. Auf dem Beistelltisch standen schmutzige Schalen und Sektkühler, riesige schmutzige goldene Deckenleisten mit schäbigen gelben Satinvorhängen vor den vergitterten Fenstern, die auf die Cursitor Street hinausblickten – riesige schmutzige goldene Bilderrahmen umgaben Bilder, die sich mit Sport und heiligen Themen befassten, alle Werke der bedeutendsten Meister und wurden auch zu den höchsten Preisen gehandelt, während sie im Laufe der Transaktionen wiederholt verkauft und gekauft wurden. Das Frühstück des Colonels wurde ihm mit demselben schmutzigen und prächtigen Besteck serviert. Miss Moss, ein dunkeläugiges Mädchen mit Wicklern im Haar, brachte ihm die Teekanne und fragte lächelnd, wie er geschlafen habe. Sie legte ihm die Morning Post hin, in der die Namen all der bedeutenden Leute standen, die am Abend zuvor an Lord Steynes Veranstaltung teilgenommen hatten. Es enthielt einen brillanten Bericht über die Feierlichkeiten und über die schöne und hochgebildete Mrs. Rawdon Crawley und ihre hervorragenden Darstellungen. Nach einem lebhaften Gespräch mit dieser Dame (die in gemütlicher Haltung am Rand des Frühstückstisches saß und den Drapierungen ihrer Strümpfe und einem abgetragenen weißen Satinschuh, bei dem die Ferse herunterhängt, zeigte), bat Colonel Crawley um Feder und Tinte und Papier und wählte eine Seite aus, die ihm zwischen Miss Moss' eigenen Finger und Daumen gereicht wurde, als man ihn fragte, wie viele Blätter er brauche. Viele Blätter hatte das dunkeläugige Mädchen gebracht und viele arme Kerle hatten hastig geschriebene und verwischte Bitten darin geschrieben und waren in diesem furchterregenden Raum auf und ab gegangen, bis ihr Bote die Antwort zurückbrachte. Arme Männer benutzen immer Boten anstelle der Post. Wer hat nicht schon einmal ihre Briefe, mit feuchten Siegellacken versehen, und der Ankündigung, dass eine Person im Flur auf sie wartet, erhalten? Was seine Anfrage betrifft, hatte Rawdon keine großen Bedenken. LIEBE BECKY, (schrieb Rawdon) ICH HOFFE, DU HAST GUT GESCHLAFEN. Hab keine Angst, wenn ich dir deinen Kaffee nicht bringe. Gestern Abend, als ich rauchend nach Hause kam, bin ich in einen Unfall verwickelt worden. Ich wurde von Moss aus der Cursitor Street erwischt - aus dessen prunkvollen Parlor ich diese Zeilen schreibe - es ist dasselbe Zimmer, in dem er mich vor zwei Jahren hatte. Miss Moss brachte mir meinen Tee - sie ist sehr fett geworden und, wie üblich, hatte sie ihre Strümpfe herunterhängen. Es geht um Nathans Geschäfte - hundertfünfzig, mit Kosten, hundertsiebzig. Bitte schick mir meinen Schreibtisch und einige Klamotten - ich trage Pumps und eine weiße Fliege (ähnlich wie Miss Moss' Strümpfe) - da habe ich siebzig drin. Und sobald du das hier bekommst, fahre zu Nathan - biete ihm fünfundsiebzig direkt an und BITTE IHN UM EINE VERLÄNGERUNG - sag ihm, ich nehme Wein - wir können ja gleich eine Flasche Scherry zum Abendessen haben; aber keine BILDER, die sind zu teuer. Wenn er es nicht schluckt, nimm meine Taschenuhr und so viele deiner Sachen, die du entbehren kannst, und schicke sie an Balls - wir müssen natürlich die Summe heute Abend haben. Es geht nicht, es auf morgen zu verschieben, da die Betten hier nicht besonders SAUBER sind und es auch andere Dinge gegen mich gibt - ich bin froh, dass es nicht Rawdons Samstag ist, um nach Hause zu kommen. Gott segne dich. Eiligst, R. C. P.S. Beeil dich und komm. Dieser Brief, mit einem Wachssiegel versehen, wurde von einem der Boten, die ständig in Mr. Moss' Einrichtung herumlungern, verschickt, und Rawdon, nachdem er ihn hat losziehen sehen, ging in den Hof und rauchte seine Zigarre mit einem ziemlich ruhigen Gem Aber der Tag verging und kein Bote kehrte zurück - keine Becky. Mr. Moss's tably-dy-hoty wurde zur vereinbarten Zeit um halb sechs serviert, wenn diejenigen Herren, die in dem Haus wohnten und sich das Festmahl leisten konnten, kamen und daran teilnahmen, in dem prächtigen vorderen Salon, der zuvor beschrieben wurde, und mit dem Mr. Crawleys vorübergehende Unterkunft in Verbindung stand, als Miss M. (Miss Hem, wie ihr Papa sie nannte) ohne die Lockenwickler des Morgens erschien und Mrs. Hem die Ehre tat, ein prächtiges gekochtes Hammelbein mit Kohlrüben zu servieren, von dem der Colonel mit sehr schwachem Appetit aß. Auf die Frage, ob er "eine Flasche Champagner" für die Gesellschaft "bestellen" würde, stimmte er zu, und die Damen tranken auf sein Wohlergehen, und Mr. Moss schaute ihn auf höflichste Weise an. Mitten in diesem Mahl wurde jedoch die Türklingel gehört - der junge Moss mit dem roten Haar stand auf, nahm die Schlüssel und antwortete dem Ruf, und als er zurückkam, erzählte er dem Colonel, dass der Bote mit einer Tasche, einem Schreibtisch und einem Brief zurückgekehrt war, den er ihm gab. "Kein Theater, Colonel, bitte", sagte Mrs. Moss mit einer Handbewegung, und er öffnete den Brief recht nervös. Es war ein wunderschöner Brief, stark duftend, auf rosa Papier und mit einem hellgrünen Siegel. MEIN ARMES LIEBES KLEINES, (schrieb Mrs. Crawley) Ich konnte KEIN AUGE schließen vor Gedanken an meinen abscheulichen alten Ungeheuer, und ich konnte erst ruhen, nachdem ich Mr. Blench herbeigerufen hatte (denn ich hatte Fieber), der mir eine beruhigende Tinktur gab und Finette die Anweisung gab, mich AUF KEINEN FALL zu stören. So blieb mein armer alter Mannesbote, der, wie ich von Finette gehört habe, ein sehr schlechtes Aussehen hatte und nach Wacholder roch, einige Stunden im Flur und wartete auf mein Klingeln. Du kannst dir vorstellen, wie es mir ergangen ist, als ich deinen armen, lieben, schlecht geschriebenen Brief las. So krank wie ich auch war, rief ich sofort nach der Kutsche und fuhr mit allem Tempo zu Nathan. Ich sah ihn - ich weinte - ich schrie - ich fiel vor seinen abscheulichen Knien nieder. Nichts konnte den schrecklichen Mann besänftigen. Er wollte all das Geld haben, sagte er, oder meinen armen Mann weiterhin im Gefängnis behalten. Ich fuhr nach Hause mit der Absicht, diesen traurigen Besuch bei meinem Onkel zu bezahlen (wenn auch jeder Schmuck, den ich habe, zu deiner Verfügung stehen sollte, auch wenn er keine hundert Pfund erbringen würde, denn einige, wie du weißt, sind schon bei meinem lieben Onkel), und fand Lord dort mit diesem bulgarischen alten Hammergesicht-Monster vor, das gekommen war, um mich zu meinen gestrigen Darbietungen zu beglückwünschen. Paddington kam auch herein, schlurfend und lispelnd und an seinen Haaren zupfend; das tat auch Champignac, und sein Chef - jeder mit vielen Komplimenten und süßen Reden - plagten mich, die ich sie gerne loswerden wollte, und dachte die ganze Zeit über an meinen armen Gefangenen. Als sie gegangen waren, fiel ich auf die Knie vor Lord, erzählte ihm, dass wir alles verpfänden wollten, und bat und flehte ihn an, mir zweihundert Pfund zu geben. Er schnaubte vor Wut und sagte mir, ich solle nicht so dumm sein, etwas zu verpfänden - und versprach, zu sehen, ob er mir das Geld leihen könne. Schließlich ging er weg und versprach, es mir am nächsten Morgen zu schicken: dann werde ich es meinem armen alten Ungeheuer mit einem Kuss von seiner ergebenen BECKY Ich schreibe im Bett. Oh, ich habe solche Kopfschmerzen und solche Herzschmerzen! Als Rawdon diesen Brief las, wurde er so rot und sah so wild aus, dass die Gesellschaft bei der Tischgesellschaft leicht erkennen konnte, dass er schlechte Nachrichten erhalten hatte. All seine Verdächtigungen, die er zu verdrängen versucht hatte, kamen auf ihn zurück. Sie konnte nicht einmal hinausgehen und ihren Schmuck verkaufen, um ihn zu befreien. Sie konnte lachen und über Komplimente reden, die ihr gemacht wurden, während er im Gefängnis war. Wer hatte ihn dort hingebracht? Wenham war mit ihm gegangen. Gab es... Er konnte kaum ertragen, woran er dachte. Hastig verließ er den Raum, rannte in sein eigenes Zimmer, öffnete seinen Schreibtisch, schrieb zwei hastige Zeilen, die er an Sir Pitt oder Lady Crawley adressierte und befahl dem Boten, sie sofort nach Gaunt Street zu bringen, ihn mit einem Taxi zu nehmen und versprach ihm einen Guinee, wenn er in einer Stunde zurück wäre. In dem Schreiben bat er seinen lieben Bruder und seine Schwester, um Gottes willen, um seines geliebten Kindes willen und seiner Ehre willen, zu ihm zu kommen und ihn aus seiner Schwierigkeit zu befreien. Er war im Gefängnis, er brauchte hundert Pfund, um sich freizukaufen - er flehte sie an, zu ihm zu kommen. Nachdem er seinen Boten abgeschickt hatte, ging er zurück ins Esszimmer und forderte mehr Wein. Er lachte und sprach mit einer seltsamen Ausgelassenheit, wie die Leute dachten. Manchmal lachte er wahnsinnig über seine eigenen Ängste und trank eine Stunde lang weiter, immer lauschend auf den Wagen, der sein Schicksal zurückbringen sollte. Nach Ablauf dieser Zeit waren Räder zu hören, die zum Tor rasten - der junge Pförtner ging mit seinen Tor-Schlüsseln hinaus. Eine Dame ließ er durch die Tür des Gerichtsvollziehers herein. "Colonel Crawley", sagte sie zitternd. Mit einem wissenden Blick schloss er die äußere Tür hinter ihr ab, öffnete dann die innere Tür und rief: "Colonel, man wünscht Sie", und führte sie in den hinteren Salon, den er bewohnte. Rawdon kam aus dem Speisesaal, in dem all diese Leute feierten, in sein hinteres Zimmer; ein Lichtschein folgte ihm in den Raum, in dem die Dame noch sehr nervös stand. "Es bin ich, Rawdon", sagte sie mit einer zaghaften Stimme, die sie zuversichtlich klingen lassen wollte. "Es ist Jane." Rawdon wurde von dieser freundlichen Stimme und Gegenwart völlig überwältigt. Er lief zu ihr, umarmte sie, rang nach Worten des Dankes und schluchzte buchstäblich an ihrer Schulter. Sie wusste nicht, was den Grund für seine Emotionen ausmachte. Die Rechnungen von Mr. Moss wurden schnell beglichen, vielleicht zur Enttäuschung dieses Herrn, der darauf gezählt hatte, den Colonel zumindest bis Sonntag als Gast zu haben; und Jane, mit strahlenden Lächeln und Glück in den Augen, nahm Rawdon mit sich aus dem Haus des Gerichtsvollziehers und sie fuhren im Taxi nach Hause, in dem sie zu seiner Befreiung geeilt war. "Pitt war zu einem parlamentarischen Abendessen gegangen", sagte sie, "als Rawdons Brief kam, und deshalb, lieber Rawdon, bin ich selbst gekommen"; und sie legte ihre freundliche Hand in seine. Es war vielleicht gut für Rawdon Crawley, dass Pitt bei diesem Abendessen nicht dabei war. Rawdon bedankte sich hundertmal bei seiner Schwester, mit einer Dankbarkeit, die diese warmherzige Frau berührte und fast alarmierte. "Oh", sagte er auf seine unhöfliche, natürliche Art, "du - du weißt nicht, wie sehr ich mich verändert habe, seit ich dich und - und den kleinen Rawdy kenne. Ich - ich möchte mich irgendwie verändern. Du sieh Rawdon öffnete die Tür und ging hinein. Auf einem kleinen Tisch war ein Abendessen angerichtet - mit Wein und Besteck. Steyne lehnte sich über das Sofa, auf dem Becky saß. Die arme Frau trug eine strahlende Abendrobe, ihre Arme und Finger waren mit Armbändern und Ringen übersät, und sie hatte die Brillanten auf ihrer Brust, die Steyne ihr geschenkt hatte. Er hatte ihre Hand in seiner und beugte sich gerade darüber, um sie zu küssen, als Becky beim Anblick von Rawdons blasser Gesichtsausdruck aufschrie. Im nächsten Moment versuchte sie ein Lächeln, ein schreckliches Lächeln, als würde sie ihren Mann willkommen heißen, und Steyne erhob sich, die Zähne zusammengebissen, blass und wütend. Auch er versuchte zu lachen und kam auf ihn zu, und streckte die Hand aus. "Was, du bist zurück! Wie geht's, Crawley?" sagte er, während sich die Nerven in seinem Mund zusammenzogen, als er versuchte, dem Eindringling zuzulächeln. Rawdons Gesichtsausdruck veranlasste Becky, sich vor ihm niederzuwerfen. "Ich bin unschuldig, Rawdon", sagte sie, "beim Gott, ich bin unschuldig." Sie hielt sich an seinem Mantel, an seinen Händen fest; ihre eigenen waren voller Schlangen, Ringe und Kinkerlitzchen. "Ich bin unschuldig. Sag, dass ich unschuldig bin", sagte sie zu Lord Steyne. Er dachte, dass eine Falle für ihn aufgestellt worden war und war genauso wütend auf die Ehefrau wie auf den Ehemann. "Du unschuldig! Verdammung nochmal!", schrie er. "Du unschuldig! Jeder Schmuck, den du trägst, habe ich für dich bezahlt. Ich habe dir Tausende von Pfund gegeben, die dieser Kerl ausgegeben hat und für die er dich verkauft hat. Unschuldig, zum Teufel! Du bist genauso unschuldig wie deine Mutter, das Ballettmädchen, und dein Ehemann, der Rüpel. Denk nicht, dass du mich erschrecken kannst, wie du es bei anderen getan hast. Mache Platz, Sir, und lass mich durch", und Lord Steyne nahm seinen Hut auf und marschierte mit flammenden Augen auf ihn zu und sah seinem Feind ohne auch nur einen Moment zu zweifeln entgegen, dass dieser Platz machen würde. Aber Rawdon Crawley sprang auf, griff ihn am Halstuch und drückte zu, bis Steyne, beinahe erstickt, sich unter seinem Arm wand und sich bückte. "Du lügst, du Hund!", sagte Rawdon. "Du lügst, du Feigling und Schurke!" Und er schlug den Adligen zweimal ins Gesicht und schleuderte ihn blutend zu Boden. Es war alles geschehen, bevor Rebecca eingreifen konnte. Sie stand zitternd vor ihm. Sie bewunderte ihren Mann, stark, tapfer und siegreich. "Komm her", sagte er. Sie kam sofort. "Nimm diese Sachen ab." Sie begann zu zittern, zog die Schmuckstücke von ihren Armen und die Ringe von ihren zitternden Fingern und hielt sie in einem Haufen, zitternd und zu ihm aufblickend. "Wirf sie weg", sagte er, und sie ließ sie fallen. Er riss ihr den Diamantschmuck von der Brust und schleuderte ihn auf Lord Steyne. Er schnitt ihm über die kahle Stirn. Steyne trug die Narbe bis zu seinem Tod. "Komm mit nach oben", sagte Rawdon zu seiner Frau. "Töte mich nicht, Rawdon", sagte sie. Er lachte wild. "Ich möchte sehen, ob dieser Mann über das Geld lügt, so wie er über mich gelogen hat. Hat er dir welches gegeben?" "Nein", sagte Rebecca, "das ist-" "Gib mir deine Schlüssel", antwortete Rawdon, und sie verließen zusammen das Zimmer. Rebecca gab ihm alle Schlüssel bis auf einen, und sie hoffte, dass er das Fehlen davon nicht bemerken würde. Dieser gehörte zu dem kleinen Schreibtisch, den ihr Amelia früher gegeben hatte und den sie an einem geheimen Ort aufbewahrte. Aber Rawdon öffnete Schachteln und Kleiderschränke und warf den kramhaften Inhalt hier und da hin. Schließlich fand er den Schreibtisch. Die Frau wurde gezwungen, ihn zu öffnen. Darin befanden sich Papiere, Liebesbriefe, die vor vielen Jahren geschrieben worden waren, sowie allerlei kleine Schmuckstücke und Notizzettel einer Frau. Und es befand sich ein Notizbuch mit Banknoten darin. Einige davon waren vor zehn Jahren datiert, und eine war ganz neu - eine Notiz über tausend Pfund, die Lord Steyne ihr gegeben hatte. "Hat er dir das gegeben?", fragte Rawdon. "Ja", antwortete Rebecca. "Ich werde es ihm heute schicken", sagte Rawdon (denn es war wieder Tag geworden und viele Stunden waren in dieser Suche vergangen), "und ich werde Briggs bezahlen, der dem Jungen gegenüber freundlich war, und einige der Schulden. Du wirst mir mitteilen, wohin ich den Rest schicken soll. Du hättest mir hundert Pfund ersparen können, Becky, von all dem. Ich habe immer mit dir geteilt." "Ich bin unschuldig", sagte Becky. Und er verließ sie, ohne ein weiteres Wort zu sagen. Was waren ihre Gedanken, als er sie verließ? Sie blieb stundenlang nach seinem Fortgang zurück, die Sonne strömte in den Raum, und Rebecca saß allein am Bettrand. Die Schubladen waren alle geöffnet und ihr Inhalt lag verstreut herum - Kleider und Federn, Schals und Kinkerlitzchen, ein Haufen zerstreuter Eitelkeiten in einem Wrack. Ihr Haar fiel über ihre Schultern; ihr Kleid war dort zerrissen worden, wo Rawdon die Brillanten herausgerissen hatte. Sie hörte ihn ein paar Minuten nachdem er sie verlassen hatte, die Treppe hinuntergehen und die Tür hinter sich zuschlagen. Sie wusste, dass er nie wieder zurückkommen würde. Er war für immer fort. Würde er sich umbringen? dachte sie - nicht bevor er Lord Steyne getroffen hatte. Sie dachte an ihr vergangenes Leben und an all die tristen Ereignisse darin. Ach, wie traurig schien es, wie elend, einsam und ergebnislos! Sollte sie Laudanum nehmen und ein Ende machen, um alle Hoffnungen, Pläne, Schulden und Triumphe zu beenden? Die französische Dienstmagd fand sie in dieser Position vor - sitzend inmitten ihrer elenden Ruinen, mit verschränkten Händen und trockenen Augen. Die Frau war ihre Komplizin und von Steyne bezahlt. "Mon Dieu, Madame, was ist geschehen?" fragte sie. Was war geschehen? War sie schuldig oder nicht? Sie sagte, sie sei es nicht, aber wer konnte sagen, was die Wahrheit war, die aus diesen Lippen kam, oder ob dieses korrumpierte Herz in diesem Fall rein war? All ihre Lügen und Pläne, ihre Selbstsucht und Hinterlist, all ihr Witz und Genie waren zu diesem Bankrott geführt. Die Frau schloss die Vorhänge und überredete ihre Herrin mit einigen Bitten und Freundlichkeit, sich auf das Bett zu legen. Dann ging sie hinunter und sammelte die Schmuckstücke auf, die seit Rebeccas Anweisung ihres Mannes dort auf dem Boden lagen und Lord Steyne weggegangen war. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Rawdon geht mit den Gerichtsvollziehern, die ihn verhaftet haben, ins Schuldnergefängnis. Er macht sich nicht allzu große Sorgen, da die Summe, die er schuldet, nicht groß ist. Jeder im Gefängnis ist sehr nett zu ihm, weil er offensichtlich schon ein paar Mal dort gewesen ist. Schuldnergefängnisse ähnelten eher Gasthäusern mit umgebenden Mauern als Gefängnissen. Die Idee war, dass der Schuldner all seine Gefallen einsetzen würde, um die Schulden zurückzuzahlen und freigelassen zu werden. Der Wärter zeigt Rawdon sein Zimmer, sagt ihm, wann das Essen serviert wird, und fragt ihn, ob er etwas braucht. Rawdon beschließt, bis zum nächsten Morgen zu warten, um Becky von dem Vorfall zu erzählen, da sie wahrscheinlich gar nicht bemerkt hat, dass er nicht da ist. Er geht schlafen. Am nächsten Morgen frühstückt Rawdon, unterhält sich mit der Zimmermädchen und schreibt dann einen Brief an Becky, in dem er sie bittet, ihn so schnell wie möglich herauszubürgen. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt denkt er, dass es etwa drei Stunden dauern wird, bis er dort raus ist. Becky muss zuerst etwas verpfänden, um das Geld aufzubringen, dann den Gläubiger zurückzahlen, der die Schulden eingefordert hat, und dann ihn abholen. Drei Stunden vergehen... nichts. Der ganze Tag vergeht... nichts. Schließlich, während des Abendessens, kommt ein Bote mit einem Brief von Becky. Darin behauptet sie, zu überwältigt von der Nachricht von seiner Verhaftung gewesen zu sein, um die nötigen Besorgungen zu erledigen, um ihn herauszuholen. Sie sagt, dass sie Leute zu Besuch hatte und Lord Steyne erzählt hat, was passiert ist. Er stimmte zu, ihr das benötigte Geld zu leihen, sodass sie nicht zum Pfandhaus gehen musste. Rawdon ist außer sich vor Wut. Er erkennt auf einmal mehrere Dinge: 1) Becky ist ihm nicht wichtig genug, um ihre Sachen zu verkaufen, um ihn aus dem Gefängnis zu holen; 2) sie hatte Gäste an dem Tag; und 3) die Zeitabfolge all dessen ist verrückt verdächtig. Er schreibt schnell einen weiteren Brief an Pitt und Lady Jane. Er ist besonders darauf aus, jetzt herauszukommen, weil er nicht will, dass Rawdon Jr. erfährt, dass er im Schuldnergefängnis war. Kurze Zeit später kommt eine Frau zum Tor mit seiner Freilassung. Es stellt sich heraus...Jane! Wir wissen, wir wissen - wir hatten gehofft, dass Becky auch Erfolg hat. Rawdon ist ganz emotional und gesteht Jane, wie seine Liebe zu Rawdon Jr. ihn dazu bringt, ein besserer Mensch sein zu wollen. Dann verlässt er sie und geht nach Hause. Leute, die Dinge werden jetzt heiß. Ihr solltet euch besser hinsetzen. Rawdon betrachtet das Haus. Die Lichter sind an. Aber hat Becky nicht gesagt, dass sie krank ist? Er öffnet die Haustür und hört Lachen und Singen. Er schaut sich um. Alle Diener sind verschwunden. Er öffnet die Tür zum Wohnzimmer und sieht Becky und Lord Steyne allein zusammen! Sie ist bis in die Zehenspitzen mit Schmuck bekleidet. Steyne hält ihre Hand und ist kurz davor, sie zu küssen. Es gibt zwei Teller und zwei Weingläser. Ok, Wahnsinn bricht aus. Becky schreit, dass sie unschuldig ist und bittet Steyne, es zu bestätigen. Steyne ist wie, als ob! Er schreit, dass er den Schmuck gekauft hat, den sie trägt, und ihr eine Menge Geld gegeben hat. Was bedeutet das also? Nun, Becky meint, sie sei unschuldig an Ehebruch. Es ist nicht klar, ob das wahr ist oder nicht. Steynes Antwort ist zweideutig; entweder sagt er 1) oh bitte, wir haben definitiv eine Menge Sex gehabt und das weißt du, oder 2) alles, was du getan hast, ist mich erpressen, was eine unschuldige Person nicht tun würde. Rawdon packt Steyne am Hals und schlägt ihn ins Gesicht, bis er blutet. Er lässt Becky all den Schmuck ausziehen und wirft ihn auf den Boden. Er schleudert eines der Stücke auf Steyne und hinterlässt eine Narbe fürs Leben. Schließlich schickt er Becky nach oben und durchsucht all ihre Zimmer nach dem Geld und Schmuck, von dem Steyne geredet hat. Schließlich findet er eine verschlossene Schublade im Schreibtisch, öffnet sie und sieht all die Schecks und Sachen. Einer davon ist ein Scheck von Steyne über 1.000 Pfund. Rawdons letzte Worte an Becky sind: "Du hättest mir hundert Pfund ersparen können, Becky, von all dem - ich habe immer mit dir geteilt". Wow, hart. Und traurig. Becky bringt ein weiteres "Ich bin unschuldig" heraus, aber Rawdon geht. Becky bricht zusammen. Sie erwägt kurzzeitig Selbstmord, bis ihre Magd sie findet und dazu bringt, sich hinzulegen. Der Erzähler hat einen koketten Moment, in dem er uns sagt, dass er selbst nicht weiß, ob sie unschuldig ist oder nicht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CHAPTER XVIII I SHE hurried to the first meeting of the play-reading committee. Her jungle romance had faded, but she retained a religious fervor, a surge of half-formed thought about the creation of beauty by suggestion. A Dunsany play would be too difficult for the Gopher Prairie association. She would let them compromise on Shaw--on "Androcles and the Lion," which had just been published. The committee was composed of Carol, Vida Sherwin, Guy Pollock, Raymie Wutherspoon, and Juanita Haydock. They were exalted by the picture of themselves as being simultaneously business-like and artistic. They were entertained by Vida in the parlor of Mrs. Elisha Gurrey's boarding-house, with its steel engraving of Grant at Appomattox, its basket of stereoscopic views, and its mysterious stains on the gritty carpet. Vida was an advocate of culture-buying and efficiency-systems. She hinted that they ought to have (as at the committee-meetings of the Thanatopsis) a "regular order of business," and "the reading of the minutes," but as there were no minutes to read, and as no one knew exactly what was the regular order of the business of being literary, they had to give up efficiency. Carol, as chairman, said politely, "Have you any ideas about what play we'd better give first?" She waited for them to look abashed and vacant, so that she might suggest "Androcles." Guy Pollock answered with disconcerting readiness, "I'll tell you: since we're going to try to do something artistic, and not simply fool around, I believe we ought to give something classic. How about 'The School for Scandal'?" "Why----Don't you think that has been done a good deal?" "Yes, perhaps it has." Carol was ready to say, "How about Bernard Shaw?" when he treacherously went on, "How would it be then to give a Greek drama--say 'Oedipus Tyrannus'?" "Why, I don't believe----" Vida Sherwin intruded, "I'm sure that would be too hard for us. Now I've brought something that I think would be awfully jolly." She held out, and Carol incredulously took, a thin gray pamphlet entitled "McGinerty's Mother-in-law." It was the sort of farce which is advertised in "school entertainment" catalogues as: Riproaring knock-out, 5 m. 3 f., time 2 hrs., interior set, popular with churches and all high-class occasions. Carol glanced from the scabrous object to Vida, and realized that she was not joking. "But this is--this is--why, it's just a----Why, Vida, I thought you appreciated--well--appreciated art." Vida snorted, "Oh. Art. Oh yes. I do like art. It's very nice. But after all, what does it matter what kind of play we give as long as we get the association started? The thing that matters is something that none of you have spoken of, that is: what are we going to do with the money, if we make any? I think it would be awfully nice if we presented the high school with a full set of Stoddard's travel-lectures!" Carol moaned, "Oh, but Vida dear, do forgive me but this farce----Now what I'd like us to give is something distinguished. Say Shaw's 'Androcles.' Have any of you read it?" "Yes. Good play," said Guy Pollock. Then Raymie Wutherspoon astoundingly spoke up: "So have I. I read through all the plays in the public library, so's to be ready for this meeting. And----But I don't believe you grasp the irreligious ideas in this 'Androcles,' Mrs. Kennicott. I guess the feminine mind is too innocent to understand all these immoral writers. I'm sure I don't want to criticize Bernard Shaw; I understand he is very popular with the highbrows in Minneapolis; but just the same----As far as I can make out, he's downright improper! The things he SAYS----Well, it would be a very risky thing for our young folks to see. It seems to me that a play that doesn't leave a nice taste in the mouth and that hasn't any message is nothing but--nothing but----Well, whatever it may be, it isn't art. So----Now I've found a play that is clean, and there's some awfully funny scenes in it, too. I laughed out loud, reading it. It's called 'His Mother's Heart,' and it's about a young man in college who gets in with a lot of free-thinkers and boozers and everything, but in the end his mother's influence----" Juanita Haydock broke in with a derisive, "Oh rats, Raymie! Can the mother's influence! I say let's give something with some class to it. I bet we could get the rights to 'The Girl from Kankakee,' and that's a real show. It ran for eleven months in New York!" "That would be lots of fun, if it wouldn't cost too much," reflected Vida. Carol's was the only vote cast against "The Girl from Kankakee." II She disliked "The Girl from Kankakee" even more than she had expected. It narrated the success of a farm-lassie in clearing her brother of a charge of forgery. She became secretary to a New York millionaire and social counselor to his wife; and after a well-conceived speech on the discomfort of having money, she married his son. There was also a humorous office-boy. Carol discerned that both Juanita Haydock and Ella Stowbody wanted the lead. She let Juanita have it. Juanita kissed her and in the exuberant manner of a new star presented to the executive committee her theory, "What we want in a play is humor and pep. There's where American playwrights put it all over these darn old European glooms." As selected by Carol and confirmed by the committee, the persons of the play were: John Grimm, a millionaire . . . . Guy Pollock His wife. . . . . . . . . Miss Vida Sherwin His son . . . . . . . . . Dr. Harvey Dillon His business rival. . . . . . . Raymond T. Wutherspoon Friend of Mrs. Grimm . . . . . . Miss Ella Stowbody The girl from Kankakee . . . . . Mrs. Harold C. Haydock Her brother. . . . . . . . Dr. Terence Gould Her mother . . . . . . . . Mrs. David Dyer Stenographer . . . . . . . . Miss Rita Simons Office-boy . . . . . . . . Miss Myrtle Cass Maid in the Grimms' home . . . . Mrs. W. P. Kennicott Direction of Mrs. Kennicott Among the minor lamentations was Maud Dyer's "Well of course I suppose I look old enough to be Juanita's mother, even if Juanita is eight months older than I am, but I don't know as I care to have everybody noticing it and----" Carol pleaded, "Oh, my DEAR! You two look exactly the same age. I chose you because you have such a darling complexion, and you know with powder and a white wig, anybody looks twice her age, and I want the mother to be sweet, no matter who else is." Ella Stowbody, the professional, perceiving that it was because of a conspiracy of jealousy that she had been given a small part, alternated between lofty amusement and Christian patience. Carol hinted that the play would be improved by cutting, but as every actor except Vida and Guy and herself wailed at the loss of a single line, she was defeated. She told herself that, after all, a great deal could be done with direction and settings. Sam Clark had boastfully written about the dramatic association to his schoolmate, Percy Bresnahan, president of the Velvet Motor Company of Boston. Bresnahan sent a check for a hundred dollars; Sam added twenty-five and brought the fund to Carol, fondly crying, "There! That'll give you a start for putting the thing across swell!" She rented the second floor of the city hall for two months. All through the spring the association thrilled to its own talent in that dismal room. They cleared out the bunting, ballot-boxes, handbills, legless chairs. They attacked the stage. It was a simple-minded stage. It was raised above the floor, and it did have a movable curtain, painted with the advertisement of a druggist dead these ten years, but otherwise it might not have been recognized as a stage. There were two dressing-rooms, one for men, one for women, on either side. The dressing-room doors were also the stage-entrances, opening from the house, and many a citizen of Gopher Prairie had for his first glimpse of romance the bare shoulders of the leading woman. There were three sets of scenery: a woodland, a Poor Interior, and a Rich Interior, the last also useful for railway stations, offices, and as a background for the Swedish Quartette from Chicago. There were three gradations of lighting: full on, half on, and entirely off. This was the only theater in Gopher Prairie. It was known as the "op'ra house." Once, strolling companies had used it for performances of "The Two Orphans," and "Nellie the Beautiful Cloak Model," and "Othello" with specialties between acts, but now the motion-pictures had ousted the gipsy drama. Carol intended to be furiously modern in constructing the office-set, the drawing-room for Mr. Grimm, and the Humble Home near Kankakee. It was the first time that any one in Gopher Prairie had been so revolutionary as to use enclosed scenes with continuous side-walls. The rooms in the op'ra house sets had separate wing-pieces for sides, which simplified dramaturgy, as the villain could always get out of the hero's way by walking out through the wall. The inhabitants of the Humble Home were supposed to be amiable and intelligent. Carol planned for them a simple set with warm color. She could see the beginning of the play: all dark save the high settles and the solid wooden table between them, which were to be illuminated by a ray from offstage. The high light was a polished copper pot filled with primroses. Less clearly she sketched the Grimm drawing-room as a series of cool high white arches. As to how she was to produce these effects she had no notion. She discovered that, despite the enthusiastic young writers, the drama was not half so native and close to the soil as motor cars and telephones. She discovered that simple arts require sophisticated training. She discovered that to produce one perfect stage-picture would be as difficult as to turn all of Gopher Prairie into a Georgian garden. She read all she could find regarding staging, she bought paint and light wood; she borrowed furniture and drapes unscrupulously; she made Kennicott turn carpenter. She collided with the problem of lighting. Against the protest of Kennicott and Vida she mortgaged the association by sending to Minneapolis for a baby spotlight, a strip light, a dimming device, and blue and amber bulbs; and with the gloating rapture of a born painter first turned loose among colors, she spent absorbed evenings in grouping, dimming-painting with lights. Only Kennicott, Guy, and Vida helped her. They speculated as to how flats could be lashed together to form a wall; they hung crocus-yellow curtains at the windows; they blacked the sheet-iron stove; they put on aprons and swept. The rest of the association dropped into the theater every evening, and were literary and superior. They had borrowed Carol's manuals of play-production and had become extremely stagey in vocabulary. Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons, and Raymie Wutherspoon sat on a sawhorse, watching Carol try to get the right position for a picture on the wall in the first scene. "I don't want to hand myself anything but I believe I'll give a swell performance in this first act," confided Juanita. "I wish Carol wasn't so bossy though. She doesn't understand clothes. I want to wear, oh, a dandy dress I have--all scarlet--and I said to her, 'When I enter wouldn't it knock their eyes out if I just stood there at the door in this straight scarlet thing?' But she wouldn't let me." Young Rita agreed, "She's so much taken up with her old details and carpentering and everything that she can't see the picture as a whole. Now I thought it would be lovely if we had an office-scene like the one in 'Little, But Oh My!' Because I SAW that, in Duluth. But she simply wouldn't listen at all." Juanita sighed, "I wanted to give one speech like Ethel Barrymore would, if she was in a play like this. (Harry and I heard her one time in Minneapolis--we had dandy seats, in the orchestra--I just know I could imitate her.) Carol didn't pay any attention to my suggestion. I don't want to criticize but I guess Ethel knows more about acting than Carol does!" "Say, do you think Carol has the right dope about using a strip light behind the fireplace in the second act? I told her I thought we ought to use a bunch," offered Raymie. "And I suggested it would be lovely if we used a cyclorama outside the window in the first act, and what do you think she said? 'Yes, and it would be lovely to have Eleanora Duse play the lead,' she said, 'and aside from the fact that it's evening in the first act, you're a great technician,' she said. I must say I think she was pretty sarcastic. I've been reading up, and I know I could build a cyclorama, if she didn't want to run everything." "Yes, and another thing, I think the entrance in the first act ought to be L. U. E., not L. 3 E.," from Juanita. "And why does she just use plain white tormenters?" "What's a tormenter?" blurted Rita Simons. The savants stared at her ignorance. III Carol did not resent their criticisms, she didn't very much resent their sudden knowledge, so long as they let her make pictures. It was at rehearsals that the quarrrels broke. No one understood that rehearsals were as real engagements as bridge-games or sociables at the Episcopal Church. They gaily came in half an hour late, or they vociferously came in ten minutes early, and they were so hurt that they whispered about resigning when Carol protested. They telephoned, "I don't think I'd better come out; afraid the dampness might start my toothache," or "Guess can't make it tonight; Dave wants me to sit in on a poker game." When, after a month of labor, as many as nine-elevenths of the cast were often present at a rehearsal; when most of them had learned their parts and some of them spoke like human beings, Carol had a new shock in the realization that Guy Pollock and herself were very bad actors, and that Raymie Wutherspoon was a surprisingly good one. For all her visions she could not control her voice, and she was bored by the fiftieth repetition of her few lines as maid. Guy pulled his soft mustache, looked self-conscious, and turned Mr. Grimm into a limp dummy. But Raymie, as the villain, had no repressions. The tilt of his head was full of character; his drawl was admirably vicious. There was an evening when Carol hoped she was going to make a play; a rehearsal during which Guy stopped looking abashed. From that evening the play declined. They were weary. "We know our parts well enough now; what's the use of getting sick of them?" they complained. They began to skylark; to play with the sacred lights; to giggle when Carol was trying to make the sentimental Myrtle Cass into a humorous office-boy; to act everything but "The Girl from Kankakee." After loafing through his proper part Dr. Terry Gould had great applause for his burlesque of "Hamlet." Even Raymie lost his simple faith, and tried to show that he could do a vaudeville shuffle. Carol turned on the company. "See here, I want this nonsense to stop. We've simply got to get down to work." Juanita Haydock led the mutiny: "Look here, Carol, don't be so bossy. After all, we're doing this play principally for the fun of it, and if we have fun out of a lot of monkey-shines, why then----" "Ye-es," feebly. "You said one time that folks in G. P. didn't get enough fun out of life. And now we are having a circus, you want us to stop!" Carol answered slowly: "I wonder if I can explain what I mean? It's the difference between looking at the comic page and looking at Manet. I want fun out of this, of course. Only----I don't think it would be less fun, but more, to produce as perfect a play as we can." She was curiously exalted; her voice was strained; she stared not at the company but at the grotesques scrawled on the backs of wing-pieces by forgotten stage-hands. "I wonder if you can understand the 'fun' of making a beautiful thing, the pride and satisfaction of it, and the holiness!" The company glanced doubtfully at one another. In Gopher Prairie it is not good form to be holy except at a church, between ten-thirty and twelve on Sunday. "But if we want to do it, we've got to work; we must have self-discipline." They were at once amused and embarrassed. They did not want to affront this mad woman. They backed off and tried to rehearse. Carol did not hear Juanita, in front, protesting to Maud Dyer, "If she calls it fun and holiness to sweat over her darned old play--well, I don't!" IV Carol attended the only professional play which came to Gopher Prairie that spring. It was a "tent show, presenting snappy new dramas under canvas." The hard-working actors doubled in brass, and took tickets; and between acts sang about the moon in June, and sold Dr. Wintergreen's Surefire Tonic for Ills of the Heart, Lungs, Kidneys, and Bowels. They presented "Sunbonnet Nell: A Dramatic Comedy of the Ozarks," with J. Witherbee Boothby wringing the soul by his resonant "Yuh ain't done right by mah little gal, Mr. City Man, but yer a-goin' to find that back in these-yere hills there's honest folks and good shots!" The audience, on planks beneath the patched tent, admired Mr. Boothby's beard and long rifle; stamped their feet in the dust at the spectacle of his heroism; shouted when the comedian aped the City Lady's use of a lorgnon by looking through a doughnut stuck on a fork; wept visibly over Mr. Boothby's Little Gal Nell, who was also Mr. Boothby's legal wife Pearl, and when the curtain went down, listened respectfully to Mr. Boothby's lecture on Dr. Wintergreen's Tonic as a cure for tape-worms, which he illustrated by horrible pallid objects curled in bottles of yellowing alcohol. Carol shook her head. "Juanita is right. I'm a fool. Holiness of the drama! Bernard Shaw! The only trouble with 'The Girl from Kankakee' is that it's too subtle for Gopher Prairie!" She sought faith in spacious banal phrases, taken from books: "the instinctive nobility of simple souls," "need only the opportunity, to appreciate fine things," and "sturdy exponents of democracy." But these optimisms did not sound so loud as the laughter of the audience at the funny-man's line, "Yes, by heckelum, I'm a smart fella." She wanted to give up the play, the dramatic association, the town. As she came out of the tent and walked with Kennicott down the dusty spring street, she peered at this straggling wooden village and felt that she could not possibly stay here through all of tomorrow. It was Miles Bjornstam who gave her strength--he and the fact that every seat for "The Girl from Kankakee" had been sold. Bjornstam was "keeping company" with Bea. Every night he was sitting on the back steps. Once when Carol appeared he grumbled, "Hope you're going to give this burg one good show. If you don't, reckon nobody ever will." V It was the great night; it was the night of the play. The two dressing-rooms were swirling with actors, panting, twitchy pale. Del Snafflin the barber, who was as much a professional as Ella, having once gone on in a mob scene at a stock-company performance in Minneapolis, was making them up, and showing his scorn for amateurs with, "Stand still! For the love o' Mike, how do you expect me to get your eyelids dark if you keep a-wigglin'?" The actors were beseeching, "Hey, Del, put some red in my nostrils--you put some in Rita's--gee, you didn't hardly do anything to my face." They were enormously theatric. They examined Del's makeup box, they sniffed the scent of grease-paint, every minute they ran out to peep through the hole in the curtain, they came back to inspect their wigs and costumes, they read on the whitewashed walls of the dressing-rooms the pencil inscriptions: "The Flora Flanders Comedy Company," and "This is a bum theater," and felt that they were companions of these vanished troupers. Carol, smart in maid's uniform, coaxed the temporary stage-hands to finish setting the first act, wailed at Kennicott, the electrician, "Now for heaven's sake remember the change in cue for the ambers in Act Two," slipped out to ask Dave Dyer, the ticket-taker, if he could get some more chairs, warned the frightened Myrtle Cass to be sure to upset the waste-basket when John Grimm called, "Here you, Reddy." Del Snafflin's orchestra of piano, violin, and cornet began to tune up and every one behind the magic line of the proscenic arch was frightened into paralysis. Carol wavered to the hole in the curtain. There were so many people out there, staring so hard---- In the second row she saw Miles Bjornstam, not with Bea but alone. He really wanted to see the play! It was a good omen. Who could tell? Perhaps this evening would convert Gopher Prairie to conscious beauty. She darted into the women's dressing-room, roused Maud Dyer from her fainting panic, pushed her to the wings, and ordered the curtain up. It rose doubtfully, it staggered and trembled, but it did get up without catching--this time. Then she realized that Kennicott had forgotten to turn off the houselights. Some one out front was giggling. She galloped round to the left wing, herself pulled the switch, looked so ferociously at Kennicott that he quaked, and fled back. Mrs. Dyer was creeping out on the half-darkened stage. The play was begun. And with that instant Carol realized that it was a bad play abominably acted. Encouraging them with lying smiles, she watched her work go to pieces. The settings seemed flimsy, the lighting commonplace. She watched Guy Pollock stammer and twist his mustache when he should have been a bullying magnate; Vida Sherwin, as Grimm's timid wife, chatter at the audience as though they were her class in high-school English; Juanita, in the leading role, defy Mr. Grimm as though she were repeating a list of things she had to buy at the grocery this morning; Ella Stowbody remark "I'd like a cup of tea" as though she were reciting "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight"; and Dr. Gould, making love to Rita Simons, squeak, "My--my--you--are--a--won'erful--girl." Myrtle Cass, as the office-boy, was so much pleased by the applause of her relatives, then so much agitated by the remarks of Cy Bogart, in the back row, in reference to her wearing trousers, that she could hardly be got off the stage. Only Raymie was so unsociable as to devote himself entirely to acting. That she was right in her opinion of the play Carol was certain when Miles Bjornstam went out after the first act, and did not come back. VI Between the second and third acts she called the company together, and supplicated, "I want to know something, before we have a chance to separate. Whether we're doing well or badly tonight, it is a beginning. But will we take it as merely a beginning? How many of you will pledge yourselves to start in with me, right away, tomorrow, and plan for another play, to be given in September?" They stared at her; they nodded at Juanita's protest: "I think one's enough for a while. It's going elegant tonight, but another play----Seems to me it'll be time enough to talk about that next fall. Carol! I hope you don't mean to hint and suggest we're not doing fine tonight? I'm sure the applause shows the audience think it's just dandy!" Then Carol knew how completely she had failed. As the audience seeped out she heard B. J. Gougerling the banker say to Howland the grocer, "Well, I think the folks did splendid; just as good as professionals. But I don't care much for these plays. What I like is a good movie, with auto accidents and hold-ups, and some git to it, and not all this talky-talk." Then Carol knew how certain she was to fail again. She wearily did not blame them, company nor audience. Herself she blamed for trying to carve intaglios in good wholesome jack-pine. "It's the worst defeat of all. I'm beaten. By Main Street. 'I must go on.' But I can't!" She was not vastly encouraged by the Gopher Prairie Dauntless: . . . would be impossible to distinguish among the actors when all gave such fine account of themselves in difficult roles of this well-known New York stage play. Guy Pollock as the old millionaire could not have been bettered for his fine impersonation of the gruff old millionaire; Mrs. Harry Haydock as the young lady from the West who so easily showed the New York four-flushers where they got off was a vision of loveliness and with fine stage presence. Miss Vida Sherwin the ever popular teacher in our high school pleased as Mrs. Grimm, Dr. Gould was well suited in the role of young lover--girls you better look out, remember the doc is a bachelor. The local Four Hundred also report that he is a great hand at shaking the light fantastic tootsies in the dance. As the stenographer Rita Simons was pretty as a picture, and Miss Ella Stowbody's long and intensive study of the drama and kindred arts in Eastern schools was seen in the fine finish of her part. . . . to no one is greater credit to be given than to Mrs. Will Kennicott on whose capable shoulders fell the burden of directing. "So kindly," Carol mused, "so well meant, so neighborly--and so confoundedly untrue. Is it really my failure, or theirs?" She sought to be sensible; she elaborately explained to herself that it was hysterical to condemn Gopher Prairie because it did not foam over the drama. Its justification was in its service as a market-town for farmers. How bravely and generously it did its work, forwarding the bread of the world, feeding and healing the farmers! Then, on the corner below her husband's office, she heard a farmer holding forth: "Sure. Course I was beaten. The shipper and the grocers here wouldn't pay us a decent price for our potatoes, even though folks in the cities were howling for 'em. So we says, well, we'll get a truck and ship 'em right down to Minneapolis. But the commission merchants there were in cahoots with the local shipper here; they said they wouldn't pay us a cent more than he would, not even if they was nearer to the market. Well, we found we could get higher prices in Chicago, but when we tried to get freight cars to ship there, the railroads wouldn't let us have 'em--even though they had cars standing empty right here in the yards. There you got it--good market, and these towns keeping us from it. Gus, that's the way these towns work all the time. They pay what they want to for our wheat, but we pay what they want us to for their clothes. Stowbody and Dawson foreclose every mortgage they can, and put in tenant farmers. The Dauntless lies to us about the Nonpartisan League, the lawyers sting us, the machinery-dealers hate to carry us over bad years, and then their daughters put on swell dresses and look at us as if we were a bunch of hoboes. Man, I'd like to burn this town!" Kennicott observed, "There's that old crank Wes Brannigan shooting off his mouth again. Gosh, but he loves to hear himself talk! They ought to run that fellow out of town!" VII She felt old and detached through high-school commencement week, which is the fete of youth in Gopher Prairie; through baccalaureate sermon, senior Parade, junior entertainment, commencement address by an Iowa clergyman who asserted that he believed in the virtue of virtuousness, and the procession of Decoration Day, when the few Civil War veterans followed Champ Perry, in his rusty forage-cap, along the spring-powdered road to the cemetery. She met Guy; she found that she had nothing to say to him. Her head ached in an aimless way. When Kennicott rejoiced, "We'll have a great time this summer; move down to the lake early and wear old clothes and act natural," she smiled, but her smile creaked. In the prairie heat she trudged along unchanging ways, talked about nothing to tepid people, and reflected that she might never escape from them. She was startled to find that she was using the word "escape." Then, for three years which passed like one curt paragraph, she ceased to find anything interesting save the Bjornstams and her baby. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Ein Treffen des Dramaklubs findet statt, um das Stück auszuwählen, das aufgeführt werden soll. Carol ist bereit, Bernard Shaws Androcles und der Löwe vorzuschlagen. Guy Pollock schlägt Die Schule der Verleumdung vor. Vida möchte die Farce Mc Ginertys Schwiegermutter, während Raymie Das Herz seiner Mutter möchte. Juanita wählt Das Mädchen aus Kankakee aus. Jeder außer Carol stimmt für Das Mädchen aus Kankakee. Die Auswahl der Schauspieler erweist sich als ebenso schwierige Aufgabe, da sowohl Juanita als auch Ella Stowbody die Hauptrolle wollen. Carol beleidigt Ella Stowbody, indem sie Juanita die Rolle überlässt. Maud Dyer ist unglücklich darüber, die Rolle der Mutter zu bekommen. Guy Pollock ist der Millionär, Dr. Harvey Dillon sein Sohn und Vida seine schüchterne Frau. Ella Stowbody ist ihre Freundin, während Raymie der geschäftliche Rivale ist, der der Bösewicht ist. Dr. Terry Gould spielt den Bruder des Mädchens aus Kankakee und Rita Simmons spielt die Rolle der Büroangestellten und Myrtle Cass die des Bürojungen. Die Geschichte handelt von dem Mädchen aus Kankakee, das in die Stadt geht, um ihren Bruder zu retten, der fälschlicherweise in einem Fälschungsfall beschuldigt wird. Sie wird die Sekretärin des Millionärs und heiratet seinen Sohn. Als Sam Clark Percy Bresnahan über das Stück schreibt, schickt er hundert Dollar, zu denen Sam Clark fünfundzwanzig hinzufügt, um das Unternehmen zu finanzieren. Der Dramaklub mietet das Rathaus und beginnt mit der Probe. Carol beschließt, eine andere Beleuchtung zu haben, um das richtige Ambiente des bescheidenen Hauses des Mädchens aus Kankakee und der Villa des Millionärs zu schaffen. Sie bekommt die verschiedenen Glühbirnen aus Minneapolis. Nur Kennicott, Vida und Guy Pollock helfen ihr, die Bühne vorzubereiten. Die anderen sitzen herum und kritisieren. Juanita beschwert sich, dass Carol ihr nicht erlaubt, ihr scharlachrotes Kleid im ersten Akt zu tragen. Rita beschwert sich, dass die Büroszene nicht so war, wie sie im Stück Little, But oh, My war. Raymies Beschwerde ist, dass er die Verwendung eines Rundhorizonts außerhalb des Fensters vorgeschlagen hat und dass Carol sehr sarkastisch darüber war. Alle sind sich einig, dass Ella Stowbody mehr über das Schauspielern weiß und dass Carol versucht, alles zu kontrollieren. Nicht alle Schauspieler nehmen regelmäßig an den Proben teil. Nach einem Monat Proben stellt Carol fest, dass sie nicht schauspielern kann. Sogar Guy Pollock ist ein schlechter Schauspieler, aber Raymie spielt die Rolle des Bösewichts sehr gut. Jeder wird müde von dem Stück und beschwert sich. Sogar Carol ist müde, ihre wenigen Zeilen zu wiederholen. Sie werden unruhig und spielen mit den Lichtern und lachen über die anderen Schauspieler, während Carol versucht, ihnen beizubringen. Carol sieht sich ein professionelles Stück an, Sun Bonnet Nell; Eine dramatische Komödie der Ozarks. Sie stellt fest, dass das Publikum von Gopher Prairie selbst eine so banale Komödie genießt und zweifelt daran, ob es sich lohnt, sich all die Mühe zu machen, ein Stück aufzuführen. Sie gewinnt etwas Selbstvertrauen, als alle Tickets für das Stück verkauft werden und Bjornstam ihr sagt, dass sie die Einzige ist, die ein gutes Stück präsentieren kann. Am Tag der Aufführung des Stücks geht alles schief. Die Beleuchtung funktioniert nicht wie von Carol geplant. Die Schauspieler werden nervös. Vida benimmt sich, als ob das gesamte Publikum ihre Klasse sei. Nur Raymie konzentriert sich auf sein Spiel. Bjornstam verlässt den Saal nach dem ersten Akt. Carol ruft die Schauspieler zusammen und möchte wissen, ob sie hart arbeiten würden, um im September ein weiteres Stück zu präsentieren. Sie möchten sich nicht festlegen. Sie hört den Bankier, Herrn Gougerling, dem Lebensmittelhändler Howland sagen, dass er zwar das Stück gut fand, es aber vorziehen würde, einen Film anzuschauen. Carol weiß, dass es das Ende ihres Dramaklubs war. Aber der Dauntless gibt einen positiven Bericht über das Stück und lobt die Schauspieler und den Regisseur. Sie versucht sich damit zu trösten, dass Gopher Prairie eine Marktgemeinde ist, die den Bauern hilft, und dass man keinen anspruchsvollen Geschmack erwarten sollte. Dann hört sie Wes Brannign behaupten, dass die Stadt die Bauern ausbeutete, indem sie sie zwang, zu den von ihnen gewünschten Preisen zu verkaufen. Sie hinderten sie daran, ihre Erzeugnisse auf Märkten außerhalb der Stadt zu verkaufen, um einen besseren Gewinn zu erzielen. Sie verliert allen Glauben an Gopher Prairie und das Leben wird monoton. Ihre beiden Interessen im Leben sind ihr Baby und ihre Freunde - die Bjornstams.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 V. Capulet's house. Servingmen come forth with napkins. 1. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher! 2. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1. Serv. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Anthony, and Potpan! 2. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. 1. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and sought for, in the great chamber. 3. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys! Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. Exeunt. Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with Servants,] Capulet, his Wife, Juliet, Tybalt, and all the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers. Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I'll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day That I have worn a visor and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone! You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, For you and I are past our dancing days. How long is't now since last yourself and I Were in a mask? 2. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man? 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much! 'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd. 2. Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. Cap. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. Rom. [to a Servingman] What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? Serv. I know not, sir. Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear- Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. Cap. Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so? Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; A villain, that is hither come in spite To scorn at our solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it? Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. 'A bears him like a portly gentleman, And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town Here in my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of him. It is my will; the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him. Cap. He shall be endur'd. What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to! Am I the master here, or you? Go to! You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! Tyb. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame. Cap. Go to, go to! You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what. You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time.- Well said, my hearts!- You are a princox- go! Be quiet, or- More light, more light!- For shame! I'll make you quiet; what!- Cheerly, my hearts! Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall. Exit. Rom. If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r. Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Rom. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kisses her.] Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.] Jul. You kiss by th' book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Rom. What is her mother? Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house. And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. Rom. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all. I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night. More torches here! [Exeunt Maskers.] Come on then, let's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late; I'll to my rest. Exeunt [all but Juliet and Nurse]. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What's he that now is going out of door? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio. Jul. What's he that follows there, that would not dance? Nurse. I know not. Jul. Go ask his name.- If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathed enemy. Nurse. What's this? what's this? Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now Of one I danc'd withal. One calls within, 'Juliet.' Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone. Exeunt. PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. Chor. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain, And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks. Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear, And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new beloved anywhere; But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. Exit. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Auf der Feier begrüßt Capulet seine Gäste und lädt alle dazu ein, Spaß zu haben. Er droht außerdem, dass er jedem jungen Mädchen, das sich weigert zu tanzen, erzählen wird, dass es "Hühneraugen" an den Füßen hat. Aber jetzt kommt der Moment, auf den wir alle gewartet haben. Romeo sieht Juliet tanzen und...verliebt sich auf den ersten Blick. Rosaline wer? In der Zwischenzeit erkennt Tybalt, auch bekannt als der Kerl, der vorher gekämpft hat, Romeo. Das Blut erhitzt sich jetzt. Tybalt erzählt Lord Capulet, dass er Romeo verprügeln will, weil er ihre Party crasht. Lord Capulet befiehlt ihm, sich zu beruhigen und Romeo in Ruhe zu lassen - Romeo scheint ein netter genug Junge zu sein. Außerdem weist Lord Capulet weise darauf hin, dass Partys normalerweise von offenen Schlägereien ruiniert werden. Sobald die Polizei gerufen wird, ist der Spaß für alle vorbei. Tybalt schwört nur, dass er Romeo für diese vermeintliche Beleidigung später zur Rechenschaft ziehen wird. Dramatische und düstere Musik erklingt. Romeo geht auf Juliet zu und bringt einen der coolsten Anmachsprüche hervor, die jemals im 16. Jahrhundert zu hören waren: "Wenn ich mit meiner unwürdigsten Hand diese heilige Stätte entweihe, ist die milde Sünde folgende: Meine Lippen, zwei errötende Pilger, stehen bereit, diese raue Berührung mit einem zärtlichen Kuss zu glätten." Übersetzung: Deine Hand ist eindeutig heilig, also wenn ich dich beleidigt habe, indem ich sie mit meiner rauen, unwürdigen Hand berührt habe, lass mich das mit einem Kuss wieder gut machen. Anstatt sich zu ärgern und wegzugehen, ist Juliet interessiert. Sie erwidert scherzhaft, dass er nicht so streng mit sich selbst sein soll. Indem er ihre Hand hält, zeigt er nur Hingabe, genauso wie Pilger die Hände von Heiligen berühren. Sie weist außerdem darauf hin, dass das Zusammensetzen ihrer Hände wie ein Kuss ist. Romeo schlägt vor, dass ihre Lippen das tun sollten, was ihre Hände tun, und küsst sie. Eine Sekunde später kommt er mit einer weiteren Ausrede und sie küssen sich erneut. Währenddessen hat ihr Dialog ein perfektes Shakespeareanisches Liebesgedicht geformt, mit Reimen und allem Drum und Dran. Nicht schlecht. Ihre Amme unterbricht sie und schickt Juliet weg, und Romeo fragt sie nach dem Namen des Mädchens, das er geküsst hat. Und...sie ist eine Capulet. Oops. Die Party löst sich auf. Juliet, die schon komplett verliebt ist, bittet ihre Amme, die Identität des ersten Mannes herauszufinden, den sie je geküsst hat. Die Antwort: "Sein Name ist Romeo, ein Montague, der einzige Sohn deines großen Feindes." Juliet ist nicht gerade glücklich, das zu hören, aber sie schafft es trotzdem poetisch zu sein: "Sprung meine einzige Liebe aus meinem einzigen Hass hervor?"

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Pity the laden one; this wandering woe May visit you and me. When Lydgate had allayed Mrs. Bulstrode's anxiety by telling her that her husband had been seized with faintness at the meeting, but that he trusted soon to see him better and would call again the next day, unless she sent for him earlier, he went directly home, got on his horse, and rode three miles out of the town for the sake of being out of reach. He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if raging under the pain of stings: he was ready to curse the day on which he had come to Middlemarch. Everything that bad happened to him there seemed a mere preparation for this hateful fatality, which had come as a blight on his honorable ambition, and must make even people who had only vulgar standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged. In such moments a man can hardly escape being unloving. Lydgate thought of himself as the sufferer, and of others as the agents who had injured his lot. He had meant everything to turn out differently; and others had thrust themselves into his life and thwarted his purposes. His marriage seemed an unmitigated calamity; and he was afraid of going to Rosamond before he had vented himself in this solitary rage, lest the mere sight of her should exasperate him and make him behave unwarrantably. There are episodes in most men's lives in which their highest qualities can only cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inward vision: Lydgate's tenderheartedness was present just then only as a dread lest he should offend against it, not as an emotion that swayed him to tenderness. For he was very miserable. Only those who know the supremacy of the intellectual life--the life which has a seed of ennobling thought and purpose within it--can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoyances. How was he to live on without vindicating himself among people who suspected him of baseness? How could he go silently away from Middlemarch as if he were retreating before a just condemnation? And yet how was he to set about vindicating himself? For that scene at the meeting, which he had just witnessed, although it had told him no particulars, had been enough to make his own situation thoroughly clear to him. Bulstrode had been in dread of scandalous disclosures on the part of Raffles. Lydgate could now construct all the probabilities of the case. "He was afraid of some betrayal in my hearing: all he wanted was to bind me to him by a strong obligation: that was why he passed on a sudden from hardness to liberality. And he may have tampered with the patient--he may have disobeyed my orders. I fear he did. But whether he did or not, the world believes that he somehow or other poisoned the man and that I winked at the crime, if I didn't help in it. And yet--and yet he may not be guilty of the last offence; and it is just possible that the change towards me may have been a genuine relenting--the effect of second thoughts such as he alleged. What we call the 'just possible' is sometimes true and the thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. In his last dealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pure, in spite of my suspicion to the contrary." There was a benumbing cruelty in his position. Even if he renounced every other consideration than that of justifying himself--if he met shrugs, cold glances, and avoidance as an accusation, and made a public statement of all the facts as he knew them, who would be convinced? It would be playing the part of a fool to offer his own testimony on behalf of himself, and say, "I did not take the money as a bribe." The circumstances would always be stronger than his assertion. And besides, to come forward and tell everything about himself must include declarations about Bulstrode which would darken the suspicions of others against him. He must tell that he had not known of Raffles's existence when he first mentioned his pressing need of money to Bulstrode, and that he took the money innocently as a result of that communication, not knowing that a new motive for the loan might have arisen on his being called in to this man. And after all, the suspicion of Bulstrode's motives might be unjust. But then came the question whether he should have acted in precisely the same way if he had not taken the money? Certainly, if Raffles had continued alive and susceptible of further treatment when he arrived, and he had then imagined any disobedience to his orders on the part of Bulstrode, he would have made a strict inquiry, and if his conjecture had been verified he would have thrown up the case, in spite of his recent heavy obligation. But if he had not received any money--if Bulstrode had never revoked his cold recommendation of bankruptcy--would he, Lydgate, have abstained from all inquiry even on finding the man dead?--would the shrinking from an insult to Bulstrode--would the dubiousness of all medical treatment and the argument that his own treatment would pass for the wrong with most members of his profession--have had just the same force or significance with him? That was the uneasy corner of Lydgate's consciousness while he was reviewing the facts and resisting all reproach. If he had been independent, this matter of a patient's treatment and the distinct rule that he must do or see done that which he believed best for the life committed to him, would have been the point on which he would have been the sturdiest. As it was, he had rested in the consideration that disobedience to his orders, however it might have arisen, could not be considered a crime, that in the dominant opinion obedience to his orders was just as likely to be fatal, and that the affair was simply one of etiquette. Whereas, again and again, in his time of freedom, he had denounced the perversion of pathological doubt into moral doubt and had said--"the purest experiment in treatment may still be conscientious: my business is to take care of life, and to do the best I can think of for it. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. Dogma gives a charter to mistake, but the very breath of science is a contest with mistake, and must keep the conscience alive." Alas! the scientific conscience had got into the debasing company of money obligation and selfish respects. "Is there a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would question himself as I do?" said poor Lydgate, with a renewed outburst of rebellion against the oppression of his lot. "And yet they will all feel warranted in making a wide space between me and them, as if I were a leper! My practice and my reputation are utterly damned--I can see that. Even if I could be cleared by valid evidence, it would make little difference to the blessed world here. I have been set down as tainted and should be cheapened to them all the same." Already there had been abundant signs which had hitherto puzzled him, that just when he had been paying off his debts and getting cheerfully on his feet, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at him, and in two instances it came to his knowledge that patients of his had called in another practitioner. The reasons were too plain now. The general black-balling had begun. No wonder that in Lydgate's energetic nature the sense of a hopeless misconstruction easily turned into a dogged resistance. The scowl which occasionally showed itself on his square brow was not a meaningless accident. Already when he was re-entering the town after that ride taken in the first hours of stinging pain, he was setting his mind on remaining in Middlemarch in spite of the worst that could be done against him. He would not retreat before calumny, as if he submitted to it. He would face it to the utmost, and no act of his should show that he was afraid. It belonged to the generosity as well as defiant force of his nature that he resolved not to shrink from showing to the full his sense of obligation to Bulstrode. It was true that the association with this man had been fatal to him--true that if he had had the thousand pounds still in his hands with all his debts unpaid he would have returned the money to Bulstrode, and taken beggary rather than the rescue which had been sullied with the suspicion of a bribe (for, remember, he was one of the proudest among the sons of men)--nevertheless, he would not turn away from this crushed fellow-mortal whose aid he had used, and make a pitiful effort to get acquittal for himself by howling against another. "I shall do as I think right, and explain to nobody. They will try to starve me out, but--" he was going on with an obstinate resolve, but he was getting near home, and the thought of Rosamond urged itself again into that chief place from which it had been thrust by the agonized struggles of wounded honor and pride. How would Rosamond take it all? Here was another weight of chain to drag, and poor Lydgate was in a bad mood for bearing her dumb mastery. He had no impulse to tell her the trouble which must soon be common to them both. He preferred waiting for the incidental disclosure which events must soon bring about. 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.

Lydgate steht nun vor der schweren Aufgabe, sich selbst zu entlasten, denn er wird von allen in Middlemarch beschuldigt. Er möchte aufstehen können und sagen können, dass er kein Bestechungsgeld von Bulstrode genommen hat und keine Mitschuld am Tod von Raffles hat. Allerdings belastet ihn sein Gewissen, da er sich fragt, ob er in der Situation anders gehandelt hätte, wenn Bulstrode ihm das Geld nicht gegeben hätte. Lydgate beschließt, nicht vor der Meinung der Stadt zu fliehen, sondern sie mit aller möglichen Kraft zu ertragen. Nichts, was er tun kann, kann seinen Namen reinwaschen, da die öffentliche Meinung gegen ihn eingestellt ist, also muss er es so gut wie möglich aushalten.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Spell Seems Broken The suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and the personal splendors of sixteen couples, with attendant parents and guardians. The focus of brilliancy was the long drawing-room, where the dancing went forward, under the inspiration of the grand piano; the library, into which it opened at one end, had the more sober illumination of maturity, with caps and cards; and at the other end the pretty sitting-room, with a conservatory attached, was left as an occasional cool retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black for the first time, and had her pretty slimness set off by an abundant dress of white crape, was the acknowledged queen of the occasion; for this was one of the Miss Guests' thoroughly condescending parties, including no member of any aristocracy higher than that of St. Ogg's, and stretching to the extreme limits of commercial and professional gentility. Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had forgotten all the figures--it was so many years since she had danced at school; and she was glad to have that excuse, for it is ill dancing with a heavy heart. But at length the music wrought in her young limbs, and the longing came; even though it was the horrible young Torry, who walked up a second time to try and persuade her. She warned him that she could not dance anything but a country-dance; but he, of course, was willing to wait for that high felicity, meaning only to be complimentary when he assured her at several intervals that it was a "great bore" that she couldn't waltz, he would have liked so much to waltz with her. But at last it was the turn of the good old-fashioned dance which has the least of vanity and the most of merriment in it, and Maggie quite forgot her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment of that half-rustic rhythm which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. She felt quite charitably toward young Torry, as his hand bore her along and held her up in the dance; her eyes and cheeks had that fire of young joy in them which will flame out if it can find the least breath to fan it; and her simple black dress, with its bit of black lace, seemed like the dim setting of a jewel. Stephen had not yet asked her to dance; had not yet paid her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday, that inward vision of her which perpetually made part of his consciousness, had been half screened by the image of Philip Wakem, which came across it like a blot; there was some attachment between her and Philip; at least there was an attachment on his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here, then, Stephen told himself, was another claim of honor which called on him to resist the attraction that was continually threatening to overpower him. He told himself so; and yet he had once or twice felt a certain savage resistance, and at another moment a shuddering repugnance, to this intrusion of Philip's image, which almost made it a new incitement to rush toward Maggie and claim her for himself. Nevertheless, he had done what he meant to do this evening,--he had kept aloof from her; he had hardly looked at her; and he had been gayly assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were devouring Maggie; he felt inclined to kick young Torry out of the dance, and take his place. Then he wanted the dance to end that he might get rid of his partner. The possibility that he too should dance with Maggie, and have her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess him like a thirst. But even now their hands were meeting in the dance,--were meeting still to the very end of it, though they were far off each other. Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic way he got through the duties of politeness in the interval, until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone again, at the farther end of the room. He made his way toward her round the couples that were forming for the waltz; and when Maggie became conscious that she was the person he sought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, a glowing gladness at heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightened with her childlike enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame was set to joy and tenderness; even the coming pain could not seem bitter,--she was ready to welcome it as a part of life, for life at this moment seemed a keen, vibrating consciousness poised above pleasure or pain. This one, this last night, she might expand unrestrainedly in the warmth of the present, without those chill, eating thoughts of the past and the future. "They're going to waltz again," said Stephen, bending to speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued tenderness which young dreams create to themselves in the summer woods when low, cooing voices fill the air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that is half stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation. "They are going to waltz again. It is rather dizzy work to look on, and the room is very warm; shall we walk about a little?" He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they walked on into the sitting-room, where the tables were strewn with engravings for the accommodation of visitors who would not want to look at them. But no visitors were here at this moment. They passed on into the conservatory. "How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with the lights among them!" said Maggie, in a low voice. "They look as if they belonged to an enchanted land, and would never fade away; I could fancy they were all made of jewels." She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and Stephen made no answer; but he was looking at her; and does not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute, and light eloquent? Something strangely powerful there was in the light of Stephen's long gaze, for it made Maggie's face turn toward it and look upward at it, slowly, like a flower at the ascending brightness. And they walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking; without feeling anything but that long, grave, mutual gaze which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The hovering thought that they must and would renounce each other made this moment of mute confession more intense in its rapture. But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and were obliged to pause and turn. The change of movement brought a new consciousness to Maggie; she blushed deeply, turned away her head, and drew her arm from Stephen's, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless, and still pale. "Oh, may I get this rose?" said Maggie, making a great effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of irretrievable confession. "I think I am quite wicked with roses; I like to gather them and smell them till they have no scent left." Stephen was mute; he was incapable of putting a sentence together, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward toward the large half-opened rose that had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a woman's arm? The unspeakable suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow, and all the varied gently lessening curves, down to the delicate wrist, with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness. A woman's arm touched the soul of a great sculptor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the timeworn marble of a headless trunk. Maggie's was such an arm as that, and it had the warm tints of life. A mad impulse seized on Stephen; he darted toward the arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist. But the next moment Maggie snatched it from him, and glared at him like a wounded war-goddess, quivering with rage and humiliation. "How dare you?" She spoke in a deeply shaken, half-smothered voice. "What right have I given you to insult me?" She darted from him into the adjoining room, and threw herself on the sofa, panting and trembling. A horrible punishment was come upon her for the sin of allowing a moment's happiness that was treachery to Lucy, to Philip, to her own better soul. That momentary happiness had been smitten with a blight, a leprosy; Stephen thought more lightly of _her_ than he did of Lucy. As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of the conservatory, dizzy with the conflict of passions,--love, rage, and confused despair; despair at his want of self-mastery, and despair that he had offended Maggie. The last feeling surmounted every other; to be by her side again and entreat forgiveness was the only thing that had the force of a motive for him, and she had not been seated more than a few minutes when he came and stood humbly before her. But Maggie's bitter rage was unspent. "Leave me to myself, if you please," she said, with impetuous haughtiness, "and for the future avoid me." Stephen turned away, and walked backward and forward at the other end of the room. There was the dire necessity of going back into the dancing-room again, and he was beginning to be conscious of that. They had been absent so short a time, that when he went in again the waltz was not ended. Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the pride of her nature was stung into activity; the hateful weakness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her self-respect had at least wrought its own cure. The thoughts and temptations of the last month should all be flung away into an unvisited chamber of memory. There was nothing to allure her now; duty would be easy, and all the old calm purposes would reign peacefully once more. She re-entered the drawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, but with a sense of proud self-command that defied anything to agitate her. She refused to dance again, but she talked quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. And when they got home that night, she kissed Lucy with a free heart, almost exulting in this scorching moment, which had delivered her from the possibility of another word or look that would have the stamp of treachery toward that gentle, unsuspicious sister. The next morning Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so soon as she had expected. Her mother was to accompany her in the carriage, and household business could not be dispatched hastily by Mrs. Tulliver. So Maggie, who had been in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for the drive, in the garden. Lucy was busy in the house wrapping up some bazaar presents for the younger ones at Basset, and when there was a loud ring at the door-bell, Maggie felt some alarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her; it was sure to be Stephen. But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, and seated himself by her on the garden-chair. It was not Stephen. "We can just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from this seat," said Philip. They had taken each other's hands in silence, but Maggie had looked at him with a more complete revival of the old childlike affectionate smile than he had seen before, and he felt encouraged. "Yes," she said, "I often look at them, and wish I could see the low sunlight on the stems again. But I have never been that way but once,--to the churchyard with my mother." "I have been there, I go there, continually," said Philip. "I have nothing but the past to live upon." A keen remembrance and keen pity impelled Maggie to put her hand in Philip's. They had so often walked hand in hand! "I remember all the spots," she said,--"just where you told me of particular things, beautiful stories that I had never heard of before." "You will go there again soon, won't you, Maggie?" said Philip, getting timid. "The Mill will soon be your brother's home again." "Yes; but I shall not be there," said Maggie. "I shall only hear of that happiness. I am going away again; Lucy has not told you, perhaps?" "Then the future will never join on to the past again, Maggie? That book is quite closed?" The gray eyes that had so often looked up at her with entreating worship, looked up at her now, with a last struggling ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her large sincere gaze. "That book never will be closed, Philip," she said, with grave sadness; "I desire no future that will break the ties of the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the strongest. I can do nothing willingly that will divide me always from him." "Is that the only reason that would keep us apart forever, Maggie?" said Philip, with a desperate determination to have a definite answer. "The only reason," said Maggie, with calm decision. And she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the enchanted cup had been dashed to the ground. The reactionary excitement that gave her a proud self-mastery had not subsided, and she looked at the future with a sense of calm choice. They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or speaking for a few minutes; in Maggie's mind the first scenes of love and parting were more present than the actual moment, and she was looking at Philip in the Red Deeps. Philip felt that he ought to have been thoroughly happy in that answer of hers; she was as open and transparent as a rock-pool. Why was he not thoroughly happy? Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart. 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.

Zeit für eine Party. Es ist ein Who-is-Who-Deal für St. Ogg's. Jeder Coole ist dort. Anfangs weigert sich Maggie zu tanzen, stimmt aber schließlich zu, mit einem Mann namens Mr. Torry zu tanzen. Sie hat Spaß. Stephen ignoriert Maggie wieder. Er ist hin- und hergerissen, besonders nach seiner Konfrontation mit Philip gestern. Ein Teil von Stephen will Maggie für sich beanspruchen und der andere Teil will das Richtige für Philip tun. Stephen kann allerdings nicht fernbleiben und er und Maggie gehen zusammen nach draußen spazieren. Sie haben wieder einen besonderen Moment. Maggie geht eine Blume pflücken und Stephen verliert endlich die Kontrolle und fängt an, ihren Arm zu küssen. Was irgendwie komisch ist. Maggie dreht durch und macht sich Sorgen, dass Stephen denkt, sie sei eine Frau von fragwürdiger Moral. Sie rennt weg und Stephen fühlt sich wie ein Idiot. Die beiden gehen zurück ins Innere und versuchen so zu tun, als sei nichts passiert. Philip kommt am nächsten Tag vorbei, um mit Maggie zu reden. Er versucht, ihr ein Ausweg zu geben und sie von ihrem quasi Versprechen, ihn irgendwann zu heiraten, zu entbinden. Aber Maggie sagt ihm, dass der einzige Grund, warum sie ihn nicht heiraten will, ihr Bruder ist, was eine Ausflucht ist. Philip ist allerdings immer noch misstrauisch gegenüber Maggie und Stephen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: 1st Gent. Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too. 2d Gent. Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright The coming pest with border fortresses, Or catch your carp with subtle argument. All force is twain in one: cause is not cause Unless effect be there; and action's self Must needs contain a passive. So command Exists but with obedience." Even if Lydgate had been inclined to be quite open about his affairs, he knew that it would have hardly been in Mr. Farebrother's power to give him the help he immediately wanted. With the year's bills coming in from his tradesmen, with Dover's threatening hold on his furniture, and with nothing to depend on but slow dribbling payments from patients who must not be offended--for the handsome fees he had had from Freshitt Hall and Lowick Manor had been easily absorbed--nothing less than a thousand pounds would have freed him from actual embarrassment, and left a residue which, according to the favorite phrase of hopefulness in such circumstances, would have given him "time to look about him." Naturally, the merry Christmas bringing the happy New Year, when fellow-citizens expect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have smilingly bestowed on their neighbors, had so tightened the pressure of sordid cares on Lydgate's mind that it was hardly possible for him to think unbrokenly of any other subject, even the most habitual and soliciting. He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectual activity, the ardent kindness of his heart, as well as his strong frame, would always, under tolerably easy conditions, have kept him above the petty uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper. But he was now a prey to that worst irritation which arises not simply from annoyances, but from the second consciousness underlying those annoyances, of wasted energy and a degrading preoccupation, which was the reverse of all his former purposes. "_This_ is what I am thinking of; and _that_ is what I might have been thinking of," was the bitter incessant murmur within him, making every difficulty a double goad to impatience. Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate's discontent was much harder to bear: it was the sense that there was a grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears. His troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordid, and beneath the attention of lofty persons who can know nothing of debt except on a magnificent scale. Doubtless they were sordid; and for the majority, who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer's desire to make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be another's, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide calamity. It was because Lydgate writhed under the idea of getting his neck beneath this vile yoke that he had fallen into a bitter moody state which was continually widening Rosamond's alienation from him. After the first disclosure about the bill of sale, he had made many efforts to draw her into sympathy with him about possible measures for narrowing their expenses, and with the threatening approach of Christmas his propositions grew more and more definite. "We two can do with only one servant, and live on very little," he said, "and I shall manage with one horse." For Lydgate, as we have seen, had begun to reason, with a more distinct vision, about the expenses of living, and any share of pride he had given to appearances of that sort was meagre compared with the pride which made him revolt from exposure as a debtor, or from asking men to help him with their money. "Of course you can dismiss the other two servants, if you like," said Rosamond; "but I should have thought it would be very injurious to your position for us to live in a poor way. You must expect your practice to be lowered." "My dear Rosamond, it is not a question of choice. We have begun too expensively. Peacock, you know, lived in a much smaller house than this. It is my fault: I ought to have known better, and I deserve a thrashing--if there were anybody who had a right to give it me--for bringing you into the necessity of living in a poorer way than you have been used to. But we married because we loved each other, I suppose. And that may help us to pull along till things get better. Come, dear, put down that work and come to me." He was really in chill gloom about her at that moment, but he dreaded a future without affection, and was determined to resist the oncoming of division between them. Rosamond obeyed him, and he took her on his knee, but in her secret soul she was utterly aloof from him. The poor thing saw only that the world was not ordered to her liking, and Lydgate was part of that world. But he held her waist with one hand and laid the other gently on both of hers; for this rather abrupt man had much tenderness in his manners towards women, seeming to have always present in his imagination the weakness of their frames and the delicate poise of their health both in body and mind. And he began again to speak persuasively. "I find, now I look into things a little, Rosy, that it is wonderful what an amount of money slips away in our housekeeping. I suppose the servants are careless, and we have had a great many people coming. But there must be many in our rank who manage with much less: they must do with commoner things, I suppose, and look after the scraps. It seems, money goes but a little way in these matters, for Wrench has everything as plain as possible, and he has a very large practice." "Oh, if you think of living as the Wrenches do!" said Rosamond, with a little turn of her neck. "But I have heard you express your disgust at that way of living." "Yes, they have bad taste in everything--they make economy look ugly. We needn't do that. I only meant that they avoid expenses, although Wrench has a capital practice." "Why should not you have a good practice, Tertius? Mr. Peacock had. You should be more careful not to offend people, and you should send out medicines as the others do. I am sure you began well, and you got several good houses. It cannot answer to be eccentric; you should think what will be generally liked," said Rosamond, in a decided little tone of admonition. Lydgate's anger rose: he was prepared to be indulgent towards feminine weakness, but not towards feminine dictation. The shallowness of a waternixie's soul may have a charm until she becomes didactic. But he controlled himself, and only said, with a touch of despotic firmness-- "What I am to do in my practice, Rosy, it is for me to judge. That is not the question between us. It is enough for you to know that our income is likely to be a very narrow one--hardly four hundred, perhaps less, for a long time to come, and we must try to re-arrange our lives in accordance with that fact." Rosamond was silent for a moment or two, looking before her, and then said, "My uncle Bulstrode ought to allow you a salary for the time you give to the Hospital: it is not right that you should work for nothing." "It was understood from the beginning that my services would be gratuitous. That, again, need not enter into our discussion. I have pointed out what is the only probability," said Lydgate, impatiently. Then checking himself, he went on more quietly-- "I think I see one resource which would free us from a good deal of the present difficulty. I hear that young Ned Plymdale is going to be married to Miss Sophy Toller. They are rich, and it is not often that a good house is vacant in Middlemarch. I feel sure that they would be glad to take this house from us with most of our furniture, and they would be willing to pay handsomely for the lease. I can employ Trumbull to speak to Plymdale about it." Rosamond left her husband's knee and walked slowly to the other end of the room; when she turned round and walked towards him it was evident that the tears had come, and that she was biting her under-lip and clasping her hands to keep herself from crying. Lydgate was wretched--shaken with anger and yet feeling that it would be unmanly to vent the anger just now. "I am very sorry, Rosamond; I know this is painful." "I thought, at least, when I had borne to send the plate back and have that man taking an inventory of the furniture--I should have thought _that_ would suffice." "I explained it to you at the time, dear. That was only a security and behind that security there is a debt. And that debt must be paid within the next few months, else we shall have our furniture sold. If young Plymdale will take our house and most of our furniture, we shall be able to pay that debt, and some others too, and we shall be quit of a place too expensive for us. We might take a smaller house: Trumbull, I know, has a very decent one to let at thirty pounds a-year, and this is ninety." Lydgate uttered this speech in the curt hammering way with which we usually try to nail down a vague mind to imperative facts. Tears rolled silently down Rosamond's cheeks; she just pressed her handkerchief against them, and stood looking at the large vase on the mantel-piece. It was a moment of more intense bitterness than she had ever felt before. At last she said, without hurry and with careful emphasis-- "I never could have believed that you would like to act in that way." "Like it?" burst out Lydgate, rising from his chair, thrusting his hands in his pockets and stalking away from the hearth; "it's not a question of liking. Of course, I don't like it; it's the only thing I can do." He wheeled round there, and turned towards her. "I should have thought there were many other means than that," said Rosamond. "Let us have a sale and leave Middlemarch altogether." "To do what? What is the use of my leaving my work in Middlemarch to go where I have none? We should be just as penniless elsewhere as we are here," said Lydgate still more angrily. "If we are to be in that position it will be entirely your own doing, Tertius," said Rosamond, turning round to speak with the fullest conviction. "You will not behave as you ought to do to your own family. You offended Captain Lydgate. Sir Godwin was very kind to me when we were at Quallingham, and I am sure if you showed proper regard to him and told him your affairs, he would do anything for you. But rather than that, you like giving up our house and furniture to Mr. Ned Plymdale." There was something like fierceness in Lydgate's eyes, as he answered with new violence, "Well, then, if you will have it so, I do like it. I admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by going to beg where it's of no use. Understand then, that it is what I _like to do._" There was a tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the clutch of his strong hand on Rosamond's delicate arm. But for all that, his will was not a whit stronger than hers. She immediately walked out of the room in silence, but with an intense determination to hinder what Lydgate liked to do. He went out of the house, but as his blood cooled he felt that the chief result of the discussion was a deposit of dread within him at the idea of opening with his wife in future subjects which might again urge him to violent speech. It was as if a fracture in delicate crystal had begun, and he was afraid of any movement that might make it fatal. His marriage would be a mere piece of bitter irony if they could not go on loving each other. He had long ago made up his mind to what he thought was her negative character--her want of sensibility, which showed itself in disregard both of his specific wishes and of his general aims. The first great disappointment had been borne: the tender devotedness and docile adoration of the ideal wife must be renounced, and life must be taken up on a lower stage of expectation, as it is by men who have lost their limbs. But the real wife had not only her claims, she had still a hold on his heart, and it was his intense desire that the hold should remain strong. In marriage, the certainty, "She will never love me much," is easier to bear than the fear, "I shall love her no more." Hence, after that outburst, his inward effort was entirely to excuse her, and to blame the hard circumstances which were partly his fault. He tried that evening, by petting her, to heal the wound he had made in the morning, and it was not in Rosamond's nature to be repellent or sulky; indeed, she welcomed the signs that her husband loved her and was under control. But this was something quite distinct from loving _him_. Lydgate would not have chosen soon to recur to the plan of parting with the house; he was resolved to carry it out, and say as little more about it as possible. But Rosamond herself touched on it at breakfast by saying, mildly-- "Have you spoken to Trumbull yet?" "No," said Lydgate, "but I shall call on him as I go by this morning. No time must be lost." He took Rosamond's question as a sign that she withdrew her inward opposition, and kissed her head caressingly when he got up to go away. As soon as it was late enough to make a call, Rosamond went to Mrs. Plymdale, Mr. Ned's mother, and entered with pretty congratulations into the subject of the coming marriage. Mrs. Plymdale's maternal view was, that Rosamond might possibly now have retrospective glimpses of her own folly; and feeling the advantages to be at present all on the side of her son, was too kind a woman not to behave graciously. "Yes, Ned is most happy, I must say. And Sophy Toller is all I could desire in a daughter-in-law. Of course her father is able to do something handsome for her--that is only what would be expected with a brewery like his. And the connection is everything we should desire. But that is not what I look at. She is such a very nice girl--no airs, no pretensions, though on a level with the first. I don't mean with the titled aristocracy. I see very little good in people aiming out of their own sphere. I mean that Sophy is equal to the best in the town, and she is contented with that." "I have always thought her very agreeable," said Rosamond. "I look upon it as a reward for Ned, who never held his head too high, that he should have got into the very best connection," continued Mrs. Plymdale, her native sharpness softened by a fervid sense that she was taking a correct view. "And such particular people as the Tollers are, they might have objected because some of our friends are not theirs. It is well known that your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from our youth, and Mr. Plymdale has been always on Mr. Bulstrode's side. And I myself prefer serious opinions. But the Tollers have welcomed Ned all the same." "I am sure he is a very deserving, well-principled young man," said Rosamond, with a neat air of patronage in return for Mrs. Plymdale's wholesome corrections. "Oh, he has not the style of a captain in the army, or that sort of carriage as if everybody was beneath him, or that showy kind of talking, and singing, and intellectual talent. But I am thankful he has not. It is a poor preparation both for here and Hereafter." "Oh dear, yes; appearances have very little to do with happiness," said Rosamond. "I think there is every prospect of their being a happy couple. What house will they take?" "Oh, as for that, they must put up with what they can get. They have been looking at the house in St. Peter's Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt's; it belongs to him, and he is putting it nicely in repair. I suppose they are not likely to hear of a better. Indeed, I think Ned will decide the matter to-day." "I should think it is a nice house; I like St. Peter's Place." "Well, it is near the Church, and a genteel situation. But the windows are narrow, and it is all ups and downs. You don't happen to know of any other that would be at liberty?" said Mrs. Plymdale, fixing her round black eyes on Rosamond with the animation of a sudden thought in them. "Oh no; I hear so little of those things." Rosamond had not foreseen that question and answer in setting out to pay her visit; she had simply meant to gather any information which would help her to avert the parting with her own house under circumstances thoroughly disagreeable to her. As to the untruth in her reply, she no more reflected on it than she did on the untruth there was in her saying that appearances had very little to do with happiness. Her object, she was convinced, was thoroughly justifiable: it was Lydgate whose intention was inexcusable; and there was a plan in her mind which, when she had carried it out fully, would prove how very false a step it would have been for him to have descended from his position. She returned home by Mr. Borthrop Trumbull's office, meaning to call there. It was the first time in her life that Rosamond had thought of doing anything in the form of business, but she felt equal to the occasion. That she should be obliged to do what she intensely disliked, was an idea which turned her quiet tenacity into active invention. Here was a case in which it could not be enough simply to disobey and be serenely, placidly obstinate: she must act according to her judgment, and she said to herself that her judgment was right--"indeed, if it had not been, she would not have wished to act on it." Mr. Trumbull was in the back-room of his office, and received Rosamond with his finest manners, not only because he had much sensibility to her charms, but because the good-natured fibre in him was stirred by his certainty that Lydgate was in difficulties, and that this uncommonly pretty woman--this young lady with the highest personal attractions--was likely to feel the pinch of trouble--to find herself involved in circumstances beyond her control. He begged her to do him the honor to take a seat, and stood before her trimming and comporting himself with an eager solicitude, which was chiefly benevolent. Rosamond's first question was, whether her husband had called on Mr. Trumbull that morning, to speak about disposing of their house. "Yes, ma'am, yes, he did; he did so," said the good auctioneer, trying to throw something soothing into his iteration. "I was about to fulfil his order, if possible, this afternoon. He wished me not to procrastinate." "I called to tell you not to go any further, Mr. Trumbull; and I beg of you not to mention what has been said on the subject. Will you oblige me?" "Certainly I will, Mrs. Lydgate, certainly. Confidence is sacred with me on business or any other topic. I am then to consider the commission withdrawn?" said Mr. Trumbull, adjusting the long ends of his blue cravat with both hands, and looking at Rosamond deferentially. "Yes, if you please. I find that Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house--the one in St. Peter's Place next to Mr. Hackbutt's. Mr. Lydgate would be annoyed that his orders should be fulfilled uselessly. And besides that, there are other circumstances which render the proposal unnecessary." "Very good, Mrs. Lydgate, very good. I am at your commands, whenever you require any service of me," said Mr. Trumbull, who felt pleasure in conjecturing that some new resources had been opened. "Rely on me, I beg. The affair shall go no further." That evening Lydgate was a little comforted by observing that Rosamond was more lively than she had usually been of late, and even seemed interested in doing what would please him without being asked. He thought, "If she will be happy and I can rub through, what does it all signify? It is only a narrow swamp that we have to pass in a long journey. If I can get my mind clear again, I shall do." He was so much cheered that he began to search for an account of experiments which he had long ago meant to look up, and had neglected out of that creeping self-despair which comes in the train of petty anxieties. He felt again some of the old delightful absorption in a far-reaching inquiry, while Rosamond played the quiet music which was as helpful to his meditation as the plash of an oar on the evening lake. It was rather late; he had pushed away all the books, and was looking at the fire with his hands clasped behind his head in forgetfulness of everything except the construction of a new controlling experiment, when Rosamond, who had left the piano and was leaning back in her chair watching him, said-- "Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house already." Lydgate, startled and jarred, looked up in silence for a moment, like a man who has been disturbed in his sleep. Then flushing with an unpleasant consciousness, he asked-- "How do you know?" "I called at Mrs. Plymdale's this morning, and she told me that he had taken the house in St. Peter's Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt's." Lydgate was silent. He drew his hands from behind his head and pressed them against the hair which was hanging, as it was apt to do, in a mass on his forehead, while he rested his elbows on his knees. He was feeling bitter disappointment, as if he had opened a door out of a suffocating place and had found it walled up; but he also felt sure that Rosamond was pleased with the cause of his disappointment. He preferred not looking at her and not speaking, until he had got over the first spasm of vexation. After all, he said in his bitterness, what can a woman care about so much as house and furniture? a husband without them is an absurdity. When he looked up and pushed his hair aside, his dark eyes had a miserable blank non-expectance of sympathy in them, but he only said, coolly-- "Perhaps some one else may turn up. I told Trumbull to be on the look-out if he failed with Plymdale." Rosamond made no remark. She trusted to the chance that nothing more would pass between her husband and the auctioneer until some issue should have justified her interference; at any rate, she had hindered the event which she immediately dreaded. After a pause, she said-- "How much money is it that those disagreeable people want?" "What disagreeable people?" "Those who took the list--and the others. I mean, how much money would satisfy them so that you need not be troubled any more?" Lydgate surveyed her for a moment, as if he were looking for symptoms, and then said, "Oh, if I could have got six hundred from Plymdale for furniture and as premium, I might have managed. I could have paid off Dover, and given enough on account to the others to make them wait patiently, if we contracted our expenses." "But I mean how much should you want if we stayed in this house?" "More than I am likely to get anywhere," said Lydgate, with rather a grating sarcasm in his tone. It angered him to perceive that Rosamond's mind was wandering over impracticable wishes instead of facing possible efforts. "Why should you not mention the sum?" said Rosamond, with a mild indication that she did not like his manners. "Well," said Lydgate in a guessing tone, "it would take at least a thousand to set me at ease. But," he added, incisively, "I have to consider what I shall do without it, not with it." Rosamond said no more. But the next day she carried out her plan of writing to Sir Godwin Lydgate. Since the Captain's visit, she had received a letter from him, and also one from Mrs. Mengan, his married sister, condoling with her on the loss of her baby, and expressing vaguely the hope that they should see her again at Quallingham. Lydgate had told her that this politeness meant nothing; but she was secretly convinced that any backwardness in Lydgate's family towards him was due to his cold and contemptuous behavior, and she had answered the letters in her most charming manner, feeling some confidence that a specific invitation would follow. But there had been total silence. The Captain evidently was not a great penman, and Rosamond reflected that the sisters might have been abroad. However, the season was come for thinking of friends at home, and at any rate Sir Godwin, who had chucked her under the chin, and pronounced her to be like the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Croly, who had made a conquest of him in 1790, would be touched by any appeal from her, and would find it pleasant for her sake to behave as he ought to do towards his nephew. Rosamond was naively convinced of what an old gentleman ought to do to prevent her from suffering annoyance. And she wrote what she considered the most judicious letter possible--one which would strike Sir Godwin as a proof of her excellent sense--pointing out how desirable it was that Tertius should quit such a place as Middlemarch for one more fitted to his talents, how the unpleasant character of the inhabitants had hindered his professional success, and how in consequence he was in money difficulties, from which it would require a thousand pounds thoroughly to extricate him. She did not say that Tertius was unaware of her intention to write; for she had the idea that his supposed sanction of her letter would be in accordance with what she did say of his great regard for his uncle Godwin as the relative who had always been his best friend. Such was the force of Poor Rosamond's tactics now she applied them to affairs. This had happened before the party on New Year's Day, and no answer had yet come from Sir Godwin. But on the morning of that day Lydgate had to learn that Rosamond had revoked his order to Borthrop Trumbull. Feeling it necessary that she should be gradually accustomed to the idea of their quitting the house in Lowick Gate, he overcame his reluctance to speak to her again on the subject, and when they were breakfasting said-- "I shall try to see Trumbull this morning, and tell him to advertise the house in the 'Pioneer' and the 'Trumpet.' If the thing were advertised, some one might be inclined to take it who would not otherwise have thought of a change. In these country places many people go on in their old houses when their families are too large for them, for want of knowing where they can find another. And Trumbull seems to have got no bite at all." Rosamond knew that the inevitable moment was come. "I ordered Trumbull not to inquire further," she said, with a careful calmness which was evidently defensive. Lydgate stared at her in mute amazement. Only half an hour before he had been fastening up her plaits for her, and talking the "little language" of affection, which Rosamond, though not returning it, accepted as if she had been a serene and lovely image, now and then miraculously dimpling towards her votary. With such fibres still astir in him, the shock he received could not at once be distinctly anger; it was confused pain. He laid down the knife and fork with which he was carving, and throwing himself back in his chair, said at last, with a cool irony in his tone-- "May I ask when and why you did so?" "When I knew that the Plymdales had taken a house, I called to tell him not to mention ours to them; and at the same time I told him not to let the affair go on any further. I knew that it would be very injurious to you if it were known that you wished to part with your house and furniture, and I had a very strong objection to it. I think that was reason enough." "It was of no consequence then that I had told you imperative reasons of another kind; of no consequence that I had come to a different conclusion, and given an order accordingly?" said Lydgate, bitingly, the thunder and lightning gathering about his brow and eyes. The effect of any one's anger on Rosamond had always been to make her shrink in cold dislike, and to become all the more calmly correct, in the conviction that she was not the person to misbehave whatever others might do. She replied-- "I think I had a perfect right to speak on a subject which concerns me at least as much as you." "Clearly--you had a right to speak, but only to me. You had no right to contradict my orders secretly, and treat me as if I were a fool," said Lydgate, in the same tone as before. Then with some added scorn, "Is it possible to make you understand what the consequences will be? Is it of any use for me to tell you again why we must try to part with the house?" "It is not necessary for you to tell me again," said Rosamond, in a voice that fell and trickled like cold water-drops. "I remembered what you said. You spoke just as violently as you do now. But that does not alter my opinion that you ought to try every other means rather than take a step which is so painful to me. And as to advertising the house, I think it would be perfectly degrading to you." "And suppose I disregard your opinion as you disregard mine?" "You can do so, of course. But I think you ought to have told me before we were married that you would place me in the worst position, rather than give up your own will." Lydgate did not speak, but tossed his head on one side, and twitched the corners of his mouth in despair. Rosamond, seeing that he was not looking at her, rose and set his cup of coffee before him; but he took no notice of it, and went on with an inward drama and argument, occasionally moving in his seat, resting one arm on the table, and rubbing his hand against his hair. There was a conflux of emotions and thoughts in him that would not let him either give thorough way to his anger or persevere with simple rigidity of resolve. Rosamond took advantage of his silence. "When we were married everyone felt that your position was very high. I could not have imagined then that you would want to sell our furniture, and take a house in Bride Street, where the rooms are like cages. If we are to live in that way let us at least leave Middlemarch." "These would be very strong considerations," said Lydgate, half ironically--still there was a withered paleness about his lips as he looked at his coffee, and did not drink--"these would be very strong considerations if I did not happen to be in debt." "Many persons must have been in debt in the same way, but if they are respectable, people trust them. I am sure I have heard papa say that the Torbits were in debt, and they went on very well. It cannot be good to act rashly," said Rosamond, with serene wisdom. Lydgate sat paralyzed by opposing impulses: since no reasoning he could apply to Rosamond seemed likely to conquer her assent, he wanted to smash and grind some object on which he could at least produce an impression, or else to tell her brutally that he was master, and she must obey. But he not only dreaded the effect of such extremities on their mutual life--he had a growing dread of Rosamond's quiet elusive obstinacy, which would not allow any assertion of power to be final; and again, she had touched him in a spot of keenest feeling by implying that she had been deluded with a false vision of happiness in marrying him. As to saying that he was master, it was not the fact. The very resolution to which he had wrought himself by dint of logic and honorable pride was beginning to relax under her torpedo contact. He swallowed half his cup of coffee, and then rose to go. "I may at least request that you will not go to Trumbull at present--until it has been seen that there are no other means," said Rosamond. Although she was not subject to much fear, she felt it safer not to betray that she had written to Sir Godwin. "Promise me that you will not go to him for a few weeks, or without telling me." Lydgate gave a short laugh. "I think it is I who should exact a promise that you will do nothing without telling me," he said, turning his eyes sharply upon her, and then moving to the door. "You remember that we are going to dine at papa's," said Rosamond, wishing that he should turn and make a more thorough concession to her. But he only said "Oh yes," impatiently, and went away. She held it to be very odious in him that he did not think the painful propositions he had had to make to her were enough, without showing so unpleasant a temper. And when she put the moderate request that he would defer going to Trumbull again, it was cruel in him not to assure her of what he meant to do. She was convinced of her having acted in every way for the best; and each grating or angry speech of Lydgate's served only as an addition to the register of offences in her mind. Poor Rosamond for months had begun to associate her husband with feelings of disappointment, and the terribly inflexible relation of marriage had lost its charm of encouraging delightful dreams. It had freed her from the disagreeables of her father's house, but it had not given her everything that she had wished and hoped. The Lydgate with whom she had been in love had been a group of airy conditions for her, most of which had disappeared, while their place had been taken by every-day details which must be lived through slowly from hour to hour, not floated through with a rapid selection of favorable aspects. The habits of Lydgate's profession, his home preoccupation with scientific subjects, which seemed to her almost like a morbid vampire's taste, his peculiar views of things which had never entered into the dialogue of courtship--all these continually alienating influences, even without the fact of his having placed himself at a disadvantage in the town, and without that first shock of revelation about Dover's debt, would have made his presence dull to her. There was another presence which ever since the early days of her marriage, until four months ago, had been an agreeable excitement, but that was gone: Rosamond would not confess to herself how much the consequent blank had to do with her utter ennui; and it seemed to her (perhaps she was right) that an invitation to Quallingham, and an opening for Lydgate to settle elsewhere than in Middlemarch--in London, or somewhere likely to be free from unpleasantness--would satisfy her quite well, and make her indifferent to the absence of Will Ladislaw, towards whom she felt some resentment for his exaltation of Mrs. Casaubon. That was the state of things with Lydgate and Rosamond on the New Year's Day when they dined at her father's, she looking mildly neutral towards him in remembrance of his ill-tempered behavior at breakfast, and he carrying a much deeper effect from the inward conflict in which that morning scene was only one of many epochs. His flushed effort while talking to Mr. Farebrother--his effort after the cynical pretence that all ways of getting money are essentially the same, and that chance has an empire which reduces choice to a fool's illusion--was but the symptom of a wavering resolve, a benumbed response to the old stimuli of enthusiasm. What was he to do? He saw even more keenly than Rosamond did the dreariness of taking her into the small house in Bride Street, where she would have scanty furniture around her and discontent within: a life of privation and life with Rosamond were two images which had become more and more irreconcilable ever since the threat of privation had disclosed itself. But even if his resolves had forced the two images into combination, the useful preliminaries to that hard change were not visibly within reach. And though he had not given the promise which his wife had asked for, he did not go again to Trumbull. He even began to think of taking a rapid journey to the North and seeing Sir Godwin. He had once believed that nothing would urge him into making an application for money to his uncle, but he had not then known the full pressure of alternatives yet more disagreeable. He could not depend on the effect of a letter; it was only in an interview, however disagreeable this might be to himself, that he could give a thorough explanation and could test the effectiveness of kinship. No sooner had Lydgate begun to represent this step to himself as the easiest than there was a reaction of anger that he--he who had long ago determined to live aloof from such abject calculations, such self-interested anxiety about the inclinations and the pockets of men with whom he had been proud to have no aims in common--should have fallen not simply to their level, but to the level of soliciting them. 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.

Einige Männer, die in häuslichen Problemen gefangen sind, trösten sich mit der Vorstellung, dass sie großartige Seelen sind, die von Langweiligkeit gefangen werden. Lydgate hat so viel Selbstgefälligkeit. Er war von dem Bewusstsein verbittert, "dass es ein großartiges Dasein in Gedanken und wirksamem Handeln um ihn herum gab, während sein Selbst in die elende Isolation egoistischer Ängste und vulgärer Sorgen eingeschränkt wurde." Rosamond bekämpft ihn bei jedem Schritt in Bezug auf die Verringerung der Bediensteten, den Verkauf einiger ihrer Schmuckstücke und schließlich den Verkauf ihres großen Hauses. Ihre Taktiken sind immer Distanziertheit und stille Sturheit. Nachdem Lydgate den Auktionator gebeten hat, das Haus zu verkaufen, geht sie heimlich zu ihm und widerruft seine Anweisungen. Als er sich weigert, seinen Onkel um Hilfe zu bitten, schreibt sie heimlich einen Appell an den Onkel und bittet um tausend Pfund. Sie hat kein Interesse mehr an Lydgate oder seinem Beruf, den sie als "den Geschmack eines krankhaftigen Vampirs" betrachtet.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 my return, I found the following letter from my father:-- "_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN. "MY DEAR VICTOR, "You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings. "William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered! "I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction. "Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen his brother: he said, that they had been playing together, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return. "This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer's finger was on his neck. "He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my darling infant!' "She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had teazed her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William. "Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling! "Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies. "Your affectionate and afflicted father, "ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN. "Geneva, May 12th, 17--." * * * * * Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?" I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune. "I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?" "To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses." During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits. He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "that dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does not now feel the murderer's grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his brother." Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend. My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time? One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm, and the snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc; I wept like a child: "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?" I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake. Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village half a league to the east of the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased. I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared. I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me. Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open; and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent. It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising. Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respectable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But we are now unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable." Ernest began to weep as he said these words. "Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father's house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?" "She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered----" "The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw." "I do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was discovered. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?" "Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?" "No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us: and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will then hear all." He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed; and, after several days, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent." At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God, Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William." "We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly." "My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent." "If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted." This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her; and, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil result. We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion fair, and her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William." "She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal." "How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched; for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner, rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept. "Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In Ingolstadt erhalten Victor und Henry einen Brief von Victors Vater: William, Victors jüngster Bruder, wurde ermordet. Während eines abendlichen Spaziergangs mit der Familie verschwand der Junge; am nächsten Morgen wurde er tot aufgefunden. Am Tag des Mordes hatte Elizabeth dem Jungen erlaubt, ein antikes Medaillon mit Carolines Bild zu tragen. Bei der Untersuchung der Leiche stellt Elizabeth fest, dass das Medaillon verschwunden ist; sie wird ohnmächtig beim Gedanken daran, dass William wegen des Schmuckstücks ermordet wurde. Sie gibt sich selbst die Schuld an seinem Tod. Victors Vater bittet ihn dringend, sofort nach Hause zu kommen, da seine Anwesenheit dazu beitragen wird, das verwüstete Haus zu beruhigen. Clerval zeigt sein tiefstes Mitgefühl und hilft Victor, die Pferde für seine Reise zu bestellen. Auf dem Weg nach Genf ergreift Victor eine irrationale Angst. Überzeugt davon, dass ihm zu Hause weitere Katastrophen bevorstehen, verweilt er ein paar Tage in Lausanne. Er sammelt all seinen Mut und macht sich erneut auf den Weg. Victor ist den Tränen nahe, als er seine Heimatstadt sieht, da er sich so lange von ihr entfremdet hat. Trotz seiner Freude, wieder mit Genf vereint zu sein, kehrt seine Angst zurück. Er kommt nachts während eines heftigen Gewitters an. Plötzlich erhellt ein Blitz eine Gestalt, die sich unter den skelettartigen Bäumen versteckt; ihre gigantische Statur verrät, dass es sich um Frankensteins verlorenes Geschöpf handelt. Beim Anblick des "Dämons" ist Victor sich absolut sicher, dass er Williams Mörder ist: Nur ein Monster könnte das Leben eines so engelhaften Jungen nehmen. Victor sehnt sich danach, das Geschöpf zu verfolgen und seine Familie vor der Gefahr zu warnen, die es darstellt. Wenn er jedoch seine fantastische Geschichte erzählt, fürchtet er, für einen Verrückten gehalten zu werden, und beschließt daher, zu schweigen. Auf dem Anwesen der Frankensteins wird Victor mit einer gewissen melancholischen Zuneigung begrüßt. Sein Bruder Ernest berichtet eine schockierende Nachricht: Justine, die vertrauenswürdige Dienstmagd der Familie, wurde des Mordes an William beschuldigt. Das fehlende Medaillon wurde in der Nacht des Mordes bei ihr gefunden. Die Familie - insbesondere Elizabeth - glaubt leidenschaftlich an ihre Unschuld und erklärt, dass ihr Leiden nur noch größer wird, wenn Justine für das Verbrechen bestraft wird. Alle fürchten den Prozess gegen Justine, der für elf Uhr am selben Tag angesetzt 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: Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing. Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm feelings of a great many people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every slight attention, and comfort on those who tended him. One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping. 'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady. Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts. 'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. 'What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?' 'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady. 'I don't know what it is; I can't describe it; but I feel--' 'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie. 'No, no! Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!' Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress. 'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never saw you so before.' 'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.' She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale. Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite well. 'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the matter? She don't look well to-night, but--' The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in a dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she said, in a trembling voice: 'I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years: too happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but I hope it is not this.' 'What?' inquired Oliver. 'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has so long been my comfort and happiness.' 'Oh! God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily. 'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands. 'Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two hours ago, she was quite well.' 'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am sure. My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what shall I do without her!' She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm. 'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your sake, who are so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young.' 'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think like a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!' Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their possessors so seldom know themselves? An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions were but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous fever. 'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; 'this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more than four miles off, by the footpath across the field: and thence dispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to see it done, I know.' Oliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once. 'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.' 'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute his commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter. 'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out. 'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently. 'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. 'I will wait until to-morrow.' With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster. Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at their work: nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town. Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large house, with all the wood about it painted green: before which was the sign of 'The George.' To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye. He spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after hearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing all he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick. This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the bill: which took a long time making out: and after it was ready, and paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes. As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment coming out of the inn door. 'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. 'What the devil's this?' 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get home, and didn't see you were coming.' 'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large dark eyes. 'Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start up from a stone coffin, to come in my way!' 'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. 'I hope I have not hurt you!' 'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his clenched teeth; 'if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might have been free of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you imp! What are you doing here?' The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell violently on the ground: writhing and foaming, in a fit. Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as fast as he could, to make up for lost time: and recalling with a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person from whom he had just parted. The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive all considerations of self completely from his memory. Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was delirious. A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered.' How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling of feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge! Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat violently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them! Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived. 'It is hard,' said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope.' Another morning. The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence. There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering overhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy raised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother--a mother once--among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done--of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. 'What of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!' 'You must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray.' 'Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!' 'No!' cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.' The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. 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.

Der Frühling ist vorbei und jetzt ist es Sommer. Ah, Sommer. Eines Tages, nach einem besonders langen Spaziergang, wird Rose beim Klavierspielen sehr emotional. Sie versucht, ihre Tränen vor Mrs. Maylie und Oliver zu verbergen. Offensichtlich ist sie nicht traurig und leugnet, krank zu sein. Aber das ist sie. Sie ist sehr, sehr krank. Sie hat irgendeine Art von Fieber, das zu wilden Temperaturschwankungen führt, und nur in den wenigen Stunden, seit sie von ihrem Spaziergang zurückgekommen sind, hat sich ihre Haut gerötet und sie wird von Minute zu Minute kränker. Mrs. Maylie erkennt, wie ernst es ist und fängt an zu weinen, nachdem sie Rose zu Bett gebracht hat. Oliver tröstet sie so gut er kann und sagt ihr, dass junge und geliebte Menschen niemals sterben. Mrs. Maylie weiß es besser, aber beschließt, dass sie sich zusammenreißen und tun muss, was sie tun muss. Was offensichtlich darin besteht, einen Arzt zu rufen. Und da es anscheinend keine Ärzte im ganzen Dorf gibt, schicken sie nach Mr. Losberne, ihrem alten Freund aus Chertsey. Oliver ist derjenige, der ins Dorf geschickt wird, um den Brief zu verschicken, der Mr. Losberne herbeiruft. Er ist darauf erpicht, loszugehen, aber Mrs. Maylie zögert, ob sie einen zweiten Brief schicken soll oder nicht - er ist an "Harry Maylie Esquire" an irgendeinem Lordhaus adressiert. Wir wissen nicht, wer das ist, und Oliver ist das egal - er will einfach so schnell wie möglich in die Stadt, weil er sich um Rose sorgt. Mrs. Maylie entscheidet sich dagegen, den Brief zu schicken, und Oliver macht sich auf den Weg in die Stadt. Sie hatten damals keine Nachtbriefe wie heute, also muss Oliver jemanden im Gasthaus der Stadt anheuern, der mit einem Pferd nach London reitet und die Nachricht persönlich übergibt. Als Oliver aus dem Gasthaus geht, stößt er mit einem großen Mann in einem Umhang zusammen. Er entschuldigt sich automatisch, aber der Mann reagiert übertrieben: "Tod! Wer hätte das gedacht! Zermalmt ihn zu Asche! Er würde sich aus einem Marmor-Sarg erheben, um mir im Weg zu stehen!". Oliver weicht langsam zurück und nimmt an, dass der Kerl total verrückt ist. Dass der Mann dann auf den Boden fällt, mit Schaum vor dem Mund und die Zähne knirschend, hilft seiner Sache nicht wirklich. Oliver rennt, um Hilfe im Gasthaus zu holen, und dann macht er sich auf den Heimweg. Es gibt zu viel zu tun zu Hause, als dass er sich daran erinnern könnte, Mrs. Maylie von dem verrückten Kerl zu erzählen. Der örtliche "medizinische Praktiker" ist da und glaubt nicht, dass Rose sich erholen wird. Mr. Losberne kommt am nächsten Morgen an und kümmert sich sofort um Rose. Zwei Tage vergehen, und der Erzähler reflektiert darüber, wie seltsam es ist, dass es Sommer ist und alles blüht und in der Blüte des Lebens ist, und doch stirbt Rose. Das Leben steht immer im Kontrast zum Tod, sagt er uns. Mrs. Maylie kommt schließlich aus Roses Zimmer, wo sie in den letzten beiden Tagen fast ständig gesessen hat. Sie sagt, dass Rose eingeschlafen ist und entweder einmal aufwachen wird, bevor sie stirbt, oder gesund aufwachen wird. Wir sind uns nicht sicher, wie das medizinisch funktioniert, aber hey. Rate mal was? Sie wacht gesund auf. Alle sind sehr erleichtert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 3. Kon. Mein Herr, warum seid Ihr so unermesslich traurig? Ioh. Es gibt kein Maß für den Anlass, der diese Traurigkeit hervorruft, daher ist die Traurigkeit grenzenlos. Kon. Ihr solltet vernünftig sein. Ioh. Und wenn ich vernünftig gewesen bin, welchen Segen bringt es dann? Kon. Wenn auch keine sofortige Heilung, so doch geduldiges Leiden. Ioh. Ich wundere mich, dass du (da du sagst, du seist unter Saturn geboren) versuchst, eine moralische Medizin auf ein zersetzendes Übel anzuwenden. Ich kann nicht verbergen, was ich bin: Ich muss traurig sein, wenn ich Grund dazu habe, und über niemandes Scherze lachen, essen, wenn ich Hunger habe, und nicht auf jemandes freie Zeit warten, schlafen, wenn ich müde bin, und mich um niemandes Geschäfte kümmern, lachen, wenn ich fröhlich bin, und keinen Menschen nach seinem Humor kitzeln. Kon. Ja, aber du darfst das nicht öffentlich zeigen, bis du es ohne Kontrolle tun kannst. Du hast dich in letzter Zeit deinem Bruder widersetzt, und er hat dich gerade erst in seine Gnade aufgenommen. Es ist unmöglich, dass du Wurzeln schlägst, außer durch das gute Wetter, das du selbst machst. Es ist notwendig, dass du die Umstände für deine eigene Ernte schaffst. Ioh. Ich wäre lieber eine Blume im Dorn als eine Rose in seiner Gnade, und es passt besser zu meinem Blut, von allen verachtet zu werden, als eine Haltung anzunehmen, die jeder Liebe beraubt. In diesem Punkt (obwohl ich nicht behaupten kann, ein schmeichelhafter ehrlicher Mann zu sein) kann man nicht leugnen, dass ich ein geradliniger Schurke bin. Ich bin mit einer Maulkorb ausgestattet und mit einer Kette befreit. Daher habe ich beschlossen, nicht in meinem Käfig zu singen. Wenn ich meinen Mund hätte, würde ich beißen. Wenn ich meine Freiheit hätte, würde ich tun, was mir gefällt. In der Zwischenzeit lasst mich sein, wer ich bin, und versucht nicht, mich zu ändern. Kon. Kannst du deine Unzufriedenheit nicht nutzen? Ioh. Ich werde sie voll und ganz nutzen, denn ich nutze sie nur. Wer kommt da? Was gibt es Neues, Borachio? Borachio tritt auf. Bor. Ich komme gerade von einem großen Abendessen. Der Prinz, dein Bruder, wird von Leonato königlich bewirtet, und ich kann dir von einer geplanten Hochzeit berichten. Ioh. Wird es dazu dienen, Unheil anzurichten? Wer ist der Dummkopf, der sich zur Unruhe selbst verlobt? Bor. Es ist tatsächlich deine rechte Hand, dein Bruder. Ioh. Wer, der exquisite Claudio? Bor. Genau er. Ioh. Ein passender Kavalier, und wer ist sie, und wie sieht sie aus? Bor. Die Tochter und Erbin von Leonato, Hero. Ioh. Ein sehr vorwärtsgerichteter Frühlingsspross. Wie bist du dazu gekommen? Bor. Als ich als Parfümeur unterhalten wurde, in einem muffigen Raum rauchte, kamen der Prinz und Claudio, Hand in Hand, in trauriger Konferenz. Ich versteckte mich hinter dem Wandteppich und hörte dort vereinbart, dass der Prinz selbst um Hero werben würde und sie dann an Graf Claudio geben würde. Ioh. Komm, lass uns dorthin gehen. Das mag Nahrung für meinen Unmut sein. Dieser junge Emporkömmling hat all den Ruhm meines Untergangs. Wenn ich ihm irgendwie in die Quere kommen kann, segne ich mich in jeder Hinsicht. Ihr seid euch sicher und werdet mir helfen, oder? Konr. Bis zum Tod, mein Herr. Ioh. Lasst uns zum großen Abendessen gehen. Ihre Gerichte sind umso reichhaltiger, weil ich unterworfen bin. Wäre der Koch nur meiner Meinung. Sollen wir gehen und sehen, was zu tun ist? Bor. Wir werden Euch begleiten. Abgang. 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.

Im Palast des Erzbischofs von York diskutieren die Rebellen ihre Hoffnungen und Pläne. Sie haben eine Armee von 25.000 Mann und warten darauf, durch die Verstärkung von Northumberlands Truppen noch stärker zu werden. Bardolph rät ihnen, auf die Ankunft dieser Truppen zu warten, bevor sie sich in eine Schlacht wagen. Das Nicht-Warten auf Verstärkung war der Fehler, den Hotspur in Shrewsbury begangen hatte. Bardolph rät zu einer sorgfältigen, nüchternen Einschätzung der Situation. Er möchte keine unnötigen Risiken eingehen, indem er sich einbildet, dass ihre Kräfte stärker sind, als sie es tatsächlich sind. Hastings erwidert, dass er glaubt, dass sie stark genug sind, selbst wenn keine zusätzlichen Truppen kommen, um dem König gleichzukommen. Er argumentiert, dass die Kräfte des Königs geteilt sind. Eine Armee kämpft gegen die Franzosen, eine andere gegen den walisischen Rebellen Glendower. Der Erzbischof unterstützt Hastings und rät den Rebellen dazu, voranzuschreiten. Er und Hastings setzen sich durch, und die Rebellen beginnen mit ihren Vorbereitungen. .

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Sara ein anderes Kind gewesen wäre, wäre das Leben, das sie in den nächsten Jahren in Miss Minchins auserwähltem Internat führte, überhaupt nicht gut für sie gewesen. Man behandelte sie eher wie eine angesehene Gästin in der Einrichtung als wie ein einfaches kleines Mädchen. Wenn sie ein selbstgefälliges, herrisches Kind gewesen wäre, hätte sie durch all die Verwöhnung und Schmeichelei unerträglich genug werden können. Wenn sie ein faules Kind gewesen wäre, hätte sie nichts gelernt. Privat mochte Miss Minchin sie nicht, aber sie war eine zu weltliche Frau, um etwas zu tun oder zu sagen, was solch eine begehrte Schülerin dazu veranlassen könnte, ihre Schule zu verlassen. Sie wusste sehr wohl, dass, wenn Sara ihrem Papa schrieb, um ihm mitzuteilen, dass sie sich unwohl oder unglücklich fühlte, Captain Crewe sie sofort wegnehmen würde. Miss Minchins Meinung war, dass wenn ein Kind ständig gelobt und nie daran gehindert wird, das zu tun, was es will, es sicherlich den Ort mögen würde, an dem es so behandelt wird. Dementsprechend wurde Sara für ihre Schnelligkeit in ihren Lektionen gelobt, für ihre guten Manieren, für ihre Freundlichkeit zu ihren Mitpensionatinnen, für ihre Großzügigkeit, wenn sie einem Bettler sechs Penny aus ihrer vollen kleinen Tasche gab. Die einfachste Sache, die sie tat, wurde wie eine Tugend behandelt, und wenn sie nicht eine Veranlagung und ein cleveres kleines Gehirn gehabt hätte, könnte sie eine sehr selbstzufriedene junge Person gewesen sein. Aber das clevere kleine Gehirn sagte ihr viele vernünftige und wahre Dinge über sich selbst und ihre Umstände, und ab und zu besprach sie diese Dinge mit Ermengarde, während die Zeit verging. "Dinge passieren den Menschen zufällig", pflegte sie zu sagen. "Mir sind eine Menge netter Zufälle passiert. Es ergab sich einfach, dass ich immer Unterricht und Bücher mochte und mich an Dinge erinnern konnte, wenn ich sie gelernt hatte. Es ergab sich einfach, dass ich with einem Vater geboren wurde, der schön und nett und klug war und mir alles geben konnte, was ich mochte. Vielleicht habe ich wirklich gar kein gutes Temperament, aber wenn du alles hast, was du willst und alle nett zu dir sind, wie kannst du dann anders als gut gelaunt sein? Ich weiß nicht"- sie schaute ganz ernst- "wie finde jemals heraus, ob ich wirklich ein nettes Kind bin oder ein scheußliches. Vielleicht bin ich ein abscheuliches Kind, und niemand wird es jemals wissen, einfach weil ich keine Prüfungen habe." "Lavinia hat keine Prüfungen", sagte Ermengarde stumpf, "und sie ist schrecklich genug." Sara rieb nachdenklich die Spitze ihrer kleinen Nase, als sie die Sache überdachte. "Nun", sagte sie schließlich, "vielleicht - vielleicht liegt das daran, dass Lavinia WÄCHST." Dies war das Ergebnis einer wohlwollenden Erinnerung daran, dass sie Miss Amelia sagen gehört hatte, dass Lavinia so schnell wuchs, dass sie glaubte, es wirke sich auf ihre Gesundheit und ihr Temperament aus. Lavinia war nämlich boshaft. Sie war übermäßig eifersüchtig auf Sara. Bis zur Ankunft der neuen Schülerin hatte sie sich selbst als Anführerin der Schule angesehen. Sie hatte angeführt, weil sie fähig war, sich äußerst unangenehm zu machen, wenn die anderen ihr nicht folgten. Sie dominierte über die kleinen Kinder und spielte sich bei den Älteren auf. Sie war ziemlich hübsch und hatte den bestgekleideten Schüler im Umzug angeführt, als das auserwählte Internat zu zweit ausging, bis Saras Samt mäntel und Sablefells in Kombination mit hängenden Straußenfedern auftauchten und von Miss Minchin an der Spitze der Reihe geführt wurden. Das war zu Beginn bitter genug gewesen, aber im Laufe der Zeit wurde deutlich, dass Sara auch eine Anführerin war, und nicht, weil sie sich unangenehm machen konnte, sondern weil sie es nie tat. "Bei Sara Crewe gibt es eine Sache", hatte Jessie ihre "beste Freundin" wütend gemacht. "Sie ist nie 'großartig' in Bezug auf sich selbst, Lavvie, auch nicht im Geringsten, und du weißt, dass sie es sein könnte. Ich glaube, ich könnte einfach ein kleines bisschen, wenn ich so viele schöne Dinge hätte und so gefeiert würde. Es ist widerlich, wie Miss Minchin sie präsentiert, wenn Eltern kommen." "'Liebe Sara muss ins Wohnzimmer kommen und mit Frau Musgrave über Indien sprechen'", ahmte Lavinia in ihrer am stärksten gewürzten Imitation von Miss Minchin nach. "'Liebe Sara muss mit Lady Pitkin Französisch sprechen. Ihr Akzent ist so perfekt.'" Das hat sie nicht im Internat gelernt, das steht fest. Und darin steckt auch nichts Cleveres. Sie sagt selbst, dass sie es überhaupt nicht gelernt hat. Sie hat es einfach aufgeschnappt, weil sie es von ihrem Papa immer gehört hat. Und was ihren Papa angeht, es ist nichts so Beeindruckendes daran, ein indischer Offizier zu sein." "Nun", sagte Jessie langsam, "er hat Tiger getötet. Den, dessen Fell Sara in ihrem Zimmer hat. Deshalb mag sie es so gerne. Sie liegt darauf und streichelt seinen Kopf und redet mit ihm, als wäre er eine Katze." "Sie macht immer etwas Dummes", schnappte Lavinia. "Meine Mama sagt, ihre Art, Dinge vorzutäuschen, sei dumm. Sie sagt, dass sie exzentrisch wird, wenn sie erwachsen ist." Es war durchaus wahr, dass Sara nie "großartig" war. Sie war eine freundliche kleine Seele und teilte ihre Privilegien und Besitztümer freigiebig. Die Kleinen, die es gewohnt waren, von erwachsenen Damen im Alter von zehn oder zwölf Jahren verachtet und aus dem Weg geschickt zu werden, wurden von dieser meist beneideten von allen niemals zum Weinen gebracht. Sie war eine mütterliche junge Person, und wenn Leute hinfielen und sich die Knie aufschürften, lief sie zu ihnen hin und half ihnen auf und tätschelte sie oder fand in ihrer Tasche ein Bonbon oder einen anderen beruhigenden Gegenstand. Sie schob sie nie aus dem Weg und erwähnte ihre jungen Jahre nicht als Demütigung und Schande für ihren kleinen Charakter. "Wenn du vier bist, bist du vier", sagte sie streng zu Lavinia, als diese sich erlaubt hatte, Lottie zu schlagen und sie "eine Rotzgöre" zu nennen. "Aber nächstes Jahr wirst du fünf und übernächstes Jahr sechs. Und", ihre großen, überzeugenden Augen öffnend, "es dauert sechzehn Jahre, um zwanzig zu werden." "Ach du meine Güte", sagte Lavinia, "wie können wir das nur berechnen!" Tatsächlich konnte man nicht leugnen, dass sechzehn und vier zwanzig ergaben - und zwanzig war ein Alter, an das die Mutigsten sich kaum zu träumen wagten. So verehrten die jüngeren Kinder Sara. Mehr als einmal hatte sie eine Teeparty veranstaltet, zu der diese verachteten Kinder in ihrem eigenen Zimmer eingeladen waren. Und Emily wurde damit bespielt, und Emilys eigenes Teeservice wurde benutzt - das mit Tassen, die wirklich viel zu süßem, schwachem Tee passten und blaue Blumen darauf hatten. Noch nie zuvor hatte man ein so wirklichkeitsgetreues Puppenteeset gesehen. Ab jenem Nachmittag galt Sara als Göttin und Königin für die gesamte Alphabetklasse. Lottie Legh verehrte sie so sehr, dass sie sie ermüdend gefunden hätte, "Sie sollte ausgepeitscht werden", verkündete Miss Minchin. "Du wirst ausgepeitscht, du ungezogenes Kind!" Lottis Wehklagen wurde lauter denn je. Miss Amelia fing an zu weinen. Miss Minchins Stimme erhob sich immer lauter, fast schon donnernd, dann stand sie plötzlich in nutzloser Empörung von ihrem Stuhl auf und stürmte aus dem Raum, sodass Miss Amelia die Angelegenheit regeln musste. Sara hatte in der Halle innegehalten und sich gefragt, ob sie in den Raum gehen sollte, weil sie vor kurzem begonnen hatte, eine freundschaftliche Bekanntschaft mit Lottie zu pflegen und sie möglicherweise beruhigen könnte. Als Miss Minchin sie sah, schien sie eher genervt zu sein. Sie wurde sich bewusst, dass ihre Stimme, wie sie von innen aus dem Raum gehört wurde, weder würdevoll noch liebenswürdig geklungen haben konnte. "Oh, Sara!" rief sie aus und versuchte ein passendes Lächeln zu produzieren. "Ich blieb stehen", erklärte Sara, "weil ich wusste, dass es Lottie war - und ich dachte, vielleicht - nur vielleicht, könnte ich sie zum Schweigen bringen. Darf ich es versuchen, Miss Minchin?" "Wenn du es kannst, bist du ein kluges Kind", antwortete Miss Minchin und zog ihren Mund scharf ein. Dann, als sie sah, dass Sara etwas gekühlt von ihrer Schroffheit wirkte, änderte sie ihre Art. "Aber du bist in allem clever", sagte sie auf ihre anerkennende Weise. "Ich bin sicher, du kannst es schaffen. Geh rein." Und sie ließ sie alleine. Als Sara den Raum betrat, lag Lottie auf dem Boden, schrie und trat mit ihren kleinen, fetten Beinen wild um sich, und Miss Amelia beugte sich über sie, bestürzt und verzweifelt, mit gerötetem und verschwitztem Gesicht. Lottie hatte immer festgestellt, dass sie in ihrem eigenen Kinderzimmer zu Hause immer zum Schweigen gebracht wurde, wenn sie darauf bestand zu schreien und zu treten. Die arme, korpulente Miss Amelia versuchte eine Methode nach der anderen. "Armes Liebling", sagte sie in dem einen Moment, "ich weiß, du hast keine Mama, arme ..." Dann in einem ganz anderen Tonfall: "Wenn du nicht aufhörst, Lottie, werde ich dich schütteln. Armes kleines Engelchen! So ist es ...! Du böses, schlechtes, verhasstes Kind, ich werde dich schlagen! Das werde ich!" Sara ging ruhig zu ihnen. Sie wusste überhaupt nicht, was sie tun würde, aber sie hatte eine vage innere Überzeugung, dass es besser wäre, nicht so hilflos und erregt solch unterschiedliche Dinge zu sagen. "Miss Amelia", flüsterte sie leise, "Miss Minchin sagt, ich darf versuchen, sie zum Schweigen zu bringen. Darf ich?" Miss Amelia drehte sich hilflos zu ihr um. "Oh, denkst du, du kannst das?", keuchte sie. "Ich weiß nicht, ob ich das kann", antwortete Sara immer noch halblaut, "aber ich werde es versuchen." Miss Amelia richtete sich mit einem schweren Seufzer von ihren Knien auf, und Lotties kleine, dickleibige Beine traten immer noch heftig. "Wenn du den Raum verlässt", sagte Sara, "bleibe ich bei ihr." "Oh, Sara!" beinahe jammerte Miss Amelia. "Wir hatten noch nie ein so schreckliches Kind. Ich glaube nicht, dass wir sie behalten können." Aber sie schlich aus dem Raum und war sehr erleichtert, eine Ausrede dafür gefunden zu haben. Sara stand für ein paar Minuten neben dem heulenden, wütenden Kind und betrachtete es schweigend. Dann setzte sie sich flach auf den Boden neben sie und wartete. Abgesehen von Lotties wütenden Schreien war der Raum ganz ruhig. Das war ein neuer Zustand für die kleine Miss Legh, die es gewohnt war, dass, wenn sie schrie, andere Leute abwechselnd protestierten, flehten, befahlen und überredeten. Sich hinzulegen, zu treten und zu schreien und die einzige Person in der Nähe, die sich nicht im Geringsten darum zu kümmern schien, anzuziehen, erregte ihre Aufmerksamkeit. Sie öffnete ihre straff verschlossenen, tränenüberströmten Augen, um zu sehen, wer diese Person war. Und es war nur ein anderes kleines Mädchen. Aber es war dasjenige, dem Emily und all die schönen Dinge gehörten. Und es betrachtete sie konstant und so, als würde es nur nachdenken. Nach ein paar Sekunden der Erkenntnis dachte Lottie, dass sie wohl wieder anfangen müsse, aber die Ruhe im Raum und das seltsam interessierte Gesicht von Sara machten ihren ersten Schrei eher halbherzig. "Ich - habe - keine - Mama", verkündete sie, aber ihre Stimme war nicht so stark. Sara betrachtete sie noch eindringlicher, aber mit einer Art Verständnis in ihren Augen. "Ich auch nicht", sagte sie. Das war so unerwartet, dass es erstaunlich war. Lottie ließ tatsächlich ihre Beine fallen, zappelte und lag da und starrte. Eine neue Idee bringt ein weinendes Kind zum Schweigen, wenn nichts anderes hilft. Es war auch wahr, dass Lottie Miss Minchin, die mürrisch war, und Miss Amelia, die törichterweise nachgab, nicht mochte, Sara aber mochte sie irgendwie, so wenig sie sie kannte. Sie wollte ihre Beschwerde nicht aufgeben, aber ihre Gedanken wurden davon abgelenkt, also zappelte sie erneut und sagte nach einem mürrischen Schluchzer: "Wo ist sie?" Sara hielt einen Moment inne. Weil man ihr gesagt hatte, dass ihre Mama im Himmel sei, hatte sie viel darüber nachgedacht, und ihre Gedanken waren nicht ganz so wie die von anderen Menschen gewesen. "Sie ist in den Himmel gegangen", sagte sie. "Aber ich bin sicher, sie kommt manchmal raus, um mich zu sehen - obwohl ich sie nicht sehe. Das macht deine auch. Vielleicht können sie uns beide jetzt sehen. Vielleicht sind sie beide in diesem Raum." Lottie saß kerzengerade und schaute sich um. Sie war ein hübsches, kleines Mädchen mit lockigem Haar, und ihre runden Augen waren wie nasse Vergissmeinnicht. Wenn ihre Mama sie während der letzten halben Stunde gesehen hätte, hätte sie sie vielleicht nicht für die Art von Kind gehalten, das mit einem Engel verwandt sein sollte. Sara fuhr fort zu erzählen. Einige Leute mögen vielleicht denken, dass das, was sie sagte, eher wie ein Märchen klang, aber es war alles so real in ihrer eigenen Vorstellung, dass Lottie trotzdem anfing zuzuhören. Man hatte ihr gesagt, dass ihre Mama Flügel und eine Krone hatte, und man hatte ihr Bilder von Damen in schönen weißen Nachthemden gezeigt, die angeblich Engel waren. Aber Sara schien eine echte Geschichte zu erzählen über ein schönes Land, in dem echte Menschen waren. "Dort gibt es Felder und Felder voller Blumen", sagte sie, vergaß sich, wie gewöhnlich, wenn sie anfing, zu reden, und sprach eher wie in einem Traum, "Felder und Felder voller Lilien - und wenn der sanfte Wind über sie hinwegweht, trägt er ihren Duft in die Luft - und jeder atmet ihn immer ein, weil der sanfte Wind immer weht. Und kleine Kinder rennen in den Lilienfeldern herum und sammeln Arm voller Blumen und lachen und machen kleine Kränze. Und die Straßen leuchten. Und die Leute werden nie müde, egal wie weit sie gehen. Sie können überall hin gleiten, wo sie wollen. Und es gibt Wände aus Perlen und Gold rund um die Stadt, aber sie sind niedrig genug, damit die Leute sich darauf abstützen und auf die Erde hinunterblicken und lächeln und schöne Botschaften senden können." Mag sein, dass die Geschichte, die sie angefangen hatte zu erzählen, Lottie zum Weinen gebracht hätte und sie in das Zuhören verwickelt hätte, aber es gab keinen Zweifel daran, dass diese Geschichte hübscher war als die meisten anderen. Sie schob sich näher an Sara heran und sog jedes Wort in sich auf, bis das Ende kam - viel zu früh. Als es kam, war sie so traurig, dass sie bedrohlich ihre Unterlippe vorschob. "Da möchte ich auch hin Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Miss Minchin schleimt die ganze Zeit bei Sara und lobt sie, weil sie will, dass sie in der Internatsschule bleibt - wegen des ganzen Geldes, natürlich. Immer wenn Eltern kommen, wird Sara zu ihnen gebracht, um zu zeigen, wie gut die Schule ist. Das ist natürlich Unsinn, denn Sara hat in der Schule nichts gelernt. Lavinia ist super eifersüchtig auf Sara, wie in "Girls Club". Sie will die Anführerin bleiben und hält Saras Gewohnheit, sich Dinge auszudenken und Geschichten zu erfinden, für völlig albern. Sara ist jedoch super freundlich und nett zu allen Schülern, also mögen sie sie natürlich mehr. Sie veranstaltet sogar Tee-Partys für sie in ihrem Zimmer. Ein kleines Mädchen, Lottie Leigh, neigt zu Wutanfällen und nutzt ständig aus, dass ihre Mutter tot ist, um Vorteile zu erlangen. Eines Tages, als sie einen Wutanfall hat, mit dem Miss Amelia und Miss Minchin nicht umgehen können, bietet sich Sara an, sie zu beruhigen. Sara lässt sie weinen und teilt Lottie dann ruhig mit, dass auch sie keine Mutter hat. Beide Mütter sind im Himmel und es ist ein absolut schöner und engelhafter Ort. Sara sagt, dass sie Lotties Mama in der Schule sein wird und bringt sie dazu, sich das Gesicht zu waschen und sich die Haare zu kämmen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen, exclaiming... "There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better." Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink. She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious. If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out. There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home." In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?" "Not very." "You got through quickly." "Yes, thank goodness!" "Why did you go alone?" "Didn't want anyone to know." "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?" Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at something. "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week." "What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified. "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?" "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing." "I'm glad of that." "Why?" "You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene." Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves. "I'll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It's grand fun and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?" "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?" "Not often." "I wish you wouldn't." "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows." "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head. "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled. "That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now." "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously. "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them." "Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet. I'm not a fashionable party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?" "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? Or there will be an end of all our good times." "I'll be a double distilled saint." "I can't bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid." "You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged." "No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn't worry then." "Do you worry about me, Jo?" "A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you." Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings. "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked presently. "Of course not. Why?" "Because if you are, I'll take a bus. If you're not, I'd like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting." "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely." "Very well, then, come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours." "I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had. "You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie. "Is your secret a nice one?" "Oh, isn't it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin." "You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?" "Not a word." "And you won't tease me in private?" "I never tease." "Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler." "Thank you. Fire away." "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear. "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now. "Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone else to be disappointed." "It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?" Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. "Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement. "I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is." "Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence. "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is." "Tell, then." Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know?" "Saw it." "Where?" "Pocket." "All this time?" "Yes, isn't that romantic?" "No, it's horrid." "Don't you like it?" "Of course I don't. It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?" "You are not to tell anyone. Mind that." "I didn't promise." "That was understood, and I trusted you." "Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me." "I thought you'd be pleased." "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you." "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away." "I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely. "So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea. "I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully. "Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie. No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. "I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves. Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. "What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise. "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up. "And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats." "You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. "Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg. It's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can." As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?" "At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!" "Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie. "I'm afraid I do." "I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk. "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised. "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said. "I shall never '_go_ and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and 'behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on. For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers. "What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. "I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with anyone but her. "It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension. "Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. "You'd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone. "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet. "The Rival Painters." "That sounds well. Read it," said Meg. With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused. "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical. "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face. The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister." "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work. "It's very good," said Amy critically. "I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" and Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success. Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words. "Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that Jo's doin's'. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand. "Tell us about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?" "What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy. "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did over her 'Rival Painters'. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls." Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end. 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.

Jo nimmt heimlich eine Geschichte zu einem Zeitungsverleger und teilt Geheimnisse mit Laurie, der sie dabei erwischt hat, wie sie genug Mut sammeln wollte, um ins Verlagsgebäude zu gehen. Lauries Geheimnis ist, dass Brooke die Person ist, die Megs fehlende Liebe aufbewahrt hat und dass Brooke auf Meg steht. Er denkt, dass Jo erfreut sein wird, aber stattdessen ist sie wütend. Sie beginnt sich seltsam zu verhalten, behandelt Mr. Brooke kalt und starrt traurig auf Meg. Die Sorge um Meg verblasst vorübergehend, als Jos Geschichte veröffentlicht wird. Darüber hinaus hat der Redakteur zugestimmt, weitere ihrer Geschichten zu veröffentlichen und dafür zu bezahlen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 morrow between nine and half-past they were journeying back to Christminster, the only two occupants of a compartment in a third-class railway-carriage. Having, like Jude, made rather a hasty toilet to catch the train, Arabella looked a little frowsy, and her face was very far from possessing the animation which had characterized it at the bar the night before. When they came out of the station she found that she still had half an hour to spare before she was due at the bar. They walked in silence a little way out of the town in the direction of Alfredston. Jude looked up the far highway. "Ah ... poor feeble me!" he murmured at last. "What?" said she. "This is the very road by which I came into Christminster years ago full of plans!" "Well, whatever the road is I think my time is nearly up, as I have to be in the bar by eleven o'clock. And as I said, I shan't ask for the day to go with you to see your aunt. So perhaps we had better part here. I'd sooner not walk up Chief Street with you, since we've come to no conclusion at all." "Very well. But you said when we were getting up this morning that you had something you wished to tell me before I left?" "So I had--two things--one in particular. But you wouldn't promise to keep it a secret. I'll tell you now if you promise? As an honest woman I wish you to know it... It was what I began telling you in the night--about that gentleman who managed the Sydney hotel." Arabella spoke somewhat hurriedly for her. "You'll keep it close?" "Yes--yes--I promise!" said Jude impatiently. "Of course I don't want to reveal your secrets." "Whenever I met him out for a walk, he used to say that he was much taken with my looks, and he kept pressing me to marry him. I never thought of coming back to England again; and being out there in Australia, with no home of my own after leaving my father, I at last agreed, and did." "What--marry him?" "Yes." "Regularly--legally--in church?" "Yes. And lived with him till shortly before I left. It was stupid, I know; but I did! There, now I've told you. Don't round upon me! He talks of coming back to England, poor old chap. But if he does, he won't be likely to find me." Jude stood pale and fixed. "Why the devil didn't you tell me last, night!" he said. "Well--I didn't... Won't you make it up with me, then?" "So in talking of 'your husband' to the bar gentlemen you meant him, of course--not me!" "Of course... Come, don't fuss about it." "I have nothing more to say!" replied Jude. "I have nothing at all to say about the--crime--you've confessed to!" "Crime! Pooh. They don't think much of such as that over there! Lots of 'em do it... Well, if you take it like that I shall go back to him! He was very fond of me, and we lived honourable enough, and as respectable as any married couple in the colony! How did I know where you were?" "I won't go blaming you. I could say a good deal; but perhaps it would be misplaced. What do you wish me to do?" "Nothing. There was one thing more I wanted to tell you; but I fancy we've seen enough of one another for the present! I shall think over what you said about your circumstances, and let you know." Thus they parted. Jude watched her disappear in the direction of the hotel, and entered the railway station close by. Finding that it wanted three-quarters of an hour of the time at which he could get a train back to Alfredston, he strolled mechanically into the city as far as to the Fourways, where he stood as he had so often stood before, and surveyed Chief Street stretching ahead, with its college after college, in picturesqueness unrivalled except by such Continental vistas as the Street of Palaces in Genoa; the lines of the buildings being as distinct in the morning air as in an architectural drawing. But Jude was far from seeing or criticizing these things; they were hidden by an indescribable consciousness of Arabella's midnight contiguity, a sense of degradation at his revived experiences with her, of her appearance as she lay asleep at dawn, which set upon his motionless face a look as of one accurst. If he could only have felt resentment towards her he would have been less unhappy; but he pitied while he contemned her. Jude turned and retraced his steps. Drawing again towards the station he started at hearing his name pronounced--less at the name than at the voice. To his great surprise no other than Sue stood like a vision before him--her look bodeful and anxious as in a dream, her little mouth nervous, and her strained eyes speaking reproachful inquiry. "Oh, Jude--I am so glad--to meet you like this!" she said in quick, uneven accents not far from a sob. Then she flushed as she observed his thought that they had not met since her marriage. They looked away from each other to hide their emotion, took each other's hand without further speech, and went on together awhile, till she glanced at him with furtive solicitude. "I arrived at Alfredston station last night, as you asked me to, and there was nobody to meet me! But I reached Marygreen alone, and they told me Aunt was a trifle better. I sat up with her, and as you did not come all night I was frightened about you--I thought that perhaps, when you found yourself back in the old city, you were upset at--at thinking I was--married, and not there as I used to be; and that you had nobody to speak to; so you had tried to drown your gloom--as you did at that former time when you were disappointed about entering as a student, and had forgotten your promise to me that you never would again. And this, I thought, was why you hadn't come to meet me!" "And you came to hunt me up, and deliver me, like a good angel!" "I thought I would come by the morning train and try to find you--in case--in case--" "I did think of my promise to you, dear, continually! I shall never break out again as I did, I am sure. I may have been doing nothing better, but I was not doing that--I loathe the thought of it." "I am glad your staying had nothing to do with that. But," she said, the faintest pout entering into her tone, "you didn't come back last night and meet me, as you engaged to!" "I didn't--I am sorry to say. I had an appointment at nine o'clock--too late for me to catch the train that would have met yours, or to get home at all." Looking at his loved one as she appeared to him now, in his tender thought the sweetest and most disinterested comrade that he had ever had, living largely in vivid imaginings, so ethereal a creature that her spirit could be seen trembling through her limbs, he felt heartily ashamed of his earthliness in spending the hours he had spent in Arabella's company. There was something rude and immoral in thrusting these recent facts of his life upon the mind of one who, to him, was so uncarnate as to seem at times impossible as a human wife to any average man. And yet she was Phillotson's. How she had become such, how she lived as such, passed his comprehension as he regarded her to-day. "You'll go back with me?" he said. "There's a train just now. I wonder how my aunt is by this time... And so, Sue, you really came on my account all this way! At what an early time you must have started, poor thing!" "Yes. Sitting up watching alone made me all nerves for you, and instead of going to bed when it got light I started. And now you won't frighten me like this again about your morals for nothing?" He was not so sure that she had been frightened about his morals for nothing. He released her hand till they had entered the train,--it seemed the same carriage he had lately got out of with another--where they sat down side by side, Sue between him and the window. He regarded the delicate lines of her profile, and the small, tight, applelike convexities of her bodice, so different from Arabella's amplitudes. Though she knew he was looking at her she did not turn to him, but kept her eyes forward, as if afraid that by meeting his own some troublous discussion would be initiated. "Sue--you are married now, you know, like me; and yet we have been in such a hurry that we have not said a word about it!" "There's no necessity," she quickly returned. "Oh well--perhaps not... But I wish" "Jude--don't talk about ME--I wish you wouldn't!" she entreated. "It distresses me, rather. Forgive my saying it! ... Where did you stay last night?" She had asked the question in perfect innocence, to change the topic. He knew that, and said merely, "At an inn," though it would have been a relief to tell her of his meeting with an unexpected one. But the latter's final announcement of her marriage in Australia bewildered him lest what he might say should do his ignorant wife an injury. Their talk proceeded but awkwardly till they reached Alfredston. That Sue was not as she had been, but was labelled "Phillotson," paralyzed Jude whenever he wanted to commune with her as an individual. Yet she seemed unaltered--he could not say why. There remained the five-mile extra journey into the country, which it was just as easy to walk as to drive, the greater part of it being uphill. Jude had never before in his life gone that road with Sue, though he had with another. It was now as if he carried a bright light which temporarily banished the shady associations of the earlier time. Sue talked; but Jude noticed that she still kept the conversation from herself. At length he inquired if her husband were well. "O yes," she said. "He is obliged to be in the school all the day, or he would have come with me. He is so good and kind that to accompany me he would have dismissed the school for once, even against his principles--for he is strongly opposed to giving casual holidays--only I wouldn't let him. I felt it would be better to come alone. Aunt Drusilla, I knew, was so very eccentric; and his being almost a stranger to her now would have made it irksome to both. Since it turns out that she is hardly conscious I am glad I did not ask him." Jude had walked moodily while this praise of Phillotson was being expressed. "Mr. Phillotson obliges you in everything, as he ought," he said. "Of course." "You ought to be a happy wife." "And of course I am." "Bride, I might almost have said, as yet. It is not so many weeks since I gave you to him, and--" "Yes, I know! I know!" There was something in her face which belied her late assuring words, so strictly proper and so lifelessly spoken that they might have been taken from a list of model speeches in "The Wife's Guide to Conduct." Jude knew the quality of every vibration in Sue's voice, could read every symptom of her mental condition; and he was convinced that she was unhappy, although she had not been a month married. But her rushing away thus from home, to see the last of a relative whom she had hardly known in her life, proved nothing; for Sue naturally did such things as those. "Well, you have my good wishes now as always, Mrs. Phillotson." She reproached him by a glance. "No, you are not Mrs. Phillotson," murmured Jude. "You are dear, free Sue Bridehead, only you don't know it! Wifedom has not yet squashed up and digested you in its vast maw as an atom which has no further individuality." Sue put on a look of being offended, till she answered, "Nor has husbandom you, so far as I can see!" "But it has!" he said, shaking his head sadly. When they reached the lone cottage under the firs, between the Brown House and Marygreen, in which Jude and Arabella had lived and quarrelled, he turned to look at it. A squalid family lived there now. He could not help saying to Sue: "That's the house my wife and I occupied the whole of the time we lived together. I brought her home to that house." She looked at it. "That to you was what the school-house at Shaston is to me." "Yes; but I was not very happy there as you are in yours." She closed her lips in retortive silence, and they walked some way till she glanced at him to see how he was taking it. "Of course I may have exaggerated your happiness--one never knows," he continued blandly. "Don't think that, Jude, for a moment, even though you may have said it to sting me! He's as good to me as a man can be, and gives me perfect liberty--which elderly husbands don't do in general... If you think I am not happy because he's too old for me, you are wrong." "I don't think anything against him--to you dear." "And you won't say things to distress me, will you?" "I will not." He said no more, but he knew that, from some cause or other, in taking Phillotson as a husband, Sue felt that she had done what she ought not to have done. They plunged into the concave field on the other side of which rose the village--the field wherein Jude had received a thrashing from the farmer many years earlier. On ascending to the village and approaching the house they found Mrs. Edlin standing at the door, who at sight of them lifted her hands deprecatingly. "She's downstairs, if you'll believe me!" cried the widow. "Out o' bed she got, and nothing could turn her. What will come o't I do not know!" On entering, there indeed by the fireplace sat the old woman, wrapped in blankets, and turning upon them a countenance like that of Sebastiano's Lazarus. They must have looked their amazement, for she said in a hollow voice: "Ah--sceered ye, have I! I wasn't going to bide up there no longer, to please nobody! 'Tis more than flesh and blood can bear, to be ordered to do this and that by a feller that don't know half as well as you do yourself! ... Ah--you'll rue this marrying as well as he!" she added, turning to Sue. "All our family do--and nearly all everybody else's. You should have done as I did, you simpleton! And Phillotson the schoolmaster, of all men! What made 'ee marry him?" "What makes most women marry, Aunt?" "Ah! You mean to say you loved the man!" "I don't meant to say anything definite." "Do ye love un?" "Don't ask me, Aunt." "I can mind the man very well. A very civil, honourable liver; but Lord!--I don't want to wownd your feelings, but--there be certain men here and there that no woman of any niceness can stomach. I should have said he was one. I don't say so NOW, since you must ha' known better than I--but that's what I SHOULD have said!" Sue jumped up and went out. Jude followed her, and found her in the outhouse, crying. "Don't cry, dear!" said Jude in distress. "She means well, but is very crusty and queer now, you know." "Oh no--it isn't that!" said Sue, trying to dry her eyes. "I don't mind her roughness one bit." "What is it, then?" "It is that what she says is--is true!" "God--what--you don't like him?" asked Jude. "I don't mean that!" she said hastily. "That I ought--perhaps I ought not to have married!" He wondered if she had really been going to say that at first. They went back, and the subject was smoothed over, and her aunt took rather kindly to Sue, telling her that not many young women newly married would have come so far to see a sick old crone like her. In the afternoon Sue prepared to depart, Jude hiring a neighbour to drive her to Alfredston. "I'll go with you to the station, if you'd like?" he said. She would not let him. The man came round with the trap, and Jude helped her into it, perhaps with unnecessary attention, for she looked at him prohibitively. "I suppose--I may come to see you some day, when I am back again at Melchester?" he half-crossly observed. She bent down and said softly: "No, dear--you are not to come yet. I don't think you are in a good mood." "Very well," said Jude. "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" She waved her hand and was gone. "She's right! I won't go!" he murmured. He passed the evening and following days in mortifying by every possible means his wish to see her, nearly starving himself in attempts to extinguish by fasting his passionate tendency to love her. He read sermons on discipline, and hunted up passages in Church history that treated of the Ascetics of the second century. Before he had returned from Marygreen to Melchester there arrived a letter from Arabella. The sight of it revived a stronger feeling of self-condemnation for his brief return to her society than for his attachment to Sue. The letter, he perceived, bore a London postmark instead of the Christminster one. Arabella informed him that a few days after their parting in the morning at Christminster, she had been surprised by an affectionate letter from her Australian husband, formerly manager of the hotel in Sydney. He had come to England on purpose to find her; and had taken a free, fully-licensed public, in Lambeth, where he wished her to join him in conducting the business, which was likely to be a very thriving one, the house being situated in an excellent, densely populated, gin-drinking neighbourhood, and already doing a trade of L200 a month, which could be easily doubled. As he had said that he loved her very much still, and implored her to tell him where she was, and as they had only parted in a slight tiff, and as her engagement in Christminster was only temporary, she had just gone to join him as he urged. She could not help feeling that she belonged to him more than to Jude, since she had properly married him, and had lived with him much longer than with her first husband. In thus wishing Jude good-bye she bore him no ill-will, and trusted he would not turn upon her, a weak woman, and inform against her, and bring her to ruin now that she had a chance of improving her circumstances and leading a genteel life. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Nachdem sie die Nacht als Mann und Frau verbracht haben, kehren Jude und Arabella am nächsten Tag nach Christminster zurück. Arabella erzählt Jude, dass sie in Australien einen Hotelmanager namens Sydney geheiratet hat und dass ihr neuer Ehemann überlegt, ihr nach England zu folgen. Jude ist erstaunt und wütend, aber Arabella scheint sich nicht darum zu kümmern, dass es eine bigame Ehe ist und gesetzlich ungültig ist. Sie erklärt, dass sie zu ihrem australischen Ehemann zurückkehren könnte. Sie trennen sich und Jude geht weiter durch Christminster, als er plötzlich auf Sue trifft, die auf der Suche nach ihm gekommen ist. Sie ist besorgt, dass er den Termin nicht eingehalten hat, und fürchtet, dass er getrunken haben könnte. Jude erzählt ihr nicht von Arabellas Rückkehr, und sie nehmen den Zug zurück nach Marygreen, um Tante Drusilla zu besuchen. Jude hat das Gefühl, dass Sue nicht sehr glücklich mit Phillotson ist, obwohl sie von ihm als einem freundlichen, großzügigen Ehemann spricht. Als sie Tante Drusillas Hütte erreichen, sind sie überrascht zu sehen, dass sie trotz ärztlicher Anweisungen auf den Beinen ist. Sie sagt Sue, dass die Heirat mit Phillotson in der Tat eine dumme Entscheidung war. Sue ist verärgert und gesteht später Jude, dass sie, wie Tante Drusilla sagt, nicht hätte heiraten sollen. Sie bittet Jude, sie nicht zu besuchen, und geht zurück zu Phillotson. Jude bleibt in Marygreen und versucht, sich selbst zu disziplinieren, indem er Kirchengeschichte und Predigten liest. Ein paar Tage später kündigt ein Brief von Arabella an, dass sie sich ihrem australischen Ehemann in London angeschlossen hat, der jetzt eine Kneipe in Lambeth betreibt. Sie hofft, dass Jude über ihre frühere Ehe schweigen 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: The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero himself. They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath. "I never look at it," said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, "without thinking of the south of France." "You have been abroad then?" said Henry, a little surprised. "Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, I dare say?" "Why not?" "Because they are not clever enough for you--gentlemen read better books." "The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I have read all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The Mysteries of Udolpho, when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again; I remember finishing it in two days--my hair standing on end the whole time." "Yes," added Miss Tilney, "and I remember that you undertook to read it aloud to me, and that when I was called away for only five minutes to answer a note, instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into the Hermitage Walk, and I was obliged to stay till you had finished it." "Thank you, Eleanor--a most honourable testimony. You see, Miss Morland, the injustice of your suspicions. Here was I, in my eagerness to get on, refusing to wait only five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made of reading it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting part, by running away with the volume, which, you are to observe, was her own, particularly her own. I am proud when I reflect on it, and I think it must establish me in your good opinion." "I am very glad to hear it indeed, and now I shall never be ashamed of liking Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels amazingly." "It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they do--for they read nearly as many as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars, and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were a good little girl working your sampler at home!" "Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?" "The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding." "Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word 'nicest,' as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way." "I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?" "Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement--people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word." "While, in fact," cried his sister, "it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise. Come, Miss Morland, let us leave him to meditate over our faults in the utmost propriety of diction, while we praise Udolpho in whatever terms we like best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of reading?" "To say the truth, I do not much like any other." "Indeed!" "That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?" "Yes, I am fond of history." "I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths, their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books." "Historians, you think," said Miss Tilney, "are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history--and am very well contented to take the false with the true. In the principal facts they have sources of intelligence in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on, I conclude, as anything that does not actually pass under one's own observation; and as for the little embellishments you speak of, they are embellishments, and I like them as such. If a speech be well drawn up, I read it with pleasure, by whomsoever it may be made--and probably with much greater, if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great." "You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on purpose to do it." "That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as synonymous." "You think me foolish to call instruction a torment, but if you had been as much used as myself to hear poor little children first learning their letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen how stupid they can be for a whole morning together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, as I am in the habit of seeing almost every day of my life at home, you would allow that 'to torment' and 'to instruct' might sometimes be used as synonymous words." "Very probably. But historians are not accountable for the difficulty of learning to read; and even you yourself, who do not altogether seem particularly friendly to very severe, very intense application, may perhaps be brought to acknowledge that it is very well worth-while to be tormented for two or three years of one's life, for the sake of being able to read all the rest of it. Consider--if reading had not been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written in vain--or perhaps might not have written at all." Catherine assented--and a very warm panegyric from her on that lady's merits closed the subject. The Tilneys were soon engaged in another on which she had nothing to say. They were viewing the country with the eyes of persons accustomed to drawing, and decided on its capability of being formed into pictures, with all the eagerness of real taste. Here Catherine was quite lost. She knew nothing of drawing--nothing of taste: and she listened to them with an attention which brought her little profit, for they talked in phrases which conveyed scarcely any idea to her. The little which she could understand, however, appeared to contradict the very few notions she had entertained on the matter before. It seemed as if a good view were no longer to be taken from the top of an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything admired by him, and her attention was so earnest that he became perfectly satisfied of her having a great deal of natural taste. He talked of foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape. Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the enclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and government, he shortly found himself arrived at politics; and from politics, it was an easy step to silence. The general pause which succeeded his short disquisition on the state of the nation was put an end to by Catherine, who, in rather a solemn tone of voice, uttered these words, "I have heard that something very shocking indeed will soon come out in London." Miss Tilney, to whom this was chiefly addressed, was startled, and hastily replied, "Indeed! And of what nature?" "That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is to be more horrible than anything we have met with yet." "Good heaven! Where could you hear of such a thing?" "A particular friend of mine had an account of it in a letter from London yesterday. It is to be uncommonly dreadful. I shall expect murder and everything of the kind." "You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming to effect." "Government," said Henry, endeavouring not to smile, "neither desires nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and government cares not how much." The ladies stared. He laughed, and added, "Come, shall I make you understand each other, or leave you to puzzle out an explanation as you can? No--I will be noble. I will prove myself a man, no less by the generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation, discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit." "Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to satisfy me as to this dreadful riot." "Riot! What riot?" "My dear Eleanor, the riot is only in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Morland has been talking of nothing more dreadful than a new publication which is shortly to come out, in three duodecimo volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages in each, with a frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the hopes of the nation) called up from Northampton to quell the insurgents, and the gallant Captain Frederick Tilney, in the moment of charging at the head of his troop, knocked off his horse by a brickbat from an upper window. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a simpleton in general." Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you intolerably rude to your sister, and a great brute in your opinion of women in general. Miss Morland is not used to your odd ways." "I shall be most happy to make her better acquainted with them." "No doubt; but that is no explanation of the present." "What am I to do?" "You know what you ought to do. Clear your character handsomely before her. Tell her that you think very highly of the understanding of women." "Miss Morland, I think very highly of the understanding of all the women in the world--especially of those--whoever they may be--with whom I happen to be in company." "That is not enough. Be more serious." "Miss Morland, no one can think more highly of the understanding of women than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never find it necessary to use more than half." "We shall get nothing more serious from him now, Miss Morland. He is not in a sober mood. But I do assure you that he must be entirely misunderstood, if he can ever appear to say an unjust thing of any woman at all, or an unkind one of me." It was no effort to Catherine to believe that Henry Tilney could never be wrong. His manner might sometimes surprise, but his meaning must always be just: and what she did not understand, she was almost as ready to admire, as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and though it ended too soon, its conclusion was delightful too; her friends attended her into the house, and Miss Tilney, before they parted, addressing herself with respectful form, as much to Mrs. Allen as to Catherine, petitioned for the pleasure of her company to dinner on the day after the next. No difficulty was made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only difficulty on Catherine's was in concealing the excess of her pleasure. The morning had passed away so charmingly as to banish all her friendship and natural affection, for no thought of Isabella or James had crossed her during their walk. When the Tilneys were gone, she became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment's delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar's Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria." Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement. "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much." Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go." "Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us." Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Tag des Spaziergangs ist gekommen und die Tilneys kommen genau pünktlich an. Sie entscheiden sich für einen Spaziergang am Beechen Cliff. Catherine sagt, die Landschaft erinnere sie an den Süden von Frankreich, von dem sie in gruseligen Romanen gelesen hat. Sie bemerkt, dass Henry wahrscheinlich keine Romane liest, da sie ihm nicht intelligent genug sind. Henry besteht darauf, dass er Romane liebt und dass jeder, der das nicht tut, ein Idiot ist. Catherine ist froh und sagt, dass sie sich nicht mehr für das Lesen von Romanen schämen wird. Catherine ist eindeutig zum Präsidenten des Henry Tilney Fanclubs geworden. Henry und Eleanor necken sich als Geschwister und Eleanor erzählt peinliche Geschichten über Henry und wie er ihr einmal ihr Buch gestohlen hat. Henry fängt an, an der Wortwahl der Leute herumzumäkeln und prahlt damit, dass er viel mehr Romane gelesen hat als Catherine, da er älter ist. Eleanor sagt, dass Henry nervt und fragt Catherine, was sie sonst gerne liest. Die beiden diskutieren Geschichtsbücher. Eleanor mag sie und Catherine findet sie langweilig. Catherine kennt nur Männer, die gerne Geschichtsbücher lesen, also ist Eleanor in dieser Hinsicht ungewöhnlich. Catherine erzählt von ihrer Kindheit mit neun Geschwistern und stellt fest, dass es wirklich nervig ist, sie alle zu erziehen. Die Tilneys fangen an, über malerische Ausblicke zu diskutieren und Catherine schämt sich, dass sie nichts darüber weiß. Der Erzähler bricht ein, um uns wissen zu lassen, dass ungebildete junge Frauen immer mehr Männer anziehen - also ist die unwissende Catherine hier wirklich gut aufgestellt. Die Tilneys erzählen Catherine freundlicherweise alles über das Malerische. Catherine erwähnt dann, dass bald etwas Schockierendes in London passieren wird - sie bezieht sich auf die Veröffentlichung eines neuen Romans, aber Eleanor denkt, dass sie eine Unruhe oder so etwas meint. Henry findet das urkomisch und macht sich über sie lustig. Er erklärt ihnen schließlich das Missverständnis und beleidigt dann die Intelligenz aller Frauen überall. Eleanor sagt ihm, dass er damit aufhören soll, aber er macht trotzdem weiter mit seinen Scherzen. Eleanor versichert Catherine, dass Henry nur Spaß macht und dass er kein richtiges frauenfeindliches Miststück ist, sondern nur so tut. Catherine hat damit kein Problem, da sie denkt, dass Henry nichts falsch machen kann. Nach dem Spaziergang trifft Catherine auf Anne Thorpe, die Jan Brady der Thorpes. Anne ist nicht mitgekommen oder wurde nicht eingeladen, mit ihren Geschwistern und James auf die Reise zu gehen. Anne besteht darauf, dass das Ganze dumm war und dass sie nicht mitgehen wollte. Es ist jedoch nicht klar, ob sie lügt oder nicht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: I ONCE happened to spend a couple of weeks in a Cossack village on our left flank. A battalion of infantry was stationed there; and it was the custom of the officers to meet at each other's quarters in turn and play cards in the evening. On one occasion--it was at Major S----'s--finding our game of Boston not sufficiently absorbing, we threw the cards under the table and sat on for a long time, talking. The conversation, for once in a way, was interesting. The subject was the Mussulman tradition that a man's fate is written in heaven, and we discussed the fact that it was gaining many votaries, even amongst our own countrymen. Each of us related various extraordinary occurrences, pro or contra. "What you have been saying, gentlemen, proves nothing," said the old major. "I presume there is not one of you who has actually been a witness of the strange events which you are citing in support of your opinions?" "Not one, of course," said many of the guests. "But we have heard of them from trustworthy people."... "It is all nonsense!" someone said. "Where are the trustworthy people who have seen the Register in which the appointed hour of our death is recorded?... And if predestination really exists, why are free will and reason granted us? Why are we obliged to render an account of our actions?" At that moment an officer who was sitting in a corner of the room stood up, and, coming slowly to the table, surveyed us all with a quiet and solemn glance. He was a native of Servia, as was evident from his name. The outward appearance of Lieutenant Vulich was quite in keeping with his character. His height, swarthy complexion, black hair, piercing black eyes, large but straight nose--an attribute of his nation--and the cold and melancholy smile which ever hovered around his lips, all seemed to concur in lending him the appearance of a man apart, incapable of reciprocating the thoughts and passions of those whom fate gave him for companions. He was brave; talked little, but sharply; confided his thoughts and family secrets to no one; drank hardly a drop of wine; and never dangled after the young Cossack girls, whose charm it is difficult to realise without having seen them. It was said, however, that the colonel's wife was not indifferent to those expressive eyes of his; but he was seriously angry if any hint on the subject was made. There was only one passion which he did not conceal--the passion for gambling. At the green table he would become oblivious of everything. He usually lost, but his constant ill success only aroused his obstinacy. It was related that, on one occasion, during a nocturnal expedition, he was keeping the bank on a pillow, and had a terrific run of luck. Suddenly shots rang out. The alarm was sounded; all but Vulich jumped up and rushed to arms. "Stake, va banque!" he cried to one of the most ardent gamblers. "Seven," the latter answered as he hurried off. Notwithstanding the general confusion, Vulich calmly finished the deal--seven was the card. By the time he reached the cordon a violent fusillade was in progress. Vulich did not trouble himself about the bullets or the sabres of the Chechenes, but sought for the lucky gambler. "Seven it was!" he cried out, as at length he perceived him in the cordon of skirmishers who were beginning to dislodge the enemy from the wood; and going up to him, he drew out his purse and pocket-book and handed them to the winner, notwithstanding the latter's objections on the score of the inconvenience of the payment. That unpleasant duty discharged, Vulich dashed forward, carried the soldiers along after him, and, to the very end of the affair, fought the Chechenes with the utmost coolness. When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, we all became silent, expecting to hear, as usual, something original. "Gentlemen!" he said--and his voice was quiet though lower in tone than usual--"gentlemen, what is the good of futile discussions? You wish for proofs? I propose that we try the experiment on ourselves: whether a man can of his own accord dispose of his life, or whether the fateful moment is appointed beforehand for each of us. Who is agreeable?" "Not I. Not I," came from all sides. "There's a queer fellow for you! He does get strange ideas into his head!" "I propose a wager," I said in jest. "What sort of wager?" "I maintain that there is no such thing as predestination," I said, scattering on the table a score or so of ducats--all I had in my pocket. "Done," answered Vulich in a hollow voice. "Major, you will be judge. Here are fifteen ducats, the remaining five you owe me, kindly add them to the others." "Very well," said the major; "though, indeed, I do not understand what is the question at issue and how you will decide it!" Without a word Vulich went into the major's bedroom, and we followed him. He went up to the wall on which the major's weapons were hanging, and took down at random one of the pistols--of which there were several of different calibres. We were still in the dark as to what he meant to do. But, when he cocked the pistol and sprinkled powder in the pan, several of the officers, crying out in spite of themselves, seized him by the arms. "What are you going to do?" they exclaimed. "This is madness!" "Gentlemen!" he said slowly, disengaging his arm. "Who would like to pay twenty ducats for me?" They were silent and drew away. Vulich went into the other room and sat by the table; we all followed him. With a sign he invited us to sit round him. We obeyed in silence--at that moment he had acquired a certain mysterious authority over us. I stared fixedly into his face; but he met my scrutinising gaze with a quiet and steady glance, and his pallid lips smiled. But, notwithstanding his composure, it seemed to me that I could read the stamp of death upon his pale countenance. I have noticed--and many old soldiers have corroborated my observation--that a man who is to die in a few hours frequently bears on his face a certain strange stamp of inevitable fate, so that it is difficult for practised eyes to be mistaken. "You will die to-day!" I said to Vulich. He turned towards me rapidly, but answered slowly and quietly: "May be so, may be not."... Then, addressing himself to the major, he asked: "Is the pistol loaded?" The major, in the confusion, could not quite remember. "There, that will do, Vulich!" exclaimed somebody. "Of course it must be loaded, if it was one of those hanging on the wall there over our heads. What a man you are for joking!" "A silly joke, too!" struck in another. "I wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not loaded!" cried a third. A new bet was made. I was beginning to get tired of it all. "Listen," I said, "either shoot yourself, or hang up the pistol in its place and let us go to bed." "Yes, of course!" many exclaimed. "Let us go to bed." "Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move," said Vulich, putting the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. We were all petrified. "Mr. Pechorin," he added, "take a card and throw it up in the air." I took, as I remember now, an ace of hearts off the table and threw it into the air. All held their breath. With eyes full of terror and a certain vague curiosity they glanced rapidly from the pistol to the fateful ace, which slowly descended, quivering in the air. At the moment it touched the table Vulich pulled the trigger... a flash in the pan! "Thank God!" many exclaimed. "It wasn't loaded!" "Let us see, though," said Vulich. He cocked the pistol again, and took aim at a forage-cap which was hanging above the window. A shot rang out. Smoke filled the room; when it cleared away, the forage-cap was taken down. It had been shot right through the centre, and the bullet was deeply embedded in the wall. For two or three minutes no one was able to utter a word. Very quietly Vulich poured my ducats from the major's purse into his own. Discussions arose as to why the pistol had not gone off the first time. Some maintained that probably the pan had been obstructed; others whispered that the powder had been damp the first time, and that, afterwards, Vulich had sprinkled some fresh powder on it; but I maintained that the last supposition was wrong, because I had not once taken my eyes off the pistol. "You are lucky at play!" I said to Vulich... "For the first time in my life!" he answered, with a complacent smile. "It is better than 'bank' and 'shtoss.'" [23] "But, on the other hand, slightly more dangerous!" "Well? Have you begun to believe in predestination?" "I do believe in it; only I cannot understand now why it appeared to me that you must inevitably die to-day!" And this same man, who, such a short time before, had with the greatest calmness aimed a pistol at his own forehead, now suddenly fired up and became embarrassed. "That will do, though!" he said, rising to his feet. "Our wager is finished, and now your observations, it seems to me, are out of place." He took up his cap and departed. The whole affair struck me as being strange--and not without reason. Shortly after that, all the officers broke up and went home, discussing Vulich's freaks from different points of view, and, doubtless, with one voice calling me an egoist for having taken up a wager against a man who wanted to shoot himself, as if he could not have found a convenient opportunity without my intervention. I returned home by the deserted byways of the village. The moon, full and red like the glow of a conflagration, was beginning to make its appearance from behind the jagged horizon of the house-tops; the stars were shining tranquilly in the deep, blue vault of the sky; and I was struck by the absurdity of the idea when I recalled to mind that once upon a time there were some exceedingly wise people who thought that the stars of heaven participated in our insignificant squabbles for a slice of ground, or some other imaginary rights. And what then? These lamps, lighted, so they fancied, only to illuminate their battles and triumphs, are burning with all their former brilliance, whilst the wiseacres themselves, together with their hopes and passions, have long been extinguished, like a little fire kindled at the edge of a forest by a careless wayfarer! But, on the other hand, what strength of will was lent them by the conviction that the entire heavens, with their innumerable habitants, were looking at them with a sympathy, unalterable, though mute!... And we, their miserable descendants, roaming over the earth, without faith, without pride, without enjoyment, and without terror--except that involuntary awe which makes the heart shrink at the thought of the inevitable end--we are no longer capable of great sacrifices, either for the good of mankind or even for our own happiness, because we know the impossibility of such happiness; and, just as our ancestors used to fling themselves from one delusion to another, we pass indifferently from doubt to doubt, without possessing, as they did, either hope or even that vague though, at the same time, keen enjoyment which the soul encounters at every struggle with mankind or with destiny. These and many other similar thoughts passed through my mind, but I did not follow them up, because I do not like to dwell upon abstract ideas--for what do they lead to? In my early youth I was a dreamer; I loved to hug to my bosom the images--now gloomy, now rainbowhued--which my restless and eager imagination drew for me. And what is there left to me of all these? Only such weariness as might be felt after a battle by night with a phantom--only a confused memory full of regrets. In that vain contest I have exhausted the warmth of soul and firmness of will indispensable to an active life. I have entered upon that life after having already lived through it in thought, and it has become wearisome and nauseous to me, as the reading of a bad imitation of a book is to one who has long been familiar with the original. The events of that evening produced a somewhat deep impression upon me and excited my nerves. I do not know for certain whether I now believe in predestination or not, but on that evening I believed in it firmly. The proof was startling, and I, notwithstanding that I had laughed at our forefathers and their obliging astrology, fell involuntarily into their way of thinking. However, I stopped myself in time from following that dangerous road, and, as I have made it a rule not to reject anything decisively and not to trust anything blindly, I cast metaphysics aside and began to look at what was beneath my feet. The precaution was well-timed. I only just escaped stumbling over something thick and soft, but, to all appearance, inanimate. I bent down to see what it was, and, by the light of the moon, which now shone right upon the road, I perceived that it was a pig which had been cut in two with a sabre... I had hardly time to examine it before I heard the sound of steps, and two Cossacks came running out of a byway. One of them came up to me and enquired whether I had seen a drunken Cossack chasing a pig. I informed him that I had not met the Cossack and pointed to the unhappy victim of his rabid bravery. "The scoundrel!" said the second Cossack. "No sooner does he drink his fill of chikhir [24] than off he goes and cuts up anything that comes in his way. Let us be after him, Eremeich, we must tie him up or else"... They took themselves off, and I continued my way with greater caution, and at length arrived at my lodgings without mishap. I was living with a certain old Cossack underofficer whom I loved, not only on account of his kindly disposition, but also, and more especially, on account of his pretty daughter, Nastya. Wrapped up in a sheepskin coat she was waiting for me, as usual, by the wicket gate. The moon illumined her charming little lips, now turned blue by the cold of the night. Recognizing me she smiled; but I was in no mood to linger with her. "Good night, Nastya!" I said, and passed on. She was about to make some answer, but only sighed. I fastened the door of my room after me, lighted a candle, and threw myself on the bed; but, on that occasion, slumber caused its presence to be awaited longer than usual. By the time I fell asleep the east was beginning to grow pale, but I was evidently predestined not to have my sleep out. At four o'clock in the morning two fists knocked at my window. I sprang up. "What is the matter?" "Get up--dress yourself!" I dressed hurriedly and went out. "Do you know what has happened?" said three officers who had come for me, speaking all in one voice. They were deadly pale. "No, what is it?" "Vulich has been murdered!" I was petrified. "Yes, murdered!" they continued. "Let us lose no time and go!" "But where to?" "You will learn as we go." We set off. They told me all that had happened, supplementing their story with a variety of observations on the subject of the strange predestination which had saved Vulich from imminent death half an hour before he actually met his end. Vulich had been walking alone along a dark street, and the drunken Cossack who had cut up the pig had sprung out upon him, and perhaps would have passed him by without noticing him, had not Vulich stopped suddenly and said: "Whom are you looking for, my man?" "You!" answered the Cossack, striking him with his sabre; and he cleft him from the shoulder almost to the heart... The two Cossacks who had met me and followed the murderer had arrived on the scene and raised the wounded man from the ground. But he was already at his last gasp and said these three words only--"he was right!" I alone understood the dark significance of those words: they referred to me. I had involuntarily foretold his fate to poor Vulich. My instinct had not deceived me; I had indeed read on his changed countenance the signs of approaching death. The murderer had locked himself up in an empty hut at the end of the village; and thither we went. A number of women, all of them weeping, were running in the same direction; at times a belated Cossack, hastily buckling on his dagger, sprang out into the street and overtook us at a run. The tumult was dreadful. At length we arrived on the scene and found a crowd standing around the hut, the door and shutters of which were locked on the inside. Groups of officers and Cossacks were engaged in heated discussions; the women were shrieking, wailing and talking all in one breath. One of the old women struck my attention by her meaning looks and the frantic despair expressed upon her face. She was sitting on a thick plank, leaning her elbows on her knees and supporting her head with her hands. It was the mother of the murderer. At times her lips moved... Was it a prayer they were whispering, or a curse? Meanwhile it was necessary to decide upon some course of action and to seize the criminal. Nobody, however, made bold to be the first to rush forward. I went up to the window and looked in through a chink in the shutter. The criminal, pale of face, was lying on the floor, holding a pistol in his right hand. The blood-stained sabre was beside him. His expressive eyes were rolling in terror; at times he shuddered and clutched at his head, as if indistinctly recalling the events of yesterday. I could not read any sign of great determination in that uneasy glance of his, and I told the major that it would be better at once to give orders to the Cossacks to burst open the door and rush in, than to wait until the murderer had quite recovered his senses. At that moment the old captain of the Cossacks went up to the door and called the murderer by name. The latter answered back. "You have committed a sin, brother Ephimych!" said the captain, "so all you can do now is to submit." "I will not submit!" answered the Cossack. "Have you no fear of God! You see, you are not one of those cursed Chechenes, but an honest Christian! Come, if you have done it in an unguarded moment there is no help for it! You cannot escape your fate!" "I will not submit!" exclaimed the Cossack menacingly, and we could hear the snap of the cocked trigger. "Hey, my good woman!" said the Cossack captain to the old woman. "Say a word to your son--perhaps he will lend an ear to you... You see, to go on like this is only to make God angry. And look, the gentlemen here have already been waiting two hours." The old woman gazed fixedly at him and shook her head. "Vasili Petrovich," said the captain, going up to the major; "he will not surrender. I know him! If it comes to smashing in the door he will strike down several of our men. Would it not be better if you ordered him to be shot? There is a wide chink in the shutter." At that moment a strange idea flashed through my head--like Vulich I proposed to put fate to the test. "Wait," I said to the major, "I will take him alive." Bidding the captain enter into a conversation with the murderer and setting three Cossacks at the door ready to force it open and rush to my aid at a given signal, I walked round the hut and approached the fatal window. My heart was beating violently. "Aha, you cursed wretch!" cried the captain. "Are you laughing at us, eh? Or do you think that we won't be able to get the better of you?" He began to knock at the door with all his might. Putting my eye to the chink, I followed the movements of the Cossack, who was not expecting an attack from that direction. I pulled the shutter away suddenly and threw myself in at the window, head foremost. A shot rang out right over my ear, and the bullet tore off one of my epaulettes. But the smoke which filled the room prevented my adversary from finding the sabre which was lying beside him. I seized him by the arms; the Cossacks burst in; and three minutes had not elapsed before they had the criminal bound and led off under escort. The people dispersed, the officers congratulated me--and indeed there was cause for congratulation. After all that, it would hardly seem possible to avoid becoming a fatalist? But who knows for certain whether he is convinced of anything or not? And how often is a deception of the senses or an error of the reason accepted as a conviction!... I prefer to doubt everything. Such a disposition is no bar to decision of character; on the contrary, so far as I am concerned, I always advance more boldly when I do not know what is awaiting me. You see, nothing can happen worse than death--and from death there is no escape. On my return to the fortress I related to Maksim Maksimych all that I had seen and experienced; and I sought to learn his opinion on the subject of predestination. At first he did not understand the word. I explained it to him as well as I could, and then he said, with a significant shake of the head: "Yes, sir, of course! It was a very ingenious trick! However, these Asiatic pistols often miss fire if they are badly oiled or if you don't press hard enough on the trigger. I confess I don't like the Circassian carbines either. Somehow or other they don't suit the like of us: the butt end is so small, and any minute you may get your nose burnt! On the other hand, their sabres, now--well, all I need say is, my best respects to them!" Afterwards he said, on reflecting a little: "Yes, it is a pity about the poor fellow! The devil must have put it into his head to start a conversation with a drunken man at night! However, it is evident that fate had written it so at his birth!" I could not get anything more out of Maksim Maksimych; generally speaking, he had no liking for metaphysical disputations. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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In einem Kosaken-Dorf werden Pechorin und die anderen Offiziere müde, Boston, ein Kartenspiel, zu spielen. Sie fangen an, über Vorherbestimmung zu sprechen. Einige der Männer sind dafür und einige glauben, dass die Menschen ihr eigenes Schicksal bestimmen. Jede Seite liefert Geschichten, um ihre Position zu unterstützen. Vulich, ein Lieutenant, der gerne spielt, beteiligt sich an der Diskussion. Er hat einst beim Glücksspiel zwischen Einheimischen und russischen Offizieren durch Schüsse gewettet. Vulich erzählt den Männern, dass er einen Weg hat, um zu beweisen, ob es Vorherbestimmung gibt oder nicht. Pechorin wettet zwanzig Goldmünzen darauf, dass es keine Vorherbestimmung gibt. Vulich wettet auf das Gegenteil und verrät dann seinen Plan. Vulichs Plan beinhaltet, sein Leben zu riskieren. Die Männer versuchen, ihn aufzuhalten, geben aber schließlich auf und beobachten, wie Vulichs verrückter Plan sich entfaltet. Während Pechorin Vulichs Gesicht betrachtet, sieht er das Zeichen des Todes auf Vulichs Gesicht. Pechorin sagt Vulich: "Du wirst heute sterben". Vulich macht trotzdem weiter mit seinem Plan. Er hat eine Pistole in der Hand. Er hat keine Ahnung, ob sie geladen ist oder nicht, und anscheinend weiß es auch niemand sonst. Vulich nimmt die Pistole und zielt auf seinen Kopf. Alle halten den Atem an. Vulich schießt, aber die Pistole versagt. Die anderen Offiziere glauben, dass die Pistole leer ist. Vulich zielt erneut mit der Waffe auf die Wand. Eine Kugel fliegt in die Wand. Alle sind geschockt, und Vulich kassiert sein Geld. Pechorin geht nach Hause und denkt über den Vorfall nach. Auf dem Heimweg stößt Pechorin auf ein geschlachtetes Schwein und zwei Kosaken, die ihn fragen, ob er einen betrunkenen Mann gesehen hat. Pechorin denkt sich nichts dabei, bis um vier Uhr morgens drei Offiziere ihn wecken. Sie sagen ihm, dass Vulich getötet wurde. Ein betrunkener Kosake hat sowohl ein Schwein als auch Vulich mit einem Schwert in der Mitte durchgeschnitten. Vulich stirbt im Grunde genommen dreißig Minuten nachdem er die Wette gewonnen hat. Die drei Offiziere bringen Pechorin in die Hütte, in der sich der Mörder von Vulich verschanzt hat, und Pechorin erfährt den Namen des Mörders von einem alten Kosaken-Hauptmann. Es ist Yefimich. Yefimich ignoriert die Aufforderungen zur Aufgabe. Seine Mutter ist auch vor Ort, aber sie weigert sich, mit den Offizieren zusammenzuarbeiten, die ihn verhaften wollen. Der alte Kosaken-Hauptmann und der Major wollen keine Männer in die Hütte schicken, weil Yefimich bewaffnet ist. Pechorin hat eine Idee und setzt sie um. Er schleicht sich durch ein Fenster im Hinterhof in die Hütte und überrascht Yefimich. Pechorin schafft es, Yefimich zu überwältigen und kommt aus der Situation mit einer Kugel "einer Schulterklappe rot" heraus. Die letzte Szene dieser Kurzgeschichte bringt Maxim Maximych zurück. Pechorin verlässt das Kosaken-Dorf und kehrt zur Festung zurück, wo er und Maxim Maximych eine Verbindung aufgebaut haben. Er erzählt Maxim Maximych von Vulichs Tod. Pechorin versucht, die Meinung von Maxim Maximych zur Vorherbestimmung zu erfahren, aber Maxim Maximych äußert sich nicht ausführlich dazu. Pechorin erkennt, dass Maxim Maximych "kein Interesse an metaphysischen Diskussionen 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: I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot, and deafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring of water as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the thundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world now heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and so sick and hurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded, that it took me a long while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by a fresh stab of pain, to realise that I must be lying somewhere bound in the belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened to a gale. With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon me a blackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my own folly, and a passion of anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses. When I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and violent movements, shook and deafened me; and presently, to my other pains and distresses, there was added the sickness of an unused landsman on the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth, I suffered many hardships; but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by so few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig. I heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had proved too strong for us, and we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even by death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter; but (as I was afterwards told) a common habit of the captain's, which I here set down to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier side. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart, where the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain's mother, had come some years before to live; and whether outward or inward bound, the Covenant was never suffered to go by that place by day, without a gun fired and colours shown. I had no measure of time; day and night were alike in that ill-smelling cavern of the ship's bowels where I lay; and the misery of my situation drew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear the ship split upon some rock, or to feel her reel head foremost into the depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow. I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shining in my face. A small man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair, stood looking down at me. "Well," said he, "how goes it?" I answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples, and set himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp. "Ay," said he, "a sore dunt*. What, man? Cheer up! The world's no done; you've made a bad start of it but you'll make a better. Have you had any meat?" * Stroke. I said I could not look at it: and thereupon he gave me some brandy and water in a tin pannikin, and left me once more to myself. The next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking, my eyes wide open in the darkness, the sickness quite departed, but succeeded by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost worse to bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and the cords that bound me seemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to have become a part of me; and during the long interval since his last visit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the ship's rats, that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever. The glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven's sunlight; and though it only showed me the strong, dark beams of the ship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man with the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed that he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain. Neither said a word; but the first set to and examined me, and dressed my wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd, black look. "Now, sir, you see for yourself," said the first: "a high fever, no appetite, no light, no meat: you see for yourself what that means." "I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach," said the captain. "Give me leave, sir," said Riach; "you've a good head upon your shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no manner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the forecastle." "What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel'," returned the captain; "but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he is; here he shall bide." "Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion," said the other, "I will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more." "If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would have no complaint to make of ye," returned the skipper; "and instead of asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to cool your porridge. We'll be required on deck," he added, in a sharper note, and set one foot upon the ladder. But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve. "Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder----" he began. Hoseason turned upon him with a flash. "What's that?" he cried. "What kind of talk is that?" "It seems it is the talk that you can understand," said Mr. Riach, looking him steadily in the face. "Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises," replied the captain. "In all that time, sir, ye should have learned to know me: I'm a stiff man, and a dour man; but for what ye say the now--fie, fie!--it comes from a bad heart and a black conscience. If ye say the lad will die----" "Ay, will he!" said Mr. Riach. "Well, sir, is not that enough?" said Hoseason. "Flit him where ye please!" Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I, who had lain silent throughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him and bow as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision. Even in my then state of sickness, I perceived two things: that the mate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk or sober) he was like to prove a valuable friend. Five minutes afterwards my bonds were cut, I was hoisted on a man's back, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some sea-blankets; where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses. It was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again upon the daylight, and to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy place enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and the wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but from time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of sunlight shone in, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than one of the men brought me a drink of something healing which Mr. Riach had prepared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well again. There were no bones broken, he explained: "A clour* on the head was naething. Man," said he, "it was me that gave it ye!" * Blow. Here I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got my health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot indeed, as sailors mostly are: being men rooted out of all the kindly parts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas, with masters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with the pirates and seen things it would be a shame even to speak of; some were men that had run from the king's ships, and went with a halter round their necks, of which they made no secret; and all, as the saying goes, were "at a word and a blow" with their best friends. Yet I had not been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my first judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the Ferry pier, as though they had been unclean beasts. No class of man is altogether bad, but each has its own faults and virtues; and these shipmates of mine were no exception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough; and bad, I suppose; but they had many virtues. They were kind when it occurred to them, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and had some glimmerings of honesty. There was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my berthside for hours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost his boat, and thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, it is years ago now: but I have never forgotten him. His wife (who was "young by him," as he often told me) waited in vain to see her man return; he would never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep the bairn when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows (as the event proved) were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and cannibal fish received them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the dead. Among other good deeds that they did, they returned my money, which had been shared among them; and though it was about a third short, I was very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was going to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas; and you must not suppose that I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even then much depressed; since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies and the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to an end; but in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into slavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked uncle had condemned me. The cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first heard of these atrocities) came in at times from the round-house, where he berthed and served, now nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty of Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed; but the men had a great respect for the chief mate, who was, as they said, "the only seaman of the whole jing-bang, and none such a bad man when he was sober." Indeed, I found there was a strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. Riach was sullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not hurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain; but I was told drink made no difference upon that man of iron. I did my best in the small time allowed me to make some thing like a man, or rather I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature, Ransome. But his mind was scarce truly human. He could remember nothing of the time before he came to sea; only that his father had made clocks, and had a starling in the parlour, which could whistle "The North Countrie;" all else had been blotted out in these years of hardship and cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from sailor's stories: that it was a place where lads were put to some kind of slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed and clapped into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every second person a decoy, and every third house a place in which seamen would be drugged and murdered. To be sure, I would tell him how kindly I had myself been used upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and carefully taught both by my friends and my parents: and if he had been recently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to run away; but if he was in his usual crackbrain humour, or (still more) if he had had a glass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion. It was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who gave the boy drink; and it was, doubtless, kindly meant; but besides that it was ruin to his health, it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy, unfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and talking he knew not what. Some of the men laughed, but not all; others would grow as black as thunder (thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their own children) and bid him stop that nonsense, and think what he was doing. As for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes about me in my dreams. All this time, you should know, the Covenant was meeting continual head-winds and tumbling up and down against head-seas, so that the scuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a swinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands; the sails had to be made and shortened every hour; the strain told on the men's temper; there was a growl of quarrelling all day long from berth to berth; and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you can picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how impatient for a change. And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I must first tell of a conversation I had with Mr. Riach, which put a little heart in me to bear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink (for indeed he never looked near me when he was sober), I pledged him to secrecy, and told him my whole story. He declared it was like a ballad; that he would do his best to help me; that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr. Campbell and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had told the truth, ten to one he would be able (with their help) to pull me through and set me in my rights. "And in the meantime," says he, "keep your heart up. You're not the only one, I'll tell you that. There's many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas that should be mounting his horse at his own door at home; many and many! And life is all a variorum, at the best. Look at me: I'm a laird's son and more than half a doctor, and here I am, man-Jack to Hoseason!" I thought it would be civil to ask him for his story. He whistled loud. "Never had one," said he. "I like fun, that's all." And he skipped out of the forecastle. 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 David wieder zu Bewusstsein kommt, erlebt er unerträgliche Schmerzen. Das Rauschen des Meeres betäubt ihm die Ohren und der Geruch der Schiffskabine verursacht Übelkeit. Er fühlt sich steif und bemerkt, dass seine Hände und Beine gefesselt sind. In seinen Bewegungen eingeschränkt und schwindelig in der Dunkelheit, fällt er in Ohnmacht. Er wird von einem kleinen Mann mit grünen Augen geweckt. Herr Riach wirkt freundlich, während er Davids Wunden wäscht und verbindet. Er bittet auch den Kapitän, David an einen anderen Teil des Schiffs zu verlegen, wo der Junge einen eigenen Schlafplatz haben kann. In seiner neuen Unterkunft trifft David auf verschiedene Arten von Seeleuten, die ihm von ihren Abenteuern erzählen. Diese Männer, obwohl in illegale Aktivitäten verwickelt, sind im Herzen gut. Getrennt von ihren Familien und in ständiger Gefahr lebend, erwecken sie Mitleid in David. Ransom besucht David oft. Er leidet unter den Grausamkeiten, die ihm von Herrn Shuan auferlegt werden, einem der Seeleute, der gewalttätig wird, wenn er betrunken ist; er schlägt Ransom oft. David versucht, sein verwundetes Herz und seinen Körper zu beruhigen, indem er ihm Geschichten aus seiner Kindheit erzählt. Er freundet sich auch mit Herrn Riach an und erzählt ihm von seinem Onkel und seiner Entführung. Riach sagt ihm, Briefe an Herrn Campbell und Herrn Rankeillor über die Schlechtigkeit von Ebenezer zu schreiben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Um etwa Mitternacht wurde die Catherine, die du in Wuthering Heights gesehen hast, geboren: ein kränkliches, sieben Monate altes Kind; und zwei Stunden nachdem die Mutter gestorben war, ohne jemals genug Bewusstsein wiedererlangt zu haben, um Heathcliff oder Edgar zu vermissen. Die spätere Verzweiflung des letzteren über seinen Verlust ist ein zu schmerzhaftes Thema, um darauf näher einzugehen; die nachfolgenden Auswirkungen zeigten, wie tief der Kummer saß. Aus meiner Sicht war sein Fehlen eines Erben ein großer Verlust. Ich betrauerte das, während ich auf das schwache Waisenkind blickte, und ich verfluchte innerlich den alten Linton dafür (was nur eine natürliche Bevorzugung war), dass er sein Vermögen seiner eigenen Tochter sicherte, anstatt seinem Sohn. Es war ein unerwünschtes Baby, arme Sache! Es könnte am Anfang seines Lebens geweint haben und es würde niemanden interessieren, in diesen ersten Stunden des Daseins. Wir haben später die Vernachlässigung wiedergutmacht, aber der Anfang war so freundlos wie das Ende wahrscheinlich sein wird. Am nächsten Morgen, hell und fröhlich im Freien, drang gedämpftes Licht durch die Jalousien in das stille Zimmer und hüllte das Bett und seinen Insassen in einen sanften, zarten Glanz. Edgar Linton hatte seinen Kopf auf das Kissen gelegt und seine Augen geschlossen. Seine jungen und schönen Gesichtszüge waren fast genauso leblos wie die des neben ihm liegenden Körpers, und fast genauso starr: Aber seine Ruhe war die erschöpfte Qual, und ihre war die perfekte Ruhe. Ihre Stirn glatt, ihre Lider geschlossen, ihre Lippen trugen den Ausdruck eines Lächelns; kein Engel im Himmel könnte schöner aussehen als sie. Und ich teilte die unendliche Ruhe, in der sie lag: Mein Geist war nie in heiligerer Stimmung, als während ich auf dieses unerschütterliche Bild gottesähnlicher Ruhe blickte. Ich wiederholte instinktiv die Worte, die sie ein paar Stunden zuvor gesagt hatte: 'Unvergleichlich über uns allen! Ob sie noch auf der Erde ist oder jetzt im Himmel, ihr Geist ist zu Hause bei Gott!' Ich weiß nicht, ob es eine Besonderheit an mir ist, aber ich bin selten anders als glücklich, wenn ich im Sterbezimmer wache, solange kein wilder oder verzweifelter Trauernder die Pflicht mit mir teilt. Ich sehe eine Ruhe, die weder die Erde noch die Hölle zerbrechen kann, und ich fühle mich in der Überzeugung des endlosen und schattenlosen Jenseits sicher - die Ewigkeit, in die sie eingetreten sind - wo das Leben in seiner Dauer grenzenlos ist, die Liebe in ihrer Mitgefühlsfähigkeit und die Freude in ihrer Fülle. An diesem Anlass bemerkte ich, wie viel Selbstsucht selbst in einer Liebe wie Mr. Lintons steckt, als er Catherine's gesegnetes Ende so sehr bedauerte! Natürlich konnte man nach dem launischen und ungeduldigen Leben, das sie geführt hatte, bezweifeln, ob sie eine Ruhestätte verdient hatte. Man könnte in Zeiten des kalten Nachdenkens zweifeln; aber nicht dann, in Anwesenheit ihrer Leiche. Diese strahlte ihre eigene Ruhe aus, die wie ein Versprechen gleicher Stille für ihren früheren Bewohner wirkte. Glauben Sie, dass solche Menschen im Jenseits glücklich sind, Sir? Ich würde viel dafür geben, es zu wissen. Ich lehnte es ab, Mrs. Deans Frage zu beantworten, die mir etwas ketzerisch vorkam. Sie fuhr fort: Bei der Rückschau auf das Leben von Catherine Linton fürchte ich, dass wir kein Recht haben zu denken, dass sie es ist; aber wir lassen sie bei ihrem Schöpfer. Der Herr schien zu schlafen, und ich wagte es, kurz nach Sonnenaufgang das Zimmer zu verlassen und an die reine erfrischende Luft zu gehen. Die Diener dachten, ich sei gegangen, um die Schläfrigkeit meiner langen Wache loszuwerden; in Wahrheit war mein Hauptmotiv, Mr. Heathcliff zu sehen. Wenn er die ganze Nacht unter den Lärchen geblieben wäre, hätte er nichts von der Aufregung im Gutshof mitbekommen, es sei denn, er hätte vielleicht den Galopp des Boten, der nach Gimmerton geht, gehört. Wenn er näher gekommen wäre, wäre er wahrscheinlich durch die hin und herfliegenden Lichter und das Öffnen und Schließen der Türen gewahr geworden, dass nicht alles in Ordnung war. Ich wollte ihn finden, aber hatte auch Angst davor. Die schreckliche Nachricht musste überbracht werden, und ich sehnte mich danach, es hinter mich zu bringen, aber ich wusste nicht wie. Er war da - zumindest ein paar Meter weiter im Park; lehnte sich gegen eine alte Esche, seinen Hut abgenommen und sein Haar durchnässt vom Tau, der sich an den Knospen gebildet hatte und um ihn herabtropfte. Er hatte eine lange Zeit in dieser Position gestanden, denn ich sah ein paar Amseln, die ihn kaum drei Fuß von sich entfernt passierten, fleißig mit dem Nestbau beschäftigt und seine Nähe kaum mehr beachteten als die eines Holzstücks. Sie flogen davon, als ich näher kam, und er hob seinen Blick und sprach: 'Sie ist tot!', sagte er, 'Ich habe nicht auf dich gewartet, um das zu erfahren. Steck dein Taschentuch ein - weine nicht vor mir. Zum Teufel mit euch allen! Sie braucht eure Tränen nicht!' Ich weinte so sehr für ihn wie für sie; manchmal haben wir Mitleid mit Kreaturen, die weder für sich selbst noch für andere Empfindungen haben. Als ich zum ersten Mal in sein Gesicht sah, bemerkte ich, dass er von der Katastrophe erfahren hatte; und eine dumme Vorstellung kam mir, dass sein Herz besänftigt war und dass er betete, weil seine Lippen sich bewegten und sein Blick auf den Boden gerichtet war. 'Ja, sie ist tot!' antwortete ich laut. 'Ich hoffe, sie ist in den Himmel gekommen, wo wir alle hingehen können, wenn wir die richtige Warnung erhalten und unsere bösen Wege aufgeben!' 'Also hat sie die richtige Warnung erhalten?', fragte Heathcliff zweifelnd und versuchte zu spotten. 'Ist sie wie eine Heilige gestorben? Komm, gib mir eine wahre Geschichte von dem Ereignis. Wie ist-, wie...?' Er versuchte den Namen auszusprechen, schaffte es aber nicht; und indem er seinen Mund zusammenpresste, führte er einen stillen Kampf mit seiner inneren Qual und trotzte dabei meiner Sympathie mit einem unerschütterlichen, wilden Blick. 'Wie ist sie gestorben?', setzte er schließlich fort, begierig, trotz seiner Kühnheit etwas, das ihn stützen konnte, hinter sich zu haben; denn nach dem Kampf zitterte er, ganz gegen seinen Willen, bis in die Fingerspitzen. 'Armes Würmchen!' dachte ich, 'du hast ein Herz und Nerven wie deine Mitmenschen! Warum solltest du bestrebt sein, sie zu verbergen? Dein Stolz kann Gott nicht täuschen! Du versuchst ihn zu quälen, bis er sie zwingt, einen Schrei der Demütigung auszustoßen.' 'Ganz ruhig wie ein Lamm!' antwortete ich laut. 'Sie seufzte und streckte sich aus, wie ein wiederbelebtes Kind, und sank wieder in den Schlaf; und fünf Minuten später spürte ich einen kleinen Herzschlag bei ihr und nichts mehr!' 'Und - hat sie je von mir gesprochen?', fragte er zögernd, als ob er fürchtete, dass die Antwort auf seine Frage Einzelheiten einführen würde, die Das Begräbnis von Mrs. Linton sollte am Freitag nach ihrem Tod stattfinden. Bis dahin blieb ihr Sarg unbedeckt und mit Blumen und duftenden Blättern im großen Wohnzimmer geschmückt. Linton verbrachte dort seine Tage und Nächte als schlafloser Wächter. Eine Tatsache, die niemand außer mir kannte, war, dass Heathcliff seine Nächte zumindest draußen verbrachte und ebenfalls keinen Schlaf fand. Ich hatte keinen Kontakt zu ihm, war aber mir bewusst, dass er beabsichtigte, einzutreten, falls er konnte. Am Dienstag, kurz nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit, als mein Herr aus reiner Erschöpfung dazu gezwungen war, sich ein paar Stunden zurückzuziehen, öffnete ich eines der Fenster. Getrieben von seiner Hartnäckigkeit, ihm eine Chance zu geben, seinem verblichenen Idol einen letzten Abschied zu geben. Er ließ sich die Gelegenheit nicht entgehen, behutsam und kurz; zu behutsam, um durch das geringste Geräusch aufzufallen. Ich hätte nicht einmal festgestellt, dass er da gewesen war, wenn sich nicht der Schleier um das Gesicht der Leiche verschoben hätte und wenn ich auf dem Boden eine Locke helles Haar mit einem silbernen Faden befestigt nicht gefunden hätte; nach genauerer Untersuchung stellte ich fest, dass sie aus einem Medaillon stammte, das um Catherines Hals hing. Heathcliff hatte das Schmuckstück geöffnet und den Inhalt herausgenommen und durch eine schwarze Locke seines eigenen Haares ersetzt. Ich verdrehte die beiden und schloss sie zusammen. Selbstverständlich wurde Mr. Earnshaw eingeladen, den Überresten seiner Schwester zum Grab zu folgen; er entschuldigte sich nicht, aber er kam nie; sodass die Trauernden außer ihrem Ehemann ausschließlich aus Pächtern und Bediensteten bestanden. Isabella wurde nicht eingeladen. Der Ort der Beerdigung von Catherine war zur Überraschung der Dorfbewohner weder in der Kapelle unter dem geschnitzten Denkmal der Lintons noch bei den Gräbern ihrer eigenen Verwandten draußen. Sie wurde an einem grünen Hang in einer Ecke des Kirchhofs begraben, wo die Mauer so niedrig ist, dass Heidekraut und Heidelbeerpflanzen von der Moor über sie geklettert sind und es fast mit Torf bedeckt ist. Ihr Ehemann liegt jetzt an derselben Stelle, und beide haben einen einfachen Grabstein darüber und einen schlichten grauen Block zu ihren Füßen, um die Gräber zu kennzeichnen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Um Mitternacht gebar Catherine eine Tochter. Zwei Stunden später starb Catherine Earnshaw, ohne das Bewusstsein wiedererlangt zu haben. Zuerst kümmerte sich niemand um das Baby, und Ellen wünschte sich, es wäre ein Junge gewesen: Ohne einen Sohn war Edgar's Erbe Isabella, die Frau von Heathcliff. Catherines Leichnam sah friedlich und schön aus, und Ellen entschied, dass sie endlich im Himmel angekommen sei. Sie ging nach draußen, um Heathcliff Bescheid zu sagen, und fand ihn regungslos gegen eine Esche gelehnt. Er wusste, dass Catherine tot war, und fragte Ellen, wie es passiert sei, während er versuchte, seinen Schmerz zu verbergen. Ellen ließ sich nicht täuschen und sagte ihm, dass Catherine friedlich gestorben sei, wie ein Mädchen, das einschläft. Heathcliff verfluchte Catherine und flehte sie an, ihn zu verfolgen, damit er nicht in "diesem Abgrund, in dem ich dich nicht finden kann" zurückbleiben müsse. Er schlug seinen Kopf gegen den Baum und heulte "wie ein wildes Tier, das mit Messern und Speeren zu Tode getrieben wird". Ellen war entsetzt. Am Dienstag, als Catherines Leichnam immer noch im Grange lag und mit Blumen bedeckt war, nutzte Heathcliff die kurze Abwesenheit von Edgar im Schlafzimmer, um sie noch einmal zu sehen und das Haar von Edgar im Medaillon von Catherine durch sein eigenes zu ersetzen. Ellen bemerkte die Veränderung und legte beide Haarsträhnen zusammen. Catherine wurde am Freitag auf einem grünen Hang in einer Ecke des Kirchhofs begraben, wo, so sagte Ellen, auch ihr Ehemann jetzt liegt.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 another night came the columns, changed to purple streaks, filed across two pontoon bridges. A glaring fire wine-tinted the waters of the river. Its rays, shining upon the moving masses of troops, brought forth here and there sudden gleams of silver or gold. Upon the other shore a dark and mysterious range of hills was curved against the sky. The insect voices of the night sang solemnly. After this crossing the youth assured himself that at any moment they might be suddenly and fearfully assaulted from the caves of the lowering woods. He kept his eyes watchfully upon the darkness. But his regiment went unmolested to a camping place, and its soldiers slept the brave sleep of wearied men. In the morning they were routed out with early energy, and hustled along a narrow road that led deep into the forest. It was during this rapid march that the regiment lost many of the marks of a new command. The men had begun to count the miles upon their fingers, and they grew tired. "Sore feet an' damned short rations, that's all," said the loud soldier. There was perspiration and grumblings. After a time they began to shed their knapsacks. Some tossed them unconcernedly down; others hid them carefully, asserting their plans to return for them at some convenient time. Men extricated themselves from thick shirts. Presently few carried anything but their necessary clothing, blankets, haversacks, canteens, and arms and ammunition. "You can now eat and shoot," said the tall soldier to the youth. "That's all you want to do." There was sudden change from the ponderous infantry of theory to the light and speedy infantry of practice. The regiment, relieved of a burden, received a new impetus. But there was much loss of valuable knapsacks, and, on the whole, very good shirts. But the regiment was not yet veteranlike in appearance. Veteran regiments in the army were likely to be very small aggregations of men. Once, when the command had first come to the field, some perambulating veterans, noting the length of their column, had accosted them thus: "Hey, fellers, what brigade is that?" And when the men had replied that they formed a regiment and not a brigade, the older soldiers had laughed, and said, "O Gawd!" Also, there was too great a similarity in the hats. The hats of a regiment should properly represent the history of headgear for a period of years. And, moreover, there were no letters of faded gold speaking from the colors. They were new and beautiful, and the color bearer habitually oiled the pole. Presently the army again sat down to think. The odor of the peaceful pines was in the men's nostrils. The sound of monotonous axe blows rang through the forest, and the insects, nodding upon their perches, crooned like old women. The youth returned to his theory of a blue demonstration. One gray dawn, however, he was kicked in the leg by the tall soldier, and then, before he was entirely awake, he found himself running down a wood road in the midst of men who were panting from the first effects of speed. His canteen banged rhythmically upon his thigh, and his haversack bobbed softly. His musket bounced a trifle from his shoulder at each stride and made his cap feel uncertain upon his head. He could hear the men whisper jerky sentences: "Say--what's all this--about?" "What th' thunder--we--skedaddlin' this way fer?" "Billie--keep off m' feet. Yeh run--like a cow." And the loud soldier's shrill voice could be heard: "What th' devil they in sich a hurry for?" The youth thought the damp fog of early morning moved from the rush of a great body of troops. From the distance came a sudden spatter of firing. He was bewildered. As he ran with his comrades he strenuously tried to think, but all he knew was that if he fell down those coming behind would tread upon him. All his faculties seemed to be needed to guide him over and past obstructions. He felt carried along by a mob. The sun spread disclosing rays, and, one by one, regiments burst into view like armed men just born of the earth. The youth perceived that the time had come. He was about to be measured. For a moment he felt in the face of his great trial like a babe, and the flesh over his heart seemed very thin. He seized time to look about him calculatingly. But he instantly saw that it would be impossible for him to escape from the regiment. It inclosed him. And there were iron laws of tradition and law on four sides. He was in a moving box. As he perceived this fact it occurred to him that he had never wished to come to the war. He had not enlisted of his free will. He had been dragged by the merciless government. And now they were taking him out to be slaughtered. The regiment slid down a bank and wallowed across a little stream. The mournful current moved slowly on, and from the water, shaded black, some white bubble eyes looked at the men. As they climbed the hill on the farther side artillery began to boom. Here the youth forgot many things as he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity. He scrambled up the bank with a speed that could not be exceeded by a bloodthirsty man. He expected a battle scene. There were some little fields girted and squeezed by a forest. Spread over the grass and in among the tree trunks, he could see knots and waving lines of skirmishers who were running hither and thither and firing at the landscape. A dark battle line lay upon a sunstruck clearing that gleamed orange color. A flag fluttered. Other regiments floundered up the bank. The brigade was formed in line of battle, and after a pause started slowly through the woods in the rear of the receding skirmishers, who were continually melting into the scene to appear again farther on. They were always busy as bees, deeply absorbed in their little combats. The youth tried to observe everything. He did not use care to avoid trees and branches, and his forgotten feet were constantly knocking against stones or getting entangled in briers. He was aware that these battalions with their commotions were woven red and startling into the gentle fabric of softened greens and browns. It looked to be a wrong place for a battle field. The skirmishers in advance fascinated him. Their shots into thickets and at distant and prominent trees spoke to him of tragedies--hidden, mysterious, solemn. Once the line encountered the body of a dead soldier. He lay upon his back staring at the sky. He was dressed in an awkward suit of yellowish brown. The youth could see that the soles of his shoes had been worn to the thinness of writing paper, and from a great rent in one the dead foot projected piteously. And it was as if fate had betrayed the soldier. In death it exposed to his enemies that poverty which in life he had perhaps concealed from his friends. The ranks opened covertly to avoid the corpse. The invulnerable dead man forced a way for himself. The youth looked keenly at the ashen face. The wind raised the tawny beard. It moved as if a hand were stroking it. He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare; the impulse of the living to try to read in dead eyes the answer to the Question. During the march the ardor which the youth had acquired when out of view of the field rapidly faded to nothing. His curiosity was quite easily satisfied. If an intense scene had caught him with its wild swing as he came to the top of the bank, he might have gone roaring on. This advance upon Nature was too calm. He had opportunity to reflect. He had time in which to wonder about himself and to attempt to probe his sensations. Absurd ideas took hold upon him. He thought that he did not relish the landscape. It threatened him. A coldness swept over his back, and it is true that his trousers felt to him that they were no fit for his legs at all. A house standing placidly in distant fields had to him an ominous look. The shadows of the woods were formidable. He was certain that in this vista there lurked fierce-eyed hosts. The swift thought came to him that the generals did not know what they were about. It was all a trap. Suddenly those close forests would bristle with rifle barrels. Ironlike brigades would appear in the rear. They were all going to be sacrificed. The generals were stupids. The enemy would presently swallow the whole command. He glared about him, expecting to see the stealthy approach of his death. He thought that he must break from the ranks and harangue his comrades. They must not all be killed like pigs; and he was sure it would come to pass unless they were informed of these dangers. The generals were idiots to send them marching into a regular pen. There was but one pair of eyes in the corps. He would step forth and make a speech. Shrill and passionate words came to his lips. The line, broken into moving fragments by the ground, went calmly on through fields and woods. The youth looked at the men nearest him, and saw, for the most part, expressions of deep interest, as if they were investigating something that had fascinated them. One or two stepped with overvaliant airs as if they were already plunged into war. Others walked as upon thin ice. The greater part of the untested men appeared quiet and absorbed. They were going to look at war, the red animal--war, the blood-swollen god. And they were deeply engrossed in this march. As he looked the youth gripped his outcry at his throat. He saw that even if the men were tottering with fear they would laugh at his warning. They would jeer him, and, if practicable, pelt him with missiles. Admitting that he might be wrong, a frenzied declamation of the kind would turn him into a worm. He assumed, then, the demeanor of one who knows that he is doomed alone to unwritten responsibilities. He lagged, with tragic glances at the sky. He was surprised presently by the young lieutenant of his company, who began heartily to beat him with a sword, calling out in a loud and insolent voice: "Come, young man, get up into ranks there. No skulking'll do here." He mended his pace with suitable haste. And he hated the lieutenant, who had no appreciation of fine minds. He was a mere brute. After a time the brigade was halted in the cathedral light of a forest. The busy skirmishers were still popping. Through the aisles of the wood could be seen the floating smoke from their rifles. Sometimes it went up in little balls, white and compact. During this halt many men in the regiment began erecting tiny hills in front of them. They used stones, sticks, earth, and anything they thought might turn a bullet. Some built comparatively large ones, while others seemed content with little ones. This procedure caused a discussion among the men. Some wished to fight like duelists, believing it to be correct to stand erect and be, from their feet to their foreheads, a mark. They said they scorned the devices of the cautious. But the others scoffed in reply, and pointed to the veterans on the flanks who were digging at the ground like terriers. In a short time there was quite a barricade along the regimental fronts. Directly, however, they were ordered to withdraw from that place. This astounded the youth. He forgot his stewing over the advance movement. "Well, then, what did they march us out here for?" he demanded of the tall soldier. The latter with calm faith began a heavy explanation, although he had been compelled to leave a little protection of stones and dirt to which he had devoted much care and skill. When the regiment was aligned in another position each man's regard for his safety caused another line of small intrenchments. They ate their noon meal behind a third one. They were moved from this one also. They were marched from place to place with apparent aimlessness. The youth had been taught that a man became another thing in a battle. He saw his salvation in such a change. Hence this waiting was an ordeal to him. He was in a fever of impatience. He considered that there was denoted a lack of purpose on the part of the generals. He began to complain to the tall soldier. "I can't stand this much longer," he cried. "I don't see what good it does to make us wear out our legs for nothin'." He wished to return to camp, knowing that this affair was a blue demonstration; or else to go into a battle and discover that he had been a fool in his doubts, and was, in truth, a man of traditional courage. The strain of present circumstances he felt to be intolerable. The philosophical tall soldier measured a sandwich of cracker and pork and swallowed it in a nonchalant manner. "Oh, I suppose we must go reconnoitering around the country jest to keep 'em from getting too close, or to develop 'em, or something." "Huh!" said the loud soldier. "Well," cried the youth, still fidgeting, "I'd rather do anything 'most than go tramping 'round the country all day doing no good to nobody and jest tiring ourselves out." "So would I," said the loud soldier. "It ain't right. I tell you if anybody with any sense was a-runnin' this army it--" "Oh, shut up!" roared the tall private. "You little fool. You little damn' cuss. You ain't had that there coat and them pants on for six months, and yet you talk as if--" "Well, I wanta do some fighting anyway," interrupted the other. "I didn't come here to walk. I could 'ave walked to home--'round an' 'round the barn, if I jest wanted to walk." The tall one, red-faced, swallowed another sandwich as if taking poison in despair. But gradually, as he chewed, his face became again quiet and contented. He could not rage in fierce argument in the presence of such sandwiches. During his meals he always wore an air of blissful contemplation of the food he had swallowed. His spirit seemed then to be communing with the viands. He accepted new environment and circumstance with great coolness, eating from his haversack at every opportunity. On the march he went along with the stride of a hunter, objecting to neither gait nor distance. And he had not raised his voice when he had been ordered away from three little protective piles of earth and stone, each of which had been an engineering feat worthy of being made sacred to the name of his grandmother. In the afternoon the regiment went out over the same ground it had taken in the morning. The landscape then ceased to threaten the youth. He had been close to it and become familiar with it. When, however, they began to pass into a new region, his old fears of stupidity and incompetence reassailed him, but this time he doggedly let them babble. He was occupied with his problem, and in his desperation he concluded that the stupidity did not greatly matter. Once he thought he had concluded that it would be better to get killed directly and end his troubles. Regarding death thus out of the corner of his eye, he conceived it to be nothing but rest, and he was filled with a momentary astonishment that he should have made an extraordinary commotion over the mere matter of getting killed. He would die; he would go to some place where he would be understood. It was useless to expect appreciation of his profound and fine senses from such men as the lieutenant. He must look to the grave for comprehension. The skirmish fire increased to a long chattering sound. With it was mingled far-away cheering. A battery spoke. Directly the youth would see the skirmishers running. They were pursued by the sound of musketry fire. After a time the hot, dangerous flashes of the rifles were visible. Smoke clouds went slowly and insolently across the fields like observant phantoms. The din became crescendo, like the roar of an oncoming train. A brigade ahead of them and on the right went into action with a rending roar. It was as if it had exploded. And thereafter it lay stretched in the distance behind a long gray wall, that one was obliged to look twice at to make sure that it was smoke. The youth, forgetting his neat plan of getting killed, gazed spell bound. His eyes grew wide and busy with the action of the scene. His mouth was a little ways open. Plötzlich spürte er eine schwere und traurige Hand auf seiner Schulter. Aus seiner Trance der Beobachtung erwacht, drehte er sich um und sah den lauten Soldaten. "Es ist meine erste und letzte Schlacht, alter Freund", sagte Letzterer mit intensiver Schwermut. Er war ganz blass und seine mädchenhafte Lippe zitterte. "Eh?", murmelte der junge Mann völlig erstaunt. "Es ist meine erste und letzte Schlacht, alter Freund", fuhr der laute Soldat fort. "Etwas sagt mir -" "Was?" "Ich bin beim ersten Mal erledigt und - und ich möchte, dass du diese Dinge hier zu meinen Eltern bringst." Er endete mit einem zitternden Schluchzen voller Mitleid für sich selbst. Er reichte dem jungen Mann ein kleines Päckchen, das in einem gelben Umschlag verpackt war. "Was zum Teufel..." begann der junge Mann erneut. Aber der andere warf ihm einen Blick aus den Tiefen eines Grabes zu und hob seine schlaffe Hand auf prophetische Weise an und wandte sich ab. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Das Regiment ruht während des zweiten Tages ihres Marsches und übernachtet dann. Am Morgen des dritten Tages brechen sie erneut auf und marschieren in einen Wald. Dort bleiben sie mehrere Tage lang. Das Regiment ruht während des zweiten Tages ihres Marsches und übernachtet dann. Am Morgen des dritten Tages brechen sie erneut auf und marschieren in einen Wald. Sie bleiben dort mehrere Tage lang. An einem "grauen Morgengrauen" beginnt das gesamte Regiment zu rennen, als würde es auf eine Schlacht zurennen, aber es gibt keine Schlacht. Das Regiment geht dann zu Fuß und hält an, und die Soldaten bewegen sich weiter von Ort zu Ort. Unter den Männern gibt es viel Gemurmel wegen des ständigen Gehens und Anhaltens. Gelegentlich sieht das Regiment Scharmützler in der Ferne und hört Kampfgeräusche. Das Regiment stößt auf einen gefallenen Soldaten, und Henry versucht "in den toten Augen die Antwort auf die Frage zu lesen". Henry stellt weiterhin die Intelligenz der Generäle in Frage, die die Truppenbewegungen leiten, und empfindet Hass gegenüber dem Leutnant, der die Trupp Disziplin aufrechterhält, indem er ihn im Gleichschritt marschieren lässt. Henry überlegt, dass er, wenn er schnell sterben würde, sein Leiden beenden könnte. Das Regiment trifft in der Ferne auf eine Schlacht, und die Männer bereiten sich auf den Kampf vor. Als das Kapitel endet, erzählt der laute Soldat Henry, dass er erwartet, im Kampf zu sterben, und gibt Henry ein Paket, das er Henry bittet, zu seiner Familie zu bringen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used to be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening nine years ago. There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the door. We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all altered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain black dress. "I see him, Seth," Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother." The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's. "Come, Uncle Seth," said Dinah. "Aye, aye, we're coming," Seth answered from within, and presently appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder. "Better take him on thy arm, Seth," said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. "He's troublesome to thee so." "Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit." A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by Dinah's side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's children, was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness. "Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. "I can't catch sight of him anywhere." "Between the hedges by the roadside," said Dinah. "I saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again." "Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen," said Seth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother used to be. She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim." "He's been longer than he expected," said Dinah, taking Arthur's watch from a small side pocket and looking at it; "it's nigh upon seven now." "Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, "and the meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting on towards eight years since they parted." "Yes," said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow." "See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, "there's Father coming--at the far stile." Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face as she approached him, and he put her arm within his in silence. "Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when Addy stretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at hand. "It's cut me a good deal, Dinah," Adam said at last, when they were walking on. "Didst find him greatly altered?" said Dinah. "Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However, the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own country air. He's all sound in th' inside; it's only the fever shattered him so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did when he was a lad. It's wonderful how he's always had just the same sort o' look when he smiles." "I've never seen him smile, poor young man," said Dinah. "But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow," said Adam. "He asked after thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk to one another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said, 'I remember her face so well.' I told him 'no,'" Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned towards his, "only a bit plumper, as thee'dst a right to be after seven year. 'I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he said; 'I long to tell her how I've thought of her all these years.'" "Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?" said Dinah. "Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman a bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day,' he said, 'when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I said, 'Nay, sir, you can't do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she's given it up, all but talking to the people a bit in their houses.'" "Ah," said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, "and a sore pity it was o' Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we'd ha' left the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no bonds on Christian liberty." "Nay, lad, nay," said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong. There's no rules so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or other. Most o' the women do more harm nor good with their preaching--they've not got Dinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's seen that, and she thought it right to set th' example o' submitting, for she's not held from other sorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o' what she did." Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, "Didst remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and aunt entrusted to thee?" "Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. He said--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad for him t' have his feelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. 'We must get you strong and hearty,' he said, 'that's the first thing to be done Arthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you under your old tutor's thumb till then.' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful at having him home again." Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very cutting when we first saw one another. He'd never heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one another's hands was, 'I could never do anything for her, Adam--she lived long enough for all the suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might do something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once, "There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for."'" "Why, there's Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate," said Seth. "So there is," said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Und jetzt ist es an der Zeit, zu feiern, als ob wir im Jahr 1807 wären. Das ist der Ort, an dem uns "Epilog" von Eliot hinführt, in ein Hayslope, das sich zum Besseren verändert hat. Jetzt sind wir im Holzplatz von Adam Bede, der früher Jonathan Burges gehörte, und das sanfte Abendlicht fällt auf das angenehme Haus mit den gelben Wänden und dem weichen grauen Reetdach. Adams Haus. Der alte Junge hat es wirklich weit gebracht. Bald tritt eine Figur in einem "einfachen schwarzen Kleid" aus dem Haus. Es ist Dinah. Ihr folgen ihre vierjährige Tochter und Seth, der ihren zweijährigen Sohn auf seinen Schultern trägt. Sie alle stehen da und beobachten, wie Adam sich nähert. Adam kehrt gerade von einem Treffen mit Arthur zurück. Aber halt die Konfetti! Dinah bemerkt, dass die vergangenen Jahre "uns alle verändert haben", in einigen Fällen zum Schlechteren. Während die Gruppe auf Adams Erscheinen wartet, spricht Dinah ein wenig darüber, was mit all unseren Lieblings-Hayslope-Bewohnern passiert ist. Besonders das verbannte Hetty hatte es schwer: "Der Tod der armen Wanderin, als sie zu uns zurückkam, war Kummer über Kummer". Und jetzt kommt Adam an. Seine Nachrichten über Arthur sind nicht ganz schlecht, aber auch nicht ganz gut: "Ich hätte ihn überall erkannt. Aber seine Farbe hat sich verändert, und er sieht traurig aus." Außerdem wird er immer noch von der ganzen Episode "Hetty schwanger machen" heimgesucht. Aber weißt du was? Die Dinge kehren langsam zur Normalität zurück. Arthur schätzt immer noch Adams Gesellschaft und Adam und Seth haben ihre religiösen Unterschiede immer noch nicht geklärt. Also streiten Adam und Seth ein paar Absätze lang über die ganze "Frauenpredigt" -Sache. Dann kommen die Poysers am Horizont in Sicht. Während die geliebten Bauern näherkommen, ermutigt Dinah Adam, "sich auszuruhen; es war ein harter Tag für dich".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 LV. Porthos's Will. At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted--the stables closed--the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival, Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had left no relations behind him. The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the reading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and that was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowly unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--the preliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the better to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which had been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew Mousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees, watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, he went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating with excess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, like the rest, was considerably agitated, commenced. Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from the eyes of D'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthos brought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not to enumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule of his extensive lands: "I possess at this present time, by the grace of God-- "1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded by good walls. "2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, forming three farms. "3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley." (Brave Porthos!) "4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres. "5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each. "6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year. "As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop of Vannes--" (D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name)--the procureur continued imperturbably--"they consist--" "1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant." Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost in grief. "2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called--Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod, Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette. "3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection. "4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms. "5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses. "6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, and which are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight. "7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and have never been opened. "8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more than six times round my chamber. "9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are divided in the residences I liked the best." Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The procureur resumed: "I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere. "This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed the valiant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant." Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword, which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon. "This is why," continued the procureur, "I have left all my property, movable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him to add more luster to his already glorious name." A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued, seconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence: "On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d'Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to my intendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the number of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear them till they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of his master. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that the said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying, he has never ceased to be happy." On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did not know the way. "Mousqueton, my good friend," said D'Artagnan, "go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds." Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowly disappeared. The procureur finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. As for D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formal compliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither nobleman nor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knew well, our worthy Porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrown out by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest, most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in the testament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades more clearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste. "Porthos had indeed a heart," said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh. As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room above him; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it was a pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Those clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow. "My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!" But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Pierrefonds wurde für seine Beerdigung vorbereitet. Mousqueton hat in zwei Tagen viel Gewicht verloren; seine Kleidung hängt an seinem Körper. Verschiedene Freunde kommen an, um das Testament zu hören. D'Artagnan kommt gerade rechtzeitig, als das Lesen beginnen soll. Er umarmt Mousqueton und nickt den Gästen zu. Porthos' Testament enthält zunächst eine Auflistung all seiner weltlichen Besitztümer und hinterlässt dann alles Raoul de Bragelonne, den er als seinen Sohn betrachtet. Eine Träne rutscht D'Artagnan die Nase herunter. Porthos stellt jedoch einige Bedingungen für diese Vermächtnis auf. Er möchte, dass D'Artagnan alles bekommt, was er sich wünscht, dass Aramis eine Rente erhält, falls er eine benötigt, und dass Mousqueton alle siebenundvierzig seiner Anzüge erhält, um sie zur Erinnerung an Porthos zu tragen. Porthos vererbt auch Mousqueton an Raoul und bittet ihn, auf das Glück des Dieners zu achten. Mousqueton schluchzt vor Trauer und versucht, den Saal zu verlassen. D'Artagnan bietet an, ihn zu Athos' Haus zu bringen. Das Testament wird verlesen und die Gäste gehen. D'Artagnan bleibt allein zurück, um über das letzte Testament seines Freundes nachzudenken, das er bewundernswert findet. D'Artagnan hört einen Schmerzensschrei aus einem Raum im Obergeschoss und wird daran erinnert, dass Mousqueton getröstet werden muss. Er geht nach oben und findet in Porthos' Zimmer alle seine Anzüge in einem riesigen Haufen und Mousqueton darauf, wie er die Anzüge küsst. D'Artagnan geht weiter in den Raum und erkennt, dass Mousqueton tot ist.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: 5 THE KING'S MUSKETEERS AND THE CARDINAL'S GUARDS D'Artagnan was acquainted with nobody in Paris. He went therefore to his appointment with Athos without a second, determined to be satisfied with those his adversary should choose. Besides, his intention was formed to make the brave Musketeer all suitable apologies, but without meanness or weakness, fearing that might result from this duel which generally results from an affair of this kind, when a young and vigorous man fights with an adversary who is wounded and weakened--if conquered, he doubles the triumph of his antagonist; if a conqueror, he is accused of foul play and want of courage. Now, we must have badly painted the character of our adventure seeker, or our readers must have already perceived that d'Artagnan was not an ordinary man; therefore, while repeating to himself that his death was inevitable, he did not make up his mind to die quietly, as one less courageous and less restrained might have done in his place. He reflected upon the different characters of those with whom he was going to fight, and began to view his situation more clearly. He hoped, by means of loyal excuses, to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere bearing pleased him much. He flattered himself he should be able to frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, which he might, if not killed upon the spot, relate to everybody a recital which, well managed, would cover Porthos with ridicule. As to the astute Aramis, he did not entertain much dread of him; and supposing he should be able to get so far, he determined to dispatch him in good style or at least, by hitting him in the face, as Caesar recommended his soldiers do to those of Pompey, to damage forever the beauty of which he was so proud. In addition to this, d'Artagnan possessed that invincible stock of resolution which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart: "Endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Treville." He flew, then, rather than walked, toward the convent of the Carmes Dechausses, or rather Deschaux, as it was called at that period, a sort of building without a window, surrounded by barren fields--an accessory to the Preaux-Clercs, and which was generally employed as the place for the duels of men who had no time to lose. When d'Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which extended along the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o'clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels could have nothing to say. Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been dressed anew by M. de Treville's surgeon, was seated on a post and waiting for his adversary with hat in hand, his feather even touching the ground. "Monsieur," said Athos, "I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom." "I have no seconds on my part, monsieur," said d'Artagnan; "for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Treville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends." Athos reflected for an instant. "You know no one but Monsieur de Treville?" he asked. "Yes, monsieur, I know only him." "Well, but then," continued Athos, speaking half to himself, "if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer." "Not too much so," replied d'Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, "since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient." "Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand--it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance." "You have truly, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing again, "a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful." "You confuse me," replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; "let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s'blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns." "If you would permit me--" said d'Artagnan, with timidity. "What, monsieur?" "I have a miraculous balsam for wounds--a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself." "Well?" "Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured--well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man." D'Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage. "PARDIEU, monsieur!" said Athos, "that's a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come." "If you are in haste, monsieur," said d'Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he had proposed to him to put off the duel for three days, "and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you." "There is another word which pleases me," cried Athos, with a gracious nod to d'Artagnan. "That did not come from a man without a heart. Monsieur, I love men of your kidney; and I foresee plainly that if we don't kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your conversation. We will wait for these gentlemen, so please you; I have plenty of time, and it will be more correct. Ah, here is one of them, I believe." In fact, at the end of the Rue Vaugirard the gigantic Porthos appeared. "What!" cried d'Artagnan, "is your first witness Monsieur Porthos?" "Yes, that disturbs you?" "By no means." "And here is the second." D'Artagnan turned in the direction pointed to by Athos, and perceived Aramis. "What!" cried he, in an accent of greater astonishment than before, "your second witness is Monsieur Aramis?" "Doubtless! Are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called among the Musketeers and the Guards, at court and in the city, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, or the Three Inseparables? And yet, as you come from Dax or Pau--" "From Tarbes," said d'Artagnan. "It is probable you are ignorant of this little fact," said Athos. "My faith!" replied d'Artagnan, "you are well named, gentlemen; and my adventure, if it should make any noise, will prove at least that your union is not founded upon contrasts." In the meantime, Porthos had come up, waved his hand to Athos, and then turning toward d'Artagnan, stood quite astonished. Let us say in passing that he had changed his baldric and relinquished his cloak. "Ah, ah!" said he, "what does this mean?" "This is the gentleman I am going to fight with," said Athos, pointing to d'Artagnan with his hand and saluting him with the same gesture. "Why, it is with him I am also going to fight," said Porthos. "But not before one o'clock," replied d'Artagnan. "And I also am to fight with this gentleman," said Aramis, coming in his turn onto the place. "But not until two o'clock," said d'Artagnan, with the same calmness. "But what are you going to fight about, Athos?" asked Aramis. "Faith! I don't very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?" "Faith! I am going to fight--because I am going to fight," answered Porthos, reddening. Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing, perceived a faintly sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied, "We had a short discussion upon dress." "And you, Aramis?" asked Athos. "Oh, ours is a theological quarrel," replied Aramis, making a sign to d'Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their duel. Athos indeed saw a second smile on the lips of d'Artagnan. "Indeed?" said Athos. "Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree," said the Gascon. "Decidedly, this is a clever fellow," murmured Athos. "And now you are assembled, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, "permit me to offer you my apologies." At this word APOLOGIES, a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis. "You do not understand me, gentlemen," said d'Artagnan, throwing up his head, the sharp and bold lines of which were at the moment gilded by a bright ray of the sun. "I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which must much diminish the face-value of your bill, Monsieur Porthos, and render yours almost null, Monsieur Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and--on guard!" At these words, with the most gallant air possible, d'Artagnan drew his sword. The blood had mounted to the head of d'Artagnan, and at that moment he would have drawn his sword against all the Musketeers in the kingdom as willingly as he now did against Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. It was a quarter past midday. The sun was in its zenith, and the spot chosen for the scene of the duel was exposed to its full ardor. "It is very hot," said Athos, drawing his sword in its turn, "and yet I cannot take off my doublet; for I just now felt my wound begin to bleed again, and I should not like to annoy Monsieur with the sight of blood which he has not drawn from me himself." "That is true, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "and whether drawn by myself or another, I assure you I shall always view with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore fight in my doublet, like yourself." "Come, come, enough of such compliments!" cried Porthos. "Remember, we are waiting for our turns." "Speak for yourself when you are inclined to utter such incongruities," interrupted Aramis. "For my part, I think what they say is very well said, and quite worthy of two gentlemen." "When you please, monsieur," said Athos, putting himself on guard. "I waited your orders," said d'Artagnan, crossing swords. But scarcely had the two rapiers clashed, when a company of the Guards of his Eminence, commanded by M. de Jussac, turned the corner of the convent. "The cardinal's Guards!" cried Aramis and Porthos at the same time. "Sheathe your swords, gentlemen, sheathe your swords!" But it was too late. The two combatants had been seen in a position which left no doubt of their intentions. "Halloo!" cried Jussac, advancing toward them and making a sign to his men to do so likewise, "halloo, Musketeers? Fighting here, are you? And the edicts? What is become of them?" "You are very generous, gentlemen of the Guards," said Athos, full of rancor, for Jussac was one of the aggressors of the preceding day. "If we were to see you fighting, I can assure you that we would make no effort to prevent you. Leave us alone, then, and you will enjoy a little amusement without cost to yourselves." "Gentlemen," said Jussac, "it is with great regret that I pronounce the thing impossible. Duty before everything. Sheathe, then, if you please, and follow us." "Monsieur," said Aramis, parodying Jussac, "it would afford us great pleasure to obey your polite invitation if it depended upon ourselves; but unfortunately the thing is impossible--Monsieur de Treville has forbidden it. Pass on your way, then; it is the best thing to do." This raillery exasperated Jussac. "We will charge upon you, then," said he, "if you disobey." "There are five of them," said Athos, half aloud, "and we are but three; we shall be beaten again, and must die on the spot, for, on my part, I declare I will never appear again before the captain as a conquered man." Athos, Porthos, and Aramis instantly drew near one another, while Jussac drew up his soldiers. This short interval was sufficient to determine d'Artagnan on the part he was to take. It was one of those events which decide the life of a man; it was a choice between the king and the cardinal--the choice made, it must be persisted in. To fight, that was to disobey the law, that was to risk his head, that was to make at one blow an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king himself. All this the young man perceived, and yet, to his praise we speak it, he did not hesitate a second. Turning towards Athos and his friends, "Gentlemen," said he, "allow me to correct your words, if you please. You said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four." "But you are not one of us," said Porthos. "That's true," replied d'Artagnan; "I have not the uniform, but I have the spirit. My heart is that of a Musketeer; I feel it, monsieur, and that impels me on." "Withdraw, young man," cried Jussac, who doubtless, by his gestures and the expression of his countenance, had guessed d'Artagnan's design. "You may retire; we consent to that. Save your skin; begone quickly." D'Artagnan did not budge. "Decidedly, you are a brave fellow," said Athos, pressing the young man's hand. "Come, come, choose your part," replied Jussac. "Well," said Porthos to Aramis, "we must do something." "Monsieur is full of generosity," said Athos. But all three reflected upon the youth of d'Artagnan, and dreaded his inexperience. "We should only be three, one of whom is wounded, with the addition of a boy," resumed Athos; "and yet it will not be the less said we were four men." "Yes, but to yield!" said Porthos. "That IS difficult," replied Athos. D'Artagnan comprehended their irresolution. "Try me, gentlemen," said he, "and I swear to you by my honor that I will not go hence if we are conquered." "What is your name, my brave fellow?" said Athos. "d'Artagnan, monsieur." "Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan, forward!" cried Athos. "Come, gentlemen, have you decided?" cried Jussac for the third time. "It is done, gentlemen," said Athos. "And what is your choice?" asked Jussac. "We are about to have the honor of charging you," replied Aramis, lifting his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the other. "Ah! You resist, do you?" cried Jussac. "S'blood; does that astonish you?" And the nine combatants rushed upon each other with a fury which however did not exclude a certain degree of method. Athos fixed upon a certain Cahusac, a favorite of the cardinal's. Porthos had Bicarat, and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries. As to d'Artagnan, he sprang toward Jussac himself. The heart of the young Gascon beat as if it would burst through his side--not from fear, God be thanked, he had not the shade of it, but with emulation; he fought like a furious tiger, turning ten times round his adversary, and changing his ground and his guard twenty times. Jussac was, as was then said, a fine blade, and had had much practice; nevertheless it required all his skill to defend himself against an adversary who, active and energetic, departed every instant from received rules, attacking him on all sides at once, and yet parrying like a man who had the greatest respect for his own epidermis. This contest at length exhausted Jussac's patience. Furious at being held in check by one whom he had considered a boy, he became warm and began to make mistakes. D'Artagnan, who though wanting in practice had a sound theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac, anxious to put an end to this, springing forward, aimed a terrible thrust at his adversary, but the latter parried it; and while Jussac was recovering himself, glided like a serpent beneath his blade, and passed his sword through his body. Jussac fell like a dead mass. D'Artagnan then cast an anxious and rapid glance over the field of battle. Aramis had killed one of his adversaries, but the other pressed him warmly. Nevertheless, Aramis was in a good situation, and able to defend himself. Bicarat and Porthos had just made counterhits. Porthos had received a thrust through his arm, and Bicarat one through his thigh. But neither of these two wounds was serious, and they only fought more earnestly. Athos, wounded anew by Cahusac, became evidently paler, but did not give way a foot. He only changed his sword hand, and fought with his left hand. According to the laws of dueling at that period, d'Artagnan was at liberty to assist whom he pleased. While he was endeavoring to find out which of his companions stood in greatest need, he caught a glance from Athos. The glance was of sublime eloquence. Athos would have died rather than appeal for help; but he could look, and with that look ask assistance. D'Artagnan interpreted it; with a terrible bound he sprang to the side of Cahusac, crying, "To me, Monsieur Guardsman; I will slay you!" Cahusac turned. It was time; for Athos, whose great courage alone supported him, sank upon his knee. "S'blood!" cried he to d'Artagnan, "do not kill him, young man, I beg of you. I have an old affair to settle with him when I am cured and sound again. Disarm him only--make sure of his sword. That's it! Very well done!" The exclamation was drawn from Athos by seeing the sword of Cahusac fly twenty paces from him. D'Artagnan and Cahusac sprang forward at the same instant, the one to recover, the other to obtain, the sword; but d'Artagnan, being the more active, reached it first and placed his foot upon it. Cahusac immediately ran to the Guardsman whom Aramis had killed, seized his rapier, and returned toward d'Artagnan; but on his way he met Athos, who during his relief which d'Artagnan had procured him had recovered his breath, and who, for fear that d'Artagnan would kill his enemy, wished to resume the fight. D'Artagnan perceived that it would be disobliging Athos not to leave him alone; and in a few minutes Cahusac fell, with a sword thrust through his throat. At the same instant Aramis placed his sword point on the breast of his fallen enemy, and forced him to ask for mercy. There only then remained Porthos and Bicarat. Porthos made a thousand flourishes, asking Bicarat what o'clock it could be, and offering him his compliments upon his brother's having just obtained a company in the regiment of Navarre; but, jest as he might, he gained nothing. Bicarat was one of those iron men who never fell dead. Nevertheless, it was necessary to finish. The watch might come up and take all the combatants, wounded or not, royalists or cardinalists. Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan surrounded Bicarat, and required him to surrender. Though alone against all and with a wound in his thigh, Bicarat wished to hold out; but Jussac, who had risen upon his elbow, cried out to him to yield. Bicarat was a Gascon, as d'Artagnan was; he turned a deaf ear, and contented himself with laughing, and between two parries finding time to point to a spot of earth with his sword, "Here," cried he, parodying a verse of the Bible, "here will Bicarat die; for I only am left, and they seek my life." "But there are four against you; leave off, I command you." "Ah, if you command me, that's another thing," said Bicarat. "As you are my commander, it is my duty to obey." And springing backward, he broke his sword across his knee to avoid the necessity of surrendering it, threw the pieces over the convent wall, and crossed him arms, whistling a cardinalist air. Bravery is always respected, even in an enemy. The Musketeers saluted Bicarat with their swords, and returned them to their sheaths. D'Artagnan did the same. Then, assisted by Bicarat, the only one left standing, they bore Jussac, Cahusac, and one of Aramis's adversaries who was only wounded, under the porch of the convent. The fourth, as we have said, was dead. They then rang the bell, and carrying away four swords out of five, they took their road, intoxicated with joy, toward the hotel of M. de Treville. They walked arm in arm, occupying the whole width of the street and taking in every Musketeer they met, so that in the end it became a triumphal march. The heart of d'Artagnan swam in delirium; he marched between Athos and Porthos, pressing them tenderly. "If I am not yet a Musketeer," said he to his new friends, as he passed through the gateway of M. de Treville's hotel, "at least I have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven't I?" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Historischer Kontext-Lektion: Wenn duelliert wird, bringt man immer einen "Sekundanten" mit. Diese Person ist jemand, dem man genug Vertrauen schenkt, um den Kampf zu beobachten, sicherzustellen, dass er fair ist, und einen Arzt zu rufen, falls man anfängt zu bluten. Als Neuling in der Stadt hat D'Artagnan niemanden, den er bitten kann, als sein Sekundant zu dienen. Auf dem Weg, um Athos zu treffen, entwickelt er einen Plan für seine bevorstehenden Kämpfe. Er beschließt, Athos anzufreunden, Porthos zu erschrecken und bei Aramis geht er davon aus, dass er wahrscheinlich um zwei Uhr tot sein wird, so dass er keinen Aktionsplan entwickeln muss. Aber wenn er noch lebt, entscheidet er sich, Aramis einfach ins Gesicht zu schlagen. Er wird mutig, wenn er an seinen Vater denkt und eilt los, um Athos zu treffen. Athos wartet bereits. Er erzählt D'Artagnan, dass seine zwei Sekundanten zu spät sind. D'Artagnan gesteht, dass er keine Sekundanten hat und dass er in Paris niemanden außer Treville kennt. Athos sagt laut, dass er, wenn er D'Artagnan tötet, als "Kindermörder" bekannt sein wird. Das ist definitiv schlechte Presse. D'Artagnan widerspricht. Immerhin ist Athos noch verwundet. Athos warnt D'Artagnan davor, dass er mit beiden Händen kämpfen kann. D'Artagnan bedankt sich bei Athos für die Information. Athos beklagt sich über seine Schulter und D'Artagnan bietet ihm das Heilmittel seiner Mutter an, überzeugt, dass es Athos' Wunde heilen wird. Es gibt mehr Dialoge, die im Wesentlichen darauf hinauslaufen: D'Artagnan beeindruckt Athos. Schließlich erscheint Porthos. D'Artagnan ist überrascht. Dann erscheint auch Aramis. D'Artagnan ist noch überraschter. Athos fragt D'Artagnan, ob er in einem Loch gelebt hat. Die drei sind dafür berühmt, dass sie absolut unzertrennlich sind, von der Wiege bis zum Grab. Porthos kommt heran und fragt, was los ist. Athos deutet auf D'Artagnan als seinen Gegner hin. Porthos sagt zu Recht: "Aber ich kämpfe gegen ihn!" D'Artagnan sagt: "Erst um ein Uhr!" Aramis kommt hinzu und sagt: "Aber ich kämpfe auch gegen ihn!" D'Artagnan sagt: "Aber erst um zwei Uhr!" Aramis fragt Athos nach dem Grund für den Kampf. Athos sagt, dass er sich nicht einmal daran erinnern kann, etwas mit seiner verletzten Schulter. Dann bittet er Porthos um seine Gründe, D'Artagnan zu bekämpfen. Porthos umgeht die Frage, weil er den wahren Grund nicht gestehen will. Athos bemerkt, dass D'Artagnan etwas verheimlicht, selbst als der Gascogner sagt, er und Aramis seien sich über einen Abschnitt des heiligen Augustinus uneinig gewesen. Athos ist von D'Artagnans Geisteshaltung zunehmend beeindruckt. Jetzt, wo alle anwesend sind, entschuldigt sich D'Artagnan bei allen drei Männern. Sie nehmen es ihm nicht gut auf. Schnell erklärt D'Artagnan ihnen, dass sie ihn missverstehen. Er entschuldigt sich nur für den Fall, dass er es nicht zu den Kämpfen um ein Uhr und zwei Uhr schafft. Dann zieht er sein Schwert. Die beiden fangen kaum an zu kämpfen, als die Gardisten des Kardinals auftauchen, angeführt von einem Mann namens Jussac. Aramis und Porthos rufen den Duellanten zu, ihre Schwerter einzustecken, aber es ist zu spät. Es gibt offensichtlich ein Duell, und Jussac fordert sie dazu auf. Jussac versucht sie festzunehmen. Aramis lehnt "bedauerlicherweise" ab. Jussac droht mit einem Kampf. Die Musketiere gehen auf die Knie, um einen Plan zu machen. Athos weist darauf hin, dass es drei gegen fünf sind und dass die drei von ihnen wahrscheinlich sterben werden, da er wirklich, wirklich nicht noch einmal verlieren will. D'Artagnan meldet sich zu Wort und sagt: "Heyo! Was ist mit mir? Wir sind zu viert!" Porthos weist darauf hin, dass D'Artagnan kaum als ein Musketier zählt. Oder als freund. D'Artagnan bietet die alte Underdog-Ausrede an: dass er Herz hat. Auch wenn er kein Musketier ist, so sagt er, hat er den richtigen Geist. Jussac fordert D'Artagnan auf, zu verschwinden; die Gardisten werden ihn gehen lassen. In der Zwischenzeit sind die drei Musketiere irgendwie verärgert, weil D'Artagnan immer noch ein Junge ist. Athos zeigt auf, dass wenn sie verlieren, die Geschichte erzählt wird, als wären es vier von ihnen, statt zwei Männern, einem verwundeten Mann und einem Jungen. D'Artagnan fragt noch einmal, ob er kämpfen kann. Athos fragt nach seinem Namen. D'Artagnan gibt ihn und die vier gehen vor, um gegen die Gardisten des Kardinals zu kämpfen. Schließlich gibt es ein Schwertduell! Als der hitzköpfige junge Mann, der er ist, stürzt D'Artagnan sofort auf Jussac zu. Aramis kämpft mit zwei Gegnern gleichzeitig, und die anderen beiden Musketiere haben jeweils einen Widersacher. D'Artagnan kämpft wie "eine wütende Tigerin" und sein Straßenkampfstil gibt ihm einen Vorteil gegenüber Jussac, der ein großer Fechter ist. Frustriert macht Jussac schließlich Fehler. Er stößt nach D'Artagnan, der den Schlag blockiert und dann Jussac aufspießt, der "wie eine leblose Masse" fällt. D'Artagnan schaut dann herum, um zu sehen, wie es den Musketieren geht. Aramis hat einen seiner Gegner getötet und kämpft mit dem anderen. Porthos und sein Gegner haben leichte Verletzungen und kämpfen immer noch. Athos wird wieder von seinem Gegner verwundet und kämpft jetzt mit seiner linken Hand. Er schaut zu D'Artagnan hinüber in einer klaren "Ich bin ein Mann, also bitte ich nicht tatsächlich um Hilfe, aber ich würde es wirklich schätzen" Art und Weise. D'Artagnan läuft zu Cahusac, um ihn zu bekämpfen. Athos sinkt zur Erholung auf den Boden und sagt dann zu D'Artagnan, dass er Cahusac nur entwaffnen soll, denn er möchte die Ehre haben, den Guard selbst zu töten. Für einen Moment gelingt es D'Artagnan, Cahusac zu entwaffnen. Der Mann rennt, um sein Schwert zurückzuholen, aber D'Artagnan kommt ihm zuvor. Cahusac rennt zu dem toten Guard und schnappt sich dessen Schwert. Auf dem Weg zurück zu D'Artagnan läuft er Athos über den Weg, der jetzt bereit ist, wieder zu kämpfen. Athos und D'Artagnan kämpfen zusammen gegen Cahusac, der bald stirbt. In demselben Moment zwingt Aramis seinen Gegner zur Aufgabe. Porthos kämpft weiterhin gegen seinen Gegner. Der Mann heißt Bicarat. Athos, Aramis und D'Artagnan umgeben Bicarat und sagen ihm, er solle aufhören. Bicarat will weiterkämpfen, selbst als Jussac ihn anbrüllt, er solle aufhören. Schließlich befiehlt Jussac ihm, aufzuhören. Magische Worte! Bicarat hört sofort auf und bricht dann sein Schwert über sein Knie, damit er es nicht aufgeben muss. Die Musketiere und D'Artagnan salutieren Bicarat für seinen Mut und bringen die Verwundeten zum Kloster. Den toten Kerl lassen sie zurück. Die Musketiere und D'Artagnan gehen dann zu Treville, aber es wird zu einer Art Parade, als sie die Geschichte jedem Musketier erzählen, dem sie begegnen. D'Artagnan ist überglücklich, mit drei so großartigen Männern zusammen zu sein. Er hofft, eines Tages ein Musketier wie sie 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: Scene VI. Elsinore. Another room in the Castle. Enter Horatio with an Attendant. Hor. What are they that would speak with me? Servant. Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for you. Hor. Let them come in. [Exit Attendant.] I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. Enter Sailors. Sailor. God bless you, sir. Hor. Let him bless thee too. Sailor. 'A shall, sir, an't please him. There's a letter for you, sir,- it comes from th' ambassador that was bound for England- if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. Hor. (reads the letter) 'Horatio, when thou shalt have overlook'd this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy; but they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England. Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. 'He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.' Come, I will give you way for these your letters, And do't the speedier that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. Exeunt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Horatio erhält Briefe von einem Matrosen, der von Hamlet geschickt wurde. Der erste Brief erzählt Horatio, dass Piraten das Schiff angegriffen haben, auf dem Hamlet nach England gebracht wurde. Bei der anschließenden Schlacht nahmen die Piraten Hamlet gefangen; sie behandelten ihn gut und brachten ihn zurück nach Dänemark. Als Gegenleistung hat Hamlet versprochen, ihnen einen Gefallen zu tun. Die anderen Briefe, sagt Hamlets erster Brief, sind für Horatio bestimmt, um sie dem König zu überbringen. Nach der Überbringung soll Horatio sofort zu Hamlet kommen; Hamlet erzählt seinem Freund, dass er viele Neuigkeiten zu teilen hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Die für Carrie sehr wichtige Theateraufführung sollte unter Bedingungen stattfinden, die sie bemerkenswerter machen sollten, als zunächst angenommen wurde. Die kleine Theaterstudentin hatte noch am selben Morgen an Hurstwood geschrieben, dass sie in einem Stück mitspielen werde. "Ich meine es ernst", schrieb sie und dachte, er könnte es als Scherz aufnehmen. "Ich habe meine Rolle jetzt, ehrlich, wirklich." Hurstwood lächelte auf nachsichtige Weise, als er dies las. "Ich frage mich, was es sein wird? Das muss ich sehen." Er antwortete sofort und machte eine angenehme Anspielung auf ihre Fähigkeiten. "Ich habe keinen Zweifel, dass du Erfolg haben wirst. Du musst morgen früh in den Park kommen und mir alles darüber erzählen." Carrie kam gerne dieser Bitte nach und enthüllte alle Einzelheiten des Unternehmens, so wie sie es verstand. "Nun", sagte er, "das ist großartig. Ich freue mich das zu hören. Natürlich wirst du erfolgreich sein, du bist so clever." Er hatte das Mädchen wirklich noch nie so lebhaft erlebt. Ihre Tendenz, eine Spur von Traurigkeit zu entdecken, war vorübergehend verschwunden. Als sie sprach, leuchteten ihre Augen, ihre Wangen waren rot. Sie strahlte die Freude aus, die ihr diese Unternehmungen gaben. Trotz all ihrer Bedenken - und die waren so zahlreich wie die Momente des Tages - war sie immer noch glücklich. Sie konnte ihre Freude darüber, diese kleine Sache zu tun, die für einen gewöhnlichen Beobachter keinerlei Bedeutung hatte, nicht unterdrücken. Hurstwood war begeistert von der Entwicklung der Tatsache, dass das Mädchen Fähigkeiten hatte. Es gibt nichts so inspirierendes im Leben wie der Anblick eines legitimen Ambition, ganz gleich wie es in den Anfängen ist. Es verleiht dem Besitzer Farbe, Kraft und Schönheit. Carrie fühlte sich nun erleichtert von dieser göttlichen Inspiration. Sie erntete von ihren beiden Bewunderern Lob, das sie nicht verdient hatte. Ihre Zuneigung zu ihr ließ natürlich ihre Wahrnehmung dessen, was sie zu tun versuchte, steigen, und ihre Zustimmung dessen, was sie tat. Ihre Unerfahrenheit bewahrte ihre übermütige Fantasie, die mit jeder Gelegenheit, die sich ihr bot, wütete, indem sie daraus eine goldene Wahrsage-Rute machte, durch die der Schatz des Lebens entdeckt werden sollte. "Lasst mal sehen", sagte Hurstwood, "ich müsste einige der Jungs in der Loge kennen. Ich bin selbst ein Elch." "Oh, du darfst nicht zulassen, dass er weiß, dass ich es dir erzählt habe." "So ist es", sagte der Manager. "Ich würde gerne möchten, dass du kommst, wenn du willst, aber ich weiß nicht, wie du es schaffen könntest, es sei denn, er fragt dich." "Ich werde da sein", sagte Hurstwood liebevoll. "Ich sorge dafür, dass er nicht weiß, dass du es mir erzählt hast. Verlass dich auf mich." Das Interesse des Managers war an sich schon eine große Sache für die Aufführung, da sein Ansehen bei den Elchen etwas war, über das man sprechen konnte. Er dachte bereits an eine Loge mit einigen Freunden und Blumen für Carrie. Er würde es zu einer Galaveranstaltung machen und dem kleinen Mädchen eine Chance geben. Innerhalb von ein oder zwei Tagen erschien Drouet in der Adams Street Gaststätte und wurde sofort von Hurstwood entdeckt. Es war fünf Uhr nachmittags und der Ort war voller Händler, Schauspieler, Manager, Politiker, einer ansehnlichen Gruppe von rundlichen, rosigen Figuren, sie waren seidenhutbezogen, steif besäumt, mit Ringen und Schalnadeln ganz nach dem Geschmack der Königin versehen. John L. Sullivan, der Boxer, war am einen Ende der glitzernden Bar und von einer Gruppe laut gekleideter Sportler umgeben, die in ein sehr lebhaftes Gespräch vertieft waren. Drouet überquerte den Boden mit einem festlichen Schritt, seine neuen braunen Schuhe quietschten laut bei jedem Schritt. "Nun, Herr", sagte Hurstwood, "ich habe mich gefragt, was aus Ihnen geworden ist. Ich dachte, Sie wären wieder aus der Stadt gegangen." Drouet lachte. "Wenn Sie nicht regelmäßiger berichten, müssen wir Sie von der Liste streichen." "Ich konnte nicht anders", sagte der Drummer, "ich war beschäftigt." Sie schlenderten über zur Bar inmitten der lauten, sich ständig verändernden Gesellschaft der Berühmtheiten. Der schick gekleidete Manager wurde in drei Minuten dreimal die Hand geschüttelt. "Ich habe gehört, dass Ihre Loge eine Aufführung geben wird", bemerkte Hurstwood beiläufig. "Ja, wer hat Ihnen das erzählt?" "Niemand", sagte Hurstwood. "Sie haben mir gerade ein paar Karten geschickt, die ich für zwei Dollar haben kann. Wird es gut sein?" "Ich weiß es nicht", antwortete der Drummer. "Sie haben versucht, mich dazu zu bringen, eine Frau zu finden, die eine Rolle übernimmt." "Ich hatte nicht vor hinzugehen", sagte der Manager gelassen. "Ich werde natürlich eine Kaution machen. Wie geht es dort?" "Alles in Ordnung. Sie werden die Dinge aus den Einnahmen aufwerten." "Nun", sagte der Manager, "ich hoffe, sie machen einen Erfolg daraus. Noch eins?" Er beabsichtigte nicht, noch mehr zu sagen. Wenn er jetzt mit ein paar Freunden auftauchen würde, könnte er sagen, dass man ihn gedrängt hat, mitzukommen. Drouet hatte den Wunsch, die Möglichkeit einer Verwirrung auszuräumen. "Ich glaube, das Mädchen wird darin mitspielen", sagte er plötzlich, nachdem er es überdacht hatte. "Das sagst du! Wie ist das passiert?" "Nun, sie waren knapp dran und wollten, dass ich ihnen jemanden finde. Ich habe Carrie davon erzählt und sie scheint es ausprobieren zu wollen." "Gut für sie", sagte der Manager. "Es wird ein wirklich nettes Ereignis. Es wird ihr auch gut tun. Hat sie jemals Erfahrung gehabt?" "Ganz und gar nicht." "Oh, nun ja, das ist nichts sehr Ernstes." "Aber sie ist clever", sagte Drouet und schnitt jegliche Behauptung gegen Carries Fähigkeiten ab. "Sie erfasst ihre Rolle schnell genug." "Das sagst du!" sagte der Manager. "Ja, mein Herr, sie hat mich neulich überrascht. Beim Jupiter, hat sie das!" "Wir müssen ihr einen netten kleinen Abschied bereiten", sagte der Manager. "Ich werde mich um die Blumen kümmern." Drouet lächelte zufrieden. "Nach der Vorstellung musst du mit mir kommen und wir werden ein kleines Abendessen haben." "Ich denke, sie wird das gut machen", sagte Drouet. "Ich will sie sehen. Sie muss das gut machen. Wir werden sie zum Erfolg machen", und der Manager zeigte eines seiner schnellen, stählernen Halb-Lächeln, das eine Mischung aus Gut-Natur und Klugheit war. In der Zwischenzeit besuchte Carrie die erste Probe. Bei dieser Aufführung leitete Mr. Quincel, unterstützt von Mr. Millice, einem jungen Mann, der einige Qualifikationen durch frühere Erfahrungen hatte, die von niemandem genau verstanden wurden, das Ganze. Er war jedoch so erfahren und geschäftsmäßig, dass er sehr nahe daran war, unhöflich zu sein. Dabei vergaß er, dass die Individuen, die er zu unterrichten versuchte, freiwillige Schauspieler waren und keine angestellten Untergebenen. "Nun, Miss Madenda", sagte er und wandte sich an Carrie, die unsicher an einer Stelle stand und nicht wusste, welchen Schritt sie machen sollte, "du willst nicht so stehen. Bring Ausdruck in dein Gesicht. Denk daran, du bist von dem Eindringling verärgert. Geh so", und er mars "Denken Sie daran, Frau Morgan", fügte er hinzu, und ignorierte den Glanz, und änderte seine Art und Weise, "dass Sie eine rührende Geschichte erzählen. Sie sollen nun etwas erzählen, was Ihnen Kummer bereitet. Es erfordert Gefühl, Unterdrückung, so: 'Die übliche Menge von Kindern bettelte sie um Almosen an.'" "In Ordnung", sagte Mrs. Morgan. "Nun, mach weiter." "Während die Mutter in ihrer Tasche nach etwas Wechselgeld suchte, berührten ihre Finger eine kalte und zitternde Hand, die ihre Geldbörse festgehalten hatte." "Sehr gut", unterbrach der Regisseur und nickte bedeutungsvoll mit dem Kopf. "Ein Taschendieb! Na gut!" rief Mr. Bamberger und sprach die Worte aus, die ihm hier zugewiesen wurden. "Nein, nein, Mr. Bamberger", sagte der Regisseur und kam näher, "nicht so. 'Ein Taschendieb - na gut?' so. Das ist der Gedanke." "Glauben Sie nicht", sagte Carrie schwach und bemerkte, dass noch nicht bewiesen worden war, ob die Mitglieder der Truppe ihre Texte kannten, geschweige denn die Details der Ausdrucksweise, "dass es besser wäre, wenn wir einfach unsere Texte einmal durchgehen würden, um zu sehen, ob wir sie kennen? Wir könnten dabei einige Punkte aufgreifen." "Eine sehr gute Idee, Miss Madenda", sagte Mr. Quincel, der an der Seite der Bühne saß, ruhig zusah und Meinungen äußerte, die der Regisseur ignorierte. "In Ordnung", sagte dieser etwas beschämt, "das wäre vielleicht gut. Dann, um uns zu ermutigen", erhöhte er mit einer Prise Autorität, "laufen wir direkt durch und bringen so viel Ausdruck wie möglich ein." "Gut", sagte Mr. Quincel. "Diese Hand", fuhr Mrs. Morgan fort, indem sie zu Mr. Bamberger aufschaute und dann auf ihr Buch schaute, während die Texte voranschritten, "griff meine Mutter mit ihrer eigenen Hand und so fest, dass eine kleine, schwache Stimme einen Schmerzensschrei ausstieß. Mutter schaute hinunter und dort neben ihr war ein kleines, zerlumptes Mädchen." "Sehr gut", bemerkte der Regisseur hoffnungslos untätig. "Der Dieb!" rief Mr. Bamberger. "Lauter", mischte sich der Regisseur ein und konnte kaum die Hände stillhalten. "Der Dieb!" brüllte der unglückliche Bamberger. "Ja, aber ein Dieb kaum sechs Jahre alt, mit einem Gesicht wie das eines Engels. 'Halt', sagte meine Mutter. 'Was tust du da?' "'Ich versuche zu stehlen', sagte das Kind. "'Weißt du nicht, dass es böse ist, so etwas zu tun?' fragte mein Vater. "'Nein', sagte das Mädchen, 'aber es ist schrecklich hungrig zu sein.' "'Wer hat dir gesagt, dass du stehlen sollst?' fragte meine Mutter. "'Sie - da', sagte das Kind und deutete auf eine schäbige Frau in einer gegenüberliegenden Tür, die plötzlich die Straße hinunterfloh. 'Das ist alte Judas', sagte das Mädchen." Mrs. Morgan las dies ziemlich flach, und der Regisseur war verzweifelt. Er machte herum und ging zu Mr. Quincel. "Was hältst du von ihnen?" fragte er. "Oh, ich denke, wir werden sie in Form bringen können", sagte Letzterer mit dem Anschein von Stärke in Schwierigkeiten. "Ich weiß nicht", sagte der Regisseur. "Dieser Kerl Bamberger scheint mir ein ziemlich schlechter Ersatz für einen Liebhaber zu sein." "Er ist alles, was wir haben", sagte Quincel und rollte mit den Augen. "Harrison ist im letzten Moment abgesprungen. Wen können wir sonst bekommen?" "Ich weiß nicht", sagte der Regisseur. "Ich fürchte, er wird es nie schaffen." In diesem Moment rief Bamberger aus: "Pearl, du machst Witze mit mir." "Schau dir das an", sagte der Regisseur, der hinter seiner Hand flüsterte. "Mein Gott! Was kann man mit einem Mann machen, der einen Satz so langsam herausquält?" "Tun Sie Ihr Bestes", sagte Quincel tröstend. So verlief die Aufführung bis dahin, wo Carrie, als Laura, in den Raum kommt, um Ray zu erklären, dass er nach Pearls Aussage über ihre Geburt einen Brief geschrieben hat, in dem er sie ablehnt, diesen aber nicht abgegeben hat. Bamberger schloss gerade die Worte von Ray ab: "Ich muss gehen, bevor sie zurückkommt. Ihr Schritt! Zu spät", und steckte den Brief in die Tasche, als sie bezaubernd begann: "Ray!" "Miss - Miss Courtland", stammelte Bamberger schwach. Carrie sah ihn einen Moment an und vergaß alles um sich herum. Sie begann, sich in die Rolle hineinzufühlen, und zauberte ein gleichgültiges Lächeln auf ihre Lippen, drehte sich so, wie es die Texte vorgaben, und ging zum Fenster, als ob er nicht anwesend wäre. Sie tat es mit einer Anmut, die faszinierend anzusehen war. "Wer ist diese Frau?", fragte der Regisseur und beobachtete Carrie in ihrer kleinen Szene mit Bamberger. "Miss Madenda", sagte Quincel. "Ich kenne ihren Namen", sagte der Regisseur, "aber was macht sie?" "Ich weiß es nicht", sagte Quincel. "Sie ist eine Freundin eines unserer Mitglieder." "Nun, sie hat mehr Grips als alle, die ich hier bisher gesehen habe - scheint Interesse an dem zu haben, was sie tut." "Hübsch ist sie auch, nicht wahr?" sagte Quincel. Der Regisseur ging ohne Antwort weg. In der zweiten Szene, wo sie angenommen wurde, sich vor der Gesellschaft im Ballsaal zu präsentieren, machte sie noch bessere Fortschritte und gewann das Lächeln des Regisseurs, der aufgrund ihrer Faszination zu ihr ging und mit ihr sprach. "Waren Sie schon einmal auf der Bühne?" fragte er anzüglich. "Nein", sagte Carrie. "Sie machen es so gut, ich dachte, Sie könnten etwas Erfahrung haben." Carrie lächelte nur bewusst. Er ging weg, um Bamberger zuzuhören, der einige begeisterte Zeilen krächzte. Mrs. Morgan erkannte die Situation und funkelte Carrie mit neidischen und schnappenden schwarzen Augen an. "Sie ist nur eine billige Profi", belustigte sie sich und verachtete und hasste sie dementsprechend. Die Probe endete für einen Tag, und Carrie ging nach Hause, in dem Gefühl, dass sie sich zufriedenstellend bewährt hatte. Die Worte des Regisseurs klangen ihr in den Ohren, und sie sehnte sich danach, Hurstwood davon zu erzählen. Sie wollte, dass er genau wusste, wie gut sie sich machte. Auch Drouet war ein Objekt für ihre Vertraulichkeiten. Sie konnte es kaum erwarten, bis er sie fragen würde, aber sie hatte nicht die Eitelkeit, es anzusprechen. Der Drummer jedoch hatte heute Abend andere Gedanken und ihre kleine Erfahrung schien ihm nicht wichtig. Er ließ das Gespräch fallen, außer wenn sie ohne Aufforderung etwas rezitierte, und Carrie war darin nicht gut. Er nahm an, dass sie sehr gut vorankam und er war von weiteren Sorgen befreit. Folglich zwang er Carrie in eine Unterdrückung, die ärgerlich war. Sie fühlte seine Gleichgültigkeit stark und sehnte sich danach, Hurstwood zu sehen. Es war, als ob er jetzt der einzige Freund wäre, den sie auf der Welt hatte. Am nächsten Morgen war Drouet wieder interessiert, aber der Schaden war bereits angerichtet. Sie erhielt einen netten Brief vom Manager, in dem stand, dass er auf sie im Park warten würde, wenn sie ihn bekäme. Als sie kam, erstrahlte er in ihr wie die Morgensonne. "Na, meine Liebe", fragte er, "wie ist es gelaufen?" "Ganz gut", sagte sie, noch etwas angegriffen nach Drouet. "Nun, erzähl mir doch genau, was du gemacht hast. Hat es Spaß gemacht?" Carrie erzählte die Ereignisse der Probe und wurde dabei immer aufgeregter. "Nun, das ist herrlich", sagte Hurstwood. "Ich bin so froh. Ich muss rüberkommen und dich sehen. Wann ist die nächste Probe?" "Am Dienstag", sagte Carrie, "aber Besucher Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Carrie schreibt Hurstwood und erzählt ihm von ihrer Rolle im Theaterstück. Er schreibt zurück und bittet sie, ihn am nächsten Tag im Park zu treffen, damit er mehr darüber erfahren kann. Als sie sich treffen, besteht er darauf, bei ihrem Debüt dabei zu sein. Carrie ist zögerlich, aber Hurstwood sagt ihr, sie solle sich keine Sorgen machen und er werde es arrangieren, damit Drouet nicht erfährt, dass Carrie es ihm erzählt hat. Hurstwood kann sehen, dass Carrie sehr begeistert von dem Stück ist. Ein paar Tage später treffen Drouet und Hurstwood sich in einer Bar und Hurstwood erzählt ihm, dass er von dem Stück gehört hat. Drouet fragt, wie er davon gehört hat, und Hurstwood sagt ihm, dass ihm die Loge einige Tickets geschickt hat. Drouet erzählt ihm, dass Carrie darin sein wird und Hustwood stellt sich dumm und gibt vor, überrascht zu sein. Sie sind sich einig, dass sie eine gute Leistung zeigen wird, und Hurstwood verspricht, sie nach der Vorstellung zum Abendessen mitzunehmen. Carrie nimmt an ihrer ersten Theaterprobe teil, die von Mr. Quincel geleitet wird, unterstützt von Mr. Millice. Millice hält sich für ganz schön wichtig, weil er etwas Erfahrung als Schauspieler hat. Du bildest dir was ein, huh? Mr. Millice ist mit den meisten Leistungen dieser Amateurdarsteller nicht sehr zufrieden, aber er ist von Carrie sehr beeindruckt. Der Regisseur fragt Carrie, ob sie schon einmal Schauspielerfahrung hatte - sie ist so gut -, was eine andere Schauspielerin, Mrs. Morgan, eifersüchtig macht. Carrie geht nach Hause und ist aufgeregt, Drouet von der erfolgreichen Probe zu erzählen, aber Drouet scheint sich nicht sehr dafür zu interessieren. Das macht sie nur noch eifriger, um heimlich Hurstwood zu treffen. Sie trifft sich mit Hurstwood, der sich für sie freut und sagt, dass er sich in eine Probe schleichen will, um sie zu sehen; sie bittet ihn, es nicht zu tun. Sie verabschieden sich voneinander und Carrie strahlt vor Glück.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: III. THE LAURENCE BOY. "Jo! Jo! where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe," wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge; and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for to-morrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it, with girlish delight. "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New-Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go; now what _shall_ we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo, with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You _must_ have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else; you can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be _so_ mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing; it's no fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked Meg anxiously. "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are; that's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage--each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me; I'll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of "getting ready for the party." Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. [Illustration: Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks] "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! what _have_ you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits,--Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine." Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hair-pins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die! "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window,-- "Girls, girls! _have_ you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding, with a laugh, as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake." "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little "aristocratic tastes" of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? and does my hair look _very_ bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to any one: it isn't the thing." "How _do_ you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" [Illustration: Mrs. Gardiner greeted them] Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the "Laurence boy." [Illustration: Face to face with the Laurence boy] "Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled,-- "Don't mind me; stay, if you like." "Sha'n't I disturb you?" "Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and felt rather strange at first, you know." "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy,-- "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us, don't you?" "Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way,-- "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present." "Grandpa sent it." "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?" "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun. "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young lady. "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie." "Laurie Laurence,--what an odd name!" "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead." "I hate my name, too--so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?" "I thrashed 'em." "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it"; and Jo resigned herself with a sigh. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her. "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?" "Sometimes; you see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here." "Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels." Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin; but Jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers. "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?" "We spent last winter there." "Can you talk French?" "We were not allowed to speak any thing else at Vevay." "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce." "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said Laurie good-naturedly. "How nicely you do it! Let me see,--you said, 'Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,' didn't you?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?" "Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady." Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the "Laurence boy" better than ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. "Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself in time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books,--no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed at the dreadful "pegging" which had escaped her. Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug,-- "Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because--" There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because what?" asked Laurie curiously. "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,-- "Never mind that; I'll tell you how we can manage: there's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come?" Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath; and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side-room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. [Illustration: They sat down on the stairs] "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain. "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I can't have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." "I'll go." "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can." "I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell any one. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes." "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd rather." "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired, I can't stir!" So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining-room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back. "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it. "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and some one shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove. "Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take it to your sister?" "Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did." Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a "nice boy." They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of "Buzz," with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped up-stairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down, and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighborhood; and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up, and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early,--I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and it will be perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No; but it was very rude. What _were_ you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were at home. With many thanks, they said "Good night," and crept in, hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out,-- "Tell about the party! tell about the party!" With what Meg called "a great want of manners," Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening. "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown, with a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica, and brushed her hair. "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them." And I think Jo was quite right. [Illustration: Tell about the party] [Illustration: The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach] Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Der Junge Laurence, Meg und Jo sind zu einem Silvesterball im Haus der Gardiners eingeladen. Beim Ankleiden wird schnell klar, dass die ausgeflippte Jo für eine solche Party nicht geeignet ist. Ihr Kleid ist verbrannt, weil sie zu nah am Feuer gestanden hat, ihre Handschuhe sind mit Limonade verkleckert und sie hat kaum ein Gespür für angemessenes, damenhaftes Verhalten. Beim Versuch, Megas Haare zu kräuseln, verbrennt Jo sie versehentlich. Meg hingegen ist viel damenhafter, obwohl sie ihre Handschuhe mit Jo teilen muss, kein Seidenkleid hat und sehr enge Schuhe trägt. Meg erklärt Jo, dass sie die Augenbrauen hochziehen wird, wenn Jo sich unangemessen benimmt. Auf der Party kann Jo wegen ihres verbrannten Kleides nicht tanzen und gerät in eine Ecke, in der sich auch Theodore Laurence, der Neffe ihres wohlhabenden Nachbarn, versteckt. Der Junge, der Laurie genannt wird, ist fünfzehn Jahre alt wie Jo und wird schnell aus seiner Schüchternheit herausgelockt durch ihre burschikose Art, und die beiden verstehen sich sehr gut. Meg ruft Jo zu sich, sagt ihr, dass sie sich den Knöchel in ihren engen, hochhackigen Schuhen verstaucht hat. Jo versucht Kaffee und Eis für Meg zu holen, verschüttet aber den Kaffee auf ihr Kleid. Laurie hilft Jo und unterhält sie beide, dann bietet er ihnen an, sie mit seinem Wagen nach Hause zu fahren. Obwohl Jo zunächst zögert, ein Gefallen anzunehmen, besteht Laurie darauf. Meg überlegt, dass es schön ist, sich manchmal elegant wie eine Dame zu fühlen, aber Jo stellt fest, dass ihre Familie genauso glücklich ist wie elegante Leute mit feinen Dingen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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> 6--The Figure against the Sky When the whole Egdon concourse had left the site of the bonfire to its accustomed loneliness, a closely wrapped female figure approached the barrow from that quarter of the heath in which the little fire lay. Had the reddleman been watching he might have recognized her as the woman who had first stood there so singularly, and vanished at the approach of strangers. She ascended to her old position at the top, where the red coals of the perishing fire greeted her like living eyes in the corpse of day. There she stood still around her stretching the vast night atmosphere, whose incomplete darkness in comparison with the total darkness of the heath below it might have represented a venial beside a mortal sin. That she was tall and straight in build, that she was lady-like in her movements, was all that could be learnt of her just now, her form being wrapped in a shawl folded in the old cornerwise fashion, and her head in a large kerchief, a protection not superfluous at this hour and place. Her back was towards the wind, which blew from the northwest; but whether she had avoided that aspect because of the chilly gusts which played about her exceptional position, or because her interest lay in the southeast, did not at first appear. Her reason for standing so dead still as the pivot of this circle of heath-country was just as obscure. Her extraordinary fixity, her conspicuous loneliness, her heedlessness of night, betokened among other things an utter absence of fear. A tract of country unaltered from that sinister condition which made Caesar anxious every year to get clear of its glooms before the autumnal equinox, a kind of landscape and weather which leads travellers from the South to describe our island as Homer's Cimmerian land, was not, on the face of it, friendly to women. It might reasonably have been supposed that she was listening to the wind, which rose somewhat as the night advanced, and laid hold of the attention. The wind, indeed, seemed made for the scene, as the scene seemed made for the hour. Part of its tone was quite special; what was heard there could be heard nowhere else. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other from the northwest, and when each one of them raced past the sound of its progress resolved into three. Treble, tenor, and bass notes were to be found therein. The general ricochet of the whole over pits and prominences had the gravest pitch of the chime. Next there could be heard the baritone buzz of a holly tree. Below these in force, above them in pitch, a dwindled voice strove hard at a husky tune, which was the peculiar local sound alluded to. Thinner and less immediately traceable than the other two, it was far more impressive than either. In it lay what may be called the linguistic peculiarity of the heath; and being audible nowhere on earth off a heath, it afforded a shadow of reason for the woman's tenseness, which continued as unbroken as ever. Throughout the blowing of these plaintive November winds that note bore a great resemblance to the ruins of human song which remain to the throat of fourscore and ten. It was a worn whisper, dry and papery, and it brushed so distinctly across the ear that, by the accustomed, the material minutiae in which it originated could be realized as by touch. It was the united products of infinitesimal vegetable causes, and these were neither stems, leaves, fruit, blades, prickles, lichen, nor moss. They were the mummied heathbells of the past summer, originally tender and purple, now washed colourless by Michaelmas rains, and dried to dead skins by October suns. So low was an individual sound from these that a combination of hundreds only just emerged from silence, and the myriads of the whole declivity reached the woman's ear but as a shrivelled and intermittent recitative. Yet scarcely a single accent among the many afloat tonight could have such power to impress a listener with thoughts of its origin. One inwardly saw the infinity of those combined multitudes; and perceived that each of the tiny trumpets was seized on entered, scoured and emerged from by the wind as thoroughly as if it were as vast as a crater. "The spirit moved them." A meaning of the phrase forced itself upon the attention; and an emotional listener's fetichistic mood might have ended in one of more advanced quality. It was not, after all, that the left-hand expanse of old blooms spoke, or the right-hand, or those of the slope in front; but it was the single person of something else speaking through each at once. Suddenly, on the barrow, there mingled with all this wild rhetoric of night a sound which modulated so naturally into the rest that its beginning and ending were hardly to be distinguished. The bluffs, and the bushes, and the heather-bells had broken silence; at last, so did the woman; and her articulation was but as another phrase of the same discourse as theirs. Thrown out on the winds it became twined in with them, and with them it flew away. What she uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something in her mind which had led to her presence here. There was a spasmodic abandonment about it as if, in allowing herself to utter the sound the woman's brain had authorized what it could not regulate. One point was evident in this; that she had been existing in a suppressed state, and not in one of languor, or stagnation. Far away down the valley the faint shine from the window of the inn still lasted on; and a few additional moments proved that the window, or what was within it, had more to do with the woman's sigh than had either her own actions or the scene immediately around. She lifted her left hand, which held a closed telescope. This she rapidly extended, as if she were well accustomed to the operation, and raising it to her eye directed it towards the light beaming from the inn. The handkerchief which had hooded her head was now a little thrown back, her face being somewhat elevated. A profile was visible against the dull monochrome of cloud around her; and it was as though side shadows from the features of Sappho and Mrs. Siddons had converged upwards from the tomb to form an image like neither but suggesting both. This, however, was mere superficiality. In respect of character a face may make certain admissions by its outline; but it fully confesses only in its changes. So much is this the case that what is called the play of the features often helps more in understanding a man or woman than the earnest labours of all the other members together. Thus the night revealed little of her whose form it was embracing, for the mobile parts of her countenance could not be seen. At last she gave up her spying attitude, closed the telescope, and turned to the decaying embers. From these no appreciable beams now radiated, except when a more than usually smart gust brushed over their faces and raised a fitful glow which came and went like the blush of a girl. She stooped over the silent circle, and selecting from the brands a piece of stick which bore the largest live coal at its end, brought it to where she had been standing before. She held the brand to the ground, blowing the red coal with her mouth at the same time; till it faintly illuminated the sod, and revealed a small object, which turned out to be an hourglass, though she wore a watch. She blew long enough to show that the sand had all slipped through. "Ah!" she said, as if surprised. The light raised by her breath had been very fitful, and a momentary irradiation of flesh was all that it had disclosed of her face. That consisted of two matchless lips and a cheek only, her head being still enveloped. She threw away the stick, took the glass in her hand, the telescope under her arm, and moved on. Along the ridge ran a faint foot-track, which the lady followed. Those who knew it well called it a path; and, while a mere visitor would have passed it unnoticed even by day, the regular haunters of the heath were at no loss for it at midnight. The whole secret of following these incipient paths, when there was not light enough in the atmosphere to show a turnpike road, lay in the development of the sense of touch in the feet, which comes with years of night-rambling in little-trodden spots. To a walker practised in such places a difference between impact on maiden herbage, and on the crippled stalks of a slight footway, is perceptible through the thickest boot or shoe. The solitary figure who walked this beat took no notice of the windy tune still played on the dead heathbells. She did not turn her head to look at a group of dark creatures further on, who fled from her presence as she skirted a ravine where they fed. They were about a score of the small wild ponies known as heath-croppers. They roamed at large on the undulations of Egdon, but in numbers too few to detract much from the solitude. The pedestrian noticed nothing just now, and a clue to her abstraction was afforded by a trivial incident. A bramble caught hold of her skirt, and checked her progress. Instead of putting it off and hastening along, she yielded herself up to the pull, and stood passively still. When she began to extricate herself it was by turning round and round, and so unwinding the prickly switch. She was in a desponding reverie. Her course was in the direction of the small undying fire which had drawn the attention of the men on Rainbarrow and of Wildeve in the valley below. A faint illumination from its rays began to glow upon her face, and the fire soon revealed itself to be lit, not on the level ground, but on a salient corner or redan of earth, at the junction of two converging bank fences. Outside was a ditch, dry except immediately under the fire, where there was a large pool, bearded all round by heather and rushes. In the smooth water of the pool the fire appeared upside down. The banks meeting behind were bare of a hedge, save such as was formed by disconnected tufts of furze, standing upon stems along the top, like impaled heads above a city wall. A white mast, fitted up with spars and other nautical tackle, could be seen rising against the dark clouds whenever the flames played brightly enough to reach it. Altogether the scene had much the appearance of a fortification upon which had been kindled a beacon fire. Nobody was visible; but ever and anon a whitish something moved above the bank from behind, and vanished again. This was a small human hand, in the act of lifting pieces of fuel into the fire, but for all that could be seen the hand, like that which troubled Belshazzar, was there alone. Occasionally an ember rolled off the bank, and dropped with a hiss into the pool. At one side of the pool rough steps built of clods enabled everyone who wished to do so to mount the bank; which the woman did. Within was a paddock in an uncultivated state, though bearing evidence of having once been tilled; but the heath and fern had insidiously crept in, and were reasserting their old supremacy. Further ahead were dimly visible an irregular dwelling-house, garden, and outbuildings, backed by a clump of firs. The young lady--for youth had revealed its presence in her buoyant bound up the bank--walked along the top instead of descending inside, and came to the corner where the fire was burning. One reason for the permanence of the blaze was now manifest: the fuel consisted of hard pieces of wood, cleft and sawn--the knotty boles of old thorn trees which grew in twos and threes about the hillsides. A yet unconsumed pile of these lay in the inner angle of the bank; and from this corner the upturned face of a little boy greeted her eyes. He was dilatorily throwing up a piece of wood into the fire every now and then, a business which seemed to have engaged him a considerable part of the evening, for his face was somewhat weary. "I am glad you have come, Miss Eustacia," he said, with a sigh of relief. "I don't like biding by myself." "Nonsense. I have only been a little way for a walk. I have been gone only twenty minutes." "It seemed long," murmured the sad boy. "And you have been so many times." "Why, I thought you would be pleased to have a bonfire. Are you not much obliged to me for making you one?" "Yes; but there's nobody here to play wi' me." "I suppose nobody has come while I've been away?" "Nobody except your grandfather--he looked out of doors once for 'ee. I told him you were walking round upon the hill to look at the other bonfires." "A good boy." "I think I hear him coming again, miss." An old man came into the remoter light of the fire from the direction of the homestead. He was the same who had overtaken the reddleman on the road that afternoon. He looked wistfully to the top of the bank at the woman who stood there, and his teeth, which were quite unimpaired, showed like parian from his parted lips. "When are you coming indoors, Eustacia?" he asked. "'Tis almost bedtime. I've been home these two hours, and am tired out. Surely 'tis somewhat childish of you to stay out playing at bonfires so long, and wasting such fuel. My precious thorn roots, the rarest of all firing, that I laid by on purpose for Christmas--you have burnt 'em nearly all!" "I promised Johnny a bonfire, and it pleases him not to let it go out just yet," said Eustacia, in a way which told at once that she was absolute queen here. "Grandfather, you go in to bed. I shall follow you soon. You like the fire, don't you, Johnny?" The boy looked up doubtfully at her and murmured, "I don't think I want it any longer." Her grandfather had turned back again, and did not hear the boy's reply. As soon as the white-haired man had vanished she said in a tone of pique to the child, "Ungrateful little boy, how can you contradict me? Never shall you have a bonfire again unless you keep it up now. Come, tell me you like to do things for me, and don't deny it." The repressed child said, "Yes, I do, miss," and continued to stir the fire perfunctorily. "Stay a little longer and I will give you a crooked six-pence," said Eustacia, more gently. "Put in one piece of wood every two or three minutes, but not too much at once. I am going to walk along the ridge a little longer, but I shall keep on coming to you. And if you hear a frog jump into the pond with a flounce like a stone thrown in, be sure you run and tell me, because it is a sign of rain." "Yes, Eustacia." "Miss Vye, sir." "Miss Vy--stacia." "That will do. Now put in one stick more." The little slave went on feeding the fire as before. He seemed a mere automaton, galvanized into moving and speaking by the wayward Eustacia's will. He might have been the brass statue which Albertus Magnus is said to have animated just so far as to make it chatter, and move, and be his servant. Before going on her walk again the young girl stood still on the bank for a few instants and listened. It was to the full as lonely a place as Rainbarrow, though at rather a lower level; and it was more sheltered from wind and weather on account of the few firs to the north. The bank which enclosed the homestead, and protected it from the lawless state of the world without, was formed of thick square clods, dug from the ditch on the outside, and built up with a slight batter or incline, which forms no slight defense where hedges will not grow because of the wind and the wilderness, and where wall materials are unattainable. Otherwise the situation was quite open, commanding the whole length of the valley which reached to the river behind Wildeve's house. High above this to the right, and much nearer thitherward than the Quiet Woman Inn, the blurred contour of Rainbarrow obstructed the sky. After her attentive survey of the wild slopes and hollow ravines a gesture of impatience escaped Eustacia. She vented petulant words every now and then, but there were sighs between her words, and sudden listenings between her sighs. Descending from her perch she again sauntered off towards Rainbarrow, though this time she did not go the whole way. Twice she reappeared at intervals of a few minutes and each time she said-- "Not any flounce into the pond yet, little man?" "No, Miss Eustacia," the child replied. "Well," she said at last, "I shall soon be going in, and then I will give you the crooked sixpence, and let you go home." "Thank'ee, Miss Eustacia," said the tired stoker, breathing more easily. And Eustacia again strolled away from the fire, but this time not towards Rainbarrow. She skirted the bank and went round to the wicket before the house, where she stood motionless, looking at the scene. Fifty yards off rose the corner of the two converging banks, with the fire upon it; within the bank, lifting up to the fire one stick at a time, just as before, the figure of the little child. She idly watched him as he occasionally climbed up in the nook of the bank and stood beside the brands. The wind blew the smoke, and the child's hair, and the corner of his pinafore, all in the same direction; the breeze died, and the pinafore and hair lay still, and the smoke went up straight. While Eustacia looked on from this distance the boy's form visibly started--he slid down the bank and ran across towards the white gate. "Well?" said Eustacia. "A hopfrog have jumped into the pond. Yes, I heard 'en!" "Then it is going to rain, and you had better go home. You will not be afraid?" She spoke hurriedly, as if her heart had leapt into her throat at the boy's words. "No, because I shall hae the crooked sixpence." "Yes, here it is. Now run as fast as you can--not that way--through the garden here. No other boy in the heath has had such a bonfire as yours." The boy, who clearly had had too much of a good thing, marched away into the shadows with alacrity. When he was gone Eustacia, leaving her telescope and hourglass by the gate, brushed forward from the wicket towards the angle of the bank, under the fire. Here, screened by the outwork, she waited. In a few moments a splash was audible from the pond outside. Had the child been there he would have said that a second frog had jumped in; but by most people the sound would have been likened to the fall of a stone into the water. Eustacia stepped upon the bank. "Yes?" she said, and held her breath. Thereupon the contour of a man became dimly visible against the low-reaching sky over the valley, beyond the outer margin of the pool. He came round it and leapt upon the bank beside her. A low laugh escaped her--the third utterance which the girl had indulged in tonight. The first, when she stood upon Rainbarrow, had expressed anxiety; the second, on the ridge, had expressed impatience; the present was one of triumphant pleasure. She let her joyous eyes rest upon him without speaking, as upon some wondrous thing she had created out of chaos. "I have come," said the man, who was Wildeve. "You give me no peace. Why do you not leave me alone? I have seen your bonfire all the evening." The words were not without emotion, and retained their level tone as if by a careful equipoise between imminent extremes. At this unexpectedly repressing manner in her lover the girl seemed to repress herself also. "Of course you have seen my fire," she answered with languid calmness, artificially maintained. "Why shouldn't I have a bonfire on the Fifth of November, like other denizens of the heath?" "I knew it was meant for me." "How did you know it? I have had no word with you since you--you chose her, and walked about with her, and deserted me entirely, as if I had never been yours life and soul so irretrievably!" "Eustacia! could I forget that last autumn at this same day of the month and at this same place you lighted exactly such a fire as a signal for me to come and see you? Why should there have been a bonfire again by Captain Vye's house if not for the same purpose?" "Yes, yes--I own it," she cried under her breath, with a drowsy fervour of manner and tone which was quite peculiar to her. "Don't begin speaking to me as you did, Damon; you will drive me to say words I would not wish to say to you. I had given you up, and resolved not to think of you any more; and then I heard the news, and I came out and got the fire ready because I thought that you had been faithful to me." "What have you heard to make you think that?" said Wildeve, astonished. "That you did not marry her!" she murmured exultingly. "And I knew it was because you loved me best, and couldn't do it.... Damon, you have been cruel to me to go away, and I have said I would never forgive you. I do not think I can forgive you entirely, even now--it is too much for a woman of any spirit to quite overlook." "If I had known you wished to call me up here only to reproach me, I wouldn't have come." "But I don't mind it, and I do forgive you now that you have not married her, and have come back to me!" "Who told you that I had not married her?" "My grandfather. He took a long walk today, and as he was coming home he overtook some person who told him of a broken-off wedding--he thought it might be yours, and I knew it was." "Does anybody else know?" "I suppose not. Now Damon, do you see why I lit my signal fire? You did not think I would have lit it if I had imagined you to have become the husband of this woman. It is insulting my pride to suppose that." Wildeve was silent; it was evident that he had supposed as much. "Did you indeed think I believed you were married?" she again demanded earnestly. "Then you wronged me; and upon my life and heart I can hardly bear to recognize that you have such ill thoughts of me! Damon, you are not worthy of me--I see it, and yet I love you. Never mind, let it go--I must bear your mean opinion as best I may.... It is true, is it not," she added with ill-concealed anxiety, on his making no demonstration, "that you could not bring yourself to give me up, and are still going to love me best of all?" "Yes; or why should I have come?" he said touchily. "Not that fidelity will be any great merit in me after your kind speech about my unworthiness, which should have been said by myself if by anybody, and comes with an ill grace from you. However, the curse of inflammability is upon me, and I must live under it, and take any snub from a woman. It has brought me down from engineering to innkeeping--what lower stage it has in store for me I have yet to learn." He continued to look upon her gloomily. She seized the moment, and throwing back the shawl so that the firelight shone full upon her face and throat, said with a smile, "Have you seen anything better than that in your travels?" Eustacia was not one to commit herself to such a position without good ground. He said quietly, "No." "Not even on the shoulders of Thomasin?" "Thomasin is a pleasing and innocent woman." "That's nothing to do with it," she cried with quick passionateness. "We will leave her out; there are only you and me now to think of." After a long look at him she resumed with the old quiescent warmth, "Must I go on weakly confessing to you things a woman ought to conceal; and own that no words can express how gloomy I have been because of that dreadful belief I held till two hours ago--that you had quite deserted me?" "I am sorry I caused you that pain." "But perhaps it is not wholly because of you that I get gloomy," she archly added. "It is in my nature to feel like that. It was born in my blood, I suppose." "Hypochondriasis." "Or else it was coming into this wild heath. I was happy enough at Budmouth. O the times, O the days at Budmouth! But Egdon will be brighter again now." "I hope it will," said Wildeve moodily. "Do you know the consequence of this recall to me, my old darling? I shall come to see you again as before, at Rainbarrow." "Of course you will." "And yet I declare that until I got here tonight I intended, after this one good-bye, never to meet you again." "I don't thank you for that," she said, turning away, while indignation spread through her like subterranean heat. "You may come again to Rainbarrow if you like, but you won't see me; and you may call, but I shall not listen; and you may tempt me, but I won't give myself to you any more." "You have said as much before, sweet; but such natures as yours don't so easily adhere to their words. Neither, for the matter of that, do such natures as mine." "This is the pleasure I have won by my trouble," she whispered bitterly. "Why did I try to recall you? Damon, a strange warring takes place in my mind occasionally. I think when I become calm after you woundings, 'Do I embrace a cloud of common fog after all?' You are a chameleon, and now you are at your worst colour. Go home, or I shall hate you!" He looked absently towards Rainbarrow while one might have counted twenty, and said, as if he did not much mind all this, "Yes, I will go home. Do you mean to see me again?" "If you own to me that the wedding is broken off because you love me best." "I don't think it would be good policy," said Wildeve, smiling. "You would get to know the extent of your power too clearly." "But tell me!" "You know." "Where is she now?" "I don't know. I prefer not to speak of her to you. I have not yet married her; I have come in obedience to your call. That is enough." "I merely lit that fire because I was dull, and thought I would get a little excitement by calling you up and triumphing over you as the Witch of Endor called up Samuel. I determined you should come; and you have come! I have shown my power. A mile and half hither, and a mile and half back again to your home--three miles in the dark for me. Have I not shown my power?" He shook his head at her. "I know you too well, my Eustacia; I know you too well. There isn't a note in you which I don't know; and that hot little bosom couldn't play such a cold-blooded trick to save its life. I saw a woman on Rainbarrow at dusk looking down towards my house. I think I drew out you before you drew out me." The revived embers of an old passion glowed clearly in Wildeve now; and he leant forward as if about to put his face towards her cheek. "O no," she said, intractably moving to the other side of the decayed fire. "What did you mean by that?" "Perhaps I may kiss your hand?" "No, you may not." "Then I may shake your hand?" "No." "Then I wish you good night without caring for either. Good-bye, good-bye." She returned no answer, and with the bow of a dancing-master he vanished on the other side of the pool as he had come. Eustacia sighed--it was no fragile maiden sigh, but a sigh which shook her like a shiver. Whenever a flash of reason darted like an electric light upon her lover--as it sometimes would--and showed his imperfections, she shivered thus. But it was over in a second, and she loved on. She knew that he trifled with her; but she loved on. She scattered the half-burnt brands, went indoors immediately, and up to her bedroom without a light. Amid the rustles which denoted her to be undressing in the darkness other heavy breaths frequently came; and the same kind of shudder occasionally moved through her when, ten minutes later, she lay on her bed asleep. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> 7--Queen of Night Eustacia Vye was the raw material of a divinity. On Olympus she would have done well with a little preparation. She had the passions and instincts which make a model goddess, that is, those which make not quite a model woman. Had it been possible for the earth and mankind to be entirely in her grasp for a while, she had handled the distaff, the spindle, and the shears at her own free will, few in the world would have noticed the change of government. There would have been the same inequality of lot, the same heaping up of favours here, of contumely there, the same generosity before justice, the same perpetual dilemmas, the same captious alteration of caresses and blows that we endure now. She was in person full-limbed and somewhat heavy; without ruddiness, as without pallor; and soft to the touch as a cloud. To see her hair was to fancy that a whole winter did not contain darkness enough to form its shadow--it closed over her forehead like nightfall extinguishing the western glow. Her nerves extended into those tresses, and her temper could always be softened by stroking them down. When her hair was brushed she would instantly sink into stillness and look like the Sphinx. If, in passing under one of the Egdon banks, any of its thick skeins were caught, as they sometimes were, by a prickly tuft of the large Ulex Europoeus--which will act as a sort of hairbrush--she would go back a few steps, and pass against it a second time. She had pagan eyes, full of nocturnal mysteries, and their light, as it came and went, and came again, was partially hampered by their oppressive lids and lashes; and of these the under lid was much fuller than it usually is with English women. This enabled her to indulge in reverie without seeming to do so--she might have been believed capable of sleeping without closing them up. Assuming that the souls of men and women were visible essences, you could fancy the colour of Eustacia's soul to be flamelike. The sparks from it that rose into her dark pupils gave the same impression. The mouth seemed formed less to speak than to quiver, less to quiver than to kiss. Some might have added, less to kiss than to curl. Viewed sideways, the closing-line of her lips formed, with almost geometric precision, the curve so well known in the arts of design as the cima-recta, or ogee. The sight of such a flexible bend as that on grim Egdon was quite an apparition. It was felt at once that the mouth did not come over from Sleswig with a band of Saxon pirates whose lips met like the two halves of a muffin. One had fancied that such lip-curves were mostly lurking underground in the South as fragments of forgotten marbles. So fine were the lines of her lips that, though full, each corner of her mouth was as clearly cut as the point of a spear. This keenness of corner was only blunted when she was given over to sudden fits of gloom, one of the phases of the night-side of sentiment which she knew too well for her years. Her presence brought memories of such things as Bourbon roses, rubies, and tropical midnight; her moods recalled lotus-eaters and the march in Athalie; her motions, the ebb and flow of the sea; her voice, the viola. In a dim light, and with a slight rearrangement of her hair, her general figure might have stood for that of either of the higher female deities. The new moon behind her head, an old helmet upon it, a diadem of accidental dewdrops round her brow, would have been adjuncts sufficient to strike the note of Artemis, Athena, or Hera respectively, with as close an approximation to the antique as that which passes muster on many respected canvases. But celestial imperiousness, love, wrath, and fervour had proved to be somewhat thrown away on netherward Egdon. Her power was limited, and the consciousness of this limitation had biassed her development. Egdon was her Hades, and since coming there she had imbibed much of what was dark in its tone, though inwardly and eternally unreconciled thereto. Her appearance accorded well with this smouldering rebelliousness, and the shady splendour of her beauty was the real surface of the sad and stifled warmth within her. A true Tartarean dignity sat upon her brow, and not factitiously or with marks of constraint, for it had grown in her with years. Across the upper part of her head she wore a thin fillet of black velvet, restraining the luxuriance of her shady hair, in a way which added much to this class of majesty by irregularly clouding her forehead. "Nothing can embellish a beautiful face more than a narrow band drawn over the brow," says Richter. Some of the neighbouring girls wore coloured ribbon for the same purpose, and sported metallic ornaments elsewhere; but if anyone suggested coloured ribbon and metallic ornaments to Eustacia Vye she laughed and went on. Why did a woman of this sort live on Egdon Heath? Budmouth was her native place, a fashionable seaside resort at that date. She was the daughter of the bandmaster of a regiment which had been quartered there--a Corfiote by birth, and a fine musician--who met his future wife during her trip thither with her father the captain, a man of good family. The marriage was scarcely in accord with the old man's wishes, for the bandmaster's pockets were as light as his occupation. But the musician did his best; adopted his wife's name, made England permanently his home, took great trouble with his child's education, the expenses of which were defrayed by the grandfather, and throve as the chief local musician till her mother's death, when he left off thriving, drank, and died also. The girl was left to the care of her grandfather, who, since three of his ribs became broken in a shipwreck, had lived in this airy perch on Egdon, a spot which had taken his fancy because the house was to be had for next to nothing, and because a remote blue tinge on the horizon between the hills, visible from the cottage door, was traditionally believed to be the English Channel. She hated the change; she felt like one banished; but here she was forced to abide. Thus it happened that in Eustacia's brain were juxtaposed the strangest assortment of ideas, from old time and from new. There was no middle distance in her perspective--romantic recollections of sunny afternoons on an esplanade, with military bands, officers, and gallants around, stood like gilded letters upon the dark tablet of surrounding Egdon. Every bizarre effect that could result from the random intertwining of watering-place glitter with the grand solemnity of a heath, was to be found in her. Seeing nothing of human life now, she imagined all the more of what she had seen. Where did her dignity come from? By a latent vein from Alcinous' line, her father hailing from Phaeacia's isle?--or from Fitzalan and De Vere, her maternal grandfather having had a cousin in the peerage? Perhaps it was the gift of Heaven--a happy convergence of natural laws. Among other things opportunity had of late years been denied her of learning to be undignified, for she lived lonely. Isolation on a heath renders vulgarity well-nigh impossible. It would have been as easy for the heath-ponies, bats, and snakes to be vulgar as for her. A narrow life in Budmouth might have completely demeaned her. The only way to look queenly without realms or hearts to queen it over is to look as if you had lost them; and Eustacia did that to a triumph. In the captain's cottage she could suggest mansions she had never seen. Perhaps that was because she frequented a vaster mansion than any of them, the open hills. Like the summer condition of the place around her, she was an embodiment of the phrase "a populous solitude"--apparently so listless, void, and quiet, she was really busy and full. To be loved to madness--such was her great desire. Love was to her the one cordial which could drive away the eating loneliness of her days. And she seemed to long for the abstraction called passionate love more than for any particular lover. She could show a most reproachful look at times, but it was directed less against human beings than against certain creatures of her mind, the chief of these being Destiny, through whose interference she dimly fancied it arose that love alighted only on gliding youth--that any love she might win would sink simultaneously with the sand in the glass. She thought of it with an ever-growing consciousness of cruelty, which tended to breed actions of reckless unconventionality, framed to snatch a year's, a week's, even an hour's passion from anywhere while it could be won. Through want of it she had sung without being merry, possessed without enjoying, outshone without triumphing. Her loneliness deepened her desire. On Egdon, coldest and meanest kisses were at famine prices, and where was a mouth matching hers to be found? Fidelity in love for fidelity's sake had less attraction for her than for most women; fidelity because of love's grip had much. A blaze of love, and extinction, was better than a lantern glimmer of the same which should last long years. On this head she knew by prevision what most women learn only by experience--she had mentally walked round love, told the towers thereof, considered its palaces, and concluded that love was but a doleful joy. Yet she desired it, as one in a desert would be thankful for brackish water. She often repeated her prayers; not at particular times, but, like the unaffectedly devout, when she desired to pray. Her prayer was always spontaneous, and often ran thus, "O deliver my heart from this fearful gloom and loneliness; send me great love from somewhere, else I shall die." Her high gods were William the Conqueror, Strafford, and Napoleon Buonaparte, as they had appeared in the Lady's History used at the establishment in which she was educated. Had she been a mother she would have christened her boys such names as Saul or Sisera in preference to Jacob or David, neither of whom she admired. At school she had used to side with the Philistines in several battles, and had wondered if Pontius Pilate were as handsome as he was frank and fair. Thus she was a girl of some forwardness of mind, indeed, weighed in relation to her situation among the very rearward of thinkers, very original. Her instincts towards social non-comformity were at the root of this. In the matter of holidays, her mood was that of horses who, when turned out to grass, enjoy looking upon their kind at work on the highway. She only valued rest to herself when it came in the midst of other people's labour. Hence she hated Sundays when all was at rest, and often said they would be the death of her. To see the heathmen in their Sunday condition, that is, with their hands in their pockets, their boots newly oiled, and not laced up (a particularly Sunday sign), walking leisurely among the turves and furze-faggots they had cut during the week, and kicking them critically as if their use were unknown, was a fearful heaviness to her. To relieve the tedium of this untimely day she would overhaul the cupboards containing her grandfather's old charts and other rubbish, humming Saturday-night ballads of the country people the while. But on Saturday nights she would frequently sing a psalm, and it was always on a weekday that she read the Bible, that she might be unoppressed with a sense of doing her duty. Such views of life were to some extent the natural begettings of her situation upon her nature. To dwell on a heath without studying its meanings was like wedding a foreigner without learning his tongue. The subtle beauties of the heath were lost to Eustacia; she only caught its vapours. An environment which would have made a contented woman a poet, a suffering woman a devotee, a pious woman a psalmist, even a giddy woman thoughtful, made a rebellious woman saturnine. Eustacia had got beyond the vision of some marriage of inexpressible glory; yet, though her emotions were in full vigour, she cared for no meaner union. Thus we see her in a strange state of isolation. To have lost the godlike conceit that we may do what we will, and not to have acquired a homely zest for doing what we can, shows a grandeur of temper which cannot be objected to in the abstract, for it denotes a mind that, though disappointed, forswears compromise. But, if congenial to philosophy, it is apt to be dangerous to the commonwealth. In a world where doing means marrying, and the commonwealth is one of hearts and hands, the same peril attends the condition. And so we see our Eustacia--for at times she was not altogether unlovable--arriving at that stage of enlightenment which feels that nothing is worth while, and filling up the spare hours of her existence by idealizing Wildeve for want of a better object. This was the sole reason of his ascendency: she knew it herself. At moments her pride rebelled against her passion for him, and she even had longed to be free. But there was only one circumstance which could dislodge him, and that was the advent of a greater man. For the rest, she suffered much from depression of spirits, and took slow walks to recover them, in which she carried her grandfather's telescope and her grandmother's hourglass--the latter because of a peculiar pleasure she derived from watching a material representation of time's gradual glide away. She seldom schemed, but when she did scheme, her plans showed rather the comprehensive strategy of a general than the small arts called womanish, though she could utter oracles of Delphian ambiguity when she did not choose to be direct. In heaven she will probably sit between the Heloises and the Cleopatras. </CHAPTER> Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Auf dem Rainbarrow wartet Eustacia Vye ungeduldig darauf, dass Wildeve auf ihr Signal reagiert. Nachdem sie eine Weile die Gaststätte beobachtet hat, kehrt sie zum Feuer vor dem Haus ihres Großvaters zurück und überredet Johnny Nunsuch, ihren jungen Helfer, das Feuer weiter anzufachen. Als Wildeve sein Herannahen signalisiert, schickt sie Johnny nach Hause und wartet auf das Erscheinen von Wildeve. Obwohl sie froh ist, dass sie ihn dazu gebracht hat zu kommen, gelingt es ihr in dem Gespräch nicht, ihn dazu zu bringen zu sagen, dass er sie mehr liebt als Thomasin. Obwohl sie früher Liebhaber waren, sind sie nun beide misstrauisch bezüglich der Absichten des anderen. Sie trennen sich, ohne sich definitiv zu einer Beziehung zu verpflichten. Eustacia wird als mehr Göttin denn als Frau beschrieben.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 Hard-Won Triumph Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment in all the year,--the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deep and daisied,--Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the evening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the old deep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which always seemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light in Tom's blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold in his brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomes quicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compression which is meant to forbid a smile. The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence,--Mr. Tulliver in his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing while her mother was making the tea. They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot. "Why, what's up now, Tom?" said his father. "You're a bit earlier than usual." "Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well, mother!" Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humor with him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at home prevented this from being noticeable to their parents. "Father," said Tom, when they had finished tea, "do you know exactly how much money there is in the tin box?" "Only a hundred and ninety-three pound," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've brought less o' late; but young fellows like to have their own way with their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before _I_ was of age." He spoke with rather timid discontent. "Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?" said Tom. "I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you have perhaps made a mistake." "How should I make a mistake?" said his father, sharply. "I've counted it often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won't believe me." It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and count the money. "Don't go out of the room, mother," said Tom, as he saw her moving when his father was gone upstairs. "And isn't Maggie to go?" said Mrs. Tulliver; "because somebody must take away the things." "Just as she likes," said Tom indifferently. That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debts could be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. The feeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at that moment. Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin box was set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them made conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blank patience, the other in palpitating expectation. Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table, and then said, glancing sharply at Tom: "There now! you see I was right enough." He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency. "There's more nor three hundred wanting; it'll be a fine while before _I_ can save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi' the corn was a sore job. This world's been too many for me. It's took four year to lay _this_ by; it's much if I'm above ground for another four year. I must trusten to you to pay 'em," he went on, with a trembling voice, "if you keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age. But you're like enough to bury me first." He looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for some assurance. "No, father," said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though there was tremor discernible in his voice too, "you will live to see the debts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand." His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. A slight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr. Tulliver, and he kept his eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie, unable to restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt down by him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on. "A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to trade with, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds in the bank." His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words were uttered, and she said, half crying: "Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, when you got a man." But his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power of speech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock of joy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. The broad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and the gray-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually subsided, and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of his breathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentle tone: "Bessy, you must come and kiss me now--the lad has made you amends. You'll see a bit o' comfort again, belike." When she had kissed him, and he had held her hand a minute, his thoughts went back to the money. "I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom," he said, fingering the sovereigns on the table; "I should ha' felt surer." "You shall see it to-morrow, father," said Tom. "My uncle Deane has appointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and he has ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and he will both be there. It was advertised in the 'Messenger' on Saturday." "Then Wakem knows on't!" said Mr. Tulliver, his eye kindling with triumphant fire. "Ah!" he went on, with a long-drawn guttural enunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had left himself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance. "I'll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the old mill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here--but I can't----we've got a glass o' nothing in the house, have we, Bessy?" "Yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced bunch of keys, "there's some brandy sister Deane brought me when I was ill." "Get it me, then; get it me. I feel a bit weak." "Tom, my lad," he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken some brandy-and-water, "you shall make a speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it's you as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last, and ha' got an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine,--a fine straight fellow,--i'stead o' that poor crooked creatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the day when Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll like enough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was before you,--you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing to hinder your getting rich. And if ever you're rich enough--mind this--try and get th' old mill again." Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had so long been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding, suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening to himself. "Shake hands wi' me, my lad," he said, suddenly putting out his hand. "It's a great thing when a man can be proud as he's got a good son. I've had _that_ luck." Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that; and Maggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good; and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true admiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousy this evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the background in her father's mind. There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom's trading adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know what had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had been thought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remarkable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had come under Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminiscences of the childhood of great men. It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under the vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation. It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and the sleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past five o'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom. "What's the matter, Mr. Tulliver?" said his wife. He looked at her, still with a puzzled expression, and said at last: "Ah!--I was dreaming--did I make a noise?--I thought I'd got hold of him." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Drei Wochen sind vergangen. Tom versammelt die ganze Familie im Wohnzimmer, um ihnen einige Neuigkeiten mitzuteilen. Zuerst bittet Tom seinen Vater, seine Geldkassette zu überprüfen und zu sehen, wie viel darin ist. Mr. Tulliver hält das für dumm, da er bereits weiß, wie viel drin ist, weil er sein Geld jeden Tag zählt. Dann fragt Tom, wie viel Geld benötigt wird, um die Schulden zu begleichen, und Mr. Tulliver antwortet: "Ich weiß, wie viel!" Tom hört schließlich auf, alle hin und her zu ziehen, und verkündet, dass er genug Geld aufgetrieben hat, um die Familienschulden zu begleichen. Die Familie ist überglücklich. Tom erklärt, dass die Schulden morgen beglichen werden. Mr. Deane hat ein Treffen mit den Gläubigern arrangiert und auch Mr. Glegg wird morgen dort sein. Mr. Tulliver ist aufgeregt und sagt Tom, dass er vor den Gläubigern eine Rede über die Wiederherstellung des guten Rufes der Familie halten kann. Tom ist völlig triumphierend und freut sich. Maggie legt ihren Ärger beiseite und lobt Tom. Dann erzählt Tom Mr. Tulliver die ganze Geschichte, wie er das Geld aufgetrieben hat. Mr. Tulliver lobt Bob Jakin dafür, dass er ihnen geholfen hat. In dieser Nacht wacht Mr. Tulliver aus einem Traum auf und denkt, dass er endlich mit Mr. Wakem gleichgezogen 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: I was not disappointed on my next visit to the forest, nor on several succeeding visits; and this seemed to show that if I was right in believing that these strange, melodious utterances proceeded from one individual, then the bird or being, although still refusing to show itself, was always on the watch for my appearance and followed me wherever I went. This thought only served to increase my curiosity; I was constantly pondering over the subject, and at last concluded that it would be best to induce one of the Indians to go with me to the wood on the chance of his being able to explain the mystery. One of the treasures I had managed to preserve in my sojourn with these children of nature, who were always anxious to become possessors of my belongings, was a small prettily fashioned metal match-box, opening with a spring. Remembering that Kua-ko, among others, had looked at this trifle with covetous eyes--the covetous way in which they all looked at it had given it a fictitious value in my own--I tried to bribe him with the offer of it to accompany me to my favourite haunt. The brave young hunter refused again and again; but on each occasion he offered to perform some other service or to give me something in exchange for the box. At last I told him that I would give it to the first person who should accompany me, and fearing that someone would be found valiant enough to win the prize, he at length plucked up a spirit, and on the next day, seeing me going out for a walk, he all at once offered to go with me. He cunningly tried to get the box before starting--his cunning, poor youth, was not very deep! I told him that the forest we were about to visit abounded with plants and birds unlike any I had seen elsewhere, that I wished to learn their names and everything about them, and that when I had got the required information the box would be his--not sooner. Finally we started, he, as usual, armed with his zabatana, with which, I imagined, he would procure more game than usually fell to his little poisoned arrows. When we reached the wood I could see that he was ill at ease: nothing would persuade him to go into the deeper parts; and even where it was very open and light he was constantly gazing into bushes and shadowy places, as if expecting to see some frightful creature lying in wait for him. This behaviour might have had a disquieting effect on me had I not been thoroughly convinced that his fears were purely superstitious and that there could be no dangerous animal in a spot I was accustomed to walk in every day. My plan was to ramble about with an unconcerned air, occasionally pointing out an uncommon tree or shrub or vine, or calling his attention to a distant bird-cry and asking the bird's name, in the hope that the mysterious voice would make itself heard and that he would be able to give me some explanation of it. But for upwards of two hours we moved about, hearing nothing except the usual bird voices, and during all that time he never stirred a yard from my side nor made an attempt to capture anything. At length we sat down under a tree, in an open spot close to the border of the wood. He sat down very reluctantly, and seemed more troubled in his mind than ever, keeping his eyes continually roving about, while he listened intently to every sound. The sounds were not few, owing to the abundance of animal and especially of bird life in this favoured spot. I began to question my companion as to some of the cries we heard. There were notes and cries familiar to me as the crowing of the cock--parrot screams and yelping of toucans, the distant wailing calls of maam and duraquara; and shrill laughter-like notes of the large tree-climber as it passed from tree to tree; the quick whistle of cotingas; and strange throbbing and thrilling sounds, as of pygmies beating on metallic drums, of the skulking pitta-thrushes; and with these mingled other notes less well known. One came from the treetops, where it was perpetually wandering amid the foliage a low note, repeated at intervals of a few seconds, so thin and mournful and full of mystery that I half expected to hear that it proceeded from the restless ghost of some dead bird. But no; he only said it was uttered by a "little bird"--too little presumably to have a name. From the foliage of a neighbouring tree came a few tinkling chirps, as of a small mandolin, two or three strings of which had been carelessly struck by the player. He said that it came from a small green frog that lived in trees; and in this way my rude Indian--vexed perhaps at being asked such trivial questions--brushed away the pretty fantasies my mind had woven in the woodland solitude. For I often listened to this tinkling music, and it had suggested the idea that the place was frequented by a tribe of fairy-like troubadour monkeys, and that if I could only be quick-sighted enough I might one day be able to detect the minstrel sitting, in a green tunic perhaps, cross-legged on some high, swaying bough, carelessly touching his mandolin, suspended from his neck by a yellow ribbon. By and by a bird came with low, swift flight, its great tail spread open fan-wise, and perched itself on an exposed bough not thirty yards from us. It was all of a chestnut-red colour, long-bodied, in size like a big pigeon. Its actions showed that its curiosity had been greatly excited, for it jerked from side to side, eyeing us first with one eye, then the other, while its long tail rose and fell in a measured way. "Look, Kua-ko," I said in a whisper, "there is a bird for you to kill." But he only shook his head, still watchful. "Give me the blow-pipe, then," I said, with a laugh, putting out my hand to take it. But he refused to let me take it, knowing that it would only be an arrow wasted if I attempted to shoot anything. As I persisted in telling him to kill the bird, he at last bent his lips near me and said in a half-whisper, as if fearful of being overheard: "I can kill nothing here. If I shot at the bird, the daughter of the Didi would catch the dart in her hand and throw it back and hit me here," touching his breast just over his heart. I laughed again, saying to myself, with some amusement, that Kua-ko was not such a bad companion after all--that he was not without imagination. But in spite of my laughter his words roused my interest and suggested the idea that the voice I was curious about had been heard by the Indians and was as great a mystery to them as to me; since, not being like that of any creature known to them, it would be attributed by their superstitious minds to one of the numerous demons or semi-human monsters inhabiting every forest, stream, and mountain; and fear of it would drive them from the wood. In this case, judging from my companion's words, they had varied the form of the superstition somewhat, inventing a daughter of a water-spirit to be afraid of. My thought was that if their keen, practiced eyes had never been able to see this flitting woodland creature with a musical soul, it was not likely that I would succeed in my quest. I began to question him, but he now appeared less inclined to talk and more frightened than ever, and each time I attempted to speak he imposed silence, with a quick gesture of alarm, while he continued to stare about him with dilated eyes. All at once he sprang to his feet as if overcome with terror and started running at full speed. His fear infected me, and, springing up, I followed as fast as I could, but he was far ahead of me, running for dear life; and before I had gone forty yards my feet were caught in a creeper trailing along the surface, and I measured my length on the ground. The sudden, violent shock almost took away my senses for a moment, but when I jumped up and stared round to see no unspeakable monster--Curupita or other--rushing on to slay and devour me there and then, I began to feel ashamed of my cowardice; and in the end I turned and walked back to the spot I had just quitted and sat down once more. I even tried to hum a tune, just to prove to myself that I had completely recovered from the panic caught from the miserable Indian; but it is never possible in such cases to get back one's serenity immediately, and a vague suspicion continued to trouble me for a time. After sitting there for half an hour or so, listening to distant bird-sounds, I began to recover my old confidence, and even to feel inclined to penetrate further into the wood. All at once, making me almost jump, so sudden it was, so much nearer and louder than I had ever heard it before, the mysterious melody began. Unmistakably it was uttered by the same being heard on former occasions; but today it was different in character. The utterance was far more rapid, with fewer silent intervals, and it had none of the usual tenderness in it, nor ever once sunk to that low, whisper-like talking which had seemed to me as if the spirit of the wind had breathed its low sighs in syllables and speech. Now it was not only loud, rapid, and continuous, but, while still musical, there was an incisiveness in it, a sharp ring as of resentment, which made it strike painfully on the sense. The impression of an intelligent unhuman being addressing me in anger took so firm a hold on my mind that the old fear returned, and, rising, I began to walk rapidly away, intending to escape from the wood. The voice continued violently rating me, as it seemed to my mind, moving with me, which caused me to accelerate my steps; and very soon I would have broken into a run, when its character began to change again. There were pauses now, intervals of silence, long or short, and after each one the voice came to my ear with a more subdued and dulcet sound--more of that melting, flute-like quality it had possessed at other times; and this softness of tone, coupled with the talking-like form of utterance, gave me the idea of a being no longer incensed, addressing me now in a peaceable spirit, reasoning away my unworthy tremors, and imploring me to remain with it in the wood. Strange as this voice without a body was, and always productive of a slightly uncomfortable feeling on account of its mystery, it seemed impossible to doubt that it came to me now in a spirit of pure friendliness; and when I had recovered my composure I found a new delight in listening to it--all the greater because of the fear so lately experienced, and of its seeming intelligence. For the third time I reseated myself on the same spot, and at intervals the voice talked to me there for some time and, to my fancy, expressed satisfaction and pleasure at my presence. But later, without losing its friendly tone, it changed again. It seemed to move away and to be thrown back from a considerable distance; and, at long intervals, it would approach me again with a new sound, which I began to interpret as of command, or entreaty. Was it, I asked myself, inviting me to follow? And if I obeyed, to what delightful discoveries or frightful dangers might it lead? My curiosity together with the belief that the being--I called it being, not bird, now--was friendly to me, overcame all timidity, and I rose and walked at random towards the interior of the wood. Very soon I had no doubt left that the being had desired me to follow; for there was now a new note of gladness in its voice, and it continued near me as I walked, at intervals approaching me so closely as to set me staring into the surrounding shadowy places like poor scared Kua-ko. On this occasion, too, I began to have a new fancy, for fancy or illusion I was determined to regard it, that some swift-footed being was treading the ground near me; that I occasionally caught the faint rustle of a light footstep, and detected a motion in leaves and fronds and thread-like stems of creepers hanging near the surface, as if some passing body had touched and made them tremble; and once or twice that I even had a glimpse of a grey, misty object moving at no great distance in the deeper shadows. Led by this wandering tricksy being, I came to a spot where the trees were very large and the damp dark ground almost free from undergrowth; and here the voice ceased to be heard. After patiently waiting and listening for some time, I began to look about me with a slight feeling of apprehension. It was still about two hours before sunset; only in this place the shade of the vast trees made a perpetual twilight: moreover, it was strangely silent here, the few bird-cries that reached me coming from a long distance. I had flattered myself that the voice had become to some extent intelligible to me: its outburst of anger caused no doubt by my cowardly flight after the Indian; then its recovered friendliness, which had induced me to return; and finally its desire to be followed. Now that it had led me to this place of shadow and profound silence and had ceased to speak and to lead, I could not help thinking that this was my goal, that I had been brought to this spot with a purpose, that in this wild and solitary retreat some tremendous adventure was about to befall me. As the silence continued unbroken, there was time to dwell on this thought. I gazed before me and listened intently, scarcely breathing, until the suspense became painful--too painful at last, and I turned and took a step with the idea of going back to the border of the wood, when close by, clear as a silver bell, sounded the voice once more, but only for a moment--two or three syllables in response to my movement, then it was silent again. Once more I was standing still, as if in obedience to a command, in the same state of suspense; and whether the change was real or only imagined I know not, but the silence every minute grew more profound and the gloom deeper. Imaginary terrors began to assail me. Ancient fables of men allured by beautiful forms and melodious voices to destruction all at once acquired a fearful significance. I recalled some of the Indian beliefs, especially that of the mis-shapen, man-devouring monster who is said to beguile his victims into the dark forest by mimicking the human voice--the voice sometimes of a woman in distress--or by singing some strange and beautiful melody. I grew almost afraid to look round lest I should catch sight of him stealing towards me on his huge feet with toes pointing backwards, his mouth snarling horribly to display his great green fangs. It was distressing to have such fancies in this wild, solitary spot--hateful to feel their power over me when I knew that they were nothing but fancies and creations of the savage mind. But if these supernatural beings had no existence, there were other monsters, only too real, in these woods which it would be dreadful to encounter alone and unarmed, since against such adversaries a revolver would be as ineffectual as a popgun. Some huge camoodi, able to crush my bones like brittle twigs in its constricting coils, might lurk in these shadows, and approach me stealthily, unseen in its dark colour on the dark ground. Or some jaguar or black tiger might steal towards me, masked by a bush or tree-trunk, to spring upon me unawares. Or, worse still, this way might suddenly come a pack of those swift-footed, unspeakably terrible hunting-leopards, from which every living thing in the forest flies with shrieks of consternation or else falls paralysed in their path to be instantly torn to pieces and devoured. A slight rustling sound in the foliage above me made me start and cast up my eyes. High up, where a pale gleam of tempered sunlight fell through the leaves, a grotesque human-like face, black as ebony and adorned with a great red beard, appeared staring down upon me. In another moment it was gone. It was only a large araguato, or howling monkey, but I was so unnerved that I could not get rid of the idea that it was something more than a monkey. Once more I moved, and again, the instant I moved my foot, clear, and keen, and imperative, sounded the voice! It was no longer possible to doubt its meaning. It commanded me to stand still--to wait--to watch--to listen! Had it cried "Listen! Do not move!" I could not have understood it better. Trying as the suspense was, I now felt powerless to escape. Something very terrible, I felt convinced, was about to happen, either to destroy or to release me from the spell that held me. And while I stood thus rooted to the ground, the sweat standing in large drops on my forehead, all at once close to me sounded a cry, fine and clear at first, and rising at the end to a shriek so loud, piercing, and unearthly in character that the blood seemed to freeze in my veins, and a despairing cry to heaven escaped my lips; then, before that long shriek expired, a mighty chorus of thunderous voices burst forth around me; and in this awful tempest of sound I trembled like a leaf; and the leaves on the trees were agitated as if by a high wind, and the earth itself seemed to shake beneath my feet. Indescribably horrible were my sensations at that moment; I was deafened, and would possibly have been maddened had I not, as by a miracle, chanced to see a large araguato on a branch overhead, roaring with open mouth and inflated throat and chest. It was simply a concert of howling monkeys that had so terrified me! But my extreme fear was not strange in the circumstances; since everything that had led up to the display--the gloom and silence, the period of suspense, and my heated imagination--had raised my mind to the highest degree of excitement and expectancy. I had rightly conjectured, no doubt, that my unseen guide had led me to that spot for a purpose; and the purpose had been to set me in the midst of a congregation of araguatos to enable me for the first time fully to appreciate their unparalleled vocal powers. I had always heard them at a distance; here they were gathered in scores, possibly hundreds--the whole araguato population of the forest, I should think--close to me; and it may give some faint conception of the tremendous power and awful character of the sound thus produced by their combined voices when I say that this animal--miscalled "howler" in English--would outroar the mightiest lion that ever woke the echoes of an African wilderness. This roaring concert, which lasted three or four minutes, having ended, I lingered a few minutes longer on the spot, and not hearing the voice again, went back to the edge of the wood, and then started on my way back to the village. Perhaps I was not capable of thinking quite coherently on what had just happened until I was once more fairly outside of the forest shadows--out in that clear open daylight, where things seem what they are, and imagination, like a juggler detected and laughed at, hastily takes itself out of the way. As I walked homewards I paused midway on the barren ridge to gaze back on the scene I had left, and then the recent adventure began to take a semi-ludicrous aspect in my mind. All that circumstance of preparation, that mysterious prelude to something unheard of, unimaginable, surpassing all fables ancient and modern, and all tragedies--to end at last in a concert of howling monkeys! Certainly the concert was very grand--indeed, one of the most astounding in nature---but still--I sat down on a stone and laughed freely. The sun was sinking behind the forest, its broad red disk still showing through the topmost leaves, and the higher part of the foliage was of a luminous green, like green flame, throwing off flakes of quivering, fiery light, but lower down the trees were in profound shadow. I felt very light-hearted while I gazed on this scene, for how pleasant it was just now to think of the strange experience I had passed through--to think that I had come safely out of it, that no human eye had witnessed my weakness, and that the mystery existed still to fascinate me! For, ludicrous as the denouement now looked, the cause of all, the voice itself, was a thing to marvel at more than ever. That it proceeded from an intelligent being I was firmly convinced; and although too materialistic in my way of thinking to admit for a moment that it was a supernatural being, I still felt that there was something more than I had at first imagined in Kua-ko's speech about a daughter of the Didi. That the Indians knew a great deal about the mysterious voice, and had held it in great fear, seemed evident. But they were savages, with ways that were not mine; and however friendly they might be towards one of a superior race, there was always in their relations with him a low cunning, prompted partly by suspicion, underlying their words and actions. For the white man to put himself mentally on their level is not more impossible than for these aborigines to be perfectly open, as children are, towards the white. Whatever subject the stranger within their gates exhibits an interest in, that they will be reticent about; and their reticence, which conceals itself under easily invented lies or an affected stupidity, invariably increases with his desire for information. It was plain to them that some very unusual interest took me to the wood; consequently I could not expect that they would tell me anything they might know to enlighten me about the matter; and I concluded that Kua-ko's words about the daughter of the Didi, and what she would do if he blew an arrow at a bird, had accidentally escaped him in a moment of excitement. Nothing, therefore, was to be gained by questioning them, or, at all events, by telling them how much the subject attracted me. And I had nothing to fear; my independent investigations had made this much clear to me; the voice might proceed from a very frolicsome and tricksy creature, full of wild fantastic humours, but nothing worse. It was friendly to me, I felt sure; at the same time it might not be friendly towards the Indians; for, on that day, it had made itself heard only after my companion had taken flight; and it had then seemed incensed against me, possibly because the savage had been in my company. That was the result of my reflections on the day's events when I returned to my entertainer's roof and sat down among my friends to refresh myself with stewed fowl and fish from the household pot, into which a hospitable woman invited me with a gesture to dip my fingers. Kua-ko was lying in his hammock, smoking, I think--certainly not reading. When I entered he lifted his head and stared at me, probably surprised to see me alive, unharmed, and in a placid temper. I laughed at the look, and, somewhat disconcerted, he dropped his head down again. After a minute or two I took the metal match-box and tossed it on to his breast. He clutched it and, starting up, stared at me in the utmost astonishment. He could scarcely believe his good fortune; for he had failed to carry out his part of the compact and had resigned himself to the loss of the coveted prize. Jumping down to the floor, he held up the box triumphantly, his joy overcoming the habitual stolid look; while all the others gathered about him, each trying to get the box into his own hands to admire it again, notwithstanding that they had all seen it a dozen times before. But it was Kua-ko's now and not the stranger's, and therefore more nearly their own than formerly, and must look different, more beautiful, with a brighter polish on the metal. And that wonderful enamelled cock on the lid--figured in Paris probably, but just like a cock in Guayana, the pet bird which they no more think of killing and eating than we do our purring pussies and lemon-coloured canaries--must now look more strikingly valiant and cock-like than ever, with its crimson comb and wattles, burnished red hackles, and dark green arching tail-plumes. But Kua-ko, while willing enough to have it admired and praised, would not let it out of his hands, and told them pompously that it was not theirs for them to handle, but his--Kua-ko's--for all time; that he had won it by accompanying me--valorous man that he was!--to that evil wood into which they--timid, inferior creatures that they were!--would never have ventured to set foot. I am not translating his words, but that was what he gave them to understand pretty plainly, to my great amusement. After the excitement was over, Runi, who had maintained a dignified calm, made some roundabout remarks, apparently with the object of eliciting an account of what I had seen and heard in the forest of evil fame. I replied carelessly that I had seen a great many birds and monkeys--monkeys so tame that I might have procured one if I had had a blow-pipe, in spite of my never having practiced shooting with that weapon. It interested them to hear about the abundance and tameness of the monkeys, although it was scarcely news; but how tame they must have been when I, the stranger not to the manner born--not naked, brown-skinned, lynx-eyed, and noiseless as an owl in his movements--had yet been able to look closely at them! Runi only remarked, apropos of what I had told him, that they could not go there to hunt; then he asked me if I feared nothing. "Nothing," I replied carelessly. "The things you fear hurt not the white man and are no more than this to me," saying which I took up a little white wood-ash in my hand and blew it away with my breath. "And against other enemies I have this," I added, touching my revolver. A brave speech, just after that araguato episode; but I did not make it without blushing--mentally. He shook his head, and said it was a poor weapon against some enemies; also--truly enough--that it would procure no birds and monkeys for the stew-pot. Next morning my friend Kua-ko, taking his zabatana, invited me to go out with him, and I consented with some misgivings, thinking he had overcome his superstitious fears and, inflamed by my account of the abundance of game in the forest, intended going there with me. The previous day's experience had made me think that it would be better in the future to go there alone. But I was giving the poor youth more credit than he deserved: it was far from his intention to face the terrible unknown again. We went in a different direction, and tramped for hours through woods where birds were scarce and only of the smaller kinds. Then my guide surprised me a second time by offering to teach me to use the zabatana. This, then, was to be my reward for giving him the box! I readily consented, and with the long weapon, awkward to carry, in my hand, and imitating the noiseless movements and cautious, watchful manner of my companion, I tried to imagine myself a simple Guayana savage, with no knowledge of that artificial social state to which I had been born, dependent on my skill and little roll of poison-darts for a livelihood. By an effort of the will I emptied myself of my life experience and knowledge--or as much of it as possible--and thought only of the generations of my dead imaginary progenitors, who had ranged these woods back to the dim forgotten years before Columbus; and if the pleasure I had in the fancy was childish, it made the day pass quickly enough. Kua-ko was constantly at my elbow to assist and give advice; and many an arrow I blew from the long tube, and hit no bird. Heaven knows what I hit, for the arrows flew away on their wide and wild career to be seen no more, except a few which my keen-eyed comrade marked to their destination and managed to recover. The result of our day's hunting was a couple of birds, which Kua-ko, not I, shot, and a small opossum his sharp eyes detected high up a tree lying coiled up on an old nest, over the side of which the animal had incautiously allowed his snaky tail to dangle. The number of darts I wasted must have been a rather serious loss to him, but he did not seem troubled at it, and made no remark. Next day, to my surprise, he volunteered to give me a second lesson, and we went out again. On this occasion he had provided himself with a large bundle of darts, but--wise man!--they were not poisoned, and it therefore mattered little whether they were wasted or not. I believe that on this day I made some little progress; at all events, my teacher remarked that before long I would be able to hit a bird. This made me smile and answer that if he could place me within twenty yards of a bird not smaller than a small man I might manage to touch it with an arrow. This speech had a very unexpected and remarkable effect. He stopped short in his walk, stared at me wildly, then grinned, and finally burst into a roar of laughter, which was no bad imitation of the howling monkey's performance, and smote his naked thighs with tremendous energy. At length recovering himself, he asked whether a small woman was not the same as a small man, and being answered in the affirmative, went off into a second extravagant roar of laughter. Thinking it was easy to tickle him while he continued in this mood, I began making any number of feeble jokes--feeble, but quite as good as the one which had provoked such outrageous merriment--for it amused me to see him acting in this unusual way. But they all failed of their effect--there was no hitting the bull's-eye a second time; he would only stare vacantly at me, then grunt like a peccary--not appreciatively--and walk on. Still, at intervals he would go back to what I had said about hitting a very big bird, and roar again, as if this wonderful joke was not easily exhausted. Again on the third day we were out together practicing at the birds--frightening if not killing them; but before noon, finding that it was his intention to go to a distant spot where he expected to meet with larger game, I left him and returned to the village. The blow-pipe practice had lost its novelty, and I did not care to go on all day and every day with it; more than that, I was anxious after so long an interval to pay a visit to my wood, as I began to call it, in the hope of hearing that mysterious melody which I had grown to love and to miss when even a single day passed without it. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Abel kehrt mehrmals in den Wald zurück und ist allmählich davon überzeugt, dass "der Vogel oder das Wesen" ihm bei jedem Besuch folgt. Er schließt daraus, dass die Indianer möglicherweise mehr über dieses Geheimnis wissen, als sie preisgegeben haben. Als Gegenleistung für die Dienste des Eingeborenen als Führer durch den Wald bietet Abel Kua-ko seine Metall-Streichholzschachtel an. Zuerst wird er von dem ängstlichen Indianer abgelehnt. Kua-ko kann dem Angebot jedoch nicht lange widerstehen und begleitet Abel in den Wald. Obwohl Kua-ko seine Zabatana, eine lange Röhre, aus der die Indianer vergiftete Pfeile abschießen, mitnimmt, weigert sich der junge Krieger, innerhalb der Grenzen des verbotenen Waldes Wild zu töten. Er erklärt Abel versehentlich, dass "die Tochter der Didi", die unter den Bäumen lebt, den vergifteten Pfeil zurückwerfen würde. Abel, obwohl er über diese Erklärung lacht, versteht, dass er in ein größeres Rätsel verwickelt ist. Kua-kos alarmiertes Verhalten und sein abruptes Schweigen bestätigen Abels Eindruck. Von seinen Ängsten überwältigt, stürzt Kua-ko plötzlich von Abels Seite weg und flieht so schnell er kann in Richtung des Indianerdorfes. Allein hört Abel plötzlich die mysteriöse Kreatur in der Nähe; er ist völlig verwirrt über die scheinbar menschlichen Emotionen, die von den wunderschönen Melodien deswesen, das er jetzt "Wesen, kein Vogel" nennt, vermittelt werden. Es liegt Wut oder Ablehnung in der Stimme, obwohl Abel auch das Gefühl hat, dass das Wesen dem jungen Mann gegenüber freundlich gesinnt ist. Aber Abel, wie auch Kua-ko, beginnt von den imaginierten Schrecken des riesigen Waldes und seiner eigenen isolierten Lage überwältigt zu werden. Die Spannung löst sich, als Abel sich in der Nähe von Araguatos, oder Brüllaffen, befindet, die ihn zunächst erschrecken und dann später mit ihren Possen und ihrer "unvergleichlichen stimmlichen Kraft" amüsieren. Als die Stimme aus dem Wald verstummt, kehrt Abel ruhig in das Dorf der Parahuari zurück. Nachdem er über seine neuesten Abenteuer nachgedacht hat, betritt Abel das Lager seiner Gastgeber selbstbewusster, weil er jetzt sicher ist, dass das Wesen im Wald ihm freundlich gesinnt ist und den Indianern feindlich gesinnt. Runi und Kua-ko sind offensichtlich neugierig auf die Eindrücke und Erfahrungen ihres Gastes, verbergen jedoch ihren Wunsch, die Wahrheit herauszufinden. Dennoch befragen sie Abel so hinterlistig wie möglich; sein Bericht über die zahmen Araguatos erstaunt die Indianer, die noch nie die Brüllaffen aus nächster Nähe beobachtet haben. Runi gibt zu, dass die Indianer trotz des reichen Wildbestands dort nie zum Jagen in den Wald gehen. Abel beeindruckt Kua-ko, indem er dem Wilden die Streichholzschachtel gibt, obwohl der Indianer seinen Preis nicht verdient hat. Kua-ko überrascht Abel seinerseits, indem er dem Weißen den Umgang mit der Zabatana beibringt. Als Abel einigermaßen geschickt im Umgang mit der tödlichen Waffe wird, stimmt Kua-ko eifrig mit seinem Schüler überein, dass dieser in der Lage sein könnte, in zwanzig Schritten "einen Vogel nicht kleiner als ein kleiner Mann" zu treffen. Kua-ko amüsiert Abel, indem er herzlich darüber lacht und fragt, "ob eine kleine Frau nicht das Gleiche wie ein kleiner Mann sei". Da er wieder neugierig auf die "geheimnisvolle Melodie" wird, bereitet sich Abel darauf vor, einen weiteren Besuch im Wald zu machen, entschließt sich jedoch, von nun an allein zu gehen. Während Abel mit Kua-ko weiterhin mit der Zabatana übt, gibt er eine Ausrede vor und kehrt zum Dorf zurück, um jeden Verdacht zu zerstreuen, bevor er in den Wald 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: SCENE II. A bedchamber in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither; I'll smell it on the tree. Kisses her. O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one more; Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after. One more, and this the last; So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly, It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. DESDEMONA. Who's there? Othello? OTHELLO. Ay, Desdemona. DESDEMONA. Will you come to bed, my lord? OTHELLO. Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord. OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA. Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that? OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit. No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing? OTHELLO. Ay, I do. DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me! OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart! DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. OTHELLO. Hum! DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. OTHELLO. Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA. They are loves I bear to you. OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA. That death's unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me. OTHELLO. Peace, and be still! DESDEMONA. I will so. What's the matter? OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee Thou gavest to Cassio. DESDEMONA. No, by my life and soul! Send for the man, and ask him. OTHELLO. Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy deathbed. DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die. OTHELLO. Yes, presently: Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin, For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. DESDEMONA. Then Lord have mercy on me! OTHELLO. I say, amen. DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love. I never gave him token. OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. O perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart, And makest me call what I intend to do A murther, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA. He found it then; I never gave it him. Send for him hither; Let him confess a truth. OTHELLO. He hath confess'd. DESDEMONA. What, my lord? OTHELLO. That he hath used thee. DESDEMONA. How? unlawfully? OTHELLO. Ay. DESDEMONA. He will not say so. OTHELLO. No, his mouth is stopp'd; Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't. DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead? OTHELLO. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. DESDEMONA. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone! OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face? DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! OTHELLO. Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight! OTHELLO. Nay, if you strive-- DESDEMONA. But half an hour! OTHELLO. Being done, there is no pause. DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer! OTHELLO. It is too late. He stifles her. EMILIA. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so. EMILIA. [Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. Who's there? EMILIA. [Within.] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! OTHELLO. Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death. The noise was here. Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good? I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do? If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife. My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. EMILIA. [Within.] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! OTHELLO. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by. Let me the curtains draw. Where art thou? Unlocks the door. Enter Emilia. What's the matter with thee now? EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done! OTHELLO. What, now? EMILIA. But now, my lord. OTHELLO. It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad. EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian Call'd Roderigo. OTHELLO. Roderigo kill'd? And Cassio kill'd? EMILIA. No, Cassio is not kill'd. OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murther'd! EMILIA. Alas, what cry is that? OTHELLO. That? what? EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice. Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die. EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed? DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell; Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Dies. OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murther'd? EMILIA. Alas, who knows? OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA. She said so; I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO. She's like a liar gone to burning hell; 'Twas I that kill'd her. EMILIA. O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! OTHELLO. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO. She was false as water. EMILIA. Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false. O, she was heavenly true! OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell, But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Thy husband. EMILIA. That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I'ld not have sold her for it. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Ay, 'twas he that told me first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband. EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love! My husband say that she was false! OTHELLO. He, woman; I say thy husband. Dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO. Ha! EMILIA. Do thy worst; This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. OTHELLO. Peace, you were best. EMILIA. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed-- I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murther, murther! Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others. MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck. GRATIANO. What is the matter? EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man. He says thou told'st him that his wife was false; I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false? IAGO. I did. EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie! She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak. My mistress here lies murther'd in her bed-- ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And your reports have set the murther on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true indeed. GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA. Villainy, villainy, villainy! I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy! I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief. O villainy, villainy! IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home. OTHELLO. O! O! O! Falls on the bed. EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye. OTHELLO. [Rises.] O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd. I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain; did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation. OTHELLO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed. Cassio confess'd it, And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand, It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers! IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your peace. EMILIA. 'Twill out, 'twill. I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak. IAGO. Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA. I will not. Iago offers to stab Emilia. GRATIANO. Fie! Your sword upon a woman? EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found by fortune and did give my husband, For often with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it. IAGO. Villainous whore! EMILIA. She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it, And I did give't my husband. IAGO. Filth, thou liest! EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. O murtherous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife? OTHELLO. Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder? Precious villain! He runs at Iago, but Montano disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia. GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress' side. Exit Iago. GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd. MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have here recover'd from the Moor. Come, guard the door without; let him not pass, But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain, For 'tis a damned slave. Exeunt all but Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honor outlive honesty? Let it go all. EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow." Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. Dies. OTHELLO. I have another weapon in this chamber; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper-- O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear. Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Re-enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. What is the matter? OTHELLO. Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh. I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain boast! Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O! O! O! Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner. LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO. That's he that was Othello. Here I am. LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth. OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. Wounds Iago. LODOVICO. Wrench his sword from him. IAGO. I bleed, sir, but not kill'd. OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither. I'ld have thee live, For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die. LODOVICO. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave, What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO. Why, anything; An honorable murtherer, if you will, For nought did I in hate, but all in honor. LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess'd his villainy. Did you and he consent in Cassio's death? OTHELLO. Ay. CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause. OTHELLO. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? IAGO. Demand me nothing; what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO. What, not to pray? GRATIANO. Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO. Well, thou dost best. LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio to be undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO. O villain! CASSIO. Most heathenish and most gross! LODOVICO. Now here's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain; But that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. OTHELLO. O the pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife's? CASSIO. I found it in my chamber; And he himself confess'd but even now That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. OTHELLO. O fool! fool! fool! CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo's letter, How he upbraids Iago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came That I was cast. And even but now he spake After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. LODOVICO. You must forsake this room, and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog And smote him, thus. Stabs himself. LODOVICO. O bloody period! GRATIANO. All that's spoke is marr'd. OTHELLO. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. Falls on the bed, and dies. CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon; For he was great of heart. LODOVICO. [To Iago.] O Spartan dog, More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea! Look on the tragic loading of this bed; This is thy work. The object poisons sight; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, Lord Governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain, The time, the place, the torture. O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. Exeunt. THE END 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.

Dann musst du von einem sprechen, der nicht klug, sondern zu gut geliebt hat, von einem, der nicht leicht eifersüchtig ist, aber, wenn er in Wallung gerät, extrem verwirrt ist; von einer Person, deren Hand wie der einfache Indianer eine wertvollere Perle wegwarf als alle anderen in ihrem Stamm besaßen. Othello hält eine Kerze in der Hand, steht über der schlafenden Desdemona und bereitet sich darauf vor, sie zu töten. Bevor er die Tat vollbringt, beugt er sich hinunter, um sie ein letztes Mal zu küssen, sie wacht auf, und er sagt ihr, dass sie sich auf ihren Tod vorbereiten solle. Desdemona, die Angst bekommt, fragt ihren Ehemann, warum er sie töten will, und Othello antwortet, dass sie ihm mit Cassio untreu war - er hat den Beweis im Handtuch gesehen. Othello weigert sich, Desdemonas Leugnung der Anschuldigung zu glauben, und sagt, dass Cassio gestanden hat, aber nichts mehr sagen wird, da er von Iago getötet wurde. Desdemona beginnt für Cassio zu weinen, was Othello nur noch mehr in Rage versetzt. Er ringt mit ihr, während sie darum fleht, noch ein wenig länger leben zu dürfen, und schließlich gelingt es Othello, seine Frau zu ersticken. Emilia ruft von draußen durch die Tür, und Othello, offenbar in einem Delirium, verwechselt ihre Schreie mit den Schreien seiner Frau und kommt zu dem Schluss, dass Desdemona noch nicht tot ist. In dem Glauben, barmherzig zu sein und seine Frau nicht länger leiden lassen zu wollen, erstickt er sie erneut. Othello zieht die Bettkrone zu und lässt Emilia herein. Emilia informiert Othello darüber, dass Cassio Roderigo getötet hat. Othello fragt, ob auch Cassio getötet wurde, und Emilia informiert ihn, dass Cassio am Leben ist. Als Othello langsam erkennt, dass seine Pläne gescheitert sind, schreit Desdemona auf, dass sie ermordet wurde. Sie bleibt gerade lang genug am Leben, um diese Aussage zurückzuziehen, und teilt Emilia mit, dass sie sich selbst nicht ermordet, sondern getötet hat. Sie stirbt. Othello gesteht Emilia triumphierend, dass er Desdemona getötet hat, und als sie ihn fragt, warum, erzählt Othello ihr, dass Iago ihm die Augen geöffnet hat für die Lügen von Desdemona. Von Othellos Drohung, dass es für sie am besten wäre, wenn sie schweigen würde, unbeeindruckt, ruft Emilia um Hilfe und ruft damit Montano, Graziano und Iago zur Szene. Als die Wahrheit über Iagos Schurkerei durch Emilia's Anschuldigungen ans Licht kommt, fällt Othello weinend auf das Bett seiner toten Frau. Fast für sich selbst sprechend, drückt Graziano seine Erleichterung darüber aus, dass Brabanzio tot ist - die erste Nachricht, die das Publikum davon hört -, und dass er nicht mitansehen musste, wie seine Tochter ein so schreckliches Ende fand. Othello hält immer noch an seinem Glauben an Iagos Wahrheit und Desdemonas Schuld fest und erwähnt das Handtuch und Cassios "Geständnis". Als Othello das Handtuch erwähnt, bricht Emilia aus, und Iago, nicht mehr sicher, ob er seine Pläne geheim halten kann, versucht, sie mit seinem Schwert zum Schweigen zu bringen. Graziano hält ihn auf, und Emilia erklärt, wie sie das Handtuch gefunden und Iago gegeben hat. Othello stürzt sich auf Iago, wird aber von Montano entwaffnet. In der Aufregung gelingt es Iago, seine Frau zu erstechen, die fällt und anscheinend stirbt. Iago flieht und wird von Montano und Graziano verfolgt. Allein auf der Bühne mit den Leichen der beiden Frauen sucht Othello nach einem weiteren Schwert. Emilias letzte Worte werden von einer unheimlichen Hintergrundmusik begleitet, als sie ein Stück des Liedes "Willow" singt. Sie erzählt Othello, dass Desdemona keusch war und ihn liebte. Graziano kehrt zurück und findet Othello bewaffnet und trotzig, im Begriff, den Verlust seiner Frau zu betrauern. Kurz darauf gesellen sich Montano, Lodovico, Cassio und Iago hinzu, der gefangen gehalten wird. Othello sticht Iago nieder und verwundet ihn, und Lodovico befiehlt einigen Soldaten, Othello zu entwaffnen. Iago spottet, dass er blutet, aber nicht getötet wird. Er weigert sich, noch mehr über das zu sagen, was er getan hat, aber Lodovico zeigt einen Brief vor, der in Roderigos Tasche gefunden wurde und alles offenbart, was passiert ist. Auf der Suche nach einer Art Versöhnung fragt Othello Cassio, wie er in den Besitz des Handtuchs gekommen ist, und Cassio antwortet, dass er es in seinem Zimmer gefunden hat. Lodovico sagt Othello, dass er mit ihnen nach Venedig kommen muss und dass ihm seine Macht und sein Kommando genommen und ein Prozess gemacht werden wird. Bevor er fortgebracht wird, fragt Othello, "Wenn ihr von diesen unglücklichen Taten berichtet, / Sprecht von mir, wie ich wirklich bin". Er erinnert sie an eine Zeit in Aleppo, als er dem venezianischen Staat gedient und einen bösen Türken getötet hat. "Ich ergriff den beschnittenen Hund am Hals / und schlug ihn nieder", sagt Othello und zieht einen dritten Dolch hervor und sticht sich zur Demonstration. Mit dem Versprechen, "auf einen Kuss zu sterben", fällt Othello zusammen mit dem Körper seiner Frau auf das Bett. Lodovico sagt Iago, er solle das Ergebnis seiner teuflischen Bemühungen betrachten, nennt Graziano als Othellos Erben und setzt Montano als Vollstrecker von Iagos Hinrichtung ein. Lodovico macht sich bereit, nach Venedig zu gehen, um dem Herzog und dem Senat die Nachrichten von Zypern zu überbringen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Three passengers including Passepartout had disappeared. Had they been killed in the struggle? Were they taken prisoners by the Sioux? It was impossible to tell. There were many wounded, but none mortally. Colonel Proctor was one of the most seriously hurt; he had fought bravely, and a ball had entered his groin. He was carried into the station with the other wounded passengers, to receive such attention as could be of avail. Aouda was safe; and Phileas Fogg, who had been in the thickest of the fight, had not received a scratch. Fix was slightly wounded in the arm. But Passepartout was not to be found, and tears coursed down Aouda's cheeks. All the passengers had got out of the train, the wheels of which were stained with blood. From the tyres and spokes hung ragged pieces of flesh. As far as the eye could reach on the white plain behind, red trails were visible. The last Sioux were disappearing in the south, along the banks of Republican River. Mr. Fogg, with folded arms, remained motionless. He had a serious decision to make. Aouda, standing near him, looked at him without speaking, and he understood her look. If his servant was a prisoner, ought he not to risk everything to rescue him from the Indians? "I will find him, living or dead," said he quietly to Aouda. "Ah, Mr.--Mr. Fogg!" cried she, clasping his hands and covering them with tears. "Living," added Mr. Fogg, "if we do not lose a moment." Phileas Fogg, by this resolution, inevitably sacrificed himself; he pronounced his own doom. The delay of a single day would make him lose the steamer at New York, and his bet would be certainly lost. But as he thought, "It is my duty," he did not hesitate. The commanding officer of Fort Kearney was there. A hundred of his soldiers had placed themselves in a position to defend the station, should the Sioux attack it. "Sir," said Mr. Fogg to the captain, "three passengers have disappeared." "Dead?" asked the captain. "Dead or prisoners; that is the uncertainty which must be solved. Do you propose to pursue the Sioux?" "That's a serious thing to do, sir," returned the captain. "These Indians may retreat beyond the Arkansas, and I cannot leave the fort unprotected." "The lives of three men are in question, sir," said Phileas Fogg. "Doubtless; but can I risk the lives of fifty men to save three?" "I don't know whether you can, sir; but you ought to do so." "Nobody here," returned the other, "has a right to teach me my duty." "Very well," said Mr. Fogg, coldly. "I will go alone." "You, sir!" cried Fix, coming up; "you go alone in pursuit of the Indians?" "Would you have me leave this poor fellow to perish--him to whom every one present owes his life? I shall go." "No, sir, you shall not go alone," cried the captain, touched in spite of himself. "No! you are a brave man. Thirty volunteers!" he added, turning to the soldiers. The whole company started forward at once. The captain had only to pick his men. Thirty were chosen, and an old sergeant placed at their head. "Thanks, captain," said Mr. Fogg. "Will you let me go with you?" asked Fix. "Do as you please, sir. But if you wish to do me a favour, you will remain with Aouda. In case anything should happen to me--" A sudden pallor overspread the detective's face. Separate himself from the man whom he had so persistently followed step by step! Leave him to wander about in this desert! Fix gazed attentively at Mr. Fogg, and, despite his suspicions and of the struggle which was going on within him, he lowered his eyes before that calm and frank look. "I will stay," said he. A few moments after, Mr. Fogg pressed the young woman's hand, and, having confided to her his precious carpet-bag, went off with the sergeant and his little squad. But, before going, he had said to the soldiers, "My friends, I will divide five thousand dollars among you, if we save the prisoners." It was then a little past noon. Aouda retired to a waiting-room, and there she waited alone, thinking of the simple and noble generosity, the tranquil courage of Phileas Fogg. He had sacrificed his fortune, and was now risking his life, all without hesitation, from duty, in silence. Fix did not have the same thoughts, and could scarcely conceal his agitation. He walked feverishly up and down the platform, but soon resumed his outward composure. He now saw the folly of which he had been guilty in letting Fogg go alone. What! This man, whom he had just followed around the world, was permitted now to separate himself from him! He began to accuse and abuse himself, and, as if he were director of police, administered to himself a sound lecture for his greenness. "I have been an idiot!" he thought, "and this man will see it. He has gone, and won't come back! But how is it that I, Fix, who have in my pocket a warrant for his arrest, have been so fascinated by him? Decidedly, I am nothing but an ass!" So reasoned the detective, while the hours crept by all too slowly. He did not know what to do. Sometimes he was tempted to tell Aouda all; but he could not doubt how the young woman would receive his confidences. What course should he take? He thought of pursuing Fogg across the vast white plains; it did not seem impossible that he might overtake him. Footsteps were easily printed on the snow! But soon, under a new sheet, every imprint would be effaced. Fix became discouraged. He felt a sort of insurmountable longing to abandon the game altogether. He could now leave Fort Kearney station, and pursue his journey homeward in peace. Towards two o'clock in the afternoon, while it was snowing hard, long whistles were heard approaching from the east. A great shadow, preceded by a wild light, slowly advanced, appearing still larger through the mist, which gave it a fantastic aspect. No train was expected from the east, neither had there been time for the succour asked for by telegraph to arrive; the train from Omaha to San Francisco was not due till the next day. The mystery was soon explained. The locomotive, which was slowly approaching with deafening whistles, was that which, having been detached from the train, had continued its route with such terrific rapidity, carrying off the unconscious engineer and stoker. It had run several miles, when, the fire becoming low for want of fuel, the steam had slackened; and it had finally stopped an hour after, some twenty miles beyond Fort Kearney. Neither the engineer nor the stoker was dead, and, after remaining for some time in their swoon, had come to themselves. The train had then stopped. The engineer, when he found himself in the desert, and the locomotive without cars, understood what had happened. He could not imagine how the locomotive had become separated from the train; but he did not doubt that the train left behind was in distress. He did not hesitate what to do. It would be prudent to continue on to Omaha, for it would be dangerous to return to the train, which the Indians might still be engaged in pillaging. Nevertheless, he began to rebuild the fire in the furnace; the pressure again mounted, and the locomotive returned, running backwards to Fort Kearney. This it was which was whistling in the mist. The travellers were glad to see the locomotive resume its place at the head of the train. They could now continue the journey so terribly interrupted. Aouda, on seeing the locomotive come up, hurried out of the station, and asked the conductor, "Are you going to start?" "At once, madam." "But the prisoners, our unfortunate fellow-travellers--" "I cannot interrupt the trip," replied the conductor. "We are already three hours behind time." "And when will another train pass here from San Francisco?" "To-morrow evening, madam." "To-morrow evening! But then it will be too late! We must wait--" "It is impossible," responded the conductor. "If you wish to go, please get in." "I will not go," said Aouda. Fix had heard this conversation. A little while before, when there was no prospect of proceeding on the journey, he had made up his mind to leave Fort Kearney; but now that the train was there, ready to start, and he had only to take his seat in the car, an irresistible influence held him back. The station platform burned his feet, and he could not stir. The conflict in his mind again began; anger and failure stifled him. He wished to struggle on to the end. Meanwhile the passengers and some of the wounded, among them Colonel Proctor, whose injuries were serious, had taken their places in the train. The buzzing of the over-heated boiler was heard, and the steam was escaping from the valves. The engineer whistled, the train started, and soon disappeared, mingling its white smoke with the eddies of the densely falling snow. The detective had remained behind. Several hours passed. The weather was dismal, and it was very cold. Fix sat motionless on a bench in the station; he might have been thought asleep. Aouda, despite the storm, kept coming out of the waiting-room, going to the end of the platform, and peering through the tempest of snow, as if to pierce the mist which narrowed the horizon around her, and to hear, if possible, some welcome sound. She heard and saw nothing. Then she would return, chilled through, to issue out again after the lapse of a few moments, but always in vain. Evening came, and the little band had not returned. Where could they be? Had they found the Indians, and were they having a conflict with them, or were they still wandering amid the mist? The commander of the fort was anxious, though he tried to conceal his apprehensions. As night approached, the snow fell less plentifully, but it became intensely cold. Absolute silence rested on the plains. Neither flight of bird nor passing of beast troubled the perfect calm. Throughout the night Aouda, full of sad forebodings, her heart stifled with anguish, wandered about on the verge of the plains. Her imagination carried her far off, and showed her innumerable dangers. What she suffered through the long hours it would be impossible to describe. Fix remained stationary in the same place, but did not sleep. Once a man approached and spoke to him, and the detective merely replied by shaking his head. Thus the night passed. At dawn, the half-extinguished disc of the sun rose above a misty horizon; but it was now possible to recognise objects two miles off. Phileas Fogg and the squad had gone southward; in the south all was still vacancy. It was then seven o'clock. The captain, who was really alarmed, did not know what course to take. Should he send another detachment to the rescue of the first? Should he sacrifice more men, with so few chances of saving those already sacrificed? His hesitation did not last long, however. Calling one of his lieutenants, he was on the point of ordering a reconnaissance, when gunshots were heard. Was it a signal? The soldiers rushed out of the fort, and half a mile off they perceived a little band returning in good order. Mr. Fogg was marching at their head, and just behind him were Passepartout and the other two travellers, rescued from the Sioux. They had met and fought the Indians ten miles south of Fort Kearney. Shortly before the detachment arrived, Passepartout and his companions had begun to struggle with their captors, three of whom the Frenchman had felled with his fists, when his master and the soldiers hastened up to their relief. All were welcomed with joyful cries. Phileas Fogg distributed the reward he had promised to the soldiers, while Passepartout, not without reason, muttered to himself, "It must certainly be confessed that I cost my master dear!" Fix, without saying a word, looked at Mr. Fogg, and it would have been difficult to analyse the thoughts which struggled within him. As for Aouda, she took her protector's hand and pressed it in her own, too much moved to speak. Meanwhile, Passepartout was looking about for the train; he thought he should find it there, ready to start for Omaha, and he hoped that the time lost might be regained. "The train! the train!" cried he. "Gone," replied Fix. "And when does the next train pass here?" said Phileas Fogg. "Not till this evening." "Ah!" returned the impassible gentleman quietly. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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"Phileas Fogg erfüllt einfach seine Pflicht" Passepartout und zwei andere Personen sind aus dem Zug verschwunden. Andere wurden verletzt, aber niemand getötet. Oberst Proctor wurde durch einen Schuss in die Leistengegend verletzt. Fogg, obwohl er mitten im Kampf war, wurde nicht verletzt. Aouda weint um den Verlust von Passepartout. Fogg muss nun entscheiden, ob er weitergeht oder Passepartout vor den Sioux rettet. Er sagt Aouda, dass er seinen Diener um jeden Preis finden wird. Aouda ist dankbar. Fogg versucht, die Soldaten dazu zu bringen, mit ihm zu gehen, aber sie weigern sich, bis er darauf besteht, dass er alleine geht. Dreißig Freiwillige entscheiden sich, mit ihm zu gehen. Fix möchte mitgehen, um Fogg im Auge zu behalten, aber Fogg bittet ihn, Aouda im Falle seines Todes zu beschützen. Aouda hält die Reisetasche und Fogg verspricht den Soldaten 5.000 Dollar, wenn sie die Gefangenen retten. Fix und Aouda warten den ganzen Tag am Bahnsteig in Ft. Kearney. Es fängt an zu schneien und am späten Nachmittag nähert sich ein Zug. Es war der, der von ihrem Zug abgekoppelt wurde. Der Lokführer und sein Heizer wurden nicht von Indianern genommen und schafften es, die Lokomotive zurück zum Bahnhof zu bringen und an den Zug anzuschließen. Sie wollen sofort nach Omaha fahren, da sie drei Stunden Verspätung haben. Ein weiterer Zug kommt erst morgen Abend. Aouda weiß, dass das zu spät sein wird und glaubt, dass Fogg die Wette verloren hat, aber sie weigert sich, in den Zug einzusteigen. Fix ist versucht zu gehen, aber er ist hartnäckig und wartet auch. Die Nacht bricht an und es ist sehr kalt. Aouda wandert am Bahnhof umher. Endlich hören sie früh am Morgen Schüsse und die Soldaten tauchen mit Passepartout und den beiden anderen Fahrgästen wieder auf. Sie hatten gegen die Indianer gekämpft und ihre Gefangenen befreit. Fogg belohnt die Soldaten und Passepartout bedauert einmal mehr, dass er seinem Herrn so viel gekostet hat.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: TEIL I. _EINE REISE NACH LILLIPUT_. KAPITEL I. DER AUTOR GIBT EINIGE INFORMATIONEN ÜBER SICH UND SEINE FAMILIE: SEINE ERSTEN BEWEGGRÜNDE ZUM REISEN. ER SCHIFFBRUCH, SCHWIMMT UM SEIN LEBEN; KOMMT SICHER IM LAND LILLIPUT AN; WIRD GEFANGEN GENOMMEN UND INS LAND INNENLAND GETRAGEN. Mein Vater besaß ein kleines Anwesen in Nottinghamshire; Ich war der dritte von fünf Söhnen. Er schickte mich mit vierzehn Jahren zum Emmanuel College in Cambridge, wo ich drei Jahre wohnte und mich intensiv dem Studium widmete; aber die Kosten für meine Unterhaltung, obwohl ich nur ein sehr knappes Honorar hatte, waren zu hoch für ein bescheidenes Vermögen, also wurde ich in die Lehre bei Herrn James Bates, einem angesehenen Chirurgen in London, geschickt, bei dem ich vier Jahre blieb, und mein Vater schickte mir gelegentlich kleine Geldbeträge, die ich in die Navigation und andere Bereiche der Mathematik investierte, die für Reisende nützlich sind, da ich immer glaubte, dass es irgendwann einmal mein Schicksal sein würde. Als ich Mr. Bates verließ, ging ich zu meinem Vater, wo ich mit seiner Hilfe und der meines Onkels John und einiger anderer Verwandter vierzig Pfund zusammenbekam und das Versprechen von dreißig Pfund pro Jahr erhielt, um mich in Leyden zu unterhalten. Dort habe ich zwei Jahre und sieben Monate Medizin studiert, da ich wusste, dass es auf langen Reisen nützlich sein würde. Kurz nach meiner Rückkehr aus Leyden wurde ich von meinem guten Meister, Mr. Bates, empfohlen, Chirurg auf der "Schwalbe" zu werden, unter dem Kommando von Kapitän Abraham Pannell; bei dem ich drei Jahre und ein halbes Jahr blieb und ein oder zwei Reisen ins Morgenland unternahm und an einige andere Orte. Als ich zurückkam, beschloss ich, mich in London niederzulassen; worauf mich mein Meister, Mr. Bates, ermutigte, und er empfahl mich einigen Patienten. Ich mietete einen Teil eines kleinen Hauses in der Old Jewry; und nach der Empfehlung, meinen Zustand zu ändern, heiratete ich Frau Mary Burton, die zweite Tochter von Herrn Edmund Burton, Hutschneider in der Newgate Street, von dem ich vierhundert Pfund als Mitgift erhielt. Aber mein guter Meister, Bates, starb zwei Jahre später, und ich hatte nur wenige Freunde, also begann mein Geschäft zu scheitern; denn mein Gewissen erlaubte es mir nicht, die schlechten Praktiken vieler meiner Kollegen nachzuahmen. Nachdem ich mich daher mit meiner Frau und einigen meiner Bekannten beraten hatte, beschloss ich, wieder zur See zu fahren. Ich war nacheinander Chirurg auf zwei Schiffen und machte mehrere Reisen, sechs Jahre lang, in den Osten und Westen Indiens, wodurch ich mein Vermögen etwas vergrößerte. Meine Freizeit verbrachte ich damit, die besten Autoren, antike und moderne, zu lesen und war immer mit einer guten Anzahl von Büchern ausgestattet; und wenn ich an Land war, beobachtete ich die Sitten und Eigenschaften der Menschen sowie das Erlernen ihrer Sprache, worin ich eine große Leichtigkeit hatte, dank der Kraft meines Gedächtnisses. Die letzte dieser Reisen erwies sich als nicht besonders glücklich und ich wurde des Meeres müde und beabsichtigte, bei meiner Frau und meiner Familie zu Hause zu bleiben. Ich zog um von der Old Jewry nach Fetter Lane und von dort nach Wapping, in der Hoffnung, Geschäfte unter den Seeleuten zu machen; aber es erwies sich als nicht rentabel. Nach drei Jahren Erwartung, dass sich die Dinge besserten, nahm ich ein vorteilhaftes Angebot von Kapitän William Prichard, Kapitän der "Antelope", an, der eine Reise in den Südsee machte. Am 4. Mai 1699 stachen wir von Bristol aus in See, und unsere Reise begann zunächst sehr erfolgreich. Es wäre aus einigen Gründen nicht angemessen, den Leser mit den Einzelheiten unserer Abenteuer auf hoher See zu belästigen. Es sei genug, ihn wissen zu lassen, dass wir auf dem Weg von dort nach Ostindien von einem heftigen Sturm in die Nordwestregion von Van Diemen's Land getrieben wurden. Durch eine Beobachtung stellten wir fest, dass wir uns in einer Breite von 30 Grad und 2 Minuten südlich befanden. Zwölf unserer Besatzungsmitglieder waren durch übermäßige Arbeit und schlechtes Essen gestorben; die anderen waren in einem sehr schwachen Zustand. Am fünften November, der in diesen Teilen der Beginn des Sommers war, das Wetter sehr dunstig, erspähten die Seeleute einen Felsen etwa eine halbe Kabellänge vom Schiff entfernt; aber der Wind war so stark, dass wir direkt darauf zusteuerten und sofort zersplitterten. Sechs Mitglieder der Besatzung, zu denen auch ich gehörte, ließen das Boot ins Meer hinunter und schafften es, frei von Schiff und Felsen zu kommen. Während meiner Schätzung nach etwa drei Längen ruderten wir, bis wir nicht mehr arbeiten konnten, da wir bereits in dem Schiff erschöpft gewesen waren. Wir vertrauten uns deshalb dem Erbarmen der Wellen an, und nach etwa einer halben Stunde wurde das Boot von einem plötzlichen Luftzug aus dem Norden umgestürzt. Was aus meinen Begleitern im Boot, sowie denen, die auf dem Felsen entkommen oder im Schiff zurückgelassen wurden, wurde mir wurde erzählt, aber schätze, dass sie alle verloren waren. Was mich betrifft, schwamm ich, wie das Schicksal es wollte, und wurde vom Wind und der Strömung vorangetrieben. Ich ließ oft meine Beine hängen und konnte keinen Grund spüren; aber als ich fast schon am Ende war und nicht mehr kämpfen konnte, fand ich mich in meiner Tiefe wieder und zu dieser Zeit hatte sich der Sturm schon stark abgeschwächt. Der Abhang war so flach, dass ich fast eine Meile lief, bevor ich zum Ufer gelangte, was ich auf etwa acht Uhr abends schätzte. Dann ging ich noch etwa eine halbe Meile vorwärts, konnte aber keine Anzeichen von Häusern oder Bewohnern entdecken, oder zumindest war ich in einem dermaßen schwachen Zustand, dass ich sie nicht bemerkte. Ich war extrem müde und mit der Hitze des Wetters und etwa einem halben Pint Branntwein, den ich auf dem Schiff getrunken hatte, fand ich mich sehr schläfrig. Ich legte mich auf das kurze und weiche Gras hin, wo ich tiefer schlief als ich mich je in meinem Leben erinnerte, und wie ich schätzte, etwa neun Stunden; denn als ich aufwachte, war es gerade Tagesanbruch. Ich versuchte aufzustehen, konnte mich aber nicht rühren: Denn wie es der Zufall wollte, lag ich auf dem Rücken und fand meine Arme und Beine fest auf jeder Seite am Boden festgebunden und mein langes und dickes Haar auf die gleiche Weise am Boden festgebunden. Ich spürte auch mehrere dünne Bänder quer über meinen Körper, von den Achselhöhlen bis zu meinen Oberschenkeln. Ich konnte nur nach oben schauen, die Sonne fing an, heiß zu werden und das Licht störte meine Augen. Ich hörte ein durcheinandergebrachtes Geräusch um mich herum; aber in der Position, in der ich lag, konnte ich nichts sehen außer dem Himmel. Nach einer kurzen Zeit spürte ich etwas Lebendiges, das sich auf meinem linken Bein bewegte, das sich san Als dieser Pfeilhagel vorbei war, fiel ich vor Schmerz und Trauer auf die Knie. Dann versuchte ich erneut, mich zu befreien, doch sie schossen eine noch größere Salve ab und versuchten, mich mit Speeren in die Seiten zu stechen. Aber zum Glück trug ich eine Wildlederweste, die sie nicht durchdringen konnten. Ich dachte, es wäre das klügste, einfach liegen zu bleiben, und mein Plan war es, dies bis zur Nacht fortzusetzen, wenn ich meine linke Hand bereits befreit hatte und mich leicht befreien konnte. Was die Bewohner betrifft, hatte ich Grund zu der Annahme, dass ich einer Armee, die sie mir gegenüberstellen könnten, ebenbürtig sein könnte, wenn sie alle von gleicher Größe waren wie derjenige, den ich sah. Aber das Schicksal wollte es anders. Als die Leute sahen, dass ich ruhig blieb, schossen sie keine weiteren Pfeile ab, aber ich hörte anhand des Lärms, dass ihre Zahl zunahm. Etwa vier Meter von mir entfernt, direkt neben meinem rechten Ohr, hörte ich über eine Stunde lang ein Klopfen, als würden Menschen arbeiten. Als ich meinen Kopf in diese Richtung drehte, so gut es die Stangen und Riemen zuließen, sah ich eine Plattform, die ungefähr eineinhalb Fuß über dem Boden lag und vier Einwohner aufnehmen konnte. Es gab zwei oder drei Leitern, um darauf zu klettern. Von dort hielt einer von ihnen, der eine gewisse Position innezuhaben schien, eine lange Rede, von der ich kein einziges Wort verstand. Doch ich sollte erwähnen, dass der Hauptredner dreimal "Langro debul san" rief (diese Worte wurden später wiederholt und mir erklärt). Daraufhin kamen sofort etwa fünfzig Einwohner und schnitten die Schnüre durch, die die linke Seite meines Kopfes festhielten, was es mir ermöglichte, meinen Kopf nach rechts zu drehen und die Person und Gestik dessen, der sprechen sollte, zu betrachten. Er schien mittleren Alters zu sein und größer als die anderen drei, die ihn begleiteten. Einer von ihnen war ein Page, der seinen Zug erhob und anscheinend etwas länger war als mein Mittelfinger. Die anderen beiden standen auf beiden Seiten, um ihn zu unterstützen. Er spielte jede Rolle eines Redners und ich konnte viele Drohungen, Versprechungen, Mitleid und Freundlichkeit erkennen. Ich antwortete mit wenigen Worten, aber auf die demütigste Weise. Ich hob meine linke Hand und beide Augen zur Sonne und rief sie als Zeugen an. Da ich fast vor Hunger umkam und seit Stunden nichts gegessen hatte, konnte ich meine Ungeduld nicht verbergen (vielleicht gegen die strengen Regeln der Anständigkeit), indem ich häufig meinen Finger an meinen Mund legte, um zu signalisieren, dass ich Nahrung wollte. Der Hurgo (so nannten sie einen großen Herrn, wie ich später erfuhr) verstand mich sehr gut. Er stieg von der Plattform hinab und befahl, dass mehrere Leitern an meine Seiten gelegt werden sollten. Über hundert Einwohner stiegen darauf und gingen auf meinen Mund zu, beladen mit Körben voller Fleisch, die auf Anweisung des Königs bereitgestellt und dorthin geschickt worden waren, sobald er von mir erfuhr. Ich bemerkte, dass es Fleisch von verschiedenen Tieren gab, konnte sie aber nicht am Geschmack unterscheiden. Es gab Schultern, Beine und Lenden, die nach Lammfleisch aussahen und sehr gut zubereitet waren, aber kleiner als die Flügel einer Lerche. Ich aß sie in zwei oder drei Happen und nahm jeweils drei Brote in der Größe von Musketenkugeln. Sie versorgten mich so gut sie konnten und zeigten tausend Anzeichen von Staunen und Verwunderung über meine Größe und meinen Appetit. Dann machte ich ein Zeichen, dass ich etwas trinken wollte. Durch mein Essen erkannten sie, dass eine kleine Menge mir nicht genügen würde. Da sie ein sehr einfallsreiches Volk waren, hängten sie mit großer Geschicklichkeit einen ihrer größten Fässer auf und rollten es zu meiner Hand. Sie schlugen den Deckel ab und ich trank es auf einen Zug aus; was ich gut konnte, da es nicht einmal einen halben Liter fasste und wie ein kleiner Burgunderwein, aber viel köstlicher, schmeckte. Sie brachten mir ein zweites Fass, das ich auf die gleiche Weise trank, und bat um mehr, doch sie hatten keines mehr für mich. Als ich diese Wunder vollbracht hatte, jubelten sie vor Freude und tanzten auf meiner Brust, immer wieder die Worte "Hekinah degul" wiederholend, wie sie es am Anfang taten. Sie gaben mir Zeichen, dass ich die beiden Fässer wegwerfen sollte, aber zuvor warnten sie die Leute darunter, sich in Sicherheit zu bringen, indem sie laut "Borach nevola" riefen. Als sie die Behälter in der Luft sahen, gab es einen universellen Jubel "Hekinah degul". Ich gebe zu, dass ich oft in Versuchung geriet, während sie auf meinem Körper hin und her gingen, vierzig oder fünfzig der ersten, die ich erreichen konnte, zu ergreifen und gegen den Boden zu werfen. Aber die Erinnerung daran, was ich gefühlt hatte, was vermutlich nicht das Schlimmste war, und das Versprechen der Ehre, das ich ihnen gemacht hatte (so interpretierte ich mein unterwürfiges Verhalten), trieb diese Gedanken schnell aus. Außerdem betrachtete ich mich mittlerweile als verpflichtet, nach den Regeln der Gastfreundschaft mit einem Volk umzugehen, das mich mit so viel Aufwand und Pracht behandelt hatte. Dennoch konnte ich in Gedanken nicht genug über die Tapferkeit dieser winzigen Sterblichen staunen, die sich wagten, auf meinem Körper zu stehen und zu gehen, während eine meiner Hände frei war, ohne vor dem Anblick einer so enormen Kreatur zu zittern, wie ich für sie erscheinen musste. Nach einiger Zeit, als sie bemerkten, dass ich keine weiteren Forderungen nach Fleisch mehr hatte, trat eine Person von hohem Rang aus seiner königlichen Majestät vor mich hin. Seine Exzellenz stieg auf meine rechte Wade und ging mit etwa einem Dutzend Gefolgsleuten bis zu meinem Gesicht vor. Er legte seine Vollmachten vor, die er meinem königlichen Siegel aufgelegt hatte, ganz nah an meine Augen und sprach etwa zehn Minuten lang, ohne Anzeichen von Ärger, aber mit einer Art entschlossenen Entschlossenheit, oft nach vorne zeigend, was, wie ich später herausfand, in Richtung der Hauptstadt, etwa eine halbe Meile entfernt, war, dorthin sollte ich laut Beschluss des Königs im Rat gebracht werden. Ich antwortete mit wenigen Worten, jedoch ohne Erfolg, und machte eine Geste mit meiner freien Hand, legte sie über den Kopf seiner Exzellenz, um ihn oder sein Gefolge nicht zu verletzen, und dann zu meinem eigenen Kopf und Körper, um zu signalisieren, dass ich meine Freiheit wünschte. Es schien, dass er mich gut genug verstand, denn er schüttelte seinen Kopf missbilligend und hielt seine Hand in einer Geste hoch, um zu zeigen, dass ich als Gefangener mitgenommen werden müsse. Er machte jedoch andere Zeichen, um mir zu verdeutlichen, dass ich genug Essen und Trinken haben würde und sehr gut behandelt würde. Daraufhin dachte ich erneut darüber nach, meine Fesseln zu sprengen, aber als ich erneut den Schmerz der Pfeile in meinem Gesicht und meinen Händen spürte, die alle mit Blasen bedeckt waren und viele Pfeile immer noch darin steckten, und auch bemerkte, dass die Anzahl Diese Lösung, vielleicht, mag sehr mutig und gefährlich erscheinen und ich bin zuversichtlich, dass sie von keinem Fürsten in Europa bei einer ähnlichen Gelegenheit nachgeahmt würde. Dennoch war sie meiner Meinung nach äußerst klug, sowie großzügig; denn wenn diese Menschen versucht hätten, mich mit ihren Speeren und Pfeilen zu töten, während ich schlief, hätte ich sicherlich mit dem ersten Schmerzgefühl aufgewacht, was meine Wut und Stärke derart erweckt hätte, dass ich die Fesseln, mit denen ich gefesselt war, hätte brechen können; danach konnten sie, da sie keine Gegenwehr mehr leisten konnten, keine Gnade erwarten. Diese Menschen sind hervorragende Mathematiker und haben durch die Unterstützung und Förderung des Kaisers einen hohen Grad an Perfektion in der Mechanik erreicht, der ein renommierter Förderer des Lernens ist. Der Prinz hat mehrere Maschinen auf Rädern für den Transport von Bäumen und anderen großen Gewichten. Er baut oft seine größten Kriegsschiffe, von denen einige neun Fuß lang sind, in den Wäldern, in denen das Holz wächst, und lässt sie drei- bis vierhundert Yards zum Meer transportieren. Fünfhundert Zimmerleute und Ingenieure wurden sofort damit beauftragt, die größte Maschine, die sie hatten, vorzubereiten. Es war ein hölzerner Rahmen, der drei Zoll über dem Boden angehoben war, etwa sieben Fuß lang und vier Fuß breit, der auf zweiundzwanzig Rädern lief. Der Jubel, den ich hörte, war bei der Ankunft dieser Maschine, die, wie es scheint, vier Stunden nach meiner Landung startete. Sie wurde parallel zu mir gebracht, als ich lag. Aber die Hauptschwierigkeit bestand darin, mich in dieses Fahrzeug zu heben und dort zu platzieren. Achtzig Stangen, von denen jede einen Fuß hoch war, wurden zu diesem Zweck errichtet, und sehr starke Schnüre, von der Dicke von Paketschnur, wurden mit Haken an viele Verbände befestigt, die die Arbeiter um meinen Hals, meine Hände, meinen Körper und meine Beine gebunden hatten. Neunhundert der stärksten Männer wurden damit beauftragt, diese Schnüre mit Hilfe vieler an den Stangen befestigter Rollen aufzuziehen; und so wurde ich in weniger als drei Stunden hochgezogen und in die Maschine gehängt und festgebunden. All das wurde mir erzählt; denn während der gesamten Operation lag ich in einem tiefen Schlaf durch die Wirkung des schlaffördernden Medikaments, das meinem Getränk zugesetzt worden war. Fünfzehnhundert der größten Pferde des Kaisers, von denen jedes etwa vier Zoll und eine Hälfte hoch war, wurden damit beauftragt, mich in Richtung der Hauptstadt zu ziehen, die, wie gesagt, eine halbe Meile entfernt war. Etwa vier Stunden nach Beginn unserer Reise erwachte ich durch einen sehr lächerlichen Unfall; denn der Wagen wurde für kurze Zeit angehalten, um etwas zu beheben, das nicht in Ordnung war, und zwei oder drei der einheimischen Jugendlichen waren neugierig, wie ich aussehe, wenn ich schlafe. Sie kletterten in die Maschine und näherten sich meinem Gesicht sehr leise, einer von ihnen, ein Offizier in der Leibgarde, steckte das spitze Ende seiner Hellebarde ziemlich weit in mein linkes Nasenloch, was meine Nase wie einen Strohhalm kitzelte und mich heftig niesen ließ; daraufhin verschwanden sie unbemerkt und es vergingen drei Wochen, bis ich den Grund für mein plötzliches Erwachen erfuhr. Wir machten den restlichen Teil des Tages einen langen Marsch und ruhten nachts mit je fünfhundert Wachen auf jeder Seite von mir, die Hälfte mit Fackeln und die andere Hälfte mit Bögen und Pfeilen, bereit, auf mich zu schießen, falls ich mich rühren sollte. Am nächsten Morgen, bei Sonnenaufgang, setzten wir unseren Marsch fort und kamen gegen Mittag innerhalb von zweihundert Yards von den Stadttoren an. Der Kaiser und sein gesamter Hof kamen uns entgegen; aber seine großen Beamten ließen seinen Majestät auf keinen Fall sein eigenes Leben gefährden, in dem er auf meinen Körper stieg. An der Stelle, an der der Wagen anhielt, stand ein altes Tempelgebäude, das als das größte im gesamten Königreich galt und das einige Jahre zuvor durch einen unnatürlichen Mord verunreinigt worden war. Es galt nach dem Eifer dieser Menschen als frevelhaft und wurde daher für den allgemeinen Gebrauch genutzt und der gesamte Schmuck und Mobiliar wurde weggetragen. In diesem Gebäude sollte ich untergebracht werden. Das große Tor, das nach Norden zeigt, war etwa vier Fuß hoch und fast zwei Fuß breit, durch das ich leicht kriechen konnte. Auf jeder Seite des Tors befand sich ein kleines Fenster, nicht mehr als sechs Zoll über dem Boden; in das Fenster auf der linken Seite brachte der königliche Schmied vierundachtzig Ketten, wie diejenigen, die an einer Armbanduhr einer Dame in Europa hängen, ungefähr so groß, die mit sechsunddreißig Schlössern an meinem linken Bein befestigt waren. Gegenüber diesem Tempel auf der anderen Seite der großen Autobahn, zwanzig Fuß entfernt, befand sich ein Turm von mindestens fünf Fuß Höhe. Hier stieg der Kaiser mit vielen Hauptbeamten seines Hofes hinauf, um die Möglichkeit zu haben, mich zu sehen, wie mir gesagt wurde, denn ich konnte sie nicht sehen. Man schätzte, dass über hunderttausend Einwohner aus der Stadt kamen, um dasselbe Ziel zu erreichen; und trotz meiner Wachen glaube ich, dass es zu verschiedenen Zeiten nicht weniger als zehntausend waren, die mit Hilfe von Leitern auf meinen Körper kletterten. Aber es wurde bald eine Proklamation erlassen, die es verbot, unter Todesstrafe. Als die Arbeiter feststellten, dass es unmöglich war, mich loszureißen, schnitten sie alle Schnüre, die mich banden, woraufhin ich mich mit einer so melancholischen Einstellung erhob, wie ich sie in meinem Leben noch nie hatte. Aber das Geräusch und die Verwunderung der Menschen, als sie mich aufstehen und gehen sahen, sind nicht zu beschreiben. Die Ketten, die mein linkes Bein festhielten, waren etwa zwei Yards lang und gaben mir nicht nur die Freiheit, in einem Halbkreis hin und her zu gehen, sondern erlaubten mir auch, mich innerhalb von vier Zoll des Tores zu kriechen und mich in voller Länge im Tempel hinzulegen. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Unser Held Lemuel Gulliver beginnt seine Abenteuer mit einer Beschreibung seiner Herkunft: Er stammt aus Nottinghamshire in England und hat mehrere Jahre am College in Cambridge verbracht. Leider geht dem Vater von Gulliver das Geld für Gullivers Ausbildung aus, also schickt er Gulliver als Lehrling zu Herrn James Bates, einem Chirurgen in London. Gulliver verbringt auch viel Zeit mit dem Studium von Mathematik und Navigation, weil er reisen möchte. Schließlich reist Gulliver mit der finanziellen Unterstützung seines Onkels, seines Vaters und einiger anderer Verwandter nach Leyden, wo es eine berühmte Universität gibt, die für ihre Lehre der Medizin bekannt ist. Nachdem er ein paar Jahre in Leyden studiert hat, kehrt Gulliver nach England zurück, wo ihm Herr Bates eine Empfehlung gibt, sich der Crew des Schiffs Swallow als Chirurg anzuschließen. Gulliver reist drei Jahre lang mit der Swallow und kommt bis in den Levant. Er kehrt nach London zurück und lässt sich nieder, um Mrs. Mary Burton zu heiraten, die eine Mitgift von 400 Pfund mitbringt - schön für Gulliver! Gullivers ehemaliger Chef und gegenwärtiger Patron, Herr Bates, stirbt ein paar Jahre später und Gullivers Geschäft beginnt schlecht zu laufen. Gulliver beschließt, wieder zu Wasser zu gehen und reist diesmal in den Fernen Osten und in die Westindischen Inseln. Er verbringt viel Zeit mit Lesen, wenn er auf See ist, und wenn Gulliver an Land ist, beobachtet er gerne die Bräuche der Menschen, denen er begegnet. Aber auch das Meer verliert für Gulliver seinen Reiz, und er beschließt, nach London zurückzukehren, um Zeit mit seiner Frau zu verbringen. Gulliver verlagert sein Geschäft an verschiedene Orte in London, aber er scheitert weiterhin daran, seinen Lebensunterhalt zu verdienen, also geht er drei Jahre später erneut auf See. Er sticht mit Kapitän William Prichard auf der Antelope in See, die Kurs auf die Südsee nimmt. Wie man erwarten könnte, geht einiges schief. All das folgende geschieht in einem langen Absatz: Ein Sturm bricht aus. Das Schiff landet im Nordwesten von "Van Diemen's Land" - was wir heute Tasmanien nennen, einem Gebiet im Südosten Australiens. 12 Besatzungsmitglieder des Schiffs sterben und die übrigen werden durch harte Arbeit und Nahrungsmangel geschwächt. Starke Strömungen und raue See machen es der Besatzung schwer, vom Ankerplatz des Schiffes an Land zu gelangen. Die Antelope schickt daher sechs Besatzungsmitglieder, einschließlich Gulliver, in einem kleinen Ruderboot an Land zu gehen. Das Boot kentert und alle sechs Matrosen außer Gulliver ertrinken. Gulliver verliert im Wasser völlig die Orientierung, aber es gelingt ihm schließlich, seinen Weg ans Ufer zu finden. Gulliver fühlt sich ein wenig schläfrig von all dieser Anstrengung und dem halben Pint Brandy, das er an Bord des Schiffes getrunken hat, bevor er in das Ruderboot gestiegen ist, also legt er sich hin, um zu schlafen. Er wacht bei Sonnenaufgang nach einem schönen Nickerchen im Gras auf. Gulliver versucht aufzustehen, aber er kann sich überhaupt nicht bewegen. Er liegt auf dem Rücken fest. Gulliver bemerkt, dass seine Arme und Beine und sogar sein langes Haar alle offenbar festgebunden sind. Er kann nicht nach rechts oder links schauen, also hat er keine Ahnung, was vor sich geht, aber er spürt, wie etwas über seine Brust zu seinem Kinn hinüberwandert. Gulliver senkt seine Augen, um über sein Kinn hinwegzuschauen, und er sieht einen winzigen, winzigen menschlichen Wesen, das nicht größer ist als die Länge von Gullivers Finger. Der kleine Kerl trägt einen winzigen, winzigen Bogen mit vielen winzigen, winzigen Pfeilen - und es folgen ihm auch etwa 40 andere winzige Typen. Gulliver schreit vor Angst bei diesem Anblick. Bei diesem Brüllen springen oder fallen sie vor Angst zurück. Gulliver schafft es, die Schnüre, die seinen linken Arm festhalten, zu zerreißen, aber die Schnüre an seinem Haar tun wirklich weh, so dass er seinen Kopf kaum drehen kann. Die kleinen Leute laufen ein zweites Mal weg - und sie schießen Gullivers linke Hand mit etwa hundert Pfeilen voll. Einige von ihnen versuchen, ihm mit winzigen Speeren in die Seiten zu stechen, aber sie können seine Ledertunika nicht durchdringen. Gulliver beschließt, sich bis zur Nacht ruhig zu verhalten, wenn er vielleicht seine linke Hand benutzen kann, um sich zu befreien. Aber er kann hören, wie sich eine riesige Anzahl von Menschen versammelt: immer mehr von den kleinen Leuten kommen, und sie fangen in seiner Nähe an, etwas zu bauen. Es scheint eine Bühne zu sein, von der aus eine wichtige kleine Person eine Rede an Gulliver hält. Gulliver versteht die Rede nicht, aber er hört die Worte "Langro Dehul san". Gulliver gibt sich währenddessen so gehorsam wie möglich, um anzuzeigen, dass er keine Gefahr bedeutet. Gulliver ist hungrig, durstig und muss wirklich auf die Toilette, also deutet er mit seiner linken Hand an, dass er essen und trinken möchte. Die wichtige kleine Person, die die Reden hält, wird "Hurgo" genannt, und er befiehlt seinen Leuten, Gulliver Essen zu bringen. Alle kleinen Leute sind erstaunt, wie viel Gulliver essen und trinken kann. Die kleinen Leute tanzen vor Freude herum, während sie ihn beim Essen und Trinken beobachten. Sie rufen alle gemeinsam "Hekinah Degul". Gulliver muss zugeben, dass er beeindruckt ist: Diese Menschen scheinen völlig in Ordnung damit zu sein, auf seinen Körper zu klettern und herumzulaufen, obwohl sie wissen, dass seine linke Hand frei ist - und obwohl er für sie ein Riese ist. Nachdem Gulliver mit dem Essen fertig ist, steigt ein Vertreter des imperialen Hauses auf das Gerüst, um mit Gulliver zu sprechen. Durch Gebärdensprache gelingt es dem Vertreter des Kaisers, zu vermitteln, dass Gulliver als Gefangener in die Hauptstadt etwa eine halbe Meile entfernt gebracht werden muss. Gulliver möchte frei sein, aber der Kaiser erlaubt es nicht. Gulliver wird jedoch gut behandelt. Gulliver denkt darüber nach zu kämpfen, ändert aber seine Meinung, als er sieht, dass die Zahl der kleinen Menschen zugenommen hat. Er stimmt zu. Der Hurgo und all seine Leute steigen hinab und räumen den Weg. Die Schnüre, die Gullivers linke Seite binden, sind locker genug, dass Gulliver sich herumdrehen und urinieren kann. Die kleinen Menschen behandeln auch Gullivers winzige Pfeilwunden, so dass seine Verletzungen aufhören zu brennen. Alles in allem hört Gulliver mit dem Schreien auf und fühlt sich wieder schläfrig. Er schläft etwa acht Stunden ein - dank eines Schlaftranks in seinem Wein, wie er später entdeckt. Ein Sturm bricht aus. Das Schiff landet im Nordwesten von "Van Diemen's Land" - was wir heute Tasmanien nennen, einem Gebiet im Südosten Australiens. 12 Besatzungsmitglieder des Schiffs sterben und die übrigen werden durch harte Arbeit und Nahrungsmangel geschwächt. Starke Strömungen und raue See machen es der Besatzung schwer, vom Ankerplatz des Schiffes an Land zu gelangen. Die Antelope schickt daher sechs Besatzungsmitglieder, Gulliver eingeschlossen, in einem kleinen Ruderboot an Land zu gehen. Das Boot kentert und alle sechs Matrosen außer Gulliver ertrinken. Gulliver verliert im Wasser völlig die Orientierung, aber es gelingt ihm schließlich, seinen Weg ans Ufer zu finden. Gulliver fühlt sich ein wenig schläfrig von all dieser Anstrengung und dem halben Pint Brandy, das er an Bord des Schiffes getrunken hat, bevor er in das Ruderboot gestiegen ist, also legt er sich hin, um zu schlafen. Er wacht bei Sonnenaufgang nach einem schönen Nickerchen im Gras auf. Gulliver versucht aufzustehen, aber er kann sich überhaupt nicht bewegen. Er liegt auf dem Rücken fest. Gulliver bemerkt, dass seine Arme und Beine und sogar sein langes Haar alle offenbar festgebunden sind. Er kann nicht nach rechts oder links schauen, also hat er keine Ahnung, was vor sich geht, aber er spürt, wie etwas sich über seine Brust hinweg zu seinem Kinn hinbewegt. Gulliver senkt seine Augen, um über sein Kinn hinwegzuschauen, und er sieht einen winzigen, winzigen menschlichen Wesen, das nicht größer ist als die Länge von Gullivers Finger. Der winzige Kerl trägt einen winzigen, winzigen Bogen mit vielen winzigen, winzigen Pfeilen - und es folgen ihm auch etwa 40 andere winzige Kerle. Gulliver schreit vor Angst bei diesem Anblick. Bei diesem Brüllen springen oder fallen sie vor Angst zurück. Gulliver schafft es, die Schnüre, die seinen linken Arm festhalten, zu zerreißen, aber die Schnüre, die mit seinem Haar verbunden sind, tun wirklich weh, so dass er seinen Kopf immer noch kaum drehen kann. Die kleinen Leute laufen ein zweites Mal weg - und sie schießen Gullivers linke Hand mit etwa hundert Pfeilen voll. Einige von ihnen versuchen, ihm mit winzigen Speeren in die Seiten zu stechen, aber sie können seine Ledertunika nicht durchdringen. Gulliver beschließt, sich bis zur Nacht ruhig zu verhalten, wenn er vielleicht seine linke Hand benutzen kann, um sich zu befreien. Aber er kann hören, wie eine große Anzahl von Menschen sich versammelt: immer mehr kleine Leute kommen und sie fangen in seiner Nähe an, etwas zu bauen. Es scheint eine Bühne zu sein, von der aus ein wichtiger kleiner Mensch eine Rede an Gulliver hält. Gulliver versteht die Rede nicht, aber er hört die Worte "Langro Dehul san". Gulliver gibt sich während dieser Zeit so gehorsam wie möglich, um zu zeigen, dass er keine Gefahr bedeutet. Gulliver ist hungrig, durstig und muss wirklich auf die Toilette, also deutet er mit seiner linken Hand an, dass er essen und trinken möchte. Der wichtige kleine Mensch, der die Reden hält, wird "Hurgo" genannt, und er befiehlt seinen Leuten, Gulliver Essen zu bringen. Alle winzigen Leute sind erstaunt, wie viel Gulliver essen und trinken kann. Die winzigen Leute tanzen vor Freude herum, während sie ihn beim Essen und Trinken beobachten. Sie rufen alle gemeinsam "Hekinah Degul". Gulliver muss zugeben, dass er beeindruckt ist: Diese Leute scheinen völlig in Ordnung zu sein, wenn sie auf seinen Körper klettern und herumlaufen, obwohl sie wissen, dass seine linke Hand frei ist - und obwohl er für sie ein Riese ist. Nachdem Gulliver mit dem Essen fertig ist, steigt ein Vertreter des Kaiserhauses auf das Gerüst, um mit Gulliver zu sprechen. Durch Gebärdensprache gelingt es dem Vertreter des Kaisers, zu vermitteln, dass Gulliver als Gefangener in die Hauptstadt etwa eine halbe Meile entfernt gebracht werden muss. Gulliver möchte frei sein, aber der Kaiser erlaubt es nicht. Gulliver wird jedoch gut behandelt. Gulliver denkt darüber nach zu kämpfen, ändert aber seine Meinung, als er sieht, dass die Zahl der kleinen Leute zugenommen hat. Er stimmt zu. Der Hurgo und all seine Leute steigen hinab und räumen den Weg. Die Schnüre, die Gullivers linke Seite binden, sind locker genug, dass Gulliver sich herumdrehen und urinieren kann. Die kleinen Leute behandeln auch Gullivers winzige Pfeilwunden, so dass seine Verletzungen aufhören zu brennen. Alles in allem hört Gulliver auf zu schreien und fühlt sich wieder schläfrig. Er schläft etwa acht Stunden ein - dank eines Schlafmittels in seinem Wein, wie er später entdeckt. Und das ist das Ende dieses sehr langen Absatzes! Gulliver entdeckt später, dass der Kaiser derjenige ist, der angeordnet hat, dass Gulliver so gefesselt und gefüttert wird, damit er zur Hauptstadt gebracht werden kann. Gulliver sagt, man könnte denken, dass dieses Betäubungsmittel etwas Feiges sei, aber es sei tatsächlich klug. Schließlich hätten sie Gulliver mit ihrem winzigen Waffenarsenal nicht im Schlaf töten können. Seine Wut hätte ihm möglicherweise die Stärke gegeben, die Seile zu zerreißen, mit denen er gefesselt worden war. Diese winzigen Menschen seien großartige Mechaniker und hätten bereits viele Maschinen zum Ziehen von Bäumen und anderen schweren Dingen entwickelt. Mithilfe eines Systems von Flaschenzügen ziehen sie Gulliver auf eine dieser Maschinen und binden ihn fest. 1.500 der Pferde des Kaisers, von denen alle etwa vier Zoll hoch sind, ziehen Gulliver zur Hauptstadt. Gulliver schläft wieder ein, wacht aber etwa vier Stunden später auf. Gulliver wird geweckt, weil einer seiner Wachen auf Gullivers Gesicht klettert und ihm seinen Speer in das linke Nasenloch stößt. Gulliver niest heftig und die Wachen schleichen sich davon. Schließlich kommen Gulliver und alle seine Wachen in der Hauptstadt an, wo sie vom Kaiser und seinem Hof empfangen werden. Gulliver ist an einen alten, riesigen Tempel gefesselt, der nicht mehr für religiöse Zwecke genutzt wird, weil dort ein Mord begangen wurde. Gulliver ist an den Boden gefesselt, während die winzigen Menschen ihm eine Kette bauen, und viele Tausende von Einwohnern der Stadt nutzen die Gelegenheit, um auf ihm herumzuklettern. Schließlich sind Gullivers Ketten fertig und er ist von seinen Seilen befreit. Er kann endlich zum ersten Mal seit seiner Ankunft in diesem Land aufstehen. Gullivers Ketten ermöglichen es ihm, sich sofort um das Tor zu seinem Tempel zu bewegen, so dass er sich im Gebäude hinlegen oder draußen stehen 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: I got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could; and I can give no intelligible account of how I fought out the interval. Yet I still hear myself cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: "They KNOW--it's too monstrous: they know, they know!" "And what on earth--?" I felt her incredulity as she held me. "Why, all that WE know--and heaven knows what else besides!" Then, as she released me, I made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with full coherency even to myself. "Two hours ago, in the garden"--I could scarce articulate--"Flora SAW!" Mrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. "She has told you?" she panted. "Not a word--that's the horror. She kept it to herself! The child of eight, THAT child!" Unutterable still, for me, was the stupefaction of it. Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. "Then how do you know?" "I was there--I saw with my eyes: saw that she was perfectly aware." "Do you mean aware of HIM?" "No--of HER." I was conscious as I spoke that I looked prodigious things, for I got the slow reflection of them in my companion's face. "Another person--this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil: a woman in black, pale and dreadful--with such an air also, and such a face!--on the other side of the lake. I was there with the child--quiet for the hour; and in the midst of it she came." "Came how--from where?" "From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there--but not so near." "And without coming nearer?" "Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as you!" My friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. "Was she someone you've never seen?" "Yes. But someone the child has. Someone YOU have." Then, to show how I had thought it all out: "My predecessor--the one who died." "Miss Jessel?" "Miss Jessel. You don't believe me?" I pressed. She turned right and left in her distress. "How can you be sure?" This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. "Then ask Flora--SHE'S sure!" But I had no sooner spoken than I caught myself up. "No, for God's sake, DON'T! She'll say she isn't--she'll lie!" Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. "Ah, how CAN you?" "Because I'm clear. Flora doesn't want me to know." "It's only then to spare you." "No, no--there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I DON'T see--what I DON'T fear!" Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. "You mean you're afraid of seeing her again?" "Oh, no; that's nothing--now!" Then I explained. "It's of NOT seeing her." But my companion only looked wan. "I don't understand you." "Why, it's that the child may keep it up--and that the child assuredly WILL--without my knowing it." At the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for a moment collapsed, yet presently to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force of the sense of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. "Dear, dear--we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn't mind it--!" She even tried a grim joke. "Perhaps she likes it!" "Likes SUCH things--a scrap of an infant!" "Isn't it just a proof of her blessed innocence?" my friend bravely inquired. She brought me, for the instant, almost round. "Oh, we must clutch at THAT--we must cling to it! If it isn't a proof of what you say, it's a proof of--God knows what! For the woman's a horror of horrors." Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last raising them, "Tell me how you know," she said. "Then you admit it's what she was?" I cried. "Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated. "Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked." "At you, do you mean--so wickedly?" "Dear me, no--I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child." Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?" "Ah, with such awful eyes!" She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. "Do you mean of dislike?" "God help us, no. Of something much worse." "Worse than dislike?--this left her indeed at a loss. "With a determination--indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention." I made her turn pale. "Intention?" "To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose--her eyes just lingering on mine--gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. "THAT'S what Flora knows." After a little she turned round. "The person was in black, you say?" "In mourning--rather poor, almost shabby. But--yes--with extraordinary beauty." I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome--very, very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But infamous." She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel--WAS infamous." She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. "They were both infamous," she finally said. So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them." "There was everything." "In spite of the difference--?" "Oh, of their rank, their condition"--she brought it woefully out. "SHE was a lady." I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes--she was a lady." "And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose. I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's abasement. There was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision--on the evidence--of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound." Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. "I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished." "With HER?" "With them all." It was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared. I seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their evocation of her as distinctly as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out with decision: "It must have been also what SHE wished!" Mrs. Grose's face signified that it had been indeed, but she said at the same time: "Poor woman--she paid for it!" "Then you do know what she died of?" I asked. "No--I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I was glad enough I didn't; and I thanked heaven she was well out of this!" "Yet you had, then, your idea--" "Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes--as to that. She couldn't have stayed. Fancy it here--for a governess! And afterward I imagined--and I still imagine. And what I imagine is dreadful." "Nicht so schrecklich wie das, was _ich_ tue", antwortete ich; dabei muss ich ihr - wie ich mir bewusst war - eine Front der elenden Niederlage gezeigt haben. Dies rief ihre Mitleid wieder hervor, und bei der erneuten Berührung ihrer Freundlichkeit brach meine Kraft zu widerstehen zusammen. Ich brach, wie ich es das andere Mal getan hatte, in Tränen aus; sie nahm mich in ihre fürsorgliche Brust, und meine Klage überschwemmte mich. "Ich tue es nicht!" schluchzte ich verzweifelt; "Ich rette oder beschütze sie nicht! Es ist viel schlimmer als ich gedacht habe - sie sind verloren!" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Die Handlung geht weiter bis später an diesem Nachmittag, als die Gouvernante Mrs. Grose von der Begegnung informiert. Sie behauptet, dass die Kinder "wissen" und Geheimnisse für sich behalten, und erklärt, dass Flora eine Frau am See gesehen, aber nichts gesagt habe. Die Gouvernante beschreibt die Erscheinung als in Schwarz gekleidet, mit einem schrecklichen Gesicht, und sagt, dass die Frau aus dem Nichts aufgetaucht sei. Auf Mrs. Grose's Fragen antwortend, behauptet die Gouvernante, die Frau sei Miss Jessel, ihre Vorgängerin, und dass sie sicher sei, dass Flora darüber lügen werde. Mrs. Grose verteidigt Flora als unschuldig und fragt weiter. Die Gouvernante sagt, Miss Jessel habe Flora mit entschlossenen Augen "fixiert" und spricht von Miss Jessels Schönheit. Daraufhin nennt Mrs. Grose Miss Jessel "berüchtigt" und enthüllt, dass Miss Jessel eine unangemessene Beziehung zu Quint hatte. Die Gouvernante klammert sich in Verzweiflung an Mrs. Grose und beklagt, dass die Kinder außerhalb ihrer Kontrolle verloren 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: Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man. When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister. Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber. I did not like this iteration of one idea--this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band. "I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as I entered; "but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still." "Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?" "Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since--we have three now--and both mother and child are thriving." "And are the family well at the house, Robert?" "I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present--in great trouble." "I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied-- "Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London." "Mr. John?" "Yes." "And how does his mother bear it?" "Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking." "I heard from Bessie he was not doing well." "Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!--they say he killed himself." I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed-- "Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.' Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, 'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning." "Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go." "I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?" "Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester. He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;--yes: she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What can the creeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr. Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I remember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments. "Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the "person" was. He made a curious grimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw down his cue and followed me from the room. "Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut. "If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two." "What to do?--where to go?" "To see a sick lady who has sent for me." "What sick lady?--where does she live?" "At Gateshead; in ---shire." "-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?" "Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed." "Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate." "It is his widow, sir." "And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?" "Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother." "The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations." "None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off." "Why?" "Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me." "But Reed left children?--you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London." "John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack." "And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off." "Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now." "How long will you stay?" "As short a time as possible, sir." "Promise me only to stay a week--" "I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it." "At all events you _will_ come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?" "Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well." "And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone." "No, sir, she has sent her coachman." "A person to be trusted?" "Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family." Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?" "Early to-morrow morning, sir." "Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling. I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir." He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change. "I don't want change; you know that. Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said-- "Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?" "Yes, sir, but now you owe me five." "Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds." "Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity." "Matter of business? I am curious to hear it." "You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?" "Yes; what then?" "In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it." "To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to--the devil?" "I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere." "In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes. "And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?" "No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them--but I shall advertise." "You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!" he growled. "At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use for it." "And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. "I could not spare the money on any account." "Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane." "Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence." "Just let me look at the cash." "No, sir; you are not to be trusted." "Jane!" "Sir?" "Promise me one thing." "I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform." "Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time." "I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it." "Very well! very well! I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?" "Yes, sir; early." "Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?" "No, sir, I must prepare for the journey." "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?" "I suppose so, sir." "And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I'm not quite up to it." "They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer." "Then say it." "Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present." "What must I say?" "The same, if you like, sir." "Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?" "Yes?" "It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no--that would not content me either. So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?" "It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many." "Very likely; but it is blank and cool--'Farewell.'" "How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?" I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing." The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning. I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner. "Bless you!--I knew you would come!" exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered. "Yes, Bessie," said I, after I had kissed her; "and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?--Alive still, I hope." "Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover." "Has she mentioned me lately?" "She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?" Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child. Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about--setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks. Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days. She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely of the kind she relished. In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart--a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation--to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished. "You shall go into the breakfast-room first," said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; "the young ladies will be there." In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition. Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram--very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage. The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered--the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's--so much more flowing and becoming--it looked as stylish as the other's looked puritanical. In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother--and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin--perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom. Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of "Miss Eyre." Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her "How d'ye do?" several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot--now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a "quiz" without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed. A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi- sarcastic attentions of the other--Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise--pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow--that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad. "How is Mrs. Reed?" I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty. "Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night." "If," said I, "you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you." Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. "I know she had a particular wish to see me," I added, "and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary." "Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening," remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie--who was, I dared say, in the kitchen--and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to- night. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better--or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing. "Missis is awake," said she; "I have told her you are here: come and let us see if she will know you." I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows. Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries--to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity. The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever--there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me. "Is this Jane Eyre?" she said. "Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?" I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me--her feeling towards me--was unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stony eye--opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears--that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification. I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her--to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow. "You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on." "Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?" "Yes." "Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say--let me see--" The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated. "Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?" "I am Jane Eyre." "I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands--and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend--no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did--I wish she had died!" "A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?" "I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it--a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long--not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers--he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money? I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that--yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses--poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded--his look is frightful--I feel ashamed for him when I see him." She was getting much excited. "I think I had better leave her now," said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed. "Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night--in the morning she is calmer." I rose. "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed, "there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me--he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?" Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her. More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both. Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head, crowned with lotus- flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom. One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. "Good! but not quite the thing," I thought, as I surveyed the effect: "they want more force and spirit;" and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly--a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content. "Is that a portrait of some one you know?" asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that "an ugly man." They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago--of the admiration she had there excited--the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme--herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more. Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, "the Rubric." Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity. She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died--and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger long--she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her. "Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers." Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. "It would be so much better," she said, "if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over." I did not ask what she meant by "all being over," but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-- "Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered--you must have music, dancing, and society--or you languish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes--include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it--go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling--and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this--if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new." She closed her lips. "You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade," answered Georgiana. "Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and _I_ know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever." Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious. True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition. It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new church--for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers. I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window. The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: "One lies there," I thought, "who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit--now struggling to quit its material tenement--flit when at length released?" In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words--her faith--her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones--still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: "Who is that?" I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her. "It is I, Aunt Reed." "Who--I?" was her answer. "Who are you?" looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. "You are quite a stranger to me--where is Bessie?" "She is at the lodge, aunt." "Aunt," she repeated. "Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like Jane Eyre!" I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity. "Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed." I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield. "I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?" I assured her we were alone. "Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child; the other--" she stopped. "After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful." She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation--the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang. "Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.--Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there." I obeyed her directions. "Read the letter," she said. It was short, and thus conceived:-- "Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.--I am, Madam, &c., &c., "JOHN EYRE, Madeira." It was dated three years back. "Why did I never hear of this?" I asked. "Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane--the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.--Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!" "Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required, "think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day." She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus-- "I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion--expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit." "If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness" "You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend." "My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt." I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank--I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my touch--the glazing eyes shunned my gaze. "Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace." Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me--dying, she must hate me still. The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for _her_ woes--not _my_ loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form. Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed-- "With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble." And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear. 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Jane beginnt das Kapitel damit zu sagen, dass sie nie jemand war, der an Zeichen oder Vorahnungen glaubte, aber sie erinnert sich, dass eine Frau im Haus früher einen Traum mit einem Kleinkind darin hatte, glaubte, dass etwas Schlimmes kommen würde, und dann die Nachricht erhielt, dass ihre Schwester im Sterben lag. Jane sagt, dass sie in den letzten sieben Nächten von Säuglingen geträumt hatte. Sie wird in das Wohnzimmer gerufen und findet dort Robert, den Kutscher aus Gateshead. Er erzählt ihr, dass John Reed sich umgebracht hat, nachdem er sich in Schulden gestürzt und einen Großteil des Geldes seiner Mutter ausgegeben hatte. Robert fährt fort zu sagen, dass Mrs. Reed einen Schlaganfall erlitten hatte und jetzt im Sterben lag und nach Jane gerufen hatte. Jane sagt, dass sie am nächsten Morgen früh mit ihm abreisen wird und geht, um Rochesters Erlaubnis zu erbitten. Rochester ist überrascht, als Jane um Erlaubnis bittet, da sie ihm gesagt hatte, dass sie keine Familie habe. Sie sagt, dass sie keine hatte, die sie anerkennen würde, und erzählt von den Reeds aus Gateshead. Rochester versucht, Jane dazu zu bringen, zu versprechen, dass sie nur eine Woche bleiben wird. Als er ihr mehr Geld gibt, das er ihr schuldet, nimmt er etwas zurück, damit sie zurückkehrt und nicht fortbleibt. Sie erwähnt, dass es, da es scheint, als würde er bald heiraten, eine gute Idee wäre, Adele in eine Schule zu schicken und für sich eine neue Position zu suchen. Er lässt sie versprechen, dass sie keine Anzeige schalten, sondern ihm erlauben wird, ihr eine neue Position zu finden. Sie stimmt zu, solange sie und "Adele sicher aus dem Haus sind, bevor die Braut eintritt". Als Jane Gateshead erreicht, freut sich Bessie, sie zu sehen, und sagt, dass der Arzt gesagt hat, dass sich Mrs. Reed vielleicht noch eine Woche oder zwei hinziehen könnte. Jane sieht die Misses Reed, und sie sind nicht freundlich zu ihr, obwohl sie später besser werden. Jane geht, um Mrs. Reed zu sehen, aber sie ist etwas wirr und sagt ihr, zurückzukommen, wenn sie sich ausgeruht hat. Sie spricht auch mit ihr über Jane, als wäre sie nicht Jane, und sagt, dass sie sie nie mochte, weil sie ihre Mutter nie mochte, weil sie eine Lieblingsfrau ihres Mannes war. Zehn Tage vergehen und Jane sieht Mrs. Reed nicht mehr, da sie wirr ist. Als Jane endlich mit Mrs. Reed sprechen kann, sagt diese, dass sie ihr von zwei Unrechtschaften erzählen muss, die sie ihr angetan hat. Das erste war, sie wegzuschicken, nachdem sie ihr versprochen hatte, sich um sie zu kümmern, und für das andere sagt sie Jane, einen Brief aus ihrem Schminkkoffer zu nehmen. Es ist von John Eyre, Janes Onkel, und datiert drei Jahre zuvor. Er sagt, dass er zu Geld gekommen sei und ihre Adresse wissen wolle, damit sie bei ihm leben und er ihr bei seinem Tod alles vererben könne, da er nicht verheiratet sei und kinderlos sei. Mrs. Reed erzählt Jane, dass sie ihm zurückgeschrieben und ihm mitgeteilt habe, dass Jane im Fieberausbruch in Lowood gestorben sei. Jane nimmt den Brief und sagt Mrs. Reed, dass sie ihr vergibt. Mrs. Reed stirbt in dieser Nacht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 the she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men's voices and the whining of the sled-dogs; and it was the she-wolf who was first to spring away from the cornered man in his circle of dying flame. The pack had been loath to forego the kill it had hunted down, and it lingered for several minutes, making sure of the sounds, and then it, too, sprang away on the trail made by the she-wolf. Running at the forefront of the pack was a large grey wolf--one of its several leaders. It was he who directed the pack's course on the heels of the she-wolf. It was he who snarled warningly at the younger members of the pack or slashed at them with his fangs when they ambitiously tried to pass him. And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now trotting slowly across the snow. She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack. He did not snarl at her, nor show his teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her in advance of him. On the contrary, he seemed kindly disposed toward her--too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth. Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on occasion. At such times he betrayed no anger. He merely sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carriage and conduct resembling an abashed country swain. This was his one trouble in the running of the pack; but she had other troubles. On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles. He ran always on her right side. The fact that he had but one eye, and that the left eye, might account for this. He, also, was addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body, or shoulder, or neck. As with the running mate on the left, she repelled these attentions with her teeth; but when both bestowed their attentions at the same time she was roughly jostled, being compelled, with quick snaps to either side, to drive both lovers away and at the same time to maintain her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet before her. At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other. They might have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing hunger-need of the pack. After each repulse, when the old wolf sheered abruptly away from the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered against a young three- year-old that ran on his blind right side. This young wolf had attained his full size; and, considering the weak and famished condition of the pack, he possessed more than the average vigour and spirit. Nevertheless, he ran with his head even with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder. When he ventured to run abreast of the older wolf (which was seldom), a snarl and a snap sent him back even with the shoulder again. Sometimes, however, he dropped cautiously and slowly behind and edged in between the old leader and the she-wolf. This was doubly resented, even triply resented. When she snarled her displeasure, the old leader would whirl on the three-year-old. Sometimes she whirled with him. And sometimes the young leader on the left whirled, too. At such times, confronted by three sets of savage teeth, the young wolf stopped precipitately, throwing himself back on his haunches, with fore- legs stiff, mouth menacing, and mane bristling. This confusion in the front of the moving pack always caused confusion in the rear. The wolves behind collided with the young wolf and expressed their displeasure by administering sharp nips on his hind-legs and flanks. He was laying up trouble for himself, for lack of food and short tempers went together; but with the boundless faith of youth he persisted in repeating the manoeuvre every little while, though it never succeeded in gaining anything for him but discomfiture. Had there been food, love-making and fighting would have gone on apace, and the pack-formation would have been broken up. But the situation of the pack was desperate. It was lean with long-standing hunger. It ran below its ordinary speed. At the rear limped the weak members, the very young and the very old. At the front were the strongest. Yet all were more like skeletons than full-bodied wolves. Nevertheless, with the exception of the ones that limped, the movements of the animals were effortless and tireless. Their stringy muscles seemed founts of inexhaustible energy. Behind every steel-like contraction of a muscle, lay another steel-like contraction, and another, and another, apparently without end. They ran many miles that day. They ran through the night. And the next day found them still running. They were running over the surface of a world frozen and dead. No life stirred. They alone moved through the vast inertness. They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were alive in order that they might devour them and continue to live. They crossed low divides and ranged a dozen small streams in a lower-lying country before their quest was rewarded. Then they came upon moose. It was a big bull they first found. Here was meat and life, and it was guarded by no mysterious fires nor flying missiles of flame. Splay hoofs and palmated antlers they knew, and they flung their customary patience and caution to the wind. It was a brief fight and fierce. The big bull was beset on every side. He ripped them open or split their skulls with shrewdly driven blows of his great hoofs. He crushed them and broke them on his large horns. He stamped them into the snow under him in the wallowing struggle. But he was foredoomed, and he went down with the she-wolf tearing savagely at his throat, and with other teeth fixed everywhere upon him, devouring him alive, before ever his last struggles ceased or his last damage had been wrought. There was food in plenty. The bull weighed over eight hundred pounds--fully twenty pounds of meat per mouth for the forty-odd wolves of the pack. But if they could fast prodigiously, they could feed prodigiously, and soon a few scattered bones were all that remained of the splendid live brute that had faced the pack a few hours before. There was now much resting and sleeping. With full stomachs, bickering and quarrelling began among the younger males, and this continued through the few days that followed before the breaking-up of the pack. The famine was over. The wolves were now in the country of game, and though they still hunted in pack, they hunted more cautiously, cutting out heavy cows or crippled old bulls from the small moose-herds they ran across. There came a day, in this land of plenty, when the wolf-pack split in half and went in different directions. The she-wolf, the young leader on her left, and the one-eyed elder on her right, led their half of the pack down to the Mackenzie River and across into the lake country to the east. Each day this remnant of the pack dwindled. Two by two, male and female, the wolves were deserting. Occasionally a solitary male was driven out by the sharp teeth of his rivals. In the end there remained only four: the she-wolf, the young leader, the one-eyed one, and the ambitious three- year-old. The she-wolf had by now developed a ferocious temper. Her three suitors all bore the marks of her teeth. Yet they never replied in kind, never defended themselves against her. They turned their shoulders to her most savage slashes, and with wagging tails and mincing steps strove to placate her wrath. But if they were all mildness toward her, they were all fierceness toward one another. The three-year-old grew too ambitious in his fierceness. He caught the one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons. Though the grizzled old fellow could see only on one side, against the youth and vigour of the other he brought into play the wisdom of long years of experience. His lost eye and his scarred muzzle bore evidence to the nature of his experience. He had survived too many battles to be in doubt for a moment about what to do. The battle began fairly, but it did not end fairly. There was no telling what the outcome would have been, for the third wolf joined the elder, and together, old leader and young leader, they attacked the ambitious three-year-old and proceeded to destroy him. He was beset on either side by the merciless fangs of his erstwhile comrades. Forgotten were the days they had hunted together, the game they had pulled down, the famine they had suffered. That business was a thing of the past. The business of love was at hand--ever a sterner and crueller business than that of food-getting. And in the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day--and it came not often--when manes bristled, and fang smote fang or ripped and tore the yielding flesh, all for the possession of her. And in the business of love the three-year-old, who had made this his first adventure upon it, yielded up his life. On either side of his body stood his two rivals. They were gazing at the she-wolf, who sat smiling in the snow. But the elder leader was wise, very wise, in love even as in battle. The younger leader turned his head to lick a wound on his shoulder. The curve of his neck was turned toward his rival. With his one eye the elder saw the opportunity. He darted in low and closed with his fangs. It was a long, ripping slash, and deep as well. His teeth, in passing, burst the wall of the great vein of the throat. Then he leaped clear. The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke midmost into a tickling cough. Bleeding and coughing, already stricken, he sprang at the elder and fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him, the light of day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springs falling shorter and shorter. And all the while the she-wolf sat on her haunches and smiled. She was made glad in vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-making of the Wild, the sex-tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died. To those that survived it was not tragedy, but realisation and achievement. When the young leader lay in the snow and moved no more, One Eye stalked over to the she-wolf. His carriage was one of mingled triumph and caution. He was plainly expectant of a rebuff, and he was just as plainly surprised when her teeth did not flash out at him in anger. For the first time she met him with a kindly manner. She sniffed noses with him, and even condescended to leap about and frisk and play with him in quite puppyish fashion. And he, for all his grey years and sage experience, behaved quite as puppyishly and even a little more foolishly. Forgotten already were the vanquished rivals and the love-tale red-written on the snow. Forgotten, save once, when old One Eye stopped for a moment to lick his stiffening wounds. Then it was that his lips half writhed into a snarl, and the hair of his neck and shoulders involuntarily bristled, while he half crouched for a spring, his claws spasmodically clutching into the snow-surface for firmer footing. But it was all forgotten the next moment, as he sprang after the she-wolf, who was coyly leading him a chase through the woods. After that they ran side by side, like good friends who have come to an understanding. The days passed by, and they kept together, hunting their meat and killing and eating it in common. After a time the she-wolf began to grow restless. She seemed to be searching for something that she could not find. The hollows under fallen trees seemed to attract her, and she spent much time nosing about among the larger snow-piled crevices in the rocks and in the caves of overhanging banks. Old One Eye was not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest, and when her investigations in particular places were unusually protracted, he would lie down and wait until she was ready to go on. They did not remain in one place, but travelled across country until they regained the Mackenzie River, down which they slowly went, leaving it often to hunt game along the small streams that entered it, but always returning to it again. Sometimes they chanced upon other wolves, usually in pairs; but there was no friendliness of intercourse displayed on either side, no gladness at meeting, no desire to return to the pack-formation. Several times they encountered solitary wolves. These were always males, and they were pressingly insistent on joining with One Eye and his mate. This he resented, and when she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, bristling and showing her teeth, the aspiring solitary ones would back off, turn-tail, and continue on their lonely way. One moonlight night, running through the quiet forest, One Eye suddenly halted. His muzzle went up, his tail stiffened, and his nostrils dilated as he scented the air. One foot also he held up, after the manner of a dog. He was not satisfied, and he continued to smell the air, striving to understand the message borne upon it to him. One careless sniff had satisfied his mate, and she trotted on to reassure him. Though he followed her, he was still dubious, and he could not forbear an occasional halt in order more carefully to study the warning. She crept out cautiously on the edge of a large open space in the midst of the trees. For some time she stood alone. Then One Eye, creeping and crawling, every sense on the alert, every hair radiating infinite suspicion, joined her. They stood side by side, watching and listening and smelling. To their ears came the sounds of dogs wrangling and scuffling, the guttural cries of men, the sharper voices of scolding women, and once the shrill and plaintive cry of a child. With the exception of the huge bulks of the skin-lodges, little could be seen save the flames of the fire, broken by the movements of intervening bodies, and the smoke rising slowly on the quiet air. But to their nostrils came the myriad smells of an Indian camp, carrying a story that was largely incomprehensible to One Eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew. She was strangely stirred, and sniffed and sniffed with an increasing delight. But old One Eye was doubtful. He betrayed his apprehension, and started tentatively to go. She turned and touched his neck with her muzzle in a reassuring way, then regarded the camp again. A new wistfulness was in her face, but it was not the wistfulness of hunger. She was thrilling to a desire that urged her to go forward, to be in closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men. One Eye moved impatiently beside her; her unrest came back upon her, and she knew again her pressing need to find the thing for which she searched. She turned and trotted back into the forest, to the great relief of One Eye, who trotted a little to the fore until they were well within the shelter of the trees. As they slid along, noiseless as shadows, in the moonlight, they came upon a run-way. Both noses went down to the footprints in the snow. These footprints were very fresh. One Eye ran ahead cautiously, his mate at his heels. The broad pads of their feet were spread wide and in contact with the snow were like velvet. One Eye caught sight of a dim movement of white in the midst of the white. His sliding gait had been deceptively swift, but it was as nothing to the speed at which he now ran. Before him was bounding the faint patch of white he had discovered. They were running along a narrow alley flanked on either side by a growth of young spruce. Through the trees the mouth of the alley could be seen, opening out on a moonlit glade. Old One Eye was rapidly overhauling the fleeing shape of white. Bound by bound he gained. Now he was upon it. One leap more and his teeth would be sinking into it. But that leap was never made. High in the air, and straight up, soared the shape of white, now a struggling snowshoe rabbit that leaped and bounded, executing a fantastic dance there above him in the air and never once returning to earth. One Eye sprang back with a snort of sudden fright, then shrank down to the snow and crouched, snarling threats at this thing of fear he did not understand. But the she-wolf coolly thrust past him. She poised for a moment, then sprang for the dancing rabbit. She, too, soared high, but not so high as the quarry, and her teeth clipped emptily together with a metallic snap. She made another leap, and another. Her mate had slowly relaxed from his crouch and was watching her. He now evinced displeasure at her repeated failures, and himself made a mighty spring upward. His teeth closed upon the rabbit, and he bore it back to earth with him. But at the same time there was a suspicious crackling movement beside him, and his astonished eye saw a young spruce sapling bending down above him to strike him. His jaws let go their grip, and he leaped backward to escape this strange danger, his lips drawn back from his fangs, his throat snarling, every hair bristling with rage and fright. And in that moment the sapling reared its slender length upright and the rabbit soared dancing in the air again. The she-wolf was angry. She sank her fangs into her mate's shoulder in reproof; and he, frightened, unaware of what constituted this new onslaught, struck back ferociously and in still greater fright, ripping down the side of the she-wolf's muzzle. For him to resent such reproof was equally unexpected to her, and she sprang upon him in snarling indignation. Then he discovered his mistake and tried to placate her. But she proceeded to punish him roundly, until he gave over all attempts at placation, and whirled in a circle, his head away from her, his shoulders receiving the punishment of her teeth. In the meantime the rabbit danced above them in the air. The she-wolf sat down in the snow, and old One Eye, now more in fear of his mate than of the mysterious sapling, again sprang for the rabbit. As he sank back with it between his teeth, he kept his eye on the sapling. As before, it followed him back to earth. He crouched down under the impending blow, his hair bristling, but his teeth still keeping tight hold of the rabbit. But the blow did not fall. The sapling remained bent above him. When he moved it moved, and he growled at it through his clenched jaws; when he remained still, it remained still, and he concluded it was safer to continue remaining still. Yet the warm blood of the rabbit tasted good in his mouth. It was his mate who relieved him from the quandary in which he found himself. She took the rabbit from him, and while the sapling swayed and teetered threateningly above her she calmly gnawed off the rabbit's head. At once the sapling shot up, and after that gave no more trouble, remaining in the decorous and perpendicular position in which nature had intended it to grow. Then, between them, the she-wolf and One Eye devoured the game which the mysterious sapling had caught for them. There were other run-ways and alleys where rabbits were hanging in the air, and the wolf-pair prospected them all, the she-wolf leading the way, old One Eye following and observant, learning the method of robbing snares--a knowledge destined to stand him in good stead in the days to come. For two days the she-wolf and One Eye hung about the Indian camp. He was worried and apprehensive, yet the camp lured his mate and she was loath to depart. But when, one morning, the air was rent with the report of a rifle close at hand, and a bullet smashed against a tree trunk several inches from One Eye's head, they hesitated no more, but went off on a long, swinging lope that put quick miles between them and the danger. They did not go far--a couple of days' journey. The she-wolf's need to find the thing for which she searched had now become imperative. She was getting very heavy, and could run but slowly. Once, in the pursuit of a rabbit, which she ordinarily would have caught with ease, she gave over and lay down and rested. One Eye came to her; but when he touched her neck gently with his muzzle she snapped at him with such quick fierceness that he tumbled over backward and cut a ridiculous figure in his effort to escape her teeth. Her temper was now shorter than ever; but he had become more patient than ever and more solicitous. And then she found the thing for which she sought. It was a few miles up a small stream that in the summer time flowed into the Mackenzie, but that then was frozen over and frozen down to its rocky bottom--a dead stream of solid white from source to mouth. The she-wolf was trotting wearily along, her mate well in advance, when she came upon the overhanging, high clay-bank. She turned aside and trotted over to it. The wear and tear of spring storms and melting snows had underwashed the bank and in one place had made a small cave out of a narrow fissure. She paused at the mouth of the cave and looked the wall over carefully. Then, on one side and the other, she ran along the base of the wall to where its abrupt bulk merged from the softer-lined landscape. Returning to the cave, she entered its narrow mouth. For a short three feet she was compelled to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in a little round chamber nearly six feet in diameter. The roof barely cleared her head. It was dry and cosey. She inspected it with painstaking care, while One Eye, who had returned, stood in the entrance and patiently watched her. She dropped her head, with her nose to the ground and directed toward a point near to her closely bunched feet, and around this point she circled several times; then, with a tired sigh that was almost a grunt, she curled her body in, relaxed her legs, and dropped down, her head toward the entrance. One Eye, with pointed, interested ears, laughed at her, and beyond, outlined against the white light, she could see the brush of his tail waving good-naturedly. Her own ears, with a snuggling movement, laid their sharp points backward and down against the head for a moment, while her mouth opened and her tongue lolled peaceably out, and in this way she expressed that she was pleased and satisfied. One Eye was hungry. Though he lay down in the entrance and slept, his sleep was fitful. He kept awaking and cocking his ears at the bright world without, where the April sun was blazing across the snow. When he dozed, upon his ears would steal the faint whispers of hidden trickles of running water, and he would rouse and listen intently. The sun had come back, and all the awakening Northland world was calling to him. Life was stirring. The feel of spring was in the air, the feel of growing life under the snow, of sap ascending in the trees, of buds bursting the shackles of the frost. He cast anxious glances at his mate, but she showed no desire to get up. He looked outside, and half a dozen snow-birds fluttered across his field of vision. He started to get up, then looked back to his mate again, and settled down and dozed. A shrill and minute singing stole upon his hearing. Once, and twice, he sleepily brushed his nose with his paw. Then he woke up. There, buzzing in the air at the tip of his nose, was a lone mosquito. It was a full-grown mosquito, one that had lain frozen in a dry log all winter and that had now been thawed out by the sun. He could resist the call of the world no longer. Besides, he was hungry. He crawled over to his mate and tried to persuade her to get up. But she only snarled at him, and he walked out alone into the bright sunshine to find the snow-surface soft under foot and the travelling difficult. He went up the frozen bed of the stream, where the snow, shaded by the trees, was yet hard and crystalline. He was gone eight hours, and he came back through the darkness hungrier than when he had started. He had found game, but he had not caught it. He had broken through the melting snow crust, and wallowed, while the snowshoe rabbits had skimmed along on top lightly as ever. He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudden shock of suspicion. Faint, strange sounds came from within. They were sounds not made by his mate, and yet they were remotely familiar. He bellied cautiously inside and was met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf. This he received without perturbation, though he obeyed it by keeping his distance; but he remained interested in the other sounds--faint, muffled sobbings and slubberings. His mate warned him irritably away, and he curled up and slept in the entrance. When morning came and a dim light pervaded the lair, he again sought after the source of the remotely familiar sounds. There was a new note in his mate's warning snarl. It was a jealous note, and he was very careful in keeping a respectful distance. Nevertheless, he made out, sheltering between her legs against the length of her body, five strange little bundles of life, very feeble, very helpless, making tiny whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the light. He was surprised. It was not the first time in his long and successful life that this thing had happened. It had happened many times, yet each time it was as fresh a surprise as ever to him. His mate looked at him anxiously. Every little while she emitted a low growl, and at times, when it seemed to her he approached too near, the growl shot up in her throat to a sharp snarl. Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny. It manifested itself as a fear strong within her, that made her prevent One Eye from more closely inspecting the cubs he had fathered. But there was no danger. Old One Eye was feeling the urge of an impulse, that was, in turn, an instinct that had come down to him from all the fathers of wolves. He did not question it, nor puzzle over it. It was there, in the fibre of his being; and it was the most natural thing in the world that he should obey it by turning his back on his new-born family and by trotting out and away on the meat-trail whereby he lived. Five or six miles from the lair, the stream divided, its forks going off among the mountains at a right angle. Here, leading up the left fork, he came upon a fresh track. He smelled it and found it so recent that he crouched swiftly, and looked in the direction in which it disappeared. Then he turned deliberately and took the right fork. The footprint was much larger than the one his own feet made, and he knew that in the wake of such a trail there was little meat for him. Half a mile up the right fork, his quick ears caught the sound of gnawing teeth. He stalked the quarry and found it to be a porcupine, standing upright against a tree and trying his teeth on the bark. One Eye approached carefully but hopelessly. He knew the breed, though he had never met it so far north before; and never in his long life had porcupine served him for a meal. But he had long since learned that there was such a thing as Chance, or Opportunity, and he continued to draw near. There was never any telling what might happen, for with live things events were somehow always happening differently. The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radiating long, sharp needles in all directions that defied attack. In his youth One Eye had once sniffed too near a similar, apparently inert ball of quills, and had the tail flick out suddenly in his face. One quill he had carried away in his muzzle, where it had remained for weeks, a rankling flame, until it finally worked out. So he lay down, in a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully a foot away, and out of the line of the tail. Thus he waited, keeping perfectly quiet. There was no telling. Something might happen. The porcupine might unroll. There might be opportunity for a deft and ripping thrust of paw into the tender, unguarded belly. But at the end of half an hour he arose, growled wrathfully at the motionless ball, and trotted on. He had waited too often and futilely in the past for porcupines to unroll, to waste any more time. He continued up the right fork. The day wore along, and nothing rewarded his hunt. The urge of his awakened instinct of fatherhood was strong upon him. He must find meat. In the afternoon he blundered upon a ptarmigan. He came out of a thicket and found himself face to face with the slow-witted bird. It was sitting on a log, not a foot beyond the end of his nose. Each saw the other. The bird made a startled rise, but he struck it with his paw, and smashed it down to earth, then pounced upon it, and caught it in his teeth as it scuttled across the snow trying to rise in the air again. As his teeth crunched through the tender flesh and fragile bones, he began naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and, turning on the back- track, started for home, carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth. A mile above the forks, running velvet-footed as was his custom, a gliding shadow that cautiously prospected each new vista of the trail, he came upon later imprints of the large tracks he had discovered in the early morning. As the track led his way, he followed, prepared to meet the maker of it at every turn of the stream. He slid his head around a corner of rock, where began an unusually large bend in the stream, and his quick eyes made out something that sent him crouching swiftly down. It was the maker of the track, a large female lynx. She was crouching as he had crouched once that day, in front of her the tight-rolled ball of quills. If he had been a gliding shadow before, he now became the ghost of such a shadow, as he crept and circled around, and came up well to leeward of the silent, motionless pair. He lay down in the snow, depositing the ptarmigan beside him, and with eyes peering through the needles of a low-growing spruce he watched the play of life before him--the waiting lynx and the waiting porcupine, each intent on life; and, such was the curiousness of the game, the way of life for one lay in the eating of the other, and the way of life for the other lay in being not eaten. While old One Eye, the wolf crouching in the covert, played his part, too, in the game, waiting for some strange freak of Chance, that might help him on the meat-trail which was his way of life. Half an hour passed, an hour; and nothing happened. The ball of quills might have been a stone for all it moved; the lynx might have been frozen to marble; and old One Eye might have been dead. Yet all three animals were keyed to a tenseness of living that was almost painful, and scarcely ever would it come to them to be more alive than they were then in their seeming petrifaction. One Eye moved slightly and peered forth with increased eagerness. Something was happening. The porcupine had at last decided that its enemy had gone away. Slowly, cautiously, it was unrolling its ball of impregnable armour. It was agitated by no tremor of anticipation. Slowly, slowly, the bristling ball straightened out and lengthened. One Eye watching, felt a sudden moistness in his mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, excited by the living meat that was spreading itself like a repast before him. Not quite entirely had the porcupine unrolled when it discovered its enemy. In that instant the lynx struck. The blow was like a flash of light. The paw, with rigid claws curving like talons, shot under the tender belly and came back with a swift ripping movement. Had the porcupine been entirely unrolled, or had it not discovered its enemy a fraction of a second before the blow was struck, the paw would have escaped unscathed; but a side-flick of the tail sank sharp quills into it as it was withdrawn. Everything had happened at once--the blow, the counter-blow, the squeal of agony from the porcupine, the big cat's squall of sudden hurt and astonishment. One Eye half arose in his excitement, his ears up, his tail straight out and quivering behind him. The lynx's bad temper got the best of her. She sprang savagely at the thing that had hurt her. But the porcupine, squealing and grunting, with disrupted anatomy trying feebly to roll up into its ball-protection, flicked out its tail again, and again the big cat squalled with hurt and astonishment. Then she fell to backing away and sneezing, her nose bristling with quills like a monstrous pin-cushion. She brushed her nose with her paws, trying to dislodge the fiery darts, thrust it into the snow, and rubbed it against twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead, sidewise, up and down, in a frenzy of pain and fright. She sneezed continually, and her stub of a tail was doing its best toward lashing about by giving quick, violent jerks. She quit her antics, and quieted down for a long minute. One Eye watched. And even he could not repress a start and an involuntary bristling of hair along his back when she suddenly leaped, without warning, straight up in the air, at the same time emitting a long and most terrible squall. Then she sprang away, up the trail, squalling with every leap she made. It was not until her racket had faded away in the distance and died out that One Eye ventured forth. He walked as delicately as though all the snow were carpeted with porcupine quills, erect and ready to pierce the soft pads of his feet. The porcupine met his approach with a furious squealing and a clashing of its long teeth. It had managed to roll up in a ball again, but it was not quite the old compact ball; its muscles were too much torn for that. It had been ripped almost in half, and was still bleeding profusely. One Eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soaked snow, and chewed and tasted and swallowed. This served as a relish, and his hunger increased mightily; but he was too old in the world to forget his caution. He waited. He lay down and waited, while the porcupine grated its teeth and uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp little squeals. In a little while, One Eye noticed that the quills were drooping and that a great quivering had set up. The quivering came to an end suddenly. There was a final defiant clash of the long teeth. Then all the quills drooped quite down, and the body relaxed and moved no more. With a nervous, shrinking paw, One Eye stretched out the porcupine to its full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had happened. It was surely dead. He studied it intently for a moment, then took a careful grip with his teeth and started off down the stream, partly carrying, partly dragging the porcupine, with head turned to the side so as to avoid stepping on the prickly mass. He recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted back to where he had left the ptarmigan. He did not hesitate a moment. He knew clearly what was to be done, and this he did by promptly eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his burden. When he dragged the result of his day's hunt into the cave, the she-wolf inspected it, turned her muzzle to him, and lightly licked him on the neck. But the next instant she was warning him away from the cubs with a snarl that was less harsh than usual and that was more apologetic than menacing. Her instinctive fear of the father of her progeny was toning down. He was behaving as a wolf-father should, and manifesting no unholy desire to devour the young lives she had brought into the world. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Wölfin war die Erste, die die anderen Männer kommen hörte und die Erste, die sich zurückzog. Sie rennt über den Schnee und wird auf jeder Seite von zwei Wölfen flankiert. Auf ihrer rechten Seite ist ein magerer, älterer Wolf mit nur einem Auge. Auf der linken Seite ist einer der Anführer des Rudels. Beide bedrängen sie und sie wehrt sie mit scharfen Zähnehieben und Knurren ab. Manchmal stürzt sich auch ein junger dreijähriger Wolf dazwischen und drängelt sich zwischen sie und den Anführer. Wenn es keine Hungersnot gegeben hätte, wäre das Rudel auseinandergebrochen, hätte gekämpft und sich dann der Paarung zugewendet. Aber aufgrund des Nahrungsmangels laufen die Wölfe zusammen und suchen. Sie kommen an einem großen Bullenelch vorbei und erlegen ihn; sie laben sich an den achthundert Pfund Fleisch. Die Hungersnot ist vorbei. Das Wolfsrudel teilt sich und die Wölfin führt die Hälfte des Rudels zum Mackenzie River. Nach und nach spaltet sich das Rudel auf, bis nur noch die drei Wölfe und der dreijährige Wolf übrig sind. Die drei Männchen kämpfen gegeneinander. Die beiden älteren Wölfe töten den jüngeren und dann tötet der ältere Wolf den jüngeren Anführer. Danach rennen die Wölfin und der einäugige Wolf zusammen. Die Wölfin scheint nach etwas zu suchen; sehnsüchtig blickt sie auf die menschliche Siedlung und rennt und rennt, auf der Suche. Nach zwei Tagen des Herumlungerns am Indianerlager und des Ausraubens von Kaninchenfallen schießt jemand auf sie und sie ziehen sich zurück. Die Wölfin findet, wonach sie sucht - eine Höhle im Wald. Sie schleicht hinein und dort bringt sie einen Wurf Welpen zur Welt. One Eye geht auf Nahrungssuche und bringt einen von einem Luchs halb getöteten Stachelschwein mit nach Hause.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Wer kann an dem Folgenden zweifeln? Wenn sich zwei junge Menschen in den Kopf setzen zu heiraten, sind sie ziemlich sicher, durch Hartnäckigkeit ihr Ziel zu erreichen, egal wie arm, unklug oder unwahrscheinlich es ist, dass sie sich gegenseitig letztendlichen Trost bieten werden. Das mag vielleicht keine gute Moral sein, aber ich glaube, es ist die Wahrheit. Und wenn solche Paare Erfolg haben, wie sollten dann ein Captain Wentworth und eine Anne Elliot, mit dem Vorteil eines reifen Verstandes, der Gewissheit des Richtigen und eines unabhängigen Vermögens zwischen ihnen, es nicht schaffen, jeden Widerstand aus dem Weg zu räumen? Tatsächlich konnten sie wahrscheinlich noch viel mehr überwinden als das, was ihnen begegnete, denn außer dem Mangel an Freundlichkeit und Wärme gab es wenig, was sie beunruhigen konnte. Sir Walter erhob keine Einwände und Elizabeth tat nichts Schlimmeres, als kalt und uninteressiert auszusehen. Captain Wentworth mit fünfundzwanzigtausend Pfund und einem hohen Rang in seiner Profession, den sein Verdienst und seine Aktivität ihm eingebracht hatten, war kein Niemand mehr. Er galt nun als durchaus würdig, die Tochter eines törichten, verschwenderischen Baronetts anzusprechen, der weder den Grundsatz noch den Verstand hatte, sich in der von der Vorsehung vorgesehenen Position zu halten, und der seiner Tochter gegenwärtig nur einen kleinen Teil des Anteils von zehntausend Pfund geben konnte, der ihr später gehören würde. Sir Walter hatte zwar nichts als Verachtung für Anne Elliott und keine Eitelkeit, die ihm wirklich Freude machen könnte, aber er dachte keineswegs, dass dies eine schlechte Partie für sie sei. Im Gegenteil, als er Captain Wentworth besser kennenlernte, ihn wiederholt im Tageslicht sah und ihn genauer betrachtete, war er sehr von seinen äußeren Vorzügen beeindruckt und empfand, dass seine überlegene Erscheinung durchaus gegen ihre höhere soziale Stellung aufgewogen werden könnte. Und all dies, unterstützt durch seinen wohlklingenden Namen, ermöglichte es Sir Walter schließlich, seinen Stift mit sehr guter Haltung für die Eintragung der Heirat in das Buch der Ehre vorzubereiten. Die einzige Person unter ihnen, deren Opposition ernsthafte Besorgnis hervorrufen könnte, war Lady Russell. Anne wusste, dass Lady Russell durchaus Schmerzen empfinden musste, wenn sie Herrn Elliot verstand und aufgab, und dass sie Anstrengungen unternommen haben musste, um Captain Wentworth wirklich kennenzulernen und ihm gerecht zu werden. Dies aber war es, was Lady Russell nun tun musste. Sie musste lernen zu erkennen, dass sie sich in beiden Fällen geirrt hatte, dass sie sich zu sehr von äußeren Erscheinungen beeinflussen hatte lassen; dass sie zu schnell vermutet hatte, Captain Wentworths Manieren wiesen auf eine gefährliche Impulsivität hin, und dass sie zu schnell angenommen hatte, dass Herr Elliots Manieren aufgrund ihrer Anpassungsfähigkeit und Höflichkeit das sichere Ergebnis richtiger Ansichten und eines gut strukturierten Geistes seien. Es blieb Lady Russell nichts anderes übrig, als zuzugeben, dass sie ziemlich komplett falsch gelegen hatte und neue Ansichten und Hoffnungen anzunehmen. Einige Menschen haben eine schnelle Wahrnehmungsgabe, eine Feinheit im Erkennen von Charakteren, eine natürliche Durchdringungsgabe, die keiner Erfahrung gleichkommt, während andere weniger begabt sind als ihre jungen Freunde. Aber sie war eine sehr gute Frau und wenn ihr Ziel zweitweise vernünftig und gutachtend zu sein war, so war ihr erster Wunsch doch, Anne glücklich zu sehen. Sie liebte Anne mehr als ihre eigenen Fähigkeiten und nachdem die Anfangsschwierigkeiten überstanden waren, fand sie wenig Schwierigkeiten darin, sich als Mutter dem Mann anzuschließen, der das Glück ihres anderen Kindes sicherte. Von der gesamten Familie war Mary wahrscheinlich diejenige, die am meisten zufrieden mit den Umständen war. Es war eine Ehre, eine Schwester verheiratet zu haben, und sie konnte sich einbilden, einen großen Anteil an der Verbindung gehabt zu haben, indem sie Anne im Herbst bei sich behielt. Und da ihre eigene Schwester besser sein musste als die Schwestern ihres Mannes, war es sehr angenehm, dass Captain Wentworth ein reicherer Mann war als entweder Captain Benwick oder Charles Hayter. Vielleicht musste sie etwas leiden, wenn sie wieder auf Anne traf und sah, dass diese wieder den Vorrang hatte und Herrin über eine sehr hübsche Landaulette war, aber sie hatte eine vielversprechende Zukunft vor sich, die ihr großen Trost bot. Anne hatte kein Uppercross Hall vor sich, keinen Landbesitz, keine Führung einer Familie. Und wenn sie nur Captain Wentworth davon abhalten könnten, zum Baronet gemacht zu werden, würde sie ihre Situation nicht mit Annes tauschen wollen. Es wäre gut für die älteste Schwester, wenn sie mit ihrer Situation genauso zufrieden wäre, denn eine Veränderung ist dort sehr unwahrscheinlich. Sie hatte bald die Erniedrigung zu ertragen, dass Herr Elliot sich zurückzog und seitdem hat sich niemand von angemessener Stellung vorgestellt, der selbst die unbegründeten Hoffnungen, die mit ihm zusammenbrachen, wieder aufleben lassen könnte. Die Nachricht von der Verlobung ihrer Cousine Anne traf Herrn Elliot völlig unerwartet. Es durchkreuzte seinen besten Plan des familiären Glücks und seine beste Hoffnung, Sir Walter davon abzuhalten, indem er wachsam blieb, was ihm das Recht eines Schwiegersohns gegeben hätte. Aber obwohl er enttäuscht und niedergeschlagen war, konnte er dennoch etwas für sein eigenes Interesse und seine eigene Freude tun. Er verließ Bath bald darauf und als kurz darauf auch Mrs. Clay Bath verließ und man alsbald hörte, dass sie sich unter seinem Schutz in London niedergelassen hatte, war offensichtlich, dass er ein doppeltes Spiel gespielt hatte und entschlossen war, sich zumindest vor einer geschickten Frau zu retten, die ihm den Rang ablaufen konnte. Die Zuneigung von Mrs. Clay hatte ihre Interessen überwunden und sie hatte sich, um des jungen Mannes Willen, für die Möglichkeit geopfert, weiterhin für Sir Walter Pläne zu schmieden. Doch sie besaß selbst Fähigkeiten und jetzt war es fraglich, ob seine List oder ihre endlich den Tag gewinnen würde; ob, nachdem sie verhindert hatte, die Frau von Sir Walter zu werden, sie es nicht letztendlich schaffen würde, dass er sie zur Frau von Sir William machen würde. Es kann nicht bezweifelt werden, dass Sir Walter und Elizabeth schockiert und gedemütigt waren durch den Verlust ihrer Begleiterin und die Enthüllung ihrer Täuschung. Natürlich hatten sie ihre großen Cousins, von denen sie Trost erwarten konnten, aber sie würden sich lange Zeit bewusst sein, dass es nur eine halbe Freude ist, andere zu schmeicheln und ihnen zu folgen, ohne selbst geschmeichelt und gefolgt zu werden. Anne, die sehr früh erkannte, dass Lady Russell Captain Wentworth so lieben würde, wie sie sollte, hatte keine andere Sorge in Bezug auf ihre Zukunft als das Bewusstsein, dass sie ihm keine Verwandten geben konnte, die ein vernünftiger Mann schätzen würde. Hier fühlte sie ihre eigene Unterlegenheit sehr stark. Der Unterschied in ihrem Vermögen war nichts, es bereitete ihr keinen Moment des Bedauerns, aber keine Familie zu haben, die ihn angemessen empfangen und schätzen konnte, keine Respektabilität, Harmonie oder Wohlwollen, das sie ihm als Gegenleistung für all den Wert und all die herzliche Begrüßung anbieten konnte, die sie bei seinen Geschwistern fand, war eine Quelle aufrichtigen Schmerzes inmitten einer ansonsten starken Glückseligkeit. Sie hatte nur zwei Freunde auf der Welt, die sie zu seiner Liste hinzufügen konnte, Lady Russell und Mrs. Smith. Aber diesen beiden war er sehr zugeneigt. Lady Russell konnte er jetzt, trotz all ihren vorherigen Fehler, von ganzem Herzen wertschätzen. Obwohl er nicht sagen musste, dass er glaubte, dass sie damit richtig lag, sie anfangs getrennt zu haben, war er bereit, fast alles andere zu ihren Gunsten zu sagen. Und was Mrs. Smith betrifft, hatte sie verschiedene Ansprüche, die sie schnell und dauerhaft empfehlen konnten. Ihre jüngsten Dienste für Anne waren allein schon gen Die Freuden von Frau Smith wurden durch diese Verbesserung des Einkommens nicht beeinträchtigt, zusammen mit einer Verbesserung der Gesundheit und dem Erwerb solcher Freunde, mit denen sie oft zusammen sein konnte. Ihre Fröhlichkeit und geistige Wachheit ließen sie nicht im Stich. Solange diese grundlegenden Wohltaten erhalten blieben, konnte sie sogar noch größeren Zuwachs des weltlichen Wohlstands trotzen. Sie hätte absolut reich und vollkommen gesund sein können und dennoch glücklich sein. Ihre Quelle des Glücks lag in der Begeisterung ihres Geistes, während die ihrer Freundin Anne in der Wärme ihres Herzens lag. Anne war selbst Zärtlichkeit, und sie hatte ihren vollen Wert in der Zuneigung von Captain Wentworth. Sein Beruf war alles, was ihre Freunde je wünschen könnten, um diese Zärtlichkeit zu verringern, die Angst vor einem zukünftigen Krieg war alles, was ihren Sonnenschein trüben könnte. Sie rühmte sich, die Frau eines Seemannes zu sein, aber sie musste den Preis einer schnellen Alarmbereitschaft zahlen, weil sie zu jenem Beruf gehörte, der, wenn möglich, in seinen häuslichen Tugenden noch mehr hervorsticht als in seiner nationalen Bedeutung. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Anne und Captain Wentworth geben ihre Verlobung bekannt. Weder Elizabeth noch Sir Walter erheben offen Einspruch. Mit einem sehr großen Vermögen ist Captain Wentworth nun würdig, um die Hand der Tochter eines verschuldeten Baronets anzuhalten. Lady Russell ist anfangs verärgert, aber ihr größter Wunsch ist das Glück von Anne, daher überwindet sie letztendlich ihre verletzten Gefühle. Sie und Captain Wentworth wachsen einander ans Herz. Mr. Elliot ist schockiert und zieht sich aus Bath zurück. Es scheint keinen Mann von Bedeutung zu geben, der als zukünftiger Ehemann für Elizabeth in Frage kommt. Mrs. Clay verlässt Bath und es wird gemunkelt, dass sie unter dem Schutz von Mr. Elliot steht. Er hatte ihr die ganze Zeit Avancen gemacht, damit sie Sir Walter nicht heiratet. Sie gibt alle Hoffnungen auf, Sir Walter zu heiraten, aber der Erzähler deutet an, dass sie möglicherweise irgendwann die Frau von Sir William Elliot werden könnte. Captain Wentworth hilft Mrs. Smith dabei, etwas von dem Geld ihres verstorbenen Mannes zurückzubekommen, und sie bleibt eine enge Freundin von Anne. Anne und Captain Wentworth sind absolut glücklich. Der Erzähler endet mit einigen Sätzen über die Marine, einen Beruf, der "wenn möglich, in seinen familiären Tugenden genauso herausragend ist wie in seiner nationalen Bedeutung".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: VOLUME 2 CHAPTER I Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee. GOLDSMITH The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke little, and seemed impatient to be gone. The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned hastily away from the object that had awakened it. The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's residence. From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-seen plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may it be ere I see ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval! Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!' The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared beyond the dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at length the closing branches shut them from her sight. Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself, who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze till distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the road entirely separated him from her sight. Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road, the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish to read this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every moment on the point of breaking the seal. At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much less anguish than she had done since they parted. Among some other requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain of absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. 'You will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I shall constantly watch the sun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You know not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will experience it.' It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening, watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which Valancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquil and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and her aunt. During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriages and began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily's mind was even so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revived it. These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excel in grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotions which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake of them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below; those only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and elevated the affections of her heart. With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, wandering among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits, his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity steal over the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turned her eyes from the west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness confines attention, which make the general stillness more impressive--leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams. During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of cultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, and within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they terminated in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered along the valley. The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape. As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or just tinted with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over crags where, but for this vestige of man, it would have been believed only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she afterwards combined in the following STORIED SONNET The weary traveller, who, all night long, Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps, Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees The mountain-shepherd's solitary home, Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees, What sudden transports to his bosom come! But, if between some hideous chasm yawn, Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays, In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn He stands, and views in the faint rays Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge, And listens to the wild impetuous roar; Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge, Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er. Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries, His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies! Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape--the torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe her rapture, when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked down through the lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at which appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin? The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features which received a higher character of sublimity from the reposing beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky. Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment, and awe, as she had never experienced before. Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest, and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps, Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold and perilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight; while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She looked with horror upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops below with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the descent of others. Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had mentioned with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neither ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which sometimes results from such parties, had always shewn a contempt of the frivolous parade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his pride might be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native city, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the splendid illusions that had charmed her before. The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy; patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash were expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling with the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring. The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which the travellers descended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--Emily almost wished to become a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages which she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow. In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt, whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the vale below, frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to some overhanging heights. When she again considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that every step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed her no more. The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed, the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the invention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these romantic heights, seen by moon-light, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first caught a strain of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat after supper at a little window, that opened upon the country, observing an effect of the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender emotions she was indulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothing extraordinary,' said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It is one of our landlord's family who plays, I doubt not,' Emily, as she listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music whom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant to dine at Turin. Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground; and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the companions of her dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,' said she, 'should not tempt me to cross again.' Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood from Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician, who had awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnival at Venice,' added Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand at playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just going to begin: but for my part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and hills, better than in a town; and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle of the sea.' Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the corrupt ones of that voluptuous city. When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home, with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel to for ever; and then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile from the pressure of nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composing the following lines. THE PIEDMONTESE Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales, And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring, Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales, And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring? He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string, Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails! Yet oft of home his simple carols sing, And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales. Once more he turns to view his native scene-- Far, far below, as roll the clouds away, He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green, The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay; And thinks of friends and parents left behind, Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song; And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind; And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong! Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell, And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight; And must he leave the vales he loves so well! Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight? No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze; Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear, And watch at eve beneath the western trees. Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er! And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs, Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours. Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales, And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring, Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales-- And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring! Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Emily ist vielleicht die einzige Person überhaupt, die nach Venedig gezogen werden muss. Als sich die Kutsche entfernt, drückt ein verkleideter Valancourt ihr einen Brief in die Hand. Das Spiel beginnt. Hier sind die saftigen Details von Valancourts Brief: jedes Mal, wenn die Sonne untergeht, wird er sie anschauen und an sie denken. Oh, es wartet nur darauf, in einen Disney-Film umgewandelt zu werden. Noch mehr Gedanken über Land und Reisen kommen auf uns zu. Em schreibt ein ziemlich tiefgründiges Sonett über einen müden Reisenden, der die Alpen erklimmt. Sie schreibt auch ein kleines Gedicht über einen örtlichen Musiker, der nach Venedig geht. Sie ist eine echte Shakespeare, diese Emily.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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. _Felder außerhalb der Stadt._ _Im eigenen Gewand tritt DER HERZOG, begleitet von FRIAR PETER, auf._ _Herzog._ Übergebt mir diese Briefe zur passenden Zeit: [Gibt Briefe. Der Provost kennt unser Vorhaben und unseren Plan. Da die Angelegenheit in Bewegung ist, lasst euch belehren Und bleibt immer unserem besonderen Ziel treu; Auch wenn ihr manchmal von hierhin und dorthin abweicht, Wie es der Grund erfordert. Geht zu Flavius' Haus Und sagt ihm, wo ich bleibe. Gebt auch die gleiche Nachricht An Valentius, Rowland und Crassus weiter Und bittet sie, die Trompeten zum Tor zu bringen; Aber schickt mir zuerst Flavius. _Fri. P._ Es wird gut erledigt. [_Abgang._ 10 _VARRIUS tritt auf._ _Herzog._ Ich danke dir, Varrius; du hast dich beeilt: Komm, wir werden spazieren gehen. Unsere anderen Freunde Werden uns hier gleich begrüßen, mein lieber Varrius. [_Abgang._ Kannst du eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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

Der Herzog trifft sich mit Bruder Peter kurz außerhalb der Stadt und übergibt ihm....einen Stapel Briefe. Herzog Vincentio instruiert Bruder Peter, ihm die Briefe zur richtigen Zeit zu übergeben. Wir erfahren, dass der Aufseher von dem aufwendigen Plan des Herzogs weiß, "nach" Wien zurückzukehren und das große Durcheinander zu bereinigen, das Angelo angerichtet hat. Ein Mann namens Varrius taucht auf und spaziert mit dem Herzog.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 first cold days set in Emma left her bedroom for the sitting-room, a long apartment with a low ceiling, in which there was on the mantelpiece a large bunch of coral spread out against the looking-glass. Seated in her arm chair near the window, she could see the villagers pass along the pavement. Twice a day Leon went from his office to the Lion d'Or. Emma could hear him coming from afar; she leant forward listening, and the young man glided past the curtain, always dressed in the same way, and without turning his head. But in the twilight, when, her chin resting on her left hand, she let the embroidery she had begun fall on her knees, she often shuddered at the apparition of this shadow suddenly gliding past. She would get up and order the table to be laid. Monsieur Homais called at dinner-time. Skull-cap in hand, he came in on tiptoe, in order to disturb no one, always repeating the same phrase, "Good evening, everybody." Then, when he had taken his seat at the table between the pair, he asked the doctor about his patients, and the latter consulted his as to the probability of their payment. Next they talked of "what was in the paper." Homais by this hour knew it almost by heart, and he repeated it from end to end, with the reflections of the penny-a-liners, and all the stories of individual catastrophes that had occurred in France or abroad. But the subject becoming exhausted, he was not slow in throwing out some remarks on the dishes before him. Sometimes even, half-rising, he delicately pointed out to madame the tenderest morsel, or turning to the servant, gave her some advice on the manipulation of stews and the hygiene of seasoning. He talked aroma, osmazome, juices, and gelatine in a bewildering manner. Moreover, Homais, with his head fuller of recipes than his shop of jars, excelled in making all kinds of preserves, vinegars, and sweet liqueurs; he knew also all the latest inventions in economic stoves, together with the art of preserving cheese and of curing sick wines. At eight o'clock Justin came to fetch him to shut up the shop. Then Monsieur Homais gave him a sly look, especially if Felicite was there, for he half noticed that his apprentice was fond of the doctor's house. "The young dog," he said, "is beginning to have ideas, and the devil take me if I don't believe he's in love with your servant!" But a more serious fault with which he reproached Justin was his constantly listening to conversation. On Sunday, for example, one could not get him out of the drawing-room, whither Madame Homais had called him to fetch the children, who were falling asleep in the arm-chairs, and dragging down with their backs calico chair-covers that were too large. Not many people came to these soirees at the chemist's, his scandal-mongering and political opinions having successfully alienated various respectable persons from him. The clerk never failed to be there. As soon as he heard the bell he ran to meet Madame Bovary, took her shawl, and put away under the shop-counter the thick list shoes that she wore over her boots when there was snow. First they played some hands at trente-et-un; next Monsieur Homais played ecarte with Emma; Leon behind her gave her advice. Standing up with his hands on the back of her chair he saw the teeth of her comb that bit into her chignon. With every movement that she made to throw her cards the right side of her dress was drawn up. From her turned-up hair a dark colour fell over her back, and growing gradually paler, lost itself little by little in the shade. Then her dress fell on both sides of her chair, puffing out full of folds, and reached the ground. When Leon occasionally felt the sole of his boot resting on it, he drew back as if he had trodden upon some one. When the game of cards was over, the druggist and the Doctor played dominoes, and Emma, changing her place, leant her elbow on the table, turning over the leaves of "L'Illustration". She had brought her ladies' journal with her. Leon sat down near her; they looked at the engravings together, and waited for one another at the bottom of the pages. She often begged him to read her the verses; Leon declaimed them in a languid voice, to which he carefully gave a dying fall in the love passages. But the noise of the dominoes annoyed him. Monsieur Homais was strong at the game; he could beat Charles and give him a double-six. Then the three hundred finished, they both stretched themselves out in front of the fire, and were soon asleep. The fire was dying out in the cinders; the teapot was empty, Leon was still reading. Emma listened to him, mechanically turning around the lampshade, on the gauze of which were painted clowns in carriages, and tight-rope dances with their balancing-poles. Leon stopped, pointing with a gesture to his sleeping audience; then they talked in low tones, and their conversation seemed the more sweet to them because it was unheard. Thus a kind of bond was established between them, a constant commerce of books and of romances. Monsieur Bovary, little given to jealousy, did not trouble himself about it. On his birthday he received a beautiful phrenological head, all marked with figures to the thorax and painted blue. This was an attention of the clerk's. He showed him many others, even to doing errands for him at Rouen; and the book of a novelist having made the mania for cactuses fashionable, Leon bought some for Madame Bovary, bringing them back on his knees in the "Hirondelle," pricking his fingers on their hard hairs. She had a board with a balustrade fixed against her window to hold the pots. The clerk, too, had his small hanging garden; they saw each other tending their flowers at their windows. Of the windows of the village there was one yet more often occupied; for on Sundays from morning to night, and every morning when the weather was bright, one could see at the dormer-window of the garret the profile of Monsieur Binet bending over his lathe, whose monotonous humming could be heard at the Lion d'Or. One evening on coming home Leon found in his room a rug in velvet and wool with leaves on a pale ground. He called Madame Homais, Monsieur Homais, Justin, the children, the cook; he spoke of it to his chief; every one wanted to see this rug. Why did the doctor's wife give the clerk presents? It looked queer. They decided that she must be his lover. He made this seem likely, so ceaselessly did he talk of her charms and of her wit; so much so, that Binet once roughly answered him-- "What does it matter to me since I'm not in her set?" He tortured himself to find out how he could make his declaration to her, and always halting between the fear of displeasing her and the shame of being such a coward, he wept with discouragement and desire. Then he took energetic resolutions, wrote letters that he tore up, put it off to times that he again deferred. Often he set out with the determination to dare all; but this resolution soon deserted him in Emma's presence, and when Charles, dropping in, invited him to jump into his chaise to go with him to see some patient in the neighbourhood, he at once accepted, bowed to madame, and went out. Her husband, was he not something belonging to her? As to Emma, she did not ask herself whether she loved. Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings--a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss. She did not know that on the terrace of houses it makes lakes when the pipes are choked, and she would thus have remained in her security when she suddenly discovered a rent in the wall of it. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Mit dem Einsetzen des Winters entwickelt Emma die Gewohnheit, im Wohnzimmer am Fenster zu sitzen und die Vorbeigehenden zu beobachten. Auf diese Weise sieht sie Leon ziemlich oft. Sie sieht auch Homais, der häufig das Haus der Bovarys besucht. Er führt Charles in politische und journalistische Diskussionen ein und spricht mit Emma über Rezepte. Während des Abendessens spricht meistens Homais am meisten. Die Bovarys besuchen auch Homais' sonntägliche Abendveranstaltungen. Emma spielt Karten mit Homais, während Leon ihr Ratschläge gibt. Wenn Homais damit beschäftigt ist, den Arzt zu unterhalten, diskutieren Leon und Emma über Mode und Poesie. Ihr gegenseitiges Interesse an "Büchern und Balladen" schafft eine Bindung zwischen ihnen. Charles, der nicht eifersüchtig ist, sieht nichts Merkwürdiges an ihrer Beziehung. Emma schenkt Leon einen Teppich, eine Geste, die in der Stadt für Klatsch sorgt. Leon weiß nicht, wie er mit seinen Gefühlen für Emma umgehen soll. Ihre bloße Anwesenheit macht ihn unentschlossen. Er kann nicht erraten, ob es ihm helfen oder seiner Sache schaden würde, sich auszudrücken. Emma hingegen ist sich glücklicherweise ihrer eigenen Gefühle für Leon nicht bewusst.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection; Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be As _a propos_ of hope or retrospection, As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. All present life is but an interjection, An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery, Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'--a yawn, or 'Pooh!' Of which perhaps the latter is most true. But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope Or a singultus--emblems of emotion, The grand antithesis to great ennui, Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,-- That watery outline of eternity, Or miniature at least, as is my notion, Which ministers unto the soul's delight, In seeing matters which are out of sight. But all are better than the sigh supprest, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest, And turning human nature to an art. Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; Dissimulation always sets apart A corner for herself; and therefore fiction Is that which passes with least contradiction. Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not Remember, without telling, passion's errors? The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors: What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; The ruby glass that shakes within his hand Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. And as for love--O love!--We will proceed. The Lady Adeline Amundeville, A pretty name as one would wish to read, Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. There 's music in the sighing of a reed; There 's music in the gushing of a rill; There 's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. The Lady Adeline, right honourable; And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so; For few of the soft sex are very stable In their resolves--alas! that I should say so! They differ as wine differs from its label, When once decanted;--I presume to guess so, But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, Till old, may undergo adulteration. But Adeline was of the purest vintage, The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, Or glorious as a diamond richly set; A page where Time should hesitate to print age, And for which Nature might forego her debt-- Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't The luck of finding every body solvent. O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely, Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he Advances with exasperated rap, And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, On ready money, or 'a draft on Ransom.' Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty! She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. What though she now and then may slip from duty, The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty, You should be civil in a modest way: Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous Where she was interested (as was said), Because she was not apt, like some of us, To like too readily, or too high bred To show it (points we need not now discuss)-- Would give up artlessly both heart and head Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment. Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour, That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, She had heard; but women hear with more good humour Such aberrations than we men of rigour: Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; Because he had, like Alcibiades, The art of living in all climes with ease. His manner was perhaps the more seductive, Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce; Nothing affected, studied, or constructive Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'- Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. They are wrong--that 's not the way to set about it; As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; In fact, his manner was his own alone; Sincere he was--at least you could not doubt it, In listening merely to his voice's tone. The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. By nature soft, his whole address held off Suspicion: though not timid, his regard Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, To shield himself than put you on your guard: Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, But modesty 's at times its own reward, Like virtue; and the absence of pretension Will go much farther than there 's need to mention. Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud; Insinuating without insinuation; Observant of the foibles of the crowd, Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation; Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, So as to make them feel he knew his station And theirs:--without a struggle for priority, He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. That is, with men: with women he was what They pleased to make or take him for; and their Imagination 's quite enough for that: So that the outline 's tolerably fair, They fill the canvas up--and 'verbum sat.' If once their phantasies be brought to bear Upon an object, whether sad or playful, They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. Adeline, no deep judge of character, Was apt to add a colouring from her own: 'T is thus the good will amiably err, And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools. Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still, Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations. I perch upon an humbler promontory, Amidst life's infinite variety: With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, But speculating as I cast mine eye On what may suit or may not suit my story, And never straining hard to versify, I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk With any body in a ride or walk. I don't know that there may be much ability Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; But there 's a conversational facility, Which may round off an hour upon a time. Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility In mine irregularity of chime, Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, Just as I feel the 'Improvvisatore.' 'Omnia vult belle Matho dicere--dic aliquando Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.' The first is rather more than mortal can do; The second may be sadly done or gaily; The third is still more difficult to stand to; The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily. The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish. A modest hope--but modesty 's my forte, And pride my feeble:--let us ramble on. I meant to make this poem very short, But now I can't tell where it may not run. No doubt, if I had wish' to pay my court To critics, or to hail the setting sun Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision Were more;--but I was born for opposition. But then 't is mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,' Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty. I think I should have made a decent spouse, If I had never proved the soft condition; I think I should have made monastic vows, But for my own peculiar superstition: 'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows, Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, If some one had not told me to forego it. But 'laissez aller'--knights and dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficultly lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With nature manners which are artificial, And rend'ring general that which is especial. The difference is, that in the days of old Men made the manners; manners now make men-- Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. Now this at all events must render cold Your writers, who must either draw again Days better drawn before, or else assume The present, with their common-place costume. We 'll do our best to make the best on 't:--March! March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; And when you may not be sublime, be arch, Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely may find something worth research: Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, While yet America was in her non-age. When Adeline, in all her growing sense Of Juan's merits and his situation, Felt on the whole an interest intense,-- Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, Or that he had an air of innocence, Which is for innocence a sad temptation,-- As women hate half measures, on the whole, She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even where the article at highest rate is: She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, And morally decided, the best state is For morals, marriage; and this question carried, She seriously advised him to get married. Juan replied, with all becoming deference, He had a predilection for that tie; But that, at present, with immediate reference To his own circumstances, there might lie Some difficulties, as in his own preference, Or that of her to whom he might apply: That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, If that they were not married all already. Next to the making matches for herself, And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf, There 's nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) Than match-making in general: 't is no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. But never yet (except of course a miss Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, Or wed already, who object to this) Was there chaste dame who had not in her head Some drama of the marriage unities, Observed as strictly both at board and bed As those of Aristotle, though sometimes They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. They generally have some only son, Some heir to a large property, some friend Of an old family, some gay Sir john, Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end A line, and leave posterity undone, Unless a marriage was applied to mend The prospect and their morals: and besides, They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. From these they will be careful to select, For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; For one a songstress who hath no defect, For t' other one who promises much duty; For this a lady no one can reject, Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; A second for her excellent connections; A third, because there can be no objections. When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage What Nature naturally most encourages)-- Why call'd he 'Harmony' a state sans wedlock? Now here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock. Because he either meant to sneer at harmony Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, Although I wonder how it grew habitual. But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation-- Professors of that genial art, and patrons Of all the modest part of propagation; Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes-- Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell; I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment, Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well: This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant; But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning marriage into arithmetic. But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd-- As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame, Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'--but 't is the same);-- But Adeline determined Juan's wedding In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman: But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman. And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. She deem'd his merits something more than common: All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, That usual paragon, an only daughter, Who seem'd the cream of equanimity Till skimm'd--and then there was some milk and water, With a slight shade of blue too, it might be, Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, A dashing demoiselle of good estate, Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string; But whether English dukes grew rare of late, Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, By which such sirens can attract our great, She took up with some foreign younger brother, A Russ or Turk--the one 's as good as t' other. And then there was--but why should I go on, Unless the ladies should go off?--there was Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, Of the best class, and better than her class,-- Aurora Raby, a young star who shone O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded; Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only Child to the care of guardians good and kind; But still her aspect had an air so lonely! Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie By death, when we are left, alas! behind, To feel, in friendless palaces, a home Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? Early in years, and yet more infantine In figure, she had something of sublime In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. All youth--but with an aspect beyond time; Radiant and grave--as pitying man's decline; Mournful--but mournful of another's crime, She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. And grieved for those who could return no more. She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew; Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong In its own strength--most strange in one so young! Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue Beyond the charmers we have already cited; Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog Against her being mention'd as well fitted, By many virtues, to be worth the trouble Of single gentlemen who would be double. And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he express'd half smiling and half serious; When Adeline replied with some disgust, And with an air, to say the least, imperious, She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?' Juan rejoin'd--'She was a Catholic, And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, And the Pope thunder excommunication, If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique Herself extremely on the inoculation Of others with her own opinions, stated-- As usual--the same reason which she late did. And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, If good, is none the worse for repetition; If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, And amplify: you lose much by concision, Whereas insisting in or out of season Convinces all men, even a politician; Or--what is just the same--it wearies out. So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route? Why Adeline had this slight prejudice-- For prejudice it was--against a creature As pure as sanctity itself from vice, With all the added charm of form and feature, For me appears a question far too nice, Since Adeline was liberal by nature; But nature 's nature, and has more caprices Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do. It was not envy--Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. It was not scorn--which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. It was not jealousy, I think: but shun Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind. It was not--but 't is easier far, alas! To say what it was not than what it was. Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-- She had so much, or little, of the child. The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature. His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame; Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:-- These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession. Juan knew nought of such a character-- High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:--the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem. Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;' Scott, the superlative of my comparative-- Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so--now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready, But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,' Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;' How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?- 'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon, With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon-- A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,' 'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'- With things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole; And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles (There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles. What are the fillets on the victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march? Gone to where victories must like dinners go. Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges? Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'--a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is, There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.' The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses; And indigestion's grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature? The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too: for a springald Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, The salmi, the consomme, the puree, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay: But I have dined, and must forego, Alas! The chaste description even of a 'becasse;' And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout-- Taste or the gout,--pronounce it as inclines Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-- But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pass over in my bill of fare? I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, The grass my table-cloth, in open-air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats display'd: Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'- No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; But so far like a lady, that 't was drest Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. By some odd chance too, he was placed between Aurora and the Lady Adeline-- A situation difficult, I ween, For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen Was not such as to encourage him to shine; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs. Like that same mystic music of the spheres, Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings, 'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues--which pass'd without a word! Aurora sat with that indifference Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought: Of all offences that 's the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good ship entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice. To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies, And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;' A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophesy what is or was, And hate those who won't let them come to pass. Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions, Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. From answering she began to question; this With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-- So very difficult, they say, it is To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined-- Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. But Juan had a sort of winning way, A proud humility, if such there be, Which show'd such deference to what females say, As if each charming word were a decree. His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out, Without their seeing what he was about. Aurora, who in her indifference Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-- Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment, And wins even by a delicate dissent. And then he had good looks;--that point was carried Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married-- A case which to the juries we may leave, Since with digressions we too long have tarried. Now though we know of old that looks deceive, And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books. Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, Especially upon a printed page. But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, Has not the natural stays of strict old age; And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, But innocently so, as Socrates; And really, if the sage sublime and Attic At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins--always in a modest way, Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.' Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd Opinions two, which at first sight may look Twin opposites, the second is the best. Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest: But if a writer should be quite consistent, How could he possibly show things existent? If people contradict themselves, can Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie: I never did so, never will--how should I? He who doubts all things nothing can deny: Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o'er fiction. Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, Are false, but may he render'd also true, By those who sow them in a land that 's arable. 'T is wonderful what fable will not do! 'T is said it makes reality more bearable: But what 's reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear; Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. God help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, 'T is time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight. Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres. But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle; And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state. Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission-- In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world's condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use; Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. And now I will give up all argument; And positively henceforth no temptation Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'- Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less. Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb! And don't regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:-- For certain reasons my belief is serious. Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all. I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists--and where? That shall I not recall, Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal. In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. The night (I sing by night--sometimes an owl, And now and then a nightingale) is dim, And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl Rattles around me her discordant hymn: Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-- I wish to heaven they would not look so grim; The dying embers dwindle in the grate-- I think too that I have sate up too late: And therefore, though 't is by no means my way To rhyme at noon--when I have other things To think of, if I ever think--I say I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone, until mid-day, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;--but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Nach fünf Strophen über den schlechten Ruf des Lebens gibt Byron einige weitere Charakterisierungen von Don Juan, oder besser gesagt, er verstärkt das, was er bereits mitgeteilt hat. Juans Art ist natürlich; er hat keine Absicht, Eindruck zu machen. Es gibt nichts Angelerntes oder Künstliches in seinem Verhalten. Er ist ohne Selbstbesessenheit und sein Auftreten zeugt von Aufrichtigkeit. Es liegt eine Sanftheit in ihm, die anzieht und Verdacht abwehrt. Es ist sogar eine gewisse Distanziertheit in ihm. Er ist gelassen, talentiert, fröhlich, ruhig, aufmerksam und selbstbewusst. So sind die Persönlichkeit und der Charakter von Don Juan im Alter von einundzwanzig Jahren. Er ist offensichtlich eine Gefahr für die besonnene Lady Adeline, die einem schielenden, gutaussehenden Dandy oder einem raffinierten Verführer keinen Blick schenken würde. Das Erscheinen von Tugend in einem Don Juan ist ihr größter Feind; sie ist "keine tiefe Richterin des Charakters" und neigt dazu, das Gute in ihrem eigenen Charakter auf einen Mann zu übertragen, zu dem sie sich hingezogen fühlt. So irrt Am Pinzip das Kluge in mir fort, Und so hat manchen unbescholnen MannDie Gunst der Schönen auf der Bühne gestöret. Nach seiner Charakterisierung von Don Juan unterbricht Byron, um sich zu entschuldigen, was er tut. Er gesteht, dass er keine hohen Ziele oder Fähigkeiten hat: Und dass ich nicht mich selbst durch Reim'ereiZu sehr bemühe, sprech' ich völlig freiUnd in den Takt, als gäb's bei meim' UmtriebEinen, mit dem ich offen sprechen lieb'." Zumindest beansprucht er . . . eine Redefertigkeit,Die eine Stunde akzeptabel abrundet. Aber er hat seinen Stolz und seine Unabhängigkeit; er wird nicht die Kritiker umwerben und schreibt so, wie er es tut. Wenn er sie zufriedenstellen wollte, würde er komischer sein. Aber er wurde für die Opposition geboren, er kann nicht anders, als auf der Seite der Unterdrückten zu sein, und er hätte überhaupt keine Poesie geschrieben, wenn ihm nicht jemand gesagt hätte, er solle keine Gedichte schreiben. Er hat auch eine schwierige Aufgabe, nämlich ein naturgetreues Bild von Sitten zu geben, die künstlich sind. Nachdem er seine poetische Art und Aufgabe erklärt hat, kehrt Byron zu Adeline zurück, jedoch spürt er bald, dass er verallgemeinern muss. Adeline entscheidet, dass Juan, um seine Seele zu retten, heiraten muss. Das wird begleitet von mehreren ironischen Kommentaren zur Partnerfindung und den Ironien des Ehelebens. Adeline schlägt mehrere gute Partien vor, darunter Miss Millpond, "glatt wie das Meer im Sommer", eine offensichtliche, sarkastische Anspielung auf Miss Milbanke, die Lady Byron wurde. Eine gute Partie, die Adeline nicht erwähnt, was Don Juan verwirrt, ist die sechzehnjährige Aurora Raby. Sie ist katholisch, eine Waise, wohlhabend, adlig, fromm und tugendhaft. Byron stellt sie Haidee, dem Produkt der Natur und nicht der Gesellschaft, gegenüber: . . . der Unterschied zwischen ihnenWar so groß wie der zwischen einer Blume und einem Edelstein. Sie ist ein makelloses Wesen in einer insgesamt verdorbenen Gesellschaft. Sie ist trotz dieser Gesellschaft zu dem geworden, was sie ist. Die Ehekonferenz zwischen Adeline und Juan endet unentschlossen und wird durch das Läuten der Abendglocke beendet. Das Abendessen wird recht detailliert beschrieben. Juan sitzt "aus irgendeinem seltsamen Zufall" zwischen Aurora und Lady Adeline. Aurora, aus einem Grund, den Byron vorgibt, nicht zu kennen, beachtet Juans fröhliches Gespräch kaum. Ihre Distanziertheit veranlasst Juan, sich umso mehr anzustrengen, und er schafft es schließlich, ihr Interesse zu wecken. Juan "hatte die Kunst, Menschen aus sich herauszulocken", und "dann hatte er ein gutes Aussehen". Das Canto schließt mit der Ankündigung des Autors, dass im nächsten Canto ein Geist eingeführt 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: Chapter XI. The Wonderful Emerald City of Oz. [Illustration] Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles Dorothy and her friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City. The streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the brightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the sky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green. There were many people, men, women and children, walking about, and these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the street, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy and green pop-corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green hats and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling green lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that they paid for it with green pennies. There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them. Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous. The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door, dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard. "Here are strangers," said the Guardian of the Gates to him, "and they demand to see the Great Oz." "Step inside," answered the soldier, "and I will carry your message to him." So they passed through the Palace gates and were led into a big room with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering this room, and when they were seated he said, politely, "Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the Throne Room and tell Oz you are here." They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at last, he came back, Dorothy asked, "Have you seen Oz?" [Illustration] "Oh, no;" returned the soldier; "I have never seen him. But I spoke to him as he sat behind his screen, and gave him your message. He says he will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day. Therefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your journey." "Thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of Oz." The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl, dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she said, "Follow me and I will show you your room." So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the Palace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft, comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a beautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books. When Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny. In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly. "Make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl, "and if you wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you to-morrow morning." She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning. It would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most wonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not being able to sleep he passed the night moving his joints up and down to make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred himself asleep in a minute. The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns--made of green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a green ribbon around Toto's neck, and they started for the Throne Room of the Great Oz. [Illustration] First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the Throne Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them whispered, "Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?" "Of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me." "Oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her message to the Wizard, "although he does not like to have people ask to see him. Indeed, at first he was angry, and said I should send you back where you came from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned your silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to his presence." Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy, "That is the signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone." She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a wonderful manner. But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair was an enormous Head, without body to support it or any arms or legs whatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and nose and mouth, and was bigger than the head of the biggest giant. As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear the eyes turned slowly and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and Dorothy heard a voice say: "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big Head; so she took courage and answered, "I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help." The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the voice: "Where did you get the silver shoes?" "I got them from the wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on her and killed her," she replied. "Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?" continued the voice. "That is where the good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl. Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the truth. Then Oz asked, "What do you wish me to do?" "Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are," she answered, earnestly. "I don't like your country, although it is so beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my being away so long." The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see every part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again. "Why should I do this for you?" asked Oz. "Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard and I am only a helpless little girl," she answered. "But you were strong enough to kill the wicked Witch of the East," said Oz. "That just happened," returned Dorothy, simply; "I could not help it." "Well," said the Head, "I will give you my answer. You have no right to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets. If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do something for me first. Help me and I will help you." "What must I do?" asked the girl. "Kill the wicked Witch of the West," answered Oz. "But I cannot!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised. "You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to Kansas--but not before." The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz felt that she could help him if she would. "I never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed; "and even if I wanted to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?" [Illustration] "I do not know," said the Head; "but that is my answer, and until the Wicked Witch dies you will not see your Uncle and Aunt again. Remember that the Witch is Wicked--tremendously Wicked--and ought to be killed. Now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task." Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had said to her. "There is no hope for me," she said, sadly, "for Oz will not send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and that I can never do." Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so she went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep. The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Scarecrow and said, "Come with me, for Oz has sent for you." So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely lady. She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings, gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest breath of air reached them. When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly, and said, "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely. "I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in your dominions." "Why should I do this for you?" asked the lady. "Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me," answered the Scarecrow. "I never grant favors without some return," said Oz; "but this much I will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West I will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz." "I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch," said, the Scarecrow, in surprise. [Illustration] "So I did. I don't care who kills her. But until she is dead I will not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have earned the brains you so greatly desire." The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the great Wizard was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely lady. "All the same," said the Scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much as the Tin Woodman." On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin Woodman and said, "Oz has sent for you. Follow me," So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely lady or a Head, but he hoped it would be the lovely lady. "For," he said to himself, "if it is the Head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the lovely lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves said to be kindly hearted." But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast. It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly strong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five long arms growing out of its body and it also had five long, slim legs. Thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more dreadful looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the Tin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud and fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all afraid, although he was much disappointed. "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible," spake the Beast, in a voice that was one great roar. "Who are you, and why do you seek me?" [Illustration: "_The Eyes looked at her thoughtfully._"] "I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men are." "Why should I do this?" demanded the Beast. "Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request," answered the Woodman. Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly, "If you indeed desire a heart, you must earn it." "How?" asked the Woodman. "Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West," replied the Beast. "When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz." So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly at the many forms the great Wizard could take upon himself, and the Lion said, [Illustration] "If he is a beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us what we desire. So be of good cheer my friends for all will yet be well." The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz. The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but, when he tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door. Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the words it spoke: [Illustration] "I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?" And the Lion answered, "I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I come to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may become the King of Beasts, as men call me." "Why should I give you courage?" demanded Oz. "Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to grant my request," answered the Lion. The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, "Bring me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you courage. But so long as the Witch lives you must remain a coward." The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible interview with the Wizard. "What shall we do now?" asked Dorothy, sadly. "There is only one thing we can do," returned the Lion, "and that is to go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy her." "But suppose we cannot?" said the girl. "Then I shall never have courage," declared the Lion. "And I shall never have brains," added the Scarecrow. "And I shall never have a heart," spoke the Tin Woodman. "And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry," said Dorothy, beginning to cry. "Be careful!" cried the green girl, "the tears will fall on your green silk gown, and spot it." So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, "I suppose we must try it; but I am sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again." "I will go with you; but I'm too much of a coward to kill the Witch," said the Lion. "I will go too," declared the Scarecrow; "but I shall not be of much help to you, I am such a fool." "I haven't the heart to harm even a Witch," remarked the Tin Woodman; "but if you go I certainly shall go with you." Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning, and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The green girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy's basket with good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto's neck with a green ribbon. They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the back yard of the palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a green egg. [Illustration: "_The Soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets._"] 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.

Selbst mit den speziellen Brillen sind alle begeistert von der verzauberten Stadt. Buchstäblich alles ist grün, einschließlich der Menschen. Die Gruppe kommt am Palast an, der noch luxuriöser als die Stadt ist. Ein Wächter bittet die Reisenden zu warten, während er sich mit dem Zauberer berät. Das Urteil ist gefällt und der Zauberer wird sie sehen. Aber immer nur einen von ihnen und auch nur einen pro Tag. Dorothy geht in ihr Zimmer, das nett ist. Jeder andere bekommt auch ein eigenes Zimmer. Am nächsten Tag ist es an der Zeit, dass Dorothy den Zauberer sieht. Der Wächter erwähnt, dass der Zauberer nicht geplant hatte, jemanden aus der Gruppe zu sehen, bis er von Dorothys silbernen Schuhen hörte. Dorothy betritt alleine den Thronsaal und wird mit einem riesigen schwebenden Kopf konfrontiert. Dieses... Ding ist der Zauberer. Oz der Große und Fürchterliche möchte wissen, was Dorothy will. Das ist einfach: Sie will zurück nach Kansas. Oz fragt, warum er ihr helfen sollte. Dorothy sagt im Prinzip... weil er es kann. In Ordnung. Er wird es tun. Er wird sie zurück nach Kansas schicken. Es gibt nur einen Haken: Zuerst muss sie die böse Hexe des Westens töten. Er glaubt, dass es einfach sein sollte, da sie bereits eine böse Hexe getötet hat. Dorothy fängt an zu weinen. Das war kein Mord. Es war ein Unfall. Sie würde niemanden absichtlich töten. Sie geht in ihr Zimmer und weint und weint und weint. Dann weint sie noch ein bisschen mehr. Es ist Tag zwei, was bedeutet, dass der Vogelscheuche an der Reihe ist, in den Thronsaal zu gehen. Diesmal erscheint der Zauberer als schicke Dame. Der Zauberer fragt, was die Vogelscheuche will. Die Antwort ist Geeeehiiiiiiirn. Aber zum Denken, nicht zum Essen. Auch hier stimmt der Zauberer zu, zu helfen - unter der Bedingung, dass die Vogelscheuche die Hexe tötet. Tag drei, der Zauberer erscheint als riesiges Tier in seinem Thronsaal. Er sagt dem Zinnmann, dass er sein Herz bekommen wird, wenn die Hexe tot ist. Tag vier, der Zauberer erscheint als Flamme. Rate mal, was er dem Löwen sagt? Richtig, die Hexe muss sterben. Dorothy fragt sich, was sie tun soll, aber der Löwe sagt, es gibt nur eine Sache zu tun: Die Hexe töten gehen. Übrigens lebt die Hexe in einem Ort namens das Land der Winkies. Die Gruppe beschließt, dass sie am nächsten Morgen aufbrechen 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: Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which Oliver's history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the confidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had touched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled with her love for her young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope. They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without exciting suspicion? Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's impetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver's recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her representations in the girl's behalf could be seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same reason. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when--the tears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection--he might have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away. Disturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course and then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive consideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry. 'If it be painful to him,' she thought, 'to come back here, how painful it will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me--he did when he went away. I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both.' And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep. She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm. 'What makes you look so flurried?' asked Rose, advancing to meet him. 'I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,' replied the boy. 'Oh dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that I have told you the truth!' 'I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,' said Rose, soothing him. 'But what is this?--of whom do you speak?' 'I have seen the gentleman,' replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, 'the gentleman who was so good to me--Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talked about.' 'Where?' asked Rose. 'Getting out of a coach,' replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, 'and going into a house. I didn't speak to him--I couldn't speak to him, for he didn't see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here,' said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, 'here it is; here's where he lives--I'm going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak again!' With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account. 'Quick!' she said. 'Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are.' Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon. 'Dear me,' said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, 'I beg your pardon, young lady--I imagined it was some importunate person who--I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.' 'Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?' said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken. 'That is my name,' said the old gentleman. 'This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?' 'I believe,' interposed Miss Maylie, 'that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you.' Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again. 'I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,' said Rose, naturally embarrassed; 'but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again.' 'Indeed!' said Mr. Brownlow. 'Oliver Twist you knew him as,' replied Rose. The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said, 'Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it.' 'A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one,' growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. 'He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,' said Rose, colouring; 'and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over.' 'I'm only sixty-one,' said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. 'And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see the application of that remark.' 'Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'he does not mean what he says.' 'Yes, he does,' growled Mr. Grimwig. 'No, he does not,' said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. 'He'll eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr. Grimwig. 'He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,' responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom. 'Now, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken.' Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend. 'Thank God!' said the old gentleman. 'This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you,--but why not have brought him?' 'He is waiting in a coach at the door,' replied Rose. 'At this door!' cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word. When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface. 'Hush!' he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding. 'Don't be afraid. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. You're a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!' In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf, Rose Maylie would have been well repaid. 'There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,' said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. 'Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.' The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders. 'Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily. 'Well, that I do, sir,' replied the old lady. 'People's eyes, at my time of life, don't improve with age, sir.' 'I could have told you that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow; 'but put on your glasses, and see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will you?' The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver's patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang into her arms. 'God be good to me!' cried the old lady, embracing him; 'it is my innocent boy!' 'My dear old nurse!' cried Oliver. 'He would come back--I knew he would,' said the old lady, holding him in her arms. 'How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is dressed again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young creature.' Running on thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon his neck by turns. Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration of her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old gentleman considered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold solemn conference with the worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged that he should call at the hotel at eight o'clock that evening, and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home. Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor's wrath. Nancy's history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a shower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those worthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment's consideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in part, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible temperament, and party by such arguments and representations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his hotbrained purpose. 'Then what the devil is to be done?' said the impetuous doctor, when they had rejoined the two ladies. 'Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?' 'Not exactly that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; 'but we must proceed gently and with great care.' 'Gentleness and care,' exclaimed the doctor. 'I'd send them one and all to--' 'Never mind where,' interposed Mr. Brownlow. 'But reflect whether sending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.' 'What object?' asked the doctor. 'Simply, the discovery of Oliver's parentage, and regaining for him the inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently deprived.' 'Ah!' said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; 'I almost forgot that.' 'You see,' pursued Mr. Brownlow; 'placing this poor girl entirely out of the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?' 'Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,' suggested the doctor, 'and transporting the rest.' 'Very good,' replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; 'but no doubt they will bring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very Quixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest--or at least to Oliver's, which is the same thing.' 'How?' inquired the doctor. 'Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon his knees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he is not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we have no proof against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as well, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.' 'Then,' said the doctor impetuously, 'I put it to you again, whether you think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really--' 'Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,' said Mr. Brownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. 'The promise shall be kept. I don't think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an account of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.' Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course occurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's proposition was carried unanimously. 'I should like,' he said, 'to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves.' 'I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine,' said the doctor. 'We must put it to the vote,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'who may he be?' 'That lady's son, and this young lady's--very old friend,' said the doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at her niece. Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee. 'We stay in town, of course,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'while there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains.' 'Good!' rejoined Mr. Brownlow. 'And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world.' With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Rose weiß nicht, was sie tun soll, aber sie will Nancy unbedingt aus ihrem Leben auf der Straße retten. Die Maylies planen, nur drei Tage in London zu bleiben, auf dem Weg zur Küste, und Rose weiß nicht, wie sie mit den Informationen umgehen soll, die Nancy ihr in dieser kurzen Zeit gegeben hat. Sie will es Mr. Losberne nicht erzählen, weil er zu ungestüm ist. Und sie will es auch nicht Mrs. Maylie erzählen, weil Mrs. Maylie es sofort Mr. Losberne sagen würde. Rose denkt daran, Harry zu fragen, will ihn aber nicht um Hilfe bitten, nachdem sie ihn gerade abgelehnt hat. Das wäre unhöflich. Schließlich entscheidet sie, dass Harry um Hilfe zu bitten die beste Option ist, als Oliver hereinkommt, ganz lächelnd, und sagt, dass Mr. Brownlow aus den Westindischen Inseln zurück ist. Rose beschließt, Mr. Brownlow alles zu erzählen und bietet an, Oliver persönlich mitzunehmen, um ihn zu sehen. Sie machen sich sofort auf den Weg, und Rose geht zuerst hinein, um Mr. Brownlow zu sagen, dass sie Oliver gefunden haben. Mr. Brownlow sitzt mit Mr. Grimwig in seinem Arbeitszimmer, und Rose erzählt ihnen, dass sie Neuigkeiten über Oliver hat. Mr. Grimwig nimmt natürlich an, dass es schlechte Nachrichten sind. Rose versichert ihnen, dass Oliver ein großartiger Junge ist - der beste Junge der Welt - und dass er unten wartet. Mr. Brownlow ist begeistert und rennt sofort los, um den besten Jungen der Welt zu sehen. Mr. Grimwig findet Rose großartig, also nutzt er den Moment, um ihr einen großen Schmatzer auf die Wange zu geben. Er entschuldigt sich, indem er sagt, dass er alt genug ist, um ihr Großvater zu sein, und dass sie ein gutes Mädchen ist und ihm gefällt. Rose hält ihn für etwas seltsam, sagt es aber nicht. Mr. Brownlow kommt mit Oliver zurück, und Mr. Grimwig freut sich auch, ihn zu sehen. Mrs. Bedwin kommt herein, und sie weinen alle noch mehr. Nachdem alle mit Weinen fertig sind, bringt Rose Mr. Brownlow in den nächsten Raum, um ihm zu erzählen, was Nancy gesagt hat. Mr. Brownlow sagt, dass er Mr. Losberne und Mrs. Maylie alles davon erzählen wird, und verhindert, dass Mr. Losberne etwas Dummes oder Halsüberkopftes macht. Als Mr. Losberne davon erfährt, will er tatsächlich Fagins Haus überfallen, aber Mr. Brownlow überredet ihn, sich zu beruhigen. Ihr Hauptziel, stellt Mr. Brownlow fest, ist es herauszufinden, wer Olivers Eltern waren und sein Erbe von seinem bösen Bruder zurückzubekommen. Mr. Losberne denkt immer noch, dass sie versuchen sollten, die Diebe hängen oder deportieren zu lassen, aber Mr. Brownlow weist darauf hin, dass sie das nicht tun können, ohne Roses Versprechen an Nancy zu brechen. Und außerdem werden sie sich wahrscheinlich ohnehin bald alle selbst hängen oder deportieren lassen. Harry Maylie und Mr. Grimwig werden dem Komitee hinzugefügt und über den Stand der Dinge informiert. Jetzt weiß also jeder über Monks und die große Verschwörung gegen Oliver Bescheid, außer Oliver selbst. Mr. Brownlow sagt, dass er geschäftlich im Ausland unterwegs war und dass er ihnen nichts davon erzählen wird, bis alles geklärt ist. Dann gehen sie zum Abendessen und treffen wieder auf Oliver, der wahrscheinlich denkt, dass sie alle gegen ihn konspirieren oder so etwas.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 DUKE's castle.] Enter HIERONIMO; he knocks up the curtain. Enter the DUKE OF CASTILE. CAS. How now, Hieronimo? where's your fellows, That you take all this pain? HIERO. O sir, it is for the author's credit To look that all things may go well. But, good my lord, let me entreat your Grace To give the king the copy of the play: This is the argument of what we show. CAS. I will, Hieronimo. HIERO. One more thing, my good lord. CAS. What's that? HIERO. Let me entreat your Grace That, when the train are pass'd into the gallery, You would vouchsafe to throw me down the key. CAS. I will Hieronimo. Exit CAS[TILE]. HIERO. What, are you ready, Balthazar? Bring a chair and a cushion for the king. Enter BALTHAZAR with a chair. Well done, Balthazar; hang up the title: Our scene is Rhodes. What, is your beard on? BAL. Half on, the other is in my hand. HIERO. Dispatch, for shame! are you so long? Exit BALTHAZAR. Bethink thyself, Hieronimo, Recall thy wits, recompt thy former wrongs Thou hast receiv'd by murder of thy son, And lastly, but not least, how Isabell, Once his mother and my dearest wife, All woe-begone for him, hath slain herself. Behooves thee then, Hieronimo, to be Reveng'd! The plot is laid of dire revenge: On then, Hieronimo; pursue revenge, For nothing wants but acting of revenge! Exit HIERONIMO. Enter SPANISH KING, VICEROY, the DUKE OF CASTILE, and their train, to the gallery. KING. Now, viceroy, shall we see the tragedy Of Suleiman, the Turkish emperor, Perform'd by pleasure by your son the prince, My nephew Don Lorenzo, and my niece. VICE. Who? Bel-imperia? KING. Aye; and Hieronimo our marshall, At whose request they deign to do't themselves. These be our pastimes in the court of Spain. Here, brother, you shall be the book-keeper: This is the argument of that they show. He giveth him a book. [Gentlemen, this play of Hieronimo in sundry languages was thought good to be set down in English more largely, for the easier understanding to every publique reader.] Enter BALTHAZAR, BEL-IMPERIA, and HIERONIMO. BALTHAZAR. [acting] Bashaw, that Rhodes is ours yield Heav'ns the honour And holy Mahomet, our sacred prophet! And be thou grac'd with every excellence That Suleiman can give or thou desire! But thy desert in conquering Rhodes is less Then in reserving this fair Christian nymph, Perseda, blissful lamp of excellence, Whose eyes compel, like powerful adamant, The warlike heart of Suleiman to wait. KING. See, viceroy, that is Balthazar your son, That represents the Emperor Suleiman: How well he acts his amorous passion! VICE. Aye; Bel-imperia hath taught him that. CASTILE: That's because his mind runs all on Bel-imperia. HIERO. [acting] Whatever joy earth yields betide your Majesty! BALT. [acting] Earth yields no joy without Perseda's love. HIERO. [acting] Let then Perseda on your Grace attend. BALT. [acting] She shall not wait on me, but I on her! Drawn by the influence of her lights, I yield. But let my friend, the Rhodian knight, come forth,-- Erasto, dearer than my life to me,-- That he may see Perseda, my belov'd. Enter ERASTO [LORENZO]. KING. Here comes Lorenzo: look upon the plot And tell me, brother, what part plays he. BEL. [acting] Ah, my Erasto! Welcome to Perseda! LO. [acting] Thrice happy is Erasto that thou livest! Rhodes' loss is nothing to Erasto's joy; Sith his Perseda lives, his life survives. BALT. [acting] Ah, bashaw, here is love between Erasto And fair Perseda, sovereign of my soul! HIERO. [acting] Remove Erasto, mighty Suleiman, And then Perseda will be quickly won. BALT. [acting] Erasto is my friend; and, while he lives, Perseda never will remove her love. HIERO. [acting] Let not Erasto live to grieve great Suleiman! BALT. [acting] Dear is Erasto in our princely eye. HIERO. [acting] But, if he be your rival, let him die! BALT. [acting] Why, let him die! so love commaundeth me. Yet grieve I that Erasto should so die. HIERO. [acting] Erasto, Suleiman saluteth thee, And lets thee wit by me his Highness' will, Which is, thou should'st be thus employ'd. Stabs him. BEL. [acting] Ay, me, Erasto! See, Suleiman, Erasto's slain! BALT. [acting] Yet liveth Suleiman to comfort thee. Fair queen of beauty, let not favour die, But with a gracious eye behold his grief, That with Perseda's beauty is increas'd, If by Perseda grief be not releas'd. BEL. [acting] Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits; Relentless are mine ears to thy laments As thy butcher is pitiless and base Which seiz'd on my Erasto, harmless knight. Yet by thy power thou thinkest to command, And to thy power Perseda doth obey; But, were she able, thus she would revenge Thy treacheries on thee, ignoble prince; Stabs him. And on herself she would be thus revengd. Stabs herself. KING. Well said, old marshall! this was bravely done! HIERO. But Bel-imperia plays Perseda well. VICE. Were this in earnest, Bel-imperia, You would be better to my son than so. KING. But now what follows for Hieronimo? HIERO. Marry, this follows for Hieronimo! Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue: Haply you think--but bootless are your thoughts-- That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we do as all tragedians do,-- To die today, for fashioning our scene, The death of Ajax, or some Roman peer, And, in a minute starting up again, Revive to please tomorrow's audience. No, princes; know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless father of a hapless son, Whose tongue is tun'd to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse gross errors in the play. I see your looks urge instance of these words: Behold the reason urging me to this! Shows his dead son. See here my show; look on this spectacle! Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end; Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain; Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost; Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft. But hope, heart, treasure, joy and bliss,-- All fled, fail'd, died, yea, all decay'd with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life; They murder'd me that made these fatal marks. The cause was love whence grew this mortal hate: The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar; The love, my son to Bel-imperia. But night, the cov'rer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors' harms, And lent them leave--for they had sorted leisure-- To take advantage in my garden plot Upon my son, my dear Horatio. There merciless they butcher'd up my boy, In black, dark night, to pale, dim, cruel death! He shrieks; I heard--and yet, methinks, I hear-- His dismal out-cry echo in the air; With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where, hanging on a tree, I found my son Through-girt with wounds and slaughter'd, as you see. And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle? Speak, Portuguese, whose loss resembles mine! If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis like I wail'd for my Horatio. And you, my lord, whose reconciled son March'd in a net and thought himself unseen, And rated me for a brainsick lunacy, With "God amend that mad Hieronimo!"-- How can you brook our play's catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkerchief, Which at Horatio's death I weeping dipp'd Within the river of his bleeding wounds! It as propitious, see, I have reserv'd, And never hath it left my bloody heart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow With these, O these accursed murderers! Which now perform'd, my heart is satisfied. And to this end the bashaw I became, That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life, Who therefore was appointed to the part And was to represent the knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conveniently. So, viceroy, was this Balthazar thy son-- That Suleiman which Bel-imperia In person of Perseda murdered,-- Solely appointed to that tragic part, That she might slay him that offended her. Poor Bel-imperia miss'd her part in this: For, though the story saith she should have died, Yet I, of kindness and of care for her, Did otherwise determine of her end. But love of him whom they did hate too much Did urge her resolution to be such. And princes, now behold Hieronimo, Author and actor in this tragedy, Bearing his latest fortune in his fist; And will as resolute conclude his part As any of the actors gone before. And, gentles, thus I end my play! Urge no more words, I have no more to say. He runs to hang himself. KING. O hearken, viceroy; hold Hieronimo! Brother, my nephew and thy son are slain! VICE. We are betray'd! my Balthazar is slain! Break ope the doors; run save Hieronimo! Hieronimo, do but inform the king of these events; Upon mine honour, thou shalt have no harm! HIERO. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life, Which I this day have offer'd to my son: Accursed wretch, why stayst thou him that was resolv'd to die? KING. Speak, traitor! damned, bloody murd'rer, speak!-- For, now I have thee, I will make thee speak! Why hast thou done this undeserving deed? VICE. Why hast thou murdered my Balthazar? CAS. Why hast thou butcher'd both my children thus? HIERO. O good words! As dear to me was Horatio As yours, or yours, my lord, to you. My guiltless son was by Lorenzo slain; And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar Am I at last revenged thoroughly,-- Upon whose souls may Heav'n be yet aveng'd With greater far than these afflictions! CAS. But who were thy confederates in this? VICE. That was thy daughter Bel-imperia; For by her hand my Balthazar was slain,-- I saw her stab him. KING. Why speak'st thou not? HIERO. What lesser liberty can kings afford Than harmless silence? Then afford it me! Sufficeth I may not nor I will not tell thee. KING. Fetch forth the tortures! Traitor as thou art, I'll make thee tell! HIERO. Indeed? Thou mayst torment me as his wretched son Hath done in murd'ring my Horatio; But never shalt thou force me to reveal The thing which I have vow'd inviolate. And therefore, in despite of all thy threats, Pleas'd with their deaths, and eas'd with their revenge, First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart! He bites out his tongue. KING. O monstrous resolution of a wretch! See, Viceroy, he hath bitten forth his tongue Rather than reveal what we require'd. CAS. Yet can he write. KING. And if in this he satisfy us not, We will devise th' extremest kind of death That ever was invented for a wretch. Then he makes signs for a knife to mend his pen. CAS. O, he would have a knife to mend his pen. VICE. Here; and advise thee that thou write the troth,-- Look to my brother! save Hieronimo! He with a knife stabs the DUKE and himself. KING. What age hath ever heard such monstrous deeds? My brother and the whole succeeding hope That Spain expected after my decease. Go bear his body hence, that we may mourn The loss of our beloved brother's death, That he may be entomb'd. Whate'er befall, I am the next, the nearest, last of all. VICE. And thou, Don Pedro, do the like for us: Take up our hapless son untimely slain; Set me up with him, and he with woeful me, Upon the main-mast of a ship unmann'd, And let the wind and tide hale me along To Scylla's barking and untamed gulf Or to the loathsome pool of Acheron, To weep my want for my sweet Balthazar. Spain hath no refuge for a Portingale! The trumpets sound a dead march, the KING OF SPAIN mourning after his brother's body, and the KING OF PORTINGAL bearing the body of his son. [CHORUS.] Enter GHOST and REVENGE. GHOST. Aye; now my hopes have end in their effects, When blood and sorrow finish my desires: Horatio murder'd in his father's bower, Vile Serberine by Pedrigano slain, False Pedrigano hang'd by quaint device, Fair Isabella by herself misdone, Prince Balthazar by Bel-imperia stabb'd, The Duke of Castile and his wicked son Both done to death by old Hieronimo, My Bel-imperia fallen as Dido fell, And good Hieronimo slain by himself! Aye, these were spectacles to please my soul. Now will I beg at lovely Proserpine That, by the virtue of her princely doom, I may consort my friends in pleasing sort, And on my foes work just and sharp revenge. I'll lead my friend Horatio through those fields Where never-dying wars are still inur'd; I'll lead fair Isabella to that train Where pity weeps but never feeleth pain; I'll lead my Bel-imperia to those joys That vestal virgins and fair queens possess; I'll lead Hieronimo where Orpheus plays, Adding sweet pleasure to eternal days. But say, Revenge,--for thou must help or none,-- Against the rest how shall my hate be shown? REVENGE. This hand shall hale them down to deepest hell, Where none but furies, bugs and tortures dwell. GHOST. Then, sweet Revenge, do this at my request: Let me judge and doom them to unrest; Let loose poor Titius from the vulture's gripe, And let Don Ciprian supply his room; Place Don Lorenzo on Ixion's wheel, And let the lovers' endless pains surcease, Juno forget old wrath and grant him ease; Hang Balthazar about Chimera's neck, And let him there bewail his bloody love, Repining at our joys that are above; Let Serberine go roll the fatal stone And take from Sisyphus his endless moan; False Pedringano, for his treachery, Let him be dragg'd through boiling Acheron, And there live dying still in endless flames, Blaspheming gods and all their holy names. REVENGE. Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes; To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes. For here though death doth end their misery, I'll there begin their endless tragedy. Exeunt. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In dieser sehr kurzen Szene bereitet Hieronimo die Bühne für sein Stück vor, gibt seine letzten Gelübde ab, um Rache zu üben, und beklagt den Selbstmord seiner Frau.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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.—The same. The door into the dining room is shut. It is morning. MRS. STOCKMANN, with a sealed letter in her hand, comes in from the dining room, goes to the door of the DOCTOR'S study, and peeps in.) Mrs. Stockmann. Are you in, Thomas? Dr. Stockmann (from within his room). Yes, I have just come in. (Comes into the room.) What is it? Mrs. Stockmann. A letter from your brother. Dr. Stockmann. Aha, let us see! (Opens the letter and reads:) "I return herewith the manuscript you sent me" (reads on in a low murmur) H'm!— Mrs. Stockmann. What does he say? Dr. Stockmann (putting the papers in his pocket). Oh, he only writes that he will come up here himself about midday. Mrs. Stockmann. Well, try and remember to be at home this time. Dr. Stockmann. That will be all right; I have got through all my morning visits. Mrs. Stockmann. I am extremely curious to know how he takes it. Dr. Stockmann. You will see he won't like it's having been I, and not he, that made the discovery. Mrs. Stockmann. Aren't you a little nervous about that? Dr. Stockmann. Oh, he really will be pleased enough, you know. But, at the same time, Peter is so confoundedly afraid of anyone's doing any service to the town except himself. Mrs. Stockmann. I will tell you what, Thomas—you should be good natured, and share the credit of this with him. Couldn't you make out that it was he who set you on the scent of this discovery? Dr. Stockmann. I am quite willing. If only I can get the thing set right. I— (MORTEN KIIL puts his head in through the door leading from the hall, looks around in an enquiring manner, and chuckles.) Morten Kiil (slyly). Is it—is it true? Mrs. Stockmann (going to the door). Father!—is it you? Dr. Stockmann. Ah, Mr. Kiil—good morning, good morning! Mrs. Stockmann. But come along in. Morten Kiil. If it is true, I will; if not, I am off. Dr. Stockmann. If what is true? Morten Kiil. This tale about the water supply, is it true? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly it is true, but how did you come to hear it? Morten Kiil (coming in). Petra ran in on her way to the school— Dr. Stockmann. Did she? Morten Kiil. Yes; and she declares that—I thought she was only making a fool of me—but it isn't like Petra to do that. Dr. Stockmann. Of course not. How could you imagine such a thing! Morten Kiil. Oh well, it is better never to trust anybody; you may find you have been made a fool of before you know where you are. But it is really true, all the same? Dr. Stockmann. You can depend upon it that it is true. Won't you sit down? (Settles him on the couch.) Isn't it a real bit of luck for the town— Morten Kiil (suppressing his laughter). A bit of luck for the town? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that I made the discovery in good time. Morten Kiil (as before). Yes, yes. Yes!—But I should never have thought you the sort of man to pull your own brother's leg like this! Dr. Stockmann. Pull his leg! Mrs. Stockmann. Really, father dear— Morten Kiil (resting his hands and his chin on the handle of his stick and winking slyly at the DOCTOR). Let me see, what was the story? Some kind of beast that had got into the water-pipes, wasn't it? Dr. Stockmann. Infusoria—yes. Morten Kiil. And a lot of these beasts had got in, according to Petra—a tremendous lot. Dr. Stockmann. Certainly; hundreds of thousands of them, probably. Morten Kiil. But no one can see them—isn't that so? Dr. Stockmann. Yes; you can't see them, Morten Kiil (with a quiet chuckle). Damn—it's the finest story I have ever heard! Dr. Stockmann. What do you mean? Morten Kiil. But you will never get the Mayor to believe a thing like that. Dr. Stockmann. We shall see. Morten Kiil. Do you think he will be fool enough to—? Dr. Stockmann. I hope the whole town will be fools enough. Morten Kiil. The whole town! Well, it wouldn't be a bad thing. It would just serve them right, and teach them a lesson. They think themselves so much cleverer than we old fellows. They hounded me out of the council; they did, I tell you—they hounded me out. Now they shall pay for it. You pull their legs too, Thomas! Dr. Stockmann. Really, I— Morten Kiil. You pull their legs! (Gets up.) If you can work it so that the Mayor and his friends all swallow the same bait, I will give ten pounds to a charity—like a shot! Dr. Stockmann. That is very kind of you. Morten Kiil. Yes, I haven't got much money to throw away, I can tell you; but, if you can work this, I will give five pounds to a charity at Christmas. (HOVSTAD comes in by the hall door.) Hovstad. Good morning! (Stops.) Oh, I beg your pardon Dr. Stockmann. Not at all; come in. Morten Kiil (with another chuckle). Oho!—is he in this too? Hovstad. What do you mean? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly he is. Morten Kiil. I might have known it! It must get into the papers. You know how to do it, Thomas! Set your wits to work. Now I must go. Dr. Stockmann. Won't you stay a little while? Morten Kiil. No, I must be off now. You keep up this game for all it is worth; you won't repent it, I'm damned if you will! (He goes out; MRS. STOCKMANN follows him into the hall.) Dr. Stockmann (laughing). Just imagine—the old chap doesn't believe a word of all this about the water supply. Hovstad. Oh that was it, then? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that was what we were talking about. Perhaps it is the same thing that brings you here? Hovstad. Yes, it is, Can you spare me a few minutes, Doctor? Dr. Stockmann. As long as you like, my dear fellow. Hovstad. Have you heard from the Mayor yet? Dr. Stockmann. Not yet. He is coming here later. Hovstad. I have given the matter a great deal of thought since last night. Dr. Stockmann. Well? Hovstad. From your point of view, as a doctor and a man of science, this affair of the water supply is an isolated matter. I mean, you do not realise that it involves a great many other things. Dr. Stockmann. How do you mean?—Let us sit down, my dear fellow. No, sit here on the couch. (HOVSTAD Sits down on the couch, DR. STOCKMANN On a chair on the other side of the table.) Now then. You mean that—? Hovstad. You said yesterday that the pollution of the water was due to impurities in the soil. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, unquestionably it is due to that poisonous morass up at Molledal. Hovstad. Begging your pardon, Doctor, I fancy it is due to quite another morass altogether. Dr. Stockmann. What morass? Hovstad. The morass that the whole life of our town is built on and is rotting in. Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce are you driving at, Hovstad? Hovstad. The whole of the town's interests have, little by little, got into the hands of a pack of officials. Dr. Stockmann. Oh, come!—they are not all officials. Hovstad. No, but those that are not officials are at any rate the officials' friends and adherents; it is the wealthy folk, the old families in the town, that have got us entirely in their hands. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but after all they are men of ability and knowledge. Hovstad. Did they show any ability or knowledge when they laid the conduit pipes where they are now? Dr. Stockmann. No, of course that was a great piece of stupidity on their part. But that is going to be set right now. Hovstad. Do you think that will be all such plain sailing? Dr. Stockmann. Plain sailing or no, it has got to be done, anyway. Hovstad. Yes, provided the press takes up the question. Dr. Stockmann. I don't think that will be necessary, my dear fellow, I am certain my brother— Hovstad. Excuse me, doctor; I feel bound to tell you I am inclined to take the matter up. Dr. Stockmann. In the paper? Hovstad. Yes. When I took over the "People's Messenger" my idea was to break up this ring of self-opinionated old fossils who had got hold of all the influence. Dr. Stockmann. But you know you told me yourself what the result had been; you nearly ruined your paper. Hovstad. Yes, at the time we were obliged to climb down a peg or two, it is quite true—because there was a danger of the whole project of the Baths coming to nothing if they failed us. But now the scheme has been carried through, and we can dispense with these grand gentlemen. Dr. Stockmann. Dispense with them, yes; but, we owe them a great debt of gratitude. Hovstad. That shall be recognised ungrudgingly, But a journalist of my democratic tendencies cannot let such an opportunity as this slip. The bubble of official infallibility must be pricked. This superstition must be destroyed, like any other. Dr. Stockmann. I am whole-heartedly with you in that, Mr. Hovstad; if it is a superstition, away with it! Hovstad. I should be very reluctant to bring the Mayor into it, because he is your brother. But I am sure you will agree with me that truth should be the first consideration. Dr. Stockmann. That goes without saying. (With sudden emphasis.) Yes, but—but— Hovstad. You must not misjudge me. I am neither more self-interested nor more ambitious than most men. Dr. Stockmann. My dear fellow—who suggests anything of the kind? Hovstad. I am of humble origin, as you know; and that has given me opportunities of knowing what is the most crying need in the humbler ranks of life. It is that they should be allowed some part in the direction of public affairs, Doctor. That is what will develop their faculties and intelligence and self respect— Dr. Stockmann. I quite appreciate that. Hovstad. Yes—and in my opinion a journalist incurs a heavy responsibility if he neglects a favourable opportunity of emancipating the masses—the humble and oppressed. I know well enough that in exalted circles I shall be called an agitator, and all that sort of thing; but they may call what they like. If only my conscience doesn't reproach me, then— Dr. Stockmann. Quite right! Quite right, Mr. Hovstad. But all the same—devil take it! (A knock is heard at the door.) Come in! (ASLAKSEN appears at the door. He is poorly but decently dressed, in black, with a slightly crumpled white neckcloth; he wears gloves and has a felt hat in his hand.) Aslaksen (bowing). Excuse my taking the liberty, Doctor— Dr. Stockmann (getting up). Ah, it is you, Aslaksen! Aslaksen. Yes, Doctor. Hovstad (standing up). Is it me you want, Aslaksen? Aslaksen. No; I didn't know I should find you here. No, it was the Doctor I— Dr. Stockmann. I am quite at your service. What is it? Aslaksen. Is what I heard from Mr. Billing true, sir—that you mean to improve our water supply? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, for the Baths. Aslaksen. Quite so, I understand. Well, I have come to say that I will back that up by every means in my power. Hovstad (to the DOCTOR). You see! Dr. Stockmann. I shall be very grateful to you, but— Aslaksen. Because it may be no bad thing to have us small tradesmen at your back. We form, as it were, a compact majority in the town—if we choose. And it is always a good thing to have the majority with you, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. That is undeniably true; but I confess I don't see why such unusual precautions should be necessary in this case. It seems to me that such a plain, straightforward thing— Aslaksen. Oh, it may be very desirable, all the same. I know our local authorities so well; officials are not generally very ready to act on proposals that come from other people. That is why I think it would not be at all amiss if we made a little demonstration. Hovstad. That's right. Dr. Stockmann. Demonstration, did you say? What on earth are you going to make a demonstration about? Aslaksen. We shall proceed with the greatest moderation, Doctor. Moderation is always my aim; it is the greatest virtue in a citizen—at least, I think so. Dr. Stockmann. It is well known to be a characteristic of yours, Mr. Aslaksen. Aslaksen. Yes, I think I may pride myself on that. And this matter of the water supply is of the greatest importance to us small tradesmen. The Baths promise to be a regular gold-mine for the town. We shall all make our living out of them, especially those of us who are householders. That is why we will back up the project as strongly as possible. And as I am at present Chairman of the Householders' Association. Dr. Stockmann. Yes—? Aslaksen. And, what is more, local secretary of the Temperance Society—you know, sir, I suppose, that I am a worker in the temperance cause? Dr. Stockmann. Of course, of course. Aslaksen. Well, you can understand that I come into contact with a great many people. And as I have the reputation of a temperate and law-abiding citizen—like yourself, Doctor—I have a certain influence in the town, a little bit of power, if I may be allowed to say so. Dr. Stockmann. I know that quite well, Mr. Aslaksen. Aslaksen. So you see it would be an easy matter for me to set on foot some testimonial, if necessary. Dr. Stockmann. A testimonial? Aslaksen. Yes, some kind of an address of thanks from the townsmen for your share in a matter of such importance to the community. I need scarcely say that it would have to be drawn up with the greatest regard to moderation, so as not to offend the authorities—who, after all, have the reins in their hands. If we pay strict attention to that, no one can take it amiss, I should think! Hovstad. Well, and even supposing they didn't like it— Aslaksen. No, no, no; there must be no discourtesy to the authorities, Mr. Hovstad. It is no use falling foul of those upon whom our welfare so closely depends. I have done that in my time, and no good ever comes of it. But no one can take exception to a reasonable and frank expression of a citizen's views. Dr. Stockmann (shaking him by the hand). I can't tell you, dear Mr. Aslaksen, how extremely pleased I am to find such hearty support among my fellow-citizens. I am delighted—delighted! Now, you will take a small glass of sherry, eh? Aslaksen. No, thank you; I never drink alcohol of that kind. Dr. Stockmann. Well, what do you say to a glass of beer, then? Aslaksen. Nor that either, thank you, Doctor. I never drink anything as early as this. I am going into town now to talk this over with one or two householders, and prepare the ground. Dr. Stockmann. It is tremendously kind of you, Mr. Aslaksen; but I really cannot understand the necessity for all these precautions. It seems to me that the thing should go of itself. Aslaksen. The authorities are somewhat slow to move, Doctor. Far be it from me to seem to blame them— Hovstad. We are going to stir them up in the paper tomorrow, Aslaksen. Aslaksen. But not violently, I trust, Mr. Hovstad. Proceed with moderation, or you will do nothing with them. You may take my advice; I have gathered my experience in the school of life. Well, I must say goodbye, Doctor. You know now that we small tradesmen are at your back at all events, like a solid wall. You have the compact majority on your side Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. I am very much obliged, dear Mr. Aslaksen, (Shakes hands with him.) Goodbye, goodbye. Aslaksen. Are you going my way, towards the printing-office. Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad, I will come later; I have something to settle up first. Aslaksen. Very well. (Bows and goes out; STOCKMANN follows him into the hall.) Hovstad (as STOCKMANN comes in again). Well, what do you think of that, Doctor? Don't you think it is high time we stirred a little life into all this slackness and vacillation and cowardice? Dr. Stockmann. Are you referring to Aslaksen? Hovstad, Yes, I am. He is one of those who are floundering in a bog—decent enough fellow though he may be, otherwise. And most of the people here are in just the same case—see-sawing and edging first to one side and then to the other, so overcome with caution and scruple that they never dare to take any decided step. Dr. Stockmann, Yes, but Aslaksen seemed to me so thoroughly well-intentioned. Hovstad. There is one thing I esteem higher than that; and that is for a man to be self-reliant and sure of himself. Dr. Stockmann. I think you are perfectly right there. Hovstad. That is why I want to seize this opportunity, and try if I cannot manage to put a little virility into these well-intentioned people for once. The idol of Authority must be shattered in this town. This gross and inexcusable blunder about the water supply must be brought home to the mind of every municipal voter. Dr. Stockmann. Very well; if you are of opinion that it is for the good of the community, so be it. But not until I have had a talk with my brother. Hovstad. Anyway, I will get a leading article ready; and if the Mayor refuses to take the matter up— Dr. Stockmann. How can you suppose such a thing possible! Hovstad. It is conceivable. And in that case— Dr. Stockmann. In that case I promise you—. Look here, in that case you may print my report—every word of it. Hovstad. May I? Have I your word for it? Dr. Stockmann (giving him the MS.). Here it is; take it with you. It can do no harm for you to read it through, and you can give it me back later on. Hovstad. Good, good! That is what I will do. And now goodbye, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. Goodbye, goodbye. You will see everything will run quite smoothly, Mr. Hovstad—quite smoothly. Hovstad. Hm!—we shall see. (Bows and goes out.) Dr. Stockmann (opens the dining-room door and looks in). Katherine! Oh, you are back, Petra? Petra (coming in). Yes, I have just come from the school. Mrs. Stockmann (coming in). Has he not been here yet? Dr. Stockmann. Peter? No, but I have had a long talk with Hovstad. He is quite excited about my discovery, I find it has a much wider bearing than I at first imagined. And he has put his paper at my disposal if necessity should arise. Mrs. Stockmann. Do you think it will? Dr. Stockmann. Not for a moment. But at all events it makes me feel proud to know that I have the liberal-minded independent press on my side. Yes, and just imagine—I have had a visit from the Chairman of the Householders' Association! Mrs. Stockmann. Oh! What did he want? Dr. Stockmann. To offer me his support too. They will support me in a body if it should be necessary. Katherine—do you know what I have got behind me? Mrs. Stockmann. Behind you? No, what have you got behind you? Dr. Stockmann. The compact majority. Mrs. Stockmann. Really? Is that a good thing for you Thomas? Dr. Stockmann. I should think it was a good thing. (Walks up and down rubbing his hands.) By Jove, it's a fine thing to feel this bond of brotherhood between oneself and one's fellow citizens! Petra. And to be able to do so much that is good and useful, father! Dr. Stockmann. And for one's own native town into the bargain, my child! Mrs. Stockmann. That was a ring at the bell. Dr. Stockmann. It must be he, then. (A knock is heard at the door.) Come in! Peter Stockmann (comes in from the hall). Good morning. Dr. Stockmann. Glad to see you, Peter! Mrs. Stockmann. Good morning, Peter, How are you? Peter Stockmann. So so, thank you. (To DR. STOCKMANN.) I received from you yesterday, after office hours, a report dealing with the condition of the water at the Baths. Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Have you read it? Peter Stockmann. Yes, I have, Dr. Stockmann. And what have you to say to it? Peter Stockmann (with a sidelong glance). Hm!— Mrs. Stockmann. Come along, Petra. (She and PETRA go into the room on the left.) Peter Stockmann (after a pause). Was it necessary to make all these investigations behind my back? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, because until I was absolutely certain about it— Peter Stockmann. Then you mean that you are absolutely certain now? Dr. Stockmann. Surely you are convinced of that. Peter Stockmann. Is it your intention to bring this document before the Baths Committee as a sort of official communication? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly. Something must be done in the matter—and that quickly. Peter Stockmann. As usual, you employ violent expressions in your report. You say, amongst other things, that what we offer visitors in our Baths is a permanent supply of poison. Dr. Stockmann. Well, can you describe it any other way, Peter? Just think—water that is poisonous, whether you drink it or bathe in it! And this we offer to the poor sick folk who come to us trustfully and pay us at an exorbitant rate to be made well again! Peter Stockmann. And your reasoning leads you to this conclusion, that we must build a sewer to draw off the alleged impurities from Molledal and must relay the water conduits. Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Do you see any other way out of it? I don't. Peter Stockmann. I made a pretext this morning to go and see the town engineer, and, as if only half seriously, broached the subject of these proposals as a thing we might perhaps have to take under consideration some time later on. Dr. Stockmann. Some time later on! Peter Stockmann. He smiled at what he considered to be my extravagance, naturally. Have you taken the trouble to consider what your proposed alterations would cost? According to the information I obtained, the expenses would probably mount up to fifteen or twenty thousand pounds. Dr. Stockmann. Would it cost so much? Peter Stockmann. Yes; and the worst part of it would be that the work would take at least two years. Dr. Stockmann. Two years? Two whole years? Peter Stockmann. At least. And what are we to do with the Baths in the meantime? Close them? Indeed we should be obliged to. And do you suppose anyone would come near the place after it had got out that the water was dangerous? Dr. Stockmann. Yes but, Peter, that is what it is. Peter Stockmann. And all this at this juncture—just as the Baths are beginning to be known. There are other towns in the neighbourhood with qualifications to attract visitors for bathing purposes. Don't you suppose they would immediately strain every nerve to divert the entire stream of strangers to themselves? Unquestionably they would; and then where should we be? We should probably have to abandon the whole thing, which has cost us so much money-and then you would have ruined your native town. Dr. Stockmann. I—should have ruined—! Peter Stockmann. It is simply and solely through the Baths that the town has before it any future worth mentioning. You know that just as well as I. Dr. Stockmann. But what do you think ought to be done, then? Peter Stockmann. Your report has not convinced me that the condition of the water at the Baths is as bad as you represent it to be. Dr. Stockmann. I tell you it is even worse!—or at all events it will be in summer, when the warm weather comes. Peter Stockmann. As I said, I believe you exaggerate the matter considerably. A capable physician ought to know what measures to take—he ought to be capable of preventing injurious influences or of remedying them if they become obviously persistent. Dr. Stockmann. Well? What more? Peter Stockmann. The water supply for the Baths is now an established fact, and in consequence must be treated as such. But probably the Committee, at its discretion, will not be disinclined to consider the question of how far it might be possible to introduce certain improvements consistently with a reasonable expenditure. Dr. Stockmann. And do you suppose that I will have anything to do with such a piece of trickery as that? Peter Stockmann. Trickery!! Dr. Stockmann. Yes, it would be a trick—a fraud, a lie, a downright crime towards the public, towards the whole community! Peter Stockmann. I have not, as I remarked before, been able to convince myself that there is actually any imminent danger. Dr. Stockmann. You have! It is impossible that you should not be convinced. I know I have represented the facts absolutely truthfully and fairly. And you know it very well, Peter, only you won't acknowledge it. It was owing to your action that both the Baths and the water conduits were built where they are; and that is what you won't acknowledge—that damnable blunder of yours. Pooh!—do you suppose I don't see through you? Peter Stockmann. And even if that were true? If I perhaps guard my reputation somewhat anxiously, it is in the interests of the town. Without moral authority I am powerless to direct public affairs as seems, to my judgment, to be best for the common good. And on that account—and for various other reasons too—it appears to me to be a matter of importance that your report should not be delivered to the Committee. In the interests of the public, you must withhold it. Then, later on, I will raise the question and we will do our best, privately; but nothing of this unfortunate affair not a single word of it—must come to the ears of the public. Dr. Stockmann. I am afraid you will not be able to prevent that now, my dear Peter. Peter Stockmann. It must and shall be prevented. Dr. Stockmann. It is no use, I tell you. There are too many people that know about it. Peter Stockmann. That know about it? Who? Surely you don't mean those fellows on the "People's Messenger"? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, they know. The liberal-minded independent press is going to see that you do your duty. Peter Stockmann (after a short pause). You are an extraordinarily independent man, Thomas. Have you given no thought to the consequences this may have for yourself? Dr. Stockmann. Consequences?—for me? Peter Stockmann. For you and yours, yes. Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce do you mean? Peter Stockmann. I believe I have always behaved in a brotherly way to you—haven't I always been ready to oblige or to help you? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, you have, and I am grateful to you for it. Peter Stockmann. There is no need. Indeed, to some extent I was forced to do so—for my own sake. I always hoped that, if I helped to improve your financial position, I should be able to keep some check on you. Dr. Stockmann. What! Then it was only for your own sake—! Peter Stockmann. Up to a certain point, yes. It is painful for a man in an official position to have his nearest relative compromising himself time after time. Dr. Stockmann. And do you consider that I do that? Peter Stockmann. Yes, unfortunately, you do, without even being aware of it. You have a restless, pugnacious, rebellious disposition. And then there is that disastrous propensity of yours to want to write about every sort of possible and impossible thing. The moment an idea comes into your head, you must needs go and write a newspaper article or a whole pamphlet about it. Dr. Stockmann. Well, but is it not the duty of a citizen to let the public share in any new ideas he may have? Peter Stockmann. Oh, the public doesn't require any new ideas. The public is best served by the good, old established ideas it already has. Dr. Stockmann. And that is your honest opinion? Peter Stockmann. Yes, and for once I must talk frankly to you. Hitherto I have tried to avoid doing so, because I know how irritable you are; but now I must tell you the truth, Thomas. You have no conception what an amount of harm you do yourself by your impetuosity. You complain of the authorities, you even complain of the government—you are always pulling them to pieces; you insist that you have been neglected and persecuted. But what else can such a cantankerous man as you expect? Dr. Stockmann. What next! Cantankerous, am I? Peter Stockmann. Yes, Thomas, you are an extremely cantankerous man to work with—I know that to my cost. You disregard everything that you ought to have consideration for. You seem completely to forget that it is me you have to thank for your appointment here as medical officer to the Baths. Dr. Stockmann. I was entitled to it as a matter of course!—I and nobody else! I was the first person to see that the town could be made into a flourishing watering-place, and I was the only one who saw it at that time. I had to fight single-handed in support of the idea for many years; and I wrote and wrote— Peter Stockmann. Undoubtedly. But things were not ripe for the scheme then—though, of course, you could not judge of that in your out-of-the-way corner up north. But as soon as the opportune moment came I—and the others—took the matter into our hands. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and made this mess of all my beautiful plan. It is pretty obvious now what clever fellows you were! Peter Stockmann. To my mind the whole thing only seems to mean that you are seeking another outlet for your combativeness. You want to pick a quarrel with your superiors—an old habit of yours. You cannot put up with any authority over you. You look askance at anyone who occupies a superior official position; you regard him as a personal enemy, and then any stick is good enough to beat him with. But now I have called your attention to the fact that the town's interests are at stake—and, incidentally, my own too. And therefore, I must tell you, Thomas, that you will find me inexorable with regard to what I am about to require you to do. Dr. Stockmann. And what is that? Peter Stockmann. As you have been so indiscreet as to speak of this delicate matter to outsiders, despite the fact that you ought to have treated it as entirely official and confidential, it is obviously impossible to hush it up now. All sorts of rumours will get about directly, and everybody who has a grudge against us will take care to embellish these rumours. So it will be necessary for you to refute them publicly. Dr. Stockmann. I! How? I don't understand. Peter Stockmann. What we shall expect is that, after making further investigations, you will come to the conclusion that the matter is not by any means as dangerous or as critical as you imagined in the first instance. Dr. Stockmann. Oho!—so that is what you expect! Peter Stockmann. And, what is more, we shall expect you to make public profession of your confidence in the Committee and in their readiness to consider fully and conscientiously what steps may be necessary to remedy any possible defects. Dr. Stockmann. But you will never be able to do that by patching and tinkering at it—never! Take my word for it, Peter; I mean what I say, as deliberately and emphatically as possible. Peter Stockmann. As an officer under the Committee, you have no right to any individual opinion. Dr. Stockmann (amazed). No right? Peter Stockmann. In your official capacity, no. As a private person, it is quite another matter. But as a subordinate member of the staff of the Baths, you have no right to express any opinion which runs contrary to that of your superiors. Dr. Stockmann. This is too much! I, a doctor, a man of science, have no right to—! Peter Stockmann. The matter in hand is not simply a scientific one. It is a complicated matter, and has its economic as well as its technical side. Dr. Stockmann. I don't care what it is! I intend to be free to express my opinion on any subject under the sun. Peter Stockmann. As you please—but not on any subject concerning the Baths. That we forbid. Dr. Stockmann (shouting). You forbid—! You! A pack of— Peter Stockmann. I forbid it—I, your chief; and if I forbid it, you have to obey. Dr. Stockmann (controlling himself). Peter—if you were not my brother— Petra (throwing open the door). Father, you shan't stand this! Mrs. Stockmann (coming in after her). Petra, Petra! Peter Stockmann. Oh, so you have been eavesdropping. Mrs. Stockmann. You were talking so loud, we couldn't help it! Petra. Yes, I was listening. Peter Stockmann. Well, after all, I am very glad— Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). You were saying something about forbidding and obeying? Peter Stockmann. You obliged me to take that tone with you. Dr. Stockmann. And so I am to give myself the lie, publicly? Peter Stockmann. We consider it absolutely necessary that you should make some such public statement as I have asked for. Dr. Stockmann. And if I do not—obey? Peter Stockmann. Then we shall publish a statement ourselves to reassure the public. Dr. Stockmann. Very well; but in that case I shall use my pen against you. I stick to what I have said; I will show that I am right and that you are wrong. And what will you do then? Peter Stockmann. Then I shall not be able to prevent your being dismissed. Dr. Stockmann. What—? Petra. Father—dismissed! Mrs. Stockmann. Dismissed! Peter Stockmann. Dismissed from the staff of the Baths. I shall be obliged to propose that you shall immediately be given notice, and shall not be allowed any further participation in the Baths' affairs. Dr. Stockmann. You would dare to do that! Peter Stockmann. It is you that are playing the daring game. Petra. Uncle, that is a shameful way to treat a man like father! Mrs. Stockmann. Do hold your tongue, Petra! Peter Stockmann (looking at PETRA). Oh, so we volunteer our opinions already, do we? Of course. (To MRS. STOCKMANN.) Katherine, I imagine you are the most sensible person in this house. Use any influence you may have over your husband, and make him see what this will entail for his family as well as— Dr. Stockmann. My family is my own concern and nobody else's! Peter Stockmann. —for his own family, as I was saying, as well as for the town he lives in. Dr. Stockmann. It is I who have the real good of the town at heart! I want to lay bare the defects that sooner or later must come to the light of day. I will show whether I love my native town. Peter Stockmann. You, who in your blind obstinacy want to cut off the most important source of the town's welfare? Dr. Stockmann. The source is poisoned, man! Are you mad? We are making our living by retailing filth and corruption! The whole of our flourishing municipal life derives its sustenance from a lie! Peter Stockmann. All imagination—or something even worse. The man who can throw out such offensive insinuations about his native town must be an enemy to our community. Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). Do you dare to—! Mrs. Stockmann (throwing herself between them). Thomas! Petra (catching her father by the arm). Don't lose your temper, father! Peter Stockmann. I will not expose myself to violence. Now you have had a warning; so reflect on what you owe to yourself and your family. Goodbye. (Goes out.) Dr. Stockmann (walking up and down). Am I to put up with such treatment as this? In my own house, Katherine! What do you think of that! Mrs. Stockmann. Indeed it is both shameful and absurd, Thomas— Petra. If only I could give uncle a piece of my mind— Dr. Stockmann. It is my own fault. I ought to have flown out at him long ago!—shown my teeth!—bitten! To hear him call me an enemy to our community! Me! I shall not take that lying down, upon my soul! Mrs. Stockmann. But, dear Thomas, your brother has power on his side. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but I have right on mine, I tell you. Mrs. Stockmann. Oh yes, right—right. What is the use of having right on your side if you have not got might? Petra. Oh, mother!—how can you say such a thing! Dr. Stockmann. Do you imagine that in a free country it is no use having right on your side? You are absurd, Katherine. Besides, haven't I got the liberal-minded, independent press to lead the way, and the compact majority behind me? That is might enough, I should think! Mrs. Stockmann. But, good heavens, Thomas, you don't mean to? Dr. Stockmann. Don't mean to what? Mrs. Stockmann. To set yourself up in opposition to your brother. Dr. Stockmann. In God's name, what else do you suppose I should do but take my stand on right and truth? Petra. Yes, I was just going to say that. Mrs. Stockmann. But it won't do you any earthly good. If they won't do it, they won't. Dr. Stockmann. Oho, Katherine! Just give me time, and you will see how I will carry the war into their camp. Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, you carry the war into their camp, and you get your dismissal—that is what you will do. Dr. Stockmann. In any case I shall have done my duty towards the public—towards the community, I, who am called its enemy! Mrs. Stockmann. But towards your family, Thomas? Towards your own home! Do you think that is doing your duty towards those you have to provide for? Petra. Ah, don't think always first of us, mother. Mrs. Stockmann. Oh, it is easy for you to talk; you are able to shift for yourself, if need be. But remember the boys, Thomas; and think a little of yourself too, and of me— Dr. Stockmann. I think you are out of your senses, Katherine! If I were to be such a miserable coward as to go on my knees to Peter and his damned crew, do you suppose I should ever know an hour's peace of mind all my life afterwards? Mrs. Stockmann. I don't know anything about that; but God preserve us from the peace of mind we shall have, all the same, if you go on defying him! You will find yourself again without the means of subsistence, with no income to count upon. I should think we had had enough of that in the old days. Remember that, Thomas; think what that means. Dr. Stockmann (collecting himself with a struggle and clenching his fists). And this is what this slavery can bring upon a free, honourable man! Isn't it horrible, Katherine? Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, it is sinful to treat you so, it is perfectly true. But, good heavens, one has to put up with so much injustice in this world. There are the boys, Thomas! Look at them! What is to become of them? Oh, no, no, you can never have the heart—. (EJLIF and MORTEN have come in, while she was speaking, with their school books in their hands.) Dr. Stockmann. The boys— I (Recovers himself suddenly.) No, even if the whole world goes to pieces, I will never bow my neck to this yokel (Goes towards his room.) Mrs. Stockmann (following him). Thomas—what are you going to do! Dr. Stockmann (at his door). I mean to have the right to look my sons in the face when they are grown men. (Goes into his room.) Mrs. Stockmann (bursting into tears). God help us all! Petra. Father is splendid! He will not give in. (The boys look on in amazement; PETRA signs to them not to speak.) Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze verfassen?

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Akt Zwei beginnt am nächsten Morgen am gleichen Ort. Kate übergibt Thomas einen Brief von Peter. Er hat den Bericht und die Analyse zurückgegeben, und Thomas sagt, dass Peter ihn um die Mittagszeit besuchen wird. Thomas sagt, dass Peter nicht erfreut sein wird, die Entdeckung gemacht zu haben, aber denkt, dass er im Inneren froh genug sein wird. Kate bittet ihn, großzügig zu sein und sagt, dass er Peter den Ruhm teilen lassen soll. Er sagt, er vermutet schon, solange die Dinge richtiggestellt werden. Morten Kiil taucht auf und sagt, dass er nur reinkommt, wenn es wahr ist. Dann erklärt er und fragt, ob die Geschichte über die Wasserversorgung wahr ist. Petra hat ihm davon erzählt und Thomas bestätigt es. Kiil unterdrückt ein Lachen, als Thomas sagt, wie glücklich er über die Neuigkeit ist. Er fragt warum und Thomas sagt, weil er es rechtzeitig entdeckt hat. Kiil fragt nach den "kleinen Tieren", die niemand sehen kann, und Thomas erklärt, dass dies winzige Organismen sind. Kiil sagt, dass er den Bürgermeister nie dazu überreden wird, das zu glauben. Kiil ärgert sich immer noch darüber, dass er aus dem Rat geworfen wurde, und sagt ihm, er solle tun, was er kann, damit der Bürgermeister und seine "Kumpels" darauf "hereinfallen". Er fügt hinzu, dass er den Armen 5 Pfund geben wird, wenn er es tut. Dann reduziert er es und sagt, dass er den Armen nächstes Weihnachten 2 Pfund 10 geben wird. Hovstad kommt dann ins Haus und Kiil fragt, ob er auch darin verwickelt ist, und Thomas sagt, ja. Kiil geht und Thomas lacht darüber, dass er nicht glaubt, was er über die Wasserversorgung gesagt hat. Das Gespräch geht weiter und Hovstad sagt, wie Thomas gesagt hat, dass die Verschmutzung des Wassers "durch verschiedene Verunreinigungen im Boden verursacht wird". Thomas stimmt zu, dass sie aus dem Sumpf kommt, und Hovstad sagt, er denkt, "es wird durch eine ganz andere Art von Sumpf verursacht": "Ich denke an den Sumpf, in dem unser gesamtes städtisches Leben verfault!" Er erklärt, dass er denkt, "die Angelegenheiten dieser Stadt sind in die Hände einer Bande von Bürokraten geraten" und eine Handvoll Männer habe Macht und diese stammen aus "den alten Familien". Thomas sagt, dass sie fähige Männer sind, und Hovstad hinterfragt das. Er versichert Thomas, dass The Herald sich der Sache annimmt, und erzählt ihm, wie er geschworen hat, "diesen Ring bigott alter Narren zu zerschlagen", als er das Blatt übernahm. Thomas ist vorsichtiger und sagt, wie Hovstad das schon einmal versucht hat und die Zeitung fast "ruiniert" hat. Er sagt auch, dass sie diesen Männern "eine große Schuld" haben. Hovstad stimmt zu, sagt aber, dass er als Journalist mit demokratischer Überzeugung die "Gelegenheit" nicht verstreichen lassen kann. Er sagt, die Wahrheit solle an erster Stelle stehen, und Thomas sagt "ja, natürlich" und fügt dann hinzu, "aber trotzdem". Hovstad sagt, wie er von "bescheidenen Wurzeln" stammt und weiß, dass den Arbeitsschichten "ein gewisser Anteil an der Leitung der öffentlichen Angelegenheiten" gewährt werden muss. Er sieht dies als seine Verantwortung. Aslaksen ruft dann an und sagt Thomas, dass er seine Unterstützung für eine neue Wasserversorgung geben wird. Er sagt, er gehört zu den "kleinen Bürgern" und diese bilden eine "solide Mehrheit" in der Stadt. Thomas sagt, dass er dies nicht für notwendig hält, da die Angelegenheit einfach ist. Aslaksen sagt, dass die örtlichen Behörden nie eifrig sind, neue Maßnahmen zu ergreifen, und sagt, er denkt, es wäre eine gute Idee, eine kleine Demonstration zu organisieren, die in "Maßen" durchgeführt wird. Er sagt dann, wie wichtig die Wasserversorgung ist, und als Vorsitzender des Hausbesitzerverbands und Mitglied des Mäßigkeitsvereins hat er etwas Einfluss in der Stadt. Er sagt auch, dass er eine Danksagung fordern könnte, und Thomas bedankt sich bei ihm. Er bietet Aslaksen ein Glas Sherry an und dann Bier, und Aslaksen lehnt beides ab. Aslaksen spricht wieder von Maßhalten, als Hovstad sagt, er werde "ihnen" mit der Zeitung "ordentlich aufschütteln". Als Aslaksen geht, fragt Hovstad Thomas, ob er glaubt, dass es an der Zeit ist, "dieses zögernde Schwachsein und diese Feigheit" zu beenden. Hovstad sagt, er verlangt mehr von einem Mann und erwartet, dass Prinzipien selbstbewusst umgesetzt werden. Er sagt auch, dass der "Aberglaube an Autoritäten in dieser Stadt ausgelöscht" werden muss und der "kriminelle Fehler" jedem erzählt werden muss. Thomas stimmt zu, wenn er denkt, dass es für "das Gemeinwohl" ist, möchte aber zuerst mit seinem Bruder sprechen. Er sagt, dass er möglicherweise seinen Bericht veröffentlicht, wenn sein Bruder sich weigert, sich mit der Angelegenheit zu befassen. Er gibt ihm den Bericht und sagt, dass es keinen Schaden anrichtet, ihn trotzdem zu lesen. Peter erscheint einige Zeit, nachdem Hovstad gegangen ist, und fragt Thomas, ob es notwendig war, all diese Ermittlungen hinter seinem Rücken anzustellen. Dann fragt er, ob er sich die Mühe gemacht hat, darüber nachzudenken, was die vorgeschlagenen Änderungen des Baus eines Kanals und der Verlegung von Wasserrohren kosten werden. Er fährt fort und sagt, dass es irgendwo zwischen 40.000 und 50.000 Pfund liegen wird und zwei Jahre dauern wird. Thomas ist von beiden Punkten überrascht, und Peter sagt auch, wie in der Zwischenzeit die Bäder geschlossen werden müssen. Er sagt auch, wenn das passiert, wird die Stadt ruiniert sein und es wird Thomas' Schuld sein. Als Peter sagt, er sei nicht einmal überzeugt, dass eine unmittelbare Gefahr besteht, argumentiert Thomas, dass er es weiß, aber es nicht anerkennen wird, da es durch ihn war, dass die Bäder und Rohre dort gebaut wurden, wo sie 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: It was a Sunday in February, an afternoon when the snow was falling. They had all, Monsieur and Madame Bovary, Homais, and Monsieur Leon, gone to see a yarn-mill that was being built in the valley a mile and a half from Yonville. The druggist had taken Napoleon and Athalie to give them some exercise, and Justin accompanied them, carrying the umbrellas on his shoulder. Nothing, however, could be less curious than this curiosity. A great piece of waste ground, on which pell-mell, amid a mass of sand and stones, were a few break-wheels, already rusty, surrounded by a quadrangular building pierced by a number of little windows. The building was unfinished; the sky could be seen through the joists of the roofing. Attached to the stop-plank of the gable a bunch of straw mixed with corn-ears fluttered its tricoloured ribbons in the wind. Homais was talking. He explained to the company the future importance of this establishment, computed the strength of the floorings, the thickness of the walls, and regretted extremely not having a yard-stick such as Monsieur Binet possessed for his own special use. Emma, who had taken his arm, bent lightly against his shoulder, and she looked at the sun's disc shedding afar through the mist his pale splendour. She turned. Charles was there. His cap was drawn down over his eyebrows, and his two thick lips were trembling, which added a look of stupidity to his face; his very back, his calm back, was irritating to behold, and she saw written upon his coat all the platitude of the bearer. While she was considering him thus, tasting in her irritation a sort of depraved pleasure, Leon made a step forward. The cold that made him pale seemed to add a more gentle languor to his face; between his cravat and his neck the somewhat loose collar of his shirt showed the skin; the lobe of his ear looked out from beneath a lock of hair, and his large blue eyes, raised to the clouds, seemed to Emma more limpid and more beautiful than those mountain-lakes where the heavens are mirrored. "Wretched boy!" suddenly cried the chemist. And he ran to his son, who had just precipitated himself into a heap of lime in order to whiten his boots. At the reproaches with which he was being overwhelmed Napoleon began to roar, while Justin dried his shoes with a wisp of straw. But a knife was wanted; Charles offered his. "Ah!" she said to herself, "he carried a knife in his pocket like a peasant." The hoar-frost was falling, and they turned back to Yonville. In the evening Madame Bovary did not go to her neighbour's, and when Charles had left and she felt herself alone, the comparison re-began with the clearness of a sensation almost actual, and with that lengthening of perspective which memory gives to things. Looking from her bed at the clean fire that was burning, she still saw, as she had down there, Leon standing up with one hand behind his cane, and with the other holding Athalie, who was quietly sucking a piece of ice. She thought him charming; she could not tear herself away from him; she recalled his other attitudes on other days, the words he had spoken, the sound of his voice, his whole person; and she repeated, pouting out her lips as if for a kiss-- "Yes, charming! charming! Is he not in love?" she asked herself; "but with whom? With me?" All the proofs arose before her at once; her heart leapt. The flame of the fire threw a joyous light upon the ceiling; she turned on her back, stretching out her arms. Then began the eternal lamentation: "Oh, if Heaven had not willed it! And why not? What prevented it?" When Charles came home at midnight, she seemed to have just awakened, and as he made a noise undressing, she complained of a headache, then asked carelessly what had happened that evening. "Monsieur Leon," he said, "went to his room early." She could not help smiling, and she fell asleep, her soul filled with a new delight. The next day, at dusk, she received a visit from Monsieur Lherueux, the draper. He was a man of ability, was this shopkeeper. Born a Gascon but bred a Norman, he grafted upon his southern volubility the cunning of the Cauchois. His fat, flabby, beardless face seemed dyed by a decoction of liquorice, and his white hair made even more vivid the keen brilliance of his small black eyes. No one knew what he had been formerly; a pedlar said some, a banker at Routot according to others. What was certain was that he made complex calculations in his head that would have frightened Binet himself. Polite to obsequiousness, he always held himself with his back bent in the position of one who bows or who invites. After leaving at the door his hat surrounded with crape, he put down a green bandbox on the table, and began by complaining to madame, with many civilities, that he should have remained till that day without gaining her confidence. A poor shop like his was not made to attract a "fashionable lady"; he emphasized the words; yet she had only to command, and he would undertake to provide her with anything she might wish, either in haberdashery or linen, millinery or fancy goods, for he went to town regularly four times a month. He was connected with the best houses. You could speak of him at the "Trois Freres," at the "Barbe d'Or," or at the "Grand Sauvage"; all these gentlemen knew him as well as the insides of their pockets. To-day, then he had come to show madame, in passing, various articles he happened to have, thanks to the most rare opportunity. And he pulled out half-a-dozen embroidered collars from the box. Madame Bovary examined them. "I do not require anything," she said. Then Monsieur Lheureux delicately exhibited three Algerian scarves, several packets of English needles, a pair of straw slippers, and finally, four eggcups in cocoanut wood, carved in open work by convicts. Then, with both hands on the table, his neck stretched out, his figure bent forward, open-mouthed, he watched Emma's look, who was walking up and down undecided amid these goods. From time to time, as if to remove some dust, he filliped with his nail the silk of the scarves spread out at full length, and they rustled with a little noise, making in the green twilight the gold spangles of their tissue scintillate like little stars. "How much are they?" "A mere nothing," he replied, "a mere nothing. But there's no hurry; whenever it's convenient. We are not Jews." She reflected for a few moments, and ended by again declining Monsieur Lheureux's offer. He replied quite unconcernedly-- "Very well. We shall understand one another by and by. I have always got on with ladies--if I didn't with my own!" Emma smiled. "I wanted to tell you," he went on good-naturedly, after his joke, "that it isn't the money I should trouble about. Why, I could give you some, if need be." She made a gesture of surprise. "Ah!" said he quickly and in a low voice, "I shouldn't have to go far to find you some, rely on that." And he began asking after Pere Tellier, the proprietor of the "Cafe Francais," whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending. "What's the matter with Pere Tellier? He coughs so that he shakes his whole house, and I'm afraid he'll soon want a deal covering rather than a flannel vest. He was such a rake as a young man! Those sort of people, madame, have not the least regularity; he's burnt up with brandy. Still it's sad, all the same, to see an acquaintance go off." And while he fastened up his box he discoursed about the doctor's patients. "It's the weather, no doubt," he said, looking frowningly at the floor, "that causes these illnesses. I, too, don't feel the thing. One of these days I shall even have to consult the doctor for a pain I have in my back. Well, good-bye, Madame Bovary. At your service; your very humble servant." And he closed the door gently. Emma had her dinner served in her bedroom on a tray by the fireside; she was a long time over it; everything was well with her. "How good I was!" she said to herself, thinking of the scarves. She heard some steps on the stairs. It was Leon. She got up and took from the chest of drawers the first pile of dusters to be hemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy. The conversation languished; Madame Bovary gave it up every few minutes, whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed. Seated on a low chair near the fire, he turned round in his fingers the ivory thimble-case. She stitched on, or from time to time turned down the hem of the cloth with her nail. She did not speak; he was silent, captivated by her silence, as he would have been by her speech. "Poor fellow!" she thought. "How have I displeased her?" he asked himself. At last, however, Leon said that he should have, one of these days, to go to Rouen on some office business. "Your music subscription is out; am I to renew it?" "No," she replied. "Why?" "Because--" And pursing her lips she slowly drew a long stitch of grey thread. This work irritated Leon. It seemed to roughen the ends of her fingers. A gallant phrase came into his head, but he did not risk it. "Then you are giving it up?" he went on. "What?" she asked hurriedly. "Music? Ah! yes! Have I not my house to look after, my husband to attend to, a thousand things, in fact, many duties that must be considered first?" She looked at the clock. Charles was late. Then, she affected anxiety. Two or three times she even repeated, "He is so good!" The clerk was fond of Monsieur Bovary. But this tenderness on his behalf astonished him unpleasantly; nevertheless he took up on his praises, which he said everyone was singing, especially the chemist. "Ah! he is a good fellow," continued Emma. "Certainly," replied the clerk. And he began talking of Madame Homais, whose very untidy appearance generally made them laugh. "What does it matter?" interrupted Emma. "A good housewife does not trouble about her appearance." Then she relapsed into silence. It was the same on the following days; her talks, her manners, everything changed. She took interest in the housework, went to church regularly, and looked after her servant with more severity. She took Berthe from nurse. When visitors called, Felicite brought her in, and Madame Bovary undressed her to show off her limbs. She declared she adored children; this was her consolation, her joy, her passion, and she accompanied her caresses with lyrical outburst which would have reminded anyone but the Yonville people of Sachette in "Notre Dame de Paris." When Charles came home he found his slippers put to warm near the fire. His waistcoat now never wanted lining, nor his shirt buttons, and it was quite a pleasure to see in the cupboard the night-caps arranged in piles of the same height. She no longer grumbled as formerly at taking a turn in the garden; what he proposed was always done, although she did not understand the wishes to which she submitted without a murmur; and when Leon saw him by his fireside after dinner, his two hands on his stomach, his two feet on the fender, his two cheeks red with feeding, his eyes moist with happiness, the child crawling along the carpet, and this woman with the slender waist who came behind his arm-chair to kiss his forehead: "What madness!" he said to himself. "And how to reach her!" And thus she seemed so virtuous and inaccessible to him that he lost all hope, even the faintest. But by this renunciation he placed her on an extraordinary pinnacle. To him she stood outside those fleshly attributes from which he had nothing to obtain, and in his heart she rose ever, and became farther removed from him after the magnificent manner of an apotheosis that is taking wing. It was one of those pure feelings that do not interfere with life, that are cultivated because they are rare, and whose loss would afflict more than their passion rejoices. Emma grew thinner, her cheeks paler, her face longer. With her black hair, her large eyes, her aquiline nose, her birdlike walk, and always silent now, did she not seem to be passing through life scarcely touching it, and to bear on her brow the vague impress of some divine destiny? She was so sad and so calm, at once so gentle and so reserved, that near her one felt oneself seized by an icy charm, as we shudder in churches at the perfume of the flowers mingling with the cold of the marble. The others even did not escape from this seduction. The chemist said-- "She is a woman of great parts, who wouldn't be misplaced in a sub-prefecture." The housewives admired her economy, the patients her politeness, the poor her charity. But she was eaten up with desires, with rage, with hate. That dress with the narrow folds hid a distracted fear, of whose torment those chaste lips said nothing. She was in love with Leon, and sought solitude that she might with the more ease delight in his image. The sight of his form troubled the voluptuousness of this mediation. Emma thrilled at the sound of his step; then in his presence the emotion subsided, and afterwards there remained to her only an immense astonishment that ended in sorrow. Leon did not know that when he left her in despair she rose after he had gone to see him in the street. She concerned herself about his comings and goings; she watched his face; she invented quite a history to find an excuse for going to his room. The chemist's wife seemed happy to her to sleep under the same roof, and her thoughts constantly centered upon this house, like the "Lion d'Or" pigeons, who came there to dip their red feet and white wings in its gutters. But the more Emma recognised her love, the more she crushed it down, that it might not be evident, that she might make it less. She would have liked Leon to guess it, and she imagined chances, catastrophes that should facilitate this. What restrained her was, no doubt, idleness and fear, and a sense of shame also. She thought she had repulsed him too much, that the time was past, that all was lost. Then, pride, and joy of being able to say to herself, "I am virtuous," and to look at herself in the glass taking resigned poses, consoled her a little for the sacrifice she believed she was making. Then the lusts of the flesh, the longing for money, and the melancholy of passion all blended themselves into one suffering, and instead of turning her thoughts from it, she clave to it the more, urging herself to pain, and seeking everywhere occasion for it. She was irritated by an ill-served dish or by a half-open door; bewailed the velvets she had not, the happiness she had missed, her too exalted dreams, her narrow home. What exasperated her was that Charles did not seem to notice her anguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed to her an imbecile insult, and his sureness on this point ingratitude. For whose sake, then was she virtuous? Was it not for him, the obstacle to all felicity, the cause of all misery, and, as it were, the sharp clasp of that complex strap that bucked her in on all sides. On him alone, then, she concentrated all the various hatreds that resulted from her boredom, and every effort to diminish only augmented it; for this useless trouble was added to the other reasons for despair, and contributed still more to the separation between them. Her own gentleness to herself made her rebel against him. Domestic mediocrity drove her to lewd fancies, marriage tenderness to adulterous desires. She would have liked Charles to beat her, that she might have a better right to hate him, to revenge herself upon him. She was surprised sometimes at the atrocious conjectures that came into her thoughts, and she had to go on smiling, to hear repeated to her at all hours that she was happy, to pretend to be happy, to let it be believed. Yet she had loathing of this hypocrisy. She was seized with the temptation to flee somewhere with Leon to try a new life; but at once a vague chasm full of darkness opened within her soul. "Besides, he no longer loves me," she thought. "What is to become of me? What help is to be hoped for, what consolation, what solace?" She was left broken, breathless, inert, sobbing in a low voice, with flowing tears. "Why don't you tell master?" the servant asked her when she came in during these crises. "It is the nerves," said Emma. "Do not speak to him of it; it would worry him." "Ah! Ja", fuhr Felicite fort, "du bist genau wie La Guerine, die Tochter von Pere Guerin, dem Fischer aus Pollet, den ich in Dieppe kannte, bevor ich zu dir kam. Sie war so traurig, so traurig, wenn sie aufrecht vor der Tür ihres Hauses stand, schien sie dir wie ein Leichentuch, das vor der Tür ausgebreitet war. Ihre Krankheit war anscheinend eine Art Nebel in ihrem Kopf, und die Ärzte konnten nichts tun, genauso wenig wie der Priester. Wenn es ihr zu schlecht ging, ging sie ganz alleine an den Strand, sodass der Zollbeamte sie oft flach auf dem Gesicht liegend auf dem Kiesel fand und weinen sah. Danach, nach ihrer Hochzeit, hörte es auf, sagen sie." "Aber bei mir," antwortete Emma, "hat es nach der Hochzeit angefangen." 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.

Das übliche Quartett ist auf einem seltsamen und unglaublich langweiligen Ausflug. Sie besuchen eine neue Spinnerei kurz außerhalb der Stadt, zusammen mit zwei der unglücklicherweise benannten Kinder von Homais, Athalie und Napoleon. Die Hauptattraktion ist im Allgemeinen unattraktiv. Homais plappert wie gewohnt ununterbrochen. Alle anderen sind eher nachdenklich. Emma überlegt plötzlich, wie nervig Charles ist, selbst wenn er nichts tut. Leon hingegen scheint ihr besonders schön zu sein. Sie fängt an zu realisieren, dass etwas zwischen ihnen geschieht. Napoleon zerstört den Moment, indem er sich allgemein kindisch benimmt. Er hat seine Schuhe weiß mit einem Haufen Kalk bemalt, der in der Mühle herumliegt. Charles und Justin versuchen, es loszuwerden. An diesem Abend denkt Emma über den Tag nach - und über Leon. Sie kann nicht aufhören, sich sein Gesicht, seine Manierismen und den Klang seiner Stimme vorzustellen. Schließlich eine Erkenntnis: Leon liebt sie! Sobald sie dies für sich selbst zugibt, gerät Emma in den vollen dramatischen Liebesmodus. Sie beklagt ihr Schicksal, schwärmt im Haus umher und schwebt in einem seligen Trancezustand. Im Allgemeinen tut sie alles, was sie in Büchern gelesen hat. Am nächsten Tag besucht Monsieur Lheureux, der Mercier, sie im Trockengeschäft. Er ist ziemlich clever und klingt laut Flauberts Beschreibung wie eine ziemlich zwielichtige Figur. Niemand weiß, was er vor seiner Ankunft in Yonville getrieben hat. Der Händler weiß genau, wie er Emma beeindrucken kann. Er spricht ihre Eleganz und Raffinesse an und bietet ihr dann eine Auswahl an zierlichen Stücken zur Auswahl. Sie bleibt standhaft und sagt, dass sie nichts braucht, aber der Samen ist gepflanzt - Emma möchte natürlich schöne Dinge haben. Lheureux erwähnt auch schlau, dass sie, wenn sie Geld braucht, es immer von ihm leihen kann... was sich nicht wie eine tolle Idee anhört, wenn man uns fragt. Emma beglückwünscht sich selbst zu ihrer Sparsamkeit, aber sie kann dennoch nicht aufhören, an Monsieur Lheureuxs hübsche Waren zu denken. Leon erscheint nervös und aufgeregt. Er möchte ihr etwas über seine Gefühle sagen, drückt sich aber erneut davor. Peinlichkeit folgt. Nachdem sie erkannt haben, dass sie sich ineinander verliebt haben, versucht Emma sich kurzzeitig zu reformieren - sie wird ernsthaft und versucht, sich zusammenzureißen. Emmas guter Mädchen vorspiel täuscht alle, sogar Leon. Er beginnt sich zu fragen, wie er überhaupt gehofft hatte, ihr nahe zu kommen. In seinem Kopf wird sie noch spektakulärer und makelloser. Jeder bewundert Emma für ihre Eleganz und ihren Charakter. Jetzt, da sie die gute Hausfrau spielt, lebt sie mühelos in der Gesellschaft von Yonville. Doch tief in ihr verbirgt sie leidenschaftliche Gefühle. Wir reden hier von ernster Qual. Wenn sie alleine ist, kann sie nur an Leon denken - tatsächlich sind diese Fantasien angenehmer als seine Anwesenheit, die sie unbefriedigt zurücklässt. Emma wünscht sich, dass Leon bemerken würde, dass sie in ihn verliebt ist, aber sie ist entweder zu faul oder zu ängstlich, um selbst etwas zu unternehmen. Sie tröstet sich, indem sie dramatische Posen vor dem Spiegel einnimmt und stolz auf ihre "Tugend" ist. All von Emmas geheimen Sorgen bauen sich bis zum Siedepunkt auf, und sie meckert über die kleinsten Dinge, wie eine offene Tür oder ein Gericht, das sie nicht mag. Sie ist auch unglaublich genervt von Charles' dümmlicher Aufmerksamkeitslosigkeit; er ist sich immer noch sicher, dass er sie perfekt glücklich macht. Sie fühlt sich nicht wertgeschätzt und richtet all ihre Aggression auf Charles. Emmas Depression kehrt gelegentlich zurück. Felicite versucht, sie zu trösten, und erzählt ihr, dass sie einmal ein Mädchen kannte, das ein ähnliches Problem hatte - es wurde durch die Ehe geheilt. Leider wurde Emmas Traurigkeit durch ihre Ehe mit Charles verursacht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Their next and second attempt thereat was more deliberately made, though it was begun on the morning following the singular child's arrival at their home. Him they found to be in the habit of sitting silent, his quaint and weird face set, and his eyes resting on things they did not see in the substantial world. "His face is like the tragic mask of Melpomene," said Sue. "What is your name, dear? Did you tell us?" "Little Father Time is what they always called me. It is a nickname; because I look so aged, they say." "And you talk so, too," said Sue tenderly. "It is strange, Jude, that these preternaturally old boys almost always come from new countries. But what were you christened?" "I never was." "Why was that?" "Because, if I died in damnation, 'twould save the expense of a Christian funeral." "Oh--your name is not Jude, then?" said his father with some disappointment. The boy shook his head. "Never heerd on it." "Of course not," said Sue quickly; "since she was hating you all the time!" "We'll have him christened," said Jude; and privately to Sue: "The day we are married." Yet the advent of the child disturbed him. Their position lent them shyness, and having an impression that a marriage at a superintendent registrar's office was more private than an ecclesiastical one, they decided to avoid a church this time. Both Sue and Jude together went to the office of the district to give notice: they had become such companions that they could hardly do anything of importance except in each other's company. Jude Fawley signed the form of notice, Sue looking over his shoulder and watching his hand as it traced the words. As she read the four-square undertaking, never before seen by her, into which her own and Jude's names were inserted, and by which that very volatile essence, their love for each other, was supposed to be made permanent, her face seemed to grow painfully apprehensive. "Names and Surnames of the Parties"--(they were to be parties now, not lovers, she thought). "Condition"--(a horrid idea)--"Rank or Occupation"--"Age"--"Dwelling at"--"Length of Residence"--"Church or Building in which the Marriage is to be solemnized"--"District and County in which the Parties respectively dwell." "It spoils the sentiment, doesn't it!" she said on their way home. "It seems making a more sordid business of it even than signing the contract in a vestry. There is a little poetry in a church. But we'll try to get through with it, dearest, now." "We will. 'For what man is he that hath betrothed a wife and hath not taken her? Let him go and return unto his house, lest he die in the battle, and another man take her.' So said the Jewish law-giver." "How you know the Scriptures, Jude! You really ought to have been a parson. I can only quote profane writers!" During the interval before the issuing of the certificate, Sue, in her housekeeping errands, sometimes walked past the office, and furtively glancing in saw affixed to the wall the notice of the purposed clinch to their union. She could not bear its aspect. Coming after her previous experience of matrimony, all the romance of their attachment seemed to be starved away by placing her present case in the same category. She was usually leading little Father Time by the hand, and fancied that people thought him hers, and regarded the intended ceremony as the patching up of an old error. Meanwhile Jude decided to link his present with his past in some slight degree by inviting to the wedding the only person remaining on earth who was associated with his early life at Marygreen--the aged widow Mrs. Edlin, who had been his great-aunt's friend and nurse in her last illness. He hardly expected that she would come; but she did, bringing singular presents, in the form of apples, jam, brass snuffers, an ancient pewter dish, a warming-pan, and an enormous bag of goose feathers towards a bed. She was allotted the spare room in Jude's house, whither she retired early, and where they could hear her through the ceiling below, honestly saying the Lord's Prayer in a loud voice, as the Rubric directed. As, however, she could not sleep, and discovered that Sue and Jude were still sitting up--it being in fact only ten o'clock--she dressed herself again and came down, and they all sat by the fire till a late hour--Father Time included; though, as he never spoke, they were hardly conscious of him. "Well, I bain't set against marrying as your great-aunt was," said the widow. "And I hope 'twill be a jocund wedding for ye in all respects this time. Nobody can hope it more, knowing what I do of your families, which is more, I suppose, than anybody else now living. For they have been unlucky that way, God knows." Sue breathed uneasily. "They was always good-hearted people, too--wouldn't kill a fly if they knowed it," continued the wedding guest. "But things happened to thwart 'em, and if everything wasn't vitty they were upset. No doubt that's how he that the tale is told of came to do what 'a did--if he WERE one of your family." "What was that?" said Jude. "Well--that tale, ye know; he that was gibbeted just on the brow of the hill by the Brown House--not far from the milestone between Marygreen and Alfredston, where the other road branches off. But Lord, 'twas in my grandfather's time; and it medn' have been one of your folk at all." "I know where the gibbet is said to have stood, very well," murmured Jude. "But I never heard of this. What--did this man--my ancestor and Sue's--kill his wife?" "'Twer not that exactly. She ran away from him, with their child, to her friends; and while she was there the child died. He wanted the body, to bury it where his people lay, but she wouldn't give it up. Her husband then came in the night with a cart, and broke into the house to steal the coffin away; but he was catched, and being obstinate, wouldn't tell what he broke in for. They brought it in burglary, and that's why he was hanged and gibbeted on Brown House Hill. His wife went mad after he was dead. But it medn't be true that he belonged to ye more than to me." A small slow voice rose from the shade of the fireside, as if out of the earth: "If I was you, Mother, I wouldn't marry Father!" It came from little Time, and they started, for they had forgotten him. "Oh, it is only a tale," said Sue cheeringly. After this exhilarating tradition from the widow on the eve of the solemnization they rose, and, wishing their guest good-night, retired. The next morning Sue, whose nervousness intensified with the hours, took Jude privately into the sitting-room before starting. "Jude, I want you to kiss me, as a lover, incorporeally," she said, tremulously nestling up to him, with damp lashes. "It won't be ever like this any more, will it? I wish we hadn't begun the business. But I suppose we must go on. How horrid that story was last night! It spoilt my thoughts of to-day. It makes me feel as if a tragic doom overhung our family, as it did the house of Atreus." "Or the house of Jeroboam," said the quondam theologian. "Yes. And it seems awful temerity in us two to go marrying! I am going to vow to you in the same words I vowed in to my other husband, and you to me in the same as you used to your other wife; regardless of the deterrent lesson we were taught by those experiments!" "If you are uneasy I am made unhappy," said he. "I had hoped you would feel quite joyful. But if you don't, you don't. It is no use pretending. It is a dismal business to you, and that makes it so to me!" "It is unpleasantly like that other morning--that's all," she murmured. "Let us go on now." They started arm in arm for the office aforesaid, no witness accompanying them except the Widow Edlin. The day was chilly and dull, and a clammy fog blew through the town from "Royal-tower'd Thame." On the steps of the office there were the muddy foot-marks of people who had entered, and in the entry were damp umbrellas. Within the office several persons were gathered, and our couple perceived that a marriage between a soldier and a young woman was just in progress. Sue, Jude, and the widow stood in the background while this was going on, Sue reading the notices of marriage on the wall. The room was a dreary place to two of their temperament, though to its usual frequenters it doubtless seemed ordinary enough. Law-books in musty calf covered one wall, and elsewhere were post-office directories, and other books of reference. Papers in packets tied with red tape were pigeon-holed around, and some iron safes filled a recess, while the bare wood floor was, like the door-step, stained by previous visitors. The soldier was sullen and reluctant: the bride sad and timid; she was soon, obviously, to become a mother, and she had a black eye. Their little business was soon done, and the twain and their friends straggled out, one of the witnesses saying casually to Jude and Sue in passing, as if he had known them before: "See the couple just come in? Ha, ha! That fellow is just out of gaol this morning. She met him at the gaol gates, and brought him straight here. She's paying for everything." Sue turned her head and saw an ill-favoured man, closely cropped, with a broad-faced, pock-marked woman on his arm, ruddy with liquor and the satisfaction of being on the brink of a gratified desire. They jocosely saluted the outgoing couple, and went forward in front of Jude and Sue, whose diffidence was increasing. The latter drew back and turned to her lover, her mouth shaping itself like that of a child about to give way to grief: "Jude--I don't like it here! I wish we hadn't come! The place gives me the horrors: it seems so unnatural as the climax of our love! I wish it had been at church, if it had to be at all. It is not so vulgar there!" "Dear little girl," said Jude. "How troubled and pale you look!" "It must be performed here now, I suppose?" "No--perhaps not necessarily." He spoke to the clerk, and came back. "No--we need not marry here or anywhere, unless we like, even now," he said. "We can be married in a church, if not with the same certificate with another he'll give us, I think. Anyhow, let us go out till you are calmer, dear, and I too, and talk it over." They went out stealthily and guiltily, as if they had committed a misdemeanour, closing the door without noise, and telling the widow, who had remained in the entry, to go home and await them; that they would call in any casual passers as witnesses, if necessary. When in the street they turned into an unfrequented side alley where they walked up and down as they had done long ago in the market-house at Melchester. "Now, darling, what shall we do? We are making a mess of it, it strikes me. Still, ANYTHING that pleases you will please me." "But Jude, dearest, I am worrying you! You wanted it to be there, didn't you?" "Well, to tell the truth, when I got inside I felt as if I didn't care much about it. The place depressed me almost as much as it did you--it was ugly. And then I thought of what you had said this morning as to whether we ought." They walked on vaguely, till she paused, and her little voice began anew: "It seems so weak, too, to vacillate like this! And yet how much better than to act rashly a second time... How terrible that scene was to me! The expression in that flabby woman's face, leading her on to give herself to that gaol-bird, not for a few hours, as she would, but for a lifetime, as she must. And the other poor soul--to escape a nominal shame which was owing to the weakness of her character, degrading herself to the real shame of bondage to a tyrant who scorned her--a man whom to avoid for ever was her only chance of salvation... This is our parish church, isn't it? This is where it would have to be, if we did it in the usual way? A service or something seems to be going on." Jude went up and looked in at the door. "Why--it is a wedding here too," he said. "Everybody seems to be on our tack to-day." Sue said she supposed it was because Lent was just over, when there was always a crowd of marriages. "Let us listen," she said, "and find how it feels to us when performed in a church." They stepped in, and entered a back seat, and watched the proceedings at the altar. The contracting couple appeared to belong to the well-to-do middle class, and the wedding altogether was of ordinary prettiness and interest. They could see the flowers tremble in the bride's hand, even at that distance, and could hear her mechanical murmur of words whose meaning her brain seemed to gather not at all under the pressure of her self-consciousness. Sue and Jude listened, and severally saw themselves in time past going through the same form of self-committal. "It is not the same to her, poor thing, as it would be to me doing it over again with my present knowledge," Sue whispered. "You see, they are fresh to it, and take the proceedings as a matter of course. But having been awakened to its awful solemnity as we have, or at least as I have, by experience, and to my own too squeamish feelings perhaps sometimes, it really does seem immoral in me to go and undertake the same thing again with open eyes. Coming in here and seeing this has frightened me from a church wedding as much as the other did from a registry one... We are a weak, tremulous pair, Jude, and what others may feel confident in I feel doubts of--my being proof against the sordid conditions of a business contract again!" Then they tried to laugh, and went on debating in whispers the object-lesson before them. And Jude said he also thought they were both too thin-skinned--that they ought never to have been born--much less have come together for the most preposterous of all joint ventures for THEM--matrimony. His betrothed shuddered; and asked him earnestly if he indeed felt that they ought not to go in cold blood and sign that life-undertaking again? "It is awful if you think we have found ourselves not strong enough for it, and knowing this, are proposing to perjure ourselves," she said. "I fancy I do think it--since you ask me," said Jude. "Remember I'll do it if you wish, own darling." While she hesitated he went on to confess that, though he thought they ought to be able to do it, he felt checked by the dread of incompetency just as she did--from their peculiarities, perhaps, because they were unlike other people. "We are horribly sensitive; that's really what's the matter with us, Sue!" he declared. "I fancy more are like us than we think!" "Well, I don't know. The intention of the contract is good, and right for many, no doubt; but in our case it may defeat its own ends because we are the queer sort of people we are--folk in whom domestic ties of a forced kind snuff out cordiality and spontaneousness." Sue still held that there was not much queer or exceptional in them: that all were so. "Everybody is getting to feel as we do. We are a little beforehand, that's all. In fifty, a hundred, years the descendants of these two will act and feel worse than we. They will see weltering humanity still more vividly than we do now, as Shapes like our own selves hideously multiplied, and will be afraid to reproduce them." "What a terrible line of poetry! ... though I have felt it myself about my fellow-creatures, at morbid times." Thus they murmured on, till Sue said more brightly: "Well--the general question is not our business, and why should we plague ourselves about it? However different our reasons are, we come to the same conclusion: that for us particular two, an irrevocable oath is risky. Then, Jude, let us go home without killing our dream! Yes? How good you are, my friend: you give way to all my whims!" "They accord very much with my own." He gave her a little kiss behind a pillar while the attention of everybody present was taken up in observing the bridal procession entering the vestry; and then they came outside the building. By the door they waited till two or three carriages, which had gone away for a while, returned, and the new husband and wife came into the open daylight. Sue sighed. "The flowers in the bride's hand are sadly like the garland which decked the heifers of sacrifice in old times!" "Still, Sue, it is no worse for the woman than for the man. That's what some women fail to see, and instead of protesting against the conditions they protest against the man, the other victim; just as a woman in a crowd will abuse the man who crushes against her, when he is only the helpless transmitter of the pressure put upon him." "Yes--some are like that, instead of uniting with the man against the common enemy, coercion." The bride and bridegroom had by this time driven off, and the two moved away with the rest of the idlers. "No--don't let's do it," she continued. "At least, just now." They reached home, and passing the window arm in arm saw the widow looking out at them. "Well," cried their guest when they entered, "I said to myself when I zeed ye coming so loving up to the door, 'They made up their minds at last, then!'" They briefly hinted that they had not. "What--and ha'n't ye really done it? Chok' it all, that I should have lived to see a good old saying like 'marry in haste and repent at leisure' spoiled like this by you two! 'Tis time I got back again to Marygreen--sakes if tidden--if this is what the new notions be leading us to! Nobody thought o' being afeard o' matrimony in my time, nor of much else but a cannon-ball or empty cupboard! Why when I and my poor man were married we thought no more o't than of a game o' dibs!" "Don't tell the child when he comes in," whispered Sue nervously. "He'll think it has all gone on right, and it will be better that he should not be surprised and puzzled. Of course it is only put off for reconsideration. If we are happy as we are, what does it matter to anybody?" Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Am Morgen nach dem Jungen's Ankunft erfahren Jude und Sue, dass er "Kleiner Vater Zeit" genannt wird, weil er, wie er sagt, so alt aussieht. Jude und Sue geben ihre Eheschließung bekannt und laden Frau Edlin, die Witwe, die sich um seine Tante gekümmert hat, ein zu kommen. In der Nacht vor ihrer Hochzeit erzählt Frau Edlin eine Geschichte über einen Mann, der in der Nähe des Brown House gehängt wurde, ein Mann, der möglicherweise ein Vorfahr von Sue und Jude war. Am nächsten Tag gehen sie zum Standesamt, um zu heiraten, aber nachdem sie andere Paare beobachtet haben, entscheiden sowohl Sue als auch Jude, dass die Umgebung zu schäbig ist. Sie gehen in eine Pfarrkirche, um eine Hochzeit zu beobachten, aber sie sind sich einig, dass sie keine Zeremonie wie die vorherigen beiden durchlaufen können. Sie beschließen, dass der Zwang zur Ehe nicht für Menschen wie sie ist, und Sue sagt: "Wenn wir glücklich sind, wie wir sind, was spielt es für jemanden eine Rolle?"

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 IV. Szene I. Eintreten ins Parlament: Bullingbrooke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percie, FitzWater, Surrey, Carlile, Abt von Westminster, Herold, Offiziere und Bagot. Bullingbrooke. Ruft Bagot herbei. Nun Bagot, sprich frei deinen Gedanken aus, Was du über den Tod des edlen Glouster weißt: Wer ihn zusammen mit dem König geplant Und das blutige Werk seines unzeitgemäßen Endes ausgeführt hat? Bagot. Dann bringt Lord Aumerle vor mein Gesicht. Bul. Cousin, stell dich vor und sieh diesen Mann an. Bag. Mein Lord Aumerle, ich weiß, deine kühne Zunge Verweigert es, zurückzunehmen, was sie einmal ausgesprochen hat. In jener toten Zeit, als Glousters Tod geplant wurde, Hörte ich dich sagen: Ist mein Arm nicht lang genug, Dass er vom geruhsamen englischen Hof Bis nach Calais reicht, an das Haupt meines Onkels? Unter anderem, zu diesem besagten Zeitpunkt, Hörte ich dich sagen, dass du lieber ablehnen würdest Das Angebot von hunderttausend Kronen, Als Bullingbrookes Rückkehr nach England; und fügtest hinzu, Wie gesegnet dieses Land wäre durch den Tod deines Cousins. Aum. Fürsten und edle Lords, Welche Antwort soll ich diesem niederträchtigen Menschen geben? Soll ich so sehr meine eigene Ehre entehren, Dass ich ihm ein gleiches Urteil auferlege? Entweder muss ich dies tun oder meine Ehre wird befleckt Durch die brutalen Lügen seiner sehr abscheulichen Lippen. Hier ist meine Herausforderung, das Siegel des Todes, Das dich für die Hölle markiert. Du lügst, Und du wirst aufrechterhalten, dass das, was du gesagt hast, falsch ist, In deinem Herzblut, obwohl es allzu wertlos ist, Den Wert meines ritterlichen Schwerts zu schmälern. Bul. Bagot, sei zurückhaltend, du wirst es nicht annehmen. Aum. Mit Ausnahme von einem, ich wünschte, er wäre der Beste In dieser Versammlung, der mich so provoziert hat. Fitz. Wenn dein Mut dasselbe empfindet: Hier ist mein Wagnis, Aumerle, eine Antwort zu deiner: Bei dieser strahlenden Sonne, die mir zeigt, wo du stehst, Hörte ich dich sagen (und du sprachst stolz), Dass du die Ursache für Glousters edlen Tod warst. Wenn du es leugnest, lügst du zwanzig Mal, Und ich werde deine Lüge in dein Herz zurückbringen, Dorthin, wo sie mit der Spitze meines Rapiers gefertigt wurde. Aum. Du wagst es nicht, Feigling, den Tag zu erleben. Fitz. Jetzt bei meiner Seele, ich wünschte, es wäre diese Stunde. Aum. Fitzwater, du bist verdammt zur Hölle für das. Per. Aumerle, du lügst, seine Ehre ist genauso wahr In dieser Anklage, wie du insgesamt ungerecht bist. Und dass du es bist, hier werfe ich meine Herausforderung Um es dir bis zum äußersten Punkt der sterblichen Existenz zu beweisen. Nimm sie an, wenn du dich wagst. Aum. Und wenn ich es nicht tue, mögen meine Hände verwesen Und niemals mehr ein rachsüchtiges Schwert schwingen Über dem glänzenden Helm meines Feindes. Surrey. Mein Lord Fitzwater, Ich erinnere mich gut an die Zeit Als Aumerle und du gesprochen habt. Fitz. Mein Lord, Es ist wahr: Du warst damals anwesend, Und du kannst bezeugen, dass dies wahr ist. Surrey. So falsch wie der Himmel selbst wahr ist. Fitz. Surrey, du lügst. Surrey. Unehrenhafter Junge; Diese Lüge wird so schwer auf meinem Schwert lasten, Dass es Rache und Vergeltung bringen wird, Bis du, der Lügner, und die Lüge selbst, In der Erde so ruhig liegen werden wie der Schädel deines Vaters. Als Beweis dafür, hier ist meine Ehre verpfändet, Setze sie dem Test aus, wenn du dich wagst. Fitzw. Wie leicht reizt du ein wildes Pferd? Wenn ich mich traue zu essen, zu trinken, zu atmen oder zu leben, Dann traue ich mich, Surrey in einer Wildnis zu treffen, Und auf ihn zu spucken, während ich sage, er lügt, Und lügt, und lügt: Hier ist mein Ehrenwort, Dich meiner strengen Strafe zu unterwerfen. Wie ich plane, in dieser neuen Welt zu gedeihen, Ist Aumerle schuldig meiner wahren Anklage. Darüber hinaus hörte ich den verbannten Norfolk sagen, Dass du, Aumerle, zwei deiner Männer geschickt hast, Um den edlen Herzog in Calais hinzurichten. Aum. Ein ehrlicher Christ, der mir eine Herausforderung anvertraut, Dass Norfolk lügt: Hier werfe ich dies nieder, Wenn er zurückgenommen werden kann, um seine Ehre zu überprüfen. Bul. Diese Differenzen sollen alle unter einer Herausforderung ruhen, Bis Norfolk zurückgenommen wird: und zurückgenommen wird er werden; Und (obwohl er mein Feind ist) wiederhergestellt Mit all seinem Land und seinen Besitztümern: wenn er zurückgekehrt ist, Werden wir seine Verhandlung gegen Aumerle durchzusetzen. Carl. Der ehrenwerte Tag wird niemals gesehen werden. Norfolke, der verbannte, hat oft Für Jesus Christus in glorievollem christlichen Gefilde gekämpft, Das Banner des christlichen Kreuzes wehend, Gegen schwarze Heiden, Türken und Sarazenen. Und er hat sich mit Kriegsarbeiten abgemüht, Zog sich nach Italien zurück und gab Seinen Körper dieser angenehmen Ländererde in Venedig, Und seine reine Seele seinem Hauptmann Christus, Unter dessen Farben er so lange gekämpft hatte. Bul. Warum, Bischof, ist Norfolk tot? Carl. So wahr ich lebe, mein Herr. Bul. Frieden geleite seine schöne Seele In den Schoß des guten alten Abraham. Lord Appellanten, eure Unterschiede sollen alle ruhen Bis wir euch euren Prüfungstagen zuordnen. Herein tritt York. York. Großer Herzog von Lancaster, ich komme zu dir Von geflügeltem Richard, der mit williger Seele Dich zum Erben erwählt und sein hohes Zepter In den Besitz deiner königlichen Hand übergeben hat. Besteige seinen Thron, der jetzt von ihm absteigt, Und lebe lange, Heinrich, der Vierte dieses Namens. Bull. Im Namen Gottes, ich werde den königlichen Thron besteigen. Carl. Meine Güte, das sei fern. Am schlechtesten kann ich hier in königlicher Gegenwart sprechen, Aber es passt am besten zu mir, die Wahrheit auszusprechen. Wäre Gott, dass jemand in dieser edlen Versammlung Nobel genug wäre, um ein ehrlicher Richter Für den edlen Richard zu sein: dann würde wahre Adel Eine Enthaltsamkeit von so schändlichem Unrecht lernen. Welcher Untertan kann über seinen König urteilen? Und wer sitzt hier, der kein Untertan Richards ist? Diebe werden nicht beurteilt, aber sie sind anwesend, um zuzuhören, Obwohl offensichtliche Schuld in ihnen zu sehen ist: Und soll das Bild der Majestät Gottes, Sein Kapitän, Verwalter, Stell Bullen. Ho, Herren, die ihr hier vnter unserer Arrest seid, Besorgt euch Bürgen für eure Anhörungstage: Wir sind euch wenig dankbar für eure Liebe, Und haben wenig von eurer hilfreichen Hand erwartet. Richard und York treten ein. Rich. Ach, warum bin ich zu einem König berufen worden, bevor ich die königlichen Gedanken abgeschüttelt habe, mit denen ich regierte? Ich habe kaum gelernt, mich einzuschmeicheln, zu flattern, mich zu verbeugen und das Knie zu beugen. Gebt dem Kummer eine Weile Zeit, mich zu quälen, um mich dieser Unterwerfung zu fügen. Doch erinnere ich mich gut an die Gunst dieser Männer: Gehörten sie nicht mir? Haben sie nicht manchmal gerufen: Heil dir? Judas hat das auch zu Christus gesagt: aber der fand in zwölf alles Wahrheit, außer einem; ich finde in zwölftausend nichts. Gott segne den König: will das niemand sagen? Bin ich sowohl Priester als auch Kleriker? Nun denn, Amen. Gott segne den König, obwohl ich es nicht bin: Und doch, Amen, wenn der Himmel denkt, dass er es ist. Zu welchem Dienst bin ich hierher geschickt? York. Um das Amt zu tun, das du aus eigenem Willen angeboten hast, Das Abgeben deines Status und der Krone an Heinrich von Bullingbrook. Rich. Gebt mir die Krone. Hier, Cousin, ergreife deine Krone: Hier, Cousin, auf dieser Seite meine Hand, auf jener deine. Nun ist diese goldene Krone wie ein tiefer Brunnen, der zwei Eimer besitzt, die sich gegenseitig füllen, der leerere tanzt immer in der Luft, der andere unten, unsichtbar und voller Wasser: Dieser Eimer, voller Tränen bin ich, trinke meinen Kummer, während du in die Höhe steigst. Bull. Ich dachte, du wärst willens, abzutreten Rich. Meine Krone gebe ich ab, aber meine Kummer sind immer noch meine: Du kannst meine Herrlichkeit und meinen Status entziehen, aber nicht meine Schmerzen; immer noch bin ich König über diese. Bull. Ein Teil deiner Sorgen gibst du mir mit deiner Krone Rich. Durch das Errichten deiner Sorgen reißt du nicht meine Sorgen herunter. Meine Sorge ist der Verlust von Sorge, durch alte Sorge vollbracht, Deine Sorge ist der Gewinn von Sorge, durch neue Sorge gewonnen: Die Sorgen, die ich gebe, habe ich noch, obwohl sie weggegeben sind, Sie kümmern sich um die Krone, sind aber immer noch bei mir: Bull. Bist du bereit, die Krone abzugeben? Rich. Ja, nein, nein, ja: denn ich muss nichts sein: Deshalb nein, nein, denn ich gebe sie dir auf. Nun, merkt euch, wie ich mich selbst enttäuschen werde. Ich nehme dieses schwere Gewicht von meinem Kopf, Und dieses unhandliche Zepter von meiner Hand, Den Stolz königlicher Macht aus meinem Herzen. Mit meinen eigenen Tränen wasche ich meinen Balsam ab, Mit meinen eigenen Händen gebe ich meine Krone weg, Mit meiner eigenen Zunge leugne ich meinen heiligen Stand, Mit meinem eigenen Atem entlasse ich alle ehrfürchtigen Eide; Allen Pomp und Majestät schwöre ich ab: Meine Besitztümer, Einkünfte und Einkommen gebe ich auf; Meine Taten, Verordnungen und Gesetze verleugne ich: Gott verzeihe alle Eide, die mir gebrochen wurden, Gott halte alle Versprechen, die dir gegeben wurden. Mache aus mir eine Person, die nichts fühlt, Und sei du mit allem zufrieden, was du erreicht hast. Mögest du lange auf Richard's Thron sitzen, Und möge Richard bald in einem irdenen Grab ruhen. Gott segne König Heinrich, sagt Richard, der nicht mehr König ist, Und sende ihm viele Jahre sonniger Tage. Was bleibt noch? North. Nichts mehr: außer dass du Diese Anschuldigungen und diese schweren Verbrechen liest, Verübt von dir persönlich und deinen Gefolgsleuten, Gegen den Staat und den Nutzen dieses Landes: Damit durch ihr Geständnis die Seelen der Menschen Dich würdig entmachten können. Rich. Muss ich das tun? Und muss ich meine verstrickten Narrheiten offenbaren? Sanfter Northumberland, Wenn deine Vergehen verzeichnet wären, Würde es dich nicht beschämen, vor dieser edeln Schar Eine Vorlesung darüber zu halten? Wenn du wolltest, Würdest du dort einen schlimmen Artikel finden, Der die Entthronung eines Königs enthält Und das Brechen des starken Eidschwurs, Gekennzeichnet mit einem Fleck, verdammt in Gottes Buch. Nein, euch alle, die ihr mich anseht , während mein Elend mich selbst quält, , obwohl einige von euch wie Pilatus ihre Hände waschen, indem sie äußerlich Mitleid zeigen: Ihr Pilatusse habt mich hier meinem sauren Kreuz ausgeliefert, und das Wasser kann eure Sünde nicht abwaschen. North. Mein Herr, wische es weg, lies die Anklagen Rich. Meine Augen sind voller Tränen, ich kann nicht sehen: Und doch blenden sie diese Salzwasser nicht so sehr, Dass sie nicht eine Menge von Verrätern sehen können. Nein, wenn ich meine Augen auf mich selbst richte, Finde ich mich wie die anderen ein Verräter: Denn ich habe hier seine Zustimmung gegeben, Den pompösen Körper eines Königs zu entblößen; Die Herrlichkeit entwürdigt, eine Souveränität zu einem Sklaven gemacht; Großmäulige Majestät, ein Untertanen; Zustand, ein Bauer. North. Mein Herr Rich. Kein Herr deiner, du hochmütig-verhöhnender Mann; Nein, auch kein Herr sonst: Ich habe keinen Namen, keinen Titel; Auch nicht diesen Namen, der mir bei der Taufe gegeben wurde, Aber er ist usurpiert: ach, der schwere Tag, An dem ich so viele Winter überlebt habe, Und jetzt nicht mehr weiß, welchen Namen ich mir geben soll. O, dass ich ein verspotteter Schneekönig wäre, Der vor der Sonne Bullingbrookes steht, Um mich selbst in Wassertropfen zu schmelzen. Guter König, großartiger König, und doch nicht wirklich gut, Und wenn mein Wort noch in England gültig ist, Lass es einen Spiegel hierher befehlen, Dass er mir zeigen möge, welches Gesicht ich habe, Da es seiner Majestät beraubt ist. Bull. Geht und holt einen Spiegel her North. Lies über dieses Papier, während der Spiegel kommt Rich. Teufel, du quälst mich, bevor ich zur Hölle komme Bull. Dränge nicht mehr, mein Herr Northumberland North. Die Bürger werden dann nicht zufrieden sein Rich. Sie sollen zufrieden sein: Ich werde genug lesen, Wenn ich das eigentliche Buch sehe, In dem alle meine Sünden aufgeschrieben sind, und das bin ich selbst. Ein mit Tränen besetztes Glas wird hereingebracht. Gib mir das Glas, darin werde ich lesen. Noch keine tieferen Falten? Hat der Kummer So viele Schläge auf mein Gesicht versetzt, Ohne tiefere Wunden zu schaffen? O schmeichelnder Spiegel, Wie meine Anhänger im Erfolg, Du täuscht mich. War dieses Gesicht das Gesicht, Das jeden Tag unter seinem Dach Zehntausend Männer beherbergte? War dies das Gesicht, Das wie die Sonne die Augen der Betrachter zum Zwinkern brachte? Ist dies das Gesicht, das so viele Narrheiten verbal angegriffen hat, Das letztendlich Rich. Und darf ich? Bull. Du darfst. Rich. Dann erlaube mir zu gehen. Bull. Wohin? Rich. Wohin du willst, solange ich nicht mehr in deiner Sicht bin. Bull. Bringt ihn einige von euch zum Turm. Rich. Oh gut: Bringt mich fort: Ihr seid alle Handlanger, Die so gewandt aufsteigen durch den Sturz eines wahren Königs. Bull. Am nächsten Mittwoch legen wir feierlich fest Unsere Krönung: Meine Herren, bereitet euch vor. Sie gehen ab. Abt. Ein trauriges Schauspiel haben wir hier gesehen. Carl. Das Elend, das kommen wird, die noch ungeborenen Kinder, Werdet diesen Tag ebenso scharf empfinden wie eine Dornen. Aum. Ihr heiligen Geistlichen, gibt es keine Verschwörung Um das Reich von diesem verderblichen Makel zu befreien? Abt. Bevor ich frei meine Meinung dazu äußere, Müsst ihr nicht nur das Sakrament empfangen, Um meine Absichten zu begraben, sondern auch Umzusetzen, was ich auch immer aushecken werde. Ich sehe, eure Stirn ist voller Unzufriedenheit, Euer Herz voller Kummer und eure Augen voller Tränen. Kommt mit mir zum Abendessen, ich werde eine Verschwörung schmieden, Die uns allen einen fröhlichen Tag bescheren wird. Sie gehen ab. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Diese Handlung hat nur eine Szene und sie findet in London, in der Westminster Hall, etwa vierzig Tage nach der Kapitulation des Königs in Flint Castle statt. Sie konzentriert sich auf ein Treffen im Parlament, das abgehalten wird, um über die Frage der Königsherrschaft und auch über Bolingbrokes Handlungen sowie die von Richard und seinen Komplizen zu entscheiden. Unter den Anwesenden des Rates sind Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Northumberland, Percy, die Earls of Fitzwater und Surrey, der Bischof von Carlisle und der Abt von Westminster. Bagot, der zuvor nach Irland entkommen und somit der Hinrichtung in Bristol entkommen ist, ist jetzt gefangen und wird nun über Richards Handlungen befragt. Bolingbroke möchte zunächst wissen, wer für den Tod von Gloucester verantwortlich ist. Bagots Antwort ist sofortig; er zeigt auf Aumerle, den Sohn von York. Aumerle habe einmal geprahlt, dass er seinen Onkel Gloucester loswerden könne und dass nicht einmal hunderttausend Kronen ausreichen würden, um ihn dazu zu bestechen, bei der Rückkehr von Bolingbroke nach England zu helfen; England würde tatsächlich "gesegnet" sein, wenn Bolingbroke getötet würde. Aumerle bestreitet natürlich die Anschuldigung, aber der Earl of Fitzwater, Henry Percy und ein anderer Lord bestätigen Bagots Vorwürfe. Aumerle wird vom Earl of Surrey verteidigt, aber Fitzwater beschuldigt Surrey der Lüge und schwört, dass er den verbannten Mowbray sagen hörte, dass es Aumerle war, der Gloucesters Mord arrangiert habe. Mowbray kann die Anschuldigungen weder bestätigen noch verneinen. Der Herzog von Carlisle informiert die Gruppe, dass Mowbray während eines Kreuzzugs ins Heilige Land getötet wurde. Dann tritt der Duke of York ein und verkündet, dass Richard "mit williger Seele" sein "hohes Zepter" an Bolingbroke abgegeben hat. Zu Bolingbroke sagt er: "Lang lebe Heinrich, der Vierte dieses Namens." Doch kaum hat Bolingbroke den Thron akzeptiert, erhebt der Bischof von Carlisle Einwände: Nur Gott könne, sagt er, über Richard urteilen. Er wendet sich dagegen, dass Richard wegen "scheinbarer Schuld" ohne selbst anwesend zu sein, vor Gericht gestellt wird. Bolingbrokes "Gerichtsverhandlung" des Königs, sagt er, sei eine "schwarze, obszöne" Tat, und er prophezeit, dass wenn Bolingbroke zum König gekrönt wird, "das Blut der Engländer den Boden düngen wird, / Und zukünftige Generationen über diese schändliche Tat klagen werden." Die Bürgerkriege, die folgen, schwört er, werden schlimmer sein als die Kreuzigung selbst. Northumberland unterbricht die Tirade des Bischofs und ordnet an, dass er wegen Hochverrats verhaftet wird. Als Bolingbroke spricht, fordert er, dass Richard vor sie gebracht wird, damit er in "gemeinsamer Sicht" aufgeben kann. Als Richard hereingebracht wird, bemerkt er die vielen einst freundlichen Gesichter, die nun bereit sind, ihn zu verurteilen; Christus hatte nur einen Judas. Doch er mildert seine Gefühle, als er seine Krone an Henry übergibt. Er erinnert ihn an die vielen "Sorgen", die mit der Krone einhergehen; dann gibt er seinen Anspruch auf den Thron auf und wünscht Bolingbroke "viele Jahre sonniger Tage". Northumberland lässt sich von Richards ergreifenden Worten des Fatalismus und der Resignation nicht beeindrucken und fordert Richard auf, die Anklagepunkte gegen ihn laut vorzulesen - "Verübt durch deine Person und deine Anhänger ... / Männer / Mögen dich für würdig halten, abgesetzt zu werden." Richard sagt jedoch, dass seine Tränen es ihm verhindern, die Liste der Anklagepunkte zu lesen. Er schluchzt, dass er nichts sei - ein König aus Schnee, der vor "der Sonne Bolingbrokes" schmilzt. Er bittet nur darum, "zu gehen und euch nicht mehr zu stören". Bolingbroke ordnet daher an, dass er in den Tower of London gebracht wird; die Krönung wird am kommenden Mittwoch stattfinden, sagt er, während er den Raum verlässt. Allein mit den Geistlichen schlägt Aumerle eine Verschwörung vor, um Bolingbroke aus dem Weg zu räumen, und der Abt von Westminster lädt Aumerle in sein Haus ein, um weiter zu sprechen. Zusammen werden sie einen Plan entwickeln, der uns allen einen "fröhlichen Tag" zeigen 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: Scene III. Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius. Enter Laertes and Ophelia. Laer. My necessaries are embark'd. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you. Oph. Do you doubt that? Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent- sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more. Oph. No more but so? Laer. Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself, for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state, And therefore must his choice be circumscrib'd Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmast'red importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes. The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then; best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. Oph. I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own rede. Laer. O, fear me not! Enter Polonius. I stay too long. But here my father comes. A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave. Pol. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay'd for. There- my blessing with thee! And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all- to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell. My blessing season this in thee! Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. Pol. The time invites you. Go, your servants tend. Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you. Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. Laer. Farewell. Exit. Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you? Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. Pol. Marry, well bethought! 'Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you, and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so- as so 'tis put on me, And that in way of caution- I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behooves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth. Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me. Pol. Affection? Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them? Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think, Pol. Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, Or (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus) you'll tender me a fool. Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me with love In honourable fashion. Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to! Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven. Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence. Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young, And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to't, I charge you. Come your ways. Oph. I shall obey, my lord. Exeunt. Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Laertes verabschiedet sich von seiner Schwester Ophelia und warnt sie davor, Hamlet zu vertrauen. Er sagt ihr, dass Hamlet unbeständig ist und bald seine Zuneigung zu ihr verlieren wird. Sie bittet ihn, ihr nicht zu sagen, dass sie streng leben soll, wenn er selbst in Maßlosigkeit lebt. Er beruhigt sie, als ihr Vater Polonius hereinkommt. Polonius schickt seinen Sohn auf seine Rückkehr nach Frankreich. Polonius befragt dann seine Tochter über die Natur ihrer Beziehung zu Hamlet. Als er von seiner Zuneigung zu ihr erfährt, wiederholt Polonius die Warnung von Laertes. Er sagt ihr, sie solle mehr Respekt vor sich selbst haben und die Beziehung nicht fortsetzen. Polonius erteilt Ophelia außerdem den Auftrag, den weiteren Kontakt mit dem Prinzen zu unterlassen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Kapitel: Als sie weg waren, wählte Elizabeth, als ob sie sich selbst so sehr wie möglich gegenüber Mr. Darcy verärgern wollte, als Beschäftigung die Durchsicht aller Briefe, die Jane ihr seit ihrem Aufenthalt in Kent geschrieben hatte. Sie enthielten keine tatsächliche Beschwerde, noch gab es eine Wiederbelebung vergangener Ereignisse oder eine Mitteilung gegenwärtigen Leidens. Aber in allen, und in beinahe jeder Zeile davon, fehlte es an der Fröhlichkeit, die ihren Stil zu charakterisieren pflegte und die, ausgehend von der Gelassenheit eines mit sich selbst im Reinen befindlichen Geistes und einer wohlwollenden Einstellung jedem gegenüber, kaum je getrübt war. Elizabeth bemerkte jeden Satz, der die Idee von Unbehagen vermittelte, mit einer Aufmerksamkeit, die sie bei der ersten Durchsicht kaum erhalten hatte. Mr. Darcys schändliches Prahlen darüber, welches Elend er hatte zufügen können, gab ihr ein schärferes Gefühl für die Leiden ihrer Schwester. Es war ein Trost zu wissen, dass sein Besuch in Rosings am Tag nach dem nächsten enden würde, und noch mehr, dass sie in weniger als zwei Wochen selbst wieder bei Jane sein und durch alles, was Zuneigung tun konnte, zu ihrer Genesung beitragen konnte. Sie konnte nicht an Darcys Abreise aus Kent denken, ohne daran zu erinnern, dass sein Cousin mit ihm gehen sollte; aber Colonel Fitzwilliam hatte deutlich gemacht, dass er keinerlei Absichten hatte, und so angenehm er auch war, sie hatte nicht vor, unglücklich wegen ihm zu sein. Während sie diesen Punkt klärte, wurde sie plötzlich durch das Klingeln der Türklingel aufgeschreckt, und ihre Stimmung wurde durch die Idee, dass es möglicherweise Colonel Fitzwilliam selbst sein könnte, der bereits einmal spät am Abend angerufen hatte und jetzt vielleicht gekommen war, um sich besonders nach ihr zu erkundigen, ein wenig aufgeregt. Aber diese Idee wurde bald vertrieben, und ihre Stimmung wurde sehr unterschiedlich beeinflusst, als sie zu ihrer größten Verblüffung Mr. Darcy in das Zimmer kommen sah. In hastiger Weise begann er sofort mit einer Anfrage nach ihrer Gesundheit, und schob seinen Besuch auf den Wunsch, zu hören, dass es ihr besser gehe. Sie antwortete ihm mit kalter Höflichkeit. Er setzte sich für ein paar Momente hin und ging dann im Zimmer auf und ab. Elizabeth war überrascht, aber sagte kein Wort. Nach einigen Minuten der Stille kam er in aufgeregter Weise auf sie zu und begann wie folgt: "Vergeblich habe ich gekämpft. Es wird nicht funktionieren. Meine Gefühle werden sich nicht unterdrücken lassen. Du musst mir erlauben, dir zu sagen, wie sehr ich dich bewundere und liebe." Elizabeths Erstaunen war grenzenlos. Sie starrte ihn an, wurde rot, zweifelte und schwieg. Dies betrachtete er als ausreichende Ermutigung, und das Bekenntnis von allem, was er für sie empfand und schon lange empfunden hatte, folgte sofort. Er sprach gut, aber es gab andere Gefühle neben denen des Herzens, die detailliert beschrieben werden mussten, und er war nicht eloquenter über das Thema Zärtlichkeit als über Stolz. Sein Gefühl ihrer Minderwertigkeit - dass es eine Erniedrigung war - dass die familiären Hindernisse, die das Urteil immer der Neigung entgegensetzte, wurden in einer Leidenschaftlichkeit behandelt, die schien, als sei sie der Wichtigkeit angemessen, die er verletzte, aber sehr unwahrscheinlich, um seine Bitte zu empfehlen. Trotz ihrer tief verwurzelten Abneigung konnte sie sich der Komplimente eines solchen Mannes nicht erwehren, und obwohl ihre Absichten keinen Moment lang schwankten, bedauerte sie anfangs den Schmerz, den er erleiden würde. Bis sie jedoch durch seine nachfolgende Sprache zur Empörung erweckt wurde, verlor sie all ihre Mitgefühl und wurde wütend. Sie versuchte jedoch, sich zu beruhigen und geduldig zu antworten, wenn er fertig war. Er beendete damit, ihr die Stärke dieser Bindung darzustellen, die er trotz all seiner Bemühungen unmöglich überwinden konnte, und drückte die Hoffnung aus, dass sie nun durch ihre Annahme seiner Hand belohnt werden würde. Als er dies sagte, konnte sie deutlich erkennen, dass er keinen Zweifel an einer positiven Antwort hatte. Er sprach von Besorgnis und Ängstlichkeit, während sein Gesichtsausdruck echtes Vertrauen zeigte. Ein solcher Umstand konnte sie nur noch mehr reizen, und als er aufhörte, stieg die Farbe in ihre Wangen und sie sagte: "In solchen Fällen wie diesem ist es, glaube ich, die etablierte Regel, die Dankbarkeit für die avowierten Gefühle auszudrücken, egal wie ungleich sie erwidert werden können. Es ist natürlich, dass man sich verpflichtet fühlt, und wenn ich Dankbarkeit empfinden könnte, würde ich Ihnen jetzt danken. Aber das kann ich nicht - Ich habe Ihre gute Meinung nie gewünscht, und Sie haben sie sicherlich widerwillig gewährt. Es tut mir leid, jemandem Schmerzen verursacht zu haben. Es wurde jedoch völlig unbewusst getan, und ich hoffe, dass es von kurzer Dauer sein wird. Die Gefühle, von denen Sie mir erzählen, die schon lange das Eingeständnis Ihrer Zuneigung verhindert haben, sollten nach dieser Erklärung wenig Schwierigkeiten haben, diese zu überwinden." Mr. Darcy, der sich gegen den Kamin lehnte und mit seinen Augen auf ihr Gesicht gerichtet war, schien ihre Worte mit nicht weniger Groll als Überraschung aufzunehmen. Sein Teint wurde vor Zorn blass, und die Unruhe seines Geistes war in jedem Zug sichtbar. Er kämpfte um den Anschein von Gelassenheit und öffnete erst seine Lippen, als er glaubte, sie erreicht zu haben. Die Pause war für Elizabeths Gefühle furchtbar. Schließlich sagte er mit gezwungener Ruhe: "Und das ist die einzige Antwort, die ich erwarten darf! Ich möchte vielleicht wissen, warum ich trotz so geringer Bemühungen um Höflichkeit so abgewiesen werde. Aber das ist von geringer Wichtigkeit." "Ich könnte genauso gut fragen", antwortete sie, "warum Sie mir, mit so offensichtlicher Absicht, Unbehagen und Beleidigung zuzufügen, erzählt haben, dass Sie mich mögen, gegen Ihren Willen, gegen Ihre Vernunft und sogar gegen Ihren Charakter? War dies nicht eine Entschuldigung für Unhöflichkeit, wenn ich unhöflich war? Aber ich habe noch andere Provokationen. Du weißt, ich habe sie. Hätten nicht meine eigenen Gefühle gegen Sie entschieden, wären sie gleichgültig gewesen oder wären sie sogar positiv gewesen, glauben Sie, dass irgendeine Überlegung mich dazu verleiten könnte, den Mann anzunehmen, der der Grund für das Ruinieren, vielleicht für immer, des Glücks einer so geliebten Schwester gewesen ist?" Als sie diese Worte aussprach, änderte Mr. Darcy seine Farbe; aber die Emotion war von kurzer Dauer, und er hörte ohne den Versuch einer Unterbrechung zu, während sie weiter sprach. "Ich habe jedes Motiv auf der Welt, schlecht von Ihnen zu denken. Kein Motiv kann das ungerechte und ungeneröse Verhalten entschuldigen, das Sie _dort_ gezeigt haben. Sie wagen es nicht zu leugnen, dass Sie der Hauptgrund, wenn nicht das einzige Mittel waren, um sie voneinander zu trennen, um den einen der Kritik der Welt für Launenhaftigkeit und Unbeständigkeit auszusetzen und den anderen der Verhöhnung für enttäuschte Hoffnungen. und sie beide in elendigster Art und Weise zu involvieren." Sie machte eine Pause und sah mit nicht geringer Empörung, dass er mit einer Miene zuhörte, die deutlich machte, dass er von keinem Gefühl der Reue bewegt war. Er schaute sie sogar mit einem Lächeln angeblicher Ungläubigkeit an. "Können Sie leugnen, dass Sie es get "Und das," rief Darcy aus, als er mit schnellen Schritten durch den Raum ging, "ist deine Meinung von mir! Das ist deine Einschätzung meiner Person! Ich danke dir, dass du es so ausführlich erklärt hast. Meine Fehler, laut dieser Berechnung, sind wirklich schwerwiegend! Aber vielleicht", fügte er hinzu, blieb stehen und drehte sich zu ihr um, "hätten diese Vergehen übersehen werden können, wenn dein Stolz nicht durch mein ehrliches Geständnis der Bedenken verletzt worden wäre, die mich lange davon abgehalten haben, ernsthafte Absichten zu fassen. Diese bitteren Vorwürfe hätten unterdrückt werden können, wenn ich mit größerer Taktik meine Kämpfe verheimlicht und dich dazu verführt hätte, zu glauben, dass meine Handlungen von uneingeschränkter, unverfälschter Neigung, Vernunft, Nachdenken, allem getrieben wurden. Aber jede Art von Verstellung ist mir ein Gräuel. Und ich schäme mich nicht für die Gefühle, von denen ich erzählt habe. Sie waren natürlich und gerecht. Hättest du von mir erwartet, mich über die Minderwertigkeit deiner Verbindungen zu freuen? Sollte ich mich über die Hoffnung auf Verwandtschaft freuen, deren Lebensumstände zweifellos unter meinen eigenen liegen?" Elizabeth fühlte, wie ihre Wut von Moment zu Moment wuchs; dennoch versuchte sie ihr Äußerstes, mit Ruhe zu sprechen, als sie sagte: "Sie irren sich, Mr. Darcy, wenn Sie glauben, dass die Art Ihrer Erklärung mich in irgendeiner anderen Weise beeinflusst hat, als dass sie mir die Sorge erspart hat, die ich empfunden hätte, wenn Sie sich höflicher verhalten hätten." Sie sah, wie er bei diesen Worten erschrak, aber er sagte nichts, und sie fuhr fort: "Sie hätten mir nicht auf eine Art und Weise ein Heiratsangebot machen können, die mich dazu verleitet hätte, es anzunehmen." Wieder war sein Erstaunen offensichtlich; und er sah sie mit einem Ausdruck aus Ungläubigkeit und Demütigung an. Sie fuhr fort. "Von Anfang an, vom ersten Augenblick an, könnte ich sogar sagen, seit ich Sie kenne, haben mich Ihre Manieren davon überzeugt, dass Sie arrogant, eingebildet und egoistisch sind und die Gefühle anderer geringschätzen. Das war die Basis meiner Missbilligung, auf der nachfolgende Ereignisse einen so unerschütterlichen Widerwillen aufgebaut haben; und ich habe Sie noch keine Woche gekannt, bevor ich gemerkt habe, dass Sie der letzte Mann auf der Welt sind, mit dem ich jemals dazu bewegt werden könnte, zu heiraten." "Sie haben genug gesagt, Madame. Ich verstehe Ihre Gefühle perfekt und muss mich nun nur noch für das schämen, was meine eigenen Gefühle gewesen sind. Verzeihen Sie mir, dass ich so viel Ihrer Zeit in Anspruch genommen habe, und nehmen Sie meine besten Wünsche für Ihre Gesundheit und Glück an." Und mit diesen Worten verließ er hastig den Raum, und Elizabeth hörte im nächsten Moment, wie er die Haustür öffnete und das Haus verließ. Das Chaos in ihrem Kopf war jetzt schmerzhaft groß. Sie wusste nicht, wie sie sich halten sollte, und aus tatsächlicher Schwäche setzte sie sich hin und weinte eine halbe Stunde lang. Ihre Verwunderung, als sie über das nachdachte, was passiert war, wurde mit jeder Überprüfung größer. Dass sie ein Heiratsangebot von Mr. Darcy erhalten sollte! Dass er in sie verliebt gewesen sein sollte, so sehr verliebt, dass er sie trotz aller Einwände, die ihn daran gehindert hatten, die Schwester seines Freundes zu heiraten, heiraten wollte und die zumindest in seinem eigenen Fall mit gleicher Kraft erscheinen mussten, war fast unglaublich! Es war erfreulich, unbewusst eine so starke Zuneigung inspiriert zu haben. Aber sein Stolz, sein abscheulicher Stolz, sein schamloses Eingeständnis dessen, was er in Bezug auf Jane getan hatte, seine nicht zu rechtfertigende, aber zugestandene Anmaßung und die gefühllose Art und Weise, wie er Mr. Wickham erwähnt hatte, dessen Grausamkeit er nicht zu leugnen versucht hatte, überwanden bald das Mitleid, das sich für einen Moment wegen seiner Zuneigung erhoben hatte. Sie setzte ihre sehr aufwühlenden Gedanken fort, bis das Geräusch von Lady Catherines Kutsche sie spüren ließ, wie ungeeignet sie war, Charlottes Beobachtungen zu begegnen, und sie eilte in ihr Zimmer. 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.

Als die Gesellschaft geht, beginnt Elizabeth, Janes Briefe erneut zu lesen. Plötzlich kommt Darcy zurück herein. Nach oberflächlichen Fragen zu ihrem Wohlbefinden erklärt er seine Liebe zu Elizabeth, die sprachlos und wie vom Donner gerührt ist. Darcy spricht viel über seinen Stolz und stellt Jane da, als sei sie ihm gesellschaftlich unterlegen. Er tut so, als sei sein Heiratsantrag für sie eine göttliche Ehre, die Elizabeth nicht ablehnen könne. Elizabeth, wütend über seine überhebliche Haltung, spart nicht mit Worten, um ihn abzulehnen. Sie wirft Darcy vor, Jane und Bingley getrennt zu haben, Wickham schrecklich behandelt zu haben und sich arrogant zu verhalten. Darcy akzeptiert diese Vorwürfe ohne Entschuldigung, aber es verletzt ihn, als sie sagt, dass sein Verhalten nicht gentlemanlike sei. Als Darcy das Haus verlässt, ist Elizabeth so aufgebracht, dass sie in Tränen ausbricht.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 MAN OF IDEAS He lived with his mother, a grey, silent woman with a peculiar ashy complexion. The house in which they lived stood in a little grove of trees beyond where the main street of Winesburg crossed Wine Creek. His name was Joe Welling, and his father had been a man of some dignity in the community, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature at Columbus. Joe himself was small of body and in his character unlike anyone else in town. He was like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for days and then suddenly spouts fire. No, he wasn't like that--he was like a man who is subject to fits, one who walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him away into a strange uncanny physical state in which his eyes roll and his legs and arms jerk. He was like that, only that the visitation that descended upon Joe Welling was a mental and not a physical thing. He was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his ideas was uncontrollable. Words rolled and tumbled from his mouth. A peculiar smile came upon his lips. The edges of his teeth that were tipped with gold glistened in the light. Pouncing upon a bystander he began to talk. For the bystander there was no escape. The excited man breathed into his face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest with a shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled attention. In those days the Standard Oil Company did not deliver oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor trucks as it does now, but delivered instead to retail grocers, hardware stores, and the like. Joe was the Standard Oil agent in Winesburg and in several towns up and down the railroad that went through Winesburg. He collected bills, booked orders, and did other things. His father, the legislator, had secured the job for him. In and out of the stores of Winesburg went Joe Welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his business. Men watched him with eyes in which lurked amusement tempered by alarm. They were waiting for him to break forth, preparing to flee. Although the seizures that came upon him were harmless enough, they could not be laughed away. They were overwhelming. Astride an idea, Joe was overmastering. His personality became gigantic. It overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him away, swept all away, all who stood within sound of his voice. In Sylvester West's Drug Store stood four men who were talking of horse racing. Wesley Moyer's stallion, Tony Tip, was to race at the June meeting at Tiffin, Ohio, and there was a rumor that he would meet the stiffest competition of his career. It was said that Pop Geers, the great racing driver, would himself be there. A doubt of the success of Tony Tip hung heavy in the air of Winesburg. Into the drug store came Joe Welling, brushing the screen door violently aside. With a strange absorbed light in his eyes he pounced upon Ed Thomas, he who knew Pop Geers and whose opinion of Tony Tip's chances was worth considering. "The water is up in Wine Creek," cried Joe Welling with the air of Pheidippides bringing news of the victory of the Greeks in the struggle at Marathon. His finger beat a tattoo upon Ed Thomas's broad chest. "By Trunion bridge it is within eleven and a half inches of the flooring," he went on, the words coming quickly and with a little whistling noise from between his teeth. An expression of helpless annoyance crept over the faces of the four. "I have my facts correct. Depend upon that. I went to Sinnings' Hardware Store and got a rule. Then I went back and measured. I could hardly believe my own eyes. It hasn't rained you see for ten days. At first I didn't know what to think. Thoughts rushed through my head. I thought of subterranean passages and springs. Down under the ground went my mind, delving about. I sat on the floor of the bridge and rubbed my head. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, not one. Come out into the street and you'll see. There wasn't a cloud. There isn't a cloud now. Yes, there was a cloud. I don't want to keep back any facts. There was a cloud in the west down near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. "Not that I think that has anything to do with it. There it is, you see. You understand how puzzled I was. "Then an idea came to me. I laughed. You'll laugh, too. Of course it rained over in Medina County. That's interesting, eh? If we had no trains, no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it rained over in Medina County. That's where Wine Creek comes from. Everyone knows that. Little old Wine Creek brought us the news. That's interesting. I laughed. I thought I'd tell you--it's interesting, eh?" Joe Welling turned and went out at the door. Taking a book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a finger down one of the pages. Again he was absorbed in his duties as agent of the Standard Oil Company. "Hern's Grocery will be getting low on coal oil. I'll see them," he muttered, hurrying along the street, and bowing politely to the right and left at the people walking past. When George Willard went to work for the Winesburg Eagle he was besieged by Joe Welling. Joe envied the boy. It seemed to him that he was meant by Nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. "It is what I should be doing, there is no doubt of that," he declared, stopping George Willard on the sidewalk before Daugherty's Feed Store. His eyes began to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. "Of course I make more money with the Standard Oil Company and I'm only telling you," he added. "I've got nothing against you but I should have your place. I could do the work at odd moments. Here and there I would run finding out things you'll never see." Becoming more excited Joe Welling crowded the young reporter against the front of the feed store. He appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes about and running a thin nervous hand through his hair. A smile spread over his face and his gold teeth glittered. "You get out your note book," he commanded. "You carry a little pad of paper in your pocket, don't you? I knew you did. Well, you set this down. I thought of it the other day. Let's take decay. Now what is decay? It's fire. It burns up wood and other things. You never thought of that? Of course not. This sidewalk here and this feed store, the trees down the street there--they're all on fire. They're burning up. Decay you see is always going on. It doesn't stop. Water and paint can't stop it. If a thing is iron, then what? It rusts, you see. That's fire, too. The world is on fire. Start your pieces in the paper that way. Just say in big letters 'The World Is On Fire.' That will make 'em look up. They'll say you're a smart one. I don't care. I don't envy you. I just snatched that idea out of the air. I would make a newspaper hum. You got to admit that."' Turning quickly, Joe Welling walked rapidly away. When he had taken several steps he stopped and looked back. "I'm going to stick to you," he said. "I'm going to make you a regular hummer. I should start a newspaper myself, that's what I should do. I'd be a marvel. Everybody knows that." When George Willard had been for a year on the Winesburg Eagle, four things happened to Joe Welling. His mother died, he came to live at the New Willard House, he became involved in a love affair, and he organized the Winesburg Baseball Club. Joe organized the baseball club because he wanted to be a coach and in that position he began to win the respect of his townsmen. "He is a wonder," they declared after Joe's team had whipped the team from Medina County. "He gets everybody working together. You just watch him." Upon the baseball field Joe Welling stood by first base, his whole body quivering with excitement. In spite of themselves all the players watched him closely. The opposing pitcher became confused. "Now! Now! Now! Now!" shouted the excited man. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch my fingers! Watch my hands! Watch my feet! Watch my eyes! Let's work together here! Watch me! In me you see all the movements of the game! Work with me! Work with me! Watch me! Watch me! Watch me!" With runners of the Winesburg team on bases, Joe Welling became as one inspired. Before they knew what had come over them, the base runners were watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing, retreating, held as by an invisible cord. The players of the opposing team also watched Joe. They were fascinated. For a moment they watched and then, as though to break a spell that hung over them, they began hurling the ball wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like cries from the coach, the runners of the Winesburg team scampered home. Joe Welling's love affair set the town of Winesburg on edge. When it began everyone whispered and shook his head. When people tried to laugh, the laughter was forced and unnatural. Joe fell in love with Sarah King, a lean, sad-looking woman who lived with her father and brother in a brick house that stood opposite the gate leading to the Winesburg Cemetery. The two Kings, Edward the father, and Tom the son, were not popular in Winesburg. They were called proud and dangerous. They had come to Winesburg from some place in the South and ran a cider mill on the Trunion Pike. Tom King was reported to have killed a man before he came to Winesburg. He was twenty-seven years old and rode about town on a grey pony. Also he had a long yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth, and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking stick in his hand. Once he killed a dog with the stick. The dog belonged to Win Pawsey, the shoe merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its tail. Tom King killed it with one blow. He was arrested and paid a fine of ten dollars. Old Edward King was small of stature and when he passed people in the street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. When he laughed he scratched his left elbow with his right hand. The sleeve of his coat was almost worn through from the habit. As he walked along the street, looking nervously about and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his silent, fierce-looking son. When Sarah King began walking out in the evening with Joe Welling, people shook their heads in alarm. She was tall and pale and had dark rings under her eyes. The couple looked ridiculous together. Under the trees they walked and Joe talked. His passionate eager protestations of love, heard coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or from the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that ran up to the Fair Grounds from Waterworks Pond, were repeated in the stores. Men stood by the bar in the New Willard House laughing and talking of Joe's courtship. After the laughter came the silence. The Winesburg baseball team, under his management, was winning game after game, and the town had begun to respect him. Sensing a tragedy, they waited, laughing nervously. Late on a Saturday afternoon the meeting between Joe Welling and the two Kings, the anticipation of which had set the town on edge, took place in Joe Welling's room in the New Willard House. George Willard was a witness to the meeting. It came about in this way: When the young reporter went to his room after the evening meal he saw Tom King and his father sitting in the half darkness in Joe's room. The son had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near the door. Old Edward King walked nervously about, scratching his left elbow with his right hand. The hallways were empty and silent. George Willard went to his own room and sat down at his desk. He tried to write but his hand trembled so that he could not hold the pen. He also walked nervously up and down. Like the rest of the town of Winesburg he was perplexed and knew not what to do. It was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when Joe Welling came along the station platform toward the New Willard House. In his arms he held a bundle of weeds and grasses. In spite of the terror that made his body shake, George Willard was amused at the sight of the small spry figure holding the grasses and half running along the platform. Shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter lurked in the hallway outside the door of the room in which Joe Welling talked to the two Kings. There had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old Edward King, and then silence. Now the voice of Joe Welling, sharp and clear, broke forth. George Willard began to laugh. He understood. As he had swept all men before him, so now Joe Welling was carrying the two men in the room off their feet with a tidal wave of words. The listener in the hall walked up and down, lost in amazement. Inside the room Joe Welling had paid no attention to the grumbled threat of Tom King. Absorbed in an idea he closed the door and, lighting a lamp, spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the floor. "I've got something here," he announced solemnly. "I was going to tell George Willard about it, let him make a piece out of it for the paper. I'm glad you're here. I wish Sarah were here also. I've been going to come to your house and tell you of some of my ideas. They're interesting. Sarah wouldn't let me. She said we'd quarrel. That's foolish." Running up and down before the two perplexed men, Joe Welling began to explain. "Don't you make a mistake now," he cried. "This is something big." His voice was shrill with excitement. "You just follow me, you'll be interested. I know you will. Suppose this--suppose all of the wheat, the corn, the oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some miracle swept away. Now here we are, you see, in this county. There is a high fence built all around us. We'll suppose that. No one can get over the fence and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing left but these wild things, these grasses. Would we be done for? I ask you that. Would we be done for?" Again Tom King growled and for a moment there was silence in the room. Then again Joe plunged into the exposition of his idea. "Things would go hard for a time. I admit that. I've got to admit that. No getting around it. We'd be hard put to it. More than one fat stomach would cave in. But they couldn't down us. I should say not." Tom King laughed good naturedly and the shivery, nervous laugh of Edward King rang through the house. Joe Welling hurried on. "We'd begin, you see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. Soon we'd regain all we had lost. Mind, I don't say the new things would be the same as the old. They wouldn't. Maybe they'd be better, maybe not so good. That's interesting, eh? You can think about that. It starts your mind working, now don't it?" In the room there was silence and then again old Edward King laughed nervously. "Say, I wish Sarah was here," cried Joe Welling. "Let's go up to your house. I want to tell her of this." There was a scraping of chairs in the room. It was then that George Willard retreated to his own room. Leaning out at the window he saw Joe Welling going along the street with the two Kings. Tom King was forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace with the little man. As he strode along, he leaned over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. Joe Welling again talked excitedly. "Take milkweed now," he cried. "A lot might be done with milkweed, eh? It's almost unbelievable. I want you to think about it. I want you two to think about it. There would be a new vegetable kingdom you see. It's interesting, eh? It's an idea. Wait till you see Sarah, she'll get the idea. She'll be interested. Sarah is always interested in ideas. You can't be too smart for Sarah, now can you? Of course you can't. You know that." Können Sie eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Joe Welling, ein Mann voller Ideen, ist der Beweis dafür, dass Andersons Groteskfiguren nicht alle schrecklich und hoffnungslos sind. Tatsächlich könnte man Joe eher als lächerlich bezeichnen, denn dieser seltsame kleine Mitarbeiter von Standard Oil ist sehr ruhig und höflich, bis ihn eine Idee packt; dann wird er unkontrollierbar. Worte rollen und stürzen aus seinem Mund, während der aufgeregte Mann auf die Brust jedes Zuschauers schlägt und Aufmerksamkeit fordert. Anderson beschreibt Joe als "einen winzigen kleinen Vulkan, der tagelang schweigt und dann plötzlich Feuer sprüht". Daher passt sein Name, Welling, gut zu ihm. Joes Ideen sind keine großen Erkenntnisse. Er weist begeistert darauf hin, dass wenn der Wine Creek höher fließt, dies bedeuten muss, dass es starken Regen im Medina County gegeben hat, dass fortwährend Zersetzung stattfindet und dass, wenn alle Pflanzen in Winesburg zerstört würden, neue entwickelt würden. Der Leser fragt sich wahrscheinlich, warum die Stadtbewohner von Welling und seinen Ideen so beeindruckt sind; gibt es in Winesburg einen solchen Mangel an Ideen oder ist Begeisterung wie die von Joe so ungewöhnlich? Was auch immer der Grund ist, Joes Geschwätzigkeit und Vertiefung in seine absurd erscheinenden Ideen entwaffnen die Bürger der Stadt, selbst den kämpferischen Tom und Edward King. Joe Welling wird dadurch der beliebteste und gesellschaftlich anerkannteste Groteskcharakter in Andersons Buch. Die Stadtbewohner sind stolz auf die Baseballmannschaft, die Joe organisiert und trainiert hat, und Joe selbst ist stolz darauf, eine Frau gefunden zu haben, die ihn liebt. Diese Geschichte ist nicht nur durch ihren geografischen Hintergrund, sondern auch durch die Anwesenheit von George Willard mit den anderen verbunden. Joe beneidet George um seinen Job als Reporter und sucht den Jungen häufig auf, um ihm Tipps zu geben. Nachdem seine Mutter gestorben ist, zieht Joe schließlich ins New Willard House um und dort findet die entscheidende Konfrontation zwischen Joe und den aufsässigen Kings statt, während George amüsiert zuschaut. Was George nicht bemerkt, ist, dass Joe, so humorvoll er auch sein mag, mehr Erfolg dabei hatte, Glück zu finden, als die meisten anderen Bewohner von Winesburg. Die Geschichte über Joe Welling legt nahe, dass Mauern der Isolation manchmal eingerissen werden können, wenn man sie nur enthusiastisch belagert.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 I "WE'LL steal the whole day, and go hunting. I want you to see the country round here," Kennicott announced at breakfast. "I'd take the car--want you to see how swell she runs since I put in a new piston. But we'll take a team, so we can get right out into the fields. Not many prairie chickens left now, but we might just happen to run onto a small covey." He fussed over his hunting-kit. He pulled his hip boots out to full length and examined them for holes. He feverishly counted his shotgun shells, lecturing her on the qualities of smokeless powder. He drew the new hammerless shotgun out of its heavy tan leather case and made her peep through the barrels to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust. The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle was unfamiliar to her, and in Kennicott's interest she found something creative and joyous. She examined the smooth stock, the carved hard rubber butt of the gun. The shells, with their brass caps and sleek green bodies and hieroglyphics on the wads, were cool and comfortably heavy in her hands. Kennicott wore a brown canvas hunting-coat with vast pockets lining the inside, corduroy trousers which bulged at the wrinkles, peeled and scarred shoes, a scarecrow felt hat. In this uniform he felt virile. They clumped out to the livery buggy, they packed the kit and the box of lunch into the back, crying to each other that it was a magnificent day. Kennicott had borrowed Jackson Elder's red and white English setter, a complacent dog with a waving tail of silver hair which flickered in the sunshine. As they started, the dog yelped, and leaped at the horses' heads, till Kennicott took him into the buggy, where he nuzzled Carol's knees and leaned out to sneer at farm mongrels. The grays clattered out on the hard dirt road with a pleasant song of hoofs: "Ta ta ta rat! Ta ta ta rat!" It was early and fresh, the air whistling, frost bright on the golden rod. As the sun warmed the world of stubble into a welter of yellow they turned from the highroad, through the bars of a farmer's gate, into a field, slowly bumping over the uneven earth. In a hollow of the rolling prairie they lost sight even of the country road. It was warm and placid. Locusts trilled among the dry wheat-stalks, and brilliant little flies hurtled across the buggy. A buzz of content filled the air. Crows loitered and gossiped in the sky. The dog had been let out and after a dance of excitement he settled down to a steady quartering of the field, forth and back, forth and back, his nose down. "Pete Rustad owns this farm, and he told me he saw a small covey of chickens in the west forty, last week. Maybe we'll get some sport after all," Kennicott chuckled blissfully. She watched the dog in suspense, breathing quickly every time he seemed to halt. She had no desire to slaughter birds, but she did desire to belong to Kennicott's world. The dog stopped, on the point, a forepaw held up. "By golly! He's hit a scent! Come on!" squealed Kennicott. He leaped from the buggy, twisted the reins about the whip-socket, swung her out, caught up his gun, slipped in two shells, stalked toward the rigid dog, Carol pattering after him. The setter crawled ahead, his tail quivering, his belly close to the stubble. Carol was nervous. She expected clouds of large birds to fly up instantly. Her eyes were strained with staring. But they followed the dog for a quarter of a mile, turning, doubling, crossing two low hills, kicking through a swale of weeds, crawling between the strands of a barbed-wire fence. The walking was hard on her pavement-trained feet. The earth was lumpy, the stubble prickly and lined with grass, thistles, abortive stumps of clover. She dragged and floundered. She heard Kennicott gasp, "Look!" Three gray birds were starting up from the stubble. They were round, dumpy, like enormous bumble bees. Kennicott was sighting, moving the barrel. She was agitated. Why didn't he fire? The birds would be gone! Then a crash, another, and two birds turned somersaults in the air, plumped down. When he showed her the birds she had no sensation of blood. These heaps of feathers were so soft and unbruised--there was about them no hint of death. She watched her conquering man tuck them into his inside pocket, and trudged with him back to the buggy. They found no more prairie chickens that morning. At noon they drove into her first farmyard, a private village, a white house with no porches save a low and quite dirty stoop at the back, a crimson barn with white trimmings, a glazed brick silo, an ex-carriage-shed, now the garage of a Ford, an unpainted cow-stable, a chicken-house, a pig-pen, a corn-crib, a granary, the galvanized-iron skeleton tower of a wind-mill. The dooryard was of packed yellow clay, treeless, barren of grass, littered with rusty plowshares and wheels of discarded cultivators. Hardened trampled mud, like lava, filled the pig-pen. The doors of the house were grime-rubbed, the corners and eaves were rusted with rain, and the child who stared at them from the kitchen window was smeary-faced. But beyond the barn was a clump of scarlet geraniums; the prairie breeze was sunshine in motion; the flashing metal blades of the windmill revolved with a lively hum; a horse neighed, a rooster crowed, martins flew in and out of the cow-stable. A small spare woman with flaxen hair trotted from the house. She was twanging a Swedish patois--not in monotone, like English, but singing it, with a lyrical whine: "Pete he say you kom pretty soon hunting, doctor. My, dot's fine you kom. Is dis de bride? Ohhhh! Ve yoost say las' night, ve hope maybe ve see her som day. My, soch a pretty lady!" Mrs. Rustad was shining with welcome. "Vell, vell! Ay hope you lak dis country! Von't you stay for dinner, doctor?" "No, but I wonder if you wouldn't like to give us a glass of milk?" condescended Kennicott. "Vell Ay should say Ay vill! You vait har a second and Ay run on de milk-house!" She nervously hastened to a tiny red building beside the windmill; she came back with a pitcher of milk from which Carol filled the thermos bottle. As they drove off Carol admired, "She's the dearest thing I ever saw. And she adores you. You are the Lord of the Manor." "Oh no," much pleased, "but still they do ask my advice about things. Bully people, these Scandinavian farmers. And prosperous, too. Helga Rustad, she's still scared of America, but her kids will be doctors and lawyers and governors of the state and any darn thing they want to." "I wonder----" Carol was plunged back into last night's Weltschmerz. "I wonder if these farmers aren't bigger than we are? So simple and hard-working. The town lives on them. We townies are parasites, and yet we feel superior to them. Last night I heard Mr. Haydock talking about 'hicks.' Apparently he despises the farmers because they haven't reached the social heights of selling thread and buttons." "Parasites? Us? Where'd the farmers be without the town? Who lends them money? Who--why, we supply them with everything!" "Don't you find that some of the farmers think they pay too much for the services of the towns?" "Oh, of course there's a lot of cranks among the farmers same as there are among any class. Listen to some of these kickers, a fellow'd think that the farmers ought to run the state and the whole shooting-match--probably if they had their way they'd fill up the legislature with a lot of farmers in manure-covered boots--yes, and they'd come tell me I was hired on a salary now, and couldn't fix my fees! That'd be fine for you, wouldn't it!" "But why shouldn't they?" "Why? That bunch of----Telling ME----Oh, for heaven's sake, let's quit arguing. All this discussing may be all right at a party but----Let's forget it while we're hunting." "I know. The Wonderlust--probably it's a worse affliction than the Wanderlust. I just wonder----" She told herself that she had everything in the world. And after each self-rebuke she stumbled again on "I just wonder----" They ate their sandwiches by a prairie slew: long grass reaching up out of clear water, mossy bogs, red-winged black-birds, the scum a splash of gold-green. Kennicott smoked a pipe while she leaned back in the buggy and let her tired spirit be absorbed in the Nirvana of the incomparable sky. They lurched to the highroad and awoke from their sun-soaked drowse at the sound of the clopping hoofs. They paused to look for partridges in a rim of woods, little woods, very clean and shiny and gay, silver birches and poplars with immaculate green trunks, encircling a lake of sandy bottom, a splashing seclusion demure in the welter of hot prairie. Kennicott brought down a fat red squirrel and at dusk he had a dramatic shot at a flight of ducks whirling down from the upper air, skimming the lake, instantly vanishing. They drove home under the sunset. Mounds of straw, and wheat-stacks like bee-hives, stood out in startling rose and gold, and the green-tufted stubble glistened. As the vast girdle of crimson darkened, the fulfilled land became autumnal in deep reds and browns. The black road before the buggy turned to a faint lavender, then was blotted to uncertain grayness. Cattle came in a long line up to the barred gates of the farmyards, and over the resting land was a dark glow. Carol had found the dignity and greatness which had failed her in Main Street. II Till they had a maid they took noon dinner and six o'clock supper at Mrs. Gurrey's boarding-house. Mrs. Elisha Gurrey, relict of Deacon Gurrey the dealer in hay and grain, was a pointed-nosed, simpering woman with iron-gray hair drawn so tight that it resembled a soiled handkerchief covering her head. But she was unexpectedly cheerful, and her dining-room, with its thin tablecloth on a long pine table, had the decency of clean bareness. In the line of unsmiling, methodically chewing guests, like horses at a manger, Carol came to distinguish one countenance: the pale, long, spectacled face and sandy pompadour hair of Mr. Raymond P. Wutherspoon, known as "Raymie," professional bachelor, manager and one half the sales-force in the shoe-department of the Bon Ton Store. "You will enjoy Gopher Prairie very much, Mrs. Kennicott," petitioned Raymie. His eyes were like those of a dog waiting to be let in out of the cold. He passed the stewed apricots effusively. "There are a great many bright cultured people here. Mrs. Wilks, the Christian Science reader, is a very bright woman--though I am not a Scientist myself, in fact I sing in the Episcopal choir. And Miss Sherwin of the high school--she is such a pleasing, bright girl--I was fitting her to a pair of tan gaiters yesterday, I declare, it really was a pleasure." "Gimme the butter, Carrie," was Kennicott's comment. She defied him by encouraging Raymie: "Do you have amateur dramatics and so on here?" "Oh yes! The town's just full of talent. The Knights of Pythias put on a dandy minstrel show last year." "It's nice you're so enthusiastic." "Oh, do you really think so? Lots of folks jolly me for trying to get up shows and so on. I tell them they have more artistic gifts than they know. Just yesterday I was saying to Harry Haydock: if he would read poetry, like Longfellow, or if he would join the band--I get so much pleasure out of playing the cornet, and our band-leader, Del Snafflin, is such a good musician, I often say he ought to give up his barbering and become a professional musician, he could play the clarinet in Minneapolis or New York or anywhere, but--but I couldn't get Harry to see it at all and--I hear you and the doctor went out hunting yesterday. Lovely country, isn't it. And did you make some calls? The mercantile life isn't inspiring like medicine. It must be wonderful to see how patients trust you, doctor." "Huh. It's me that's got to do all the trusting. Be damn sight more wonderful 'f they'd pay their bills," grumbled Kennicott and, to Carol, he whispered something which sounded like "gentleman hen." But Raymie's pale eyes were watering at her. She helped him with, "So you like to read poetry?" "Oh yes, so much--though to tell the truth, I don't get much time for reading, we're always so busy at the store and----But we had the dandiest professional reciter at the Pythian Sisters sociable last winter." Carol thought she heard a grunt from the traveling salesman at the end of the table, and Kennicott's jerking elbow was a grunt embodied. She persisted: "Do you get to see many plays, Mr. Wutherspoon?" He shone at her like a dim blue March moon, and sighed, "No, but I do love the movies. I'm a real fan. One trouble with books is that they're not so thoroughly safeguarded by intelligent censors as the movies are, and when you drop into the library and take out a book you never know what you're wasting your time on. What I like in books is a wholesome, really improving story, and sometimes----Why, once I started a novel by this fellow Balzac that you read about, and it told how a lady wasn't living with her husband, I mean she wasn't his wife. It went into details, disgustingly! And the English was real poor. I spoke to the library about it, and they took it off the shelves. I'm not narrow, but I must say I don't see any use in this deliberately dragging in immorality! Life itself is so full of temptations that in literature one wants only that which is pure and uplifting." "What's the name of that Balzac yarn? Where can I get hold of it?" giggled the traveling salesman. Raymie ignored him. "But the movies, they are mostly clean, and their humor----Don't you think that the most essential quality for a person to have is a sense of humor?" "I don't know. I really haven't much," said Carol. He shook his finger at her. "Now, now, you're too modest. I'm sure we can all see that you have a perfectly corking sense of humor. Besides, Dr. Kennicott wouldn't marry a lady that didn't have. We all know how he loves his fun!" "You bet. I'm a jokey old bird. Come on, Carrie; let's beat it," remarked Kennicott. Raymie implored, "And what is your chief artistic interest, Mrs. Kennicott?" "Oh----" Aware that the traveling salesman had murmured, "Dentistry," she desperately hazarded, "Architecture." "That's a real nice art. I've always said--when Haydock & Simons were finishing the new front on the Bon Ton building, the old man came to me, you know, Harry's father, 'D. H.,' I always call him, and he asked me how I liked it, and I said to him, 'Look here, D. H.,' I said--you see, he was going to leave the front plain, and I said to him, 'It's all very well to have modern lighting and a big display-space,' I said, 'but when you get that in, you want to have some architecture, too,' I said, and he laughed and said he guessed maybe I was right, and so he had 'em put on a cornice." "Tin!" observed the traveling salesman. Raymie bared his teeth like a belligerent mouse. "Well, what if it is tin? That's not my fault. I told D. H. to make it polished granite. You make me tired!" "Leave us go! Come on, Carrie, leave us go!" from Kennicott. Raymie waylaid them in the hall and secretly informed Carol that she musn't mind the traveling salesman's coarseness--he belonged to the hwa pollwa. Kennicott chuckled, "Well, child, how about it? Do you prefer an artistic guy like Raymie to stupid boobs like Sam Clark and me?" "My dear! Let's go home, and play pinochle, and laugh, and be foolish, and slip up to bed, and sleep without dreaming. It's beautiful to be just a solid citizeness!" III From the Gopher Prairie Weekly Dauntless: One of the most charming affairs of the season was held Tuesday evening at the handsome new residence of Sam and Mrs. Clark when many of our most prominent citizens gathered to greet the lovely new bride of our popular local physician, Dr. Will Kennicott. All present spoke of the many charms of the bride, formerly Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul. Games and stunts were the order of the day, with merry talk and conversation. At a late hour dainty refreshments were served, and the party broke up with many expressions of pleasure at the pleasant affair. Among those present were Mesdames Kennicott, Elder---- * * * * * Dr. Will Kennicott, for the past several years one of our most popular and skilful physicians and surgeons, gave the town a delightful surprise when he returned from an extended honeymoon tour in Colorado this week with his charming bride, nee Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul, whose family are socially prominent in Minneapolis and Mankato. Mrs. Kennicott is a lady of manifold charms, not only of striking charm of appearance but is also a distinguished graduate of a school in the East and has for the past year been prominently connected in an important position of responsibility with the St. Paul Public Library, in which city Dr. "Will" had the good fortune to meet her. The city of Gopher Prairie welcomes her to our midst and prophesies for her many happy years in the energetic city of the twin lakes and the future. The Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott will reside for the present at the Doctor's home on Poplar Street which his charming mother has been keeping for him who has now returned to her own home at Lac-qui-Meurt leaving a host of friends who regret her absence and hope to see her soon with us again. IV She knew that if she was ever to effect any of the "reforms" which she had pictured, she must have a starting-place. What confused her during the three or four months after her marriage was not lack of perception that she must be definite, but sheer careless happiness of her first home. In the pride of being a housewife she loved every detail--the brocade armchair with the weak back, even the brass water-cock on the hot-water reservoir, when she had become familiar with it by trying to scour it to brilliance. She found a maid--plump radiant Bea Sorenson from Scandia Crossing. Bea was droll in her attempt to be at once a respectful servant and a bosom friend. They laughed together over the fact that the stove did not draw, over the slipperiness of fish in the pan. Like a child playing Grandma in a trailing skirt, Carol paraded uptown for her marketing, crying greetings to housewives along the way. Everybody bowed to her, strangers and all, and made her feel that they wanted her, that she belonged here. In city shops she was merely A Customer--a hat, a voice to bore a harassed clerk. Here she was Mrs. Doc Kennicott, and her preferences in grape-fruit and manners were known and remembered and worth discussing . . . even if they weren't worth fulfilling. Shopping was a delight of brisk conferences. The very merchants whose droning she found the dullest at the two or three parties which were given to welcome her were the pleasantest confidants of all when they had something to talk about--lemons or cotton voile or floor-oil. With that skip-jack Dave Dyer, the druggist, she conducted a long mock-quarrel. She pretended that he cheated her in the price of magazines and candy; he pretended she was a detective from the Twin Cities. He hid behind the prescription-counter, and when she stamped her foot he came out wailing, "Honest, I haven't done nothing crooked today--not yet." She never recalled her first impression of Main Street; never had precisely the same despair at its ugliness. By the end of two shopping-tours everything had changed proportions. As she never entered it, the Minniemashie House ceased to exist for her. Clark's Hardware Store, Dyer's Drug Store, the groceries of Ole Jenson and Frederick Ludelmeyer and Howland & Gould, the meat markets, the notions shop--they expanded, and hid all other structures. When she entered Mr. Ludelmeyer's store and he wheezed, "Goot mornin', Mrs. Kennicott. Vell, dis iss a fine day," she did not notice the dustiness of the shelves nor the stupidity of the girl clerk; and she did not remember the mute colloquy with him on her first view of Main Street. She could not find half the kinds of food she wanted, but that made shopping more of an adventure. When she did contrive to get sweetbreads at Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market the triumph was so vast that she buzzed with excitement and admired the strong wise butcher, Mr. Dahl. She appreciated the homely ease of village life. She liked the old men, farmers, G.A.R. veterans, who when they gossiped sometimes squatted on their heels on the sidewalk, like resting Indians, and reflectively spat over the curb. She found beauty in the children. She had suspected that her married friends exaggerated their passion for children. But in her work in the library, children had become individuals to her, citizens of the State with their own rights and their own senses of humor. In the library she had not had much time to give them, but now she knew the luxury of stopping, gravely asking Bessie Clark whether her doll had yet recovered from its rheumatism, and agreeing with Oscar Martinsen that it would be Good Fun to go trapping "mushrats." She touched the thought, "It would be sweet to have a baby of my own. I do want one. Tiny----No! Not yet! There's so much to do. And I'm still tired from the job. It's in my bones." She rested at home. She listened to the village noises common to all the world, jungle or prairie; sounds simple and charged with magic--dogs barking, chickens making a gurgling sound of content, children at play, a man beating a rug, wind in the cottonwood trees, a locust fiddling, a footstep on the walk, jaunty voices of Bea and a grocer's boy in the kitchen, a clinking anvil, a piano--not too near. Twice a week, at least, she drove into the country with Kennicott, to hunt ducks in lakes enameled with sunset, or to call on patients who looked up to her as the squire's lady and thanked her for toys and magazines. Evenings she went with her husband to the motion pictures and was boisterously greeted by every other couple; or, till it became too cold, they sat on the porch, bawling to passers-by in motors, or to neighbors who were raking the leaves. The dust became golden in the low sun; the street was filled with the fragrance of burning leaves. V But she hazily wanted some one to whom she could say what she thought. On a slow afternoon when she fidgeted over sewing and wished that the telephone would ring, Bea announced Miss Vida Sherwin. Despite Vida Sherwin's lively blue eyes, if you had looked at her in detail you would have found her face slightly lined, and not so much sallow as with the bloom rubbed off; you would have found her chest flat, and her fingers rough from needle and chalk and penholder; her blouses and plain cloth skirts undistinguished; and her hat worn too far back, betraying a dry forehead. But you never did look at Vida Sherwin in detail. You couldn't. Her electric activity veiled her. She was as energetic as a chipmunk. Her fingers fluttered; her sympathy came out in spurts; she sat on the edge of a chair in eagerness to be near her auditor, to send her enthusiasms and optimism across. She rushed into the room pouring out: "I'm afraid you'll think the teachers have been shabby in not coming near you, but we wanted to give you a chance to get settled. I am Vida Sherwin, and I try to teach French and English and a few other things in the high school." "I've been hoping to know the teachers. You see, I was a librarian----" "Oh, you needn't tell me. I know all about you! Awful how much I know--this gossipy village. We need you so much here. It's a dear loyal town (and isn't loyalty the finest thing in the world!) but it's a rough diamond, and we need you for the polishing, and we're ever so humble----" She stopped for breath and finished her compliment with a smile. "If I COULD help you in any way----Would I be committing the unpardonable sin if I whispered that I think Gopher Prairie is a tiny bit ugly?" "Of course it's ugly. Dreadfully! Though I'm probably the only person in town to whom you could safely say that. (Except perhaps Guy Pollock the lawyer--have you met him?--oh, you MUST!--he's simply a darling--intelligence and culture and so gentle.) But I don't care so much about the ugliness. That will change. It's the spirit that gives me hope. It's sound. Wholesome. But afraid. It needs live creatures like you to awaken it. I shall slave-drive you!" "Splendid. What shall I do? I've been wondering if it would be possible to have a good architect come here to lecture." "Ye-es, but don't you think it would be better to work with existing agencies? Perhaps it will sound slow to you, but I was thinking----It would be lovely if we could get you to teach Sunday School." Carol had the empty expression of one who finds that she has been affectionately bowing to a complete stranger. "Oh yes. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be much good at that. My religion is so foggy." "I know. So is mine. I don't care a bit for dogma. Though I do stick firmly to the belief in the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man and the leadership of Jesus. As you do, of course." Carol looked respectable and thought about having tea. "And that's all you need teach in Sunday School. It's the personal influence. Then there's the library-board. You'd be so useful on that. And of course there's our women's study club--the Thanatopsis Club." "Are they doing anything? Or do they read papers made out of the Encyclopedia?" Miss Sherwin shrugged. "Perhaps. But still, they are so earnest. They will respond to your fresher interest. And the Thanatopsis does do a good social work--they've made the city plant ever so many trees, and they run the rest-room for farmers' wives. And they do take such an interest in refinement and culture. So--in fact, so very unique." Carol was disappointed--by nothing very tangible. She said politely, "I'll think them all over. I must have a while to look around first." Miss Sherwin darted to her, smoothed her hair, peered at her. "Oh, my dear, don't you suppose I know? These first tender days of marriage--they're sacred to me. Home, and children that need you, and depend on you to keep them alive, and turn to you with their wrinkly little smiles. And the hearth and----" She hid her face from Carol as she made an activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she went on with her former briskness: "I mean, you must help us when you're ready. . . . I'm afraid you'll think I'm conservative. I am! So much to conserve. All this treasure of American ideals. Sturdiness and democracy and opportunity. Maybe not at Palm Beach. But, thank heaven, we're free from such social distinctions in Gopher Prairie. I have only one good quality--overwhelming belief in the brains and hearts of our nation, our state, our town. It's so strong that sometimes I do have a tiny effect on the haughty ten-thousandaires. I shake 'em up and make 'em believe in ideals--yes, in themselves. But I get into a rut of teaching. I need young critical things like you to punch me up. Tell me, what are you reading?" "I've been re-reading 'The Damnation of Theron Ware.' Do you know it?" "Yes. It was clever. But hard. Man wanted to tear down, not build up. Cynical. Oh, I do hope I'm not a sentimentalist. But I can't see any use in this high-art stuff that doesn't encourage us day-laborers to plod on." Ensued a fifteen-minute argument about the oldest topic in the world: It's art but is it pretty? Carol tried to be eloquent regarding honesty of observation. Miss Sherwin stood out for sweetness and a cautious use of the uncomfortable properties of light. At the end Carol cried: "I don't care how much we disagree. It's a relief to have somebody talk something besides crops. Let's make Gopher Prairie rock to its foundations: let's have afternoon tea instead of afternoon coffee." The delighted Bea helped her bring out the ancestral folding sewing-table, whose yellow and black top was scarred with dotted lines from a dressmaker's tracing-wheel, and to set it with an embroidered lunch-cloth, and the mauve-glazed Japanese tea-set which she had brought from St. Paul. Miss Sherwin confided her latest scheme--moral motion pictures for country districts, with light from a portable dynamo hitched to a Ford engine. Bea was twice called to fill the hot-water pitcher and to make cinnamon toast. When Kennicott came home at five he tried to be courtly, as befits the husband of one who has afternoon tea. Carol suggested that Miss Sherwin stay for supper, and that Kennicott invite Guy Pollock, the much-praised lawyer, the poetic bachelor. Yes, Pollock could come. Yes, he was over the grippe which had prevented his going to Sam Clark's party. Carol regretted her impulse. The man would be an opinionated politician, heavily jocular about The Bride. But at the entrance of Guy Pollock she discovered a personality. Pollock was a man of perhaps thirty-eight, slender, still, deferential. His voice was low. "It was very good of you to want me," he said, and he offered no humorous remarks, and did not ask her if she didn't think Gopher Prairie was "the livest little burg in the state." She fancied that his even grayness might reveal a thousand tints of lavender and blue and silver. At supper he hinted his love for Sir Thomas Browne, Thoreau, Agnes Repplier, Arthur Symons, Claude Washburn, Charles Flandrau. He presented his idols diffidently, but he expanded in Carol's bookishness, in Miss Sherwin's voluminous praise, in Kennicott's tolerance of any one who amused his wife. Carol wondered why Guy Pollock went on digging at routine law-cases; why he remained in Gopher Prairie. She had no one whom she could ask. Neither Kennicott nor Vida Sherwin would understand that there might be reasons why a Pollock should not remain in Gopher Prairie. She enjoyed the faint mystery. She felt triumphant and rather literary. She already had a Group. It would be only a while now before she provided the town with fanlights and a knowledge of Galsworthy. She was doing things! As she served the emergency dessert of cocoanut and sliced oranges, she cried to Pollock, "Don't you think we ought to get up a dramatic club?" Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Früh am nächsten Morgen nimmt Will Carol mit auf eine Prärie-Hühnerjagd, um ihr die Landschaft zu zeigen. Statt seines geliebten Autos nehmen sie ein Pferd und eine Kutsche mit - damit sie in die Felder fahren können. Während Carol ihren Ehemann liebevoll dabei beobachtet, wie er seine Jagdausrüstung vorbereitet, erkennt sie mit Freude, dass er eine scharfe und kreative Interesse an etwas hat. Sie fahren weit in die Prärie hinaus, bis der Hund eine Spur aufnimmt, woraufhin sie die Kutsche in den Feldern verlassen. Nachdem Kennicott zwei Vögel erlegt hat, fahren sie zum Rustad-Bauernhof, wo sie Milch bekommen. Nachdem sie den Bauernhof verlassen haben, fragt Carol laut, ob die skandinavischen Bauern nicht besser dran sind als die Menschen, die in der Stadt leben und von ihnen abhängig sind. Will widerspricht und weist darauf hin, dass die Bauern von der Stadt abhängig sind, aber Carol entgegnet, dass die Bauern zu viel für die Dienstleistungen bezahlen, die sie erhalten. Will ist erstaunt über Carols Behauptung, dass ein Bauer den Staat genauso gut führen könnte wie ein Städter. Der Rest des Tages ist idyllisch; in der Schönheit der Prärie findet Carol die Würde, die auf der Hauptstraße so schmerzlich fehlt. Ohne Dienstmädchen essen Carol und Will in Mrs. Gurreys Pension, wo Carol Raymond P. Wutherspoon, genannt "Raymie", kennenlernt. Er erklärt, dass Gopher Prairie von vielen kultivierten Menschen profitiert. Carol erfährt, dass Kennicott und der Handelsvertreter am Ende des Tisches wenig von dem femininen, gekünstelten Raymie halten, aber sie ermutigt ihn. Eine kurze Ankündigung in der Gopher Prairie Weekly Dauntless beschreibt Carols Willkommensfeier als "eine der charmantesten Angelegenheiten der Saison". Einige Monate nach ihrer Hochzeit ist Carol überrascht, wie sehr sie es genießt, ein eigenes Zuhause zu haben. Sie stellt Bea Sorenson als Dienstmädchen ein und die beiden werden schnell Freunde. In der Stadt freut sie sich über ihren Status als "Mrs. Doc Kennicott" und sie fühlt sich in jedem Geschäft willkommen. Sie genießt die Herausforderungen des Einkaufs in kleinen Lebensmittelgeschäften und den Umgang mit den Kindern der Stadt. Sie und Kennicott fahren in die Natur, gehen ins Kino und sitzen auf der Veranda, bis die Sonne untergeht. Dennoch wünscht sich Carol eine echte Freundin. Eines Tages besucht Miss Vida Sherwin, die Lehrerin, sie. Sie ist nicht mehr in ihrer Blüte und sieht eher unscheinbar aus, aber sie ist voller Energie. Vida sagt ihr, dass die Stadt sie braucht, und Carol wird schnell von ihrem reformerischen Geist mitgerissen. Als Carol vorschlägt, einen Architekten zum Vortrag einzuladen, schlägt Vida vor, mit etwas Zugänglicherem anzufangen, wie zum Beispiel dem Unterrichten in der Sonntagsschule. Vida erwähnt auch den Thanatopsis Club - den Frauenstudienclub. Vida erklärt, dass die Mitglieder, trotz ihrer intellektuellen Defizite, ernsthaft sind. Sie diskutieren ein kürzlich erschienenes Buch, und obwohl sie anderer Meinung sind, ist Carol erleichtert, jemanden zu finden, mit dem sie solche Dinge besprechen kann. Carol schlägt vor, Tee statt Kaffee zu trinken. Carol lädt Vida zum Abendessen ein und auf Vidas Vorschlag hin erweitert sie die Einladung auch auf Guy Pollock, den kultivierten Anwalt der Stadt. Pollock ist ein schlanker Mann Ende dreißig, der Carol im Gegensatz zu den anderen Männern in der Stadt nicht stört. Sie fragt sich, warum er in Gopher Prairie bleibt. Sie schlägt vor, eine Theatergruppe zu gründen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it. "An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I'm old and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it. Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but..." and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting. It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad as it looks, and one can get on quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now. Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for 'the best nevvy in the world'. Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her, a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad... "She could not think it he," and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully... "Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!" "Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?" "Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?" "Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches." "Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him. "Oh, the dickens! Now I've done it," and he looked so guilty that Jo was down on him like a flash. "You've gone and got married!" "Yes, please, but I never will again," and he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph. "Actually married?" "Very much so, thank you." "Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into her seat with a gasp. "A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation," returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction. "What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it." "Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade." Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now. So, come and 'fess, Teddy." "How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that but you," and Laurie sat down with an air of great content. "What does Amy call you?" "My lord." "That's like her. Well, you look it," and Jo's eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever. The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity... "Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?" "Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever." "Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely. "How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion. "It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wait. I wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim' as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream." "Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I'm pining to know." "Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim... "Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir." "Now she's beginning to marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?" said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn't let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like'." "Of course you did. You always have things to suit you." "Not always," and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily... "How did you ever get Aunt to agree?" "It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only 'taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says." "Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last. "A trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman I can't help being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round, so we did it." "When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle. "Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth." Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well. "Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute. "We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!" Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before... "Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?" "I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this. I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?" He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!" "As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed' as Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air. "You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one that I feel forty." "Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You are older. Here's a line, and there's another. Unless you smile, your eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look. But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father and Mother to help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and..." "You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly together." "If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy," and Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill and Laurie told her to hold on to him. He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his coming. "You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?" "I was wondering how you and Amy get on together." "Like angels!" "Yes, of course, but which rules?" "I don't mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties." "You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your life." "Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the while." "That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands. It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty" air, "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel." Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her pleasure. "I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember." "She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than any of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing." "What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend you." "I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling, "Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?" In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It was good to see him beam at 'my children', as he called the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made. The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that 'her ladyship' was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness. For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become. "Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly. "She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside him. Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her 'pitty aunty', but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to have him. "Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman," and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul. "Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot; ain't it a relishin' sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks calling little Amy 'Mis. Laurence!'" muttered old Hannah, who could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner. Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all burst out together--trying to tell the history of three years in half an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide refreshment--for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as proudly leaned on the arm of 'my son'. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered, "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, "I'll try to fill her place, sir." The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners attached themselves to 'Dranpa', who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm. The others paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry. "Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?" "Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction. "No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose. "I don't care," and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party vanishing above, and as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch door. She opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun. "Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in. "And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to them. "No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us." Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes. "If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You haf been ill, my friend?" He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it. "Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you last." "Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that," and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand. "Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish. If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep. If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long. He got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands. "Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face. The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them. Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of matches, made a move to go. "We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul. They were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the household league that love made dissoluble. The little chair stood in its old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished when the needle grew 'so heavy', was still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved, and above it Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here." "Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil. But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "Not tonight, dear. I can't show off tonight." But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master could not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say... Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal; and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss. "Now, we must finish with Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood, saying... "You will sing with me? We go excellently well together." A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily and well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone. Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms, used to be the Professor's favorite line, for 'das land' meant Germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words... There, oh there, might I with thee, O, my beloved, go and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked. The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as 'my sister', and no one had called her by her new name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting... Meine Frau und ich sind sehr froh, Sie kennenzulernen, mein Herr. Bitte denken Sie daran, dass immer eine Begrüßung auf Sie wartet, wenn Sie auf der anderen Seite sind. Dann bedankte sich der Professor so herzlich bei ihm und sah so plötzlich erleuchtet vor Zufriedenheit aus, dass Laurie ihn für den bezauberndsten, demonstrierenden alten Kauz hielt, den er je getroffen hatte. "Ich werde auch gehen, aber ich werde gerne wiederkommen, wenn Sie mir erlauben, liebe Madame, denn ein kleines Geschäft in der Stadt wird mich hier einige Tage halten." Er sprach mit Frau March, aber er sah Jo an, und die Stimme der Mutter stimmte genauso herzlich zu wie die Augen der Tochter, denn Frau March war nicht so blind für das Interesse ihrer Kinder, wie Frau Moffat dachte. "Ich vermute, das ist ein kluger Mann", bemerkte Herr March mit gelassener Zufriedenheit vom Kaminvorleger aus, nachdem der letzte Gast gegangen war. "Ich weiß, dass er ein guter ist", fügte Frau March mit deutlicher Zustimmung hinzu, während sie die Uhr aufzog. "Ich dachte, er würde dir gefallen", sagte Jo, als sie sich in ihr Bett schlich. Sie fragte sich, welches Geschäft es war, das Mr. Bhaer in die Stadt brachte, und entschied schließlich, dass er zu einer großen Ehre irgendwo ernannt worden war, aber zu bescheiden war, um es zu erwähnen. Wenn sie sein Gesicht gesehen hätte, als er sicher in seinem eigenen Zimmer das Bild einer ernsten und strengen jungen Dame ansah, mit einer Menge Haare, die finster in die Zukunft zu blicken schien, hätte es vielleicht etwas Licht auf das Thema geworfen, besonders als er das Gas ausmachte und das Bild im Dunkeln küsste. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Überraschungen: Laurie kommt ins Haus und überrascht Jo. Er erzählt ihr, dass er und Amy geheiratet haben, damit sie gemeinsam ohne Aufsicht nach Hause kommen konnten. Er sagt Jo, dass sie recht hatte, dass sie für ihn ungeeignet ist, und dass er glücklich ist, Amy als seine Frau und Jo als seine Schwester zu haben. Mit Amy, Laurie und Mr. Laurence zu Hause feiert jeder den ganzen Tag und bis in die Nacht hinein. Mr. Laurence bittet Jo, jetzt seine "Mädchen" zu sein, da Beth weg ist. Während die Familie jubelt, kommt Mr. Bhaer unerwartet an. Er sagt, dass er wegen einiger Geschäfte in der Stadt ist. Jo begrüßt ihn herzlich. Jeder mag ihn sehr. Jo bemerkt, dass er sehr schick angezogen ist, als würde er um ihre Gunst werben. Nach einem langen Abend fragt er, ob er wiederkommen darf, da er einige Tage in der Stadt ist. Jo sagt ihm freudig zu, dass er kommen darf.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the drawing-room they were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction with each that she could wish. After the business of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance. Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The particular object of the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two. "To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure." Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this was scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing something. The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the past. The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates. Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth, "we are coming to the chapel, which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will excuse me." They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the family gallery above. "I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'" "You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look for the banners and the achievements." "It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed." Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. "This chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James the Second's time. Before that period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off." "Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund. Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together. "It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!" "Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away." "_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom." "At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way--to chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke. "Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out. "Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. "Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants." "Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, "whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?" "James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet." No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it. "This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. "Shall any of us object to being comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is; for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where they like." The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So you are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me." "Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor." "Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son." "A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, "but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for myself." "But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_ was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him." "Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?" "_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_ of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing." "The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear." "_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit." "_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large." "The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest." "Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The _manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation." "Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness. "There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price already." "I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too." "I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law." "Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness." "Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you." "You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out." A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while." "My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm." "Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have?" "Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness. "Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path." "But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length." "Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass." "We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?" "Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch." A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they all sat down. "I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding." "How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen again." "_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it." "I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment." After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well." Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile." "It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance." He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased. A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her. "Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid with us." Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place. After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly. "It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone. "Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?" "No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me." After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will." "I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world." This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way." "Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh." "You think her more light-hearted than I am?" "More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive." "Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now." "You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you." "Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!" "And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited." "Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out of sight." "Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll." Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go." Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken, and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye." Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely. She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you." Fanny explained. "A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere," looking eagerly into the park. "But they cannot be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without help." "But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth." "Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes." This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth. "Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all were." "It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing." "_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for _her_ sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away from." And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence, however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had passed. He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first he scarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do. "They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts." "I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough." And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny. "I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky." And she longed to be able to say something more to the purpose. After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well have staid for me," said he. "Miss Bertram thought you would follow her." "I should not have had to follow her if she had staid." This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced. After another pause, he went on--"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him." "I do not think him at all handsome." "Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them." A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict him. "If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it." "Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems like five." He got up and walked to the gate again, and "wished he had had the key about him at the time." Fanny thought she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another attempt, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you should not join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that part of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of that sort, you know, can be settled without you." She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. "Well," said he, "if you really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for nothing." And letting himself out, he walked off without farther ceremony. Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings brought them before her. They were just returned into the wilderness from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their absence. Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the house. On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious specimen of heath. On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object of the day. By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the junction which had taken place at last seemed, to Fanny's observation, to have been as much too late for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humour. Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the way. At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat." The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement. "Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. "Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day's amusement you have had!" Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, "I think _you_ have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully." "My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me; take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well." "What else have you been spunging?" said Maria, half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented. "Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me: she would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother shall have some." It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within. Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost all. The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their father in England again within a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise. November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November. Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring _something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might happen in thirteen weeks. Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, "How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November." Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say. "Your father's return will be a very interesting event." "It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but including so many dangers." "It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your sister's marriage, and your taking orders." "Yes." "Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return." "There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; "it is entirely her own doing." "Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand." "My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's marrying." "It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts." "Which you suppose has biassed me?" "But _that_ I am sure it has not," cried Fanny. "Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly." "It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short pause, "as for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear." "No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors." "But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" said Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision." "What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed; absolute madness." "Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his." "Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine." "There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure, you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy. You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's table." "I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any deficiency of information." "Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad, they were always wishing away." "Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation. "I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it." "I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence; and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant." "No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession for all that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have taken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he would have had less time and obligation--where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman." "We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night." "I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons." Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, "I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread. "There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he presently. "There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection, "that she should have been in such hands!" Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene." "I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose a great deal." "_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin." "I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright." "Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia." "We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?" "Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing." "Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee began. "We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again. Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold. Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Die Party kommt in Sotherton an und wird sofort von Mr. Rushworths Mutter, einer geschwätzigen alten Frau genauso langweilig wie ihr Sohn, durch das Haus geführt. Fanny ist enttäuscht von der Kapelle, die nur ein einfacher Raum ist. Sie teilt ihre Gefühle Edmund und Mary Crawford mit, die beide anderer Meinung sind und sich auch untereinander nicht einig sind. Mary findet die Idee, in die Kapelle zu gehen, unangenehm und macht einen gemeinen Kommentar über Geistliche, ohne zu wissen, dass Edmund Priester werden wird. Weder Edmund noch Fanny informieren sie über ihren Fauxpas, aber ein zufälliger Kommentar von Julia lässt sie über ihren Fehler verlegen sein. Julias Kommentar, dass, wenn Edmund seine Weihe erhalten hätte, er Maria und Mr. Rushworth noch heute in der Kapelle heiraten könnte, ist ein Versuch, ihre Schwester in Verlegenheit zu bringen und sie vor Henry Crawford zu warnen, mit dem sie immer offensichtlicher flirtet. Die Party verlässt das Haus, um sich die Anlagen anzusehen. Maria, Henry und Rushworth bilden eine Dreiergruppe, genauso wie Fanny, Edmund und Mary. Zu ihrem Ärger muss Julia bei Mrs. Norris und Rushworths Mutter bleiben. Mary neckt Edmund wegen seiner Entscheidung, Geistlicher zu werden. Fanny wird größtenteils aus ihrem flirtenden Gespräch ausgeschlossen, begleitet sie aber weiterhin auf ihrem Spaziergang. Fanny wird müde und die Dreiergruppe setzt sich hin. Mary ist unruhig und überredet Edmund, sie weiter zu begleiten, während Fanny sich ausruht. Fanny wird zurückgelassen. Einige Zeit später kommen Maria und ihre beiden Verehrer an. Sie möchten durch ein nahegelegenes Tor zum restlichen Park gehen, aber das Tor ist verschlossen. Rushworth kehrt ins Haus zurück, um den Schlüssel zu holen, aber Maria und Henry schlüpfen durch die Seite des mit Stacheln versehenen Tores und gehen allein davon, zur Bestürzung von Fanny. Ein paar Minuten später kommt die verärgerte Julia an und folgt Maria und Henry. Schließlich kommt Rushworth mit dem Schlüssel und ist offensichtlich enttäuscht. Er fragt Fanny, was sie von Henry hält; ihm ist klar, dass Maria mit ihm flirtet. Fanny weicht seiner Frage aus. Schließlich kehrt der Rest der Gruppe zu Fanny zurück und sie machen sich auf den Weg zurück zum Haus, wo sie schnell zu Abend essen und dann nach Hause fahren. Julia teilt wieder einen Sitzplatz mit Henry und die Frauen im Wagen sind von den Pflanzen, Käse und Eiern überfüllt, die Mrs. Norris als Geschenke mitbringt. Kurz nach dem Ausflug nach Sotherton kommt ein Brief an, der die Familie informiert, dass Sir Thomas im November, dreizehn Wochen von heute, zurückkehren wird. Maria ist besorgt, weil die Rückkehr ihres Vaters ihre Hochzeit bedeutet; die anderen sind besorgt, dass seine Rückkehr dem Ende ihrer Fröhlichkeit bedeuten wird. Für Edmund bedeutet die Rückkehr seines Vaters auch, dass er seine Weihe empfangen wird, und bei einer Party an einem Abend nutzt Mary die Gelegenheit, um ihn wieder zu ärgern. In ihrem neckenden Verhalten fügt sie auch einige Beleidigungen gegen Dr. Grant hinzu, was Fanny beleidigt. Fanny und Edmund entkommen Mary und gehen nach draußen, um die Sterne anzusehen. Edmund spricht erneut mit Fanny über Mary und versucht, ihre schlechten Angewohnheiten und Grausamkeit mit ihrer schwierigen Kindheit zu rechtfertigen. Fanny lenkt das Gespräch auf die Sternbilder um. Edmund schließt sich bald wieder der Party an, zur Verärgerung von Fanny.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: IT is sixteen years since John Bergson died. His wife now lies beside him, and the white shaft that marks their graves gleams across the wheat-fields. Could he rise from beneath it, he would not know the country under which he has been asleep. The shaggy coat of the prairie, which they lifted to make him a bed, has vanished forever. From the Norwegian graveyard one looks out over a vast checker-board, marked off in squares of wheat and corn; light and dark, dark and light. Telephone wires hum along the white roads, which always run at right angles. From the graveyard gate one can count a dozen gayly painted farmhouses; the gilded weather-vanes on the big red barns wink at each other across the green and brown and yellow fields. The light steel windmills tremble throughout their frames and tug at their moorings, as they vibrate in the wind that often blows from one week's end to another across that high, active, resolute stretch of country. The Divide is now thickly populated. The rich soil yields heavy harvests; the dry, bracing climate and the smoothness of the land make labor easy for men and beasts. There are few scenes more gratifying than a spring plowing in that country, where the furrows of a single field often lie a mile in length, and the brown earth, with such a strong, clean smell, and such a power of growth and fertility in it, yields itself eagerly to the plow; rolls away from the shear, not even dimming the brightness of the metal, with a soft, deep sigh of happiness. The wheat-cutting sometimes goes on all night as well as all day, and in good seasons there are scarcely men and horses enough to do the harvesting. The grain is so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet. There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the season, holding nothing back. Like the plains of Lombardy, it seems to rise a little to meet the sun. The air and the earth are curiously mated and intermingled, as if the one were the breath of the other. You feel in the atmosphere the same tonic, puissant quality that is in the tilth, the same strength and resoluteness. One June morning a young man stood at the gate of the Norwegian graveyard, sharpening his scythe in strokes unconsciously timed to the tune he was whistling. He wore a flannel cap and duck trousers, and the sleeves of his white flannel shirt were rolled back to the elbow. When he was satisfied with the edge of his blade, he slipped the whetstone into his hip pocket and began to swing his scythe, still whistling, but softly, out of respect to the quiet folk about him. Unconscious respect, probably, for he seemed intent upon his own thoughts, and, like the Gladiator's, they were far away. He was a splendid figure of a boy, tall and straight as a young pine tree, with a handsome head, and stormy gray eyes, deeply set under a serious brow. The space between his two front teeth, which were unusually far apart, gave him the proficiency in whistling for which he was distinguished at college. (He also played the cornet in the University band.) When the grass required his close attention, or when he had to stoop to cut about a head-stone, he paused in his lively air,--the "Jewel" song,--taking it up where he had left it when his scythe swung free again. He was not thinking about the tired pioneers over whom his blade glittered. The old wild country, the struggle in which his sister was destined to succeed while so many men broke their hearts and died, he can scarcely remember. That is all among the dim things of childhood and has been forgotten in the brighter pattern life weaves to-day, in the bright facts of being captain of the track team, and holding the interstate record for the high jump, in the all-suffusing brightness of being twenty-one. Yet sometimes, in the pauses of his work, the young man frowned and looked at the ground with an intentness which suggested that even twenty-one might have its problems. When he had been mowing the better part of an hour, he heard the rattle of a light cart on the road behind him. Supposing that it was his sister coming back from one of her farms, he kept on with his work. The cart stopped at the gate and a merry contralto voice called, "Almost through, Emil?" He dropped his scythe and went toward the fence, wiping his face and neck with his handkerchief. In the cart sat a young woman who wore driving gauntlets and a wide shade hat, trimmed with red poppies. Her face, too, was rather like a poppy, round and brown, with rich color in her cheeks and lips, and her dancing yellow-brown eyes bubbled with gayety. The wind was flapping her big hat and teasing a curl of her chestnut-colored hair. She shook her head at the tall youth. "What time did you get over here? That's not much of a job for an athlete. Here I've been to town and back. Alexandra lets you sleep late. Oh, I know! Lou's wife was telling me about the way she spoils you. I was going to give you a lift, if you were done." She gathered up her reins. "But I will be, in a minute. Please wait for me, Marie," Emil coaxed. "Alexandra sent me to mow our lot, but I've done half a dozen others, you see. Just wait till I finish off the Kourdnas'. By the way, they were Bohemians. Why aren't they up in the Catholic graveyard?" "Free-thinkers," replied the young woman laconically. "Lots of the Bohemian boys at the University are," said Emil, taking up his scythe again. "What did you ever burn John Huss for, anyway? It's made an awful row. They still jaw about it in history classes." "We'd do it right over again, most of us," said the young woman hotly. "Don't they ever teach you in your history classes that you'd all be heathen Turks if it hadn't been for the Bohemians?" Emil had fallen to mowing. "Oh, there's no denying you're a spunky little bunch, you Czechs," he called back over his shoulder. Marie Shabata settled herself in her seat and watched the rhythmical movement of the young man's long arms, swinging her foot as if in time to some air that was going through her mind. The minutes passed. Emil mowed vigorously and Marie sat sunning herself and watching the long grass fall. She sat with the ease that belongs to persons of an essentially happy nature, who can find a comfortable spot almost anywhere; who are supple, and quick in adapting themselves to circumstances. After a final swish, Emil snapped the gate and sprang into the cart, holding his scythe well out over the wheel. "There," he sighed. "I gave old man Lee a cut or so, too. Lou's wife needn't talk. I never see Lou's scythe over here." Marie clucked to her horse. "Oh, you know Annie!" She looked at the young man's bare arms. "How brown you've got since you came home. I wish I had an athlete to mow my orchard. I get wet to my knees when I go down to pick cherries." "You can have one, any time you want him. Better wait until after it rains." Emil squinted off at the horizon as if he were looking for clouds. "Will you? Oh, there's a good boy!" She turned her head to him with a quick, bright smile. He felt it rather than saw it. Indeed, he had looked away with the purpose of not seeing it. "I've been up looking at Angelique's wedding clothes," Marie went on, "and I'm so excited I can hardly wait until Sunday. Amedee will be a handsome bridegroom. Is anybody but you going to stand up with him? Well, then it will be a handsome wedding party." She made a droll face at Emil, who flushed. "Frank," Marie continued, flicking her horse, "is cranky at me because I loaned his saddle to Jan Smirka, and I'm terribly afraid he won't take me to the dance in the evening. Maybe the supper will tempt him. All Angelique's folks are baking for it, and all Amedee's twenty cousins. There will be barrels of beer. If once I get Frank to the supper, I'll see that I stay for the dance. And by the way, Emil, you mustn't dance with me but once or twice. You must dance with all the French girls. It hurts their feelings if you don't. They think you're proud because you've been away to school or something." Emil sniffed. "How do you know they think that?" "Well, you didn't dance with them much at Raoul Marcel's party, and I could tell how they took it by the way they looked at you--and at me." "All right," said Emil shortly, studying the glittering blade of his scythe. They drove westward toward Norway Creek, and toward a big white house that stood on a hill, several miles across the fields. There were so many sheds and outbuildings grouped about it that the place looked not unlike a tiny village. A stranger, approaching it, could not help noticing the beauty and fruitfulness of the outlying fields. There was something individual about the great farm, a most unusual trimness and care for detail. On either side of the road, for a mile before you reached the foot of the hill, stood tall osage orange hedges, their glossy green marking off the yellow fields. South of the hill, in a low, sheltered swale, surrounded by a mulberry hedge, was the orchard, its fruit trees knee-deep in timothy grass. Any one thereabouts would have told you that this was one of the richest farms on the Divide, and that the farmer was a woman, Alexandra Bergson. If you go up the hill and enter Alexandra's big house, you will find that it is curiously unfinished and uneven in comfort. One room is papered, carpeted, over-furnished; the next is almost bare. The pleasantest rooms in the house are the kitchen--where Alexandra's three young Swedish girls chatter and cook and pickle and preserve all summer long--and the sitting-room, in which Alexandra has brought together the old homely furniture that the Bergsons used in their first log house, the family portraits, and the few things her mother brought from Sweden. When you go out of the house into the flower garden, there you feel again the order and fine arrangement manifest all over the great farm; in the fencing and hedging, in the windbreaks and sheds, in the symmetrical pasture ponds, planted with scrub willows to give shade to the cattle in fly-time. There is even a white row of beehives in the orchard, under the walnut trees. You feel that, properly, Alexandra's house is the big out-of-doors, and that it is in the soil that she expresses herself best. Emil reached home a little past noon, and when he went into the kitchen Alexandra was already seated at the head of the long table, having dinner with her men, as she always did unless there were visitors. He slipped into his empty place at his sister's right. The three pretty young Swedish girls who did Alexandra's housework were cutting pies, refilling coffeecups, placing platters of bread and meat and potatoes upon the red tablecloth, and continually getting in each other's way between the table and the stove. To be sure they always wasted a good deal of time getting in each other's way and giggling at each other's mistakes. But, as Alexandra had pointedly told her sisters-in-law, it was to hear them giggle that she kept three young things in her kitchen; the work she could do herself, if it were necessary. These girls, with their long letters from home, their finery, and their love-affairs, afforded her a great deal of entertainment, and they were company for her when Emil was away at school. Of the youngest girl, Signa, who has a pretty figure, mottled pink cheeks, and yellow hair, Alexandra is very fond, though she keeps a sharp eye upon her. Signa is apt to be skittish at mealtime, when the men are about, and to spill the coffee or upset the cream. It is supposed that Nelse Jensen, one of the six men at the dinner-table, is courting Signa, though he has been so careful not to commit himself that no one in the house, least of all Signa, can tell just how far the matter has progressed. Nelse watches her glumly as she waits upon the table, and in the evening he sits on a bench behind the stove with his DRAGHARMONIKA, playing mournful airs and watching her as she goes about her work. When Alexandra asked Signa whether she thought Nelse was in earnest, the poor child hid her hands under her apron and murmured, "I don't know, ma'm. But he scolds me about everything, like as if he wanted to have me!" At Alexandra's left sat a very old man, barefoot and wearing a long blue blouse, open at the neck. His shaggy head is scarcely whiter than it was sixteen years ago, but his little blue eyes have become pale and watery, and his ruddy face is withered, like an apple that has clung all winter to the tree. When Ivar lost his land through mismanagement a dozen years ago, Alexandra took him in, and he has been a member of her household ever since. He is too old to work in the fields, but he hitches and unhitches the work-teams and looks after the health of the stock. Sometimes of a winter evening Alexandra calls him into the sitting-room to read the Bible aloud to her, for he still reads very well. He dislikes human habitations, so Alexandra has fitted him up a room in the barn, where he is very comfortable, being near the horses and, as he says, further from temptations. No one has ever found out what his temptations are. In cold weather he sits by the kitchen fire and makes hammocks or mends harness until it is time to go to bed. Then he says his prayers at great length behind the stove, puts on his buffalo-skin coat and goes out to his room in the barn. Alexandra herself has changed very little. Her figure is fuller, and she has more color. She seems sunnier and more vigorous than she did as a young girl. But she still has the same calmness and deliberation of manner, the same clear eyes, and she still wears her hair in two braids wound round her head. It is so curly that fiery ends escape from the braids and make her head look like one of the big double sunflowers that fringe her vegetable garden. Her face is always tanned in summer, for her sunbonnet is oftener on her arm than on her head. But where her collar falls away from her neck, or where her sleeves are pushed back from her wrist, the skin is of such smoothness and whiteness as none but Swedish women ever possess; skin with the freshness of the snow itself. Alexandra did not talk much at the table, but she encouraged her men to talk, and she always listened attentively, even when they seemed to be talking foolishly. To-day Barney Flinn, the big red-headed Irishman who had been with Alexandra for five years and who was actually her foreman, though he had no such title, was grumbling about the new silo she had put up that spring. It happened to be the first silo on the Divide, and Alexandra's neighbors and her men were skeptical about it. "To be sure, if the thing don't work, we'll have plenty of feed without it, indeed," Barney conceded. Nelse Jensen, Signa's gloomy suitor, had his word. "Lou, he says he wouldn't have no silo on his place if you'd give it to him. He says the feed outen it gives the stock the bloat. He heard of somebody lost four head of horses, feedin' 'em that stuff." Alexandra looked down the table from one to another. "Well, the only way we can find out is to try. Lou and I have different notions about feeding stock, and that's a good thing. It's bad if all the members of a family think alike. They never get anywhere. Lou can learn by my mistakes and I can learn by his. Isn't that fair, Barney?" The Irishman laughed. He had no love for Lou, who was always uppish with him and who said that Alexandra paid her hands too much. "I've no thought but to give the thing an honest try, mum. 'T would be only right, after puttin' so much expense into it. Maybe Emil will come out an' have a look at it wid me." He pushed back his chair, took his hat from the nail, and marched out with Emil, who, with his university ideas, was supposed to have instigated the silo. The other hands followed them, all except old Ivar. He had been depressed throughout the meal and had paid no heed to the talk of the men, even when they mentioned cornstalk bloat, upon which he was sure to have opinions. "Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?" Alexandra asked as she rose from the table. "Come into the sitting-room." The old man followed Alexandra, but when she motioned him to a chair he shook his head. She took up her workbasket and waited for him to speak. He stood looking at the carpet, his bushy head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. Ivar's bandy legs seemed to have grown shorter with years, and they were completely misfitted to his broad, thick body and heavy shoulders. "Well, Ivar, what is it?" Alexandra asked after she had waited longer than usual. Ivar had never learned to speak English and his Norwegian was quaint and grave, like the speech of the more old-fashioned people. He always addressed Alexandra in terms of the deepest respect, hoping to set a good example to the kitchen girls, whom he thought too familiar in their manners. "Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk have been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been talk." "Talk about what, Ivar?" "About sending me away; to the asylum." Alexandra put down her sewing-basket. "Nobody has come to me with such talk," she said decidedly. "Why need you listen? You know I would never consent to such a thing." Ivar lifted his shaggy head and looked at her out of his little eyes. "They say that you cannot prevent it if the folk complain of me, if your brothers complain to the authorities. They say that your brothers are afraid--God forbid!--that I may do you some injury when my spells are on me. Mistress, how can any one think that?--that I could bite the hand that fed me!" The tears trickled down on the old man's beard. Alexandra frowned. "Ivar, I wonder at you, that you should come bothering me with such nonsense. I am still running my own house, and other people have nothing to do with either you or me. So long as I am suited with you, there is nothing to be said." Ivar pulled a red handkerchief out of the breast of his blouse and wiped his eyes and beard. "But I should not wish you to keep me if, as they say, it is against your interests, and if it is hard for you to get hands because I am here." Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his hand and went on earnestly:-- "Listen, mistress, it is right that you should take these things into account. You know that my spells come from God, and that I would not harm any living creature. You believe that every one should worship God in the way revealed to him. But that is not the way of this country. The way here is for all to do alike. I am despised because I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my hair, and because I have visions. At home, in the old country, there were many like me, who had been touched by God, or who had seen things in the graveyard at night and were different afterward. We thought nothing of it, and let them alone. But here, if a man is different in his feet or in his head, they put him in the asylum. Look at Peter Kralik; when he was a boy, drinking out of a creek, he swallowed a snake, and always after that he could eat only such food as the creature liked, for when he ate anything else, it became enraged and gnawed him. When he felt it whipping about in him, he drank alcohol to stupefy it and get some ease for himself. He could work as good as any man, and his head was clear, but they locked him up for being different in his stomach. That is the way; they have built the asylum for people who are different, and they will not even let us live in the holes with the badgers. Only your great prosperity has protected me so far. If you had had ill-fortune, they would have taken me to Hastings long ago." As Ivar talked, his gloom lifted. Alexandra had found that she could often break his fasts and long penances by talking to him and letting him pour out the thoughts that troubled him. Sympathy always cleared his mind, and ridicule was poison to him. "There is a great deal in what you say, Ivar. Like as not they will be wanting to take me to Hastings because I have built a silo; and then I may take you with me. But at present I need you here. Only don't come to me again telling me what people say. Let people go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think best. You have been with me now for twelve years, and I have gone to you for advice oftener than I have ever gone to any one. That ought to satisfy you." Ivar bowed humbly. "Yes, mistress, I shall not trouble you with their talk again. And as for my feet, I have observed your wishes all these years, though you have never questioned me; washing them every night, even in winter." Alexandra laughed. "Oh, never mind about your feet, Ivar. We can remember when half our neighbors went barefoot in summer. I expect old Mrs. Lee would love to slip her shoes off now sometimes, if she dared. I'm glad I'm not Lou's mother-in-law." Ivar looked about mysteriously and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "You know what they have over at Lou's house? A great white tub, like the stone water-troughs in the old country, to wash themselves in. When you sent me over with the strawberries, they were all in town but the old woman Lee and the baby. She took me in and showed me the thing, and she told me it was impossible to wash yourself clean in it, because, in so much water, you could not make a strong suds. So when they fill it up and send her in there, she pretends, and makes a splashing noise. Then, when they are all asleep, she washes herself in a little wooden tub she keeps under her bed." Alexandra shook with laughter. "Poor old Mrs. Lee! They won't let her wear nightcaps, either. Never mind; when she comes to visit me, she can do all the old things in the old way, and have as much beer as she wants. We'll start an asylum for old-time people, Ivar." Ivar folded his big handkerchief carefully and thrust it back into his blouse. "This is always the way, mistress. I come to you sorrowing, and you send me away with a light heart. And will you be so good as to tell the Irishman that he is not to work the brown gelding until the sore on its shoulder is healed?" "That I will. Now go and put Emil's mare to the cart. I am going to drive up to the north quarter to meet the man from town who is to buy my alfalfa hay." Alexandra was to hear more of Ivar's case, however. On Sunday her married brothers came to dinner. She had asked them for that day because Emil, who hated family parties, would be absent, dancing at Amedee Chevalier's wedding, up in the French country. The table was set for company in the dining-room, where highly varnished wood and colored glass and useless pieces of china were conspicuous enough to satisfy the standards of the new prosperity. Alexandra had put herself into the hands of the Hanover furniture dealer, and he had conscientiously done his best to make her dining-room look like his display window. She said frankly that she knew nothing about such things, and she was willing to be governed by the general conviction that the more useless and utterly unusable objects were, the greater their virtue as ornament. That seemed reasonable enough. Since she liked plain things herself, it was all the more necessary to have jars and punchbowls and candlesticks in the company rooms for people who did appreciate them. Her guests liked to see about them these reassuring emblems of prosperity. The family party was complete except for Emil, and Oscar's wife who, in the country phrase, "was not going anywhere just now." Oscar sat at the foot of the table and his four tow-headed little boys, aged from twelve to five, were ranged at one side. Neither Oscar nor Lou has changed much; they have simply, as Alexandra said of them long ago, grown to be more and more like themselves. Lou now looks the older of the two; his face is thin and shrewd and wrinkled about the eyes, while Oscar's is thick and dull. For all his dullness, however, Oscar makes more money than his brother, which adds to Lou's sharpness and uneasiness and tempts him to make a show. The trouble with Lou is that he is tricky, and his neighbors have found out that, as Ivar says, he has not a fox's face for nothing. Politics being the natural field for such talents, he neglects his farm to attend conventions and to run for county offices. Lou's wife, formerly Annie Lee, has grown to look curiously like her husband. Her face has become longer, sharper, more aggressive. She wears her yellow hair in a high pompadour, and is bedecked with rings and chains and "beauty pins." Her tight, high-heeled shoes give her an awkward walk, and she is always more or less preoccupied with her clothes. As she sat at the table, she kept telling her youngest daughter to "be careful now, and not drop anything on mother." The conversation at the table was all in English. Oscar's wife, from the malaria district of Missouri, was ashamed of marrying a foreigner, and his boys do not understand a word of Swedish. Annie and Lou sometimes speak Swedish at home, but Annie is almost as much afraid of being "caught" at it as ever her mother was of being caught barefoot. Oscar still has a thick accent, but Lou speaks like anybody from Iowa. "When I was in Hastings to attend the convention," he was saying, "I saw the superintendent of the asylum, and I was telling him about Ivar's symptoms. He says Ivar's case is one of the most dangerous kind, and it's a wonder he hasn't done something violent before this." Alexandra laughed good-humoredly. "Oh, nonsense, Lou! The doctors would have us all crazy if they could. Ivar's queer, certainly, but he has more sense than half the hands I hire." Lou flew at his fried chicken. "Oh, I guess the doctor knows his business, Alexandra. He was very much surprised when I told him how you'd put up with Ivar. He says he's likely to set fire to the barn any night, or to take after you and the girls with an axe." Little Signa, who was waiting on the table, giggled and fled to the kitchen. Alexandra's eyes twinkled. "That was too much for Signa, Lou. We all know that Ivar's perfectly harmless. The girls would as soon expect me to chase them with an axe." Lou flushed and signaled to his wife. "All the same, the neighbors will be having a say about it before long. He may burn anybody's barn. It's only necessary for one property-owner in the township to make complaint, and he'll be taken up by force. You'd better send him yourself and not have any hard feelings." Alexandra helped one of her little nephews to gravy. "Well, Lou, if any of the neighbors try that, I'll have myself appointed Ivar's guardian and take the case to court, that's all. I am perfectly satisfied with him." "Pass the preserves, Lou," said Annie in a warning tone. She had reasons for not wishing her husband to cross Alexandra too openly. "But don't you sort of hate to have people see him around here, Alexandra?" she went on with persuasive smoothness. "He IS a disgraceful object, and you're fixed up so nice now. It sort of makes people distant with you, when they never know when they'll hear him scratching about. My girls are afraid as death of him, aren't you, Milly, dear?" Milly was fifteen, fat and jolly and pompadoured, with a creamy complexion, square white teeth, and a short upper lip. She looked like her grandmother Bergson, and had her comfortable and comfort-loving nature. She grinned at her aunt, with whom she was a great deal more at ease than she was with her mother. Alexandra winked a reply. "Milly needn't be afraid of Ivar. She's an especial favorite of his. In my opinion Ivar has just as much right to his own way of dressing and thinking as we have. But I'll see that he doesn't bother other people. I'll keep him at home, so don't trouble any more about him, Lou. I've been wanting to ask you about your new bathtub. How does it work?" Annie came to the fore to give Lou time to recover himself. "Oh, it works something grand! I can't keep him out of it. He washes himself all over three times a week now, and uses all the hot water. I think it's weakening to stay in as long as he does. You ought to have one, Alexandra." "I'm thinking of it. I might have one put in the barn for Ivar, if it will ease people's minds. But before I get a bathtub, I'm going to get a piano for Milly." Oscar, at the end of the table, looked up from his plate. "What does Milly want of a pianny? What's the matter with her organ? She can make some use of that, and play in church." Annie looked flustered. She had begged Alexandra not to say anything about this plan before Oscar, who was apt to be jealous of what his sister did for Lou's children. Alexandra did not get on with Oscar's wife at all. "Milly can play in church just the same, and she'll still play on the organ. But practising on it so much spoils her touch. Her teacher says so," Annie brought out with spirit. Oscar rolled his eyes. "Well, Milly must have got on pretty good if she's got past the organ. I know plenty of grown folks that ain't," he said bluntly. Annie threw up her chin. "She has got on good, and she's going to play for her commencement when she graduates in town next year." "Yes," said Alexandra firmly, "I think Milly deserves a piano. All the girls around here have been taking lessons for years, but Milly is the only one of them who can ever play anything when you ask her. I'll tell you when I first thought I would like to give you a piano, Milly, and that was when you learned that book of old Swedish songs that your grandfather used to sing. He had a sweet tenor voice, and when he was a young man he loved to sing. I can remember hearing him singing with the sailors down in the shipyard, when I was no bigger than Stella here," pointing to Annie's younger daughter. Milly and Stella both looked through the door into the sitting-room, where a crayon portrait of John Bergson hung on the wall. Alexandra had had it made from a little photograph, taken for his friends just before he left Sweden; a slender man of thirty-five, with soft hair curling about his high forehead, a drooping mustache, and wondering, sad eyes that looked forward into the distance, as if they already beheld the New World. After dinner Lou and Oscar went to the orchard to pick cherries--they had neither of them had the patience to grow an orchard of their own--and Annie went down to gossip with Alexandra's kitchen girls while they washed the dishes. She could always find out more about Alexandra's domestic economy from the prattling maids than from Alexandra herself, and what she discovered she used to her own advantage with Lou. On the Divide, farmers' daughters no longer went out into service, so Alexandra got her girls from Sweden, by paying their fare over. They stayed with her until they married, and were replaced by sisters or cousins from the old country. Alexandra took her three nieces into the flower garden. She was fond of the little girls, especially of Milly, who came to spend a week with her aunt now and then, and read aloud to her from the old books about the house, or listened to stories about the early days on the Divide. While they were walking among the flower beds, a buggy drove up the hill and stopped in front of the gate. A man got out and stood talking to the driver. The little girls were delighted at the advent of a stranger, some one from very far away, they knew by his clothes, his gloves, and the sharp, pointed cut of his dark beard. The girls fell behind their aunt and peeped out at him from among the castor beans. The stranger came up to the gate and stood holding his hat in his hand, smiling, while Alexandra advanced slowly to meet him. As she approached he spoke in a low, pleasant voice. "Don't you know me, Alexandra? I would have known you, anywhere." Alexandra shaded her eyes with her hand. Suddenly she took a quick step forward. "Can it be!" she exclaimed with feeling; "can it be that it is Carl Linstrum? Why, Carl, it is!" She threw out both her hands and caught his across the gate. "Sadie, Milly, run tell your father and Uncle Oscar that our old friend Carl Linstrum is here. Be quick! Why, Carl, how did it happen? I can't believe this!" Alexandra shook the tears from her eyes and laughed. The stranger nodded to his driver, dropped his suitcase inside the fence, and opened the gate. "Then you are glad to see me, and you can put me up overnight? I couldn't go through this country without stopping off to have a look at you. How little you have changed! Do you know, I was sure it would be like that. You simply couldn't be different. How fine you are!" He stepped back and looked at her admiringly. Alexandra blushed and laughed again. "But you yourself, Carl--with that beard--how could I have known you? You went away a little boy." She reached for his suitcase and when he intercepted her she threw up her hands. "You see, I give myself away. I have only women come to visit me, and I do not know how to behave. Where is your trunk?" "It's in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to the coast." They started up the path. "A few days? After all these years!" Alexandra shook her finger at him. "See this, you have walked into a trap. You do not get away so easy." She put her hand affectionately on his shoulder. "You owe me a visit for the sake of old times. Why must you go to the coast at all?" "Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to Alaska." "Alaska?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Are you going to paint the Indians?" "Paint?" the young man frowned. "Oh! I'm not a painter, Alexandra. I'm an engraver. I have nothing to do with painting." "But on my parlor wall I have the paintings--" He interrupted nervously. "Oh, water-color sketches--done for amusement. I sent them to remind you of me, not because they were good. What a wonderful place you have made of this, Alexandra." He turned and looked back at the wide, map-like prospect of field and hedge and pasture. "I would never have believed it could be done. I'm disappointed in my own eye, in my imagination." At this moment Lou and Oscar came up the hill from the orchard. They did not quicken their pace when they saw Carl; indeed, they did not openly look in his direction. They advanced distrustfully, and as if they wished the distance were longer. Alexandra beckoned to them. "They think I am trying to fool them. Come, boys, it's Carl Linstrum, our old Carl!" Lou gave the visitor a quick, sidelong glance and thrust out his hand. "Glad to see you." Oscar followed with "How d' do." Carl could not tell whether their offishness came from unfriendliness or from embarrassment. He and Alexandra led the way to the porch. "Carl," Alexandra explained, "is on his way to Seattle. He is going to Alaska." Oscar studied the visitor's yellow shoes. "Got business there?" he asked. Carl laughed. "Yes, very pressing business. I'm going there to get rich. Engraving's a very interesting profession, but a man never makes any money at it. So I'm going to try the goldfields." Alexandra felt that this was a tactful speech, and Lou looked up with some interest. "Ever done anything in that line before?" "No, but I'm going to join a friend of mine who went out from New York and has done well. He has offered to break me in." "Turrible cold winters, there, I hear," remarked Oscar. "I thought people went up there in the spring." "They do. But my friend is going to spend the winter in Seattle and I am to stay with him there and learn something about prospecting before we start north next year." Lou looked skeptical. "Let's see, how long have you been away from here?" "Sixteen years. You ought to remember that, Lou, for you were married just after we went away." "Going to stay with us some time?" Oscar asked. "A few days, if Alexandra can keep me." "I expect you'll be wanting to see your old place," Lou observed more cordially. "You won't hardly know it. But there's a few chunks of your old sod house left. Alexandra wouldn't never let Frank Shabata plough over it." Annie Lee, who, ever since the visitor was announced, had been touching up her hair and settling her lace and wishing she had worn another dress, now emerged with her three daughters and introduced them. She was greatly impressed by Carl's urban appearance, and in her excitement talked very loud and threw her head about. "And you ain't married yet? At your age, now! Think of that! You'll have to wait for Milly. Yes, we've got a boy, too. The youngest. He's at home with his grandma. You must come over to see mother and hear Milly play. She's the musician of the family. She does pyrography, too. That's burnt wood, you know. You wouldn't believe what she can do with her poker. Yes, she goes to school in town, and she is the youngest in her class by two years." Milly looked uncomfortable and Carl took her hand again. He liked her creamy skin and happy, innocent eyes, and he could see that her mother's way of talking distressed her. "I'm sure she's a clever little girl," he murmured, looking at her thoughtfully. "Let me see--Ah, it's your mother that she looks like, Alexandra. Mrs. Bergson must have looked just like this when she was a little girl. Does Milly run about over the country as you and Alexandra used to, Annie?" Milly's mother protested. "Oh, my, no! Things has changed since we was girls. Milly has it very different. We are going to rent the place and move into town as soon as the girls are old enough to go out into company. A good many are doing that here now. Lou is going into business." Lou grinned. "That's what she says. You better go get your things on. Ivar's hitching up," he added, turning to Annie. Young farmers seldom address their wives by name. It is always "you," or "she." Having got his wife out of the way, Lou sat down on the step and began to whittle. "Well, what do folks in New York think of William Jennings Bryan?" Lou began to bluster, as he always did when he talked politics. "We gave Wall Street a scare in ninety-six, all right, and we're fixing another to hand them. Silver wasn't the only issue," he nodded mysteriously. "There's a good many things got to be changed. The West is going to make itself heard." Carl laughed. "But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else." Lou's thin face reddened up to the roots of his bristly hair. "Oh, we've only begun. We're waking up to a sense of our responsibilities, out here, and we ain't afraid, neither. You fellows back there must be a tame lot. If you had any nerve you'd get together and march down to Wall Street and blow it up. Dynamite it, I mean," with a threatening nod. He was so much in earnest that Carl scarcely knew how to answer him. "That would be a waste of powder. The same business would go on in another street. The street doesn't matter. But what have you fellows out here got to kick about? You have the only safe place there is. Morgan himself couldn't touch you. One only has to drive through this country to see that you're all as rich as barons." "We have a good deal more to say than we had when we were poor," said Lou threateningly. "We're getting on to a whole lot of things." As Ivar drove a double carriage up to the gate, Annie came out in a hat that looked like the model of a battleship. Carl rose and took her down to the carriage, while Lou lingered for a word with his sister. "What do you suppose he's come for?" he asked, jerking his head toward the gate. "Why, to pay us a visit. I've been begging him to for years." Oscar looked at Alexandra. "He didn't let you know he was coming?" "No. Why should he? I told him to come at any time." Lou shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't seem to have done much for himself. Wandering around this way!" Oscar spoke solemnly, as from the depths of a cavern. "He never was much account." Alexandra left them and hurried down to the gate where Annie was rattling on to Carl about her new dining-room furniture. "You must bring Mr. Linstrum over real soon, only be sure to telephone me first," she called back, as Carl helped her into the carriage. Old Ivar, his white head bare, stood holding the horses. Lou came down the path and climbed into the front seat, took up the reins, and drove off without saying anything further to any one. Oscar picked up his youngest boy and trudged off down the road, the other three trotting after him. Carl, holding the gate open for Alexandra, began to laugh. "Up and coming on the Divide, eh, Alexandra?" he cried gayly. Carl had changed, Alexandra felt, much less than one might have expected. He had not become a trim, self-satisfied city man. There was still something homely and wayward and definitely personal about him. Even his clothes, his Norfolk coat and his very high collars, were a little unconventional. He seemed to shrink into himself as he used to do; to hold himself away from things, as if he were afraid of being hurt. In short, he was more self-conscious than a man of thirty-five is expected to be. He looked older than his years and not very strong. His black hair, which still hung in a triangle over his pale forehead, was thin at the crown, and there were fine, relentless lines about his eyes. His back, with its high, sharp shoulders, looked like the back of an over-worked German professor off on his holiday. His face was intelligent, sensitive, unhappy. That evening after supper, Carl and Alexandra were sitting by the clump of castor beans in the middle of the flower garden. The gravel paths glittered in the moonlight, and below them the fields lay white and still. "Do you know, Alexandra," he was saying, "I've been thinking how strangely things work out. I've been away engraving other men's pictures, and you've stayed at home and made your own." He pointed with his cigar toward the sleeping landscape. "How in the world have you done it? How have your neighbors done it?" "We hadn't any of us much to do with it, Carl. The land did it. It had its little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody knew how to work it right; and then, all at once, it worked itself. It woke up out of its sleep and stretched itself, and it was so big, so rich, that we suddenly found we were rich, just from sitting still. As for me, you remember when I began to buy land. For years after that I was always squeezing and borrowing until I was ashamed to show my face in the banks. And then, all at once, men began to come to me offering to lend me money--and I didn't need it! Then I went ahead and built this house. I really built it for Emil. I want you to see Emil, Carl. He is so different from the rest of us!" "How different?" "Oh, you'll see! I'm sure it was to have sons like Emil, and to give them a chance, that father left the old country. It's curious, too; on the outside Emil is just like an American boy,--he graduated from the State University in June, you know,--but underneath he is more Swedish than any of us. Sometimes he is so like father that he frightens me; he is so violent in his feelings like that." "Is he going to farm here with you?" "He shall do whatever he wants to," Alexandra declared warmly. "He is going to have a chance, a whole chance; that's what I've worked for. Sometimes he talks about studying law, and sometimes, just lately, he's been talking about going out into the sand hills and taking up more land. He has his sad times, like father. But I hope he won't do that. We have land enough, at last!" Alexandra laughed. "How about Lou and Oscar? They've done well, haven't they?" "Yes, very well; but they are different, and now that they have farms of their own I do not see so much of them. We divided the land equally when Lou married. They have their own way of doing things, and they do not altogether like my way, I am afraid. Perhaps they think me too independent. But I have had to think for myself a good many years and am not likely to change. On the whole, though, we take as much comfort in each other as most brothers and sisters do. And I am very fond of Lou's oldest daughter." "I think I liked the old Lou and Oscar better, and they probably feel the same about me. I even, if you can keep a secret,"--Carl leaned forward and touched her arm, smiling,--"I even think I liked the old country better. This is all very splendid in its way, but there was something about this country when it was a wild old beast that has haunted me all these years. Now, when I come back to all this milk and honey, I feel like the old German song, 'Wo bist du, wo bist du, mein geliebtest Land?'--Do you ever feel like that, I wonder?" "Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those who are gone; so many of our old neighbors." Alexandra paused and looked up thoughtfully at the stars. "We can remember the graveyard when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now--" "And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said Carl softly. "Isn't it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years." "Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes envy them. There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought your old place. I wouldn't have sold it to any one else, but I was always fond of that girl. You must remember her, little Marie Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here? When she was eighteen she ran away from the convent school and got married, crazy child! She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had nothing, and the old man was willing to buy them a place and set them up. Your farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so near me. I've never been sorry, either. I even try to get along with Frank on her account." "Is Frank her husband?" "Yes. He's one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are good-natured, but Frank thinks we don't appreciate him here, I guess. He's jealous about everything, his farm and his horses and his pretty wife. Everybody likes her, just the same as when she was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church with Emil, and it's funny to see Marie standing there laughing and shaking hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking behind her as if he could eat everybody alive. Frank's not a bad neighbor, but to get on with him you've got to make a fuss over him and act as if you thought he was a very important person all the time, and different from other people. I find it hard to keep that up from one year's end to another." "I shouldn't think you'd be very successful at that kind of thing, Alexandra." Carl seemed to find the idea amusing. "Well," said Alexandra firmly, "I do the best I can, on Marie's account. She has it hard enough, anyway. She's too young and pretty for this sort of life. We're all ever so much older and slower. But she's the kind that won't be downed easily. She'll work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all night, and drive the hay wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by a job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I was going my best. I'll have to take you over to see her to-morrow." Carl dropped the end of his cigar softly among the castor beans and sighed. "Yes, I suppose I must see the old place. I'm cowardly about things that remind me of myself. It took courage to come at all, Alexandra. I wouldn't have, if I hadn't wanted to see you very, very much." Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. "Why do you dread things like that, Carl?" she asked earnestly. "Why are you dissatisfied with yourself?" Her visitor winced. "How direct you are, Alexandra! Just like you used to be. Do I give myself away so quickly? Well, you see, for one thing, there's nothing to look forward to in my profession. Wood-engraving is the only thing I care about, and that had gone out before I began. Everything's cheap metal work nowadays, touching up miserable photographs, forcing up poor drawings, and spoiling good ones. I'm absolutely sick of it all." Carl frowned. "Alexandra, all the way out from New York I've been planning how I could deceive you and make you think me a very enviable fellow, and here I am telling you the truth the first night. I waste a lot of time pretending to people, and the joke of it is, I don't think I ever deceive any one. There are too many of my kind; people know us on sight." Carl paused. Alexandra pushed her hair back from her brow with a puzzled, thoughtful gesture. "You see," he went on calmly, "measured by your standards here, I'm a failure. I couldn't buy even one of your cornfields. I've enjoyed a great many things, but I've got nothing to show for it all." "But you show for it yourself, Carl. I'd rather have had your freedom than my land." Carl shook his head mournfully. "Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is to pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder." Alexandra was silent. She sat looking at the silver spot the moon made on the surface of the pond down in the pasture. He knew that she understood what he meant. At last she said slowly, "And yet I would rather have Emil grow up like that than like his two brothers. We pay a high rent, too, though we pay differently. We grow hard and heavy here. We don't move lightly and easily as you do, and our minds get stiff. If the world were no wider than my cornfields, if there were not something beside this, I wouldn't feel that it was much worth while to work. No, I would rather have Emil like you than like them. I felt that as soon as you came." "I wonder why you feel like that?" Carl mused. "I don't know. Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen, the sister of one of my hired men. She had never been out of the cornfields, and a few years ago she got despondent and said life was just the same thing over and over, and she didn't see the use of it. After she had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks got worried and sent her over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she's come back she's been perfectly cheerful, and she says she's contented to live and work in a world that's so big and interesting. She said that anything as big as the bridges over the Platte and the Missouri reconciled her. And it's what goes on in the world that reconciles me." Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben?

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Sechzehn Jahre nach dem Tod von John Bergson gedieh die Divide und ihre Bevölkerung boomte. Das Land, das nicht mehr kahle Prärie war, ist jetzt üppig und eine Freude, darauf zu gärtnern. Emil steht vor dem norwegischen Friedhof, auf dem seine Mutter und sein Vater nun beide begraben sind, und schleift seine Sense, um das Gras um ihre Gräber zu mähen. Er ist groß und gutaussehend, zurück von einer erfolgreichen Karriere an der Universität, wo er in der Band Cornet spielte und sich im Leichtathletikteam hervortat. Nach etwa einer Stunde sieht er Marie in einer Kutsche auf sich zukommen. Lächelnd und hübsch, neckt sie ihn dafür, dass er so lange bei seiner Arbeit braucht. Sie war bereits in der Stadt und bietet ihm an, ihn nach Hause zu fahren. Während er noch einige Gräber mäht, plaudern sie und Marie bemerkt, dass die Böhmen, die auf dem norwegischen Friedhof begraben sind, "Freidenker" waren; Emil neckt sie wegen der "stachligen" Natur der Böhmen. Marie sichert sich von Emil die Zusage, ihr die Wiesen rund um ihren Obstgarten nach dem nächsten Regen zu mähen. Sie sprechen auch über die bevorstehende Hochzeit zwischen Amedee und Angelique. Marie sagt Emil, er solle auf der Party danach nicht zu viel mit ihr tanzen, da die anderen Mädchen langsam denken würden, er wäre eingebildet, nachdem er in der Schule gewesen ist. Emil stimmt widerwillig zu. Sie fahren nach Westen in Richtung Alexandras großem weißen Haus. Auf ihrem Grundstück stehen so viele Gebäude, dass es "fast wie ein kleines Dorf" aussieht. Als Emil ankommt, geht er hinein und findet Alexandra bereits zum Abendessen mit ihren Männern vor, und er setzt sich an ihren rechten Platz. Alexandra sieht immer noch genauso aus wie zuvor, obwohl ihr Gesicht in der Sonne gebräunt ist. Das Innere des Hauses ist seltsam eingerichtet und nicht besonders gemütlich. Es ist klar, dass die Natur Alexandras wahres Zuhause ist. Drei junge schwedische Mädchen, die für Alexandra im Haus arbeiten, servieren Fleisch, Kartoffeln und Kuchen. Alexandra beobachtet Signa, ihre Lieblingsdame, die sich in Gegenwart der Männer oft durcheinander bringt. Alexandra weiß, dass einer ihrer Arbeiter, Nelse Jensen, um Signa wirbt, aber sie weiß nicht, wie ernst es ist. Ivar sitzt links von Alexandra. Er hat sein Land vor zwölf Jahren verloren und Alexandra hat ihn aufgenommen, um für sie zu arbeiten. Sie hat ihm ein Zimmer im Stall eingerichtet, wo er das ganze Jahr über schläft, weil er "normales" menschliches Wohnen nicht mag und es vorzieht, "weiter von Versuchungen entfernt" zu bleiben, was auch immer diese Versuchungen sein mögen. Alexandras Arbeiter beschweren sich über das neue Getreidesilo und behaupten, dass das Getreide den Viehbestand aufbläht. Alexandra hört sich ihre Meinungen aufmerksam an und sagt, dass sie dem Silo eine Chance geben sollten, bevor sie es aufgeben, worauf die Männer zustimmen. Bevor sie gehen, lädt Alexandra Ivar - der während des Essens auffallend still war - ein, mit ihr im Wohnzimmer zu sprechen. Ivar äußert eine Befürchtung, dass ihn die Männer in ein Irrenhaus stecken werden, während Alexandra geduldig zuhört. Er erklärt, dass in der alten Heimat Männer wie er, die Visionen haben und unter "Anfällen" leiden, einfach in Ruhe gelassen werden, während in Amerika solche Unterschiede nicht toleriert werden. Alexandra beruhigt ihn und er fühlt sich viel besser; als er geht, bittet sie ihn, einen Karren bereitzumachen, damit sie sich mit einem Käufer ihres Luzerneheus treffen kann. An diesem Sonntag, während Emil auf der Hochzeit ist, lädt Alexandra all ihre Brüder zum Abendessen ein. Sie essen im Esszimmer, das im beliebten Stil eingerichtet ist, denn Alexandra möchte ihre Gäste beruhigen. Oscars vier kleine Jungen, Lous Frau Annie Lee und ihre drei Töchter machen den Rest der Gesellschaft aus. Oscar hat mehr Erfolg als Lou, denn Lou verbringt mehr Zeit mit dem Streben nach Regierungspositionen, als auf seiner Farm und den Farmen seiner Nachbarn zu arbeiten, und sie vertrauen ihm nicht. Lou und Oscar versuchen, Alexandra dazu zu überreden, Ivar in die Anstalt zu schicken, aber sie lehnt ab. Die Gesellschaft spricht auch über Annies neue Badewanne und Alexandra erwähnt, dass sie Milly, Lou's Tochter, ein Klavier kaufen wird, weil sie gelernt hat, die Lieder zu spielen, die John Bergson gesungen hat. Oscar hört gereizt zu und ist eifersüchtig auf die Art und Weise, wie Alexandra Lou's Kinder verwöhnt. Nach dem Essen, während Lou und Oscar Kirschen pflücken, spaziert Alexandra mit ihren Nichten im Garten umher. Sie bemerken einen seltsamen Besucher, den Alexandra bei genauerem Hinsehen als Carl Linstrum erkennt. Die Mädchen holen Lou und Oscar, während Alexandra Carl umarmt. Carl ist Graveur und Amateurmaler geworden und kündigt an, dass er nach Alaska will, über Seattle, und deshalb nur eine kurze Zeit bleiben kann. Lou und Oscar kommen an und reagieren abweisend auf Carls Anwesenheit, während Annie ihn neckisch provoziert. Carl erklärt, dass er westlich auf der Suche nach Gold geht - er hat einen Freund, einen erfolgreichen Prospektor, mit dem er in der nächsten Saison das Gold waschen will. Nachdem sie ein wenig bissig über Politik mit Carl gesprochen haben, verabschieden sich Lou und Oscar. Alexandra und Carl stehen alleine zusammen. Alexandra ist überrascht, zu sehen, dass Carl sich so wenig verändert hat, immer noch unsicher und verängstigt. Alexandra erzählt ihm von ihrem Erfolg und sagt, dass sie durchgehalten haben und das Land sich selbst überlassen haben. Sie diskutieren über die unterschiedlichen Charaktere der Menschen, die Carl gekannt hat - besonders Emil, der Alexandra an ihren Vater erinnert, und Marie, die mit Frank durchgebrannt ist. Sie schlägt vor, dass sie Frank und Marie am nächsten Tag besuchen. Carl gesteht indes, dass er das Gefühl hat, sein Leben verschwendet zu haben. Alexandra besteht darauf, dass seine Freiheit mehr wert ist als ihr Land, aber er sagt, dass diese Freiheit einsam und entmutigend ist. Um ihr Argument über die Bedeutung der Freiheit zu untermauern, erzählt sie ihm von Carrie Jensen, einer Schwester ihrer Männer, die Selbstmordversuche unternommen und ein depressives Leben geführt hat, bis sie nach Iowa gereist ist, wonach sie erklärt hat, dass sie glücklich sein könne, solange sie wusste, dass so viel auf der Welt vor sich 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: ACT II (SCENE.—The same. The door into the dining room is shut. It is morning. MRS. STOCKMANN, with a sealed letter in her hand, comes in from the dining room, goes to the door of the DOCTOR'S study, and peeps in.) Mrs. Stockmann. Are you in, Thomas? Dr. Stockmann (from within his room). Yes, I have just come in. (Comes into the room.) What is it? Mrs. Stockmann. A letter from your brother. Dr. Stockmann. Aha, let us see! (Opens the letter and reads:) "I return herewith the manuscript you sent me" (reads on in a low murmur) H'm!— Mrs. Stockmann. What does he say? Dr. Stockmann (putting the papers in his pocket). Oh, he only writes that he will come up here himself about midday. Mrs. Stockmann. Well, try and remember to be at home this time. Dr. Stockmann. That will be all right; I have got through all my morning visits. Mrs. Stockmann. I am extremely curious to know how he takes it. Dr. Stockmann. You will see he won't like it's having been I, and not he, that made the discovery. Mrs. Stockmann. Aren't you a little nervous about that? Dr. Stockmann. Oh, he really will be pleased enough, you know. But, at the same time, Peter is so confoundedly afraid of anyone's doing any service to the town except himself. Mrs. Stockmann. I will tell you what, Thomas—you should be good natured, and share the credit of this with him. Couldn't you make out that it was he who set you on the scent of this discovery? Dr. Stockmann. I am quite willing. If only I can get the thing set right. I— (MORTEN KIIL puts his head in through the door leading from the hall, looks around in an enquiring manner, and chuckles.) Morten Kiil (slyly). Is it—is it true? Mrs. Stockmann (going to the door). Father!—is it you? Dr. Stockmann. Ah, Mr. Kiil—good morning, good morning! Mrs. Stockmann. But come along in. Morten Kiil. If it is true, I will; if not, I am off. Dr. Stockmann. If what is true? Morten Kiil. This tale about the water supply, is it true? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly it is true, but how did you come to hear it? Morten Kiil (coming in). Petra ran in on her way to the school— Dr. Stockmann. Did she? Morten Kiil. Yes; and she declares that—I thought she was only making a fool of me—but it isn't like Petra to do that. Dr. Stockmann. Of course not. How could you imagine such a thing! Morten Kiil. Oh well, it is better never to trust anybody; you may find you have been made a fool of before you know where you are. But it is really true, all the same? Dr. Stockmann. You can depend upon it that it is true. Won't you sit down? (Settles him on the couch.) Isn't it a real bit of luck for the town— Morten Kiil (suppressing his laughter). A bit of luck for the town? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that I made the discovery in good time. Morten Kiil (as before). Yes, yes. Yes!—But I should never have thought you the sort of man to pull your own brother's leg like this! Dr. Stockmann. Pull his leg! Mrs. Stockmann. Really, father dear— Morten Kiil (resting his hands and his chin on the handle of his stick and winking slyly at the DOCTOR). Let me see, what was the story? Some kind of beast that had got into the water-pipes, wasn't it? Dr. Stockmann. Infusoria—yes. Morten Kiil. And a lot of these beasts had got in, according to Petra—a tremendous lot. Dr. Stockmann. Certainly; hundreds of thousands of them, probably. Morten Kiil. But no one can see them—isn't that so? Dr. Stockmann. Yes; you can't see them, Morten Kiil (with a quiet chuckle). Damn—it's the finest story I have ever heard! Dr. Stockmann. What do you mean? Morten Kiil. But you will never get the Mayor to believe a thing like that. Dr. Stockmann. We shall see. Morten Kiil. Do you think he will be fool enough to—? Dr. Stockmann. I hope the whole town will be fools enough. Morten Kiil. The whole town! Well, it wouldn't be a bad thing. It would just serve them right, and teach them a lesson. They think themselves so much cleverer than we old fellows. They hounded me out of the council; they did, I tell you—they hounded me out. Now they shall pay for it. You pull their legs too, Thomas! Dr. Stockmann. Really, I— Morten Kiil. You pull their legs! (Gets up.) If you can work it so that the Mayor and his friends all swallow the same bait, I will give ten pounds to a charity—like a shot! Dr. Stockmann. That is very kind of you. Morten Kiil. Yes, I haven't got much money to throw away, I can tell you; but, if you can work this, I will give five pounds to a charity at Christmas. (HOVSTAD comes in by the hall door.) Hovstad. Good morning! (Stops.) Oh, I beg your pardon Dr. Stockmann. Not at all; come in. Morten Kiil (with another chuckle). Oho!—is he in this too? Hovstad. What do you mean? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly he is. Morten Kiil. I might have known it! It must get into the papers. You know how to do it, Thomas! Set your wits to work. Now I must go. Dr. Stockmann. Won't you stay a little while? Morten Kiil. No, I must be off now. You keep up this game for all it is worth; you won't repent it, I'm damned if you will! (He goes out; MRS. STOCKMANN follows him into the hall.) Dr. Stockmann (laughing). Just imagine—the old chap doesn't believe a word of all this about the water supply. Hovstad. Oh that was it, then? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that was what we were talking about. Perhaps it is the same thing that brings you here? Hovstad. Yes, it is, Can you spare me a few minutes, Doctor? Dr. Stockmann. As long as you like, my dear fellow. Hovstad. Have you heard from the Mayor yet? Dr. Stockmann. Not yet. He is coming here later. Hovstad. I have given the matter a great deal of thought since last night. Dr. Stockmann. Well? Hovstad. From your point of view, as a doctor and a man of science, this affair of the water supply is an isolated matter. I mean, you do not realise that it involves a great many other things. Dr. Stockmann. How do you mean?—Let us sit down, my dear fellow. No, sit here on the couch. (HOVSTAD Sits down on the couch, DR. STOCKMANN On a chair on the other side of the table.) Now then. You mean that—? Hovstad. You said yesterday that the pollution of the water was due to impurities in the soil. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, unquestionably it is due to that poisonous morass up at Molledal. Hovstad. Begging your pardon, Doctor, I fancy it is due to quite another morass altogether. Dr. Stockmann. What morass? Hovstad. The morass that the whole life of our town is built on and is rotting in. Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce are you driving at, Hovstad? Hovstad. The whole of the town's interests have, little by little, got into the hands of a pack of officials. Dr. Stockmann. Oh, come!—they are not all officials. Hovstad. No, but those that are not officials are at any rate the officials' friends and adherents; it is the wealthy folk, the old families in the town, that have got us entirely in their hands. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but after all they are men of ability and knowledge. Hovstad. Did they show any ability or knowledge when they laid the conduit pipes where they are now? Dr. Stockmann. No, of course that was a great piece of stupidity on their part. But that is going to be set right now. Hovstad. Do you think that will be all such plain sailing? Dr. Stockmann. Plain sailing or no, it has got to be done, anyway. Hovstad. Yes, provided the press takes up the question. Dr. Stockmann. I don't think that will be necessary, my dear fellow, I am certain my brother— Hovstad. Excuse me, doctor; I feel bound to tell you I am inclined to take the matter up. Dr. Stockmann. In the paper? Hovstad. Yes. When I took over the "People's Messenger" my idea was to break up this ring of self-opinionated old fossils who had got hold of all the influence. Dr. Stockmann. But you know you told me yourself what the result had been; you nearly ruined your paper. Hovstad. Yes, at the time we were obliged to climb down a peg or two, it is quite true—because there was a danger of the whole project of the Baths coming to nothing if they failed us. But now the scheme has been carried through, and we can dispense with these grand gentlemen. Dr. Stockmann. Dispense with them, yes; but, we owe them a great debt of gratitude. Hovstad. That shall be recognised ungrudgingly, But a journalist of my democratic tendencies cannot let such an opportunity as this slip. The bubble of official infallibility must be pricked. This superstition must be destroyed, like any other. Dr. Stockmann. I am whole-heartedly with you in that, Mr. Hovstad; if it is a superstition, away with it! Hovstad. I should be very reluctant to bring the Mayor into it, because he is your brother. But I am sure you will agree with me that truth should be the first consideration. Dr. Stockmann. That goes without saying. (With sudden emphasis.) Yes, but—but— Hovstad. You must not misjudge me. I am neither more self-interested nor more ambitious than most men. Dr. Stockmann. My dear fellow—who suggests anything of the kind? Hovstad. I am of humble origin, as you know; and that has given me opportunities of knowing what is the most crying need in the humbler ranks of life. It is that they should be allowed some part in the direction of public affairs, Doctor. That is what will develop their faculties and intelligence and self respect— Dr. Stockmann. I quite appreciate that. Hovstad. Yes—and in my opinion a journalist incurs a heavy responsibility if he neglects a favourable opportunity of emancipating the masses—the humble and oppressed. I know well enough that in exalted circles I shall be called an agitator, and all that sort of thing; but they may call what they like. If only my conscience doesn't reproach me, then— Dr. Stockmann. Quite right! Quite right, Mr. Hovstad. But all the same—devil take it! (A knock is heard at the door.) Come in! (ASLAKSEN appears at the door. He is poorly but decently dressed, in black, with a slightly crumpled white neckcloth; he wears gloves and has a felt hat in his hand.) Aslaksen (bowing). Excuse my taking the liberty, Doctor— Dr. Stockmann (getting up). Ah, it is you, Aslaksen! Aslaksen. Yes, Doctor. Hovstad (standing up). Is it me you want, Aslaksen? Aslaksen. No; I didn't know I should find you here. No, it was the Doctor I— Dr. Stockmann. I am quite at your service. What is it? Aslaksen. Is what I heard from Mr. Billing true, sir—that you mean to improve our water supply? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, for the Baths. Aslaksen. Quite so, I understand. Well, I have come to say that I will back that up by every means in my power. Hovstad (to the DOCTOR). You see! Dr. Stockmann. I shall be very grateful to you, but— Aslaksen. Because it may be no bad thing to have us small tradesmen at your back. We form, as it were, a compact majority in the town—if we choose. And it is always a good thing to have the majority with you, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. That is undeniably true; but I confess I don't see why such unusual precautions should be necessary in this case. It seems to me that such a plain, straightforward thing— Aslaksen. Oh, it may be very desirable, all the same. I know our local authorities so well; officials are not generally very ready to act on proposals that come from other people. That is why I think it would not be at all amiss if we made a little demonstration. Hovstad. That's right. Dr. Stockmann. Demonstration, did you say? What on earth are you going to make a demonstration about? Aslaksen. We shall proceed with the greatest moderation, Doctor. Moderation is always my aim; it is the greatest virtue in a citizen—at least, I think so. Dr. Stockmann. It is well known to be a characteristic of yours, Mr. Aslaksen. Aslaksen. Yes, I think I may pride myself on that. And this matter of the water supply is of the greatest importance to us small tradesmen. The Baths promise to be a regular gold-mine for the town. We shall all make our living out of them, especially those of us who are householders. That is why we will back up the project as strongly as possible. And as I am at present Chairman of the Householders' Association. Dr. Stockmann. Yes—? Aslaksen. And, what is more, local secretary of the Temperance Society—you know, sir, I suppose, that I am a worker in the temperance cause? Dr. Stockmann. Of course, of course. Aslaksen. Well, you can understand that I come into contact with a great many people. And as I have the reputation of a temperate and law-abiding citizen—like yourself, Doctor—I have a certain influence in the town, a little bit of power, if I may be allowed to say so. Dr. Stockmann. I know that quite well, Mr. Aslaksen. Aslaksen. So you see it would be an easy matter for me to set on foot some testimonial, if necessary. Dr. Stockmann. A testimonial? Aslaksen. Yes, some kind of an address of thanks from the townsmen for your share in a matter of such importance to the community. I need scarcely say that it would have to be drawn up with the greatest regard to moderation, so as not to offend the authorities—who, after all, have the reins in their hands. If we pay strict attention to that, no one can take it amiss, I should think! Hovstad. Well, and even supposing they didn't like it— Aslaksen. No, no, no; there must be no discourtesy to the authorities, Mr. Hovstad. It is no use falling foul of those upon whom our welfare so closely depends. I have done that in my time, and no good ever comes of it. But no one can take exception to a reasonable and frank expression of a citizen's views. Dr. Stockmann (shaking him by the hand). I can't tell you, dear Mr. Aslaksen, how extremely pleased I am to find such hearty support among my fellow-citizens. I am delighted—delighted! Now, you will take a small glass of sherry, eh? Aslaksen. No, thank you; I never drink alcohol of that kind. Dr. Stockmann. Well, what do you say to a glass of beer, then? Aslaksen. Nor that either, thank you, Doctor. I never drink anything as early as this. I am going into town now to talk this over with one or two householders, and prepare the ground. Dr. Stockmann. It is tremendously kind of you, Mr. Aslaksen; but I really cannot understand the necessity for all these precautions. It seems to me that the thing should go of itself. Aslaksen. The authorities are somewhat slow to move, Doctor. Far be it from me to seem to blame them— Hovstad. We are going to stir them up in the paper tomorrow, Aslaksen. Aslaksen. But not violently, I trust, Mr. Hovstad. Proceed with moderation, or you will do nothing with them. You may take my advice; I have gathered my experience in the school of life. Well, I must say goodbye, Doctor. You know now that we small tradesmen are at your back at all events, like a solid wall. You have the compact majority on your side Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. I am very much obliged, dear Mr. Aslaksen, (Shakes hands with him.) Goodbye, goodbye. Aslaksen. Are you going my way, towards the printing-office. Mr. Hovstad? Hovstad, I will come later; I have something to settle up first. Aslaksen. Very well. (Bows and goes out; STOCKMANN follows him into the hall.) Hovstad (as STOCKMANN comes in again). Well, what do you think of that, Doctor? Don't you think it is high time we stirred a little life into all this slackness and vacillation and cowardice? Dr. Stockmann. Are you referring to Aslaksen? Hovstad, Yes, I am. He is one of those who are floundering in a bog—decent enough fellow though he may be, otherwise. And most of the people here are in just the same case—see-sawing and edging first to one side and then to the other, so overcome with caution and scruple that they never dare to take any decided step. Dr. Stockmann, Yes, but Aslaksen seemed to me so thoroughly well-intentioned. Hovstad. There is one thing I esteem higher than that; and that is for a man to be self-reliant and sure of himself. Dr. Stockmann. I think you are perfectly right there. Hovstad. That is why I want to seize this opportunity, and try if I cannot manage to put a little virility into these well-intentioned people for once. The idol of Authority must be shattered in this town. This gross and inexcusable blunder about the water supply must be brought home to the mind of every municipal voter. Dr. Stockmann. Very well; if you are of opinion that it is for the good of the community, so be it. But not until I have had a talk with my brother. Hovstad. Anyway, I will get a leading article ready; and if the Mayor refuses to take the matter up— Dr. Stockmann. How can you suppose such a thing possible! Hovstad. It is conceivable. And in that case— Dr. Stockmann. In that case I promise you—. Look here, in that case you may print my report—every word of it. Hovstad. May I? Have I your word for it? Dr. Stockmann (giving him the MS.). Here it is; take it with you. It can do no harm for you to read it through, and you can give it me back later on. Hovstad. Good, good! That is what I will do. And now goodbye, Doctor. Dr. Stockmann. Goodbye, goodbye. You will see everything will run quite smoothly, Mr. Hovstad—quite smoothly. Hovstad. Hm!—we shall see. (Bows and goes out.) Dr. Stockmann (opens the dining-room door and looks in). Katherine! Oh, you are back, Petra? Petra (coming in). Yes, I have just come from the school. Mrs. Stockmann (coming in). Has he not been here yet? Dr. Stockmann. Peter? No, but I have had a long talk with Hovstad. He is quite excited about my discovery, I find it has a much wider bearing than I at first imagined. And he has put his paper at my disposal if necessity should arise. Mrs. Stockmann. Do you think it will? Dr. Stockmann. Not for a moment. But at all events it makes me feel proud to know that I have the liberal-minded independent press on my side. Yes, and just imagine—I have had a visit from the Chairman of the Householders' Association! Mrs. Stockmann. Oh! What did he want? Dr. Stockmann. To offer me his support too. They will support me in a body if it should be necessary. Katherine—do you know what I have got behind me? Mrs. Stockmann. Behind you? No, what have you got behind you? Dr. Stockmann. The compact majority. Mrs. Stockmann. Really? Is that a good thing for you Thomas? Dr. Stockmann. I should think it was a good thing. (Walks up and down rubbing his hands.) By Jove, it's a fine thing to feel this bond of brotherhood between oneself and one's fellow citizens! Petra. And to be able to do so much that is good and useful, father! Dr. Stockmann. And for one's own native town into the bargain, my child! Mrs. Stockmann. That was a ring at the bell. Dr. Stockmann. It must be he, then. (A knock is heard at the door.) Come in! Peter Stockmann (comes in from the hall). Good morning. Dr. Stockmann. Glad to see you, Peter! Mrs. Stockmann. Good morning, Peter, How are you? Peter Stockmann. So so, thank you. (To DR. STOCKMANN.) I received from you yesterday, after office hours, a report dealing with the condition of the water at the Baths. Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Have you read it? Peter Stockmann. Yes, I have, Dr. Stockmann. And what have you to say to it? Peter Stockmann (with a sidelong glance). Hm!— Mrs. Stockmann. Come along, Petra. (She and PETRA go into the room on the left.) Peter Stockmann (after a pause). Was it necessary to make all these investigations behind my back? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, because until I was absolutely certain about it— Peter Stockmann. Then you mean that you are absolutely certain now? Dr. Stockmann. Surely you are convinced of that. Peter Stockmann. Is it your intention to bring this document before the Baths Committee as a sort of official communication? Dr. Stockmann. Certainly. Something must be done in the matter—and that quickly. Peter Stockmann. As usual, you employ violent expressions in your report. You say, amongst other things, that what we offer visitors in our Baths is a permanent supply of poison. Dr. Stockmann. Well, can you describe it any other way, Peter? Just think—water that is poisonous, whether you drink it or bathe in it! And this we offer to the poor sick folk who come to us trustfully and pay us at an exorbitant rate to be made well again! Peter Stockmann. And your reasoning leads you to this conclusion, that we must build a sewer to draw off the alleged impurities from Molledal and must relay the water conduits. Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Do you see any other way out of it? I don't. Peter Stockmann. I made a pretext this morning to go and see the town engineer, and, as if only half seriously, broached the subject of these proposals as a thing we might perhaps have to take under consideration some time later on. Dr. Stockmann. Some time later on! Peter Stockmann. He smiled at what he considered to be my extravagance, naturally. Have you taken the trouble to consider what your proposed alterations would cost? According to the information I obtained, the expenses would probably mount up to fifteen or twenty thousand pounds. Dr. Stockmann. Would it cost so much? Peter Stockmann. Yes; and the worst part of it would be that the work would take at least two years. Dr. Stockmann. Two years? Two whole years? Peter Stockmann. At least. And what are we to do with the Baths in the meantime? Close them? Indeed we should be obliged to. And do you suppose anyone would come near the place after it had got out that the water was dangerous? Dr. Stockmann. Yes but, Peter, that is what it is. Peter Stockmann. And all this at this juncture—just as the Baths are beginning to be known. There are other towns in the neighbourhood with qualifications to attract visitors for bathing purposes. Don't you suppose they would immediately strain every nerve to divert the entire stream of strangers to themselves? Unquestionably they would; and then where should we be? We should probably have to abandon the whole thing, which has cost us so much money-and then you would have ruined your native town. Dr. Stockmann. I—should have ruined—! Peter Stockmann. It is simply and solely through the Baths that the town has before it any future worth mentioning. You know that just as well as I. Dr. Stockmann. But what do you think ought to be done, then? Peter Stockmann. Your report has not convinced me that the condition of the water at the Baths is as bad as you represent it to be. Dr. Stockmann. I tell you it is even worse!—or at all events it will be in summer, when the warm weather comes. Peter Stockmann. As I said, I believe you exaggerate the matter considerably. A capable physician ought to know what measures to take—he ought to be capable of preventing injurious influences or of remedying them if they become obviously persistent. Dr. Stockmann. Well? What more? Peter Stockmann. The water supply for the Baths is now an established fact, and in consequence must be treated as such. But probably the Committee, at its discretion, will not be disinclined to consider the question of how far it might be possible to introduce certain improvements consistently with a reasonable expenditure. Dr. Stockmann. And do you suppose that I will have anything to do with such a piece of trickery as that? Peter Stockmann. Trickery!! Dr. Stockmann. Yes, it would be a trick—a fraud, a lie, a downright crime towards the public, towards the whole community! Peter Stockmann. I have not, as I remarked before, been able to convince myself that there is actually any imminent danger. Dr. Stockmann. You have! It is impossible that you should not be convinced. I know I have represented the facts absolutely truthfully and fairly. And you know it very well, Peter, only you won't acknowledge it. It was owing to your action that both the Baths and the water conduits were built where they are; and that is what you won't acknowledge—that damnable blunder of yours. Pooh!—do you suppose I don't see through you? Peter Stockmann. And even if that were true? If I perhaps guard my reputation somewhat anxiously, it is in the interests of the town. Without moral authority I am powerless to direct public affairs as seems, to my judgment, to be best for the common good. And on that account—and for various other reasons too—it appears to me to be a matter of importance that your report should not be delivered to the Committee. In the interests of the public, you must withhold it. Then, later on, I will raise the question and we will do our best, privately; but nothing of this unfortunate affair not a single word of it—must come to the ears of the public. Dr. Stockmann. I am afraid you will not be able to prevent that now, my dear Peter. Peter Stockmann. It must and shall be prevented. Dr. Stockmann. It is no use, I tell you. There are too many people that know about it. Peter Stockmann. That know about it? Who? Surely you don't mean those fellows on the "People's Messenger"? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, they know. The liberal-minded independent press is going to see that you do your duty. Peter Stockmann (after a short pause). You are an extraordinarily independent man, Thomas. Have you given no thought to the consequences this may have for yourself? Dr. Stockmann. Consequences?—for me? Peter Stockmann. For you and yours, yes. Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce do you mean? Peter Stockmann. I believe I have always behaved in a brotherly way to you—haven't I always been ready to oblige or to help you? Dr. Stockmann. Yes, you have, and I am grateful to you for it. Peter Stockmann. There is no need. Indeed, to some extent I was forced to do so—for my own sake. I always hoped that, if I helped to improve your financial position, I should be able to keep some check on you. Dr. Stockmann. What! Then it was only for your own sake—! Peter Stockmann. Up to a certain point, yes. It is painful for a man in an official position to have his nearest relative compromising himself time after time. Dr. Stockmann. And do you consider that I do that? Peter Stockmann. Yes, unfortunately, you do, without even being aware of it. You have a restless, pugnacious, rebellious disposition. And then there is that disastrous propensity of yours to want to write about every sort of possible and impossible thing. The moment an idea comes into your head, you must needs go and write a newspaper article or a whole pamphlet about it. Dr. Stockmann. Well, but is it not the duty of a citizen to let the public share in any new ideas he may have? Peter Stockmann. Oh, the public doesn't require any new ideas. The public is best served by the good, old established ideas it already has. Dr. Stockmann. And that is your honest opinion? Peter Stockmann. Yes, and for once I must talk frankly to you. Hitherto I have tried to avoid doing so, because I know how irritable you are; but now I must tell you the truth, Thomas. You have no conception what an amount of harm you do yourself by your impetuosity. You complain of the authorities, you even complain of the government—you are always pulling them to pieces; you insist that you have been neglected and persecuted. But what else can such a cantankerous man as you expect? Dr. Stockmann. What next! Cantankerous, am I? Peter Stockmann. Yes, Thomas, you are an extremely cantankerous man to work with—I know that to my cost. You disregard everything that you ought to have consideration for. You seem completely to forget that it is me you have to thank for your appointment here as medical officer to the Baths. Dr. Stockmann. I was entitled to it as a matter of course!—I and nobody else! I was the first person to see that the town could be made into a flourishing watering-place, and I was the only one who saw it at that time. I had to fight single-handed in support of the idea for many years; and I wrote and wrote— Peter Stockmann. Undoubtedly. But things were not ripe for the scheme then—though, of course, you could not judge of that in your out-of-the-way corner up north. But as soon as the opportune moment came I—and the others—took the matter into our hands. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and made this mess of all my beautiful plan. It is pretty obvious now what clever fellows you were! Peter Stockmann. To my mind the whole thing only seems to mean that you are seeking another outlet for your combativeness. You want to pick a quarrel with your superiors—an old habit of yours. You cannot put up with any authority over you. You look askance at anyone who occupies a superior official position; you regard him as a personal enemy, and then any stick is good enough to beat him with. But now I have called your attention to the fact that the town's interests are at stake—and, incidentally, my own too. And therefore, I must tell you, Thomas, that you will find me inexorable with regard to what I am about to require you to do. Dr. Stockmann. And what is that? Peter Stockmann. As you have been so indiscreet as to speak of this delicate matter to outsiders, despite the fact that you ought to have treated it as entirely official and confidential, it is obviously impossible to hush it up now. All sorts of rumours will get about directly, and everybody who has a grudge against us will take care to embellish these rumours. So it will be necessary for you to refute them publicly. Dr. Stockmann. I! How? I don't understand. Peter Stockmann. What we shall expect is that, after making further investigations, you will come to the conclusion that the matter is not by any means as dangerous or as critical as you imagined in the first instance. Dr. Stockmann. Oho!—so that is what you expect! Peter Stockmann. And, what is more, we shall expect you to make public profession of your confidence in the Committee and in their readiness to consider fully and conscientiously what steps may be necessary to remedy any possible defects. Dr. Stockmann. But you will never be able to do that by patching and tinkering at it—never! Take my word for it, Peter; I mean what I say, as deliberately and emphatically as possible. Peter Stockmann. As an officer under the Committee, you have no right to any individual opinion. Dr. Stockmann (amazed). No right? Peter Stockmann. In your official capacity, no. As a private person, it is quite another matter. But as a subordinate member of the staff of the Baths, you have no right to express any opinion which runs contrary to that of your superiors. Dr. Stockmann. This is too much! I, a doctor, a man of science, have no right to—! Peter Stockmann. The matter in hand is not simply a scientific one. It is a complicated matter, and has its economic as well as its technical side. Dr. Stockmann. I don't care what it is! I intend to be free to express my opinion on any subject under the sun. Peter Stockmann. As you please—but not on any subject concerning the Baths. That we forbid. Dr. Stockmann (shouting). You forbid—! You! A pack of— Peter Stockmann. I forbid it—I, your chief; and if I forbid it, you have to obey. Dr. Stockmann (controlling himself). Peter—if you were not my brother— Petra (throwing open the door). Father, you shan't stand this! Mrs. Stockmann (coming in after her). Petra, Petra! Peter Stockmann. Oh, so you have been eavesdropping. Mrs. Stockmann. You were talking so loud, we couldn't help it! Petra. Yes, I was listening. Peter Stockmann. Well, after all, I am very glad— Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). You were saying something about forbidding and obeying? Peter Stockmann. You obliged me to take that tone with you. Dr. Stockmann. And so I am to give myself the lie, publicly? Peter Stockmann. We consider it absolutely necessary that you should make some such public statement as I have asked for. Dr. Stockmann. And if I do not—obey? Peter Stockmann. Then we shall publish a statement ourselves to reassure the public. Dr. Stockmann. Very well; but in that case I shall use my pen against you. I stick to what I have said; I will show that I am right and that you are wrong. And what will you do then? Peter Stockmann. Then I shall not be able to prevent your being dismissed. Dr. Stockmann. What—? Petra. Father—dismissed! Mrs. Stockmann. Dismissed! Peter Stockmann. Dismissed from the staff of the Baths. I shall be obliged to propose that you shall immediately be given notice, and shall not be allowed any further participation in the Baths' affairs. Dr. Stockmann. You would dare to do that! Peter Stockmann. It is you that are playing the daring game. Petra. Uncle, that is a shameful way to treat a man like father! Mrs. Stockmann. Do hold your tongue, Petra! Peter Stockmann (looking at PETRA). Oh, so we volunteer our opinions already, do we? Of course. (To MRS. STOCKMANN.) Katherine, I imagine you are the most sensible person in this house. Use any influence you may have over your husband, and make him see what this will entail for his family as well as— Dr. Stockmann. My family is my own concern and nobody else's! Peter Stockmann. —for his own family, as I was saying, as well as for the town he lives in. Dr. Stockmann. It is I who have the real good of the town at heart! I want to lay bare the defects that sooner or later must come to the light of day. I will show whether I love my native town. Peter Stockmann. You, who in your blind obstinacy want to cut off the most important source of the town's welfare? Dr. Stockmann. The source is poisoned, man! Are you mad? We are making our living by retailing filth and corruption! The whole of our flourishing municipal life derives its sustenance from a lie! Peter Stockmann. All imagination—or something even worse. The man who can throw out such offensive insinuations about his native town must be an enemy to our community. Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). Do you dare to—! Mrs. Stockmann (throwing herself between them). Thomas! Petra (catching her father by the arm). Don't lose your temper, father! Peter Stockmann. I will not expose myself to violence. Now you have had a warning; so reflect on what you owe to yourself and your family. Goodbye. (Goes out.) Dr. Stockmann (walking up and down). Am I to put up with such treatment as this? In my own house, Katherine! What do you think of that! Mrs. Stockmann. Indeed it is both shameful and absurd, Thomas— Petra. If only I could give uncle a piece of my mind— Dr. Stockmann. It is my own fault. I ought to have flown out at him long ago!—shown my teeth!—bitten! To hear him call me an enemy to our community! Me! I shall not take that lying down, upon my soul! Mrs. Stockmann. But, dear Thomas, your brother has power on his side. Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but I have right on mine, I tell you. Mrs. Stockmann. Oh yes, right—right. What is the use of having right on your side if you have not got might? Petra. Oh, mother!—how can you say such a thing! Dr. Stockmann. Do you imagine that in a free country it is no use having right on your side? You are absurd, Katherine. Besides, haven't I got the liberal-minded, independent press to lead the way, and the compact majority behind me? That is might enough, I should think! Mrs. Stockmann. But, good heavens, Thomas, you don't mean to? Dr. Stockmann. Don't mean to what? Mrs. Stockmann. To set yourself up in opposition to your brother. Dr. Stockmann. In God's name, what else do you suppose I should do but take my stand on right and truth? Petra. Yes, I was just going to say that. Mrs. Stockmann. But it won't do you any earthly good. If they won't do it, they won't. Dr. Stockmann. Oho, Katherine! Just give me time, and you will see how I will carry the war into their camp. Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, you carry the war into their camp, and you get your dismissal—that is what you will do. Dr. Stockmann. In any case I shall have done my duty towards the public—towards the community, I, who am called its enemy! Mrs. Stockmann. But towards your family, Thomas? Towards your own home! Do you think that is doing your duty towards those you have to provide for? Petra. Ah, don't think always first of us, mother. Mrs. Stockmann. Oh, it is easy for you to talk; you are able to shift for yourself, if need be. But remember the boys, Thomas; and think a little of yourself too, and of me— Dr. Stockmann. I think you are out of your senses, Katherine! If I were to be such a miserable coward as to go on my knees to Peter and his damned crew, do you suppose I should ever know an hour's peace of mind all my life afterwards? Mrs. Stockmann. I don't know anything about that; but God preserve us from the peace of mind we shall have, all the same, if you go on defying him! You will find yourself again without the means of subsistence, with no income to count upon. I should think we had had enough of that in the old days. Remember that, Thomas; think what that means. Dr. Stockmann (collecting himself with a struggle and clenching his fists). And this is what this slavery can bring upon a free, honourable man! Isn't it horrible, Katherine? Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, it is sinful to treat you so, it is perfectly true. But, good heavens, one has to put up with so much injustice in this world. There are the boys, Thomas! Look at them! What is to become of them? Oh, no, no, you can never have the heart—. (EJLIF and MORTEN have come in, while she was speaking, with their school books in their hands.) Dr. Stockmann. The boys— I (Recovers himself suddenly.) No, even if the whole world goes to pieces, I will never bow my neck to this yokel (Goes towards his room.) Mrs. Stockmann (following him). Thomas—what are you going to do! Dr. Stockmann (at his door). I mean to have the right to look my sons in the face when they are grown men. (Goes into his room.) Mrs. Stockmann (bursting into tears). God help us all! Petra. Father is splendid! He will not give in. (The boys look on in amazement; PETRA signs to them not to speak.) Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Akt II beginnt damit, dass Dr. Stockmann in seinem Wohnzimmer ist. Frau Stockmann übergibt ihm einen versiegelten Brief des Bürgermeisters, der das Manuskript enthält, das von Dr. Stockmann geschickt wurde, und eine Nachricht über den Besuch des Bürgermeisters um zwölf Uhr. Frau Stockmann drängt ihren Ehemann, in dieser Zeit zu Hause zu sein. Morten Kiil tritt ein. Er hat von Petras Bericht über die Arbeit des Arztes erfahren und ist froh, dass Dr. Stockmann keine "Affentheater" mit seinem eigenen Bruder veranstaltet. Morten Kiil ist unzufrieden, weil er vom Stadtrat vertrieben wurde, der von den Mitgliedern, angeführt vom Bürgermeister, geführt wurde. Er möchte, dass der Arzt den Bürgermeister und seine Bande "demütigenden Kuchen" essen lässt. Hovstad tritt ein, und Morten Kiil geht. Hovstad versucht Dr. Stockmann klarzumachen, dass das Geschäft mit den Bädern keine isolierte Angelegenheit ist, sondern mit vielen anderen Dingen verbunden ist. Er weist darauf hin, dass die ganze Stadt wegen einiger wohlhabender und korrupter Beamter verrottet; er hofft, "die Tradition der pflichtbewussten Unfehlbarkeit zu sprengen". Auch wenn er als Agitator bezeichnet wird, würde Hovstad Riskieren, verläumdet zu werden, um die Massen zu befreien. Anschließend bittet Aslaksen Dr. Stockmann um Unterstützung. Er ist der Vorsitzende des Hauseigentümerverbandes und vertritt die bürgerlichen Menschen, die die "kompakte Mehrheit" in der Stadt darstellen. Er möchte Dr. Stockmann für sein Handeln in Bezug auf die Bäder ehren, aber er möchte, dass die Demonstration eine ist, die die Behörden und die Regierungsparteien nicht beleidigt. Er spricht die Vorzüge der Mäßigung und der Maßnahme an, denn er ist ein "Ja"-Mann, der versucht, alle zufrieden zu stellen. Dr. Stockmann dankt ihm für seine Unterstützung. Hovstad hingegen möchte die halbherzigen Feiglinge wie Aslaksen aufwiegeln. Obwohl ihre Absichten gut sind, fehlt es ihnen an starkem Selbstbewusstsein. Er möchte ihren guten Absichten "etwas Nachdruck verleihen", indem er jeden Wähler erkennen lässt, "welcher unverzeihliche Fehler im Wasserwerk gemacht wurde". Dr. Stockmann allerdings bittet Hovstad, seinen Artikel nicht zu veröffentlichen, bis er die Angelegenheit mit seinem Bruder, dem Bürgermeister, besprochen hat. Wenn er sich weigert, Schritte zur Behebung des Fehlers einzuleiten, wird der Arzt Hovstad dann erlauben, den Artikel zu drucken, den er ihm übergibt. Dr. Stockmann gesellt sich zu seiner Frau und seiner Tochter im Salon. Er erzählt ihnen von der Unterstützung, die Hovstad und Aslaksen ihm zuteilwerden ließen. Er ist begeistert von "solch brüderlicher Eintracht mit den Mitbürgern". Der Bürgermeister tritt ein, und Frau Stockmann und Petra verlassen nachdenklich den Raum. Die beiden Brüder haben eine Auseinandersetzung über die Bäder. Der Bürgermeister möchte die Angelegenheit der Kontamination vertuschen. Er weiß, dass die Kosten für den Austausch der Wasserleitungen exorbitant wären und der Stadtrat sich Hunderttausende von Kronen für die Reparaturen nicht leisten könnte. Außerdem müssten die Bäder für fast zwei Jahre geschlossen werden, was den Menschen der Stadt erhebliche wirtschaftliche Härten verursachen würde.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey. The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D'Artagnan at M. Percerin's, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house--every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during the _fete_ at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer,--the gazetteers of all ages have always been so artless!--Loret was composing an account of the _fetes_ at Vaux, before those _fetes_ had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming at everybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus." "What rhyme do you want?" asked the _Fabler_ as Madame de Sevigne used to call him. "I want a rhyme to _lumiere_." "_Orniere_," answered La Fontaine. "Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of _wheel-ruts_ when celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret. "Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pelisson. "What! doesn't rhyme!" cried La Fontaine, in surprise. "Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,--a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner." "Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?" "Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better." "Then I will never write anything again save in prose," said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth." "Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your 'Fables.'" "And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made." "Where are your verses?" "In my head." "Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them." "True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them--" "Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?" "They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!" "The deuce!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!" "The deuce! the deuce!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?" "I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation. "What way?" "Write them first and burn them afterwards." "How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!" he added. "_What_ are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard. "I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner." "Oh, 'tis wrong to say so." "Nay, I am a poor creature!" "Who said so?" "_Parbleu!_ 'twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?" Pelisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer. "But if Pelisson said you were so," cried Moliere, "Pelisson has seriously offended you." "Do you think so?" "Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished." "_What!_" exclaimed La Fontaine. "Did you ever fight?" "Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse." "What wrong had he done you?" "It seems he ran away with my wife." "Ah, ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La Fontaine speak-- "And what was the result of the duel?" "The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house." "And you considered yourself satisfied?" said Moliere. "Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your pardon, monsieur,' I said, 'I have not fought you because you were my wife's friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or _morbleu!_ let us set to again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands." All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis all one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pelisson has insulted you." "Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it." "And I am going to challenge him on your behalf." "Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable." "I do think it indispensable, and I am going to--" "Stay," exclaimed La Fontaine, "I want your advice." "Upon what? this insult?" "No; tell me really now whether _lumiere_ does not rhyme with _orniere_." "I should make them rhyme." "Ah! I knew you would." "And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time." "A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine. "Four times as many as 'La Pucelle,' which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?" "Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature," said Moliere. "It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that _legume_, for instance, rhymes with _posthume_." "In the plural, above all." "Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as _orniere_ does with _lumiere_." "But give me _ornieres_ and _lumieres_ in the plural, my dear Pelisson," said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme." "Hem!" coughed Pelisson. "Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses." "Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now." "It is like _rivage_, which rhymes admirably with _herbage_. I would take my oath of it." "But--" said Moliere. "I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparing a _divertissement_ for Vaux, are you not?" "Yes, the 'Facheux.'" "Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your _divertissement_." "Doubtless it would suit capitally." "Ah! you are of my opinion?" "So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue." "You asked _me_ to write it?" "Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment." "Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I'faith, my dear Moliere, you are indeed often right." "When?" "When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you." "But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it!--" "Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature." "It was not Loret who said so, my friend." "Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your _divertissement_ is called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you make _heureux_ rhyme with _facheux?_" "If obliged, yes." "And even with _capriceux_." "Oh, no, no." "It would be hazardous, and yet why so?" "There is too great a difference in the cadences." "I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret--"I was fancying--" "What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Make haste." "You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?" "No! _mordieu!_ it is Pelisson." "Ah, Pelisson," cried La Fontaine, going over to him, "I was fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux--" "Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper." "Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pelisson, "tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?" "I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who--' After 'who' I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: 'this grot profound.'" "But the verb, the verb?" asked Pelisson. "To admire the greatest king of all kings round," continued La Fontaine. "But the verb, the verb," obstinately insisted Pelisson. "This second person singular of the present indicative?" "Well, then; quittest: "Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round." "You would not put 'who quittest,' would you?" "Why not?" "'Quittest,' after 'you who'?" "Ah! my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking pedant!" "Without counting," said Moliere, "that the second verse, 'king of all kings round,' is very weak, my dear La Fontaine." "Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,--a shuffler, as you said." "I never said so." "Then, as Loret said." "And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson." "Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses." "You expected yours, then, for the _fete?_" "Yes, for the _fete_, and then for after the _fete_. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded." "_Diable!_ your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded." "Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat--" "Well, your cat--" "She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color." Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson and Loret followed his example. At this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies--as if that wan form had scared away the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed--silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept to his room by business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night." At these words, all settled down to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white vellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributed fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, an article on the marvelous _fetes_ he predicted; and Aramis, laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we leave to-morrow evening." "In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere. "Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home." "'_He_ loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He loves,' that does not mean, they love _him_." "As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am very sure." Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance. "Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage." "Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry." "I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me some craw-fish." "He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine." Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door, and shouted out: "He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings." The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the superintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing there!" said Fouquet, with a sigh. "Do you not laugh, monseigneur?" "I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The _fete_ is approaching; money is departing." "Have I not told you that was my business?" "Yes, you promised me millions." "You shall have them the day after the king's _entree_ into Vaux." Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could find any? "Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head. "Man of little faith!" added the bishop. "My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall--" "Well; if you 'fall'?" "I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myself in falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, "Whence came you," said he, "my friend?" "From Paris--from Percerin." "And what have you been doing at Percerin's, for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets' dresses?" "No; I went to prepare a surprise." "Surprise?" "Yes; which you are going to give to the king." "And will it cost much?" "Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun." "A painting?--Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to represent?" "I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets." "Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?" "Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship." "Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate." "In your school." Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said. "I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter." "For whom?" "M. de Lyonne." "And what do you want with Lyonne?" "I wish to make him sign a _lettre de cachet_." "'_Lettre de cachet!_' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?" "On the contrary--to let somebody out." "And who?" "A poor devil--a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits." "'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!" "Yes!" "And has committed no other crime?" "Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I." "On your word?" "On my honor!" "And his name is--" "Seldon." "Yes.--But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!" "'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur." "And the woman is poor!" "In the deepest misery." "Heaven," said Fouquet, "sometimes bears with such injustice on earth, that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence. Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go. "Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said; "set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do not tell her--" "What, monseigneur?" "That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!" "So also do I pray," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand. And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Aramis ist schlecht gelaunt. Moliere hingegen scheint gut gelaunt zu sein. Der erste Stock des linken Flügels ist mit Epikureern gefüllt. Pelisson ist damit beschäftigt, die Komödie "Les Facheux" zu schreiben. Die anderen Schriftsteller sind ebenfalls sehr beschäftigt mit dem Schreiben, mit Ausnahme von La Fontaine, der einfach im Raum umherwandert. Genervt bittet Pelisson La Fontaine um einen Reim. Die beiden streiten sich über Reime. Pelisson wirft La Fontaine vor, in einer "schlampigen Art" zu reimen. Moliere rät La Fontaine, dass dies eine schwere Beleidigung ist, die nicht unbeantwortet bleiben sollte. Moliere fragt La Fontaine, ob er jemals gekämpft hat. La Fontaine antwortet, dass er nur einmal gekämpft hat, mit einem Mann, der seine Frau verführt hatte. La Fontaine sagt, dass sein Gegner ihn entwaffnet hat und sich dann entschuldigte, indem er sagte, dass er nie wieder das Haus besuchen würde. Die Dichter fragen, was als nächstes passiert ist. La Fontaine erzählt ihnen, dass er sein Schwert aufgehoben hat, seinem Gegner gesagt hat, dass das Haus seit dem Besuch des Mannes sehr friedlich war, und dass er gezwungen sein würde, wieder zu duellieren, wenn die Besuche aufhörten. Alle lachen und sie setzen ihre Diskussion über Reime fort. Die Männer machen weiter Späße und La Fontaine gesteht, dass er sich auf einen neuen Anzug freut. Aramis taucht auf und alle Männer werden sehr ruhig. Aramis verteilt Einladungen und sagt, dass Fouquet seine Grüße ausrichtet. Aramis fragt, ob einer der Männer ihn nach Paris begleiten möchte. Moliere akzeptiert. Bevor er geht, schaut Aramis bei Fouquet vorbei, um sich zu verabschieden. Er erzählt Fouquet von dem Porträt, das Le Brun vorbereitet, und Fouquet stimmt zu. Aramis bittet Fouquet dann um einen Brief für Monsieur de Lyonne, in dem er die Freilassung eines Gefangenen namens Seldon aus der Bastille beantragt. Aramis verlässt mit Moliere.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY THE DOCTOR--END OF THE FIRST DAY'S FIGHTING We made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran, and the cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket. I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest, and looked to my priming. "Captain," said I, "Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his own is useless." They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool, as he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that all was fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I handed him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt. Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade in front of us. We struck the inclosure about the middle of the south side, and, almost at the same time, seven mutineers--Job Anderson, the boatswain, at their head--appeared in full cry at the southwestern corner. They paused, as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the squire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the blockhouse, had time to fire. The four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the business; one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees. After reloading we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the fallen enemy. He was stone dead--shot through the heart. We began to rejoice over our good success, when just at that moment a pistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear and poor Tom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire and I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable we only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor Tom. The captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an eye that all was over. I believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade, and carried, groaning and bleeding, into the log-house. Poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint, fear, or even acquiescence, from the very beginning of our troubles till now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die! He had lain like a Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was to die. The squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand, crying like a child. "Be I going, doctor?" he asked. "Tom, my man," said I, "you're going home." "I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first," he replied. "Tom," said the squire, "say you forgive me, won't you?" "Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?" was the answer. "Howsoever, so be it, amen!" After a little while of silence he said he thought somebody might read a prayer. "It's the custom, sir," he added, apologetically. And not long after, without another word, he passed away. In the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various stores--the British colors, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink, the log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir tree lying felled and cleared in the inclosure, and, with the help of Hunter, he had set it up at the corner of the log-house, where the trunks crossed and made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his own hand bent and run up the colors. This seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set about counting up the stores, as if nothing else existed. But he had an eye on Tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over came forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body. "Don't you take on, sir," he said, shaking the squire's hand. "All's well with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to captain and owner. It mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact." Then he pulled me aside. "Doctor Livesey," he said, "in how many weeks do you and squire expect the consort?" I told him it was a question, not of weeks, but of months; that if we were not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but neither sooner nor later. "You can calculate for yourself," I said. "Why, yes," returned the captain, scratching his head, "and making a large allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we were pretty close hauled." "How do you mean?" I asked. "It's a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That's what I mean," replied the captain. "As for powder and shot, we'll do. But the rations are short, very short--so short, Doctor Livesey, that we're perhaps as well without that extra mouth." And he pointed to the dead body under the flag. Just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round shot passed high above the roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood. "Oho!" said the captain. "Blaze away! You've little enough powder already, my lads." At the second trial the aim was better and the ball descended inside the stockade, scattering a cloud of sand, but doing no further damage. "Captain," said the squire, "the house is quite invisible from the ship. It must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it in?" "Strike my colors!" cried the captain. "No, sir, not I," and as soon as he had said the words I think we all agreed with him. For it was not only a piece of stout, seamanly good feeling; it was good policy besides, and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade. All through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew over or fell short, or kicked up the sand in the inclosure; but they had to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft sand. We had no ricochet to fear; and though one popped in through the roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket. "There is one thing good about all this," observed the captain; "the wood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our stores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork." Gray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were bolder than we fancied, or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery, for four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to hold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in command, and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some secret magazine of their own. The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry: "Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant, landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--" And at the same time I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate. A hail on the land side. "Somebody hailing us," said Hunter, who was on guard. "Arzt! Gutsherr! Kapitän! Hallo, Hunter, bist du das?" ertönten die Rufe. Und ich lief zur Tür, rechtzeitig um zu sehen, wie Jim Hawkins, unversehrt und gesund, über die Palisade kletterte. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Die Landungstruppe erreicht gerade die Palisade, als eine Gruppe von sieben Meuterern auftaucht, angeführt von Job Anderson. Die Meuterer scheinen wirklich überrascht zu sein, so dass Squire Trelawney, Doktor Livesey, Hunter und Joyce alle genug Zeit haben, als Erste zu schießen. Einer der Meuterer fällt und der Rest zerstreut sich beim Schusswechsel. Die Landungstruppe ist wirklich glücklich - bis eine Kugel aus den Bäumen herausfliegt und den armen Tom Redruth trifft, Squire Trelawneys treuem Wildhüter. Doktor Livesey sieht sofort, dass es für Redruth nichts mehr zu retten gibt. Trelawney weint wie ein Kind. Er bittet Redruth um Vergebung. Redruth sagt, dass es nicht nötig sei und dass geschehen wird, was geschehen soll. Redruth bittet sie, ein Gebet über ihm zu lesen, dann haucht er sein Leben aus. In der Zwischenzeit packt Kapitän Smollett all die Dinge aus, die er in seinem Mantel mitgebracht hat: eine britische Flagge, eine Bibel, eine Rolle Seil, Tinte, den Schiffslogbuch und jede Menge Tabak. Kapitän Smollett hisst die britische Flagge über der Festung. Er hat auch eine zusätzliche Flagge, um Redruths Körper zu bedecken. Kapitän Smollett zieht Doktor Livesey beiseite und fragt, wie lange sie erwarten müssen, sich in dieser Festung verschanzen zu müssen. Doktor Livesey gibt zu, dass niemand hinter ihnen herkommen wird, bevor August ist. Kapitän Smollett bemerkt, dass sie in einer schwierigen Lage sind - in der Tat ist eine gute Sache am Tod von Redruth, dass sie einen Mund weniger zu füttern haben. Ein paar Kanonenkugeln fliegen über die Palisade, aber die Piraten können von der Hispaniola aus nicht gut zielen. Squire Trelawney merkt an, dass die Piraten wahrscheinlich auf die Flagge zielen, die das einzige Sichtbare im Wald von dem Schiff aus ist. Kapitän Smollett weigert sich, die Flagge zu senken, und alle fühlen sich durch seine Tapferkeit getröstet. Sie beginnen, die über ihnen hinwegfliegenden Kanonen zu ignorieren. Kapitän Smollett sagt, der Wald sei wahrscheinlich frei von Piraten, da sie bereit sind, auf diese Art auf die Bäume zu feuern. Kapitän Smollett schlägt vor, dass ein paar von ihnen nachts hinausgehen, um zu sehen, was von ihren Vorräten gerettet werden kann. Jetzt, da die Flut abgefallen ist, hofft Kapitän Smollett, dass das kleine Ruderboot wieder über dem Wasser sichtbar sein wird. Gray und Hunter schleichen sich aus der Festung, um einen Blick zu werfen. Sie stellen leider fest, dass die Piraten zuerst dort waren. Alle Piraten scheinen auch bewaffnet zu sein - offensichtlich hatten sie ihre eigenen Waffen an Bord des Schiffes gebracht, von denen Kapitän Smollett nichts wusste. Kapitän Smollett setzt sich hin, um einen Tagebucheintrag über den Tag zu schreiben, einschließlich des Todes von Tom Redruth. Doktor Livesey fragt sich, was mit Jim Hawkins passiert ist. Gerade dann hören sie eine Stimme, die sie grüßt. Es ist niemand anderer als Jim, der über den Zaun der Festung klettert.

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

Herr Tulliver erholt sich langsam, ist sich jedoch nicht bewusst, wie viel Zeit vergangen ist und bildet sich immer noch ein, sich in der "ersten Phase seines Unglücks" zu befinden und einen Plan zur Rettung der Mühle finden zu können. Seine Frau und seine Kinder hoffen, dass Onkel Deanes Firma die Mühle kaufen und das Geschäft weiterführen wird, aber "geschäftliche Vorsicht" verbietet es, zu hoch zu bieten. Onkel Deane zeigt klar Interesse an der Familie, da er Lucy mitgebracht hat, um sie zu besuchen, und er hat Tom einen Platz im Lagerhaus verschafft. Um die Dinge voranzubringen, beschließt Mrs. Tulliver, durch ein Gespräch mit Wakem sicherzustellen, dass Mr. Deanes Unternehmen die Mühle kaufen kann. Sie glaubt, dass er gegenüber ihr freundlich gesinnt sein muss, "die er als Miss Dodson kannte". Deshalb geht sie heimlich ins Büro von Wakem und informiert ihn darüber, dass sie nicht für die Handlungen ihres Mannes verantwortlich ist, dass sie selbst niemals Mr. Wakem beleidigt hat und dass es nett von ihm wäre, die Mühle nicht zu kaufen. Sie erzählt ihm auch davon, dass Guest and Company darüber nachdenken, sie zu kaufen und Mr. Tulliver als Manager zu behalten. Wakem schlägt vor, dass er die Mühle selbst kaufen und Mr. Tulliver einstellen könnte, aber Mrs. Tulliver sagt, dass ihr Mann "niemals dazu zu bringen sein werde". Sie erinnert Wakem daran, dass ihre Söhne zusammen zur Schule gegangen sind, aber an diesem Punkt wird sie aus dem Büro gewiesen. Wakem hatte nie vor, die Mühle zu kaufen, aber jetzt fängt er an, Vorteile darin zu sehen. Tullivers Geschimpfe hat Wakem nie gestört und er fühlt sich nicht nachtragend; aber er findet es angenehm, einen Feind durch seine Güte "erniedrigt zu sehen". Und es gibt noch andere gute Gründe für den Kauf der Mühle, "die völlig unabhängig von irgendeiner wohlwollenden Rache am Müller sind". Es ist eine gute Geschäftsinvestition und Mr. Tulliver wäre ein ehrlicher Manager. Darüber hinaus hat Wakem neben Philip noch andere Söhne und die Mühle könnte in Zukunft "eine hoch geeignete Position für einen bestimmten Lieblingsjungen bieten, den er in der Welt voranbringen wollte".

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: Andere Gelegenheiten ihre Beobachtungen zu machen blieben nicht aus. Anne war schon oft genug in ihrer Gesellschaft gewesen, um eine Meinung zu haben, obwohl sie klug genug war, dies zu Hause nicht zuzugeben, wo sie wusste, dass es weder Ehemann noch Ehefrau zufriedenstellen würde. Denn während sie Louisa eher als Favoritin betrachtete, konnte sie nicht anders denken, als dass Kapitän Wentworth in keine von beiden verliebt war. Sie waren mehr in ihn verliebt; doch es war kein echte Liebe. Es war ein kleines Fieber der Bewunderung; aber es könnte, wahrscheinlich sogar, in Liebe enden. Charles Hayter schien zu spüren, dass er nicht geschätzt wurde, doch Henrietta hatte manchmal das Gefühl, zwischen beiden hin- und hergerissen zu sein. Anne sehnte sich danach, ihnen allen die Wahrheit über ihre Handlungen darzustellen und ihnen einige der Probleme aufzuzeigen, denen sie sich aussetzten. Sie schrieb niemandem Listigkeit zu. Für sie war es höchste Zufriedenheit zu glauben, dass Kapitän Wentworth sich keiner Schuld bewusst war, die er verursachte. Es gab keine Triumphgefühl, keinen erbärmlichen Triumph in seiner Art. Er hatte wahrscheinlich nie von Charles Hayters Ansprüchen gehört oder daran gedacht. Er hatte nur unrecht gehandelt, indem er die Aufmerksamkeit (denn "annehmen" wäre das richtige Wort) von zwei jungen Frauen zur gleichen Zeit akzeptierte. Nach einem kurzen Kampf schien jedoch Charles Hayter das Feld zu räumen. Drei Tage waren vergangen, ohne dass er auch nur einmal nach Uppercross gekommen war. Eine sehr entschiedene Veränderung. Er hatte sogar eine Einladung zum Abendessen abgelehnt; und da ihn Mr Musgrove an diesem Tag mit einigen großen Büchern erwischt hatte, waren sich Mr und Mrs Musgrove sicher, dass nicht alles in Ordnung sein konnte, und sprachen mit ernsten Mienen davon, dass er sich zu Tode studiere. Mary hoffte und glaubte, dass er von Henrietta eine klare Absage erhalten hatte, und ihr Mann lebte in ständiger Erwartung, ihn morgen zu sehen. Anne konnte nur denken, dass Charles Hayter klug war. An einem Morgen um diese Zeit waren Charles Musgrove und Kapitän Wentworth zusammen auf der Jagd, als die Schwestern im Cottage ruhig bei der Arbeit saßen und am Fenster von den Schwestern aus dem Herrenhaus besucht wurden. Es war ein sehr schöner Novembertag, und die Miss Musgroves kamen durch die kleinen Gärten und hielten nur an, um zu sagen, dass sie einen langen Spaziergang machen wollten und daher dachten, dass Mary nicht mitkommen wollte; und als Mary sofort eifersüchtig antwortete, dass sie sehr gerne mitkommen würde, da sie Spaziergänge sehr mochte, war Anne überzeugt, dass genau das das war, was die beiden Mädchen nicht wollten, und bewunderte erneut die Art von Notwendigkeit, die die Familiengebräuche hervorzubringen schienen, dass alles miteinander kommuniziert werden musste und alles zusammen gemacht werden musste, egal wie unerwünscht und unbequem es war. Sie versuchte Mary vom Mitkommen abzuraten, aber vergeblich; und da dies der Fall war, dachte sie, es sei am besten, die sehr viel herzlichere Einladung der Miss Musgroves an sie selbst ebenfalls anzunehmen, da sie nützlich sein könnte, um mit ihrer Schwester umzukehren und die Einmischung in ihre eigenen Pläne zu verringern. "Ich kann mir nicht vorstellen, warum sie denken sollten, dass ich keinen langen Spaziergang mag", sagte Mary, als sie die Treppen hinaufging. "Alle nehmen immer an, dass ich keine gute Spaziergängerin bin; und dennoch wären sie nicht erfreut gewesen, wenn wir abgelehnt hätten, mitzukommen. Wenn die Leute auf diese Weise extra zu uns kommen, wie soll man da Nein sagen?" Gerade als sie sich auf den Weg machten, kehrten die Herren zurück. Sie hatten einen jungen Hund dabei gehabt, der ihnen die Jagd verdorben hatte, und sie frühzeitig zurückgeschickt hatte. Ihre Zeit, ihre Kraft und ihre Stimmung waren daher genau bereit für diesen Spaziergang, und sie machten sich mit Freude auf den Weg. Hätte Anne eine solche Verbindung voraussehen können, wäre sie lieber zu Hause geblieben, aber aus Interesse und Neugierde, dachte sie jetzt, dass es zu spät war, um zurückzurudern, und die sechs machten sich gemeinsam in die von den Miss Musgroves gewählte Richtung auf, die deutlich den Spaziergang als unter ihrer Führung betrachteten. Annes Ziel war es, niemandem im Weg zu stehen und auf den schmalen Wegen durch die Felder so viele Trennungen wie nötig zu haben, um bei ihrem Bruder und ihrer Schwester zu bleiben. Ihre Freude an dem Spaziergang sollte aus der Bewegung und dem Tag kommen, aus dem Anblick der letzten Lächeln des Jahres auf den gelblichen Blättern und welken Hecken und daraus, sich einige der tausend existierenden poetischen Beschreibungen des Herbstes zu wiederholen, dieser Jahreszeit von besonderem und unerschöpflichem Einfluss auf den Geschmack und die Zärtlichkeit des Geistes, dieser Jahreszeit, die von jedem Dichter, der es wert war, gelesen zu werden, den Versuch einer Beschreibung oder einige Zeilen des Gefühls hervorgerufen hatte. So beschäftigte sie ihren Geist so viel wie möglich mit solchen Grübeleien und Zitaten, aber es war nicht möglich, dass sie, wenn sie in Hörweite des Gesprächs von Captain Wentworth mit einer der Miss Musgroves war, es nicht versuchte, es zu hören; doch sie fing wenig bedeutendes auf. Es war bloß lebendiger Smalltalk, wie ihn junge Leute auf vertrautem Fuß austauschen. Er war mehr mit Louisa als mit Henrietta beschäftigt. Louisa machte sich sicher mehr um seine Aufmerksamkeit bemerkbar als ihre Schwester. Diese Unterscheidung schien zuzunehmen, und ein Satz von Louisa fiel ihr auf. Nach einem der vielen Lobreden über den Tag, die unaufhörlich über ihre Lippen kamen, fügte Captain Wentworth hinzu: "Was für ein herrliches Wetter für den Admiral und meine Schwester! Sie wollten heute Morgen eine lange Fahrt machen; vielleicht können wir sie von dem einen oder anderen Hügel aus sehen. Sie haben davon gesprochen, in diese Gegend zu kommen. Ich frage mich, wo sie sich heute umwerfen werden. Ach! Es passiert sehr oft, das versichere ich Ihnen; aber meine Schwester macht sich nichts daraus; sie würde lieber umgeworfen werden, als von jemand anderem sicher gefahren zu werden." "Ah! Du nimmst es mit Humor, das weiß ich", rief Louisa aus, "aber wenn es wirklich so wäre, würde ich an ihrer Stelle genau dasselbe tun. Wenn ich einen Mann lieben würde, wie sie den Admiral liebt, würde ich immer bei ihm sein wollen, nichts sollte uns je trennen, und ich würde lieber von ihm umgeworfen werden, als von jemand anderem sicher gefahren zu werden." Sie sprach enthusiastisch. "Hattest du?" rief er aus und fing denselben Ton auf. "Ich bewundere dich!" Und zwischen ihnen herrschte eine Weile Stille. Anne konnte nicht sofort wieder ein Zitat anführen. Die süßen Szenen des Herbstes wurden für eine Weile beiseitegelegt, es sei denn, es tauchte ein zärtliches Sonett auf, das mit seiner passenden Analogie zum schwindenden Jahr, mit schwindendem Glück und den Bildern von Jugend und Hoffnung und Frühling, die gemeinsam verschwunden waren, ihr Gedächtnis segnete. Sie raffte sich auf und sagte, als sie auf einen anderen Weg einbogen: "Führt dieser Weg nicht nach Winthrop?" Aber niemand hörte oder antwortete ihr. Nach einer kleinen Abfolge dieser Art von Debatten und Beratungen wurde zwischen Charles und seinen beiden Schwestern vereinbart, dass er und Henrietta nur für ein paar Minuten zu ihrer Tante und ihren Cousins hinunterlaufen sollten, während der Rest der Gruppe oben auf dem Hügel auf sie wartete. Louisa schien die Hauptorganisatorin des Plans zu sein; und während sie ein Stück mit ihnen den Hügel hinunterging und immer noch mit Henrietta sprach, nutzte Mary die Gelegenheit, verächtlich um sich zu blicken und zu Captain Wentworth zu sagen: "Es ist sehr unangenehm, solche Verbindungen zu haben! Aber ich versichere Ihnen, ich war in meinem ganzen Leben höchstens zweimal in dem Haus." Sie erhielt keine andere Antwort als ein künstliches, zustimmendes Lächeln, gefolgt von einem verächtlichen Blick, als er sich abwandte, was Anne genau die Bedeutung kannte. Der Hügel, wo sie blieben, war ein fröhlicher Ort: Louisa kehrte zurück und Mary, die für sich selbst einen bequemen Sitz auf der Stufe eines Stiles gefunden hatte, war zufrieden, solange die anderen um sie herumstanden. Aber als Louisa Captain Wentworth mit sich zog, um in der benachbarten Hecke nach Nüssen zu suchen und sie nach und nach außer Sicht- und Hörweite waren, war Mary nicht mehr glücklich; sie stritt sich mit ihrem eigenen Sitz, war sicher, dass Louisa einen viel besseren irgendwo hatte, und nichts konnte sie davon abhalten, nach einem besseren zu suchen. Sie ging durch das gleiche Tor, konnte sie aber nicht sehen. Anne fand einen schönen Platz für sie auf einer trockenen sonnigen Bank unter der Hecke, in der sie keinen Zweifel hatte, dass sie an irgendeiner Stelle immer noch waren. Mary setzte sich einen Moment lang, aber es ging nicht; sie war sicher, dass Louisa irgendwo anders einen besseren Platz gefunden hatte, und sie würde weitergehen, bis sie sie eingeholt hatte. Anne, die wirklich müde war, war froh, sich hinzusetzen, und sie hörte sehr bald Captain Wentworth und Louisa in der Hecke hinter sich, als sie sich anscheinend auf dem rauen, wilden Kanal in der Mitte des Hügels zurückbewegten. Sie sprachen, als sie näher kamen. Louisas Stimme war zuerst zu hören. Sie schien mitten in einer leidenschaftlichen Rede zu sein. Das Erste, was Anne hörte, war: "Also habe ich sie dazu gebracht. Ich konnte nicht ertragen, dass sie wegen solchem Unsinn den Besuch absagen sollte. Was? Sollte ich daran gehindert werden, etwas zu tun, das ich entschieden hatte zu tun und das ich für richtig hielt, durch die Launen und Einmischung einer solchen Person oder irgendeiner Person, darf ich sagen? Nein, ich habe keine Vorstellung davon, so leicht überredet zu werden. Wenn ich meinen Entschluss gefasst habe, habe ich ihn gefasst; und Henrietta schien entschlossen zu sein, heute bei Winthrop anzurufen; und dennoch wollte sie es wegen solch unsinniger Gefälligkeit aufgeben!" "Also wäre sie zurückgekehrt, wenn nicht wegen dir?" "Ja, das wäre sie. Ich schäme mich fast, das zu sagen." "Sie ist glücklich, jemanden wie dich zur Verfügung zu haben! Nach den Andeutungen, die du gerade gegeben hast, die nur meine eigenen Beobachtungen bestätigt haben, das letzte Mal, als ich in seiner Gesellschaft war, brauche ich nicht vorzugeben, keine Ahnung zu haben, was passiert. Ich sehe, dass mehr als nur ein gehorsamer Morgenbesuch bei deiner Tante in Frage stand; und wehe ihm und ihr auch, wenn es um wichtige Dinge geht, wenn sie in Situationen geraten, die Standhaftigkeit und geistige Stärke erfordern. Wenn sie nicht genug Entschlossenheit hat, sich gegen sinnlose Einmischung in so eine Kleinigkeit wie diese zu wehren. Deine Schwester ist ein liebenswertes Wesen; aber du hast den Charakter von Entschlossenheit und Bestimmtheit, das sehe ich. Wenn du ihr Verhalten oder ihr Glück schätzt, gib ihr so viel deines eigenen Geistes wie möglich mit. Aber das tust du zweifellos schon die ganze Zeit. Das Schlimmste an einem zu nachgiebigen und unentschlossenen Charakter ist, dass man sich nicht darauf verlassen kann, Einfluss darauf zu haben. Man ist sich nie sicher, dass ein guter Eindruck anhaltend ist; jeder kann ihn beeinflussen. Diejenigen, die glücklich sein wollen, sollten standhaft sein. Hier ist eine Nuss", sagte er und fing eine von einem Ast oben auf, "um es zu veranschaulichen: eine schöne glänzende Nuss, die, gesegnet mit ursprünglicher Kraft, alle Herbststürme überdauert hat. Keine Delle, keine Schwachstelle überall. Diese Nuss", fuhr er mit spielerischer Feierlichkeit fort, "während so viele seiner Brüder gefallen sind und unter den Füßen zertreten wurden, ist immer noch im Besitz all des Glücks, das einer Haselnuss zugeschrieben werden kann." Dann kehrte er zu seinem früheren ernsten Ton zurück: "Mein erster Wunsch für alle, die mich interessieren, ist, dass sie standhaft sind. Wenn Louisa Musgrove in ihrem November des Lebens schön und glücklich sein möchte, wird sie all ihre gegenwärtigen geistigen Fähigkeiten pflegen." Er hatte geendet und bekam keine Antwort. Es hätte Anne überrascht, wenn Louisa auf eine solche Rede schnell geantwortet hätte: Worte von solchem Interesse, gesprochen mit solcher ernster Wärme! Sie konnte sich vorstellen, was Louisa fühlte. Was sie selbst betraf, wagte sie sich nicht zu bewegen, um nicht gesehen zu werden. Während sie dort blieb, schützte sie ein Busch niedrig wachsender Stechpalmen, und sie bewegten sich weiter. Bevor sie außer Hörweite waren, sprach Louisa wieder. "Mary ist in vielerlei Hinsicht gutmütig", sagte sie, "aber manchmal provoziert sie mich außerordentlich mit ihrem Unsinn und Stolz - dem Elliot-Stolz. Sie hat viel zu viel von dem Elliot-Stolz. Wir wünschen uns so sehr, dass Charles Anne stattdessen geheiratet hätte. Ich nehme an, ihr wisst, dass er Anne heiraten wollte?" Nach einer kurzen Pause sagte Captain Wentworth: "Meinst du, dass sie ihn abgelehnt hat?" "Oh ja, natürlich." "Wann ist das passiert?" "Ich weiß es nicht genau, denn Henrietta und ich waren zu der Zeit in der Schule, aber ich glaube, etwa ein Jahr bevor er Mary geheiratet hat. Ich wünschte, sie hätte ihn angenommen. Wir hätten sie alle viel lieber gehabt; und Mama und Papa denken immer noch, dass ihre große Freundin Lady Russell dafür gesorgt hat, dass sie es nicht getan hat. Sie denken, dass Charles vielleicht nicht gebildet und bücherwurmig genug war, um Lady Russell zu gefallen, und dass sie deshalb Anne überredet hat, ihn abzulehnen." Die Geräusche zogen sich zurück, und Anne hörte nichts mehr. Ihre eigenen Gefühle hielten sie immer noch fest. Sie hatte viel zu verarbeiten, bevor sie sich bewegen konnte. Das sprichwörtliche Schicksal des Zuhörers gehörte nicht unbedingt ihr; sie hatte kein böses Gerücht über sich selbst gehört, aber sie hatte viel von sehr schmerzhafter Bedeutung gehört. Sie sah, wie ihr eigener Charakter von Captain Wentworth betrachtet wurde, und in seiner Art hatte es genau das Maß an Gefühl und Neugierde über sie gegeben, das ihr äußerste Unruhe bereiten musste. Sobald sie konnte, ging sie Mary nach und fand sie und ging mit ihr zurück zu ihrer früheren Station am Stil, und fühlte sich einigermaßen beruhigt, dass ihre gesam Dieses lange Wiesenstück grenzte an einen Weg, den ihr Fußweg am Ende zu überqueren hatte. Als die Gruppe das Ausgangstor erreichte, näherte sich in derselben Richtung, die schon eine Weile zu hören war, eine Kutsche, die sich als Admiral Crofts Gig erwies. Er und seine Frau hatten ihre geplante Fahrt unternommen und waren auf dem Rückweg nach Hause. Nachdem sie gehört hatten, wie weit die jungen Leute gegangen waren, boten sie freundlicherweise einer Dame an, die besonders müde sein könnte, einen Sitz an; es würde ihr eine ganze Meile ersparen und sie würden durch Uppercross fahren. Die Einladung war allgemein und wurde allgemein abgelehnt. Die Miss Musgroves waren nicht müde und Mary war entweder beleidigt, weil sie nicht vor den anderen gefragt wurde, oder das, was Louisa den Elliot-Stolz nannte, konnte es nicht ertragen, einen Platz in einer einspännigen Kutsche einzunehmen. Die Wandergruppe hatte den Weg überquert und überwand gerade einen gegenüberliegenden Stile, als der Admiral sein Pferd wieder in Bewegung versetzte und Captain Wentworth in einem Moment über die Hecke sprang, um etwas zu seiner Schwester zu sagen. Man konnte das Ausmaß des Gesprächs an den Reaktionen ablesen. "Miss Elliot, ich bin sicher, Sie sind müde", rief Mrs Croft. "Erlauben Sie uns, Ihnen das Vergnügen zu machen, Sie nach Hause zu bringen. Hier ist genügend Platz für drei, das versichere ich Ihnen. Wenn wir alle so wären wie Sie, glaube ich, könnten wir zu viert sitzen. Sie müssen, wirklich, Sie müssen." Anne stand immer noch im Weg, und obwohl sie instinktiv ablehnte, durfte sie nicht gehen. Der freundliche Drängen des Admirals unterstützte das seiner Frau; sie ließen sich nicht ablehnen; sie drängten sich in den kleinstmöglichen Raum, um ihr eine Ecke zu lassen, und Captain Wentworth, ohne ein Wort zu sagen, wandte sich ihr zu und zwang sie ruhig, in die Kutsche zu steigen. Ja; er hatte es getan. Sie war in der Kutsche und spürte, dass er sie dort hingebracht hatte, dass sein Wille und seine Hände es getan hatten, dass sie es seinem Gespür für ihre Erschöpfung und seinem Entschluss, ihr Ruhe zu geben, verdankte. Seine Einstellung ihr gegenüber hatte sie sehr bewegt, und all diese Dinge machten es offensichtlich. Diese kleine Begebenheit schien das vollendende Element all dessen, was zuvor geschehen war, zu sein. Sie verstand ihn. Er konnte ihr nicht vergeben, aber er konnte nicht gefühllos sein. Obwohl er sie für die Vergangenheit verurteilte und es mit großer und ungerechter Verbitterung betrachtete, obwohl er völlig gleichgültig ihr gegenüber war und sich an eine andere binden ließ, konnte er sie nicht leiden sehen, ohne den Wunsch, ihr Erleichterung zu verschaffen. Es war ein Überrest früherer Gefühle; es war ein Impuls reiner, wenn auch nicht ausgesprochener Freundschaft; es war ein Beweis für sein warmes und liebenswürdiges Herz, das sie nicht betrachten konnte, ohne Emotionen zu empfinden, die so aus Freude und Schmerz zusammengesetzt waren, dass sie nicht wusste, welcher überwog. Ihre Antworten auf die Freundlichkeit und die Bemerkungen ihrer Begleiter wurden anfangs unbewusst gegeben. Sie waren bereits die Hälfte des Weges entlang des holprigen Weges gereist, bevor sie richtig zuhörte, was sie sagten. Dann hörte sie, wie sie über "Frederick" sprachen. "Er meint sicher eine der beiden Mädchen, Sophy", sagte der Admiral. "Aber man kann nicht sagen, welche. Er ist ihnen auch schon lange genug hinterhergerannt, um sich zu entscheiden. Ja, das kommt vom Frieden. Wenn es jetzt Krieg wäre, hätte er das schon lange geklärt. Wir Seeleute, Miss Elliot, können uns in Kriegszeiten keine langen Werbungen leisten. Wie viele Tage waren es, mein Lieber, zwischen dem ersten Mal, als ich Sie sah, und unserem Zusammensitzen in unserer Unterkunft in North Yarmouth?" "Wir sollten lieber nicht darüber reden, mein Lieber", antwortete Mrs Croft fröhlich, "denn wenn Miss Elliot hören würde, wie schnell wir uns verstanden haben, würde sie nie überzeugt sein, dass wir zusammen glücklich sein könnten. Ich kannte Sie jedoch schon lange vorher durch Ihren Ruf." "Nun ja, und ich hatte von Ihnen gehört, dass Sie ein sehr hübsches Mädchen sind, und worauf sollten wir sonst noch warten? Es gefällt mir nicht, solche Dinge so lange hinauszuzögern. Ich wünschte, Frederick würde ein wenig mehr Segel setzen und uns eine dieser jungen Damen nach Kellynch bringen. Dann hätten sie immer Gesellschaft. Und sehr nette junge Damen sind sie beide; ich kann kaum eine von der anderen unterscheiden." "Sehr gutmütige, unkomplizierte Mädchen", sagte Mrs Croft in einem ruhigeren Lobton, der Anne vermuten ließ, dass ihre schärferen Fähigkeiten keine der beiden als ganz würdig für ihren Bruder betrachten könnten. "Und eine sehr angesehene Familie. Man könnte sich nicht mit besseren Leuten verbinden. Mein lieber Admiral, dieser Pfosten! Den werden wir auf jeden Fall mitnehmen." Aber indem sie selbst die Zügel ruhig in eine bessere Richtung lenkte, entgingen sie glücklicherweise der Gefahr; und indem sie einmal danach vorsichtig die Hand ausstreckte, gerieten sie weder in einen Graben noch stießen sie mit einem Mistwagen zusammen; und Anne, mit etwas Amüsement über ihren Fahrstil, der sie sich vorstellte, dass es keine schlechte Darstellung der allgemeinen Führung ihrer Angelegenheiten war, befand sich sicher von ihnen im Cottage abgesetzt. Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden 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.

Annes Beobachtungen lassen sie glauben, dass Kapitän Wentworth nicht in eine der Musgrove-Schwestern verliebt ist, sondern ihre Aufmerksamkeit nur annimmt und genießt. Charles Hayter fühlt sich von Henrietta gekränkt und hört nach einigen Tagen auf, nach Uppercross zu kommen. Am Morgen besuchen die Miss Musgroves das Cottage, um mitzuteilen, dass sie einen langen Spaziergang machen werden. Obwohl klar ist, dass sie nicht möchten, dass Mary mitkommt, besteht sie darauf, mitzugehen. Als die Herren eintreffen, beschließen sie alle zusammen spazieren zu gehen und die Gruppe besteht aus den beiden Miss Musgroves, Kapitän Wentworth, Mary, Anne und Charles Musgrove. Annes Absicht ist es, sich so unauffällig wie möglich zu verhalten und einfach die Landschaft und den Tag zu genießen. Louisa flirtet während des Spaziergangs mit Kapitän Wentworth und erklärt, dass sie, wenn sie einen Mann lieben würde, nichts sie jemals trennen könnte. Die Gruppe macht sich auf den Weg nach Winthrop, dem Haus der Hayters. Mary möchte sofort umkehren, da sie es nicht gutheißt, sich mit Menschen von so niedrigem Stand zu umgeben, aber Charles besteht darauf, seine Tante aufzusuchen; er und Henrietta besuchen die Hayters. Während Charles und Henrietta weg sind, sucht der Rest der Gruppe nach Sitzplätzen im Wald. Mary ist nie zufrieden, weil sie denkt, dass Louisa irgendwo anders einen besseren Platz gefunden haben muss. Louisa zieht Kapitän Wentworth beiseite und sie sprechen über Charakterfestigkeit; Louisa hat Henrietta überzeugt, Charles zu besuchen, obwohl Henrietta eigentlich umkehren wollte. Kapitän Wentworth vergleicht Charakterfestigkeit mit dem "Glück" einer Haselnuss, die noch nicht vom Baum gefallen ist. Das Gespräch geht weiter und Louisa bemerkt, dass Mary sie manchmal übermäßig mit ihrem "Elliot-Stolz" stört. Louisa erzählt Kapitän Wentworth, dass Charles Anne vor Mary heiraten wollte, aber Anne ihn abgelehnt hat. Kapitän Wentworth zeigt großes Interesse an dieser Information. Als Henrietta zur Gruppe zurückkehrt, bringt sie Charles Hayter mit. Es ist nun sehr deutlich, dass Louisa für Kapitän Wentworth bestimmt ist und Henrietta für Charles. Auf dem Rückweg nach Hause kommen sie an Admiral und Mrs. Croft vorbei, die mit ihrem Wagen unterwegs sind. Da er vermutet, dass Anne müde sein könnte, arrangiert Kapitän Wentworth, dass die Crofts sie nach Hause fahren; Anne schätzt die nette Geste. Die Crofts sagen ihr, dass sie hoffen, dass Kapitän Wentworth bald mit einem netten Mädchen sesshaft wird. Anne bemerkt, dass die Crofts die Zügel und die Verantwortung fürs Fahren teilen; Mrs. Croft lenkt sie um Pfosten und Löcher herum. Anne stellt fest, dass dies repräsentativ für die symbiotische Art ist, wie sie ihre Ehe führen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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In der Hochzeitsnacht scheint alles nach Plan zu laufen. Victor bringt sogar eine Pistole mit, falls er seinen teuflischen Erzfeind sieht. Bald darauf hört Frankenstein jedoch einen blutcurdelnden Schrei aus dem Raum, in dem seine neue Frau schläft. Als er hineingeht, ist sie tot - erdrosselt. Victor kehrt nach Genf zurück, um dort mit den örtlichen Strafverfolgungsbehörden zu sprechen. Als der Magistrat versucht, ihn zu trösten, weist er ihn zurecht und sagt: "Wie unwissend bist du in deinem stolzen Wissen. Hört auf: Ihr wisst nicht, was ihr sagt."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 JEKYLL'S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE I WAS born in the year 18--- to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as might have been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting 83) nature of my aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound man's dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which led wholly toward the mystic and the transcendental, re-acted and shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous, and independent denizens. I, for my 84) part, from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of these elements. If each, I told myself, could but be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the unjust delivered from the aspirations might go his way, and remorse of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these incongruous fagots were thus bound together that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling. How, then, were they dissociated? I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to perceive 85) more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and to pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound for ever on man's shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul. I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least scruple of an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition, utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I 86) looked to it to change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments, to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of courage, drank off the potion. The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a mill-race in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these 87) sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature. There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of these transformations. The night, however, was far gone into the morning--the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day--the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde. I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue, and control, it had been much less exercised and much less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde was so much smaller, 88) slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil. I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and came to myself once more with the character, the stature, and the face of Henry Jekyll. 89) That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prison-house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse. Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness of a life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well known and highly considered, but growing toward the elderly man, this incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to drink the cup, to doff at once the body 90) of the noted professor, and to assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humorous; and I made my preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent and unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position. Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus plod in the public eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it--I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or 91) two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry Jekyll. The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centred on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered. Into the details of the infamy at which I thus 92) connived (for even now I can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the child's family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate. Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed-curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was not where I was, 93) that I had not wakened where I seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and, in my psychological way began lazily to inquire into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size: it was large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed-clothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde. I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed, I rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself, and then, with another bound of terror--how was it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the 94) cabinet--a long journey down two pairs of stairs, through the back passage, across the open court and through the anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that, when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of breakfasting. Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, 95) if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown, the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double, and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now, however, and in the light of that morning's accident, I was led to remark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this: that I was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse. Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father's interest; Hyde 96) had more than a son's indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and for ever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it. Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I was true to my determination; for two months I led a life of such 97) severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the transforming draught. I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts 98) by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall. Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow; and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger. Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot, I saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood, when I had walked 99) with my father's hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence; and oh, how I rejoiced to think it! with what willing humility, I embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation, I locked the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key under my heel! The next day, came the news that the murder had been overlooked, that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him. 100) I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself how earnestly in the last months of last year, I laboured to relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person, that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret sinner, that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation. There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief condescension to evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted, but cloudless overhead; and the Regent's Park was full of winter chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the 101) chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then as in its turn the faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had been safe of all men's respect, wealthy, beloved--the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at home; and now I was the common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the gallows. My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I 102) to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor, prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end. Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face--happily for him--yet more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they exchange in my 103) presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with directions that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when the night was fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about the streets of the city. He, I say--I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the less-frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a 104) woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled. When I came to myself at Lanyon's, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon's condemnation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came home to my own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home, in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of hope. I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose to recall me to 105) myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be re-administered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a great effort as of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this continually-impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of 106) consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken 107) and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him. It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought--no, not alleviation--but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply, and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the draught. About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay 108) too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and Circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom that is closing on us both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for ever re-indue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben?

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Dieses letzte Kapitel enthüllt alle vorherigen Mysterien und unterstreicht das Thema der ganzen Geschichte, das in der Sektion "Theme Review" weiter untersucht werden kann. Jekyll beginnt seine Autobiografie im Stil einer Erzählung und erklärt, dass er in sich selbst "eine tiefgreifende Zwiespältigkeit des Lebens" gefunden hat. Obwohl er es in seinen jungen Jahren unterdrückt hat, hat er mit zunehmendem Alter erkannt, dass es zwei Teile seiner Persönlichkeit gibt: Gut und Böse. Der Arzt erklärt seine böse Seite damit, dass sie "den Ausdruck und das Gepräge niedriger Elemente in meiner Seele" tragen. Jekyll gibt zu, dass er angefangen hat, mit unterschiedlichen chemischen Lösungen zu experimentieren, bis er schließlich eine fand, die seinen Körper in die Gestalt seiner bösen Seite verwandelte. Er erkennt an, dass ihm das ein immenses Gefühl von Freiheit gab. Er gesteht: "Der Gedanke, in diesem Moment, stärkte und erfreute mich wie Wein... er schien natürlich und menschlich... er schien ausdrucksvoller und einheitlicher zu sein als das unvollkommene und gespaltene Gesicht, das ich bisher mein Eigen nannte... Edward Hyde... war reine Bosheit." Als er erneut experimentiert, ist Dr. Jekyll beruhigt, als er feststellt, dass er durch erneutes Trinken der Lösung wieder in die Gestalt von Dr. Jekyll verwandelt wird. Als nächstes erklärt Dr. Jekyll die gewalttätigen und grausamen Taten von Mr. Hyde. Obwohl er sich selbst für die Gräueltaten verantwortlich macht, liegt der größte Teil der Schuld bei Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde hat, erklärt Jekyll, nicht nur seinen eigenen Körper, sondern auch seinen eigenen unabhängigen Geist. Sobald er im Körper und Geist von Hyde ist, hat die gute Seite seiner Seele keine Macht. So erklärt er das Niedertrampeln des Kindes und den Mord an dem Abgeordneten. Leider beginnt Jekyll die Kontrolle über Hyde zu verlieren. Eines Morgens wacht er als Hyde auf, nachdem er als Jekyll eingeschlafen ist. In den nächsten Tagen geschieht dies immer häufiger und terrorisiert die gute Seite seiner Seele. Die Notwendigkeit für Lanyon, seinen Medizinschrank zu übernehmen, ergibt sich aus der einfachen Tatsache, dass sich Hyde selbst aus seinem Labor ausgesperrt hat. Wenn er als Hyde zurückgekehrt wäre, hätten ihn seine Diener sicherlich gesehen und zur Polizei gebracht. Also beschließt er, einen Brief an Lanyon zu schreiben, in dem er ihm sagt, was zu tun ist. Obwohl dieser Plan erfolgreich ist, führt der letztendliche Tod von Jekyll und Hyde dazu, dass ihm die Lösung ausgeht, die seine Gestalt verändert. Unfähig in den Körper von Jekyll zurückzukehren, zerfrisst sich der selbstmordgefährdete Hyde nach und nach seinen eigenen Körper. Bald verwüstet die Bosheit von Hyde sich selbst in einem zerfleischten Durcheinander aus Blut und Gedärmen.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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 V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter Horatio, Queen, and a Gentleman. Queen. I will not speak with her. Gent. She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. What would she have? Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' th' world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen. Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.] [Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true nature is) Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia distracted. Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now, Ophelia? Oph. (sings) How should I your true-love know From another one? By his cockle bat and' staff And his sandal shoon. Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark. (Sings) He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. O, ho! Queen. Nay, but Ophelia- Oph. Pray you mark. (Sings) White his shroud as the mountain snow- Enter King. Queen. Alas, look here, my lord! Oph. (Sings) Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! King. Conceit upon her father. Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what it means, say you this: (Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning bedtime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose and donn'd his clo'es And dupp'd the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't! [Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do't if they come to't By Cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to wed.' He answers: 'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.' King. How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night. Exit King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit Horatio.] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions! First, her father slain; Next, your son gone, and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius' death, and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him; poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; And wants not buzzers to infect his ear Feeds on his wonder, keep, himself in clouds, With pestilent speeches of his father's death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murd'ring piece, in many places Give me superfluous death. A noise within. Queen. Alack, what noise is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. Enter a Messenger. What is the matter? Mess. Save Yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than Young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry 'Choose we! Laertes shall be king!' Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, 'Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!' A noise within. Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! King. The doors are broke. Enter Laertes with others. Laer. Where is this king?- Sirs, staid you all without. All. No, let's come in! Laer. I pray you give me leave. All. We will, we will! Laer. I thank you. Keep the door. [Exeunt his Followers.] O thou vile king, Give me my father! Queen. Calmly, good Laertes. Laer. That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brows Of my true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giantlike? Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There's such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens'd. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man. Laer. Where is my father? King. Dead. Queen. But not by him! King. Let him demand his fill. Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the world, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Most throughly for my father. King. Who shall stay you? Laer. My will, not all the world! And for my means, I'll husband them so well They shall go far with little. King. Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father's death, is't writ in your revenge That sweepstake you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? Laer. None but his enemies. King. Will you know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms And, like the kind life-rend'ring pelican, Repast them with my blood. King. Why, now You speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father's death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment pierce As day does to your eye. A noise within: 'Let her come in.' Laer. How now? What noise is that? Enter Ophelia. O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits Should be as mortal as an old man's life? Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves. Oph. (sings) They bore him barefac'd on the bier (Hey non nony, nony, hey nony) And in his grave rain'd many a tear. Fare you well, my dove! Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. Oph. You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Laer. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [Sings] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. Oph. (sings) And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God 'a'mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi' you. Exit. Laer. Do you see this, O God? King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. Laer. Let this be so. His means of death, his obscure funeral- No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation,- Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, That I must call't in question. King. So you shall; And where th' offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me. Exeunt Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben?

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Gertrude und Horatio diskutieren über Ophelia. Gertrude möchte das trauernde Mädchen nicht sehen, aber Horatio sagt, dass Ophelia Mitleid verdient, und erklärt, dass ihre Trauer sie durcheinander und zusammenhangslos gemacht hat. Ophelia betritt den Raum. Geschmückt mit Blumen und singt seltsame Lieder, wirkt sie verrückt geworden zu sein. Claudius tritt ein und hört Ophelias Geplapper, wie zum Beispiel: "Sie sagen, die Eule war die Tochter eines Bäckers". Er sagt, dass Ophelias Trauer aus dem Tod ihres Vaters stammt und dass die Menschen misstrauisch und beunruhigt über den Tod sind: "getrübt,/ Dick und ungesund in ihren Gedanken und Flüstern / Für Polonius' Tod". Er erwähnt auch, dass Laertes heimlich aus Frankreich zurückgekehrt ist. Ein lautes Geräusch hallt irgendwo im Schloss wider. Claudius ruft seine Wachen und ein Herr tritt ein, um den König zu warnen, dass Laertes mit einer Menge von Bürgern gekommen ist. Die Menge nennt Laertes "Herr", laut dem Herrn, und die Menschen flüstern, dass "Laertes König wird". Ein wütender Laertes stürmt in den Saal und brodelt vor Wut, um den Tod seines Vaters zu rächen. Claudius versucht ihn zu besänftigen, indem er offen zugibt, dass Polonius tot ist. Gertrude fügt nervös hinzu, dass Claudius unschuldig daran ist. Als Ophelia wieder hereinkommt, offensichtlich wahnsinnig, fällt Laertes erneut in Rage. Claudius behauptet, er sei nicht verantwortlich für Polonius' Tod und sagt, dass Laertes' Wunsch nach Rache ihm Ehre macht, solange er Rache an der richtigen Person sucht. Claudius überzeugt Laertes, seine Version der Ereignisse zu hören, von der er sagt, dass sie alle seine Fragen beantworten wird. Laertes stimmt zu und Claudius unterstützt seinen Wunsch, Gerechtigkeit nach Polonius' Tod zu erreichen: "Wo das Vergehen liegt, lasst die große Axt fallen."

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). 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: XVII. THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER. Slowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by, before Hester Prynne could gather voice enough to attract his observation. At length, she succeeded. "Arthur Dimmesdale!" she said, faintly at first; then louder, but hoarsely. "Arthur Dimmesdale!" "Who speaks?" answered the minister. Gathering himself quickly up, he stood more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a mood to which he was reluctant to have witnesses. Throwing his eyes anxiously in the direction of the voice, he indistinctly beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments so sombre, and so little relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded sky and the heavy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it were a woman or a shadow. It may be, that his pathway through life was haunted thus, by a spectre that had stolen out from among his thoughts. He made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter. "Hester! Hester Prynne!" said he. "Is it thou? Art thou in life?" "Even so!" she answered. "In such life as has been mine these seven years past! And thou, Arthur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?" It was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual and bodily existence, and even doubted of their own. So strangely did they meet, in the dim wood, that it was like the first encounter, in the world beyond the grave, of two spirits who had been intimately connected in their former life, but now stood coldly shuddering, in mutual dread; as not yet familiar with their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied beings. Each a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost! They were awe-stricken likewise at themselves; because the crisis flung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to each heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at such breathless epochs. The soul beheld its features in the mirror of the passing moment. It was with fear, and tremulously, and, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that Arthur Dimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death, and touched the chill hand of Hester Prynne. The grasp, cold as it was, took away what was dreariest in the interview. They now felt themselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere. Without a word more spoken,--neither he nor she assuming the guidance, but with an unexpressed consent,--they glided back into the shadow of the woods, whence Hester had emerged, and sat down on the heap of moss where she and Pearl had before been sitting. When they found voice to speak, it was, at first, only to utter remarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintance might have made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next, the health of each. Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, into the themes that were brooding deepest in their hearts. So long estranged by fate and circumstances, they needed something slight and casual to run before, and throw open the doors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led across the threshold. After a while, the minister fixed his eyes on Hester Prynne's. "Hester," said he, "hast thou found peace?" She smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom. "Hast thou?" she asked. "None!--nothing but despair!" he answered. "What else could I look for, being what I am, and leading such a life as mine? Were I an atheist,--a man devoid of conscience,--a wretch with coarse and brutal instincts,--I might have found peace, long ere now. Nay, I never should have lost it! But, as matters stand with my soul, whatever of good capacity there originally was in me, all of God's gifts that were the choicest have become the ministers of spiritual torment. Hester, I am most miserable!" "The people reverence thee," said Hester. "And surely thou workest good among them! Doth this bring thee no comfort?" "More misery, Hester!--only the more misery!" answered the clergyman, with a bitter smile. "As concerns the good which I may appear to do, I have no faith in it. It must needs be a delusion. What can a ruined soul, like mine, effect towards the redemption of other souls?--or a polluted soul towards their purification? And as for the people's reverence, would that it were turned to scorn and hatred! Canst thou deem it, Hester, a consolation, that I must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many eyes turned upward to my face, as if the light of heaven were beaming from it!--must see my flock hungry for the truth, and listening to my words as if a tongue of Pentecost were speaking!--and then look inward, and discern the black reality of what they idolize? I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am! And Satan laughs at it!" "You wrong yourself in this," said Hester, gently. "You have deeply and sorely repented. Your sin is left behind you, in the days long past. Your present life is not less holy, in very truth, than it seems in people's eyes. Is there no reality in the penitence thus sealed and witnessed by good works? And wherefore should it not bring you peace?" "No, Hester, no!" replied the clergyman. "There is no substance in it! It is cold and dead, and can do nothing for me! Of penance, I have had enough! Of penitence, there has been none! Else, I should long ago have thrown off these garments of mock holiness, and have shown myself to mankind as they will see me at the judgment-seat. Happy are you, Hester, that wear the scarlet letter openly upon your bosom! Mine burns in secret! Thou little knowest what a relief it is, after the torment of a seven years' cheat, to look into an eye that recognizes me for what I am! Had I one friend,--or were it my worst enemy!--to whom, when sickened with the praises of all other men, I could daily betake myself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners, methinks my soul might keep itself alive thereby. Even thus much of truth would save me! But, now, it is all falsehood!--all emptiness!--all death!" Hester Prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak. Yet, uttering his long-restrained emotions so vehemently as he did, his words here offered her the very point of circumstances in which to interpose what she came to say. She conquered her fears, and spoke. "Such a friend as thou hast even now wished for," said she, "with whom to weep over thy sin, thou hast in me, the partner of it!"--Again she hesitated, but brought out the words with an effort.--"Thou hast long had such an enemy, and dwellest with him, under the same roof!" The minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and clutching at his heart, as if he would have torn it out of his bosom. "Ha! What sayest thou!" cried he. "An enemy! And under mine own roof! What mean you?" Hester Prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for which she was responsible to this unhappy man, in permitting him to lie for so many years, or, indeed, for a single moment, at the mercy of one whose purposes could not be other than malevolent. The very contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever mask the latter might conceal himself, was enough to disturb the magnetic sphere of a being so sensitive as Arthur Dimmesdale. There had been a period when Hester was less alive to this consideration; or, perhaps, in the misanthropy of her own trouble, she left the minister to bear what she might picture to herself as a more tolerable doom. But of late, since the night of his vigil, all her sympathies towards him had been both softened and invigorated. She now read his heart more accurately. She doubted not, that the continual presence of Roger Chillingworth,--the secret poison of his malignity, infecting all the air about him,--and his authorized interference, as a physician, with the minister's physical and spiritual infirmities,--that these bad opportunities had been turned to a cruel purpose. By means of them, the sufferer's conscience had been kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which was, not to cure by wholesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being. Its result, on earth, could hardly fail to be insanity, and hereafter, that eternal alienation from the Good and True, of which madness is perhaps the earthly type. Such was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once,--nay, why should we not speak it?--still so passionately loved! Hester felt that the sacrifice of the clergyman's good name, and death itself, as she had already told Roger Chillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative which she had taken upon herself to choose. And now, rather than have had this grievous wrong to confess, she would gladly have lain down on the forest-leaves, and died there, at Arthur Dimmesdale's feet. "O Arthur," cried she, "forgive me! In all things else, I have striven to be true! Truth was the one virtue which I might have held fast, and did hold fast, through all extremity; save when thy good,--thy life,--thy fame,--were put in question! Then I consented to a deception. But a lie is never good, even though death threaten on the other side! Dost thou not see what I would say? That old man!--the physician!--he whom they call Roger Chillingworth!--he was my husband!" [Illustration: "Wilt thou yet forgive me?"] The minister looked at her, for an instant, with all that violence of passion, which--intermixed, in more shapes than one, with his higher, purer, softer qualities--was, in fact, the portion of him which the Devil claimed, and through which he sought to win the rest. Never was there a blacker or a fiercer frown than Hester now encountered. For the brief space that it lasted, it was a dark transfiguration. But his character had been so much enfeebled by suffering, that even its lower energies were incapable of more than a temporary struggle. He sank down on the ground, and buried his face in his hands. "I might have known it," murmured he. "I did know it! Was not the secret told me, in the natural recoil of my heart, at the first sight of him, and as often as I have seen him since? Why did I not understand? O Hester Prynne, thou little, little knowest all the horror of this thing! And the shame!--the indelicacy!--the horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it! Woman, woman, thou art accountable for this! I cannot forgive thee!" "Thou shalt forgive me!" cried Hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves beside him. "Let God punish! Thou shalt forgive!" With sudden and desperate tenderness, she threw her arms around him, and pressed his head against her bosom; little caring though his cheek rested on the scarlet letter. He would have released himself, but strove in vain to do so. Hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face. All the world had frowned on her,--for seven long years had it frowned upon this lonely woman,--and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes. Heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. But the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester could not bear and live! "Wilt thou yet forgive me?" she repeated, over and over again. "Wilt thou not frown? Wilt thou forgive?" "I do forgive you, Hester," replied the minister, at length, with a deep utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger. "I freely forgive you now. May God forgive us both! We are not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world. There is one worse than even the polluted priest! That old man's revenge has been blacker than my sin. He has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart. Thou and I, Hester, never did so!" "Never, never!" whispered she. "What we did had a consecration of its own. We felt it so! We said so to each other! Hast thou forgotten it?" "Hush, Hester!" said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground. "No; I have not forgotten!" They sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree. Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along;--and yet it enclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim another, and another, and, after all, another moment. The forest was obscure around them, and creaked with a blast that was passing through it. The boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forebode evil to come. And yet they lingered. How dreary looked the forest-track that led backward to the settlement, where Hester Prynne must take up again the burden of her ignominy, and the minister the hollow mockery of his good name! So they lingered an instant longer. No golden light had ever been so precious as the gloom of this dark forest. Here, seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman! Here, seen only by her eyes, Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one moment, true! He started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him. "Hester," cried he, "here is a new horror! Roger Chillingworth knows your purpose to reveal his true character. Will he continue, then, to keep our secret? What will now be the course of his revenge?" "There is a strange secrecy in his nature," replied Hester, thoughtfully; "and it has grown upon him by the hidden practices of his revenge. I deem it not likely that he will betray the secret. He will doubtless seek other means of satiating his dark passion." "And I!--how am I to live longer, breathing the same air with this deadly enemy?" exclaimed Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking within himself, and pressing his hand nervously against his heart,--a gesture that had grown involuntary with him. "Think for me, Hester! Thou art strong. Resolve for me!" "Thou must dwell no longer with this man," said Hester, slowly and firmly. "Thy heart must be no longer under his evil eye!" "It were far worse than death!" replied the minister. "But how to avoid it? What choice remains to me? Shall I lie down again on these withered leaves, where I cast myself when thou didst tell me what he was? Must I sink down there, and die at once?" "Alas, what a ruin has befallen thee!" said Hester, with the tears gushing into her eyes. "Wilt thou die for very weakness? There is no other cause!" "The judgment of God is on me," answered the conscience-stricken priest. "It is too mighty for me to struggle with!" "Heaven would show mercy," rejoined Hester, "hadst thou but the strength to take advantage of it." "Be thou strong for me!" answered he. "Advise me what to do." "Is the world, then, so narrow?" exclaimed Hester Prynne, fixing her deep eyes on the minister's, and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a spirit so shattered and subdued that it could hardly hold itself erect. "Doth the universe lie within the compass of yonder town, which only a little time ago was but a leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as this around us? Whither leads yonder forest-track? Backward to the settlement, thou sayest! Yes; but onward, too. Deeper it goes, and deeper, into the wilderness, less plainly to be seen at every step; until, some few miles hence, the yellow leaves will show no vestige of the white man's tread. There thou art free! So brief a journey would bring thee from a world where thou hast been most wretched, to one where thou mayest still be happy! Is there not shade enough in all this boundless forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of Roger Chillingworth?" "Yes, Hester; but only under the fallen leaves!" replied the minister, with a sad smile. "Then there is the broad pathway of the sea!" continued Hester. "It brought thee hither. If thou so choose, it will bear thee back again. In our native land, whether in some remote rural village or in vast London,--or, surely, in Germany, in France, in pleasant Italy,--thou wouldst be beyond his power and knowledge! And what hast thou to do with all these iron men, and their opinions? They have kept thy better part in bondage too long already!" "It cannot be!" answered the minister, listening as if he were called upon to realize a dream. "I am powerless to go! Wretched and sinful as I am, I have had no other thought than to drag on my earthly existence in the sphere where Providence hath placed me. Lost as my own soul is, I would still do what I may for other human souls! I dare not quit my post, though an unfaithful sentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonor, when his dreary watch shall come to an end!" "Thou art crushed under this seven years' weight of misery," replied Hester, fervently resolved to buoy him up with her own energy. "But thou shalt leave it all behind thee! It shall not cumber thy steps, as thou treadest along the forest-path; neither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to cross the sea. Leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath happened. Meddle no more with it! Begin all anew! Hast thou exhausted possibility in the failure of this one trial? Not so! The future is yet full of trial and success. There is happiness to be enjoyed! There is good to be done! Exchange this false life of thine for a true one. Be, if thy spirit summon thee to such a mission, the teacher and apostle of the red men. Or,--as is more thy nature,--be a scholar and a sage among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world. Preach! Write! Act! Do anything, save to lie down and die! Give up this name of Arthur Dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one, such as thou canst wear without fear or shame. Why shouldst thou tarry so much as one other day in the torments that have so gnawed into thy life!--that have made thee feeble to will and to do!--that will leave thee powerless even to repent! Up, and away!" "O Hester!" cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful light, kindled by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away, "thou tellest of running a race to a man whose knees are tottering beneath him! I must die here! There is not the strength or courage left me to venture into the wide, strange, difficult world, alone!" It was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. He lacked energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed within his reach. He repeated the word. "Alone, Hester!" "Thou shalt not go alone!" answered she, in a deep whisper. Then, all was spoken! [Illustration] [Illustration] XVIII. A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE. Arthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester's face with a look in which hope and joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of horror at her boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely hinted at, but dared not speak. But Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed, from society, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness; as vast, as intricate and shadowy, as the untamed forest, amid the gloom of which they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide their fate. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. For years past she had looked from this estranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever priests or legislators had established; criticising all with hardly more reverence than the Indian would feel for the clerical band, the judicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church. The tendency of her fate and fortunes had been to set her free. The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers,--stern and wild ones,--and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss. The minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience calculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally received laws; although, in a single instance, he had so fearfully transgressed one of the most sacred of them. But this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose. Since that wretched epoch, he had watched, with morbid zeal and minuteness, not his acts,--for those it was easy to arrange,--but each breath of emotion, and his every thought. At the head of the social system, as the clergymen of that day stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its principles, and even its prejudices. As a priest, the framework of his order inevitably hemmed him in. As a man who had once sinned, but who kept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the fretting of an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer within the line of virtue than if he had never sinned at all. Thus, we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole seven years of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a preparation for this very hour. But Arthur Dimmesdale! Were such a man once more to fall, what plea could be urged in extenuation of his crime? None; unless it avail him somewhat, that he was broken down by long and exquisite suffering; that his mind was darkened and confused by the very remorse which harrowed it; that, between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaining as a hypocrite, conscience might find it hard to strike the balance; that it was human to avoid the peril of death and infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy; that, finally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick, miserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and sympathy, a new life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy doom which he was now expiating. And be the stern and sad truth spoken, that the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is never, in this mortal state, repaired. It may be watched and guarded; so that the enemy shall not force his way again into the citadel, and might even, in his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there is still the ruined wall, and, near it, the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his unforgotten triumph. The struggle, if there were one, need not be described. Let it suffice, that the clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone. "If, in all these past seven years," thought he, "I could recall one instant of peace or hope, I would yet endure, for the sake of that earnest of Heaven's mercy. But now,--since I am irrevocably doomed,--wherefore should I not snatch the solace allowed to the condemned culprit before his execution? Or, if this be the path to a better life, as Hester would persuade me, I surely give up no fairer prospect by pursuing it! Neither can I any longer live without her companionship; so powerful is she to sustain,--so tender to soothe! O Thou to whom I dare not lift mine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me!" "Thou wilt go!" said Hester, calmly, as he met her glance. The decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its flickering brightness over the trouble of his breast. It was the exhilarating effect--upon a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of his own heart--of breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an unredeemed, unchristianized, lawless region. His spirit rose, as it were, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect of the sky, than throughout all the misery which had kept him grovelling on the earth. Of a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the devotional in his mood. "Do I feel joy again?" cried he, wondering at himself. "Methought the germ of it was dead in me! O Hester, thou art my better angel! I seem to have flung myself--sick, sin-stained, and sorrow-blackened--down upon these forest-leaves, and to have risen up all made anew, and with new powers to glorify Him that hath been merciful! This is already the better life! Why did we not find it sooner?" "Let us not look back," answered Hester Prynne. "The past is gone! Wherefore should we linger upon it now? See! With this symbol, I undo it all, and make it as it had never been!" So speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter, and, taking it from her bosom, threw it to a distance among the withered leaves. The mystic token alighted on the hither verge of the stream. With a hand's breadth farther flight it would have fallen into the water, and have given the little brook another woe to carry onward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept murmuring about. But there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost jewel, which some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be haunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and unaccountable misfortune. [Illustration: A Gleam of Sunshine] The stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden of shame and anguish departed from her spirit. O exquisite relief! She had not known the weight, until she felt the freedom! By another impulse, she took off the formal cap that confined her hair; and down it fell upon her shoulders, dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a light in its abundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her features. There played around her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a radiant and tender smile, that seemed gushing from the very heart of womanhood. A crimson flush was glowing on her cheek, that had been long so pale. Her sex, her youth, and the whole richness of her beauty, came back from what men call the irrevocable past, and clustered themselves, with her maiden hope, and a happiness before unknown, within the magic circle of this hour. And, as if the gloom of the earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal hearts, it vanished with their sorrow. All at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven, forth burst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure forest, gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow fallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of the solemn trees. The objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness now. The course of the little brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's heart of mystery, which had become a mystery of joy. Such was the sympathy of Nature--that wild, heathen Nature of the forest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth--with the bliss of these two spirits! Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a death-like slumber, must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world. Had the forest still kept its gloom, it would have been bright in Hester's eyes, and bright in Arthur Dimmesdale's! Hester looked at him with the thrill of another joy. "Thou must know Pearl!" said she. "Our little Pearl! Thou hast seen her,--yes, I know it!--but thou wilt see her now with other eyes. She is a strange child! I hardly comprehend her! But thou wilt love her dearly, as I do, and wilt advise me how to deal with her." "Dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?" asked the minister, somewhat uneasily. "I have long shrunk from children, because they often show a distrust,--a backwardness to be familiar with me. I have even been afraid of little Pearl!" "Ah, that was sad!" answered the mother. "But she will love thee dearly, and thou her. She is not far off. I will call her! Pearl! Pearl!" "I see the child," observed the minister. "Yonder she is, standing in a streak of sunshine, a good way off, on the other side of the brook. So thou thinkest the child will love me?" Hester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible, at some distance, as the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled vision, in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. The ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or distinct,--now like a real child, now like a child's spirit,--as the splendor went and came again. She heard her mother's voice, and approached slowly through the forest. Pearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely, while her mother sat talking with the clergyman. The great black forest--stern as it showed itself to those who brought the guilt and troubles of the world into its bosom--became the playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it knew how. Sombre as it was, it put on the kindest of its moods to welcome her. It offered her the partridge-berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but ripening only in the spring, and now red as drops of blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl gathered, and was pleased with their wild flavor. The small denizens of the wilderness hardly took pains to move out of her path. A partridge, indeed, with a brood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented of her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A pigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to come beneath, and uttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm. A squirrel, from the lofty depths of his domestic tree, chattered either in anger or merriment,--for a squirrel is such a choleric and humorous little personage, that it is hard to distinguish between his moods,--so he chattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. It was a last year's nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. A fox, startled from his sleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively at Pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal off, or renew his nap on the same spot. A wolf, it is said,--but here the tale has surely lapsed into the improbable,--came up, and smelt of Pearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her hand. The truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognized a kindred wildness in the human child. Und hier war sie sanfter als in den grasbewachsenen Straßen der Siedlung oder in ihrer Mutter Hütte. Die Blumen schienen es zu wissen; und das eine und das andere flüsterte, als sie vorbeiging: "Schmücke dich mit mir, du schönes Kind, schmücke dich mit mir!" - und um sie zu erfreuen, sammelte Pearl die Veilchen, die Anemonen und die Akelei und ein paar Zweige des frischesten Grüns, die die alten Bäume vor ihren Augen hervorhielten. Mit ihnen schmückte sie ihr Haar und ihre schlanke Taille und wurde ein Nympfenkind oder eine junge Dryade oder was auch immer am engsten mit dem antiken Wald verbunden war. In dieser Gestalt hatte sich Pearl geschmückt, als sie die Stimme ihrer Mutter hörte und langsam zurückkam. Langsam, denn sie sah den Kirchenmann. But Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats, any more than mollified by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion, gesticulating violently, and throwing her small figure into the most extravagant contortions. She accompanied this wild outbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods reverberated on all sides; so that, alone as she was in her childish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden multitude were lending her their sympathy and encouragement. Seen in the brook, once more, was the shadowy wrath of Pearl's image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its foot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing its small forefinger at Hester's bosom! "I see what ails the child," whispered Hester to the clergyman, and turning pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her trouble and annoyance. "Children will not abide any, the slightest, change in the accustomed aspect of things that are daily before their eyes. Pearl misses something which she has always seen me wear!" "I pray you," answered the minister, "if thou hast any means of pacifying the child, do it forthwith! Save it were the cankered wrath of an old witch, like Mistress Hibbins," added he, attempting to smile, "I know nothing that I would not sooner encounter than this passion in a child. In Pearl's young beauty, as in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternatural effect. Pacify her, if thou lovest me!" Hester turned again towards Pearl, with a crimson blush upon her cheek, a conscious glance aside at the clergyman, and then a heavy sigh; while, even before she had time to speak, the blush yielded to a deadly pallor. "Pearl," said she, sadly, "look down at thy feet! There!--before thee!--on the hither side of the brook!" The child turned her eyes to the point indicated; and there lay the scarlet letter, so close upon the margin of the stream, that the gold embroidery was reflected in it. "Bring it hither!" said Hester. "Come thou and take it up!" answered Pearl. "Was ever such a child!" observed Hester, aside to the minister. "O, I have much to tell thee about her! But, in very truth, she is right as regards this hateful token. I must bear its torture yet a little longer,--only a few days longer,--until we shall have left this region, and look back hither as to a land which we have dreamed of. The forest cannot hide it! The mid-ocean shall take it from my hand, and swallow it up forever!" With these words, she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the scarlet letter, and fastened it again into her bosom. Hopefully, but a moment ago, as Hester had spoken of drowning it in the deep sea, there was a sense of inevitable doom upon her, as she thus received back this deadly symbol from the hand of fate. She had flung it into infinite space!--she had drawn an hour's free breath!--and here again was the scarlet misery, glittering on the old spot! So it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed invests itself with the character of doom. Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her hair, and confined them beneath her cap. As if there were a withering spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed, like fading sunshine; and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her. When the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to Pearl. "Dost thou know thy mother now, child?" asked she, reproachfully, but with a subdued tone. "Wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy mother, now that she has her shame upon her,--now that she is sad?" "Yes; now I will!" answered the child, bounding across the brook, and clasping Hester in her arms. "Now thou art my mother indeed! And I am thy little Pearl!" In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her mother's head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then--by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish--Pearl put up her mouth, and kissed the scarlet letter too! "That was not kind!" said Hester. "When thou hast shown me a little love, thou mockest me!" "Why doth the minister sit yonder?" asked Pearl. "He waits to welcome thee," replied her mother. "Come thou, and entreat his blessing! He loves thee, my little Pearl, and loves thy mother too. Wilt thou not love him? Come! he longs to greet thee!" "Doth he love us?" said Pearl, looking up, with acute intelligence, into her mother's face. "Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together, into the town?" "Not now, dear child," answered Hester. "But in days to come he will walk hand in hand with us. We will have a home and fireside of our own; and thou shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach thee many things, and love thee dearly. Thou wilt love him; wilt thou not?" "And will he always keep his hand over his heart?" inquired Pearl. "Foolish child, what a question is that!" exclaimed her mother. "Come and ask his blessing!" But, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her freakish nature, Pearl would show no favor to the clergyman. It was only by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of which, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all. The minister--painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier regards--bent forward, and impressed one on her brow. Hereupon, Pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off, and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding water. She then remained apart, silently watching Hester and the clergyman; while they talked together, and made such arrangements as were suggested by their new position, and the purposes soon to be fulfilled. And now this fateful interview had come to a close. The dell was to be left a solitude among its dark, old trees, which, with their multitudinous tongues, would whisper long of what had passed there, and no mortal be the wiser. And the melancholy brook would add this other tale to the mystery with which its little heart was already overburdened, and whereof it still kept up a murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of tone than for ages heretofore. [Illustration] [Illustration] XX. THE MINISTER IN A MAZE. As the minister departed, in advance of Hester Prynne and little Pearl, he threw a backward glance; half expecting that he should discover only some faintly traced features or outline of the mother and the child, slowly fading into the twilight of the woods. So great a vicissitude in his life could not at once be received as real. But there was Hester, clad in her gray robe, still standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had overthrown a long antiquity ago, and which time had ever since been covering with moss, so that these two fated ones, with earth's heaviest burden on them, might there sit down together, and find a single hour's rest and solace. And there was Pearl, too, lightly dancing from the margin of the brook,--now that the intrusive third person was gone,--and taking her old place by her mother's side. So the minister had not fallen asleep and dreamed! In order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity of impression, which vexed it with a strange disquietude, he recalled and more thoroughly defined the plans which Hester and himself had sketched for their departure. It had been determined between them, that the Old World, with its crowds and cities, offered them a more eligible shelter and concealment than the wilds of New England, or all America, with its alternatives of an Indian wigwam, or the few settlements of Europeans, scattered thinly along the seaboard. Not to speak of the clergyman's health, so inadequate to sustain the hardships of a forest life, his native gifts, his culture, and his entire development, would secure him a home only in the midst of civilization and refinement; the higher the state, the more delicately adapted to it the man. In furtherance of this choice, it so happened that a ship lay in the harbor; one of those questionable cruisers, frequent at that day, which, without being absolutely outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable irresponsibility of character. This vessel had recently arrived from the Spanish Main, and, within three days' time, would sail for Bristol. Hester Prynne--whose vocation, as a self-enlisted Sister of Charity, had brought her acquainted with the captain and crew--could take upon herself to secure the passage of two individuals and a child, with all the secrecy which circumstances rendered more than desirable. The minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest, the precise time at which the vessel might be expected to depart. It would probably be on the fourth day from the present. "That is most fortunate!" he had then said to himself. Now, why the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate, we hesitate to reveal. Nevertheless,--to hold nothing back from the reader,--it was because, on the third day from the present, he was to preach the Election Sermon; and, as such an occasion formed an honorable epoch in the life of a New England clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode and time of terminating his professional career. "At least, they shall say of me," thought this exemplary man, "that I leave no public duty unperformed, nor ill performed!" Sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound and acute as this poor minister's should be so miserably deceived! We have had, and may still have, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable, of a subtle disease, that had long since begun to eat into the real substance of his character. No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true. The excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale's feelings, as he returned from his interview with Hester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried him townward at a rapid pace. The pathway among the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude natural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he remembered it on his outward journey. But he leaped across the plashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbrush, climbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in short, all the difficulties of the track, with an unweariable activity that astonished him. He could not but recall how feebly, and with what frequent pauses for breath, he had toiled over the same ground, only two days before. As he drew near the town, he took an impression of change from the series of familiar objects that presented themselves. It seemed not yesterday, not one, nor two, but many days, or even years ago, since he had quitted them. There, indeed, was each former trace of the street, as he remembered it, and all the peculiarities of the houses, with the due multitude of gable-peaks, and a weathercock at every point where his memory suggested one. Not the less, however, came this importunately obtrusive sense of change. The same was true as regarded the acquaintances whom he met, and all the well-known shapes of human life, about the little town. They looked neither older nor younger now; the beards of the aged were no whiter, nor could the creeping babe of yesterday walk on his feet to-day; it was impossible to describe in what respect they differed from the individuals on whom he had so recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet the minister's deepest sense seemed to inform him of their mutability. A similar impression struck him most remarkably, as he passed under the walls of his own church. The edifice had so very strange, and yet so familiar, an aspect, that Mr. Dimmesdale's mind vibrated between two ideas; either that he had seen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming about it now. This phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed, indicated no external change, but so sudden and important a change in the spectator of the familiar scene, that the intervening space of a single day had operated on his consciousness like the lapse of years. The minister's own will, and Hester's will, and the fate that grew between them, had wrought this transformation. It was the same town as heretofore; but the same minister returned not from the forest. He might have said to the friends who greeted him,--"I am not the man for whom you take me! I left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn into a secret dell, by a mossy tree-trunk, and near a melancholy brook! Go, seek your minister, and see if his emaciated figure, his thin cheek, his white, heavy, pain-wrinkled brow, be not flung down there, like a cast-off garment!" His friends, no doubt, would still have insisted with him,--"Thou art thyself the man!"--but the error would have been their own, not his. Before Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other evidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling. In truth, nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral code, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the impulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled minister. At every step he was incited to do some strange, wild, wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once involuntary and intentional; in spite of himself, yet growing out of a profounder self than that which opposed the impulse. For instance, he met one of his own deacons. The good old man addressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal privilege, which his venerable age, his upright and holy character, and his station in the Church, entitled him to use; and, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect, which the minister's professional and private claims alike demanded. Never was there a more beautiful example of how the majesty of age and wisdom may comport with the obeisance and respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank, and inferior order of endowment, towards a higher. Now, during a conversation of some two or three moments between the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it was only by the most careful self-control that the former could refrain from uttering certain blasphemous suggestions that rose into his mind, respecting the communion supper. He absolutely trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag itself, in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own consent for so doing, without his having fairly given it. And, even with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid laughing, to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon would have been petrified by his minister's impiety! Again, another incident of the same nature. Hurrying along the street, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale encountered the eldest female member of his church; a most pious and exemplary old dame; poor, widowed, lonely, and with a heart as full of reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her dead friends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied gravestones. Yet all this, which would else have been such heavy sorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by religious consolations and the truths of Scripture, wherewith she had fed herself continually for more than thirty years. And, since Mr. Dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good grandam's chief earthly comfort--which, unless it had been likewise a heavenly comfort, could have been none at all--was to meet her pastor, whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed with a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing Gospel truth, from his beloved lips, into her dulled, but rapturously attentive ear. But, on this occasion, up to the moment of putting his lips to the old woman's ear, Mr. Dimmesdale, as the great enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of Scripture, nor aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him, unanswerable argument against the immortality of the human soul. The instilment thereof into her mind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down dead, at once, as by the effect of an intensely poisonous infusion. What he really did whisper, the minister could never afterwards recollect. There was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder in his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to the good widow's comprehension, or which Providence interpreted after a method of its own. Assuredly, as the minister looked back, he beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy that seemed like the shine of the celestial city on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale. Again, a third instance. After parting from the old church-member, he met the youngest sister of them all. It was a maiden newly won--and won by the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale's own sermon, on the Sabbath after his vigil--to barter the transitory pleasures of the world for the heavenly hope, that was to assume brighter substance as life grew dark around her, and which would gild the utter gloom with final glory. She was fair and pure as a lily that had bloomed in Paradise. The minister knew well that he was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity of her heart, which hung its snowy curtains about his image, imparting to religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious purity. Satan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from her mother's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted, or--shall we not rather say?--this lost and desperate man. As she drew nigh, the arch-fiend whispered him to condense into small compass and drop into her tender bosom a germ of evil that would be sure to blossom darkly soon, and bear black fruit betimes. Such was his sense of power over this virgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the minister felt potent to blight all the field of innocence with but one wicked look, and develop all its opposite with but a word. So--with a mightier struggle than he had yet sustained--he held his Geneva cloak before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of recognition, and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness as she might. She ransacked her conscience,--which was full of harmless little matters, like her pocket or her work-bag,--and took herself to task, poor thing! for a thousand imaginary faults; and went about her household duties with swollen eyelids the next morning. Before the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation, he was conscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and almost as horrible. It was,--we blush to tell it,--it was to stop short in the road, and teach some very wicked words to a knot of little Puritan children who were playing there, and had but just begun to talk. Denying himself this freak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of the ship's crew from the Spanish Main. And, here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other wickedness, poor Mr. Dimmesdale longed, at least, to shake hands with the tarry blackguard, and recreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute sailors so abound with, and a volley of good, round, solid, satisfactory, and heaven-defying oaths! It was not so much a better principle as partly his natural good taste, and still more his buckramed habit of clerical decorum, that carried him safely through the latter crisis. "What is it that haunts and tempts me thus?" cried the minister to himself, at length, pausing in the street, and striking his hand against his forehead. "Am I mad? or am I given over utterly to the fiend? Did I make a contract with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood? And does he now summon me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the performance of every wickedness which his most foul imagination can conceive?" At the moment when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thus communed with himself, and struck his forehead with his hand, old Mistress Hibbins, the reputed witch-lady, is said to have been passing by. She made a very grand appearance; having on a high head-dress, a rich gown of velvet, and a ruff done up with the famous yellow starch, of which Ann Turner, her especial friend, had taught her the secret, before this last good lady had been hanged for Sir Thomas Overbury's murder. Whether the witch had read the minister's thoughts, or no, she came to a full stop, looked shrewdly into his face, smiled craftily, and--though little given to converse with clergymen--began a conversation. "So, reverend Sir, you have made a visit into the forest," observed the witch-lady, nodding her high head-dress at him. "The next time, I pray you to allow me only a fair warning, and I shall be proud to bear you company. Without taking overmuch upon myself, my good word will go far towards gaining any strange gentleman a fair reception from yonder potentate you wot of!" "I profess, madam," answered the clergyman, with a grave obeisance, such as the lady's rank demanded, and his own good-breeding made imperative,--"I profess, on my conscience and character, that I am utterly bewildered as touching the purport of your words! I went not into the forest to seek a potentate; neither do I, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a view to gaining the favor of such a personage. My one sufficient object was to greet that pious friend of mine, the Apostle Eliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls he hath won from heathendom!" "Ha, ha, ha!" cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high head-dress at the minister. "Well, well, we must needs talk thus in the daytime! You carry it off like an old hand! But at midnight, and in the forest, we shall have other talk together!" She passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back her head and smiling at him, like one willing to recognize a secret intimacy of connection. "Have I then sold myself," thought the minister, "to the fiend whom, if men say true, this yellow-starched and velveted old hag has chosen for her prince and master!" The wretched minister! He had made a bargain very like it! Tempted by a dream of happiness, he had yielded himself, with deliberate choice, as he had never done before, to what he knew was deadly sin. And the infectious poison of that sin had been thus rapidly diffused throughout his moral system. It had stupefied all blessed impulses, and awakened into vivid life the whole brotherhood of bad ones. Scorn, bitterness, unprovoked malignity, gratuitous desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was good and holy, all awoke, to tempt, even while they frightened him. And his encounter with old Mistress Hibbins, if it were a real incident, did but show his sympathy and fellowship with wicked mortals, and the world of perverted spirits. He had, by this time, reached his dwelling, on the edge of the burial-ground, and, hastening up the stairs, took refuge in his study. The minister was glad to have reached this shelter, without first betraying himself to the world by any of those strange and wicked eccentricities to which he had been continually impelled while passing through the streets. He entered the accustomed room, and looked around him on its books, its windows, its fireplace, and the tapestried comfort of the walls, with the same perception of strangeness that had haunted him throughout his walk from the forest-dell into the town, and thitherward. Here he had studied and written; here, gone through fast and vigil, and come forth half alive; here, striven to pray; here, borne a hundred thousand agonies! There was the Bible, in its rich old Hebrew, with Moses and the Prophets speaking to him, and God's voice through all! There, on the table, with the inky pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst, where his thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page, two days before. He knew that it was himself, the thin and white-cheeked minister, who had done and suffered these things, and written thus far into the Election Sermon! But he seemed to stand apart, and eye this former self with scornful, pitying, but half-envious curiosity. That self was gone. Another man had returned out of the forest; a wiser one; with a knowledge of hidden mysteries which the simplicity of the former never could have reached. A bitter kind of knowledge that! While occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the study, and the minister said, "Come in!"--not wholly devoid of an idea that he might behold an evil spirit. And so he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth that entered. The minister stood, white and speechless, with one hand on the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other spread upon his breast. "Welcome home, reverend Sir," said the physician. "And how found you that godly man, the Apostle Eliot? But methinks, dear Sir, you look pale; as if the travel through the wilderness had been too sore for you. Will not my aid be requisite to put you in heart and strength to preach your Election Sermon?" "Nay, I think not so," rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "My journey, and the sight of the holy Apostle yonder, and the free air which I have breathed, have done me good, after so long confinement in my study. I think to need no more of your drugs, my kind physician, good though they be, and administered by a friendly hand." All this time, Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the grave and intent regard of a physician towards his patient. But, in spite of this outward show, the latter was almost convinced of the old man's knowledge, or, at least, his confident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with Hester Prynne. The physician knew then, that, in the minister's regard, he was no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy. So much being known, it would appear natural that a part of it should be expressed. It is singular, however, how long a time often passes before words embody things; and with what security two persons, who choose to avoid a certain subject, may approach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it. Thus, the minister felt no apprehension that Roger Chillingworth would touch, in express words, upon the real position which they sustained towards one another. Yet did the physician, in his dark way, creep frightfully near the secret. "Were it not better," said he, "that you use my poor skill to-night? Verily, dear Sir, we must take pains to make you strong and vigorous for this occasion of the Election discourse. The people look for great things from you; apprehending that another year may come about, and find their pastor gone." "Yea, to another world," replied the minister, with pious resignation. "Heaven grant it be a better one; for, in good sooth, I hardly think to tarry with my flock through the flitting seasons of another year! But, touching your medicine, kind Sir, in my present frame of body, I need it not." "I joy to hear it," answered the physician. "It may be that my remedies, so long administered in vain, begin now to take due effect. Happy man were I, and well deserving of New England's gratitude, could I achieve this cure!" "I thank you from my heart, most watchful friend," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, with a solemn smile. "I thank you, and can but requite your good deeds with my prayers." "A good man's prayers are golden recompense!" rejoined old Roger Chillingworth, as he took his leave. "Yea, they are the current gold coin of the New Jerusalem, with the King's own mint-mark on them!" Left alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and requested food, which, being set before him, he ate with ravenous appetite. Then, flinging the already written pages of the Election Sermon into the fire, he forthwith began another, which he wrote with such an impulsive flow of thought and emotion, that he fancied himself inspired; and only wondered that Heaven should see fit to transmit the grand and solemn music of its oracles through so foul an organ-pipe as he. However, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go unsolved forever, he drove his task onward, with earnest haste and ecstasy. Thus the night fled away, as if it were a winged steed, and he careering on it; morning came, and peeped, blushing, through the curtains; and at last sunrise threw a golden beam into the study and laid it right across the minister's bedazzled eyes. There he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a vast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him! [Illustration] 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.

Der Pastor und seine Gemeindemitglieder: Hester ruft Dimmesdale an und beginnt mit ihm zu sprechen. Er erzählt ihr, dass er sich wie ein Betrüger fühlt, wenn er seiner Gemeinde predigt, und er sehnt sich nach einem Freund, der sein Geheimnis kennt. Hester bietet ihm ihre Freundschaft an, sagt ihm jedoch, dass er mit einem Feind zusammenlebt. Sie enthüllt die Tatsache, dass Chillingworth ihr ehemaliger Ehemann ist, woraufhin Dimmesdale zunächst wütend erscheint, aber dann in den Boden sinkt. Er sagt Hester, dass er es ihr nicht verzeihen kann, dass sie ihm nichts gesagt hat. Hester, die seit sieben Jahren verzweifelt um Vergebung gebeten hat, umarmt Dimmesdale und fleht ihn an, ihr zu vergeben, was er schließlich tut. Er bittet sie, ihm zu sagen, was er jetzt tun soll, da er nicht länger mit Chillingworth zusammenleben kann. Hester rät Dimmesdale, die Siedlung zu verlassen und in die Wildnis zu gehen, wo er in Frieden leben kann. Er lehnt diesen Gedanken ab, aber sie drängt ihn dann, einen neuen Namen anzunehmen und nach Europa zu gehen. Dimmesdale sagt: "Du erzählst einem Mann von einem Rennen, dessen Knie unter ihm wanken!". Dimmesdale lässt sich von Hesters Argumenten, die Siedlung zu verlassen, überwältigen und beschließt, mit ihr zu gehen. Er ist glücklich, sobald er die Entscheidung getroffen hat, zu gehen, und er fühlt, dass eine Schuld von seinen Schultern genommen wurde. Hester sagt in einem Moment der Leidenschaft: "Lasst uns nicht zurückblicken." Sie löst dann den scharlachroten Buchstaben und wirft ihn weg, beobachtet, wie er nur wenige Meter vom Fluss landet, der ihn weggetragen hätte. Hester sagt Dimmesdale, dass er Pearl kennenlernen muss, damit er sie so lieben kann, wie sie es tut. Sie ruft Pearl, die in einem Sonnenstrahl steht. Der Erzähler vergleicht Pearl dann mit einer Nymphe und nennt sie einen wilden Geist. Er erzählt, dass die Tiere keine Angst vor ihr hatten und sogar ein Wolf es ihr erlaubte, seinen Kopf zu tätscheln. Pearl hat sich mit Wildblumen geschmückt, sowohl in ihrem Haar als auch auf ihrer Kleidung. Als sie den Minister sieht, geht sie langsam auf ihn zu. Hester beobachtet, wie Pearl zum Fluss geht und auf der anderen Seite stehen bleibt und immer noch in einem Sonnenstrahl steht. Dimmesdale ist besorgt, dass Pearl den Fluss überqueren soll, und er bittet Hester, sie dazu zu bringen, sich zu beeilen. Pearl fängt an zu schreien und sich zu krümmen und zeigt auf Hesters Brust, wo der scharlachrote Buchstabe entfernt worden ist. Hester muss schließlich aufstehen und den Fluss überqueren, den Buchstaben wieder befestigen und ihr Haar wieder unter ihren Hut stecken. Hester zieht dann Pearl zu dem Ort, an dem Dimmesdale sitzt. Pearl fragt wieder, ob der Minister immer seine Hand auf seinem Herzen halten und mit ihnen in die Stadt gehen wird. Dimmesdale gibt ihr einen Kuss auf die Stirn, aber Pearl rennt weg und wäscht den Kuss im Fluss ab. Dimmesdale kehrt mit dem vollen Bewusstsein eines neuen Lebensgefühls in die Stadt zurück. Er hat viel mehr Energie als noch vor zwei Tagen, als er ging, und alles sieht für ihn anders aus. Drei Mal in Folge wird er von verschiedenen Leuten angesprochen und kämpft darum, keine Gotteslästerungen auszusprechen. Er ist sogar versucht, einer Gruppe von kleinen puritanischen Kindern schmutzige Wörter beizubringen. Mistress Hibbins hört ihn klagen, dass er verfolgt und versucht wird. Sie bleibt stehen und fragt Dimmesdale, wann er in den Wald zurückkehren wird - damit sie sich ihm anschließen kann. Er sagt ihr, dass er nie zurückgehen wird, woraufhin sie antwortet, dass sie um Mitternacht im Wald zusammen sein werden. Sie geht dann weg und lässt Dimmesdale vor Angst darüber, was er mit Hester getan hat, erschüttert zurück. Dimmesdale kehrt endlich nach Hause zurück und betritt sein Arbeitszimmer. Chillingworth kommt herein und bietet an, etwas Medizin für Dimmesdale herzustellen, damit er genug Energie hat, um seine Wahlpredigt zu schreiben. Die Wahlpredigt soll der Höhepunkt der bisherigen Karriere des Geistlichen sein und ist eine äußerst wichtige Rede. Dimmesdale lehnt das Angebot ab und bestellt stattdessen etwas zu essen, das er "mit gierigem Appetit" isst. Dann setzt er sich hin und beginnt seine Predigt zu schreiben, und das die ganze Nacht hindurch bis weit in den 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. Es war nicht vor dem nächsten Freitag, dass Marilla die Geschichte mit dem mit Blumen geschmückten Hut hörte. Sie kam von Mrs. Lyndes nach Hause und rief Anne zur Rechenschaft. "Anne, Mrs. Rachel sagt, du bist letzten Sonntag mit deinem Hut voller Rosen und Butterblumen zur Kirche gegangen. Was hat dich bloß zu so einem Unsinn bewogen? Du musst ein reichlich merkwürdiges Bild abgegeben haben!" "Oh, ich weiß, dass Rosa und Gelb mir nicht stehen", begann Anne. "Quatsch! Das Anziehen von Blumen auf deinem Hut, ganz gleich welche Farbe sie hatten, war lächerlich. Du bist das nervtötendste Kind!" "Ich sehe nicht ein, was daran lächerlicher ist, Blumen auf deinem Hut zu tragen als auf deinem Kleid", protestierte Anne. "Viele kleine Mädchen hatten Blumensträuße an ihren Kleidern befestigt. Wo liegt der Unterschied?" Marilla ließ sich nicht von der sicheren Konkretheit in unsichere Pfade des Abstrakten ziehen. "Gib mir nicht solche freche Antworten, Anne. Es war sehr dumm von dir, so etwas zu tun. Lass mich dich nicht noch einmal bei so einem Trick erwischen. Mrs. Rachel sagt, sie dachte, sie würde im Erdboden versinken, als sie dich so hereinkommen sah. Sie konnte nicht nah genug herankommen, um dir zu sagen, dass du sie abnehmen sollst, bis es zu spät war. Sie sagt, die Leute haben schrecklich darüber geredet. Natürlich würden sie denken, ich hätte keinen besseren Verstand, als dich so herauszulassen." "Oh, es tut mir so leid", sagte Anne, Tränen stiegen in ihre Augen. "Ich dachte nie, dass es dir etwas ausmachen würde. Die Rosen und Butterblumen waren so süß und hübsch, ich dachte, sie würden auf meinem Hut toll aussehen. Viele der kleinen Mädchen hatten künstliche Blumen auf ihren Hüten. Ich fürchte, ich werde eine furchtbare Prüfung für dich sein. Vielleicht solltest du mich besser zurück ins Waisenhaus schicken. Das wäre schrecklich; ich glaube nicht, dass ich es ertragen könnte; höchstwahrscheinlich würde ich an Schwindsucht erkranken; ich bin schon so dünn, verstehst du. Aber das wäre besser als eine Prüfung für dich zu sein." "Quatsch", sagte Marilla, verärgert über sich selbst, dass sie das Kind zum Weinen gebracht hatte. "Ich möchte dich sicher nicht zurück ins Waisenhaus schicken. Alles was ich möchte, ist, dass du dich wie andere Mädchen benimmst und dich nicht lächerlich machst. Weine nicht weiter. Ich habe Neuigkeiten für dich. Diana Barry ist heute Nachmittag nach Hause gekommen. Ich möchte zu Mrs. Barry gehen und nach einem Rockschnittmuster fragen und wenn du magst, kannst du mitkommen und Diana kennenlernen." Anne stand auf, mit gefalteten Händen, Tränen glänzten noch auf ihren Wangen; das Geschirrtuch, an dem sie gearbeitet hatte, rutschte unbeachtet auf den Boden. "Oh, Marilla, ich habe Angst - jetzt, da es soweit ist, habe ich wirklich Angst. Was ist, wenn sie mich nicht mag! Es wäre die tragischste Enttäuschung meines Lebens." "Nun, werd nicht hektisch. Und ich wünschte, du würdest nicht solch lange Worten benutzen. Es klingt so lustig in einem kleinen Mädchen. Ich denke, Diana wird dich schon genug mögen. Du musst es nur mit ihrer Mutter aufnehmen. Wenn sie dich nicht mag, ist es egal, wie sehr Diana dich mag. Wenn sie von deinem Ausbruch bei Mrs. Lynde und dem Tragen von Butterblumen auf deinem Hut gehört hat, weiß ich nicht, was sie von dir denken wird. Du musst höflich und gut erzogen sein und keine dieser verblüffenden Reden halten. Um Himmels willen, das Kind zittert sogar!" Anne zitterte tatsächlich. Ihr Gesicht war bleich und angespannt. "Oh, Marilla, du würdest auch aufgeregt sein, wenn du ein kleines Mädchen treffen würdest, von dem du hoffst, dass es deine Busenfreundin wird und dessen Mutter dich nicht mögen könnte", sagte sie, als sie sich beeilte, ihren Hut zu holen. Sie gingen über den Orchard Slope auf dem kürzesten Weg über den Bach und den Fichtenhügel. Mrs. Barry kam zur Küchentür, als Marilla anklopfte. Sie war eine große, schwarzäugige, schwarzhaarige Frau mit einem sehr entschlossenem Mund. Sie hatte den Ruf, sehr streng mit ihren Kindern zu sein. "Wie geht es dir, Marilla?", sagte sie herzlich. "Komm herein. Und das ist das kleine Mädchen, das du adoptiert hast, nehme ich an?" "Ja, das ist Anne Shirley", sagte Marilla. "Mit E am Ende", keuchte Anne, die, so zitternd und aufgeregt sie auch war, entschlossen war, dass es keine Missverständnisse zu diesem wichtigen Punkt geben sollte. Mrs. Barry, die entweder nicht hörte oder nicht verstand, schüttelte nur die Hände und sagte freundlich: "Wie geht es dir?" "Ich bin körperlich wohl, obwohl ich geistig ziemlich verwirrt bin, danke, ma'am", sagte Anne ernst. Dann flüsterte sie Marilla hörbar zu: "War da etwas Aufregendes dabei, Marilla?" Diana saß auf dem Sofa und las ein Buch, das sie fallen ließ, als die Besucher hereinkamen. Sie war ein sehr hübsches kleines Mädchen mit den schwarzen Augen und Haaren ihrer Mutter, rosigen Wangen und dem fröhlichen Ausdruck, den sie von ihrem Vater geerbt hatte. "Das ist meine kleine Tochter Diana", sagte Mrs. Barry. "Diana, du könntest Anne in den Garten nehmen und ihr deine Blumen zeigen. Es wird besser für dich sein, als über dieses Buch zu brüten. Sie liest viel zu viel -" dies zu Marilla, als die kleinen Mädchen hinausgingen - "und ich kann es nicht verhindern, denn ihr Vater fördert es. Sie brütet immer über einem Buch. Ich bin froh, dass sie die Aussicht auf eine Spielfreundin hat - vielleicht wird sie dann mehr draußen sein." Draußen im Garten, der voll war von sanftem Abendlicht, das durch die dunklen alten Fichten in den Westen fiel, standen Anne und Diana schüchtern vor einem Busch prächtiger Tigerlilien und schauten sich an. Der Barry-Garten war ein bewaldetes Blütenparadies, das das Herz von Anne zu jedem anderen Zeitpunkt als diesem, der mit Schicksal beladen war, erfreut hätte. Er war von großen alten Weiden und hohen Fichten umgeben, unter denen Blumen gediehen, die den Schatten liebten. Saubere, rechtwinklige Wege, ordentlich mit Muscheln begrenzt, durchquerten ihn wie feuchte rote Bänder, und in den Beeten zwischen den altmodischen Blumen tobte das Leben. Es gab rosarote Tränendes-Herz und großartige, prächtige rote Pfingstrosen; weiße, duftende Narzissen und dornige, süße schottische Rosen; rosa, blaue und weiße Akeleien und lilafarbene "Bouncing Bets"; Büschel von Edelraute, Schriftgras und Minze; purpurne Adam-und-Eva, Narzissen und Massen weißen, zarten, duftenden Kleeblattsprays; scharlachroter Blitz, der seine feurigen Lanzen über weißen Ringelblumen ausstreckte; ein Garten, in dem das Sonnenlicht verweilte, die Bienen summten und die Winde, zum Verweilen verführt, schnurrten und raschelten. "Oh, Diana", sagte Anne schließlich und schloss die Hände, fast flüsternd, "oh, glaubst du, du könntest mich ein bisschen mögen - genug, um meine Busenfreundin zu sein?" Diana lachte. Diana lachte immer, bevor sie sprach. "Nun, ich denke schon", sagte sie "Oh ja," seufzte Anne, selig nichts von dem Sarkasmus auf Marillas Seite bemerkend. "Oh Marilla, ich bin das glücklichste Mädchen auf Prince Edward Island in diesem Moment. Ich versichere dir, ich werde heute Abend meine Gebete mit großer Freude sprechen. Diana und ich werden morgen ein Spielhaus in Mr. William Bells Birkenhain bauen. Kann ich diese zerbrochenen Stücke aus China haben, die in der Holzscheune sind? Dianas Geburtstag ist im Februar und meiner ist im März. Denkst du nicht, dass das eine sehr seltsame Koinzidenz ist? Diana wird mir ein Buch zum Lesen ausleihen. Sie sagt, es ist absolut großartig und unglaublich aufregend. Sie wird mir einen Ort im Wald zeigen, an dem Reisblumen wachsen. Denkst du nicht, dass Diana sehr tiefsinnige Augen hat? Ich wünschte, ich hätte tiefsinnige Augen. Diana wird mir beibringen, das Lied 'Nelly in der Haselnusslichtung' zu singen. Sie wird mir ein Bild geben, das ich in meinem Zimmer aufhängen kann; es ist ein absolut schönes Bild, sagt sie - eine wunderschöne Dame in einem blassen blauen Seidenkleid. Ein Nähmaschinenvertreter hat es ihr gegeben. Ich wünschte, ich hätte etwas, das ich Diana geben könnte. Ich bin einen Zoll größer als Diana, aber sie ist so viel molliger; sie sagt, sie würde gerne dünn sein, weil es so viel anmutiger ist, aber ich befürchte, sie hat es nur gesagt, um meine Gefühle zu beruhigen. Wir werden eines Tages Muscheln am Ufer sammeln gehen. Wir haben uns darauf geeinigt, den Frühling beim Baumstamm als "Dryad's Bubble" zu bezeichnen. Ist das nicht ein absolut eleganter Name? Ich habe einmal eine Geschichte über einen solchen Frühling gelesen. Eine Dryade ist so etwas wie eine erwachsene Fee, glaube ich." "Nun, ich hoffe nur, dass du Diana nicht zu Tode redest", sagte Marilla. "Aber erinnere dich daran, Anne, du wirst nicht die ganze Zeit oder die meiste davon spielen. Du hast Arbeit zu erledigen und die muss zuerst getan werden." Annes Glück war vollkommen und Matthew ließ es überlaufen. Gerade war er von einem Ausflug zum Laden in Carmody zurückgekommen und reichte Anne schüchtern ein kleines Päckchen aus seiner Tasche, während er Marilla einen verlegen-aussehenden Blick zuwarf. "Ich habe gehört, du magst Schokoladenbonbons, also habe ich dir welche geholt", sagte er. "Hmmpf", schnüffelte Marilla. "Sie werden dir die Zähne und den Magen ruinieren. Da, da, Kind, sieh nicht so elend aus. Du kannst die essen, da Matthew sie geholt hat. Er hätte dir besser Pfefferminzbonbons mitgebracht. Die sind gesünder. Iss nicht alle auf einmal und mach dich nicht gleich krank." "Oh nein, das werde ich nicht", sagte Anne eifrig. "Ich werde heute Abend nur eins essen, Marilla. Und ich kann Diana die Hälfte davon geben, oder? Die andere Hälfte wird für mich doppelt so süß schmecken, wenn ich ihr etwas abgebe. Es ist herrlich zu wissen, dass ich ihr etwas geben kann." "Ich muss sagen, für das Kind", sagte Marilla, als Anne in ihren Dachraum gegangen war, "ist sie nicht geizig. Das freut mich, denn von allen Fehlern hasse ich Geiz bei einem Kind am meisten. Mein lieber Scholli, es sind erst drei Wochen vergangen, seit sie kam, und es kommt mir vor, als wäre sie schon immer hier gewesen. Ich kann mir den Ort ohne sie nicht mehr vorstellen. Nun, guck bloß nicht so, als hätte ich es dir doch gesagt, Matthew. Das ist schon schlimm genug bei einer Frau, aber bei einem Mann lässt es sich nicht ertragen. Ich bin vollkommen bereit zuzugeben, dass ich froh bin, dem Kind zugestimmt zu haben und dass ich mich an sie gewöhne, aber reibe es mir nicht unter die Nase, Matthew Cuthbert." 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.

Ein feierliches Gelübde und Versprechen Frau Rachel erzählt Marilla, dass Anne Blumen in ihren Hut in der Kirche gesteckt hat und sich so zum Gespött der Gemeinde gemacht hat. Als Marilla Anne dafür zurechtweist, etwas so Unangemessenes zu tun, bricht Anne in Tränen aus. Sie versteht nicht, was sie falsch gemacht hat, da die Blumen schön waren und andere Mädchen künstliche Blumen in ihren Hüten hatten. Annes Stimmung ändert sich schnell, als sie erfährt, dass sie an diesem Nachmittag die Barrys besuchen werden. Anne hat davon geträumt, beste Freundinnen mit Diana Barry zu werden, und sie zittert vor Nervosität. Marilla warnt sie davor, nichts Aufregendes zu sagen und nicht zu viele große Worte vor Mrs. Barry zu verwenden, die den Ruf hat, streng zu sein. Im Haus der Barrys gehen Anne und Diana in den Garten, um zu spielen, und schließen sofort Freundschaft. Annes erste Worte an Diana sind ein herzlicher Vorschlag einer Freundschaft. Sie schafft ein Gelöbnis ewiger Hingabe, das sie schwören sollen. Auf dem Weg zurück nach Green Gables erzählt Anne Marilla glückselig, dass sie eine geistesverwandte Seele in der fülligen, hübschen, rabenschwarzen Diana gefunden hat. Als Matthew Anne Schokolade schenkt, die er für sie gekauft hat, bittet Anne darum, sie mit Diana teilen zu dürfen. Sie sagt, sie werde ihre Schokolade noch mehr genießen, wenn sie davon die Hälfte ihrer neuen Freundin geben kann. Marilla, erfreut über Annes großzügigen Geist, sagt Matthew, dass sie sich nicht vorstellen kann, wie das Leben ohne Anne wäre.

Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache. Chapter: SCENE II. _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_. _The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_. _Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.---- [_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing, and giving odours.-- [_Music._] Enough; no more; [_He rises._ 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord? _Duke._ What, Curio? _Cur._ The hart. _Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought, she purged the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn'd into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me. _Enter_ VALENTINE. How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak. _Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted; But from her handmaid do return this answer; The element itself, till seven years heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this, to season A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh, And lasting, in her sad remembrance. _Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her!-- Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._ 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.

Inzwischen spricht eine junge Adlige namens Viola an der Küste des Illyrischen Meeres mit dem Kapitän, dessen Besatzung sie gerade aus einem Schiffsunglück gerettet hat. Obwohl Viola gefunden und gerettet wurde, scheint ihr Bruder Sebastian im Sturm verschwunden zu sein. Der Kapitän erzählt Viola, dass Sebastian vielleicht noch am Leben sein könnte. Er sagt, dass er gesehen hat, wie Sebastian versucht hat, sich an einen gebrochenen Mast zu binden, um über Wasser zu bleiben. Aber Viola weiß nicht, ob es sich lohnt, an Hoffnung festzuhalten. In der Zwischenzeit muss sie jedoch einen Weg finden, sich in diesem fremden Land selbst zu unterstützen. Der Kapitän erzählt Viola alles über Herzog Orsino, der Illyrien regiert. Viola bemerkt, dass sie von diesem Herzog gehört hat und erwähnt, dass er früher Junggeselle war. Der Kapitän sagt, dass Orsino immer noch Junggeselle ist, erzählt Viola aber dann von Lady Olivia, um die der Herzog wirbt. Wieder hören wir die Geschichte, wie Lady Olivias Bruder gestorben ist und sie sich daraufhin von der Welt abgekapselt hat. Viola drückt den Wunsch aus, dass sie selbst eine Dienerin im Haus von Olivia werden und sich auch von der Welt verstecken könnte. Der Kapitän antwortet, dass es unwahrscheinlich ist, dass Viola in Olivias Dienst eintritt, da Olivia keine Besucher empfängt, einschließlich des Herzogs. Viola entscheidet daraufhin, dass sie sich stattdessen als junger Mann verkleiden und beim Herzog Orsino um eine Anstellung bitten wird. Als sie ihm verspricht, ihn gut zu bezahlen, stimmt der Kapitän zu, ihr zu helfen, und sie gehen zusammen, um eine Verkleidung für sie 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. Kapitel: Scaena Septima. Betritt Cordelia, Kent und Herr. Cor. Oh du guter Kent, Wie soll ich leben und arbeiten Um deiner Güte gerecht zu werden? Mein Leben wird zu kurz sein Und jeder Maßstab versagt mir. Kent. Anerkannt zu werden, Madam, ist vorbezahlt, Alle meine Berichte gehen mit der bescheidenen Wahrheit einher, Nicht mehr und nicht weniger. Cor. Sei besser gekleidet, Diese Kleider erinnern an diese schlimmeren Stunden: Ich bitte dich, zieh sie aus. Kent. Verzeih, meine liebe Madam, Doch erkannt zu werden, verkürzt meine Absicht, Meine Bitte ist, dass du mich nicht kennst, Bis Zeit und ich es für angemessen halten. Cor. Dann sei es so, mein guter Lord: Wie geht es dem König? Herr. Madam schläft immer noch. Cor. Oh, ihr freundlichen Götter! Heilt diese große Verwundung in seiner missbrauchten Natur, Die ungeordneten und kollidierenden Sinne, oh löst auf, Diesen kindlich veränderten Vater. Herr. Wenn es Ihrer Majestät gefällt, Dass wir den König wecken, hat er lange geschlafen? Cor. Lass dich von deinem Wissen leiten und fahre fort Nach deinem eigenen Willen: Ist er angezogen? Betrete Lear in einem Stuhl, der von Dienern getragen wird Herr. Ja, Madam: in der Schwere des Schlafes Haben wir frische Kleidung für ihn angezogen. Sei bereit, Madam, wenn wir ihn aufwecken, Ich bezweifle seine Selbstbeherrschung. Cor. Oh mein lieber Vater, Wiederherstellung hängt Deine Medizin an meine Lippen und lass diesen Kuss Die schweren Schäden reparieren, die meine beiden Schwestern Mit deiner Ehrerbietung verursacht haben. Kent. Liebe und teure Prinzessin Cor. Wenn du nicht ihr Vater gewesen wärst, hätten diese weißen Flocken Mitleid von ihnen verlangt. War dies ein Gesicht, Das den widerspenstigen Winden entgegengesetzt werden sollte? Mein Feindshund, selbst wenn er mich gebissen hätte, Hätte diese Nacht vor meinem Feuer gestanden, Und warst du wirklich (armer Vater) Dich mit Schweinen und verlassenen Gaunern abzugeben, Auf kurzen und moderigen Stroh? Ach, ach, Es ist ein Wunder, dass dein Leben und Verstand nicht gleichzeitig Geendet haben. Er wacht auf, sprich zu ihm. Herr. Madam, tun Sie das, es ist am besten geeignet. Cor. Wie geht es meinem königlichen Lord? Wie geht es Ihrer Majestät? Lear. Du bist mir unrecht getan, mich aus dem Grab zu holen, Du bist eine Seele im Glück, aber ich bin gefesselt Auf einem Rad aus Feuer, dass meine eigenen Tränen Wie flüssiges Blei gefroren sind. Cor. Herr, kennst du mich? Lear. Du bist ein Geist, dessen bin ich mir bewusst, wo bist du gestorben? Cor. Immer noch, immer noch, weit weg. Herr. Er ist kaum wach, Lass ihn bitte eine Weile allein. Lear. Wo war ich? Wo bin ich? Helllichter Tag? Ich bin mächtig betrogen worden, ich würde sogar vor Mitleid sterben, Einen anderen so zu sehen. Ich weiß nicht, was ich sagen soll: Ich werde nicht schwören, dass dies meine Hände sind: Lass uns sehen, Ich spüre diesen Stich des Stifts, wäre ich doch versichert Meines Zustands. Cor. Oh schau mich an, Sir, Und halte deine Hand als Segnung über mich, Du musst nicht knien. Lear. Bitte verhöhne mich nicht: Ich bin ein sehr törichter alter Mann, Achtzig Jahre alt und darüber hinaus, Nicht eine Stunde mehr oder weniger: Und um ehrlich zu sein, Fürchte ich, dass ich nicht bei klarem Verstand bin. Mir scheint, ich sollte dich kennen und diesen Mann kennen, Aber ich bin unsicher: Denn ich bin hauptsächlich unwissend Um welchen Ort es sich handelt: Und all das Wissen, das ich habe, Erinnert sich nicht an diese Kleidung: Und ich weiß nicht Wo ich letzte Nacht übernachtet habe. Lacht mich nicht aus, Denn (als Mann) denke ich, dass diese Dame Meine Tochter Cordelia ist. Cor. Und so bin ich: Ich bin es. Lear. Sind deine Tränen feucht? Ja, beim Glauben: Ich bitte, weine nicht, Wenn du Gift für mich hast, werde ich es trinken: Ich weiß, du liebst mich nicht, denn deine Schwestern Haben (wie ich mich erinnere) mir Unrecht getan. Du hast irgendeinen Grund, sie haben keinen. Cor. Keinen Grund, keinen Grund. Lear. Bin ich in Frankreich? Kent. In deinem eigenen Königreich, Sir. Lear. Missbrauche mich nicht. Herr. Sei getröstet, liebe Madam, der große Wahnsinn Den du siehst, ist in ihm erloschen: Bitte ihn, hineinzugehen, Belästige ihn nicht mehr, bis weitere Besinnung einkehrt. Cor. Gefällt es eurer Hoheit zu gehen? Lear. Du musst Geduld mit mir haben: Bitte vergiss und vergib jetzt, Ich bin alt und töricht. Abgang. 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.

Kent enthüllt seine wahre Identität gegenüber Cordelia, die ihm für die Hilfe dankt, die er ihrem Vater geleistet hat. Kent wird weiterhin die Rolle des Caius spielen, da er noch Arbeit zu erledigen hat. Cordelias Arzt erklärt, dass der König lange geschlafen hat und wenn er geweckt wird, wird es zur Musik der Heilung sein. Lear wird auf einem Stuhl hereingebracht und Cordelia küsst ihn zärtlich. Sie versöhnen sich. Zunächst denkt Lear, dass Cordelia ein Engel ist, der ihn aus dem Fegefeuer gerettet hat. Er gewinnt bald seine Sinne zurück und bittet demütig um Vergebung bei seiner Tochter. Cordelia bestätigt, dass er sich immer noch in seinem eigenen Land und nicht in Frankreich befindet. Der Arzt begleitet Lear hinaus, da er noch nicht vollständig genesen ist. Cordelia und Kent erfahren, dass Edmund nun das Heer von Cornwall befehligt und das Gerücht kursiert, dass sowohl Edgar als auch Kent nach Deutschland geflohen sind. Kent stellt fest, dass keine Zeit verloren werden darf, da die Schlacht unmittelbar bevorsteht.