الفصل الفصل 2 · 第2章

In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s

personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the

difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it may be

stated, for the reader’s more certain information, lest the following

pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is

meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful

and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind—her manners just

removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person

pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as

ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.

Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand

alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this

terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her

in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of

the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her

wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against

the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young

ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve

the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew

so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of

their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to

her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the

following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up

very warm about the throat, when you come from the Rooms at night; and

I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I

will give you this little book on purpose.”

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will

reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),

must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante

of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted on

Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of

transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail of

every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything

indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the

Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed

rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with

the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first

separation of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her

father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even

putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten

guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the

journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful

safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky

overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred

than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind

her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were

here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking

environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted

them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy

already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the

reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter

tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,

probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate

wretchedness of which a last volume is capable—whether by her

imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters,

ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can

raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the

world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither

beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a

great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind

were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible,

intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably fitted

to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going

everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be.

Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine;

and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after

three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and

her chaperon was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.

Catherine too made some purchases herself, and when all these matters

were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher her into

the Upper Rooms. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her

clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid declared she

looked quite as she should do. With such encouragement, Catherine hoped

at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it

was always very welcome when it came, but she did not depend on it.

Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom

till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies

squeezed in as well as they could. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired

directly to the card-room, and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.

With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of

her protégée, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by the

door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,

however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within

her friend’s to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling

assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along

the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the

crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had

imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find

seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But

this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence

they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the

same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of

the ladies. Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and

by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves

at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was

something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a

comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the

dangers of her late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and

she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball:

she longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs.

Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly,

every now and then, “I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could

get a partner.” For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for

these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally

ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no

more.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence

they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for

tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel

something of disappointment—she was tired of being continually pressed

against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to

interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she

could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a

syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in

the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to

join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them. They saw

nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more

eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at

which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do

there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.

Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on

having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very

shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a

delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in

the whole room, I assure you.”

“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single

acquaintance here!”

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very

uncomfortable indeed.”

“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if

they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their

party.”

“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large

acquaintance here.”

“I wish we had _any;_—it would be somebody to go to.”

“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them

directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”

“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you

see.”

“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! but I think we had

better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! how is my

head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”

“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure

there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you

_must_ know somebody.”

“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance

here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should

be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! what

an odd gown she has got on! how old-fashioned it is! look at the back.”

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their

neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light

conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time

that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were

discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an

agreeable ball.”

“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a

great yawn.

“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could

have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if

the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys

had come, as they talked of once, she might have danced with George

Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”

“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s

consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave

space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the

time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in

the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five

minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her

charms. She was now seen by many young men who had not been near her

before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding

her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once

called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and

had the company only seen her three years before, they would _now_ have

thought her exceedingly handsome.

She _was_ looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own

hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words

had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter

than she had found it before—her humble vanity was contented—she felt

more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a

true quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration

of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and

perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.