Chapter Chapter 1 · 第1章

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have

supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the

character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition,

were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being

neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was

Richard—and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable

independence besides two good livings—and he was not in the least

addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful

plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a

good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and

instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody

might expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children more—to see

them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A

family of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there

are heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had

little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain,

and Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a

thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and

strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for

heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly

preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic

enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or

watering a rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she

gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief—at

least so it was conjectured from her always preferring those which she

was forbidden to take. Such were her propensities—her abilities were

quite as extraordinary. She never could learn or understand anything

before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often

inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in

teaching her only to repeat the “Beggar’s Petition”; and after all, her

next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that

Catherine was always stupid—by no means; she learnt the fable of “The

Hare and Many Friends” as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother

wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it,

for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet;

so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear

it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being

accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave

off. The day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest

of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though

whenever she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother or

seize upon any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that

way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like

one another. Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French

by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she

shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange,

unaccountable character!—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at

ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom

stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,

with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,

hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the

world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were

mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion

improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes

gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of

dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she

grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father

and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a

good-looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught

her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! to look

_almost_ pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has

been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty

from her cradle can ever receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children

everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in

lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were

inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful

that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should

prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the

country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of

information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be

gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she

had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen

she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines

must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so

serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful

lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

“bear about the mockery of woe.”

From Gray, that

“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,

“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”

From Thomson, that—

“It is a delightful task

“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”

And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst

the rest, that—

“Trifles light as air,

“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,

“As proofs of Holy Writ.”

That

“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,

“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great

“As when a giant dies.”

And that a young woman in love always looks—

“like Patience on a monument

“Smiling at Grief.”

So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came

on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she

brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her

throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of

her own composition, she could listen to other people’s performance

with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she

had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her

lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she

fell miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not

know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached

the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could

call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion,

and without having excited even any admiration but what was very

moderate and very transient. This was strange indeed! but strange

things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched

out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a

baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had

reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one

young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the

squire of the parish no children.

But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty

surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen

to throw a hero in her way.

Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the

village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for

the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured

woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will

not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad,

invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance,

and Catherine all happiness.