Northanger Abbey
smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering
air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”
“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.
“Really!” with affected astonishment.
“Why should you be surprised, sir?”
“Why, indeed!” said he, in his natural tone. “But some emotion must
appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed,
and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you
never here before, madam?”
“Never, sir.”
“Indeed! have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?”
“Yes, sir, I was there last Monday.”
“Have you been to the theatre?”
“Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday.”
“To the concert?”
“Yes, sir, on Wednesday.”
“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”
“Yes—I like it very well.”
“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”
Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture
to laugh.
“I see what you think of me,” said he gravely—“I shall make
but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.”
“My journal!”
“Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower
Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings—plain black
shoes—appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a
queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and
distressed me by his nonsense.”
“Indeed I shall say no such thing.”
“Shall I tell you what you ought to say?”
“If you please.”
“I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had
a great deal of conversation with him—seems a most extraordinary
genius—hope I may know more of him. _That_, madam, is what I _wish_ you
to say.”
“But, perhaps, I keep no journal.”
“Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you.
These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a
journal! how are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your
life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of
every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every
evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered,
and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to
be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse
to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies’ ways
as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling
which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which
ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of
writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done
something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the
practice of keeping a journal.”
“I have sometimes thought,” said Catherine, doubtingly, “whether ladies
do write so much better letters than gentlemen! that is—I should not
think the superiority was always on our side.”
“As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars.”
“And what are they?”
“A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar.”
“Upon my word! i need not have been afraid of disclaiming the
compliment. You do not think too highly of us in that way.”
“I should no more lay it down as a general rule that women write better
letters than men, than that they sing better duets, or draw better
landscapes. In every power, of which taste is the foundation,
excellence is pretty fairly divided between the sexes.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: “My dear Catherine,” said she, “do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard.”
“That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam,” said Mr.
Tilney, looking at the muslin.
“Do you understand muslins, sir?”
“Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be
an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of
a gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be
a prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five
shillings a yard for it, and a true Indian muslin.”
Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men commonly take so little
notice of those things,” said she; “I can never get Mr. Allen to know
one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir.”
“I hope I am, madam.”
“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s gown?”
“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely examining it; “but I do
not think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray.”
“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be so—” She had almost said
“strange.”
“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs. Allen; “and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it.”
“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or
other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a
cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my
sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more
than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces.”
“Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
Salisbury, but it is so far to go—eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
eight; and it is such a fag—I come back tired to death. Now, here one
can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes.”
Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. “What are you
thinking of so earnestly?” said he, as they walked back to the
ballroom; “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head,
your meditations are not satisfactory.”
Catherine coloured, and said, “I was not thinking of anything.”
“That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
that you will not tell me.”
“Well then, I will not.”
“Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much.”
They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady’s
side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the
acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her
warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him
when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a
slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a
celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified
in falling in love before the gentleman’s love is declared,[1] it must
be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before
the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr.
Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr.
Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common
acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he
had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and
had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very
respectable family in Gloucestershire.
[1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler.
CHAPTER 4
With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room
the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before
the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
was demanded—Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except
himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
wanted to see; and he only was absent. “What a delightful place Bath
is,” said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; “and how pleasant it would be
if we had any acquaintance here.”
This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to “despair of nothing we would attain,” as “unwearied
diligence our point would gain”; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady
of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at
her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great
complaisance in these words: “I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it
is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your
name Allen?” This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger
pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the
features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only
once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their
joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had
been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen
years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how
time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they
had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an
old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as
to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far
more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very
little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great
advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and
when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her
daughters, when she related their different situations and views—that
John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors’, and William at sea—and
all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than
any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information
to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving
ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all
these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the
discovery, which her keen eyes soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe’s
pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.
“Here come my dear girls,” cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her.
“My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so
delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a
fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe
Isabella is the handsomest.”
The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to
strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the
eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, “How excessively like her
brother Miss Morland is!”
“The very picture of him indeed!” cried the mother—and “I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!” was repeated by them all, two or
three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe
and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance
with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother