Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons Page 3

  But despite the warnings, the trip was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor was there one lucky carriage overturn to introduce them to the hero. There were no romantic masked highwaymen in the moonlight (indeed, the moon itself was in a thin new crescent state, thus refusing to cooperate with a proper heroic scenario).

  Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Allen’s side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn (a fine establishment which was neither haunted nor occupied by a band of cutthroats—though there were rumors of a monstrous flying fowl observed in the neighborhood, pronounced in whisper to be none other than the Brighton Duck[4]), and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

  They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight—her eyes were here, there, everywhere, for once naturally ignoring the heavenly host.

  They approached Bath’s fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, regardless of angelic warnings of decidedly silly and unfounded doom, 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 astute 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[5] is capable—whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy—whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors. For, surely the angels cried such dire warning in regard to none other than Mrs. Allen?

  Or, quite possibly, not. . . .

  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. She was as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be (only unhindered by supernatural awareness). Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine. And our heroine’s entrée into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn (not chartreuse, unfortunately for Sarah), and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. This was done to the accompaniment of angelic delight and running commentary in tinkling voices, on the fabric, pattern, and color—who could but imagine the angels were so well versed in style and decoration? Catherine could not help but smile when she saw Clarence—or possibly Terence—getting tangled in piles of muslin and ribbon at the shops they visited. Meanwhile, the poor shop girls and seamstresses nearly lost their minds at so much peculiar displacement of objects, bolts and skeins, at all the ceaseless fluttering and unraveling of thread that accompanied Catherine’s visits to their fine establishments.

  As for those frightful warnings of imminent danger? Blessedly, so far, none of it materialized.

  Catherine too made some purchases herself (including a ribbon for Sarah—sunflower-golden, in place of out-of-vogue chartreuse), 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. The heavenly beings echoed them heartily. One of them exhibited enthusiastic approbation to the effect of falling into an open box of powder, fluttering its tiny wings and raising up such a puff-cloud that Mrs. Allen started to sneeze and had to be tended to by the maid all over again.

  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—accompanied by one solitary tiny glowing guardian angel hovering over his head like a determined personal hummingbird—and left them to enjoy a mob by themselves.

  Two dozen or so tiny angelic figures fluttering above Catherine’s impeccably sculpted hair, immediately dispersed about the large crowded expanse to scout and investigate all nooks for signs of menace. And yet, unless the threat came in the form and size of gnats or moths, Catherine wondered, what good did it do to check behind candelabras and curtain valances? She did note however that at least two angels remained in her vicinity at all times. Also, there were a number of other angels surrounding other persons in the room, in droves of varying number—angels that had already been present in the room before they arrived. (Sometimes Catherine forgot that other people, indeed everyone, had their own heavenly guardians. It is but that she seemed to attract and collect them inordinately, since they knew she could see them and it seemed to please them greatly.)

  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 kept close at her side, and linked her arm firmly within her friend’s so as not to be separated. 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. 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 (and Catherine noted angels perched on top of quite a few of them). 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.

  A tiny voice sounded in her ear, “Dear child, be consoled by the fact that so far you have been unnoticed by any malevolent ones!” It was either Clarence or Lawrence, who found a sitting spot on one of her puffed sleeves. “Indeed, dancing, though pleasant, is far from being as universally enjoyable as one might suppose! Fie, dancing!”

  “And how would one such as yourself know?” whispered Catherine at her sleeve, pretending to fan herself. “Isn’t dancing a mundane frivolity?”

  “Not in the least,” said the angel. “For, we dance and rejoice when Good is accomplished, just as well as we weep and mourn when Evil is done.”

  “Then you must spend all your time waltzing and weeping simultaneously,” mused Catherine. “What an oddity of existence!”

  There was a tinkle of angelic laughter as another tiny being whispered in her other ear, “Oh goodness, no! Only the Almighty has that divine and paradox ability; we necessarily take turns doing one and then the other! For example, today, this moment, I am directed on
ly to laugh and dance in joy at all the Goodness in the world. Lawrence, meanwhile, is away, doing his weekly share of mourning at the Suffering. But, fear not; he will return shortly, for a week’s worth of mourning is but a blink of an eye in heavenly time.”

  “I thought you were Lawrence.”

  “Oh no, I am Terence.”

  “And I am Clarence,” came from the other ear.

  “Of course, I am sorry . . .” Catherine rushed to reply, though, to be honest, she mostly had no idea which of the angels she was talking to at any given moment.

  “What was that, dear?” said Mrs. Allen. “Did you say something? No? Well indeed, I wish you could dance—I wish you could get a partner. Otherwise, you would not feel this regrettable need to hold discourse with your fan, you poor thing,” she added to herself.

  They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminent spot 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 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.

  When they 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 (only angels peeking around teacups and saucers). 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.

  And just for a single moment Catherine had an unsuitable thought—what if such pointed lack of acquaintance was the secret result of her heavenly guardians keeping them all away?

  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!” And she moved her elbow slightly to push Terence, or Clarence, several inches away from the peril of falling onto a pastry dish.

  “Try not to flap your wings so,” she added, as the angel regained its balance on the gilded china rim.

  “Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very uncomfortable indeed. That is, no—what was it that you said? Wings? Oh dear! Am I flapping something? Is something torn?”

  “Nothing, I mean, rings! What lovely rings that lady has!” Catherine hurried to speak.

  Mrs. Allen was mollified.

  Catherine continued, steering the conversation further: “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. Even now I feel something pulling, indeed—”

  Catherine enacted a meaningful stare at the tiny glowing figure that managed to land on Mrs. Allen’s feather-spangled crown and was duly caught on a hairpin.

  “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, 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. Oh, if only they could see how many shining angels ringed her head in a joyful halo of brightness—but no, of course no one could see it, and thus the heroine continued to endure enforced anonymity.

  Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She may not have been observed, but surely 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 even once called a divinity by anybody, despite the supreme irony of having so much of the divine fluttering about her. 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; Catherine 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.

  She was thus perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention, while the angels, of course, were perfectly satisfied with the fortunate lack of threat to her person.

  All in all, things had gone tolerably well.

  Chapter 3

  Every morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. Everywhere they went, the angels spread about like fireflies, winking among stylish scenery and even more stylishly attired pedestrians. Catherine heard their melodious voices declaring safety and pronouncing various unlikely spots such as flower vases and decorative marble pedestals to be free of malice.

  The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all. Catherine was beginning to think her unseemly idea about angelic intervention was not far off the mark.

  They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.

  As soon as the introduction took place, in that exact moment, there was a minor commotion behind Catherine’s ear, as Lawrence, or possibly Terence, exclaimed,
“Oh dear! Oh, Catherine! Danger! Oh—”

  But of course our heroine did not, and indeed could not—or possibly would not—pay any heed, since here was the dear opportunity, at last, to make a proper new acquaintance.

  Mr. Tilney seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced (and the angels—being at least half a dozen in number, on each side, and talking all at once in both of Catherine’s ears—did present an inordinate aural challenge).

  But when they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.

  “Be careful, oh, do be careful of this gentleman, dear child! You know nothing about him!” exclaimed one particularly noisome heavenly creature at some point, balancing on the handle end of a teaspoon, so that she had to press down the other end for balance or have it go flying across the room (and possibly into the eye of the dignified matron or any one of her three young daughters across the table).

  “Shush! Enough!” said Catherine to the angel, whispering this admonition while moving her lips as little as possible. Then, bending forward, she pretended to blow on her tea.

  Seeing Mr. Tilney’s bemused attention to her mutterings and movements, she hurried to amend: “That is, I mean, cough! Cough!” And she politely cleared her throat to reinforce her point. “Goodness, the tea is rather hot.”

  But Mr. Tilney continued to observe her with an expression she could not fathom.