Northanger Abbey — EN

CHAPTER 5

Cather­ine was not so much engaged at the the­atre that evening, in return­ing the nods and smiles of Miss Thor­pe, though they cer­tain­ly claimed much of her leisure, as to for­get to look with an inquir­ing eye for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped to be more for­tu­nate the next day; and when her wish­es for fine weath­er were answered by see­ing a beau­ti­ful morn­ing, she hard­ly felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sun­day in Bath emp­ties every house of its inhab­i­tants, and all the world appears on such an occa­sion to walk about and tell their acquain­tance what a charm­ing day it is.

As soon as divine ser­vice was over, the Thor­pes and Allens eager­ly joined each oth­er; and after stay­ing long enough in the pump-room to dis­cov­er that the crowd was insup­port­able, and that there was not a gen­teel face to be seen, which every­body dis­cov­ers every Sun­day through­out the sea­son, they has­tened away to the Cres­cent, to breathe the fresh air of bet­ter com­pa­ny. Here Cather­ine and Isabel­la, arm in arm, again tast­ed the sweets of friend­ship in an unre­served con­ver­sa­tion; they talked much, and with much enjoy­ment; but again was Cather­ine dis­ap­point­ed in her hope of resee­ing her part­ner. He was nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equal­ly unsuc­cess­ful, in morn­ing lounges or evening assem­blies; nei­ther at the upper nor low­er rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he per­ceiv­able; nor among the walk­ers, the horse­men, or the cur­ri­cle-dri­vers of the morn­ing. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curios­i­ty could do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not men­tioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mys­te­ri­ous­ness, which is always so becom­ing in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s imag­i­na­tion around his per­son and man­ners, and increased her anx­i­ety to know more of him. From the Thor­pes she could learn noth­ing, for they had been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a sub­ject, how­ev­er, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every pos­si­ble encour­age­ment to con­tin­ue to think of him; and his impres­sion on her fan­cy was not suf­fered there­fore to weak­en. Isabel­la was very sure that he must be a charm­ing young man, and was equal­ly sure that he must have been delight­ed with her dear Cather­ine, and would there­fore short­ly return. She liked him the bet­ter for being a cler­gy­man, “for she must con­fess her­self very par­tial to the pro­fes­sion”; and some­thing like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Per­haps Cather­ine was wrong in not demand­ing the cause of that gen­tle emotion—but she was not expe­ri­enced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friend­ship, to know when del­i­cate raillery was prop­er­ly called for, or when a con­fi­dence should be forced.

Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite sat­is­fied with Bath. She had found some acquain­tance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the fam­i­ly of a most wor­thy old friend; and, as the com­ple­tion of good for­tune, had found these friends by no means so expen­sive­ly dressed as her­self. Her dai­ly expres­sions were no longer, “I wish we had some acquain­tance in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thor­pe!” and she was as eager in pro­mot­ing the inter­course of the two fam­i­lies, as her young charge and Isabel­la them­selves could be; nev­er sat­is­fied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Thor­pe, in what they called con­ver­sa­tion, but in which there was scarce­ly ever any exchange of opin­ion, and not often any resem­blance of sub­ject, for Mrs. Thor­pe talked chiefly of her chil­dren, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.

The progress of the friend­ship between Cather­ine and Isabel­la was quick as its begin­ning had been warm, and they passed so rapid­ly through every gra­da­tion of increas­ing ten­der­ness that there was short­ly no fresh proof of it to be giv­en to their friends or them­selves. They called each oth­er by their Chris­t­ian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divid­ed in the set; and if a rainy morn­ing deprived them of oth­er enjoy­ments, they were still res­olute in meet­ing in defi­ance of wet and dirt, and shut them­selves up, to read nov­els togeth­er. Yes, nov­els; for I will not adopt that ungen­er­ous and impolitic cus­tom so com­mon with nov­el-writ­ers, of degrad­ing by their con­temp­tu­ous cen­sure the very per­for­mances, to the num­ber of which they are them­selves adding—joining with their great­est ene­mies in bestow­ing the harsh­est epi­thets on such works, and scarce­ly ever per­mit­ting them to be read by their own hero­ine, who, if she acci­den­tal­ly take up a nov­el, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with dis­gust. Alas! If the hero­ine of one nov­el be not patron­ized by the hero­ine of anoth­er, from whom can she expect pro­tec­tion and regard? I can­not approve of it. Let us leave it to the review­ers to abuse such effu­sions of fan­cy at their leisure, and over every new nov­el to talk in thread­bare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one anoth­er; we are an injured body. Although our pro­duc­tions have afford­ed more exten­sive and unaf­fect­ed plea­sure than those of any oth­er lit­er­ary cor­po­ra­tion in the world, no species of com­po­si­tion has been so much decried. From pride, igno­rance, or fash­ion, our foes are almost as many as our read­ers. And while the abil­i­ties of the nine-hun­dredth abridger of the His­to­ry of Eng­land, or of the man who col­lects and pub­lish­es in a vol­ume some dozen lines of Mil­ton, Pope, and Pri­or, with a paper from the Spec­ta­tor, and a chap­ter from Sterne, are eulo­gized by a thou­sand pens—there seems almost a gen­er­al wish of decry­ing the capac­i­ty and under­valu­ing the labour of the nov­el­ist, and of slight­ing the per­for­mances which have only genius, wit, and taste to rec­om­mend them. “I am no novel-reader—I sel­dom look into novels—Do not imag­ine that I often read novels—It is real­ly very well for a nov­el.” Such is the com­mon cant. “And what are you read­ing, Miss— ?” “Oh! It is only a nov­el!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affect­ed indif­fer­ence, or momen­tary shame. “It is only Cecil­ia, or Camil­la, or Belin­da”; or, in short, only some work in which the great­est pow­ers of the mind are dis­played, in which the most thor­ough knowl­edge of human nature, the hap­pi­est delin­eation of its vari­eties, the liveli­est effu­sions of wit and humour, are con­veyed to the world in the best-cho­sen lan­guage. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a vol­ume of the Spec­ta­tor, instead of such a work, how proud­ly would she have pro­duced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occu­pied by any part of that volu­mi­nous pub­li­ca­tion, of which either the mat­ter or man­ner would not dis­gust a young per­son of taste: the sub­stance of its papers so often con­sist­ing in the state­ment of improb­a­ble cir­cum­stances, unnat­ur­al char­ac­ters, and top­ics of con­ver­sa­tion which no longer con­cern any­one liv­ing; and their lan­guage, too, fre­quent­ly so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.

nod nɒd n To move your head up and down as a a way of say­ing hel­lo or good­bye to some­one, or or of show­ing agree­ment, under­stand­ing, or approval: sig­nal, gesture

leisure ˈlɛʒə n Spare time.

a box ⇒ A sep­a­rat­ed com­part­ment in a pub­lic place of enter­tain­ment, such as a the­atre or stadium.

in vain ⇒ To no avail; with­out success.

to be fond of ⇒ To have a strong incli­na­tion or affec­tion for.

pump-room ˈpʌm­pruːm n A room at a spa where med­i­c­i­nal water is dispensed.

for­tu­nate ˈfɔːʧnɪt adj Bring­ing some­thing good and unfore­seen: lucky, prov­i­den­tial

for ⇒ Because.

inhab­i­tant ɪnˈhæbɪtənt n A per­son who inhab­its a par­tic­u­lar place: habi­tant, dweller, denizen, indweller

as soon as ⇒ Imme­di­ate­ly, right after.

divine dɪˈ­vaɪn adj Relat­ing to, or asso­ci­at­ed with reli­gion or wor­ship: reli­gious, holy, sacred

insup­port­able ˌɪn­səˈpɔːtəbl n Unbear­able, that can­not be endured: intol­er­a­ble, insuf­fer­able, unbear­able, unendurable

gen­teel ʤɛnˈtiːl adj Refined in man­ner: well-bred, polite, cul­tured, courtly

has­ten ˈheɪsn v To speed up: hur­ry, accel­er­ate, quicken

The Roy­al Cres­cent ⇒ One of Bath’s most icon­ic land­mark, built between 1767 and 1775. This impres­sive land­mark is arranged around a per­fect lawn over­look­ing Roy­al Vic­to­ria Park and forms a sweep­ing cres­cent of 30 ter­race hous­es; cres­cent ˈkrɛs­nt n The shape of the vis­i­ble part of the moon when it is less than half full: half-moon, sick­le-shape

arm in arm ⇒ Hold­ing their arms.

resee ˌriːˈsiː v See again.

lounge laʊnʤ n An act or peri­od of relaxing.

assem­bly əˈsɛm­bli n A group of per­sons gath­ered togeth­er for a com­mon reason.

Upper Rooms ⇒ Also known as the New Assem­bly Rooms, were built in 1771 by John Wood. The Upper Rooms can still be seen today.

Low­er Rooms ⇒ Also known as the Harrison’s Rooms are Bath’s first assem­bly house erect­ed dur­ing 1708 by an unnamed builder for Thomas Harrison.They burnt down in about 1820.

dressed or undressed balls ⇒ For­mal or infor­mal balls.

per­ceiv­able pəˈsiːv adj Capa­ble of being not­ed espe­cial­ly by sight or hear­ing: per­cep­ti­ble

cur­ri­cle ˈkʌrɪkl n A light, open, two-wheeled car­riage, drawn by two hors­es abreast.

becom­ing bɪˈkʌmɪŋ adj Suit­able or appro­pri­ate for a par­tic­u­lar per­son or in a cer­tain sit­u­a­tion: come­ly, tasteful

to have a taste for ⇒ To like, to be inter­est­ed in.

indulge ɪnˈdʌlʤ v To yield to one’s desires, espe­cial­ly to an exces­sive degree.

fan­cy ˈfæn­si n A capri­cious lik­ing or incli­na­tion; amorous attach­ment, love.

cler­gy­man ˈklɜːʤɪmən n A per­son ordained for ser­vice in a Chris­t­ian church: preach­er, priest

con­fess kənˈfɛs n To dis­close some­thing incon­ve­nient to some­one; to make known one’s sins to a priest: admit, grant, own, con­cede, avow

to be par­tial to ⇒ Dis­posed to favour one over the another.

finesse fɪˈnɛs n Impres­sive del­i­ca­cy and skill: skill, exper­tise, adept­ness, art­ful­ness, vir­tu­os­i­ty, mastery

raillery ˈreɪləri n Reproach­full utterence.

by no means ⇒ In no sense; not at all; absolute­ly not; cer­tain­ly not. 

inter­course grəˈdeɪʃən n Com­mu­ni­ca­tion and actions between peo­ple: deal­ings, rela­tions, rela­tion­ships, asso­ci­a­tion, con­nec­tions, con­tact, interchange

charge ʧɑːʤ n One that is entrust­ed to anoth­er ‘s care.

the chief of some­thing ⇒ The main part of something

by the side of some­one ⇒ Next to.

scarce­ly ˈskeəs­li adv Not quite, almost not: bare­ly, hardly

resem­blance rɪˈzɛm­bləns n The qual­i­ty of being alike: sim­i­lar­i­ty, likeness

gown gaʊn v A long, usu­al­ly for­mal woman’s dress.

gra­da­tion grəˈdeɪʃən n A scale or series of suc­ces­sive changes, stages, or degrees: pro­gres­sion, sequence, succession

Chris­t­ian name ⇒ A name that pre­cedes a person’s fam­i­ly name.

to pin up ⇒ To fas­ten with a pin; pin pɪn n A short piece of wire with a blunt head and a sharp point.

train treɪn v A part of a gown that trails behind the wearer.

set ⇒ A num­ber of cou­ples required for par­tic­i­pa­tion in a square dance, which is a dance for four cou­ples arranged in a square, with one cou­ple on each side, fac­ing the mid­dle of the square.

deprive dɪˈpraɪv v Pre­vent a per­son from hav­ing or using some­thing: rob of

in defi­ance of ⇒ Regard­less or in spite of something.

impolitic ɪmˈpɒlɪtɪk adj Fail­ing to pos­sess or dis­play pru­dence: unwise, impru­dent

degrade dɪˈ­greɪd v To low­er in rank or grade: break, reduce, down­grade, demote

con­temp­tu­ous kənˈtɛmp­tjʊəs adj Man­i­fest­ing or feel­ing con­tempt: scorn­ful

cen­sure ˈsɛnʃə n Harsh crit­i­cism or dis­ap­proval: con­dem­na­tion, rebuke, reprimand

bestow bɪˈstəʊ v To give for­mal­ly or offi­cial­ly: present, grant

epi­thet ˈɛpɪθɛt n A word or phrase that describes a per­son or thing.

acci­den­tal­ly ˌæk­sɪˈdɛn­təli With­out advance plan­ning: unin­ten­tion­al­ly, unwittingly

insipid ɪnˈsɪpɪd adj Lack­ing excite­ment, stim­u­la­tion, or inter­est: banal, dull

dis­gust dɪsˈgʌst n Extreme repug­nance excit­ed by some­thing offen­sive: repul­sion, aver­sion, loathing

alas əˈlæs interj Used to express grief, pity, or concern.

effu­sion ɪˈfjuːʒən n An unre­strained expres­sion of feel­ing, as in speech or writing.

fan­cy ˈfæn­si n A capri­cious lik­ing or incli­na­tion; amorous attach­ment, love.

at one’s leisure ⇒ Done accord­ing to one’s own con­ve­nience or comfort.

thread­bare ˈθrɛd­beə adj Repeat­ed too often; over­fa­mil­iar through overuse: banal, com­mon­place

groan grəʊn v To pro­duce a deep, inar­tic­u­late sound, as of pain: moan, mur­mur, whine, howl, sob, cry

species ˈspiːʃiːz n A spe­cif­ic kind of some­thing: sort, kind, form, vari­ety, genre

decry dɪˈkraɪ To say pub­licly that you regard some­thing as bad, wrong, etc.: con­demn, crit­i­cize, cen­sure, damn

foe fəʊ n An ene­my or oppo­nent: adver­sary, rival

abridger əˈbrɪʤə n Per­son who pub­lish­es short­ened or con­densed writ­ten work.

dozen ˈdʌzn n A set of 12.

Mil­ton, John (1608–1674) ⇒ Eng­lish poet.

Pope, Alexan­der (1688–1744) ⇒ Eng­lish writer best remem­bered for his satir­i­cal mock-epic poems The Rape of the Lock (1712) and The Dun­ci­ad (1728).

Pri­or, Matthew (1664–1721) ⇒ Eng­lish poet and scholar.

the Spec­ta­tor ⇒ Week­ly peri­od­i­cal issue (1711-12, 1714) pub­lished by Joseph Addi­son and Richard Steele.

Stern, Lau­rence (1713–1768) ⇒ Eng­lish cler­gy­man and novelist.

eulo­gize ˈjuːləʤaɪz v Praise high­ly and enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly in speech or writing.

slight slaɪt v (pt, pp slid slɪd) Treat with­out prop­er respect or courtesy.

wit wɪt n The nat­ur­al abil­i­ty to per­ceive and under­stand: intel­li­gence

cant kænt n A spe­cial talk, words, used by a class of peo­ple: speech, slang, jar­gon, language

to lay down ⇒ Place some­one or some­thing in a lying position.

Cecil­ia ⇒ Sub­ti­tled Mem­oirs of an Heiress, is the sec­ond nov­el by Eng­lish author Frances Bur­ney, set in 1779 and pub­lished in 1782. The nov­el, about the tri­als and tribu­la­tions of a young upper class woman who must nego­ti­ate Lon­don soci­ety for the first time and who falls in love with a social supe­ri­or, belongs to the genre of the nov­el of man­ners. A panoram­ic nov­el of eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry Lon­don, Cecil­ia was high­ly suc­cess­ful with at least 51 editions.

80 Camil­la ⇒ Sub­ti­tled A Pic­ture of Youth, is a nov­el by Frances Bur­ney, first pub­lished in 1796. Camil­la deals with the mat­ri­mo­ni­al con­cerns of a group of young peo­ple. Camil­la Tyrold and her sis­ters, the sweet tem­pered Lavinia and the deformed, and extreme­ly kind, Euge­nia, and their cousin, the beau­ti­ful Indi­ana Lynmere—and in par­tic­u­lar, with the love affair between Camil­la her­self and her eli­gi­ble suit­or, Edgar Man­dle­bert. They have many hard­ships, how­ev­er, caused by mis­un­der­stand­ings and mis­takes, in the path of true love.

An enor­mous­ly pop­u­lar eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry nov­el, Camil­la is touched at many points by the advanc­ing spir­it of roman­ti­cism. As in Eveli­na, Bur­ney weaves into her nov­el shafts of light and dark, com­ic episodes and goth­ic shud­ders, and cre­ates many social, emo­tion­al, and men­tal dilem­mas that illu­mi­nate the gap between generations.

Belin­da ⇒ An 1801 nov­el by the Irish writer Maria Edgeworth.

delin­eation dɪˌlɪnɪˈeɪʃən n Draw­ing or trac­ing the out­line of: sketch

effu­sion ɪˈfjuːʒən n An unre­strained expres­sion of feel­ing, as in speech or writing.

pro­duce ˈprɒd­juːs v To cause some­thing to appear or be seen: show

volu­mi­nous vəˈljuːmɪnəs adj Ample or lengthy in speech or writ­ing: ample, full, big, large, sizeable

dis­gust dɪsˈgʌst v To cause some­one to have a strong feel­ing of dis­like for some­thing espe­cial­ly because it has a very unpleas­ant appear­ance, taste, smell, etc: repel; revolt, dis­taste, abhor, gross out

coarse kɔːs adj Lack­ing in del­i­ca­cy: rough, crude

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