Chapter 2

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

personal and m ental endowm ents, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath, it m ay be stated, for the reader’s m ore certain inform ation, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is m eant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind – her m anners j ust rem oved from the awkwardness and shy ness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty – and her m ind about as ignorant and uninform ed as the fem ale m ind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the m aternal anxiety of Mrs.

Morland will be naturally supposed to be m ost severe. A thousand alarm ing presentim ents of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation m ust oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the m ost im portant and applicable nature m ust of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against the violence of such noblem en and baronets as delight in forcing y oung ladies away to som e rem ote farm -house, m ust, at such a m om ent, 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 m ischievousness, and was wholly unsuspi-cious of danger to her daughter from their m achinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. “I beg, Catherine, y ou will alway s wrap y ourself up very warm about the throat, when y ou com e from the room s at night; and I wish y ou would try to keep som e account of the m oney y ou spend; I will give y ou this little book on purpose.”

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what y oung lady of com m on gentility will

reach the age of sixteen without altering her nam e as far as she can?), m ust from situation be at this tim e the intim ate friend and confidante of her sister. It is rem arkable, however, that she neither insisted on Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her prom ise of trans-m itting the character of every new acquain-tance, nor a detail of every interesting conversation that Bath m ight produce. Every -thing indeed relative to this im portant j ourney was done, on the part of the Morlands, with a degree of m oderation and com posure, which seem ed rather consistent with the com m on feelings of com m on life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender em otions which the first separation of a heroine from her fam ily ought alway s to excite. Her father, instead of giving her an unlim ited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and prom ised her m ore when she wanted it.

Under these unprom ising auspices, the parting took place, and the

j ourney began. It was perform ed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tem pests befriended them , nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing m ore alarm ing 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 ey es were

here, there, every where, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. She was com e to be happy, and she felt happy already.

They were soon settled in com fortable lodgings in Pulteney Street. It is now expedient to give som e description of Mrs. Allen, that the

reader m ay be able to j udge in what m anner her actions will hereafter tend to prom ote 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 volum e is capable – whether by her im prudence, vulgarity or j ealousy – whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that num erous class of fem ales, whose society

can raise no other em otion than surprise at there being any m en in the world who could like them well enough to m arry them . She had neither beauty, genius, accom plishm ent, nor m anner. The air of a gentlewom an, a great deal of quiet, inactive good tem per, and a trifling turn of m ind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent m an like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was adm irably fitted to introduce a y oung lady into public, being as fond of going every where and seeing every thing herself as any y oung lady could be. Dress was her passion. She had a m ost harm less delight in being fine; and our heroine’s entree into life could not take place till after three or four day s had been spent in learning what was m ostly worn, and her chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine too m ade som e purchases herself, and when all these m atters were arranged, the im portant evening cam e which was to usher her into the Upper Room s. Her hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, her clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Allen and her m aid declared she looked quite as she should do. With such encouragem ent, Catherine hoped at least to pass uncensur-ed through the crowd. As for adm iration, it was alway s very welcom e when it cam e, 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 enj oy a m ob by them selves. With m ore care for the safety of her new gown than for the com fort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen m ade her way through the throng of m en by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firm ly within her friend’s to be torn asunder by any com m on effort of a struggling assem bly. But to her utter am azem ent she found that to proceed along the room was by no m eans the way to disengage them selves from the crowd; it seem ed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had im agined 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 j ust the sam e; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of som e of the ladies. Still they m oved on – som ething better was y et in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found them selves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was som ething less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a com prehensive view of all the com pany beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them . It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first tim e 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 say ing very placidly, every now and then, “I wish y ou could dance, m y dear – I wish y ou could get a partner.” For som e tim e her y oung 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 m ore.

They were not long able, however, to enj oy the repose of the em inence

they had so laboriously gained. Every body was shortly in m otion for tea, and they m ust squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel som ething of disappointm ent – 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 irksom eness of im prisonm ent by the exchange of a sy llable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room , she felt y et m ore the awkwardness of having no party to j oin, no acquaintance to claim , no gentlem an to assist them . They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a m ore eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having any thing to do there, or any body to speak to, except each other.

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

having preserved her gown from inj ury. “It would have been very shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a delicate m uslin. For m y part I have not seen any thing I like so well in the whole room , I assure y ou.”

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

acquaintance here!”

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

uncom fortable indeed.”

“What shall we do? The gentlem en and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we cam e here – we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”

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

acquaintance here.”

“I wish we had any – it would be som ebody to go to.”

“Very true, m y dear; and if we knew any body we would j oin them

directly. The Skinners were here last y ear – I wish they were here now.”

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

see.”

“No m ore there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had

better sit still, for one gets so tum bled in such a crowd! How is m y head, m y dear? Som ebody gave m e a push that has hurt it, I am afraid.”

“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are y ou sure there

is nobody y ou know in all this m ultitude of people? I think y ou m ust know som ebody.”

“I don’t, upon m y word... I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance

here with all m y heart, and then I should get y ou a partner. I should be so glad to have y ou dance. There goes a strange-looking wom an! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”

After som e tim e they received an offer of tea from one of their

neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentlem an who offered it, which was the only tim e that any body spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and j oined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

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

agreeable ball.”

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

great y awn.

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

have got a partner for her. I have been say ing how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parry s had com e, as they talked of once, she m ight 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 com pany began to disperse when the dancing was over – enough to

leave space for the rem ainder to walk about in som e com fort; and now was the tim e for a heroine, who had not y et play ed a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and adm ired. Every five m inutes, by rem oving som e of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charm s. She was now seen by m any y oung m en 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 any body. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the com pany only seen her three y ears before, they would now have thought her exceedingly handsom e.

She was looked at, however, and with som e adm iration; for, in her own

hearing, two gentlem en pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she im m ediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before – her hum ble vanity was contented – she felt m ore obliged to the two y oung m en for this sim ple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charm s, and went to her chair in good hum our with every body, and perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.