Chapter 5

Catherine was not so m uch engaged at the theatre that evening, in

returning the nods and sm iles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly claim ed m uch of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring ey e for Mr. Tilney in every box which her ey e could reach; but she looked in vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pum p-room . She hoped to be m ore fortunate the next day ; and when her wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful m orning, she hardly felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath em pties every house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance what a charm ing day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly

j oined each other; and after stay ing long enough in the pum p-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel face to be seen, which every body discovers every Sunday throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better com pany. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm in arm , again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked m uch, and with m uch enj oy m ent; but again was Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to be m et with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in m orning lounges or evening assem blies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Room s, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor am ong the walkers, the horsem en, or the curricle-drivers of the m orning. His nam e was not in the pum p-room book, and curiosity could do no m ore. He m ust be gone from Bath. Yet he had not m entioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of m y steriousness, which is alway s so becom ing in a hero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine’s im agination around his person and m anners, and increased her anxiety to know m ore of him . From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two day s in Bath before they m et with Mrs. Allen. It was a subj ect, however, in which she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every possible encouragem ent to continue to think of him ; and his im pression on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very sure that he m ust be a charm ing y oung m an, and was equally sure that he m ust have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergy m an, “for she m ust confess herself very partial to the profession”; and som ething like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not dem anding the cause of that gentle em otion – 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 som e acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the fam ily of a m ost worthy old friend; and, as the com pletion of good fortune, had found these friends by no m eans so expensively dressed as herself. Her daily expressions were no longer, “I wish we had som e acquaintance in Bath!” They were changed into, “How glad I am we have m et with Mrs. Thorpe!” and she was as eager in prom oting the intercourse of the two fam ilies, as her y oung charge and Isabella them selves 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 resem blance of subj ect, 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 them selves. They called each other by their Christian nam e, were alway s 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 m orning deprived them of other enj oy m ents, they were still resolute in m eeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut them selves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and im politic custom so com m on with novel-writers, of degrading by their contem ptuous censure the very perform ances, to the num ber of which they are them selves adding – j oining with their greatest enem ies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever perm itting 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 inj ured body. Although our productions have afforded m ore extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of com position has been so m uch decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are alm ost as m any as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the m an who collects and publishes in a volum e som e 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 seem s alm ost a general wish of decry ing the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the perform ances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recom m end them . “I am no novel-reader – I seldom look into novels. Do not im agine that I often read novels – It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the com m on cant. “And what are y ou reading, Miss...?” “Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the y oung lady, while she lay s down her book with affected indiffe-rence, or m om entary sham e. “It is only Cecilia, or Cam illa, or Belinda”; or, in short, only som e work in which the greatest powers of the m ind are display ed, in which the m ost thorough knowledge of hum an nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and hum our, are convey ed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the sam e y oung lady been engaged with a volum e of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its nam e; though the chances m ust be against her being occupied by any part of that volum inous publication, of which either the m atter or m anner would not disgust a y oung person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statem ent of im probable circum stances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern any one living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.