A Very Basic Level Python Homework

{ "cells": [ { "cell_type": "markdown", "id": "e3328f77", "metadata": {}, "source": [ "## Section 1\n", "\n", "We will study the Sophist by Plato which is written in Socratic Dialogue style. The file \"Sophist_Plato.txt\" contains the text. Each line in the file contains text for each speaker in the format: `SPEAKER: Text they are saying`. Feel free to open the file in a text editor so that you get a feel of what it looks like.\n", "\n", "Remember that `'\\n'` is the newline character.\n", "\n", "### Problem 1.1\n", "Write a function that takes one argument which is the entire text as a string. The function should return as a string the unique speakers in this dialogue.\n", "\n", "Show that this functions works" ] }, { "cell_type": "code", "execution_count": null, "id": "824bf46a", "metadata": {}, "outputs": [], "source": [] }, { "cell_type": "markdown", "id": "f3214040", "metadata": {}, "source": [ "### Problem 1.2\n", "Write a function that takes two arguments. The first is again the entire text as a string. The second arguments is the name of a speaker. This should return each line of text by that speaker as a string where each line is separated by a newline (`'\\n'`). You can assume each line of text is of the format `SPEAKER: Text they are saying`\n", "\n", "Print the first 400 characters of the text spoken by STRANGER to show that the function works." ] }, { "cell_type": "code", "execution_count": null, "id": "dea898f2", "metadata": {}, "outputs": [], "source": [] }, { "cell_type": "markdown", "id": "016ce5a3", "metadata": {}, "source": [ "### Problem 1.3\n", "Use these two functions to determine the number of lines spoken by each speaker as well as the number of words spoken by each speaker. Do this by printing the name of each speaker, followed by the number of lines and the number of words.\n", "\n", "The output should look something like this:\n", "```\n", "SPEAKER1: 123 lines, 4567 words\n", "SPEAKER2: 123 lines, 4567 words\n", "....\n", "....\n", "....\n", "```\n", "Which speaker is by far the most talkative?" ] }, { "cell_type": "code", "execution_count": null, "id": "4b572de2", "metadata": {}, "outputs": [], "source": [] }, { "cell_type": "markdown", "id": "bcca2648", "metadata": {}, "source": [ "### Problem 1.4\n", "Create a function that shows the Mendenhall plot for a given speaker. It should take one mandatory argument which is the speaker name. It should also take an optional argument for the number of word lengths to plot.\n", "\n", "Show the plots for the two speakers which talk the most. When calling the function you write, you may simply write the names of the two speakers manually based on the results you got in 1.3." ] }, { "cell_type": "code", "execution_count": null, "id": "11ae1dc6", "metadata": {}, "outputs": [], "source": [] }, { "cell_type": "markdown", "id": "0e34acf2", "metadata": {}, "source": [ "## Section 2\n", "The goal of this section is to write a Python program on your own. You should open the file 'mansfield.txt', tokenize into a list, and find all of the occurrences of \"he\" and \"she\". Then using that information, you should find the word immediately following each occurrence of \"he\" or \"she\". One way of doing this is looping over all of the indices of the word list.\n", "\n", "The idea here is that you will find the most common actions based on gender since \"he\" or \"she\" is almost always followed by a verb that indicates an action.\n", "\n", "For example, the first non-trivial occurrence in the text of \"she\" is \"she addressed\". You should extract the word \"addressed\" for this.\n", "\n", "In the end, you should have two word lists. One for \"he\" and one for \"she\". Filter out the common stop words such as \"is\", \"was\", and such. Then count the occurrences of the verbs that remain and sort by most frequently used." ] }, { "cell_type": "code", "execution_count": null, "id": "8126fca3", "metadata": {}, "outputs": [], "source": [] } ], "metadata": { "kernelspec": { "display_name": "Python 3", "language": "python", "name": "python3" }, "language_info": { "codemirror_mode": { "name": "ipython", "version": 3 }, "file_extension": ".py", "mimetype": "text/x-python", "name": "python", "nbconvert_exporter": "python", "pygments_lexer": "ipython3", "version": "3.7.4" } }, "nbformat": 4, "nbformat_minor": 5 } THEODORUS: Here we are, Socrates, true to our agreement of yesterday; and we bring with us a stranger from Elea, who is a disciple of Parmenides and Zeno, and a true philosopher. SOCRATES: Is he not rather a god, Theodorus, who comes to us in the disguise of a stranger? For Homer says that all the gods, and especially the god of strangers, are companions of the meek and just, and visit the good and evil among men. And may not your companion be one of those higher powers, a cross-examining deity, who has come to spy out our weakness in argument, and to cross-examine us? THEODORUS: Nay, Socrates, he is not one of the disputatious sort--he is too good for that. And, in my opinion, he is not a god at all; but divine he certainly is, for this is a title which I should give to all philosophers. SOCRATES: Capital, my friend! and I may add that they are almost as hard to be discerned as the gods. For the true philosophers, and such as are not merely made up for the occasion, appear in various forms unrecognized by the ignorance of men, and they 'hover about cities,' as Homer declares, looking from above upon human life; and some think nothing of them, and others can never think enough; and sometimes they appear as statesmen, and sometimes as sophists; and then, again, to many they seem to be no better than madmen. I should like to ask our Eleatic friend, if he would tell us, what is thought about them in Italy, and to whom the terms are applied. THEODORUS: What terms? SOCRATES: Sophist, statesman, philosopher. THEODORUS: What is your difficulty about them, and what made you ask? SOCRATES: I want to know whether by his countrymen they are regarded as one or two; or do they, as the names are three, distinguish also three kinds, and assign one to each name? THEODORUS: I dare say that the Stranger will not object to discuss the question. What do you say, Stranger? STRANGER: I am far from objecting, Theodorus, nor have I any difficulty in replying that by us they are regarded as three. But to define precisely the nature of each of them is by no means a slight or easy task. THEODORUS: You have happened to light, Socrates, almost on the very question which we were asking our friend before we came hither, and he excused himself to us, as he does now to you; although he admitted that the matter had been fully discussed, and that he remembered the answer. SOCRATES: Then do not, Stranger, deny us the first favour which we ask of you: I am sure that you will not, and therefore I shall only beg of you to say whether you like and are accustomed to make a long oration on a subject which you want to explain to another, or to proceed by the method of question and answer. I remember hearing a very noble discussion in which Parmenides employed the latter of the two methods, when I was a young man, and he was far advanced in years. (Compare Parm.) STRANGER: I prefer to talk with another when he responds pleasantly, and is light in hand; if not, I would rather have my own say. SOCRATES: Any one of the present company will respond kindly to you, and you can choose whom you like of them; I should recommend you to take a young person--Theaetetus, for example--unless you have a preference for some one else. STRANGER: I feel ashamed, Socrates, being a new-comer into your society, instead of talking a little and hearing others talk, to be spinning out a long soliloquy or address, as if I wanted to show off. For the true answer will certainly be a very long one, a great deal longer than might be expected from such a short and simple question. At the same time, I fear that I may seem rude and ungracious if I refuse your courteous request, especially after what you have said. For I certainly cannot object to your proposal, that Theaetetus should respond, having already conversed with him myself, and being recommended by you to take him. THEAETETUS: But are you sure, Stranger, that this will be quite so acceptable to the rest of the company as Socrates imagines? STRANGER: You hear them applauding, Theaetetus; after that, there is nothing more to be said. Well then, I am to argue with you, and if you tire of the argument, you may complain of your friends and not of me. THEAETETUS: I do not think that I shall tire, and if I do, I shall get my friend here, young Socrates, the namesake of the elder Socrates, to help; he is about my own age, and my partner at the gymnasium, and is constantly accustomed to work with me. STRANGER: Very good; you can decide about that for yourself as we proceed. Meanwhile you and I will begin together and enquire into the nature of the Sophist, first of the three: I should like you to make out what he is and bring him to light in a discussion; for at present we are only agreed about the name, but of the thing to which we both apply the name possibly you have one notion and I another; whereas we ought always to come to an understanding about the thing itself in terms of a definition, and not merely about the name minus the definition. Now the tribe of Sophists which we are investigating is not easily caught or defined; and the world has long ago agreed, that if great subjects are to be adequately treated, they must be studied in the lesser and easier instances of them before we proceed to the greatest of all. And as I know that the tribe of Sophists is troublesome and hard to be caught, I should recommend that we practise beforehand the method which is to be applied to him on some simple and smaller thing, unless you can suggest a better way. THEAETETUS: Indeed I cannot. STRANGER: Then suppose that we work out some lesser example which will be a pattern of the greater? THEAETETUS: Good. STRANGER: What is there which is well known and not great, and is yet as susceptible of definition as any larger thing? Shall I say an angler? He is familiar to all of us, and not a very interesting or important person. THEAETETUS: He is not. STRANGER: Yet I suspect that he will furnish us with the sort of definition and line of enquiry which we want. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Let us begin by asking whether he is a man having art or not having art, but some other power. THEAETETUS: He is clearly a man of art. STRANGER: And of arts there are two kinds? THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: There is agriculture, and the tending of mortal creatures, and the art of constructing or moulding vessels, and there is the art of imitation--all these may be appropriately called by a single name. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? And what is the name? STRANGER: He who brings into existence something that did not exist before is said to be a producer, and that which is brought into existence is said to be produced. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And all the arts which were just now mentioned are characterized by this power of producing? THEAETETUS: They are. STRANGER: Then let us sum them up under the name of productive or creative art. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Next follows the whole class of learning and cognition; then comes trade, fighting, hunting. And since none of these produces anything, but is only engaged in conquering by word or deed, or in preventing others from conquering, things which exist and have been already produced--in each and all of these branches there appears to be an art which may be called acquisitive. THEAETETUS: Yes, that is the proper name. STRANGER: Seeing, then, that all arts are either acquisitive or creative, in which class shall we place the art of the angler? THEAETETUS: Clearly in the acquisitive class. STRANGER: And the acquisitive may be subdivided into two parts: there is exchange, which is voluntary and is effected by gifts, hire, purchase; and the other part of acquisitive, which takes by force of word or deed, may be termed conquest? THEAETETUS: That is implied in what has been said. STRANGER: And may not conquest be again subdivided? THEAETETUS: How? STRANGER: Open force may be called fighting, and secret force may have the general name of hunting? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And there is no reason why the art of hunting should not be further divided. THEAETETUS: How would you make the division? STRANGER: Into the hunting of living and of lifeless prey. THEAETETUS: Yes, if both kinds exist. STRANGER: Of course they exist; but the hunting after lifeless things having no special name, except some sorts of diving, and other small matters, may be omitted; the hunting after living things may be called animal hunting. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And animal hunting may be truly said to have two divisions, land-animal hunting, which has many kinds and names, and water-animal hunting, or the hunting after animals who swim? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And of swimming animals, one class lives on the wing and the other in the water? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Fowling is the general term under which the hunting of all birds is included. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: The hunting of animals who live in the water has the general name of fishing. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And this sort of hunting may be further divided also into two principal kinds? THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: There is one kind which takes them in nets, another which takes them by a blow. THEAETETUS: What do you mean, and how do you distinguish them? STRANGER: As to the first kind--all that surrounds and encloses anything to prevent egress, may be rightly called an enclosure. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: For which reason twig baskets, casting-nets, nooses, creels, and the like may all be termed 'enclosures'? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And therefore this first kind of capture may be called by us capture with enclosures, or something of that sort? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: The other kind, which is practised by a blow with hooks and three-pronged spears, when summed up under one name, may be called striking, unless you, Theaetetus, can find some better name? THEAETETUS: Never mind the name--what you suggest will do very well. STRANGER: There is one mode of striking, which is done at night, and by the light of a fire, and is by the hunters themselves called firing, or spearing by firelight. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And the fishing by day is called by the general name of barbing, because the spears, too, are barbed at the point. THEAETETUS: Yes, that is the term. STRANGER: Of this barb-fishing, that which strikes the fish who is below from above is called spearing, because this is the way in which the three-pronged spears are mostly used. THEAETETUS: Yes, it is often called so. STRANGER: Then now there is only one kind remaining. THEAETETUS: What is that? STRANGER: When a hook is used, and the fish is not struck in any chance part of his body, as he is with the spear, but only about the head and mouth, and is then drawn out from below upwards with reeds and rods:--What is the right name of that mode of fishing, Theaetetus? THEAETETUS: I suspect that we have now discovered the object of our search. STRANGER: Then now you and I have come to an understanding not only about the name of the angler's art, but about the definition of the thing itself. One half of all art was acquisitive--half of the acquisitive art was conquest or taking by force, half of this was hunting, and half of hunting was hunting animals, half of this was hunting water animals--of this again, the under half was fishing, half of fishing was striking; a part of striking was fishing with a barb, and one half of this again, being the kind which strikes with a hook and draws the fish from below upwards, is the art which we have been seeking, and which from the nature of the operation is denoted angling or drawing up (aspalieutike, anaspasthai). THEAETETUS: The result has been quite satisfactorily brought out. STRANGER: And now, following this pattern, let us endeavour to find out what a Sophist is. THEAETETUS: By all means. STRANGER: The first question about the angler was, whether he was a skilled artist or unskilled? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And shall we call our new friend unskilled, or a thorough master of his craft? THEAETETUS: Certainly not unskilled, for his name, as, indeed, you imply, must surely express his nature. STRANGER: Then he must be supposed to have some art. THEAETETUS: What art? STRANGER: By heaven, they are cousins! it never occurred to us. THEAETETUS: Who are cousins? STRANGER: The angler and the Sophist. THEAETETUS: In what way are they related? STRANGER: They both appear to me to be hunters. THEAETETUS: How the Sophist? Of the other we have spoken. STRANGER: You remember our division of hunting, into hunting after swimming animals and land animals? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And you remember that we subdivided the swimming and left the land animals, saying that there were many kinds of them? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Thus far, then, the Sophist and the angler, starting from the art of acquiring, take the same road? THEAETETUS: So it would appear. STRANGER: Their paths diverge when they reach the art of animal hunting; the one going to the sea-shore, and to the rivers and to the lakes, and angling for the animals which are in them. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: While the other goes to land and water of another sort--rivers of wealth and broad meadow-lands of generous youth; and he also is intending to take the animals which are in them. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: Of hunting on land there are two principal divisions. THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: One is the hunting of tame, and the other of wild animals. THEAETETUS: But are tame animals ever hunted? STRANGER: Yes, if you include man under tame animals. But if you like you may say that there are no tame animals, or that, if there are, man is not among them; or you may say that man is a tame animal but is not hunted--you shall decide which of these alternatives you prefer. THEAETETUS: I should say, Stranger, that man is a tame animal, and I admit that he is hunted. STRANGER: Then let us divide the hunting of tame animals into two parts. THEAETETUS: How shall we make the division? STRANGER: Let us define piracy, man-stealing, tyranny, the whole military art, by one name, as hunting with violence. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: But the art of the lawyer, of the popular orator, and the art of conversation may be called in one word the art of persuasion. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And of persuasion, there may be said to be two kinds? THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: One is private, and the other public. THEAETETUS: Yes; each of them forms a class. STRANGER: And of private hunting, one sort receives hire, and the other brings gifts. THEAETETUS: I do not understand you. STRANGER: You seem never to have observed the manner in which lovers hunt. THEAETETUS: To what do you refer? STRANGER: I mean that they lavish gifts on those whom they hunt in addition to other inducements. THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: Let us admit this, then, to be the amatory art. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But that sort of hireling whose conversation is pleasing and who baits his hook only with pleasure and exacts nothing but his maintenance in return, we should all, if I am not mistaken, describe as possessing flattery or an art of making things pleasant. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And that sort, which professes to form acquaintances only for the sake of virtue, and demands a reward in the shape of money, may be fairly called by another name? THEAETETUS: To be sure. STRANGER: And what is the name? Will you tell me? THEAETETUS: It is obvious enough; for I believe that we have discovered the Sophist: which is, as I conceive, the proper name for the class described. STRANGER: Then now, Theaetetus, his art may be traced as a branch of the appropriative, acquisitive family--which hunts animals,--living--land-- tame animals; which hunts man,--privately--for hire,--taking money in exchange--having the semblance of education; and this is termed Sophistry, and is a hunt after young men of wealth and rank--such is the conclusion. THEAETETUS: Just so. STRANGER: Let us take another branch of his genealogy; for he is a professor of a great and many-sided art; and if we look back at what has preceded we see that he presents another aspect, besides that of which we are speaking. THEAETETUS: In what respect? STRANGER: There were two sorts of acquisitive art; the one concerned with hunting, the other with exchange. THEAETETUS: There were. STRANGER: And of the art of exchange there are two divisions, the one of giving, and the other of selling. THEAETETUS: Let us assume that. STRANGER: Next, we will suppose the art of selling to be divided into two parts. THEAETETUS: How? STRANGER: There is one part which is distinguished as the sale of a man's own productions; another, which is the exchange of the works of others. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And is not that part of exchange which takes place in the city, being about half of the whole, termed retailing? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And that which exchanges the goods of one city for those of another by selling and buying is the exchange of the merchant? THEAETETUS: To be sure. STRANGER: And you are aware that this exchange of the merchant is of two kinds: it is partly concerned with food for the use of the body, and partly with the food of the soul which is bartered and received in exchange for money. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: You want to know what is the meaning of food for the soul; the other kind you surely understand. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: Take music in general and painting and marionette playing and many other things, which are purchased in one city, and carried away and sold in another--wares of the soul which are hawked about either for the sake of instruction or amusement;--may not he who takes them about and sells them be quite as truly called a merchant as he who sells meats and drinks? THEAETETUS: To be sure he may. STRANGER: And would you not call by the same name him who buys up knowledge and goes about from city to city exchanging his wares for money? THEAETETUS: Certainly I should. STRANGER: Of this merchandise of the soul, may not one part be fairly termed the art of display? And there is another part which is certainly not less ridiculous, but being a trade in learning must be called by some name germane to the matter? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: The latter should have two names,--one descriptive of the sale of the knowledge of virtue, and the other of the sale of other kinds of knowledge. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: The name of art-seller corresponds well enough to the latter; but you must try and tell me the name of the other. THEAETETUS: He must be the Sophist, whom we are seeking; no other name can possibly be right. STRANGER: No other; and so this trader in virtue again turns out to be our friend the Sophist, whose art may now be traced from the art of acquisition through exchange, trade, merchandise, to a merchandise of the soul which is concerned with speech and the knowledge of virtue. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And there may be a third reappearance of him;--for he may have settled down in a city, and may fabricate as well as buy these same wares, intending to live by selling them, and he would still be called a Sophist? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Then that part of the acquisitive art which exchanges, and of exchange which either sells a man's own productions or retails those of others, as the case may be, and in either way sells the knowledge of virtue, you would again term Sophistry? THEAETETUS: I must, if I am to keep pace with the argument. STRANGER: Let us consider once more whether there may not be yet another aspect of sophistry. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: In the acquisitive there was a subdivision of the combative or fighting art. THEAETETUS: There was. STRANGER: Perhaps we had better divide it. THEAETETUS: What shall be the divisions? STRANGER: There shall be one division of the competitive, and another of the pugnacious. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: That part of the pugnacious which is a contest of bodily strength may be properly called by some such name as violent. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And when the war is one of words, it may be termed controversy? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And controversy may be of two kinds. THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: When long speeches are answered by long speeches, and there is public discussion about the just and unjust, that is forensic controversy. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And there is a private sort of controversy, which is cut up into questions and answers, and this is commonly called disputation? THEAETETUS: Yes, that is the name. STRANGER: And of disputation, that sort which is only a discussion about contracts, and is carried on at random, and without rules of art, is recognized by the reasoning faculty to be a distinct class, but has hitherto had no distinctive name, and does not deserve to receive one from us. THEAETETUS: No; for the different sorts of it are too minute and heterogeneous. STRANGER: But that which proceeds by rules of art to dispute about justice and injustice in their own nature, and about things in general, we have been accustomed to call argumentation (Eristic)? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And of argumentation, one sort wastes money, and the other makes money. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: Suppose we try and give to each of these two classes a name. THEAETETUS: Let us do so. STRANGER: I should say that the habit which leads a man to neglect his own affairs for the pleasure of conversation, of which the style is far from being agreeable to the majority of his hearers, may be fairly termed loquacity: such is my opinion. THEAETETUS: That is the common name for it. STRANGER: But now who the other is, who makes money out of private disputation, it is your turn to say. THEAETETUS: There is only one true answer: he is the wonderful Sophist, of whom we are in pursuit, and who reappears again for the fourth time. STRANGER: Yes, and with a fresh pedigree, for he is the money-making species of the Eristic, disputatious, controversial, pugnacious, combative, acquisitive family, as the argument has already proven. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: How true was the observation that he was a many-sided animal, and not to be caught with one hand, as they say! THEAETETUS: Then you must catch him with two. STRANGER: Yes, we must, if we can. And therefore let us try another track in our pursuit of him: You are aware that there are certain menial occupations which have names among servants? THEAETETUS: Yes, there are many such; which of them do you mean? STRANGER: I mean such as sifting, straining, winnowing, threshing. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And besides these there are a great many more, such as carding, spinning, adjusting the warp and the woof; and thousands of similar expressions are used in the arts. THEAETETUS: Of what are they to be patterns, and what are we going to do with them all? STRANGER: I think that in all of these there is implied a notion of division. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: Then if, as I was saying, there is one art which includes all of them, ought not that art to have one name? THEAETETUS: And what is the name of the art? STRANGER: The art of discerning or discriminating. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Think whether you cannot divide this. THEAETETUS: I should have to think a long while. STRANGER: In all the previously named processes either like has been separated from like or the better from the worse. THEAETETUS: I see now what you mean. STRANGER: There is no name for the first kind of separation; of the second, which throws away the worse and preserves the better, I do know a name. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: Every discernment or discrimination of that kind, as I have observed, is called a purification. THEAETETUS: Yes, that is the usual expression. STRANGER: And any one may see that purification is of two kinds. THEAETETUS: Perhaps so, if he were allowed time to think; but I do not see at this moment. STRANGER: There are many purifications of bodies which may with propriety be comprehended under a single name. THEAETETUS: What are they, and what is their name? STRANGER: There is the purification of living bodies in their inward and in their outward parts, of which the former is duly effected by medicine and gymnastic, the latter by the not very dignified art of the bath-man; and there is the purification of inanimate substances--to this the arts of fulling and of furbishing in general attend in a number of minute particulars, having a variety of names which are thought ridiculous. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: There can be no doubt that they are thought ridiculous, Theaetetus; but then the dialectical art never considers whether the benefit to be derived from the purge is greater or less than that to be derived from the sponge, and has not more interest in the one than in the other; her endeavour is to know what is and is not kindred in all arts, with a view to the acquisition of intelligence; and having this in view, she honours them all alike, and when she makes comparisons, she counts one of them not a whit more ridiculous than another; nor does she esteem him who adduces as his example of hunting, the general's art, at all more decorous than another who cites that of the vermin-destroyer, but only as the greater pretender of the two. And as to your question concerning the name which was to comprehend all these arts of purification, whether of animate or inanimate bodies, the art of dialectic is in no wise particular about fine words, if she may be only allowed to have a general name for all other purifications, binding them up together and separating them off from the purification of the soul or intellect. For this is the purification at which she wants to arrive, and this we should understand to be her aim. THEAETETUS: Yes, I understand; and I agree that there are two sorts of purification, and that one of them is concerned with the soul, and that there is another which is concerned with the body. STRANGER: Excellent; and now listen to what I am going to say, and try to divide further the first of the two. THEAETETUS: Whatever line of division you suggest, I will endeavour to assist you. STRANGER: Do we admit that virtue is distinct from vice in the soul? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And purification was to leave the good and to cast out whatever is bad? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Then any taking away of evil from the soul may be properly called purification? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And in the soul there are two kinds of evil. THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: The one may be compared to disease in the body, the other to deformity. THEAETETUS: I do not understand. STRANGER: Perhaps you have never reflected that disease and discord are the same. THEAETETUS: To this, again, I know not what I should reply. STRANGER: Do you not conceive discord to be a dissolution of kindred elements, originating in some disagreement? THEAETETUS: Just that. STRANGER: And is deformity anything but the want of measure, which is always unsightly? THEAETETUS: Exactly. STRANGER: And do we not see that opinion is opposed to desire, pleasure to anger, reason to pain, and that all these elements are opposed to one another in the souls of bad men? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And yet they must all be akin? THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: Then we shall be right in calling vice a discord and disease of the soul? THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: And when things having motion, and aiming at an appointed mark, continually miss their aim and glance aside, shall we say that this is the effect of symmetry among them, or of the want of symmetry? THEAETETUS: Clearly of the want of symmetry. STRANGER: But surely we know that no soul is voluntarily ignorant of anything? THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: And what is ignorance but the aberration of a mind which is bent on truth, and in which the process of understanding is perverted? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Then we are to regard an unintelligent soul as deformed and devoid of symmetry? THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: Then there are these two kinds of evil in the soul--the one which is generally called vice, and is obviously a disease of the soul... THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And there is the other, which they call ignorance, and which, because existing only in the soul, they will not allow to be vice. THEAETETUS: I certainly admit what I at first disputed--that there are two kinds of vice in the soul, and that we ought to consider cowardice, intemperance, and injustice to be alike forms of disease in the soul, and ignorance, of which there are all sorts of varieties, to be deformity. STRANGER: And in the case of the body are there not two arts which have to do with the two bodily states? THEAETETUS: What are they? STRANGER: There is gymnastic, which has to do with deformity, and medicine, which has to do with disease. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And where there is insolence and injustice and cowardice, is not chastisement the art which is most required? THEAETETUS: That certainly appears to be the opinion of mankind. STRANGER: Again, of the various kinds of ignorance, may not instruction be rightly said to be the remedy? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And of the art of instruction, shall we say that there is one or many kinds? At any rate there are two principal ones. Think. THEAETETUS: I will. STRANGER: I believe that I can see how we shall soonest arrive at the answer to this question. THEAETETUS: How? STRANGER: If we can discover a line which divides ignorance into two halves. For a division of ignorance into two parts will certainly imply that the art of instruction is also twofold, answering to the two divisions of ignorance. THEAETETUS: Well, and do you see what you are looking for? STRANGER: I do seem to myself to see one very large and bad sort of ignorance which is quite separate, and may be weighed in the scale against all other sorts of ignorance put together. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: When a person supposes that he knows, and does not know; this appears to be the great source of all the errors of the intellect. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And this, if I am not mistaken, is the kind of ignorance which specially earns the title of stupidity. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: What name, then, shall be given to the sort of instruction which gets rid of this? THEAETETUS: The instruction which you mean, Stranger, is, I should imagine, not the teaching of handicraft arts, but what, thanks to us, has been termed education in this part the world. STRANGER: Yes, Theaetetus, and by nearly all Hellenes. But we have still to consider whether education admits of any further division. THEAETETUS: We have. STRANGER: I think that there is a point at which such a division is possible. THEAETETUS: Where? STRANGER: Of education, one method appears to be rougher, and another smoother. THEAETETUS: How are we to distinguish the two? STRANGER: There is the time-honoured mode which our fathers commonly practised towards their sons, and which is still adopted by many--either of roughly reproving their errors, or of gently advising them; which varieties may be correctly included under the general term of admonition. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: But whereas some appear to have arrived at the conclusion that all ignorance is involuntary, and that no one who thinks himself wise is willing to learn any of those things in which he is conscious of his own cleverness, and that the admonitory sort of instruction gives much trouble and does little good-- THEAETETUS: There they are quite right. STRANGER: Accordingly, they set to work to eradicate the spirit of conceit in another way. THEAETETUS: In what way? STRANGER: They cross-examine a man's words, when he thinks that he is saying something and is really saying nothing, and easily convict him of inconsistencies in his opinions; these they then collect by the dialectical process, and placing them side by side, show that they contradict one another about the same things, in relation to the same things, and in the same respect. He, seeing this, is angry with himself, and grows gentle towards others, and thus is entirely delivered from great prejudices and harsh notions, in a way which is most amusing to the hearer, and produces the most lasting good effect on the person who is the subject of the operation. For as the physician considers that the body will receive no benefit from taking food until the internal obstacles have been removed, so the purifier of the soul is conscious that his patient will receive no benefit from the application of knowledge until he is refuted, and from refutation learns modesty; he must be purged of his prejudices first and made to think that he knows only what he knows, and no more. THEAETETUS: That is certainly the best and wisest state of mind. STRANGER: For all these reasons, Theaetetus, we must admit that refutation is the greatest and chiefest of purifications, and he who has not been refuted, though he be the Great King himself, is in an awful state of impurity; he is uninstructed and deformed in those things in which he who would be truly blessed ought to be fairest and purest. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: And who are the ministers of this art? I am afraid to say the Sophists. THEAETETUS: Why? STRANGER: Lest we should assign to them too high a prerogative. THEAETETUS: Yet the Sophist has a certain likeness to our minister of purification. STRANGER: Yes, the same sort of likeness which a wolf, who is the fiercest of animals, has to a dog, who is the gentlest. But he who would not be found tripping, ought to be very careful in this matter of comparisons, for they are most slippery things. Nevertheless, let us assume that the Sophists are the men. I say this provisionally, for I think that the line which divides them will be marked enough if proper care is taken. THEAETETUS: Likely enough. STRANGER: Let us grant, then, that from the discerning art comes purification, and from purification let there be separated off a part which is concerned with the soul; of this mental purification instruction is a portion, and of instruction education, and of education, that refutation of vain conceit which has been discovered in the present argument; and let this be called by you and me the nobly-descended art of Sophistry. THEAETETUS: Very well; and yet, considering the number of forms in which he has presented himself, I begin to doubt how I can with any truth or confidence describe the real nature of the Sophist. STRANGER: You naturally feel perplexed; and yet I think that he must be still more perplexed in his attempt to escape us, for as the proverb says, when every way is blocked, there is no escape; now, then, is the time of all others to set upon him. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: First let us wait a moment and recover breath, and while we are resting, we may reckon up in how many forms he has appeared. In the first place, he was discovered to be a paid hunter after wealth and youth. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: In the second place, he was a merchant in the goods of the soul. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: In the third place, he has turned out to be a retailer of the same sort of wares. THEAETETUS: Yes; and in the fourth place, he himself manufactured the learned wares which he sold. STRANGER: Quite right; I will try and remember the fifth myself. He belonged to the fighting class, and was further distinguished as a hero of debate, who professed the eristic art. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: The sixth point was doubtful, and yet we at last agreed that he was a purger of souls, who cleared away notions obstructive to knowledge. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: Do you not see that when the professor of any art has one name and many kinds of knowledge, there must be something wrong? The multiplicity of names which is applied to him shows that the common principle to which all these branches of knowledge are tending, is not understood. THEAETETUS: I should imagine this to be the case. STRANGER: At any rate we will understand him, and no indolence shall prevent us. Let us begin again, then, and re-examine some of our statements concerning the Sophist; there was one thing which appeared to me especially characteristic of him. THEAETETUS: To what are you referring? STRANGER: We were saying of him, if I am not mistaken, that he was a disputer? THEAETETUS: We were. STRANGER: And does he not also teach others the art of disputation? THEAETETUS: Certainly he does. STRANGER: And about what does he profess that he teaches men to dispute? To begin at the beginning--Does he make them able to dispute about divine things, which are invisible to men in general? THEAETETUS: At any rate, he is said to do so. STRANGER: And what do you say of the visible things in heaven and earth, and the like? THEAETETUS: Certainly he disputes, and teaches to dispute about them. STRANGER: Then, again, in private conversation, when any universal assertion is made about generation and essence, we know that such persons are tremendous argufiers, and are able to impart their own skill to others. THEAETETUS: Undoubtedly. STRANGER: And do they not profess to make men able to dispute about law and about politics in general? THEAETETUS: Why, no one would have anything to say to them, if they did not make these professions. STRANGER: In all and every art, what the craftsman ought to say in answer to any question is written down in a popular form, and he who likes may learn. THEAETETUS: I suppose that you are referring to the precepts of Protagoras about wrestling and the other arts? STRANGER: Yes, my friend, and about a good many other things. In a word, is not the art of disputation a power of disputing about all things? THEAETETUS: Certainly; there does not seem to be much which is left out. STRANGER: But oh! my dear youth, do you suppose this possible? for perhaps your young eyes may see things which to our duller sight do not appear. THEAETETUS: To what are you alluding? I do not think that I understand your present question. STRANGER: I ask whether anybody can understand all things. THEAETETUS: Happy would mankind be if such a thing were possible! SOCRATES: But how can any one who is ignorant dispute in a rational manner against him who knows? THEAETETUS: He cannot. STRANGER: Then why has the sophistical art such a mysterious power? THEAETETUS: To what do you refer? STRANGER: How do the Sophists make young men believe in their supreme and universal wisdom? For if they neither disputed nor were thought to dispute rightly, or being thought to do so were deemed no wiser for their controversial skill, then, to quote your own observation, no one would give them money or be willing to learn their art. THEAETETUS: They certainly would not. STRANGER: But they are willing. THEAETETUS: Yes, they are. STRANGER: Yes, and the reason, as I should imagine, is that they are supposed to have knowledge of those things about which they dispute? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And they dispute about all things? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And therefore, to their disciples, they appear to be all-wise? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But they are not; for that was shown to be impossible. THEAETETUS: Impossible, of course. STRANGER: Then the Sophist has been shown to have a sort of conjectural or apparent knowledge only of all things, which is not the truth? THEAETETUS: Exactly; no better description of him could be given. STRANGER: Let us now take an illustration, which will still more clearly explain his nature. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: I will tell you, and you shall answer me, giving your very closest attention. Suppose that a person were to profess, not that he could speak or dispute, but that he knew how to make and do all things, by a single art. THEAETETUS: All things? STRANGER: I see that you do not understand the first word that I utter, for you do not understand the meaning of 'all.' THEAETETUS: No, I do not. STRANGER: Under all things, I include you and me, and also animals and trees. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: Suppose a person to say that he will make you and me, and all creatures. THEAETETUS: What would he mean by 'making'? He cannot be a husbandman;--for you said that he is a maker of animals. STRANGER: Yes; and I say that he is also the maker of the sea, and the earth, and the heavens, and the gods, and of all other things; and, further, that he can make them in no time, and sell them for a few pence. THEAETETUS: That must be a jest. STRANGER: And when a man says that he knows all things, and can teach them to another at a small cost, and in a short time, is not that a jest? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And is there any more artistic or graceful form of jest than imitation? THEAETETUS: Certainly not; and imitation is a very comprehensive term, which includes under one class the most diverse sorts of things. STRANGER: We know, of course, that he who professes by one art to make all things is really a painter, and by the painter's art makes resemblances of real things which have the same name with them; and he can deceive the less intelligent sort of young children, to whom he shows his pictures at a distance, into the belief that he has the absolute power of making whatever he likes. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And may there not be supposed to be an imitative art of reasoning? Is it not possible to enchant the hearts of young men by words poured through their ears, when they are still at a distance from the truth of facts, by exhibiting to them fictitious arguments, and making them think that they are true, and that the speaker is the wisest of men in all things? THEAETETUS: Yes; why should there not be another such art? STRANGER: But as time goes on, and their hearers advance in years, and come into closer contact with realities, and have learnt by sad experience to see and feel the truth of things, are not the greater part of them compelled to change many opinions which they formerly entertained, so that the great appears small to them, and the easy difficult, and all their dreamy speculations are overturned by the facts of life? THEAETETUS: That is my view, as far as I can judge, although, at my age, I may be one of those who see things at a distance only. STRANGER: And the wish of all of us, who are your friends, is and always will be to bring you as near to the truth as we can without the sad reality. And now I should like you to tell me, whether the Sophist is not visibly a magician and imitator of true being; or are we still disposed to think that he may have a true knowledge of the various matters about which he disputes? THEAETETUS: But how can he, Stranger? Is there any doubt, after what has been said, that he is to be located in one of the divisions of children's play? STRANGER: Then we must place him in the class of magicians and mimics. THEAETETUS: Certainly we must. STRANGER: And now our business is not to let the animal out, for we have got him in a sort of dialectical net, and there is one thing which he decidedly will not escape. THEAETETUS: What is that? STRANGER: The inference that he is a juggler. THEAETETUS: Precisely my own opinion of him. STRANGER: Then, clearly, we ought as soon as possible to divide the image-making art, and go down into the net, and, if the Sophist does not run away from us, to seize him according to orders and deliver him over to reason, who is the lord of the hunt, and proclaim the capture of him; and if he creeps into the recesses of the imitative art, and secretes himself in one of them, to divide again and follow him up until in some sub-section of imitation he is caught. For our method of tackling each and all is one which neither he nor any other creature will ever escape in triumph. THEAETETUS: Well said; and let us do as you propose. STRANGER: Well, then, pursuing the same analytic method as before, I think that I can discern two divisions of the imitative art, but I am not as yet able to see in which of them the desired form is to be found. THEAETETUS: Will you tell me first what are the two divisions of which you are speaking? STRANGER: One is the art of likeness-making;--generally a likeness of anything is made by producing a copy which is executed according to the proportions of the original, similar in length and breadth and depth, each thing receiving also its appropriate colour. THEAETETUS: Is not this always the aim of imitation? STRANGER: Not always; in works either of sculpture or of painting, which are of any magnitude, there is a certain degree of deception; for artists were to give the true proportions of their fair works, the upper part, which is farther off, would appear to be out of proportion in comparison with the lower, which is nearer; and so they give up the truth in their images and make only the proportions which appear to be beautiful, disregarding the real ones. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And that which being other is also like, may we not fairly call a likeness or image? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And may we not, as I did just now, call that part of the imitative art which is concerned with making such images the art of likeness-making? THEAETETUS: Let that be the name. STRANGER: And what shall we call those resemblances of the beautiful, which appear such owing to the unfavourable position of the spectator, whereas if a person had the power of getting a correct view of works of such magnitude, they would appear not even like that to which they profess to be like? May we not call these 'appearances,' since they appear only and are not really like? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: There is a great deal of this kind of thing in painting, and in all imitation. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: And may we not fairly call the sort of art, which produces an appearance and not an image, phantastic art? THEAETETUS: Most fairly. STRANGER: These then are the two kinds of image-making--the art of making likenesses, and phantastic or the art of making appearances? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: I was doubtful before in which of them I should place the Sophist, nor am I even now able to see clearly; verily he is a wonderful and inscrutable creature. And now in the cleverest manner he has got into an impossible place. THEAETETUS: Yes, he has. STRANGER: Do you speak advisedly, or are you carried away at the moment by the habit of assenting into giving a hasty answer? THEAETETUS: May I ask to what you are referring? STRANGER: My dear friend, we are engaged in a very difficult speculation--there can be no doubt of that; for how a thing can appear and seem, and not be, or how a man can say a thing which is not true, has always been and still remains a very perplexing question. Can any one say or think that falsehood really exists, and avoid being caught in a contradiction? Indeed, Theaetetus, the task is a difficult one. THEAETETUS: Why? STRANGER: He who says that falsehood exists has the audacity to assert the being of not-being; for this is implied in the possibility of falsehood. But, my boy, in the days when I was a boy, the great Parmenides protested against this doctrine, and to the end of his life he continued to inculcate the same lesson--always repeating both in verse and out of verse: STRANGER: 'Keep your mind from this way of enquiry, for never will you show that not-being is.' STRANGER: Such is his testimony, which is confirmed by the very expression when sifted a little. Would you object to begin with the consideration of the words themselves? THEAETETUS: Never mind about me; I am only desirous that you should carry on the argument in the best way, and that you should take me with you. STRANGER: Very good; and now say, do we venture to utter the forbidden word 'not-being'? THEAETETUS: Certainly we do. STRANGER: Let us be serious then, and consider the question neither in strife nor play: suppose that one of the hearers of Parmenides was asked, 'To what is the term "not-being" to be applied?'--do you know what sort of object he would single out in reply, and what answer he would make to the enquirer? THEAETETUS: That is a difficult question, and one not to be answered at all by a person like myself. STRANGER: There is at any rate no difficulty in seeing that the predicate 'not-being' is not applicable to any being. THEAETETUS: None, certainly. STRANGER: And if not to being, then not to something. THEAETETUS: Of course not. STRANGER: It is also plain, that in speaking of something we speak of being, for to speak of an abstract something naked and isolated from all being is impossible. THEAETETUS: Impossible. STRANGER: You mean by assenting to imply that he who says something must say some one thing? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: Some in the singular (ti) you would say is the sign of one, some in the dual (tine) of two, some in the plural (tines) of many? THEAETETUS: Exactly. STRANGER: Then he who says 'not something' must say absolutely nothing. THEAETETUS: Most assuredly. STRANGER: And as we cannot admit that a man speaks and says nothing, he who says 'not-being' does not speak at all. THEAETETUS: The difficulty of the argument can no further go. STRANGER: Not yet, my friend, is the time for such a word; for there still remains of all perplexities the first and greatest, touching the very foundation of the matter. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? Do not be afraid to speak. STRANGER: To that which is, may be attributed some other thing which is? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But can anything which is, be attributed to that which is not? THEAETETUS: Impossible. STRANGER: And all number is to be reckoned among things which are? THEAETETUS: Yes, surely number, if anything, has a real existence. STRANGER: Then we must not attempt to attribute to not-being number either in the singular or plural? THEAETETUS: The argument implies that we should be wrong in doing so. STRANGER: But how can a man either express in words or even conceive in thought things which are not or a thing which is not without number? THEAETETUS: How indeed? STRANGER: When we speak of things which are not, are we not attributing plurality to not-being? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But, on the other hand, when we say 'what is not,' do we not attribute unity? THEAETETUS: Manifestly. STRANGER: Nevertheless, we maintain that you may not and ought not to attribute being to not-being? THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: Do you see, then, that not-being in itself can neither be spoken, uttered, or thought, but that it is unthinkable, unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable? THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: But, if so, I was wrong in telling you just now that the difficulty which was coming is the greatest of all. THEAETETUS: What! is there a greater still behind? STRANGER: Well, I am surprised, after what has been said already, that you do not see the difficulty in which he who would refute the notion of not-being is involved. For he is compelled to contradict himself as soon as he makes the attempt. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? Speak more clearly. STRANGER: Do not expect clearness from me. For I, who maintain that not-being has no part either in the one or many, just now spoke and am still speaking of not-being as one; for I say 'not-being.' Do you understand? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And a little while ago I said that not-being is unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable: do you follow? THEAETETUS: I do after a fashion. STRANGER: When I introduced the word 'is,' did I not contradict what I said before? THEAETETUS: Clearly. STRANGER: And in using the singular verb, did I not speak of not-being as one? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And when I spoke of not-being as indescribable and unspeakable and unutterable, in using each of these words in the singular, did I not refer to not-being as one? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And yet we say that, strictly speaking, it should not be defined as one or many, and should not even be called 'it,' for the use of the word 'it' would imply a form of unity. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: How, then, can any one put any faith in me? For now, as always, I am unequal to the refutation of not-being. And therefore, as I was saying, do not look to me for the right way of speaking about not-being; but come, let us try the experiment with you. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: Make a noble effort, as becomes youth, and endeavour with all your might to speak of not-being in a right manner, without introducing into it either existence or unity or plurality. THEAETETUS: It would be a strange boldness in me which would attempt the task when I see you thus discomfited. STRANGER: Say no more of ourselves; but until we find some one or other who can speak of not-being without number, we must acknowledge that the Sophist is a clever rogue who will not be got out of his hole. THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: And if we say to him that he professes an art of making appearances, he will grapple with us and retort our argument upon ourselves; and when we call him an image-maker he will say, 'Pray what do you mean at all by an image?'--and I should like to know, Theaetetus, how we can possibly answer the younker's question? THEAETETUS: We shall doubtless tell him of the images which are reflected in water or in mirrors; also of sculptures, pictures, and other duplicates. STRANGER: I see, Theaetetus, that you have never made the acquaintance of the Sophist. THEAETETUS: Why do you think so? STRANGER: He will make believe to have his eyes shut, or to have none. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: When you tell him of something existing in a mirror, or in sculpture, and address him as though he had eyes, he will laugh you to scorn, and will pretend that he knows nothing of mirrors and streams, or of sight at all; he will say that he is asking about an idea. THEAETETUS: What can he mean? STRANGER: The common notion pervading all these objects, which you speak of as many, and yet call by the single name of image, as though it were the unity under which they were all included. How will you maintain your ground against him? THEAETETUS: How, Stranger, can I describe an image except as something fashioned in the likeness of the true? STRANGER: And do you mean this something to be some other true thing, or what do you mean? THEAETETUS: Certainly not another true thing, but only a resemblance. STRANGER: And you mean by true that which really is? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And the not true is that which is the opposite of the true? THEAETETUS: Exactly. STRANGER: A resemblance, then, is not really real, if, as you say, not true? THEAETETUS: Nay, but it is in a certain sense. STRANGER: You mean to say, not in a true sense? THEAETETUS: Yes; it is in reality only an image. STRANGER: Then what we call an image is in reality really unreal. THEAETETUS: In what a strange complication of being and not-being we are involved! STRANGER: Strange! I should think so. See how, by his reciprocation of opposites, the many-headed Sophist has compelled us, quite against our will, to admit the existence of not-being. THEAETETUS: Yes, indeed, I see. STRANGER: The difficulty is how to define his art without falling into a contradiction. THEAETETUS: How do you mean? And where does the danger lie? STRANGER: When we say that he deceives us with an illusion, and that his art is illusory, do we mean that our soul is led by his art to think falsely, or what do we mean? THEAETETUS: There is nothing else to be said. STRANGER: Again, false opinion is that form of opinion which thinks the opposite of the truth:--You would assent? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: You mean to say that false opinion thinks what is not? THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: Does false opinion think that things which are not are not, or that in a certain sense they are? THEAETETUS: Things that are not must be imagined to exist in a certain sense, if any degree of falsehood is to be possible. STRANGER: And does not false opinion also think that things which most certainly exist do not exist at all? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And here, again, is falsehood? THEAETETUS: Falsehood--yes. STRANGER: And in like manner, a false proposition will be deemed to be one which asserts the non-existence of things which are, and the existence of things which are not. THEAETETUS: There is no other way in which a false proposition can arise. STRANGER: There is not; but the Sophist will deny these statements. And indeed how can any rational man assent to them, when the very expressions which we have just used were before acknowledged by us to be unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable, unthinkable? Do you see his point, Theaetetus? THEAETETUS: Of course he will say that we are contradicting ourselves when we hazard the assertion, that falsehood exists in opinion and in words; for in maintaining this, we are compelled over and over again to assert being of not-being, which we admitted just now to be an utter impossibility. STRANGER: How well you remember! And now it is high time to hold a consultation as to what we ought to do about the Sophist; for if we persist in looking for him in the class of false workers and magicians, you see that the handles for objection and the difficulties which will arise are very numerous and obvious. THEAETETUS: They are indeed. STRANGER: We have gone through but a very small portion of them, and they are really infinite. THEAETETUS: If that is the case, we cannot possibly catch the Sophist. STRANGER: Shall we then be so faint-hearted as to give him up? THEAETETUS: Certainly not, I should say, if we can get the slightest hold upon him. STRANGER: Will you then forgive me, and, as your words imply, not be altogether displeased if I flinch a little from the grasp of such a sturdy argument? THEAETETUS: To be sure I will. STRANGER: I have a yet more urgent request to make. THEAETETUS: Which is--? STRANGER: That you will promise not to regard me as a parricide. THEAETETUS: And why? STRANGER: Because, in self-defence, I must test the philosophy of my father Parmenides, and try to prove by main force that in a certain sense not-being is, and that being, on the other hand, is not. THEAETETUS: Some attempt of the kind is clearly needed. STRANGER: Yes, a blind man, as they say, might see that, and, unless these questions are decided in one way or another, no one when he speaks of false words, or false opinion, or idols, or images, or imitations, or appearances, or about the arts which are concerned with them; can avoid falling into ridiculous contradictions. THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: And therefore I must venture to lay hands on my father's argument; for if I am to be over-scrupulous, I shall have to give the matter up. THEAETETUS: Nothing in the world should ever induce us to do so. STRANGER: I have a third little request which I wish to make. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: You heard me say what I have always felt and still feel--that I have no heart for this argument? THEAETETUS: I did. STRANGER: I tremble at the thought of what I have said, and expect that you will deem me mad, when you hear of my sudden changes and shiftings; let me therefore observe, that I am examining the question entirely out of regard for you. THEAETETUS: There is no reason for you to fear that I shall impute any impropriety to you, if you attempt this refutation and proof; take heart, therefore, and proceed. STRANGER: And where shall I begin the perilous enterprise? I think that the road which I must take is-- THEAETETUS: Which?--Let me hear. STRANGER: I think that we had better, first of all, consider the points which at present are regarded as self-evident, lest we may have fallen into some confusion, and be too ready to assent to one another, fancying that we are quite clear about them. THEAETETUS: Say more distinctly what you mean. STRANGER: I think that Parmenides, and all ever yet undertook to determine the number and nature of existences, talked to us in rather a light and easy strain. THEAETETUS: How? STRANGER: As if we had been children, to whom they repeated each his own mythus or story;--one said that there were three principles, and that at one time there was war between certain of them; and then again there was peace, and they were married and begat children, and brought them up; and another spoke of two principles,--a moist and a dry, or a hot and a cold, and made them marry and cohabit. The Eleatics, however, in our part of the world, say that all things are many in name, but in nature one; this is their mythus, which goes back to Xenophanes, and is even older. Then there are Ionian, and in more recent times Sicilian muses, who have arrived at the conclusion that to unite the two principles is safer, and to say that being is one and many, and that these are held together by enmity and friendship, ever parting, ever meeting, as the severer Muses assert, while the gentler ones do not insist on the perpetual strife and peace, but admit a relaxation and alternation of them; peace and unity sometimes prevailing under the sway of Aphrodite, and then again plurality and war, by reason of a principle of strife. Whether any of them spoke the truth in all this is hard to determine; besides, antiquity and famous men should have reverence, and not be liable to accusations so serious. Yet one thing may be said of them without offence-- THEAETETUS: What thing? STRANGER: That they went on their several ways disdaining to notice people like ourselves; they did not care whether they took us with them, or left us behind them. THEAETETUS: How do you mean? STRANGER: I mean to say, that when they talk of one, two, or more elements, which are or have become or are becoming, or again of heat mingling with cold, assuming in some other part of their works separations and mixtures,--tell me, Theaetetus, do you understand what they mean by these expressions? When I was a younger man, I used to fancy that I understood quite well what was meant by the term 'not-being,' which is our present subject of dispute; and now you see in what a fix we are about it. THEAETETUS: I see. STRANGER: And very likely we have been getting into the same perplexity about 'being,' and yet may fancy that when anybody utters the word, we understand him quite easily, although we do not know about not-being. But we may be; equally ignorant of both. THEAETETUS: I dare say. STRANGER: And the same may be said of all the terms just mentioned. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: The consideration of most of them may be deferred; but we had better now discuss the chief captain and leader of them. THEAETETUS: Of what are you speaking? You clearly think that we must first investigate what people mean by the word 'being.' STRANGER: You follow close at my heels, Theaetetus. For the right method, I conceive, will be to call into our presence the dualistic philosophers and to interrogate them. 'Come,' we will say, 'Ye, who affirm that hot and cold or any other two principles are the universe, what is this term which you apply to both of them, and what do you mean when you say that both and each of them "are"? How are we to understand the word "are"? Upon your view, are we to suppose that there is a third principle over and above the other two,--three in all, and not two? For clearly you cannot say that one of the two principles is being, and yet attribute being equally to both of them; for, if you did, whichever of the two is identified with being, will comprehend the other; and so they will be one and not two.' THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: But perhaps you mean to give the name of 'being' to both of them together? THEAETETUS: Quite likely. STRANGER: 'Then, friends,' we shall reply to them, 'the answer is plainly that the two will still be resolved into one.' THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: 'Since, then, we are in a difficulty, please to tell us what you mean, when you speak of being; for there can be no doubt that you always from the first understood your own meaning, whereas we once thought that we understood you, but now we are in a great strait. Please to begin by explaining this matter to us, and let us no longer fancy that we understand you, when we entirely misunderstand you.' There will be no impropriety in our demanding an answer to this question, either of the dualists or of the pluralists? THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: And what about the assertors of the oneness of the all--must we not endeavour to ascertain from them what they mean by 'being'? THEAETETUS: By all means. STRANGER: Then let them answer this question: One, you say, alone is? 'Yes,' they will reply. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And there is something which you call 'being'? THEAETETUS: 'Yes.' STRANGER: And is being the same as one, and do you apply two names to the same thing? THEAETETUS: What will be their answer, Stranger? STRANGER: It is clear, Theaetetus, that he who asserts the unity of being will find a difficulty in answering this or any other question. THEAETETUS: Why so? STRANGER: To admit of two names, and to affirm that there is nothing but unity, is surely ridiculous? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And equally irrational to admit that a name is anything? THEAETETUS: How so? STRANGER: To distinguish the name from the thing, implies duality. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And yet he who identifies the name with the thing will be compelled to say that it is the name of nothing, or if he says that it is the name of something, even then the name will only be the name of a name, and of nothing else. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And the one will turn out to be only one of one, and being absolute unity, will represent a mere name. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And would they say that the whole is other than the one that is, or the same with it? THEAETETUS: To be sure they would, and they actually say so. STRANGER: If being is a whole, as Parmenides sings,-- 'Every way like unto the fullness of a well-rounded sphere, Evenly balanced from the centre on every side, And must needs be neither greater nor less in any way, Neither on this side nor on that--' then being has a centre and extremes, and, having these, must also have parts. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Yet that which has parts may have the attribute of unity in all the parts, and in this way being all and a whole, may be one? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But that of which this is the condition cannot be absolute unity? THEAETETUS: Why not? STRANGER: Because, according to right reason, that which is truly one must be affirmed to be absolutely indivisible. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: But this indivisible, if made up of many parts, will contradict reason. THEAETETUS: I understand. STRANGER: Shall we say that being is one and a whole, because it has the attribute of unity? Or shall we say that being is not a whole at all? THEAETETUS: That is a hard alternative to offer. STRANGER: Most true; for being, having in a certain sense the attribute of one, is yet proved not to be the same as one, and the all is therefore more than one. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And yet if being be not a whole, through having the attribute of unity, and there be such a thing as an absolute whole, being lacks something of its own nature? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Upon this view, again, being, having a defect of being, will become not-being? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And, again, the all becomes more than one, for being and the whole will each have their separate nature. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: But if the whole does not exist at all, all the previous difficulties remain the same, and there will be the further difficulty, that besides having no being, being can never have come into being. THEAETETUS: Why so? STRANGER: Because that which comes into being always comes into being as a whole, so that he who does not give whole a place among beings, cannot speak either of essence or generation as existing. THEAETETUS: Yes, that certainly appears to be true. STRANGER: Again; how can that which is not a whole have any quantity? For that which is of a certain quantity must necessarily be the whole of that quantity. THEAETETUS: Exactly. STRANGER: And there will be innumerable other points, each of them causing infinite trouble to him who says that being is either one or two. THEAETETUS: The difficulties which are dawning upon us prove this; for one objection connects with another, and they are always involving what has preceded in a greater and worse perplexity. STRANGER: We are far from having exhausted the more exact thinkers who treat of being and not-being. But let us be content to leave them, and proceed to view those who speak less precisely; and we shall find as the result of all, that the nature of being is quite as difficult to comprehend as that of not-being. THEAETETUS: Then now we will go to the others. STRANGER: There appears to be a sort of war of Giants and Gods going on amongst them; they are fighting with one another about the nature of essence. THEAETETUS: How is that? STRANGER: Some of them are dragging down all things from heaven and from the unseen to earth, and they literally grasp in their hands rocks and oaks; of these they lay hold, and obstinately maintain, that the things only which can be touched or handled have being or essence, because they define being and body as one, and if any one else says that what is not a body exists they altogether despise him, and will hear of nothing but body. THEAETETUS: I have often met with such men, and terrible fellows they are. STRANGER: And that is the reason why their opponents cautiously defend themselves from above, out of an unseen world, mightily contending that true essence consists of certain intelligible and incorporeal ideas; the bodies of the materialists, which by them are maintained to be the very truth, they break up into little bits by their arguments, and affirm them to be, not essence, but generation and motion. Between the two armies, Theaetetus, there is always an endless conflict raging concerning these matters. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Let us ask each party in turn, to give an account of that which they call essence. THEAETETUS: How shall we get it out of them? STRANGER: With those who make being to consist in ideas, there will be less difficulty, for they are civil people enough; but there will be very great difficulty, or rather an absolute impossibility, in getting an opinion out of those who drag everything down to matter. Shall I tell you what we must do? THEAETETUS: What? STRANGER: Let us, if we can, really improve them; but if this is not possible, let us imagine them to be better than they are, and more willing to answer in accordance with the rules of argument, and then their opinion will be more worth having; for that which better men acknowledge has more weight than that which is acknowledged by inferior men. Moreover we are no respecters of persons, but seekers after truth. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Then now, on the supposition that they are improved, let us ask them to state their views, and do you interpret them. THEAETETUS: Agreed. STRANGER: Let them say whether they would admit that there is such a thing as a mortal animal. THEAETETUS: Of course they would. STRANGER: And do they not acknowledge this to be a body having a soul? THEAETETUS: Certainly they do. STRANGER: Meaning to say that the soul is something which exists? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And do they not say that one soul is just, and another unjust, and that one soul is wise, and another foolish? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And that the just and wise soul becomes just and wise by the possession of justice and wisdom, and the opposite under opposite circumstances? THEAETETUS: Yes, they do. STRANGER: But surely that which may be present or may be absent will be admitted by them to exist? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And, allowing that justice, wisdom, the other virtues, and their opposites exist, as well as a soul in which they inhere, do they affirm any of them to be visible and tangible, or are they all invisible? THEAETETUS: They would say that hardly any of them are visible. STRANGER: And would they say that they are corporeal? THEAETETUS: They would distinguish: the soul would be said by them to have a body; but as to the other qualities of justice, wisdom, and the like, about which you asked, they would not venture either to deny their existence, or to maintain that they were all corporeal. STRANGER: Verily, Theaetetus, I perceive a great improvement in them; the real aborigines, children of the dragon's teeth, would have been deterred by no shame at all, but would have obstinately asserted that nothing is which they are not able to squeeze in their hands. THEAETETUS: That is pretty much their notion. STRANGER: Let us push the question; for if they will admit that any, even the smallest particle of being, is incorporeal, it is enough; they must then say what that nature is which is common to both the corporeal and incorporeal, and which they have in their mind's eye when they say of both of them that they 'are.' Perhaps they may be in a difficulty; and if this is the case, there is a possibility that they may accept a notion of ours respecting the nature of being, having nothing of their own to offer. THEAETETUS: What is the notion? Tell me, and we shall soon see. STRANGER: My notion would be, that anything which possesses any sort of power to affect another, or to be affected by another, if only for a single moment, however trifling the cause and however slight the effect, has real existence; and I hold that the definition of being is simply power. THEAETETUS: They accept your suggestion, having nothing better of their own to offer. STRANGER: Very good; perhaps we, as well as they, may one day change our minds; but, for the present, this may be regarded as the understanding which is established with them. THEAETETUS: Agreed. STRANGER: Let us now go to the friends of ideas; of their opinions, too, you shall be the interpreter. THEAETETUS: I will. STRANGER: To them we say--You would distinguish essence from generation? THEAETETUS: 'Yes,' they reply. STRANGER: And you would allow that we participate in generation with the body, and through perception, but we participate with the soul through thought in true essence; and essence you would affirm to be always the same and immutable, whereas generation or becoming varies? THEAETETUS: Yes; that is what we should affirm. STRANGER: Well, fair sirs, we say to them, what is this participation, which you assert of both? Do you agree with our recent definition? THEAETETUS: What definition? STRANGER: We said that being was an active or passive energy, arising out of a certain power which proceeds from elements meeting with one another. Perhaps your ears, Theaetetus, may fail to catch their answer, which I recognize because I have been accustomed to hear it. THEAETETUS: And what is their answer? STRANGER: They deny the truth of what we were just now saying to the aborigines about existence. THEAETETUS: What was that? STRANGER: Any power of doing or suffering in a degree however slight was held by us to be a sufficient definition of being? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: They deny this, and say that the power of doing or suffering is confined to becoming, and that neither power is applicable to being. THEAETETUS: And is there not some truth in what they say? STRANGER: Yes; but our reply will be, that we want to ascertain from them more distinctly, whether they further admit that the soul knows, and that being or essence is known. THEAETETUS: There can be no doubt that they say so. STRANGER: And is knowing and being known doing or suffering, or both, or is the one doing and the other suffering, or has neither any share in either? THEAETETUS: Clearly, neither has any share in either; for if they say anything else, they will contradict themselves. STRANGER: I understand; but they will allow that if to know is active, then, of course, to be known is passive. And on this view being, in so far as it is known, is acted upon by knowledge, and is therefore in motion; for that which is in a state of rest cannot be acted upon, as we affirm. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: And, O heavens, can we ever be made to believe that motion and life and soul and mind are not present with perfect being? Can we imagine that being is devoid of life and mind, and exists in awful unmeaningness an everlasting fixture? THEAETETUS: That would be a dreadful thing to admit, Stranger. STRANGER: But shall we say that has mind and not life? THEAETETUS: How is that possible? STRANGER: Or shall we say that both inhere in perfect being, but that it has no soul which contains them? THEAETETUS: And in what other way can it contain them? STRANGER: Or that being has mind and life and soul, but although endowed with soul remains absolutely unmoved? THEAETETUS: All three suppositions appear to me to be irrational. STRANGER: Under being, then, we must include motion, and that which is moved. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Then, Theaetetus, our inference is, that if there is no motion, neither is there any mind anywhere, or about anything or belonging to any one. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And yet this equally follows, if we grant that all things are in motion--upon this view too mind has no existence. THEAETETUS: How so? STRANGER: Do you think that sameness of condition and mode and subject could ever exist without a principle of rest? THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: Can you see how without them mind could exist, or come into existence anywhere? THEAETETUS: No. STRANGER: And surely contend we must in every possible way against him who would annihilate knowledge and reason and mind, and yet ventures to speak confidently about anything. THEAETETUS: Yes, with all our might. STRANGER: Then the philosopher, who has the truest reverence for these qualities, cannot possibly accept the notion of those who say that the whole is at rest, either as unity or in many forms: and he will be utterly deaf to those who assert universal motion. As children say entreatingly 'Give us both,' so he will include both the moveable and immoveable in his definition of being and all. THEAETETUS: Most true. STRANGER: And now, do we seem to have gained a fair notion of being? THEAETETUS: Yes truly. STRANGER: Alas, Theaetetus, methinks that we are now only beginning to see the real difficulty of the enquiry into the nature of it. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: O my friend, do you not see that nothing can exceed our ignorance, and yet we fancy that we are saying something good? THEAETETUS: I certainly thought that we were; and I do not at all understand how we never found out our desperate case. STRANGER: Reflect: after having made these admissions, may we not be justly asked the same questions which we ourselves were asking of those who said that all was hot and cold? THEAETETUS: What were they? Will you recall them to my mind? STRANGER: To be sure I will, and I will remind you of them, by putting the same questions to you which I did to them, and then we shall get on. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Would you not say that rest and motion are in the most entire opposition to one another? THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: And yet you would say that both and either of them equally are? THEAETETUS: I should. STRANGER: And when you admit that both or either of them are, do you mean to say that both or either of them are in motion? THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: Or do you wish to imply that they are both at rest, when you say that they are? THEAETETUS: Of course not. STRANGER: Then you conceive of being as some third and distinct nature, under which rest and motion are alike included; and, observing that they both participate in being, you declare that they are. THEAETETUS: Truly we seem to have an intimation that being is some third thing, when we say that rest and motion are. STRANGER: Then being is not the combination of rest and motion, but something different from them. THEAETETUS: So it would appear. STRANGER: Being, then, according to its own nature, is neither in motion nor at rest. THEAETETUS: That is very much the truth. STRANGER: Where, then, is a man to look for help who would have any clear or fixed notion of being in his mind? THEAETETUS: Where, indeed? STRANGER: I scarcely think that he can look anywhere; for that which is not in motion must be at rest, and again, that which is not at rest must be in motion; but being is placed outside of both these classes. Is this possible? THEAETETUS: Utterly impossible. STRANGER: Here, then, is another thing which we ought to bear in mind. THEAETETUS: What? STRANGER: When we were asked to what we were to assign the appellation of not-being, we were in the greatest difficulty:--do you remember? THEAETETUS: To be sure. STRANGER: And are we not now in as great a difficulty about being? THEAETETUS: I should say, Stranger, that we are in one which is, if possible, even greater. STRANGER: Then let us acknowledge the difficulty; and as being and not-being are involved in the same perplexity, there is hope that when the one appears more or less distinctly, the other will equally appear; and if we are able to see neither, there may still be a chance of steering our way in between them, without any great discredit. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Let us enquire, then, how we come to predicate many names of the same thing. THEAETETUS: Give an example. STRANGER: I mean that we speak of man, for example, under many names--that we attribute to him colours and forms and magnitudes and virtues and vices, in all of which instances and in ten thousand others we not only speak of him as a man, but also as good, and having numberless other attributes, and in the same way anything else which we originally supposed to be one is described by us as many, and under many names. THEAETETUS: That is true. STRANGER: And thus we provide a rich feast for tyros, whether young or old; for there is nothing easier than to argue that the one cannot be many, or the many one; and great is their delight in denying that a man is good; for man, they insist, is man and good is good. I dare say that you have met with persons who take an interest in such matters--they are often elderly men, whose meagre sense is thrown into amazement by these discoveries of theirs, which they believe to be the height of wisdom. THEAETETUS: Certainly, I have. STRANGER: Then, not to exclude any one who has ever speculated at all upon the nature of being, let us put our questions to them as well as to our former friends. THEAETETUS: What questions? STRANGER: Shall we refuse to attribute being to motion and rest, or anything to anything, and assume that they do not mingle, and are incapable of participating in one another? Or shall we gather all into one class of things communicable with one another? Or are some things communicable and others not?--Which of these alternatives, Theaetetus, will they prefer? THEAETETUS: I have nothing to answer on their behalf. Suppose that you take all these hypotheses in turn, and see what are the consequences which follow from each of them. STRANGER: Very good, and first let us assume them to say that nothing is capable of participating in anything else in any respect; in that case rest and motion cannot participate in being at all. THEAETETUS: They cannot. STRANGER: But would either of them be if not participating in being? THEAETETUS: No. STRANGER: Then by this admission everything is instantly overturned, as well the doctrine of universal motion as of universal rest, and also the doctrine of those who distribute being into immutable and everlasting kinds; for all these add on a notion of being, some affirming that things 'are' truly in motion, and others that they 'are' truly at rest. THEAETETUS: Just so. STRANGER: Again, those who would at one time compound, and at another resolve all things, whether making them into one and out of one creating infinity, or dividing them into finite elements, and forming compounds out of these; whether they suppose the processes of creation to be successive or continuous, would be talking nonsense in all this if there were no admixture. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Most ridiculous of all will the men themselves be who want to carry out the argument and yet forbid us to call anything, because participating in some affection from another, by the name of that other. THEAETETUS: Why so? STRANGER: Why, because they are compelled to use the words 'to be,' 'apart,' 'from others,' 'in itself,' and ten thousand more, which they cannot give up, but must make the connecting links of discourse; and therefore they do not require to be refuted by others, but their enemy, as the saying is, inhabits the same house with them; they are always carrying about with them an adversary, like the wonderful ventriloquist, Eurycles, who out of their own bellies audibly contradicts them. THEAETETUS: Precisely so; a very true and exact illustration. STRANGER: And now, if we suppose that all things have the power of communion with one another--what will follow? THEAETETUS: Even I can solve that riddle. STRANGER: How? THEAETETUS: Why, because motion itself would be at rest, and rest again in motion, if they could be attributed to one another. STRANGER: But this is utterly impossible. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: Then only the third hypothesis remains. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: For, surely, either all things have communion with all; or nothing with any other thing; or some things communicate with some things and others not. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And two out of these three suppositions have been found to be impossible. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: Every one then, who desires to answer truly, will adopt the third and remaining hypothesis of the communion of some with some. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: This communion of some with some may be illustrated by the case of letters; for some letters do not fit each other, while others do. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: And the vowels, especially, are a sort of bond which pervades all the other letters, so that without a vowel one consonant cannot be joined to another. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: But does every one know what letters will unite with what? Or is art required in order to do so? THEAETETUS: Art is required. STRANGER: What art? THEAETETUS: The art of grammar. STRANGER: And is not this also true of sounds high and low?--Is not he who has the art to know what sounds mingle, a musician, and he who is ignorant, not a musician? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And we shall find this to be generally true of art or the absence of art. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: And as classes are admitted by us in like manner to be some of them capable and others incapable of intermixture, must not he who would rightly show what kinds will unite and what will not, proceed by the help of science in the path of argument? And will he not ask if the connecting links are universal, and so capable of intermixture with all things; and again, in divisions, whether there are not other universal classes, which make them possible? THEAETETUS: To be sure he will require science, and, if I am not mistaken, the very greatest of all sciences. STRANGER: How are we to call it? By Zeus, have we not lighted unwittingly upon our free and noble science, and in looking for the Sophist have we not entertained the philosopher unawares? THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: Should we not say that the division according to classes, which neither makes the same other, nor makes other the same, is the business of the dialectical science? THEAETETUS: That is what we should say. STRANGER: Then, surely, he who can divide rightly is able to see clearly one form pervading a scattered multitude, and many different forms contained under one higher form; and again, one form knit together into a single whole and pervading many such wholes, and many forms, existing only in separation and isolation. This is the knowledge of classes which determines where they can have communion with one another and where not. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And the art of dialectic would be attributed by you only to the philosopher pure and true? THEAETETUS: Who but he can be worthy? STRANGER: In this region we shall always discover the philosopher, if we look for him; like the Sophist, he is not easily discovered, but for a different reason. THEAETETUS: For what reason? STRANGER: Because the Sophist runs away into the darkness of not-being, in which he has learned by habit to feel about, and cannot be discovered because of the darkness of the place. Is not that true? THEAETETUS: It seems to be so. STRANGER: And the philosopher, always holding converse through reason with the idea of being, is also dark from excess of light; for the souls of the many have no eye which can endure the vision of the divine. THEAETETUS: Yes; that seems to be quite as true as the other. STRANGER: Well, the philosopher may hereafter be more fully considered by us, if we are disposed; but the Sophist must clearly not be allowed to escape until we have had a good look at him. THEAETETUS: Very good. STRANGER: Since, then, we are agreed that some classes have a communion with one another, and others not, and some have communion with a few and others with many, and that there is no reason why some should not have universal communion with all, let us now pursue the enquiry, as the argument suggests, not in relation to all ideas, lest the multitude of them should confuse us, but let us select a few of those which are reckoned to be the principal ones, and consider their several natures and their capacity of communion with one another, in order that if we are not able to apprehend with perfect clearness the notions of being and not-being, we may at least not fall short in the consideration of them, so far as they come within the scope of the present enquiry, if peradventure we may be allowed to assert the reality of not-being, and yet escape unscathed. THEAETETUS: We must do so. STRANGER: The most important of all the genera are those which we were just now mentioning--being and rest and motion. THEAETETUS: Yes, by far. STRANGER: And two of these are, as we affirm, incapable of communion with one another. THEAETETUS: Quite incapable. STRANGER: Whereas being surely has communion with both of them, for both of them are? THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: That makes up three of them. THEAETETUS: To be sure. STRANGER: And each of them is other than the remaining two, but the same with itself. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: But then, what is the meaning of these two words, 'same' and 'other'? Are they two new kinds other than the three, and yet always of necessity intermingling with them, and are we to have five kinds instead of three; or when we speak of the same and other, are we unconsciously speaking of one of the three first kinds? THEAETETUS: Very likely we are. STRANGER: But, surely, motion and rest are neither the other nor the same. THEAETETUS: How is that? STRANGER: Whatever we attribute to motion and rest in common, cannot be either of them. THEAETETUS: Why not? STRANGER: Because motion would be at rest and rest in motion, for either of them, being predicated of both, will compel the other to change into the opposite of its own nature, because partaking of its opposite. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: Yet they surely both partake of the same and of the other? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: Then we must not assert that motion, any more than rest, is either the same or the other. THEAETETUS: No; we must not. STRANGER: But are we to conceive that being and the same are identical? THEAETETUS: Possibly. STRANGER: But if they are identical, then again in saying that motion and rest have being, we should also be saying that they are the same. THEAETETUS: Which surely cannot be. STRANGER: Then being and the same cannot be one. THEAETETUS: Scarcely. STRANGER: Then we may suppose the same to be a fourth class, which is now to be added to the three others. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And shall we call the other a fifth class? Or should we consider being and other to be two names of the same class? THEAETETUS: Very likely. STRANGER: But you would agree, if I am not mistaken, that existences are relative as well as absolute? THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: And the other is always relative to other? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: But this would not be the case unless being and the other entirely differed; for, if the other, like being, were absolute as well as relative, then there would have been a kind of other which was not other than other. And now we find that what is other must of necessity be what it is in relation to some other. THEAETETUS: That is the true state of the case. STRANGER: Then we must admit the other as the fifth of our selected classes. THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And the fifth class pervades all classes, for they all differ from one another, not by reason of their own nature, but because they partake of the idea of the other. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: Then let us now put the case with reference to each of the five. THEAETETUS: How? STRANGER: First there is motion, which we affirm to be absolutely 'other' than rest: what else can we say? THEAETETUS: It is so. STRANGER: And therefore is not rest. THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: And yet is, because partaking of being. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Again, motion is other than the same? THEAETETUS: Just so. STRANGER: And is therefore not the same. THEAETETUS: It is not. STRANGER: Yet, surely, motion is the same, because all things partake of the same. THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: Then we must admit, and not object to say, that motion is the same and is not the same, for we do not apply the terms 'same' and 'not the same,' in the same sense; but we call it the 'same,' in relation to itself, because partaking of the same; and not the same, because having communion with the other, it is thereby severed from the same, and has become not that but other, and is therefore rightly spoken of as 'not the same.' THEAETETUS: To be sure. STRANGER: And if absolute motion in any point of view partook of rest, there would be no absurdity in calling motion stationary. THEAETETUS: Quite right,--that is, on the supposition that some classes mingle with one another, and others not. STRANGER: That such a communion of kinds is according to nature, we had already proved before we arrived at this part of our discussion. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Let us proceed, then. May we not say that motion is other than the other, having been also proved by us to be other than the same and other than rest? THEAETETUS: That is certain. STRANGER: Then, according to this view, motion is other and also not other? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: What is the next step? Shall we say that motion is other than the three and not other than the fourth,--for we agreed that there are five classes about and in the sphere of which we proposed to make enquiry? THEAETETUS: Surely we cannot admit that the number is less than it appeared to be just now. STRANGER: Then we may without fear contend that motion is other than being? THEAETETUS: Without the least fear. STRANGER: The plain result is that motion, since it partakes of being, really is and also is not? THEAETETUS: Nothing can be plainer. STRANGER: Then not-being necessarily exists in the case of motion and of every class; for the nature of the other entering into them all, makes each of them other than being, and so non-existent; and therefore of all of them, in like manner, we may truly say that they are not; and again, inasmuch as they partake of being, that they are and are existent. THEAETETUS: So we may assume. STRANGER: Every class, then, has plurality of being and infinity of not-being. THEAETETUS: So we must infer. STRANGER: And being itself may be said to be other than the other kinds. THEAETETUS: Certainly. STRANGER: Then we may infer that being is not, in respect of as many other things as there are; for not-being these it is itself one, and is not the other things, which are infinite in number. THEAETETUS: That is not far from the truth. STRANGER: And we must not quarrel with this result, since it is of the nature of classes to have communion with one another; and if any one denies our present statement [viz., that being is not, etc.], let him first argue with our former conclusion [i.e., respecting the communion of ideas], and then he may proceed to argue with what follows. THEAETETUS: Nothing can be fairer. STRANGER: Let me ask you to consider a further question. THEAETETUS: What question? STRANGER: When we speak of not-being, we speak, I suppose, not of something opposed to being, but only different. THEAETETUS: What do you mean? STRANGER: When we speak of something as not great, does the expression seem to you to imply what is little any more than what is equal? THEAETETUS: Certainly not. STRANGER: The negative particles, ou and me, when prefixed to words, do not imply opposition, but only difference from the words, or more correctly from the things represented by the words, which follow them. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: There is another point to be considered, if you do not object. THEAETETUS: What is it? STRANGER: The nature of the other appears to me to be divided into fractions like knowledge. THEAETETUS: How so? STRANGER: Knowledge, like the other, is one; and yet the various parts of knowledge have each of them their own particular name, and hence there are many arts and kinds of knowledge. THEAETETUS: Quite true. STRANGER: And is not the case the same with the parts of the other, which is also one? THEAETETUS: Very likely; but will you tell me how? STRANGER: There is some part of the other which is opposed to the beautiful? THEAETETUS: There is. STRANGER: Shall we say that this has or has not a name? THEAETETUS: It has; for whatever we call not-beautiful is other than the beautiful, not than something else. STRANGER: And now tell me another thing. THEAETETUS: What? STRANGER: Is the not-beautiful anything but this--an existence parted off from a certain kind of existence, and again from another point of view opposed to an existing something? THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: Then the not-beautiful turns out to be the opposition of being to being? THEAETETUS: Very true. STRANGER: But upon this view, is the beautiful a more real and the not-beautiful a less real existence? THEAETETUS: Not at all. STRANGER: And the not-great may be said to exist, equally with the great? THEAETETUS: Yes. STRANGER: And, in the same way, the just must be placed in the same category with the not-just--the one cannot be said to have any more existence than the other. THEAETETUS: True. STRANGER: The same may be said of other things; seeing that the nature of the other has a real existence, the parts of this nature must equally be supposed to exist. THEAETETUS: Of course. STRANGER: Then, as would appear, the opposition of a part of the other, and of a part of being, to one another, is, if I may venture to say so, as truly essence as being itself, and implies not the opposite of being, but only what is other than being. THEAETETUS: Beyond question. STRANGER: What then shall we call it? THEAETETUS: Clearly, not-being; and this is the very nature for which the Sophist compelled us to search. STRANGER: And has not this, as you were saying, as real an existence as any other class? May I not say with confidence that not-being has an assured existence, and a nature of its own? Just as The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mansfield Park, by Jane Austen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. 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Title: Mansfield Park Author: Jane Austen Release Date: June, 1994 [eBook #141] [Most recently updated: March 11, 2021] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANSFIELD PARK *** MANSFIELD PARK (1814) By Jane Austen Contents CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV CHAPTER XXV CHAPTER XXVI CHAPTER XXVII CHAPTER XXVIII CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXX CHAPTER XXXI CHAPTER XXXII CHAPTER XXXIII CHAPTER XXXIV CHAPTER XXXV CHAPTER XXXVI CHAPTER XXXVII CHAPTER XXXVIII CHAPTER XXXIX CHAPTER XL CHAPTER XLI CHAPTER XLII CHAPTER XLIII CHAPTER XLIV CHAPTER XLV CHAPTER XLVI CHAPTER XLVII CHAPTER XLVIII CHAPTER I About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet’s lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward’s match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which, from principle as well as pride—from a general wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady Bertram’s sister; but her husband’s profession was such as no interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse between them for a considerable period. Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each other’s existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry voice, that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her. A large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a boy of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world; but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East? The letter was not unproductive. It re-established peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters. Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. “What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence of the action.” Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. “I think we cannot do better,” said she; “let us send for the child.” Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent. He debated and hesitated;—it was a serious charge;—a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;—but no sooner had he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not. “My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one’s own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters?—and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just—but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don’t say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons—but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister.” “There is a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied Sir Thomas, “and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting.” “I thoroughly understand you,” cried Mrs. Norris, “you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister’s child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler’s, and the child be appointed to meet her there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman’s wife or other going up.” Except to the attack on Nanny’s cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled, and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends. Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world. When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram’s calm inquiry of “Where shall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?” Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris’s power to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl’s staying with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris’s indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him. “Then she had better come to us,” said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, “Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age, and of a regular instructress.” “Very true,” cried Mrs. Norris, “which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two—there can be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else.” Lady Bertram made no opposition. “I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,” continued Mrs. Norris, “and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends.” “Should her disposition be really bad,” said Sir Thomas, “we must not, for our own children’s sake, continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the association.” “That is exactly what I think,” cried Mrs. Norris, “and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_.” “I hope she will not tease my poor pug,” said Lady Bertram; “I have but just got Julia to leave it alone.” “There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct.” Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed. It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter’s being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children. CHAPTER II The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in to the others, and recommending her to their kindness. Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two. The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity. But they were too much used to company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their confidence increasing from their cousin’s total want of it, they were soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference. They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older. The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed. “This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the room. “After all that I said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.” It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure her comfort. The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper. Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady Bertram’s silence, awed by Sir Thomas’s grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris’s admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe. The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs. “My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, “what can be the matter?” And sitting down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a “no, no—not at all—no, thank you”; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the grievance lay. He tried to console her. “You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,” said he, “which shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters.” On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he was the darling) in every distress. “William did not like she should come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed.” “But William will write to you, I dare say.” “Yes, he had promised he would, but he had told _her_ to write first.” “And when shall you do it?” She hung her head and answered hesitatingly, “she did not know; she had not any paper.” “If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?” “Yes, very.” “Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves.” “But, cousin, will it go to the post?” “Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing.” “My uncle!” repeated Fanny, with a frightened look. “Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to frank.” Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible. From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris’s voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that “Fanny was good-natured enough.” Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her. As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. “Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia—or, she never heard of Asia Minor—or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—How strange!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?” “My dear,” their considerate aunt would reply, “it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself.” “But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!” “Yes,” added the other; “and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.” “Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn.” “Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing.” “To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are;—on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference.” Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces’ minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him. To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. As for Fanny’s being stupid at learning, “she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted.” Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it. From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman. Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs. Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny, though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of anything at all promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund’s friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement. Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its pleasures. He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except William: her heart was divided between the two. CHAPTER III The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy. The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do. “I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your debts.” Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all probability, die very soon. On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.” He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people. The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation, and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?” Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words, “Going to leave you?” “Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.” The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her. “I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she, with a faltering voice. “Yes, I dare say you will; _that’s_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world.” “I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny modestly. “No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.” “And am I never to live here again?” “Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other.” Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress. “Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.” “Indeed!” “Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there.” “Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one.” “Oh, cousin!” “It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?” “Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her.” “I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her.” “I can never be important to any one.” “What is to prevent you?” “Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.” “As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion.” “You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life.” “Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself.” “Oh! do not say so.” “I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.” Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well.” “The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.” “Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.” “And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too.” So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris— “I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you.” Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?” “Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir Thomas.” “Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?” “Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.” “But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.” “No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.” “Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed—what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can.” “Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?” “Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I _have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income. A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.” “I dare say you will. You always do, don’t you?” “My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me. It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little trifle among them worth their having.” “You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.” “Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.” “Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it, I know.” “Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, “I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question; besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must keep a spare room for a friend.” Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself. Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual. The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. “Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds.” Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other. These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent. The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s watchful attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct. Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves. The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny’s relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins’; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he only have smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, “If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite. CHAPTER IV Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of directing her letters. The earliest intelligence of the travellers’ safe arrival at Antigua, after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe, she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others, when Sir Thomas’s assurances of their both being alive and well made it necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches for a while. The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments, and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of her sister, and Mrs. Grant’s wasteful doings to overlook, left her very little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent. The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour, secured and brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in believing they had no faults. Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters. She was too indolent even to accept a mother’s gratification in witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to hire. Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt’s companion when they called away the rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a _tête-à-tête_ from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins’ gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth much. The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting her again, “because,” as it was observed by her aunts, “she might ride one of her cousin’s horses at any time when they did not want them,” and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day, thinking everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one thing to be done; and that “Fanny must have a horse” was the resolute declaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady’s horse of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it: and she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. “Fanny must have a horse,” was Edmund’s only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas’s return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself. He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only waiting till September? Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father’s thinking he had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had three horses of his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride; he knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up his mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare proved a treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund’s mare was far beyond any former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentiments towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding, and tender. As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny’s use; and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas’s return in September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and without any near prospect of finishing his business. Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arrived safely, bringing an excellent account of his father’s health; but to very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas’s sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent’s care, under the influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, was not without its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind became so pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet her nerves. “If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well married,” she very often thought; always when they were in the company of men of fortune, and particularly on the introduction of a young man who had recently succeeded to one of the largest estates and finest places in the country. Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love. He was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well pleased with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father’s, as well as ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could. Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and, among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman’s mother, who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character which could so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them all—perfectly faultless—an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve and attach her. After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr. Rushworth’s marrying Miss Bertram. It was some months before Sir Thomas’s consent could be received; but, in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs. Norris’s talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at present. Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the business; but no representation of his aunt’s could induce him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to be the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth’s company—“If this man had not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow.” Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of the right sort—in the same county, and the same interest—and his most hearty concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the end of the summer. Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle’s house they had found a kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else, were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady’s death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months’ further trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of children—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London. Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though they arose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of the place. The meeting was very satisfactory on each side. Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister’s. She had not waited her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned. Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister’s early care, or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provided she could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in life. While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry. “And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something to make it complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very happy.” Henry bowed and thanked her. “My dear sister,” said Mary, “if you can persuade him into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them avoid Henry.” “My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.” “No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of the poet—‘Heaven’s _last_ best gift.’” “There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s lessons have quite spoiled him.” “I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant, “to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.” Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no disinclination to the state herself. “Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to advantage.” CHAPTER V The young people were pleased with each other from the first. On each side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford’s beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been more of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while they were the finest young women in the country. Her brother was not handsome: no, when they first saw him he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so very plain: he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Bertram’s engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen in love with. Maria’s notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct. She did not want to see or understand. “There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man—everybody knew her situation—Mr. Crawford must take care of himself.” Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he began with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points. “I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister,” said he, as he returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner visit; “they are very elegant, agreeable girls.” “So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it. But you like Julia best.” “Oh yes! I like Julia best.” “But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the handsomest.” “So I should suppose. She has the advantage in every feature, and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me.” “I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at last.” “Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?” “And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember that, my dear brother. Her choice is made.” “Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be done.” “Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and it is a great match for her.” “But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend. _I_ do not subscribe to it. I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it in her eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart.” “Mary, how shall we manage him?” “We must leave him to himself, I believe. Talking does no good. He will be taken in at last.” “But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable.” “Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody is taken in at some period or other.” “Not always in marriage, dear Mary.” “In marriage especially. With all due respect to such of the present company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so, when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.” “Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.” “My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but, however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. What is this but a take in?” “My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere—and those evil-minded observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in and deceived than the parties themselves.” “Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.” “You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us, and we will cure you.” The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford’s being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day. The Miss Bertrams’ admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford’s habits made her likely to feel. She acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men, that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good. _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best. She knew it was her way. Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, and found almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen’s seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be completely new furnished—pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an agreeable man himself—with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had to run at the B—— races. These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of. And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what was _her_ opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford’s beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary, she never mentioned _him_. The notice, which she excited herself, was to this effect. “I begin now to understand you all, except Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr. Bertrams. “Pray, is she out, or is she not? I am puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_; and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_.” Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, “I believe I know what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question. My cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond me.” “And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained. The distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appearance are, generally speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be mistaken as to a girl’s being out or not. A girl not out has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks very demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far, it is all very proper. Girls should be quiet and modest. The most objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite—to confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system. One does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to every thing—and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with such changes.” “I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson.” “No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean. I am quite in the dark. But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of pleasure, if you will tell me what about.” “Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It was exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away, and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady—nothing like a civil answer—she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! I did not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then _out_. I met her at Mrs. Holford’s, and did not recollect her. She came up to me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the story.” “And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too common a fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong.” “Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,” said Mr. Bertram gallantly, “are doing a great deal to set them right.” “The error is plain enough,” said the less courteous Edmund; “such girls are ill brought up. They are given wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than afterwards.” “I do not know,” replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. “Yes, I cannot agree with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the business. It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen done. That is worse than anything—quite disgusting!” “Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed,” said Mr. Bertram. “It leads one astray; one does not know what to do. The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last September, just after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund—his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home, and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me.” “That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Though I have no younger sister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one’s time must be very vexatious; but it was entirely the mother’s fault. Miss Augusta should have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prosper. But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister’s?” “No,” replied Edmund; “I do not think she has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_.” “Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out.” CHAPTER VI Mr. Bertram set off for————, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very flat business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertaining story, about “my friend such a one.” She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the upper end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first time since the Crawfords’ arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and very eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying much to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. Miss Bertram’s attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very ungracious. “I wish you could see Compton,” said he; “it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life. I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach _now_, is one of the finest things in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison—quite a dismal old prison.” “Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Norris. “A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world.” “It wants improvement, ma’am, beyond anything. I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done with it.” “No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,” said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; “but depend upon it, Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire.” “I must try to do something with it,” said Mr. Rushworth, “but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some good friend to help me.” “Your best friend upon such an occasion,” said Miss Bertram calmly, “would be Mr. Repton, I imagine.” “That is what I was thinking of. As he has done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once. His terms are five guineas a day.” “Well, and if they were _ten_,” cried Mrs. Norris, “I am sure _you_ need not regard it. The expense need not be any impediment. If I were you, I should not think of the expense. I would have everything done in the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have space to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively fond of it. It would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now, with my little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what it was when we first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris’s sad state of health. He c