Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons by Jane Austen, Vera Nazarian Page A
Authors: Jane Austen, Vera Nazarian
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”—only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator, [17] instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book!
Thus ends the Authorial Aside, and we may now proceed with the Story.
Chapter 6
T he following momentous conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, of delicacy, originality of thought, of literary taste . . . and of the dreadful danger in which our heroine was about to find herself.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!”
Catherine, who had been making haste but was being invariably detained by trifles of suspiciously angelic origin—such as her gown catching on stationary objects every few steps, her lace and ribbons pulled and tweaked by invisible breezes, her sash nearly getting pulled by a closing door, and her bonnet swept sideways by a particularly ferocious gust in an otherwise calm day—could only respond with apologies.
“Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?”
“Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour,” said Isabella, smiling in delightful honeyed reproach.
Catherine felt the familiar gathering of cold as she found herself standing at her dear friend’s side, and resolutely ignoring the drop in degrees. A few gentlemen passerby threw them curious glances, lingering in particular on irresistible Miss Thorpe despite her arctic clime.
“But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves.” Isabella continued, taking Catherine by the arm and leading her along (it occurred to Catherine yet again she might consider bringing along a fur muff, just for that arm). “I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat in a shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho? ”
She was referring, of course, to the dire and dreadful and wonderful novel—the one that Catherine had been reading with passionate horror before bed the previous eve, and the one which several angels attempted to hide from her nightstand, locking it in a commode.
“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil.” Catherine was not the least bit ashamed to admit her engrossed interest in Mrs. Radcliffe’s creation of wild fancy.
Isabella’s lovely eyes seemed brighter than usual in response. Or possibly they changed hue to a peculiar yellowish tinge—that could not be, of course, it was just a trick of the morning light . . .
“Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”
“No, dear child! You must not be tricked into agreeing!”
The words came as though from a great distance, then grew louder—Angels! Her familiar angels were clamoring all around, and suddenly once again Catherine could hear them all; and she blinked, as though coming awake.
“Catherine!” exclaimed a tiny being of light, darting just below her ear. “Believe us! This is the moment of truth! If you reply in agreement to her innocently
Thus ends the Authorial Aside, and we may now proceed with the Story.
Chapter 6
T he following momentous conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, of delicacy, originality of thought, of literary taste . . . and of the dreadful danger in which our heroine was about to find herself.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, “My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!”
Catherine, who had been making haste but was being invariably detained by trifles of suspiciously angelic origin—such as her gown catching on stationary objects every few steps, her lace and ribbons pulled and tweaked by invisible breezes, her sash nearly getting pulled by a closing door, and her bonnet swept sideways by a particularly ferocious gust in an otherwise calm day—could only respond with apologies.
“Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?”
“Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour,” said Isabella, smiling in delightful honeyed reproach.
Catherine felt the familiar gathering of cold as she found herself standing at her dear friend’s side, and resolutely ignoring the drop in degrees. A few gentlemen passerby threw them curious glances, lingering in particular on irresistible Miss Thorpe despite her arctic clime.
“But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves.” Isabella continued, taking Catherine by the arm and leading her along (it occurred to Catherine yet again she might consider bringing along a fur muff, just for that arm). “I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat in a shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho? ”
She was referring, of course, to the dire and dreadful and wonderful novel—the one that Catherine had been reading with passionate horror before bed the previous eve, and the one which several angels attempted to hide from her nightstand, locking it in a commode.
“Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil.” Catherine was not the least bit ashamed to admit her engrossed interest in Mrs. Radcliffe’s creation of wild fancy.
Isabella’s lovely eyes seemed brighter than usual in response. Or possibly they changed hue to a peculiar yellowish tinge—that could not be, of course, it was just a trick of the morning light . . .
“Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?”
“No, dear child! You must not be tricked into agreeing!”
The words came as though from a great distance, then grew louder—Angels! Her familiar angels were clamoring all around, and suddenly once again Catherine could hear them all; and she blinked, as though coming awake.
“Catherine!” exclaimed a tiny being of light, darting just below her ear. “Believe us! This is the moment of truth! If you reply in agreement to her innocently
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