Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (5 page)

But this was far from being the case. Though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies (and Catherine noted angels perched on top of quite a few of them). Still they moved on—something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath her, and of all the dangers of her late passage through them.

It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time that evening, to feel herself at a ball. She longed to dance, but she had not an acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, “I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could get a partner.” For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Catherine grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

A tiny voice sounded in her ear, “Dear child, be consoled by the fact that so far you have been unnoticed by any malevolent ones!” It was either Clarence or Lawrence, who found a sitting spot on one of her puffed sleeves. “Indeed, dancing, though pleasant, is far from being as universally enjoyable as one might suppose! Fie, dancing!”

“And how would one such as yourself know?” whispered Catherine at her sleeve, pretending to fan herself. “Isn’t dancing a mundane frivolity?”

“Not in the least,” said the angel. “For, we dance and rejoice when Good is accomplished, just as well as we weep and mourn when Evil is done.”

“Then you must spend all your time waltzing and weeping simultaneously,” mused Catherine. “What an oddity of existence!”

There was a tinkle of angelic laughter as another tiny being whispered in her other ear, “Oh goodness, no! Only the Almighty has that divine and paradox ability; we necessarily take turns doing one and then the other! For example, today, this moment, I am directed only to laugh and dance in joy at all the Goodness in the world. Lawrence, meanwhile, is away, doing his weekly share of mourning at the Suffering. But, fear not; he will return shortly, for a week’s worth of mourning is but a blink of an eye in heavenly time.”

“I thought you were Lawrence.”

“Oh no, I am Terence.”

“And I am Clarence,” came from the other ear.

“Of course, I am sorry . . .” Catherine rushed to reply, though, to be honest, she mostly had no idea which of the angels she was talking to at any given moment.

“What was that, dear?” said Mrs. Allen. “Did you say something? No? Well indeed, I wish you could dance—I wish you could get a partner. Otherwise, you would not feel this regrettable need to hold discourse with your fan, you poor thing,” she added to herself.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminent spot they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel something of disappointment. She was tired of being continually pressed against by people whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives.

When they at last arrived in the tea-room, she felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to assist them (only angels peeking around teacups and saucers). They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.

And just for a single moment Catherine had an unsuitable thought—what if such pointed
lack of acquaintance
was the secret result of her heavenly guardians keeping them all away?

Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. “It would have been very shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”

“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to have a single acquaintance here!” And she moved her elbow slightly to push Terence, or Clarence, several inches away from the peril of falling onto a pastry dish.

“Try not to flap your wings so,” she added, as the angel regained its balance on the gilded china rim.

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it is very uncomfortable indeed. That is, no—what was it that you said? Wings? Oh dear! Am I flapping something? Is something torn?”

“Nothing, I mean,
rings!
What lovely rings that lady has!” Catherine hurried to speak.

Mrs. Allen was mollified.

Catherine continued, steering the conversation further: “What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”

“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here.”

“I wish we had
any
—it would be somebody to go to.”

“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they were here now.”

“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you see.”

“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid. Even now I feel something pulling, indeed—”

Catherine enacted a meaningful stare at the tiny glowing figure that managed to land on Mrs. Allen’s feather-spangled crown and was duly caught on a hairpin.

“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody.”

“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen when the dance was over.

“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have had an agreeable ball.”

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

“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of last; or if the Parrys had come, she might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has not had a partner!”

“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over—enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a heroine, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Oh, if only they could see how many shining angels ringed her head in a joyful halo of brightness—but no, of course no one could see it, and thus the heroine continued to endure enforced anonymity.

Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for her charms. She may not have been
observed,
but surely she was now
seen
by many young men who had not been near her before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding her. No whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she even once called a divinity by anybody, despite the supreme irony of having so much
of the divine
fluttering about her. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have thought her exceedingly handsome.

She
was
looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; Catherine immediately thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it before—her humble vanity was contented. She felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody.

She was thus perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention, while the angels, of course, were perfectly satisfied with the fortunate lack of threat to her person.

All in all, things had gone tolerably well.

E
very morning now brought its regular duties—shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. Everywhere they went, the angels spread about like fireflies, winking among stylish scenery and even more stylishly attired pedestrians. Catherine heard their melodious voices declaring safety and pronouncing various unlikely spots such as flower vases and decorative marble pedestals to be free of malice.

The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all. Catherine was beginning to think her unseemly idea about angelic intervention was not far off the mark.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.

As soon as the introduction took place, in that exact moment, there was a minor commotion behind Catherine’s ear, as Lawrence, or possibly Terence, exclaimed, “Oh dear! Oh, Catherine! Danger! Oh—”

But of course our heroine did not, and indeed could not—or possibly
would
not—pay any heed, since here was the dear opportunity, at last, to make a proper new acquaintance.

Mr. Tilney seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking while they danced (and the angels—being at least half a dozen in number, on each side, and talking all at once in both of Catherine’s ears—did present an inordinate aural challenge).

But when they were seated at tea, she found him as agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with fluency and spirit—and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by her.

“Be careful, oh, do be careful of this gentleman, dear child! You know nothing about him!” exclaimed one particularly noisome heavenly creature at some point, balancing on the handle end of a teaspoon, so that she had to press down the other end for balance or have it go flying across the room (and possibly into the eye of the dignified matron or any one of her three young daughters across the table).

“Shush! Enough!” said Catherine to the angel, whispering this admonition while moving her lips as little as possible. Then, bending forward, she pretended to blow on her tea.

Seeing Mr. Tilney’s bemused attention to her mutterings and movements, she hurried to amend: “That is, I mean, cough! Cough!” And she politely cleared her throat to reinforce her point. “Goodness, the tea is rather hot.”

But Mr. Tilney continued to observe her with an expression she could not fathom.

After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, he suddenly addressed her with—“I have hitherto been very remiss, madam, in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; and how you like the place altogether. I have been very negligent—but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these particulars? If you are I will begin directly.”

“Tell him nothing!” exclaimed Clarence, or Terence.

“No indeed! you must remain very circumspect in what you say!” echoed Lawrence—or—or
someone
. . . Catherine was dearly annoyed at this point; she simply wanted to attend carefully to this pleasant gentleman.

“You need not give yourself that trouble, sir,” she therefore said, flatly ignoring the angelic clamor.

“No trouble, I assure you, madam.” Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, “Have you been long in Bath, madam?”

“About a week, sir,” replied Catherine, trying not to laugh.