Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (8 page)

Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion—but she was not experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced. And at that moment there were no angelic voices within
awareness
to offer the sort of guidance she was willing to hear.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Allen was now quite happy—quite satisfied with Bath. She had at last found some acquaintance in the family of a most worthy old friend; and furthermore had found these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Her previous sad daily expressions were changed into, “How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse
^[9]
of the two families, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; spending the chief of each day by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what they called
conversation
(scarcely any exchange of opinion, and hardly any resemblance of subject), for Mrs. Thorpe talked of her children, and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.

Contrary to angelic warning, the progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick, as its beginning had been warm (at least in the figurative sense—without admitting it even to herself, Catherine resorted to wearing additional wraps in her friend’s chill-inducing presence; even Mrs. Allen started to notice the
cold
and complain about it, without clearly knowing its cause).

The two friends passed rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness. They called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in (frozen) arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set. And if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.

Yes,
novels
. For I will not adopt that ungenerous custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very things which they are producing—and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine. If she is to accidentally take up a novel
^[10]
, she must turn over its insipid pages with disgust.
^[11]

Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers
^[12]
to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans.
^[13]

Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried.
^[14]

From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers.
^[15]
There seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist,
^[16]
and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.

“I am no novel-reader—I seldom look into novels—Do not imagine that I often read novels—It is really very well for a novel.” Such is the common cant.

“And what are you reading, Miss—?”

“Oh! It is only a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. “It is only
Cecilia,
or
Camilla,
or
Belinda
”—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.

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 veiled question—nay, a secret request to claim your soul—you are in fact agreeing to her dark influence! Her query is a trick!’

“Huh? What?” said Catherine, and then immediately pretended to cough into her palm.

But the angels were satisfied she was at last paying attention to them.

Isabella meanwhile watched her friend’s odd extended pause and coughing fit, with her smile frozen in place, and poised for her answer.

Catherine was feeling a strange ringing sensation—very similar to her moment of metaphysical awakening several years ago when she first began to hear heavenly voices—only this time it was different, even more profound. It was as though an additional layer before her perception was stripped away, and suddenly Catherine could
see
in twice-as-sharp focus. The angels, in a cloud of fireflies, were fiercely bright as candles! And the charming young Miss Thorpe before her—

Oh . . . Oh dear,
thought Catherine, verily staring.

Because the previously delightful Isabella now appeared very swarthy and strange and not at all charming. Instead of being a blooming beauty, somehow she was sallow, rather angular of feature, and there was an unhealthy greenish tint to her previously peach-perfect complexion. Isabella looked decidedly ghastly! And, as for her youthful vivacity, why she seemed dreadfully worn out, as though a thousand balls and seasons were behind her, and the
ennui
of the world settled under her eyes in ugly circles. Oh, and the
cold!
The dire bone-deep cold that was emanating from her in palpable waves!

“Oh, yes, you see her as she
is,
at last! Her true visage has been revealed to you, and you are no longer deceived by her outer beauty. Indeed, the real Black Veil has been lifted."

And then an angel added softly,
“Behold! You are seeing her
inside out
, Catherine.”

Catherine was stunned.

In that moment, Isabella, who had been patiently waiting for her response but finding none forthcoming, gently prompted her friend, in what Catherine now heard as a sickly-sweet unnatural, grating voice: “What is it, my sweet? I said,
are not you wild to know what is behind the black veil?
”

And Catherine watched as Isabella’s eyes
glowed
yellow.

“No!” blurted Catherine, and then amended, “that is, not wild, no; not at all, for I am still reading, and it is such a pleasure to discover for oneself, no spoiling surprises, please, my dear Isabella—”

She could almost hear multiple angelic sighs of relief coming from all directions.

“Well done, child, well done! Never agree directly to anything she asks of you, always, circumspectly deny!”

For a moment it seemed that Isabella’s eyes flashed a frustrated spark of red, like distant hellfire, but oh-so-cold . . .

Catherine proceeded to carry on somewhat, to disguise the strange turn of conversation and her own unnerved state. “
Udolpho
is marvelous! Pray, excuse my excitement, of course, but I am very particular in these things. So, do not tell me—I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.”

The demonic cold billowed about them and for once Catherine was so direly aware of it that her teeth were on the verge of chattering. But she braced them in a smile, and watched the angels come to surround her with a barrier of warming light that eased the wintry sensation.

Isabella appeared mollified for the moment. “Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished
Udolpho,
we will read
The Italian
together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.”

“Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?”

“I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook.
Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine,
and
Horrid Mysteries
. Those will last us some time.”

“Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?” Catherine pretended she was eager for a good literary fright, but for once she was not in the mood—not with Isabella and her true
horrid
visage directly at her side. With all that, who needed Mrs. Radcliffe or her ilk?

But the tedious charade must now be maintained.

“Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.”