Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons

by Vera Nazarian

  Catherine, looking up, perceived Captain Tilney. Isabella, earnestly fixing her blazing yellow eye on him as she spoke, soon caught his notice. He approached immediately, enthralled, and took the seat to which her movements invited him.

  His first address made Catherine start, and sent two angels tumbling from her shoulder. Though spoken low, she could distinguish, “What! Always to be watched, in person or by proxy!”

  “Psha, nonsense!” was Isabella’s answer in a cooing screech, interpreted by the gentleman as a similar delicate half-whisper. “Why do you put such things into my head?"

  And then for several minutes they engaged in a flirtation that included references to hearts, eyes, and torment.

  Catherine heard all this, and, quite out of countenance, could listen no longer. Amazed that Isabella could endure it, and jealous for her brother—though, why, she had no idea! Indeed, did she not want this fiendish engagement to be over?—she rose up, and saying she should join Mrs. Allen, proposed their walking.

  But for this Isabella showed no inclination. She was so amazingly tired, and it was so odious to parade about the pump-room with the other silly treasure seekers; and if she moved from her seat she should miss her sisters who were out foraging for that orphaned turnip nonsense. Dearest Catherine must excuse her, and must sit quietly down again.

  But Catherine could be stubborn too; and Mrs. Allen just then coming up to propose their returning home, she joined her and walked out of the pump-room, leaving Isabella still sitting with Captain Tilney.

  Mrs. Allen went on at length about having seen a real dragon fly over the millinery shop minutes ago, and, she dared declare, it was unbelievable—but Catherine’s mind was filled with too much contradictory uneasiness and outrage to properly respond.

  It seemed to her that Captain Tilney was falling in love with Isabella, and Isabella unconsciously encouraging him. Unconsciously it must be—for Isabella’s attachment to James was as certain as her engagement. To doubt her good intentions was impossible. Even though, it occurred to Catherine, wasn’t this possible disloyalty exactly what she was dearly hoping for—considering that she wanted the engagement between her brother and the frightful naphil to be dissolved?

  Oh dear, didn’t Catherine know her own mind any longer? Or maybe she was just getting used to it, to her horrid, unnatural female friend being with James?

  And then . . . oh, the horrid ogre being in love with her!

  But enough!—Her mind returned to her fiendish friend and Captain Tilney. During the whole of their conversation Isabella’s manner had been odd. Catherine even wished Isabella had talked more like her usual gaily confident, screeching scarecrow self, and not so much about money, and had not looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint of it—oh dear, there she was again, thinking along the lines of keeping her brother and his infernal bride together! What in all heaven was she thinking? Yes, there would be pain for her brother, but it was for the best, surely!

  Maybe it was because of the so-called “compliment” in the form of John Thorpe’s horrid affection that made her mind decidedly not its own. She felt unmentionable revulsion and fright, merely at the thought.

  Though, she was almost disbelieving of it. For she had not forgotten that the ogre frequently made glaring, blunt mistakes. His assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his misunderstandings were indeed very egregious.

  That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Maybe he had been impressed by her decryption skills and enamored with her for the sake of the Udolpho Code?

  Isabella talked of his attentions, but—upon her word, Isabella had said many things before which were frankly idiotic.

  Chapter 19

  A few days passed, and Catherine, could not help watching Isabella closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.

  Catherine knew that she alone was seeing her same, true, frightful monster self where others could only see an enchanted delightful veneer (the men, in particular). And yet, even the usual sallow stick-scarecrow at the heart of the illusion was now different somehow—more inward drawn, more emaciated perhaps?

  When she saw Isabella, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar’s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so subtle, so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A languid indifference, an absence of mind, would occasionally come across her.

  But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney’s attentions as readily as they were offered, and according him almost an equal share of her notice and smiles as James, the alteration became undeniable. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct? Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting—granted, Catherine wanted this pain, did she not?—but James was the sufferer. Oh, it was unbearable!

  She saw him grave and uneasy. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. For the sake of Henry, his better brother, she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment.

  For, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella’s engagement that she could not imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but anything more was her misapprehension.

  Catherine was determined to at least remind Isabella of her engaged situation for propriety’s sake (at least for now—no commitment must be broken until she had her fateful revelation talk with James), but seemed to find no opportunity for it either. Isabella appeared impervious to hints.

  In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became our heroine’s chief consolation. Their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney’s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own.

  But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing. He was not to accompany them to Northanger, he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine learned this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother’s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement.

  “My brother does know it,” was Henry’s answer.

  “Does he? Then why does he stay here?”

  He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, “Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for everybody’s sake, to leave Bath directly.”

  Henry smiled. “I am sure my brother would not wish it.”

  “Then you will persuade him to go away?”

  “I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master.”

  “No, he does not know what he is about!” cried Catherine, while at least three angels rose up in anxious flurries of light and moved from her to Mr. Tilney, then back again. “He does not know the pain he is giving my brother. I know James is very uncomfortable.”

  “And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?”

  “Yes, very sure.”

  “Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe’s admission of them, that gives the pain?”

  “Is not it the same thing?”

  “I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves. It is the woman only who can make it a torment.”

  Catherine blushed for her unnatural so-called friend, and said, “Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment—well, not exactly, that is, considering what she is, she could—I mean, oh dear—” Catherine stopped, realizing in alarm that she almost confessed Isabella’s true nature to Mr. Tilney—a notion rather disastrous
since it would have certainly led her to divulge certain other supernatural things to him, including things about herself. And she was not ready to do such a thing at all.

  Changing her words, she continued, “Isabella is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, always at his side—”

  “I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick.”

  “Oh, no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another—could she?”

  Henry’s look was again rather unfathomable. “It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little.”

  After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, “Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?”

  “I can have no opinion on that subject.”

  “But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?”

  “You are a very close questioner.”

  “Am I? I only ask what I want to be told.”

  “But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?”

  “Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.”

  “My brother’s heart, I assure you I can only guess at.”

  This oddly compelling exchange continued until Henry admitted to his brother being upon occasion thoughtless, and Catherine inquired why General Tilney did not intervene.

  “My dear Miss Morland,” said Henry at last, “this solicitude for your brother’s comfort is amiable. But, are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you for supposing her affection, or good behaviour, is only to be secured by her never seeing Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else?”

  Perceiving her still doubtful and grave, he added, “Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will remain but a very short time, only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. There, all will be forgotten.”

  Catherine was at last comforted. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for her fears, and resolved not to think on it again until she and James had occasion to have the talk.

  Her resolution was supported by Isabella’s behaviour in their parting. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine’s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness. James was in excellent spirits; Isabella engagingly placid, and only as chill as a summer day along one of the Poles. The heartfelt embraces, tears, and promises of their parting may only be imagined.

  Chapter 20

  Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been rather unwittingly increased—in chief, the blame for the delightful condition of Bath society given over to the pursuit of secrets and treasure could be laid at her feet (by way of a rather industrious tongue of John Thorpe).

  Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise. They were to remain only one more week in Bath themselves, despite the charm of dragon sightings, cryptic root vegetables, quaint tinkling bells—some of the latter even recovered from the very water itself in the pump-room, etc. Her quitting them now would not long be felt.

  Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends.

  But so great was Catherine’s happy agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right, or losing their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with Mr. Allen to Pulteney Street.

  Catherine refrained from talking to angels out of sheer nerves, even though they settled among the table settings, and soared from dish to dish in her vicinity, making gentle suggestions to compose her manners. “You are managing wonderfully well, dear child, only do watch that sauce dish directly above your elbow—oh dear . . .”

  Miss Tilney’s manners and Henry’s smile soon did away some of her unpleasant feelings (and guilt over spilled sauce). But still she was far from being at ease.

  Nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she might have felt less discomposure had she been less attended to by such an imposing man as himself. His anxiety for her comfort—continual solicitations that she eat, often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste—though never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table—made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor.

  Catherine felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it. She nervously voiced inanities to Lawrence or Clarence, belatedly coughed into a napkin to disguise her mutterings, and was in such poor form that even Miss Tilney gave her comforting looks.

  Her tranquility was not improved by the general’s impatience for the appearance of his eldest son—nor by his displeasure at Captain Tilney’s laziness when he at last came down. The severity of fatherly reproof seemed disproportionate to the offence. Her concern deepened when she found herself the principal cause of the lecture; his tardiness, a sign of disrespect to her. This placed her in a very uncomfortable situation. Soon, she felt great sympathy for Captain Tilney.

  He listened to his father in silence, attempting no defense. Catherine feared this was an inquietude of his mind on Isabella’s account; sleeplessness over her being the cause of his rising late.

  It was the first time she found herself in his company (as opposed to being an observer in passing), and now she hoped to be able to form her opinion of him. But she scarcely heard his voice while his father remained in the room. Even afterwards, so much were his spirits affected, she could distinguish only his whisper to Eleanor, “How glad I shall be when you are all off.”

  The bustle of going was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the trunks were carrying down, and the general had fixed to be out of Milsom Street by that hour.

  His greatcoat, instead of being brought for him to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to accompany his son. Catherine glanced at it in passing, oddly reminded of a grand wingspan of an ancient airborne creature, and thought for a moment that she saw a glitter of metallic scales. . . .

  Upon my word, said Catherine to herself, now I am being entirely nonsensical. And we have not even embarked to Udolpho yet—that is, to Northanger . . .

  The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out, though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter’s maid had so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit. So much was the general influenced by this apprehension when he handed her in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.

  At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females. They set off at the sober pace in which the handsome, highly fed four horses of a gentleman usually perform a journey of thirty miles—such was the distance of Northanger from Bath, to be divided into two equal stages.

  Catherine’s spirits revived as they drove from the door. For, with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint. And, with the interest of a road entirely new to her, of an abbey before, and a curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret of any of its hidden treasures, and only anticipation of horrid wonders ahead.

  The tediousness of a two hours’ wait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry, and loiter about without anything to see or even decrypt, next followed. Her admiration of their travel style; the fashionable chaise and four—postilions handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, numerous outriders properly mounted—sunk a little under this consequent inconvenience.

  Had their party
been perfectly agreeable, the delay would have been nothing. But General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed always a check upon his children’s spirits. Scarcely anything was said but by himself. His discontent at whatever the inn afforded, his angry impatience at the waiters, made Catherine grow every moment more in awe of him, and appeared to lengthen the two hours into a horrid four (though, horrid not in the happy Udolpho sense).

  At last, however, the order of release was given. Catherine was then much surprised by the general’s proposal of her taking his place in his son’s curricle for the rest of the journey: “the day was fine, and he was anxious for her seeing as much of the country as possible.”

  The remembrance of Mr. Allen’s opinion in regard to young men’s open carriages, made her blush at the mention of such a plan, and her first thought was to decline it. But her second deferred to General Tilney’s judgment—he could not propose anything improper for her. For that matter, the angels surrounding her loudly rejoiced, and their suddenly iridescent wings glowed visibly brighter even in the sunlight.

  Thus, she found herself with Henry in the curricle, as happy a being as ever existed. Soon she was convinced that a curricle was the prettiest equipage in the world. The chaise and four had grandeur, but it had stopped like a troll for two hours at Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curricle. So nimble were the horses that they could have passed the general’s carriage in half a minute.

  But the merit of the curricle did not all belong to the horses; Henry drove so well—so quietly—without making any ogre disturbance, without an infernal attendant climate, without parading to her while also muttering about hidden Clues, or swearing at them in a roar, or needing to beat off any monstrous ducks . . . In short—so different from the only other gentleman-coachman whom she could compare him with!