by Jane Austen
And then came the angel voices!
Oh, how they sang! Light, clean soprano and sweet alto, and all things in-between! How pure and far-ranging were their tones, how amazing the echoes of cathedral richness in the grand open expanse!
Catherine stood up, forgetting all about the painfully stinging lump in her head, the grass staining her knees, and merely lingered with wonder, taking it all in, listening, listening, looking . . .
And as she looked, she began to see the sources of the divine chorus, the many tiny figures of light, like distant fireflies, sparkling akin to disembodied candle flames among the grass and the flowers and among the leaves of the trees.
“Oh dear!” said Catherine. “What—who are you?”
In response, one tiny figure, radiating tangible warmth and kindness, sprang up like a shooting star, or possibly a dragonfly, and darted to hang in the air just an inch before Catherine’s nose.
“Dearest child, we are angels, of course!” it replied, looking at her with infinite love.
Catherine blinked, and the next moment they came to her, shooting stars from all directions, a moving cloud of fiery hummingbirds—nay, tiny winged beings—and they exclaimed in sweet voices, “Behold! At last, she can see!”
From this remarkable point forward, things were rather different, for, wherever she went, Catherine was never again to be alone. Her world had shifted and expanded, she saw, and heard, and as a result paid better attention, and thus it was that her life had entered the next stage—which is inevitable when everything is to be accompanied by faithful commentary and a remarkable audience.
At fifteen, appearances were mending, not only of the world around her, but also of Catherine herself.
Now that angels filled every nook and crevice and whispered perfectly reasonable and wise advice in her ear, it did not at all prevent her from beginning to curl her hair and longing for balls. Her complexion improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart. She had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark on her personal improvement.
“Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl—she is almost pretty today,” were words which caught her ears now and then, in addition to various angelic whispers and exclamations of delight as to her character growth as a heroine-to-be; and how welcome were the sounds of approval at last from both parents and seraphim!
To look almost pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive. And to be almost perfectly good was the kind of heavenly approbation that had no earthly match of any kind.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman in her turn, and wished to see her children everything they ought to be. But her time was so much occupied in lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her (except for the arsenal of angels), should prefer cricket, baseball,[3] riding on horseback, and running about the country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she had never any objection to books at all. Whilst from ten onward she was in training for a mystical prodigy, from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine—reading all such works as heroines must to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.”
From Thompson, that—
“It is a delightful task
“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”
And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information—amongst the rest, that—
“Trifles light as air,
“Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
“As proofs of Holy Writ.”
That
“The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
“In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
“As when a giant dies.”
And that a young woman in love always looks—
“like Patience on a monument
“Smiling at Grief.”
Last but not least, it must be told that, from more than one angelic entity she heard—nay, was frequently instructed to
Look where you step, dear child—careful, no! That is, Catherine, indeed, do, please look OUT—oh!
Oh dear . . .
And
You must always consider carefully before speaking your mind. Indeed, words in certain combinations have the curious power to affect others far more resoundingly than sticks and stones—That is, please, don’t—WAIT—goodness, no!
Oh dear . . .
Indeed, the angelic advice and commentary so very often began and ended with “Oh dear . . .” that Catherine took it as a habitual heavenly refrain, and with time unfortunately paid it even less attention—much to the frustration of the dear blessed ones who were tirelessly looking after the immortal soul of their young charge.
Since there were always at least one or two angels present within hearing distance (and somewhat less commonly within sight—which Catherine was rather thankful for, particularly in moments of necessary daily toilet and privacy), and sometimes there were three or four or even more, the advice given and received took on the form of animated conversation.
“Watch out, dear child! Draw the hair comb across just so—”
“Catherine, your left sleeve is a bit rumpled, do straighten it just a tad—”
“Yes, I know!” Catherine would exclaim, or, “Goodness, enough! I am about to do it myself, please. Would you mind terribly moving out of the way, for maybe a few moments?”
For anyone looking on, it appeared that Catherine was talking to herself—or arguing with herself, and sometimes even having a bit of a miff with herself—but her parents soon decided it was a charming, normal portion of growing up and becoming a young woman. “Look at the dear child declaim so well,” her mother would say, “I do believe she is reciting a bit of Aristotle? No? What a nice change from running wild in the grass!” And as far as her siblings, they simply decided her apparent soliloquies were a thing that young ladies did when they thought themselves a bit smart.
As a result, Catherine’s tendency to converse with herself was allowed to continue without the least bit of concern on anyone’s part. And a good thing it was, too, since no one would have liked to bring in even the merest hint of Bedlam.
So far her general improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them (and recite a few of them out loud to throw off suspicion, in case of particularly pointed angelic argument). And though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, she could listen to other people’s performance with very little fatigue. Furthermore, an angel could always be relied upon if needed to pull open her drooping eyelids.
Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—short of stick figures and monstrous ducks, she had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true heroic height, and it was something for which no heavenly reinforcement could compensate. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen, without having seen one amiable youth who could call forth her sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and w
ithout having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient, much less gothic or medieval.
This was strange indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no—not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door—not one young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children. Even the servants had no sufficiently ruddy cheeked and comely young son to mysteriously pass by her in the green, while leading a nobly saddled mare (nay, a proper stallion!) or carrying a mighty load of firewood worthy of someone endowed with Herculean or knightly upper limbs.
But when a young lady is to be an heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Neither can large oceanic-bound landmasses, arid deserts or frightful moors. Indeed, not even Heaven itself. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of a gouty constitution—and his lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad, invited her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and Catherine all happiness.
And the angels? For mysterious reasons they were in a bit of a tumult!
Chapter 2
In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland’s personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks’ residence in Bath (and a possible heroic grand adventure), it may be stated that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful and open, and—discounting her tendency to “converse” out loud, without conceit or affectation of any kind. Her manners were just removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing, and, when in good looks, pretty—and her mind about as ignorant and uninformed as the female (or for that matter, male) mind at seventeen usually is. In short, a mind ready to be molded by grander forces, be it of Heavenly, or, God forbid, of a rather lower variety.
But once again, dear Reader, we are getting somewhat ahead of ourselves. . . .
When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this terrific separation must oppress her heart and drown her in tears for the last days of their being together (while angels all over the domicile went into veritable flurries of sympathetic agitation, occasionally knocking down minor objects on shelves and raising inexplicable drafts in closed windowless rooms). And important advice must of course flow from wise maternal lips in their parting conference in her closet (closets being the obligatory locales for such). Cautions against the violence of noblemen who delight in forcing young ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fullness of her heart. Who would not think so?
But Mrs. Morland knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. “I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose—Pray, are you listening, child? You appear so distracted yet again. Were you just talking to the wardrobe chest? Oh dear . . .”
“Not at all, mama,” replied Catherine reasonably, and avoided bestowing a glance at the three tiny angelic figures practically doing cartwheels on top of the chest, in their attempt to capture her attention.
Soon enough Mrs. Morland left the room for a moment, in order to fetch some pins that the maid apparently left in the parlor. And Catherine allowed herself to look directly at the heavenly beings. “Goodness, what is it?”
“Oh, Catherine!” exclaimed one tiny figure of light—tiny indeed, for he (or she?) was no greater than three inches in height, including folded wingspan. “Catherine, you are hereby placed in gravest danger!”
And the other two echoed him in tinkling voices, “Catherine, oh, Catherine, oh, woe! Danger!”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Oh!” cried another tiny angel. “Whatever you do, you must not go away!”
“No, dear child, you must not! This trip bodes dire and eternal misfortune!”
“But—” said Catherine, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “But, how awful! It is Bath! How can I not go? And it is to be with Mrs. Allen; she is so kind to have invited me, and—what in the world could be so horridly dangerous?”
In response the angels started flittering about terribly, their luminescent figures growing in brightness, which happened frequently when they were in a state of agitation.
Eventually one of them collided with a candlestick, and Catherine had to jump up in a hurry to catch the burning candle with amazing dexterity of one hand, while snatching a floundering winged being with another.
“Oh! Fire! Do be careful, Lawrence!” cried the other two, jumping up and down, then promptly collided with one another.
“Upon my word! This is quite ridiculous!” Catherine said, holding an angel in the palm of her hand and glaring at two more sliding around on her bedspread. “I insist you tell me what is the matter, at once! And for the hundredth time, keep away from burning flames!”
In her hand, the angel’s golden glow dimmed a little to a warm peach and then soft mauve. The being settled firmly on her palm, and put its head between two tiny arms, in a gesture of infinite regret. “I am afraid, dear Catherine, I cannot.”
“Cannot what?”
“He cannot speak, he may not answer,” piped in the others. “Indeed, none of us can tell you. We can only warn you and entreat you not to go.”
Catherine let out a long breath of frustration. “This is quite silly. How as I supposed to do or not do things, go or not go places, all without a good reason? And especially when you first frighten me to death and then refuse to explain?”
“We can only ask you to trust us—”
“Wait!” said Catherine, as though awakening out of an extended sleep. “And since when do you have given names? Lawrence?”
“It is indeed I,” replied the little being on her palm.
“So you mean to tell me that for all these months I could have been referring to each one of you in a civil manner, instead of resorting to idiocy such as Splatterplop and Fumblehead—and—”
“I am Terence,” said one of the two on her bed.
“And you may call me Clarence.”
“Well, criminy!” said Catherine.
“Not Criminy, I am Cla—”
At which point Terence touched the other gently.
“We were not allowed to utter our names before this day,” said Lawrence, folding his/her/its little hands together and fluttering its wings suddenly like a butterfly of pure light.
“Before this day? What changed? It is a Tuesday.”
“Grave danger,” said Clarence.
“Today we were instructed to guard you,” said Terence.
“That is, we guard everyone, but from this point on we must guard you with particular care,” added Lawrence.
“More than you already guard me, day and night?”
“More than imaginable,” said Lawrence. “For today you are considering leaving home for the first time and venturing into the world, and when and once you do, it becomes inevitable that you will be assailed—”
“Attacked!”
“Besieged and sorely tempted!”
“Surrounded and stormed and thoroughly tested!”
“Fallen upon from all sides!”
“And for that reason we are given th
e sternest and most solemn instruction from On High, to watch over you and protect you with all our own strength!”
“All our fortitude!”
“Our loyalty!”
“Our love!”
“But—” said Catherine. “Yes, that is, I mean—thank you kindly from my heart, indeed—but, why? And who in the world will be attacking me? Why me? What is this dreadful danger?”
But all three angels hung their heads and would not speak. Several long moments passed, as Catherine considered this unbelievable turn of events while fiddling nervously with a bit of lace. Then, with a firm sense of resolve, she sat up straight, and announced, not unlike a proper heroine: “Since you will not explain, I am obviously meant to go and face this danger directly. Besides—it’s adventure! It’s Bath!”
One by one, the angels sadly looked up.
One nodded, whispering, “Oh dear . . . We knew you would decide thus.”
“Please,” tried Lawrence once again, glowing in the palm of her hand. “Catherine, oh, Catherine, mayhap you might still change your mind?”
But because the angel knew very well they were dealing with an heroine, it/she/he resigned himself to a heavenly sigh.
Meanwhile the trip preparations must but continue. Catherine’s sibling Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?), must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante of her sister. At least, such was the assumption (though Catherine already had a veritable regiment of heavenly confidants at her disposal). It is remarkable, however, that Sarah neither insisted on Catherine’s writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. She did however request chartreuse ribbon, such as was rumored to be particularly fashionable.
