CHAPTER 5
Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, inreturning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainlyclaimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eyefor Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked invain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hopedto be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weatherwere answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt ofit; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and telltheir acquaintance what a charming day it is.
As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerlyjoined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room todiscover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was nota genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sundaythroughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathethe fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, armin arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreservedconversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but againwas Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He wasnowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor LowerRooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among thewalkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His namewas not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He mustbe gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be soshort! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in ahero, threw a fresh grace in Catherine's imagination around his personand manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From theThorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bathbefore they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in whichshe often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received everypossible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impressionon her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was verysure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that hemust have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would thereforeshortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, ”for shemust confess herself very partial to the profession”; and something likea sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong in notdemanding the cause of that gentle emotion--but she was not experiencedenough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know whendelicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence shouldbe forced.
Mrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfied with Bath. She had foundsome acquaintance, had been so lucky too as to find in them the familyof a most worthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune, hadfound these friends by no means so expensively dressed as herself. Herdaily expressions were no longer, ”I wish we had some acquaintance inBath!” They were changed into, ”How glad I am we have met with Mrs.Thorpe!” and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the twofamilies, as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be; neversatisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side ofMrs. Thorpe, in what they called conversation, but in which there wasscarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance ofsubject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allenof her gowns.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quickas its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through everygradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proofof it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each otherby their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinnedup each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in theset; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, theywere still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shutthemselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will notadopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers,of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to thenumber of which they are themselves adding--joining with their greatestenemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcelyever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if sheaccidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pageswith disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by theheroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? Icannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse sucheffusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk inthreadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let usnot desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productionshave afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of anyother literary corporation in the world, no species of composition hasbeen so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foesare almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of thenine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man whocollects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, andPrior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,are eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish ofdecrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, andof slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste torecommend them. ”I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do notimagine 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 isonly a novel!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her bookwith affected indifference, or momentary shame. ”It is only Cecilia, orCamilla, or Belinda”; or, in short, only some work in which the greatestpowers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledgeof human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, theliveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in thebest-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with avolume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would shehave produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must beagainst her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication,of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person oftaste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statementof improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics ofconversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language,too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the agethat could endure it.