Chapter 5

by Jane Austen

　　Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatrethat evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe,though they certainly claimed much of her leisure,as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilneyin every box which her eye could reach; but she lookedin vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than thepump-room. She hoped to be more fortunate the next day;and when her wishes for fine weather were answered by seeinga beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of it; for afine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,and all the world appears on such an occasion to walkabout and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

　　As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpesand Allens eagerly joined each other; and after stayinglong enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowdwas insupportable, and that there was not a genteelface to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sundaythroughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent,to breathe the fresh air of better company. Here Catherineand Isabella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets offriendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much,and with much enjoyment; but again was Catherine disappointedin her hope of reseeing her partner. He was nowhere to bemet with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither atthe Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls,was he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen,or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name was notin the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more.He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned thathis stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness,which is always so becoming in a hero, threw a fresh gracein Catherine's imagination around his person and manners,and increased her anxiety to know more of him.From the Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had beenonly two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Allen.It was a subject, however, in which she often indulgedwith her fair friend, from whom she received every possibleencouragement to continue to think of him; and his impressionon her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.Isabella was very sure that he must be a charming young man,and was equally sure that he must have been delighted withher dear Catherine, and would therefore shortly return.She liked him the better for being a clergyman, "for shemust confess herself very partial to the profession";and something like a sigh escaped her as she said it.Perhaps Catherine was wrong in not demanding the causeof that gentle emotion--but she was not experienced enoughin 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.

　　Mrs. Allen was now quite happy--quite satisfiedwith Bath. She had found some acquaintance, had beenso lucky too as to find in them the family of a mostworthy old friend; and, as the completion of good fortune,had found these friends by no means so expensively dressedas herself. Her daily expressions were no longer, "I wishwe had some acquaintance in Bath!" They were changed into,"How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Thorpe!" and she wasas eager in promoting the intercourse of the two families,as her young charge and Isabella themselves could be;never satisfied with the day unless she spent thechief of it by the side of Mrs. Thorpe, in what theycalled conversation, but in which there was scarcely everany exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblanceof subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children,and Mrs. Allen of her gowns.

　　The progress of the friendship between Catherineand Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm,and they passed so rapidly through every gradationof increasing tenderness that there was shortly no freshproof of it to be given to their friends or themselves.They called each other by their Christian name, were alwaysarm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other's trainfor 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 in defiance of wetand dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous andimpolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degradingby their contemptuous censure the very performances,to the number of which they are themselves adding--joiningwith their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshestepithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting themto be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentallytake up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pageswith disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be notpatronized by the heroine of another, from whom can sheexpect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it.Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusionsof fancy at their leisure, and over every new novelto talk in threadbare strains of the trash with whichthe press now groans. Let us not desert one another;we are an injured body. Although our productions haveafforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure thanthose of any other literary corporation in the world,no species of composition has been so much decried.From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almostas many as our readers. And while the abilities ofthe nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England,or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume somedozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper fromthe Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogizedby a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wishof decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labourof the novelist, and of slighting the performances whichhave only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them."I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Donot imagine that I often read novels--It is reallyvery well for a novel." Such is the common cant."And what are you reading, Miss--?" "Oh! It is onlya novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down herbook with affected indifference, or momentary shame."It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short,only some work in which the greatest powers of the mindare displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge ofhuman nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties,the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyedto the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the sameyoung lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,instead of such a work, how proudly would she haveproduced the book, and told its name; though the chancesmust be against her being occupied by any part of thatvoluminous publication, of which either the matter or mannerwould not disgust a young person of taste: the substanceof its papers so often consisting in the statement ofimprobable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topicsof conversation which no longer concern anyone living;and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to giveno very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.