This passage is excerpted from Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey, originally published in 1803.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter
the ballroom till late. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to
the card-room. With more care for the safety of her new gown
than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way
through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the
necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close
at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend’s to
be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. Still they moved on—something better was yet in
view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity
they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest
bench. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time
that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but
she had not an acquaintance in the room.
Catherine began to feel something of disappointment—she
was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the
generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and
with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the
exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives. They
saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain
for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the
end of a table, at which a large party were already placed,
without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to,
except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were
seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. “It would
have been very shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not
it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen
anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to
have a single acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it
is very uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table
look as if they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing
ourselves into their party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a
large acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had any—it would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join
them directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they
were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things
for us, you see.”
“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I
think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a
crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push
that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are
you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of
people? I think you must know somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large
acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you
a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a
strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on!
How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of
their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this
introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered
it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during
the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen
when the dance was over.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have
had an agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to
hide a great yawn.
“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish
we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how
glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of
last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she
might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has
not had a partner!”
“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s
consolation.
Mrs. Allen was so long in dressing that they did not enter
the ballroom till late. As for Mr. Allen, he repaired directly to
the card-room. With more care for the safety of her new gown
than for the comfort of her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way
through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the
necessary caution would allow; Catherine, however, kept close
at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within her friend’s to
be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. Still they moved on—something better was yet in
view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity
they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest
bench. It was a splendid sight, and she began, for the first time
that evening, to feel herself at a ball: she longed to dance, but
she had not an acquaintance in the room.
Catherine began to feel something of disappointment—she
was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the
generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and
with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the
exchange of a syllable with any of her fellow captives. They
saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking about them in vain
for a more eligible situation, were obliged to sit down at the
end of a table, at which a large party were already placed,
without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to,
except each other.
Mrs. Allen congratulated herself, as soon as they were
seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. “It would
have been very shocking to have it torn,” said she, “would not
it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen
anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you.”
“How uncomfortable it is,” whispered Catherine, “not to
have a single acquaintance here!”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, “it
is very uncomfortable indeed.”
“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table
look as if they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing
ourselves into their party.”
“Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a
large acquaintance here.”
“I wish we had any—it would be somebody to go to.”
“Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join
them directly. The Skinners were here last year—I wish they
were here now.”
“Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things
for us, you see.”
“No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I
think we had better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a
crowd! How is my head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push
that has hurt it, I am afraid.”
“No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are
you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of
people? I think you must know somebody.”
“I don’t, upon my word—I wish I did. I wish I had a large
acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you
a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance. There goes a
strange-looking woman! What an odd gown she has got on!
How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back.”
After some time they received an offer of tea from one of
their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this
introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered
it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during
the evening, till they were discovered and joined by Mr. Allen
when the dance was over.
“Well, Miss Morland,” said he, directly, “I hope you have
had an agreeable ball.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” she replied, vainly endeavouring to
hide a great yawn.
“I wish she had been able to dance,” said his wife; “I wish
we could have got a partner for her. I have been saying how
glad I should be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of
last; or if the Parrys had come, as they talked of once, she
might have danced with George Parry. I am so sorry she has
not had a partner!”
“We shall do better another evening I hope,” was Mr. Allen’s
consolation.