JANE AUSTEN

EMMA
BY
A PENN STATE ELECTRONIC CLASSICS SERIES PUBLICATION
Emma by Jane Austen is a publication of the Pennsylvania State University. This Portable
Document file is furnished free and without any charge of any kind. Any person using this
document file, for any purpose, and in any way does so at his or her own risk. Neither the
Pennsylvania State University nor Jim Manis, Faculty Editor, nor anyone associated with the
Pennsylvania State University assumes any responsibility for the material contained within
the document or for the file as an electronic transmission, in any way.

Emma by Jane Austen, the Pennsylvania State University, Electronic Classics Series, Jim
Manis, Faculty Editor, Hazleton, PA 18201-1291 is a Portable Document File produced as part
of an ongoing student publication project to bring classical works of literature, in English, to
free and easy access of those wishing to make use of them.

Cover Design: Jim Manis

Copyright © 2001 The Pennsylvania State University

The Pennsylvania State University is an equal opportunity university.

 Jane Austen

Emma an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had

been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had
fallen little short of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s fam-
by ily, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daugh-
ters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the
Jane Austen intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold
the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her temper
had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow
VOLUME I of authority being now long passed away, they had been living
together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma
CHAPTER I doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s judg-
ment, but directed chiefly by her own.

E
MMA WOODHOUSE, handsome, clever, and rich, with The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power
a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to
to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages
had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger,
to distress or vex her. however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affec- any means rank as misfortunes with her.
tionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape
marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It
Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than
3
 Emma
was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief. It was on the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed
wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a
mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and com-
and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to panion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, use-
dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long ful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in
evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every
as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she pleasure, every scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak
had lost. every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. her as could never find fault.
Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy for- How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend
tune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware
satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston,
friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house;
but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want of Miss and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was
Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude.
past kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years— She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.
how she had taught and how she had played with her from He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
five years old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr.
and amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by
various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian
owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much

4
 Jane Austen
older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere be- of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with
loved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin
his talents could not have recommended him at any time. of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by mat- yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor could ever
rimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was speak of her but with compassion, though it had been en-
much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and tirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part
November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle selfish-
before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her ness, and of being never able to suppose that other people
husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give could feel differently from himself, he was very much dis-
her pleasant society again. posed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amount- as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she
ing to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled
and shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such
equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not
looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place, to say exactly as he had said at dinner,
for her father was universally civil, but not one among them “Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a
who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”
day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but “I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr.
sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man,
awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits re- that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you would
quired support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all

5
 Emma
my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?” till you mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!”
“A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a “I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I
house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon
have never any odd humours, my dear.” any account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant:
“How often we shall be going to see them, and they com- she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her.
ing to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must begin; Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do,
we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.” in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do
“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a dis- needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the
tance. I could not walk half so far.” right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent
“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to
in the carriage, to be sure.” have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever
“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hear-
for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to be ing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are.”
while we are paying our visit?” Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of
“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her
know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no
with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but
very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it un-
daughter’s being housemaid there. I only doubt whether he necessary.
will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-
You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the

6
 Jane Austen
family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”
of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, “By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well
was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been
more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off
mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late din- tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?”
ner, after some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield “Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”
to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy “Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I can-
circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. not possibly say `poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for
Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of depen-
good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and her dence or independence!—At any rate, it must be better to
children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, have only one to please than two.”
Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, “Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, trouble-
Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. some creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have
I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.” in your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if
“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so my father were not by.”
mild that I must draw back from your great fire.” “I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr.
“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish Woodhouse, with a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very
you may not catch cold.” fanciful and troublesome.”
“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.” “My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or
“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible idea!
rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find

7
 Emma
fault with me, you know—in a joke—it is all a joke. We Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and
always say what we like to one another.” smiles. “It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could companion,” said Mr. Knightley. “We should not like her so
see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how
told her of them: and though this was not particularly agree- much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s advantage; she knows
able to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s time of life,
to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her
a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot
“Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of
I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.”
to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The “And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said
chances are that she must be a gainer.” Emma, “and a very considerable one—that I made the match
“Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—”you want to myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to
hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many
we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may com-
body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to fort me for any thing.”
be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly re-
a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.” plied, “Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and
“Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass.
Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Tay- Pray do not make any more matches.”
lor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for.” “I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must,

8
 Jane Austen
indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the “I do not understand what you mean by `success,’” said
world! And after such success, you know!—Every body said Mr. Knightley. “Success supposes endeavour. Your time has
that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeav-
Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed ouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A
so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occu- worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But if, which I
pied either in his business in town or among his friends here, rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means
always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, `I
Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr.
did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never Weston were to marry her,’ and saying it again to yourself
marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success?
wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a
letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on lucky guess; and that is all that can be said.”
the subject, but I believed none of it. “And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a
“Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Tay- lucky guess?—I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, de-
lor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it pend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is al-
began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, ways some talent in it. And as to my poor word `success,’
and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell’s, which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely
I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;
from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in but I think there may be a third—a something between the
this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s
off match-making.” visits here, and given many little encouragements, and

9
 Emma
smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if
thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come
comprehend that.” and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing. I
“A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a ra- dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him.”
tional, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left “With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr.
to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have Knightley, laughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it
done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference.” will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and
“Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to oth- help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave
ers,” rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or
“But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”
silly things, and break up one’s family circle grievously.”
“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton!
You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for
him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him—and
he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so
comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any
longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands to-
day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the
same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton,
and this is the only way I have of doing him a service.”
“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a

10
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER II rum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce
much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in
MR. WESTON WAS A NATIVE of Highbury, and born of a re- it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper
spectable family, which for the last two or three generations made him think every thing due to her in return for the great
had been rising into gentility and property. He had received a goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one
good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough
independence, had become indisposed for any of the more to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough
homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s unrea-
satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by enter- sonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former
ing into the militia of his county, then embodied. home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was noth-
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the ing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by
and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved
pride and importance, which the connexion would offend. to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a poorer man
command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no pro- than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense
portion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had,
the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of
of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due deco- his mother’s, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and

11
 Emma
Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to in-
any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered fluence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence
to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of
decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-fa- never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of
ther may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily
by other considerations, the child was given up to the care on, with these objects in view, till they were accomplished.
and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his
comfort to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could. wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.
militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already estab- He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had
lished in a good way in London, which afforded him a secured him from that, even in his first marriage; but his sec-
favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just em- ond must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly
ployment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest
where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be
occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.
twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was
that time, realised an easy competence—enough to secure the his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought
purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as
always longed for—enough to marry a woman as portionless to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age.
even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his
own friendly and social disposition. father’s assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The

12
 Jane Austen
aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband en- his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morn-
tirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to imagine that ing visit in Highbury included some mention of the hand-
any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, some letter Mrs. Weston had received. “I suppose you have
as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has writ-
London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him ten to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome
as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse
pride in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter
to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of com- in his life.”
mon concern. It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and
and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the com- such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great
pliment was so little returned that he had never been there in good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and
his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked every expression of congratulation which her marriage had
of but never achieved. already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and
Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally pro- she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might
posed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial sepa-
place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either ration from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled,
when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when and who could ill bear to part with her.
Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not
Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or
strengthened when it was understood that he had written to suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of her companion-

13
 Emma
ableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood
more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some allevia-
and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped tion to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so
and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a
easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could
even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to
and circumstances, which would make the approaching sea- be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him
son no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, ear-
week together. nestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of grati- at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent
tude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her any body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting
satisfaction—her more than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoy- Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an
ment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one
knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and upon being
still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her at applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed
Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her rather against the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might
go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a certainly disagree with many—perhaps with most people,
carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr. unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirma-
Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh, and saying, “Ah, poor Miss tion of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every
Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.” visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;

14
 Jane Austen
and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all CHAPTER III
gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little MR. WOODHOUSE was fond of society in his own way. He
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-cake liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and
in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it. from various united causes, from his long residence at
Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house,
and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own
little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much
intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of
late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any
acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.
Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same
parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of
Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not unfrequently,
through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of the chosen and
the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he
preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which
Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr.
Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone with-

15
 Emma
out liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never
of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed
Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to
daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away. the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small
After these came a second set; among the most come-at- income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman,
able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was
three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from her own universal good-will and contented temper which
Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in
that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James every body’s happiness, quicksighted to every body’s merits;
or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with
have been a grievance. blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing.
a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented
She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and
was considered with all the regard and respect which a harm- a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little
less old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial
Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popular- communications and harmless gossip.
ity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a semi-
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world nary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in
for having much of the public favour; and she had no intel- long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquire-
lectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten ments with elegant morality, upon new principles and new

16
 Jane Austen
systems—and where young ladies for enormous pay might sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned,
be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a real, honest, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was
old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much
of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet
girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble them- prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening
selves into a little education, without any danger of coming so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully
back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute— anticipated.
and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particu- As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a
larly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard,
the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring
great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chil- Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss Smith
blains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight,
twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A
was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer
in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occa- dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
sional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Some-
to Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt his particular claim on her body had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s
to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, when- school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condi-
ever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. tion of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very fre- was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends
quently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father’s but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just

17
 Emma
returned from a long visit in the country to some young la- sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family
dies who had been at school there with her. of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by charac-
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of ter, as renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in
a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, the parish of Donwell—very creditably, she believed—she
and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular fea- knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them—but they must
tures, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates
evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and el-
person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance. egance to be quite perfect. She would notice her; she would
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquain-
Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether very en- tance, and introduce her into good society; she would form
gaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and
yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own
deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking
every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens,
to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encourage- that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the
ment. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which
and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the infe- she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set
rior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquain- out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was
tance she had already formed were unworthy of her. The aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a
friends from whom she had just parted, though very good spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing

18
 Jane Austen
every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs
mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little
honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced bit of tart—a very little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need
chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise
would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of
their guests. wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were not think it could disagree with you.”
in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors
been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening
being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The hap-
thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have wel- piness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss
comed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the
made him grieve that they would eat. prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as plea-
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all sure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly
that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were com- Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken
fortably clearing the nicer things, to say: hands with her at last!
“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these
eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle un-
derstands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not
recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not

19
 Emma
CHAPTER IV attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination
for good company, and power of appreciating what was el-
HARRIET SMITH’S INTIMACY at Hartfield was soon a settled egant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste,
thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in though strength of understanding must not be expected. Al-
inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and together she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being
as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly the something
other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early fore- which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was
seen how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. out of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two
Weston’s loss had been important. Her father never went be- such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a
yond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground suf- sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the
ficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
and since Mrs. Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful.
much confined. She had ventured once alone to Randalls, For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet
but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one every thing.
whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to
valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this
her kind designs. subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, she liked—but she could never believe that in the same situa-
grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only tion she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no
desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just

20
 Jane Austen
what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther. a dozen people.”
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the af- For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond
fairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the fam-
the conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Mar- ily better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea,
tins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son’s wife,
the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr.
two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always men-
the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and tioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness— something or other, was a single man; that there was no young
amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoy- Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to
ing the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness,
exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having “two parlours, two very and that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required
good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. to sink herself forever.
Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in num-
who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their ber and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more
having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet
Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moon-
Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it should be called her light walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal
cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house in upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had
their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some
tea:— a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and

21
 Emma
in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his yond the line of his own business? He does not read?”
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing “Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he
to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little has read a good deal—but not what you would think any
himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood ev- thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other
ery thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with books that lay in one of the window seats—but he reads all
them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in them to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we
the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the
mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read
told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the
was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard
she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined
husband. Not that she wanted him to marry. She was in no to get them now as soon as ever he can.”
hurry at all. The next question was—
“Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what “What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”
you are about.” “Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him
“And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One
kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him?
goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride
it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed
and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her.” you very often.”
“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information be- “That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but with-

22
 Jane Austen
out having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank
horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”
curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with “Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty
whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, years old!”
and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to “Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry,
be useful to their families in some way or other. But a farmer who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine,
can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand
much above my notice as in every other he is below it.” with the world. Whatever money he might come into when
“To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is,
observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth;
by sight.” and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in
“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any
I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. thing yet.”
What do you imagine his age to be?” “To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They
“He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birth- have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing;
day is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.”
is very odd.” “I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he
“Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—
mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to
comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might
marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of

23
 Emma
your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your opinion against your’s—and I am sure I shall not wish for the
associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman’s acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for
daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very
every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as
people who would take pleasure in degrading you.” me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, cer-
“Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at tainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it.”
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech,
not afraid of what any body can do.” and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had
“You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold,
but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet’s
to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walk-
it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may ing on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking
be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this coun- very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfac-
try when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn tion at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an
in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while
the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently
without education.” acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very
“To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person
marry any body but what had had some education—and been had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted
very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he

24
 Jane Austen
had gained in Harriet’s inclination. Harriet was not insensible without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two
of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father’s gentleness nearer gentility.”
with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if “To be sure,” said Harriet, in a mortified voice, “he is not
he did not know what manner was. so genteel as real gentlemen.”
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss “I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have
Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentle-
running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, men, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in
which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens
“Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if,
odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin
by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature—
thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him
been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were
busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his
but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a
to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.”
What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?” “Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a
“He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the differ-
that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I ence plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!”
had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but “Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair
I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally to compare Mr. Martin with him. You might not see one in

25
 Emma
a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in Mr. “How much his business engrosses him already is very plain
Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the
lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the
Compare Mr. Martin with either of them. Compare their market to think of any thing else—which is just as it should
manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I
being silent. You must see the difference.” have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a very rich man in
“Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us.”
almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and “I wonder he did not remember the book”—was all Harriet’s
fifty.” answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which
“Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore,
older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that said no more for some time. Her next beginning was,
their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and dis- “In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior
gusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. to Mr. Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentle-
What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Mar- ness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is
tin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston,
Weston’s time of life?” which every body likes in him, because there is so much good-
“There is no saying, indeed,” replied Harriet rather solemnly. humour with it—but that would not do to be copied. Nei-
“But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a com- ther would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, command-
pletely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, ing sort of manner, though it suits him very well; his figure,
and thinking of nothing but profit and loss.” and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any
“Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.” young man were to set about copying him, he would not be

26
 Jane Austen
sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her
very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suit-
Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He able, quite the gentleman himself, and without low
seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could
know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a com-
either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me fortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient
that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large,
any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he he was known to have some independent property; and she
said of you the other day?” thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-mean-
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she ing, respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful
had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and understanding or knowledge of the world.
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a
Mr. Elton very agreeable. beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driv- at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on
ing the young farmer out of Harriet’s head. She thought it Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the idea of being
would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desir- preferred by him would have all the usual weight and effi-
able, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in cacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young
planning it. She feared it was what every body else must think man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was
of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any body should reckoned very handsome; his person much admired in gen-
have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her eral, though not by her, there being a want of elegance of
brain during the very first evening of Harriet’s coming to feature which she could not dispense with:—but the girl who

27
 Emma
could be gratified by a Robert Martin’s riding about the coun- CHAPTER V
try to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by
Mr. Elton’s admiration. “I DO NOT KNOW what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,”
said Mr. Knightley, “of this great intimacy between Emma
and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing.”
“A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?— why so?”
“I think they will neither of them do the other any good.”
“You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by
supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be
said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy
with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!—
Not think they will do each other any good! This will cer-
tainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma,
Mr. Knightley.”
“Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with
you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight
your own battle.”
“Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were
here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were
speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it
was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury

28
 Jane Austen
for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you tience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding.
to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm
alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, that Harriet Smith will do nothing.— You never could per-
perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman suade her to read half so much as you wished.—You know
feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to you could not.”
it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. “I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought
She is not the superior young woman which Emma’s friend so then;—but since we have parted, I can never remember
ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see Emma’s omitting to do any thing I wished.”
her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read “There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as
more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know.” that,”—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or
“Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was two he had done. “But I,” he soon added, “who have had no
twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing- such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and
up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her fam-
through—and very good lists they were—very well chosen, ily. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to
and very neatly arranged—sometimes alphabetically, and answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She
sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And
only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the
much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person
may have made out a very good list now. But I have done able to cope with her. She inherits her mother’s talents, and
with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma. She must have been under subjection to her.”
will never submit to any thing requiring industry and pa- “I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent

29
 Emma
on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s “I hope not that.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do
family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would not foretell vexation from that quarter.”
have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you “Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend
always thought me unfit for the office I held.” to Emma’s genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with
“Yes,” said he, smiling. “You are better placed here; very all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a
fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were Churchill in fortune.—But Harriet Smith—I have not half
preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of
were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a com- companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows noth-
plete education as your powers would seem to promise; but ing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing.
you were receiving a very good education from her, on the She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, be-
very material matrimonial point of submitting your own cause undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can
will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet
me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet,
Miss Taylor.” I will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance.
“Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other
good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston.” places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be
“Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circum-
away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be stances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s
nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a
may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in
may plague him.” life.—They only give a little polish.”

30
 Jane Austen
“I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Consider-
do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot ing how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occu-
lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!” pied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am
“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my
would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s dread of its doing them both harm.”
being pretty.” “And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence
“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little
perfect beauty than Emma altogether— face and figure?” faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better
“I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has
have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one
hers. But I am a partial old friend.” really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma
“Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.”
features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a “Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be
bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas
firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable
bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears some- and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks
times of a child being `the picture of health;’ now, Emma al- as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about
ways gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown- the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me.”
up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?” “I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or
“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I
think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privi-

31
 Emma
lege of speech that Emma’s mother might have had) the lib- what will become of her!”
erty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise “So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”
from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a matter of much “She always declares she will never marry, which, of course,
discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet
little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for
it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should
her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it
put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach
It has been so many years my province to give advice, that her; and she goes so seldom from home.”
you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains “There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break
of office.” her resolution at present,” said Mrs. Weston, “as can well be;
“Not at all,” cried he; “I am much obliged to you for it. It and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be
is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your forming any attachment which would be creating such diffi-
advice has often found; for it shall be attended to.” culties on poor Mr. Woodhouse’s account. I do not recom-
“Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made mend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no
unhappy about her sister.” slight to the state, I assure you.”
“Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts
keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in of her own and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as much as pos-
Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never ex- sible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma’s des-
cited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an tiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the
anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made

32
 Jane Austen
to “What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have CHAPTER VI
rain?” convinced her that he had nothing more to say or sur-
mise about Hartfield. EMMA COULD NOT FEEL a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy
a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young van-
ity to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly more
sensible than before of Mr. Elton’s being a remarkably hand-
some man, with most agreeable manners; and as she had no
hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by
agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating as
much liking on Harriet’s side, as there could be any occasion
for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton’s being in the fair-
est way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no
scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised
her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting
which a little time would not add. His perception of the strik-
ing improvement of Harriet’s manner, since her introduction
at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his
growing attachment.
“You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he;
“you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful
creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the at-

33
 Emma
tractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only
received from nature.” stopt to say, with a very interesting naivete,
“I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet “Oh! dear, no, never.”
only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and art- “What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would
lessness in herself. I have done very little.” be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her
“If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say, but two or three
Mr. Elton— years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and at-
“I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, tempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a toler-
have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in able eye in general. But from one cause or another, I gave it up
her way before.” in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would
“Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture!”
superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!” “Let me entreat you,” cried Mr. Elton; “it would indeed be
“Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a a delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise
disposition more truly amiable.” so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what
“I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is
sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flow-
not less pleased another day with the manner in which he ers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces
seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s picture. in her drawing-room, at Randalls?”
“Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she: Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to
“did you ever sit for your picture?” do with taking likenesses? You know nothing of drawing.

34
 Jane Austen
Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine. Keep your rap- not one of them had ever been finished, that they might de-
tures for Harriet’s face. “Well, if you give me such kind en- cide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many begin-
couragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. nings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths,
Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a likeness dif- pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn.
ficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more
the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.” progress both in drawing and music than many might have
“Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She
mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray at- played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadi-
tempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own ness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she ap-
words, be an exquisite possession.” proached the degree of excellence which she would have been
“But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She glad to command, and ought not to have failed of. She was
thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a
manner of answering me? How completely it meant, `why musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived,
should my picture be drawn?’” or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often
“Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. higher than it deserved.
But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.” There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished,
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost im- perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been
mediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and
many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others. admiration of her two companions would have been the same.
Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases every body;
the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be capital.

35
 Emma
“No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would
my own family to study from. There is my father—another wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently.
of my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made That’s very like. I am rather proud of little George. The cor-
him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither ner of the sofa is very good. Then here is my last,”—unclos-
of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and again, ing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length—
and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my kindest “my last and my best—my brother, Mr. John Knightley. —
friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. This did not want much of being finished, when I put it
There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant fig- away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness.
ure!—and the face not unlike. I should have made a good I could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and
likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in when I had really made a very good likeness of it—(Mrs.
such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very like)—
not be quiet. Then, here come all my attempts at three of only too handsome—too flattering—but that was a fault on
those four children;—there they are, Henry and John and the right side— after all this, came poor dear Isabella’s cold
Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of approbation of—”Yes, it was a little like—but to be sure it
them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to did not do him justice.” We had had a great deal of trouble in
have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no mak- persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
ing children of three or four years old stand still you know; altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would
nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable like-
the air and complexion, unless they are coarser featured than ness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as
any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my sketch of the I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again. But
fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the for Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no

36
 Jane Austen
husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
resolution now.” “If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her
the idea, and was repeating, “No husbands and wives in the part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.”
case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No hus- Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma
bands and wives,” with so interesting a consciousness, that drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently com-
Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave ing to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little
them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the
declaration must wait a little longer. pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed.—
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for
be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley’s, his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it
and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and
honourable station over the mantelpiece. his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite
afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on.
a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the
of the artist. But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement
Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably
gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every
and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined
an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the

37
 Emma
beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the
both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton’s effect of shade, you know.”
very promising attachment was likely to add. “You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr.
he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and read- Elton warmly added,
ing to them again. “Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Con-
“By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as sider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a differ-
one of the party.” ent—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the propor-
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and sat- tions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-short-
isfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the ening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height
whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”
Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in “It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done!
continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism. Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any
“Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not
wanted,”—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors,
suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—”The expression with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one
of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eye- think she must catch cold.”
brows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has “But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm
them not.” day in summer. Look at the tree.”
“Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It “But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”
appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I “You, sir, may say any thing,” cried Mr. Elton, “but I must

38
 Jane Austen
confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing world,”—brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and
of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with such assurances,—and a very few minutes settled the business.
inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the
less in character. The naivete of Miss Smith’s manners—and frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could
altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding
from it. I never saw such a likeness.” him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incom-
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and moded enough.
here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must “What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he
be done in London; the order must go through the hands of received it.
some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; “This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought
and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be Emma. “I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a
applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent
could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an `Ex-
fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to actly so,’ as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish,
Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on and study for compliments rather more than I could endure
the alert. “Might he be trusted with the commission, what as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”
to London at any time. It was impossible to say how much
he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.”
“He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—
she would not give him such a troublesome office for the

39
 Emma
CHAPTER VII as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should
do.—” Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so
THE VERY DAY of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a pleased and so doubtful.
fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet “Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined
had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect
a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, himself well if he can.”
and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, “Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do. I’d rather
hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have you would.”
happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was
it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expecta-
Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, tion. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a
and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the
had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the
away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, be- sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer.
sides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, lib-
letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Mar- erality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,
tin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. “Who could while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with
have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what a “Well, well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a good
to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good let- letter? or is it too short?”
ter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved “Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather
her very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come slowly—”so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing consid-

40
 Jane Austen
ered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can “Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own.
hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no
the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing.
own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, cer- Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs:
tainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain
woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves
have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be
when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his dis-
words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of appointment.”
mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, “You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, look-
not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than ing down.
I had expected.” “Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean?
“Well,” said the still waiting Harriet;—” well—and— and Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your
what shall I do?” pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have
“What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the
regard to this letter?” purport of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting
“Yes.” me only as to the wording of it.”
“But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma
course—and speedily.” continued:
“Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do ad- “You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”
vise me.” “No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do?

41
 Emma
What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, made up—One should not be hesitating—It is a very serious
tell me what I ought to do.” thing.—It will be safer to say `No,’ perhaps.—Do you think
“I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing I had better say `No?’”
to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your “Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would
feelings.” I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your
“I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other per-
Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma son; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever
persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the be- been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush,
witching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this moment
thought it best to say, under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive your-
“I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman self; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.
doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she At this moment whom are you thinking of?”
certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to `Yes,’ The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering,
she ought to say `No’ directly. It is not a state to be safely Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the
entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now
it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the
much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last,
you.” with some hesitation, Harriet said—
“Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if “Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I
you would just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite
not mean that—As you say, one’s mind ought to be quite determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse

42
 Jane Austen
Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?” you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself
“Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are do- out of all good society. I must have given you up.”
ing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I “Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would
kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so com- have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!”
pletely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, “Dear affectionate creature!—You banished to Abbey-Mill
I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose Farm!—You confined to the society of the illiterate and vul-
your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of gar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the
your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of
degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not himself.”
influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I “I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said
could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is
Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever.” very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it him, and have a great regard for— but that is quite a different
struck her forcibly. thing from—and you know, though he may like me, it does
“You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. not follow that I should—and certainly I must confess that
“No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes
before. That would have been too dreadful!—What an es- to compare them, person and manners, there is no compari-
cape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the plea- son at all, one is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I
sure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and
the world.” have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached
“Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose to me—and his writing such a letter—but as to leaving you,

43
 Emma
it is what I would not do upon any consideration.” with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much
“Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought
will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say,
because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful,
write a tolerable letter.” that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at
“Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.” that moment, he would have been accepted after all.
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The
“very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all
clownish manner which might be offending her every hour the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets,
of the day, to know that her husband could write a good and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affec-
letter.” tion, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
“Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be “I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in
always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite deter- rather a sorrowful tone.
mined to refuse him. But how shall I do? That shall I say?” “Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the an- Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be
swer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed spared to Abbey-Mill.”
to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma contin- “And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am
ued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in never happy but at Hartfield.”
fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would
over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am
tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks her own sister

44
 Jane Austen
very well married, and it is only a linen-draper.” sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and
“One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to
the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would hear your name, your own dear name.”
envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even “My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”
this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any “Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my
thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will
attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle- not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-
tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his
only people to whom his looks and manners have explained delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you
themselves.” among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about won- feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm preposses-
dering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. sion. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy
Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was their imaginations all are!”
tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin. Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
“Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what
they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is un-
happy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it
so very much.”
“Let us think of those among our absent friends who are
more cheerfully employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment,
perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and

45
 Emma
CHAPTER VIII take Emma’s advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. As
the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while
HARRIET SLEPT at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We inva-
she had been spending more than half her time there, and lids think we are privileged people.”
gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; “My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.”
and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, “I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will
to keep her with them as much as possible just at present. She be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg
was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to your excuse and take my three turns—my winter walk.”
Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that she should “You cannot do better, sir.”
return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days. “I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would
time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk
who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was per- before you, to Donwell Abbey.”
suaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by “Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment my-
the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own self; and I think the sooner you go the better. I will fetch your
civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, greatcoat and open the garden door for you.”
who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead
his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the pro- of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly
tracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other. inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and
“Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had
you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall ever heard before.

46
 Jane Austen
“I cannot rate her beauty as you do,” said he; “but she is a Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and there-
pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of fore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,
her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; “I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell
but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman.” you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will
“I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may soon hear of something to her advantage.”
not be wanting.” “Indeed! how so? of what sort?”
“Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I “A very serious sort, I assure you;” still smiling.
will tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her “Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love
of her school-girl’s giggle; she really does you credit.” with her? Who makes you their confidant?”
“Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not be- Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having
lieve I had been of some use; but it is not every body who dropt a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and
will bestow praise where they may. You do not often over- adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him.
power me with it.” “I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith
“You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?” will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unex-
“Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already ceptionable quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to
than she intended.” Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business.
“Something has happened to delay her; some visitors per- He is desperately in love and means to marry her.”
haps.” “He is very obliging,” said Emma; “but is he sure that Harriet
“Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!” means to marry him?”
“Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you “Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do?
would.” He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to con-

47
 Emma
sult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and
and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not un-
best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would likely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she
be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her may be detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a
too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; tiresome wretch.”
having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered “Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who had been smiling
(especially since your making so much of her) as in a line of to herself through a great part of this speech, “how do you
society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?”
said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Mar- “Certainly,” replied he, surprized, “I do not absolutely know
tin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with
and very well judging. He told me every thing; his circum- you?”
stances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the “Come,” said she, “I will tell you something, in return for
event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he
son and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. wrote, and was refused.”
He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed;
case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and dis-
lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had pleasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said,
never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought “Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.
highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me What is the foolish girl about?”
the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened “Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehen-
the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would sible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of

48
 Jane Austen
marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and
any body who asks her.” certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-
“Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a
what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful,
Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.” and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing
“I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.” herself. At her age she can have no experience, and with her
“You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her.
this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.” She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all. My
“And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as
should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt
respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet’s that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much bet-
equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ven- ter; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate,
tured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in
had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over.” love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her,
“Not Harriet’s equal!” exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands,
warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments af- like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The
terwards, “No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not
her superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a
about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Smith’s claims, general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even your satis-
either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher faction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that
than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody you would not regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the

49
 Emma
sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to my- below the level of those with whom she is brought up.—
self, `Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman—
this a good match.’” and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very liberal;
“I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or com-
as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all fort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me;
his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a that she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I appre-
good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her leaving hend, will deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.”
Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never “Whoever might be her parents,” said Mr. Knightley, “who-
admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should ever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to
think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what
mine are very different. I must think your statement by no you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent
means fair. You are not just to Harriet’s claims. They would education she is left in Mrs. Goddard’s hands to shift as she
be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. can;—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard’s line, to have Mrs.
Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this
her inferior as to rank in society.—The sphere in which she good enough for her; and it was good enough. She desired
moves is much above his.—It would be a degradation.” nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend,
“A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition
to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!” beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in
“As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it
she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet
She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded

50
 Jane Austen
so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disin- instead of handsome faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet,
clined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the
to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. power of chusing from among many, consequently a claim to
And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim,
know. Depend upon it he had encouragement.” comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct re- and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readi-
ply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line ness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken
of the subject again. if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such
“You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”
before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well “Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason
are not so contemptible as you represent them. She is not a you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better
clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and be without sense, than misapply it as you do.”
does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slight- “To be sure!” cried she playfully. “I know that is the feeling
ingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what
as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and
you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were
recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.
beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning
out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept
philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to
supposed; till they do fall in love with well-informed minds look about her.”

51
 Emma
“I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,” said Mr. marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad
Knightley presently, “though I have kept my thoughts to my- to catch at the old writing-master’s son.”
self; but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one “We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley,
for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas of her own that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be
beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, making each other more angry. But as to my letting her marry
nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so
working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application.
Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it
too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say
flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there
whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men was very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is
of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever
with a girl of such obscurity— and most prudent men would were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine,
be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate
involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to
revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, re- please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that
spectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she
expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case is al-
nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, tered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing
she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with
her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will Harriet.”

52
 Jane Austen
“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” cried Mr. hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all
Knightley.—”Robert Martin’s manners have sense, sincerity, labour in vain.”
and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,
more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand.” “Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully un- sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not
concerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value
him very much to be gone. She did not repent what she had of a good income as well as any body. Elton may talk senti-
done; she still thought herself a better judge of such a point mentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted
of female right and refinement than he could be; but yet she with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s. He knows
had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite
which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in un-
have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very reserved moments, when there are only men present, I am
disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I
with only one attempt on Emma’s side to talk of the weather, have heard him speak with great animation of a large family
but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all
thoughts appeared at last in these words. twenty thousand pounds apiece.”
“Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; “I am very much obliged to you,” said Emma, laughing
and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for again. “If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Harriet,
Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present
of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-
and plans, and projects you have;—and as a friend I shall just making indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings

53
 Emma
at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.” to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled
“Good morning to you,”—said he, rising and walking off her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.
abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappoint- Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing
ment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the which woman’s friendship and woman’s feelings would not
means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the justify.
part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair, He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when
was provoking him exceedingly. she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed
Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor (she must
more indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his. She did be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr. Knightley’s preten-
not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely sions) with the skill of such an observer on such a question as
convinced that her opinions were right and her adversary’s herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able
wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully
self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materi- to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly
ally cast down, however, but that a little time and the return might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than
of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet’s staying she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an impru-
away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possi- dent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might
bility of the young man’s coming to Mrs. Goddard’s that naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then,
morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence
cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr.
became the prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought noth-
and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason ing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of

54
 Jane Austen
its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence something about a very enviable commission, and being the
might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becom- bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could
ing degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be
Mr. Elton. a lady in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only
Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spir-
back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. its. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal
Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly
immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. at her, “that she did not pretend to understand what his busi-
Goddard’s to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen ness might be, but she only knew that any woman whom
him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman
yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his
to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road equal for beauty or agreeableness.”
to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though
it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known
to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him
about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best
player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade
him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do;
Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a
very particular way indeed, that he was going on business which
he would not put off for any inducement in the world; and

55
 Emma
CHAPTER IX more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on
to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study; much
MR. KNIGHTLEY might quarrel with her, but Emma could not pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet’s
quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension
longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which
they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not for- engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was
given. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, making for the evening of life, was the collecting and tran-
her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and scribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with,
endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days. into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend,
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
after Mr. Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand
of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs.
sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; Goddard’s, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet,
and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were visibly forming them- who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss
selves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more. Emma assisted
and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satis- with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a
fied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered, than as very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the
he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advan- first order, in form as well as quantity.
tage to the latter. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the busi-
Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great ness as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something
deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to worth their putting in. “So many clever riddles as there used

56
 Jane Austen
to be when he was young— he wondered he could not re- My first doth affliction denote,
member them! but he hoped he should in time.” And it al- Which my second is destin’d to feel
ways ended in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.” And my whole is the best antidote
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the That affliction to soften and heal.—
subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle
kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed
he went about so much, something, he thought, might come it some pages ago already.
from that quarter. “Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?”
It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of said she; “that is the only security for its freshness; and noth-
Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. ing could be easier to you.”
Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was “Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the
invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even
conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure Miss Woodhouse”—he stopt a moment— “or Miss Smith
of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; could inspire him.”
and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly The very next day however produced some proof of inspi-
careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a ration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of
compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a
him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exul- friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his
tation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was imme-
recited, that well-known charade, diately convinced must be his own.
“I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he. “Be-

57
 Emma
ing my friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the
public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.” But ah! united, what reverse we have!
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness about Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend’s. And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
He was gone the next moment:—after another moment’s
pause, Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
“Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper to- May its approval beam in that soft eye!
wards Harriet—”it is for you. Take your own.”
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read
Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it her- it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the
self. lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and
saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in
To Miss— all the confusion of hope and dulness, “Very well, Mr. Elton,
very well indeed. I have read worse charades. Courtship—a
Charade. very good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your
way. This is saying very plainly— `Pray, Miss Smith, give me
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease. my intentions in the same glance.’
Another view of man, my second brings,
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas! May its approval beam in that soft eye!

58
 Jane Austen
think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epi-
thets, the justest that could be given. And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Thy ready wit the word will soon supply. Can it be Neptune?

Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
very much in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr.
Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think this Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only
would convince you. For once in your life you would be one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have
obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade in- brought it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever
deed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a find it out?”
crisis soon now.” “Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant ob- are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing
servations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark?
length, by the eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions. Give me the paper and listen.
“What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have
not an idea—I cannot guess it in the least. What can it possi- For Miss —————, read Miss Smith.
bly be? Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me.
I never saw any thing so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder who My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
the friend was—and who could be the young lady. Do you Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

59
 Emma
“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this
That is court. compliment,” said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr.
Elton’s intentions. You are his object— and you will soon
Another view of man, my second brings; receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas! thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the
state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on the
That is ship;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream. subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so
long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen
But ah! united, (courtship, you know,) what reverse we have! what has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown. between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natu-
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, ral. Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear
Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a
A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a connexion
which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much diffi- which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing
culty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There that you want—consideration, independence, a proper
can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you.” home—it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends,
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for
read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush
She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was in either of us.”
enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her. “Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,”

60
 Jane Austen
was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articu- course that what is so evidently, so palpably desirable—what
late at first; but when they did arrive at something more like courts the pre-arrangement of other people, should so imme-
conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she diately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. Elton
saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought. Mr. are by situation called together; you belong to one another by
Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment. every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying
“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and there- will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be
fore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but oth- a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly
erwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much beyond any the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it
thing I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry any body! There ought to flow.
cannot be two opinions about him. He is so very superior.
Only think of those sweet verses—”To Miss ——.” Dear me, The course of true love never did run smooth—
how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”
“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note
that. It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of on that passage.”
prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon “That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of
followed by matter-of-fact prose.” all people, who did not know him, to speak to him, at
“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I Michaelmas! And he, the very handsomest man that ever was,
am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr.
strangest things do take place!” Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body says
“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse
do indeed—and really it is strange; it is out of the common it; that he has more invitations than there are days in the week.

61
 Emma
And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all “Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.
the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as
Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How clever as the other. This charade!—If I had studied a
little did I think!— The two Abbots and I ran into the front twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it.”
room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was “I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of de-
going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid clining it yesterday.”
to look through herself; however, she called me back pres- “I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever
ently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. read.”
And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in- “I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”
arm with Mr. Cole.” “It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”
“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends “I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.
may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they Such things in general cannot be too short.”
have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our con- Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satis-
duct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, factory comparisons were rising in her mind.
here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of “It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—
it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same country and ”to have very good sense in a common way, like every body
circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a
accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and an-
the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable other, to write verses and charades like this.”
fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of
which must satisfy them.” Mr. Martin’s prose.

62
 Jane Austen
“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—”these two last!— like to have his charade slighted, much better than his pas-
But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have sion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or
found it out?—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then
that?” there can be no possible reflection on you.”
“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate
evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not
nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an
committed.—Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for offering for any degree of publicity.
beaming. Trust to me.” “I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write she.
this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got “Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the
one half so good.” longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my
“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade
you should not write it into your book.” to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure! He loves any
“Oh! but those two lines are”— thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a
— “The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards
for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less us all!— You must let me read it to him.”
written you know, because you divide them. The couplet does Harriet looked grave.
not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, “My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this
and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade charade.—You will betray your feelings improperly, if you
remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more

63
 Emma
meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed the complimentary conclusion.
to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admi- “Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very
ration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have true. `Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my
left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.— Nobody
me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the could have written so prettily, but you, Emma.”
business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking,
our sighing out our souls over this charade.” and a very tender sigh, he added,
“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as “Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear
you please.” mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but her
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject memory! But I can remember nothing;—not even that par-
again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, ticular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only
my dears, how does your book go on?—Have you got any recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
thing fresh?”
“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morn- Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
ing—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)— containing a very pretty The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
charade, and we have just copied it in.” Though of his near approach afraid,
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, So fatal to my suit before.
slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with ex-
planations of every part as she proceeded— and he was very And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all
much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck with the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got

64
 Jane Austen
it.” “She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”
“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied “I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized
it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.” when I first heard she was going to be married.”
“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it. “We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while
Isabella is here.”
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid. “Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed
tone)—she is coming for only one week. There will not be
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very time for any thing.”
near being christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope “It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems
we shall have her here next week. Have you thought, my dear, a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again
where you shall put her—and what room there will be for on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are
the children?” to have the whole of the time they can give to the country,
“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room that two or three days are not to be taken out for the Abbey.
she always has;—and there is the nursery for the children,— Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas—
just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change?” though you know it is longer since they were with him, than
“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was with us.”
here!—not since last Easter, and then only for a few days.— “It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella
Mr. John Knightley’s being a lawyer is very inconvenient.— were to be anywhere but at Hartfield.”
Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away from us all!—and how Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s
sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor claims on his brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except
here!” his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said,

65
 Emma
“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John,
back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprized,
persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him
stay very well.” called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a
“Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to ac- very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably clever; and
complish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by
bear to stay behind her husband.” my chair, and say, `Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?’
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives
Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too
Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter’s rough with them very often.”
attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a “He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are
branch of the subject as must raise them. so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with
“Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his
while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give
pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children, them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate
are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the hand- father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate fa-
somest, Henry or John?” ther. The children are all fond of him.”
“Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they “And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the
will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.” ceiling in a very frightful way!”
“I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.” “But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much.
“Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay

66
 Jane Austen
down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would ber. He re-urged —she re-declined; and he seemed then about
never give way to the other.” to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she
“Well, I cannot understand it.” returned it—
“That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world “Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave
cannot understand the pleasures of the other.” with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much,
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection.
separate in preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not
hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned transcribed beyond the first eight lines.”
away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He
her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of hav- looked rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something
ing made a push—of having thrown a die; and she imagined about “honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then
he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined
reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward
could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he moment, Emma smilingly said,
should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he “You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good
were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be
Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him— sure of every woman’s approbation while he writes with such
had made such a point of it, that he had promised him condi- gallantry.”
tionally to come. “I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappoint- hesitating a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in
ing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rub- saying—at least if my friend feels at all as I do—I have not

67
 Emma
the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion CHAPTER X
honoured as I see it, (looking at the book again, and replacing
it on the table), he would consider it as the proudest moment THOUGH NOW THE MIDDLE of December, there had yet been
of his life.” no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to
could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agree- pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of
able qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which Highbury.
was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane,
the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregu-
to Harriet’s share. lar, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, contain-
ing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings
were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile
down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good
house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no
advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened
up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could
be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slack-
ened pace and observing eyes.—Emma’s remark was—
“There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of
these days.”—Harriet’s was—
“Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There

68
 Jane Austen
are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.” married, at present, but have very little intention of ever mar-
“I do not often walk this way now,” said Emma, as they rying at all.”
proceeded, “but then there will be an inducement, and I shall “Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”
gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, “I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen
pools and pollards of this part of Highbury.” yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting her-
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side self,) is out of the question: and I do not wish to see any such
the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change
considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it.”
it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton’s seeing ready wit in her. “Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—
“I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think “I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.
of any tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!
to inquire about of his housekeeper—no message from my but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature;
father.” and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure
She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune
silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again— I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do
“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be not want: I believe few married women are half as much mis-
married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!”— tress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never,
Emma laughed, and replied, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so
“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to in- always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my
duce me to marry; I must find other people charming—one father’s.”
other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be “But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!”

69
 Emma
“That is as formidable an image as you could present, silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste
Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty cer-
silly—so satisfied—so smiling—so prosing—so tainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had
undistinguishing and unfastidious—and so apt to tell every only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give
thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to- away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great
morrow. But between us, I am convinced there never can be charm.”
any likeness, except in being unmarried.” “Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ
“But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dreadful!” yourself when you grow old?”
“Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it “If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind,
is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a gen- with a great many independent resources; and I do not per-
erous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, ceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty
must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s usual occupations of
of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or
always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more;
body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for
the candour and common sense of the world as appears at objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth
first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the
mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well
who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care
society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, about. There will be enough of them, in all probability, to
however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need.

70
 Jane Austen
There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their
my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic expecta-
ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My tions of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education
nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me.” had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sym-
“Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you must pathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelli-
have seen her a hundred times—but are you acquainted?” gence as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and
“Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining
she comes to Highbury. By the bye, that is almost enough to there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted
put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her
that I should ever bore people half so much about all the say to Harriet, as they walked away,
Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is “These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How tri-
sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is fling they make every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I
read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of
and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish
of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, from my mind?”
one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax “Very true,” said Harriet. “Poor creatures! one can think of
very well; but she tires me to death.” nothing else.”
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics “And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,”
were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the dis- said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering foot-
tresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal step which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cot-
attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from tage garden, and brought them into the lane again. “I do not

71
 Emma
think it will,” stopping to look once more at all the outward increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to
wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I
“Oh! dear, no,” said her companion. were anywhere else.”
They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could,
that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a
and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in
“Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when
in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed she found that Harriet’s habits of dependence and imitation
that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both
sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped,
the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lac-
empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.” ing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupa-
Harriet could just answer, “Oh! dear, yes,” before the gentle- tion of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to
man joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor fam- walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as
ily, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been they were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to
going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but they have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther de-
had a very interesting parley about what could be done and lay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage,
should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch
them. broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and
“To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,” thought talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the
Emma; “to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great world, or would have been the most natural, had she been

72
 Jane Austen
acting just then without design; and by this means the others the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting
were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of wait- Harriet into the house, made her again find something very
ing for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once
child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throw-
more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conver- ing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to
sation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so
animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think “Part of my lace is gone,” said she, “and I do not know how
how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion
around, and she was obliged to join them. to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr.
Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your
detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment when housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to
she found that he was only giving his fair companion an ac- keep my boot on.”
count of the yesterday’s party at his friend Cole’s, and that she Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and noth-
was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, ing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them
the butter, the cellery, the beet-root, and all the dessert. into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear
“This would soon have led to something better, of course,” to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he
was her consoling reflection; “any thing interests between those chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was an-
who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is other with which it immediately communicated; the door
near the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!” between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the
They now walked on together quietly, till within view of housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable

73
 Emma
manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found CHAPTER XI
it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It
was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engag- MR. ELTON MUST NOW be left to himself. It was no longer in
ing the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to Emma’s power to superintend his happiness or quicken his
make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the measures. The coming of her sister’s family was so very near
adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it be-
herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged came henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the
to be finished, and make her appearance. ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected—
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It she did not herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional,
had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers.
felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they
do; he had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, must advance somehow or other whether they would or no.
most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are
by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do
and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious. for themselves.
“Cautious, very cautious,” thought Emma; “he advances inch Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than
by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.” usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more
Still, however, though every thing had not been accom- than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since
plished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter her- their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and
self that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been
to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event. given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many

74
 Jane Austen
months since they had been seen in a regular way by their could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the chil-
Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could dren were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him,
not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them.
sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of
apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a
not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and
who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way; sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have
but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them.
accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quick-
children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reach- ness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited
ing Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health,
the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and vari- over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many
ously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confu- nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as
sion which his nerves could not have borne under any other her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a
cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard
ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so re- for every old acquaintance.
spected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very
solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable
for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the in his private character; but with reserved manners which pre-
eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they vented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being some-

75
 Emma
times out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great re-
so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but gard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what
his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with was due to him; but it was too often for Emma’s charity,
such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natu- especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently
ral defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweet- to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning,
ness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feel-
quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could some- ings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to
times act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Noth- and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy
ing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention to
little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Per- the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
haps she might have passed over more had his manners been “Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous
flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were only those of a business.”
calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without “Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must
blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could miss her! And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to
have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes you both!—I have been so grieved for you.—I could not imag-
which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbear- ine how you could possibly do without her.—It is a sad change
ance towards her father. There he had not always the patience indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities “Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not
and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational know but that the place agrees with her tolerably.”
remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there

76
 Jane Austen
were any doubts of the air of Randalls. ticipated—which is the exact truth.”
“Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston bet- “Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as
ter in my life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you
his own regret.” attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged
“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling
reply. you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very
“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have
the plaintive tone which just suited her father. Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—”Not near so often, my dear, “Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—”yes, certainly—
as I could wish.” I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does
“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day come and see us pretty often—but then—she is always obliged
since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every to go away again.”
day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. “It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not,
Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here—and papa.—You quite forget poor Mr. Weston.”
as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are “I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr.
very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture
herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and
be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely
aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been mar-
also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent ried long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr.
our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves an- Westons aside as much as she can.”

77
 Emma
“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned
only in part.—”Are you talking about me?—I am sure no- lately.”
body ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matri- “But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her
mony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her father. “He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratu-
leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor late her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed
but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether
slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but
is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very young, and his uncle, perhaps—”
best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and “My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time
your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never passes.”
forget his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last “Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have
Easter—and ever since his particular kindness last September thought it—and he was but two years old when he lost his
twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!—and my memory
on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter,
Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I re-
feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body can member it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.” 28th—and began, `My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it
“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he went on; and it was signed `F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I re-
been here on this occasion—or has he not?” member that perfectly.”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a “How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-
strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but hearted Mrs. John Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a

78
 Jane Austen
most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should tic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence re-
not live at home with his father! There is something so shock- sulted her brother’s disposition to look down on the com-
ing in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural mon rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part important.—It had a high claim to forbearance.
with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think
well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body
else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” ob-
served Mr. John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine
Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry
or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man,
than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them,
and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending,
I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his com-
forts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and play-
ing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon
family affection, or any thing that home affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr.
Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled,
and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there
was something honourable and valuable in the strong domes-

79
 Emma
CHAPTER XII usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the
unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were
MR. KNIGHTLEY was to dine with them—rather against the in- friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satis-
clination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one faction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying,
should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of as he was admiring the baby,
right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of “What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our neph-
what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from ews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are some-
the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley times very different; but with regard to these children, I ob-
and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation. serve we never disagree.”
She hoped they might now become friends again. She “If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of
thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and
not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these
never own that he had. Concession must be out of the ques- children are concerned, we might always think alike.”
tion; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever “To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my
quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restora- being in the wrong.”
tion of friendship, that when he came into the room she had “Yes,” said he, smiling—”and reason good. I was sixteen
one of the children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl years old when you were born.”
about eight months old, who was now making her first visit “A material difference then,” she replied—”and no doubt
to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s you were much my superior in judgment at that period of
arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring
short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the our understandings a good deal nearer?”

80
 Jane Austen
“Yes—a good deal nearer.” burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the
“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being real attachment which would have led either of them, if requi-
right, if we think differently.” site, to do every thing for the good of the other.
“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experi- The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse
ence, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his
child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions;
more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr.
set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mix-
and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.” ing—and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other.
“That’s true,” she cried—”very true. Little Emma, grow up The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits,
a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by
half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, much the most communicative, and who was always the
and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of
both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote
argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at
Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.” Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year,
“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer. and to give all such local information as could not fail of
“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.” being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong.
Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree,
and “John, how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring

81
 Emma
corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by “It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the
John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his will- autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had
ing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his in- much opinion of the sea air.”
quiries even approached a tone of eagerness. “Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the
Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s
fearful affection with his daughter. throat,—both sea air and bathing.”
“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, “Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long per-
some one of her five children—”How long it is, how terribly fectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before,
long since you were here! And how tired you must be after that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it
your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear—and I rec- almost killed me once.”
ommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I will “Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe
have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose subject, “I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me
we all have a little gruel.” envious and miserable;—I who have never seen it! South End
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard
did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never for-
that article as herself;—and two basins only were ordered. gets you.”
After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some “Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”
wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, “Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious,
he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, and he has not time to take care of himself—he tells me he

82
 Jane Austen
has not time to take care of himself—which is very sad—but “Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—
he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they
not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates—I will call upon her to-
clever a man any where.” morrow, and take my children.—They are always so pleased
“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the chil- to see my children.—And that excellent Miss Bates!—such
dren grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be thorough worthy people!—How are they, sir?”
calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones.” “Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs.
“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.”
two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my “How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they
dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has
Bella’s throat.” never known them more general or heavy—except when it
“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have has been quite an influenza.”
hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the “That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to
greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excel- the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very
lent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in
applying at times ever since August.” November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.”
“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have “No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very
been of use to her—and if I had known you were wanting an sickly except—
embrocation, I would have spoken to— “Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is
“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, no-
said Emma, “I have not heard one inquiry after them.” body can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live

83
 Emma
there! so far off!—and the air so bad!” think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr.
“No, indeed—we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of Lon- Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us
don is very superior to most others!—You must not confound off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do
us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with
Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any “Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr.
other part of the town;—there is hardly any other that I could John Knightley very far from looking well.”
be satisfied to have my children in: but we are so remarkably “What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr.
airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square John Knightley, hearing his own name.
decidedly the most favourable as to air.” “I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think
“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of you looking well—but I hope it is only from being a little
it—but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that
you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”
I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at “My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—”pray do not
present.” concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring
“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, except- and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I
ing those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I chuse.”
am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; “I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling
and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it your brother,” cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s
was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his
their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be

84
 Jane Austen
too strong?” knows to be so very accomplished and superior!—and ex-
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, actly Emma’s age.”
when forced to give her attention again to her father and sis- This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded
ter, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony;
after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite but the evening did not close without a little return of agita-
with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to tion. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said—
assist in praising. much praise and many comments—undoubting decision of
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe
Knightley.—”It is so long since I have seen her, except now Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with
and then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness tolerable;—but, unfortunately, among the failures which the
it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most
when she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young
dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at Highbury; woman hired for the time, who never had been able to un-
but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and derstand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel,
Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and or-
would be such a delightful companion for Emma.” dered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable.
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, Here was a dangerous opening.
“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such an- “Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his
other pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. eyes on her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s
Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.” ear expressed, “Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of
“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one your going to South End. It does not bear talking of.” And

85
 Emma
for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a he says, and very pure air. And, by what I understand, you
silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea—a
his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have
however, he began with, consulted Perry.”
“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this “But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only con-
autumn, instead of coming here.” sider how great it would have been.—An hundred miles, per-
“But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the haps, instead of forty.”
children a great deal of good.” “Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing
“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not
have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better
Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End.” not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel
“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said.
it is quite a mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”
there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when
Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at
unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thor- her brother-in-law’s breaking out.
oughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother “Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,
and family have been there repeatedly.” “would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why
“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I
anywhere.—Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds do?—at my taking my family to one part of the coast or
it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment

86
 Jane Austen
as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more than his expressions;—but the soothing attentions of his daughters
drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alert-
with only sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to ness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, pre-
convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and vented any renewal of it.
thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a
distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to
South End as he could himself.”
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interpo-
sition—”very true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But John,
as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to
Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut
through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty.
I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconve-
nience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind ex-
actly the present line of the path… . The only way of proving
it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the
Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look
them over, and you shall give me your opinion.”
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflec-
tions on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though
unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and

87
 Emma
CHAPTER XIII Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial
set, were the only persons invited to meet them;—the hours
THERE COULD HARDLY be a happier creature in the world than were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s
Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going habits and inclination being consulted in every thing.
about every morning among her old acquaintance with her The evening before this great event (for it was a very great
five children, and talking over what she had done every evening event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of
with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had
but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her
visit;—perfect, in being much too short. own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on
their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out her the next day, and found her doom already signed with re-
of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. gard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:
Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was
one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the
possible thing in preference to a division of the party. authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement,
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.
difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in
horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more Mrs. Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by
than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a representing how much Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when
doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable,
they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also. in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless

88
 Jane Austen
visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?”
advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself,
was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs.
and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still remain
the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of considerable a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason
illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she
report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr. John added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,
Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his “It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very
two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any
benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick des- other party, I should really try not to go out to-day—and
patch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hasten- dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his
ing home for. They joined company and proceeded together. mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not
Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s com- like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappoint-
plaint;—”a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of ment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr.
heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You ap-
find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad pear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what
sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I
looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at
“A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a pu- home and take care of yourself to-night.”
trid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what
take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though very

89
 Emma
much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not leave Harriet ill behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there
liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not really the least is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an in-
inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma, too eager and clination—such a passion for dining out—a dinner engage-
busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him ment is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employ-
impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satis- ments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives
fied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
cold, certainly very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very
extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invi-
sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. tation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange
“You do quite right,” said she;—”we will make your apolo- thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine
gies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.” alone for her.”
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could
was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great
Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting;
the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call
Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair friend, the last thing
expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again,
smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he sighed
next looked at her. and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of appro-
“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!—After I bation much in his favour.
had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John

90
 Jane Austen
Knightley began with— think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend,
“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agree- Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what
able than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where you do, and what you mean to do.”
ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaf- “I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr.
fected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works.” Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;” and
“Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the
where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of cir-
one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best cumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions
with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased
negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper and with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in
good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.” want of counsel. He said no more.
“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some sly- Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to
ness, “he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you.” the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to
“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most
imagining me to be Mr. Elton’s object?” punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with
“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the
it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the plea-
consideration now.” sure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and
“Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!” too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe;
“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few
it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had

91
 Emma
the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of na-
air to produce a very white world in a very short time. ture, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happi- feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter
est humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such that he can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull
weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were hours in another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear
evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said
did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to re-
that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole of turn probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken
their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures
discontent. into colder rooms and worse company than they might have
“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of him- had at home.”
self when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and en- Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent,
counter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate
He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not the “Very true, my love,” which must have been usually ad-
do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually snow- ministered by his travelling companion; but she had resolu-
ing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing people to be tion enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She
comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her
comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk, and
go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without open-
what a hardship we should deem it;—and here are we, prob- ing her lips.
ably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down,

92
 Jane Austen
and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them Perry has been with her, as you probably heard.”
instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of “Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”
subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was “He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope
so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable
he must have received a different account of Harriet from report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad
what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the loss to our party to-day!”
answer had been, “Much the same—not better.” “Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every
“My report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently, “was moment.”
not so pleasant as I had hoped—`Not better’ was my answer.” This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was
of sentiment as he answered. rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he be-
“Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of tell- gan to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest
ing you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I alacrity and enjoyment.
did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told “What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin
that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impos-
worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had flattered sible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of
myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman’s carriage per-
had been given her in the morning.” fectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the
Emma smiled and answered—”My visit was of use to the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted.
nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very
charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the

93
 Emma
matter.—Ha! snows a little I see.” thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs.
“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good Weston;—Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and
deal of it.” he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of
“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite season- society;—it will be a small party, but where small parties are
able; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston’s
did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day’s party, which it dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfort-
might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would ably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circum-
hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the stances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will
ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the agree with me, (turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I
season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley
invites their friends about them, and people think little of perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may
even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house not quite enter into our feelings.”
once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only “I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never
one night, and could not get away till that very day se’nnight.” dine with any body.”
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend “Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that
the pleasure, but said only, coolly, the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must
“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.” come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she little labour and great enjoyment.”
was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other “My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed
feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of through the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield
a pleasant party. again.”
“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every
94
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XIV hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch,
her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think
SOME CHANGE of countenance was necessary for each gentle- as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s oddities, or of any thing else
man as they walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-room;—Mr. unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost.
Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well gone
disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely
John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.—Emma only seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the
might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as history of his own and Isabella’s coming, and of Emma’s be-
she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. ing to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satis-
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature faction that James should come and see his daughter, when
in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost
wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn
of being listened to and understood, of being always interest- away and welcome her dear Emma.
ing and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, per- Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made
plexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places,
nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving
concern; and half an hour’s uninterrupted communication of his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while
all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding
life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously address-
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit might ing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his
not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half- behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal sug-

95
 Emma
gestion of “Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution of
possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affec- never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea
tions from Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!”—Yet of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had
he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would frequently thought—especially since his father’s marriage with
be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Miss Taylor—that if she were to marry, he was the very per-
Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with son to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by
so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her.
would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body
her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston
and for Harriet’s, in the hope that all would yet turn out did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though
right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; espe- not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to
cially as something was going on amongst the others, in the give up a situation which she believed more replete with good
most overpowering period of Mr. Elton’s nonsense, which than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to
she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being
that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the
she heard the words “my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,” idea of their being coupled in their friends’ imaginations.
repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syl- With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dreadfully
lables very much suspected that he was announcing an early ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite,
visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the while feeling very cross—and of thinking that the rest of the
subject was so completely past that any reviving question from visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same
her would have been awkward. information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted

96
 Jane Austen
Mr. Weston.—So it proved;—for when happily released from “What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs.
Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she
of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first must be almost as happy as yourself.”
leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her, “Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be an-
“We want only two more to be just the right number. I other put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much
should like to see two more here,—your pretty little friend, as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The
Miss Smith, and my son—and then I should say we were case, you see, is—(but this is quite between ourselves: I did
quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the oth- not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are se-
ers in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a crets in all families, you know)—The case is, that a party of
letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and
fortnight.” that Frank’s coming depends upon their being put off. If they
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because
fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at
Miss Smith making their party quite complete. Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought
“He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they al-
Weston, “ever since September: every letter has been full of it; ways are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the
but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank
who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are some- here before the middle of January, as I am of being here my-
times to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now self: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper
I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so
January.” little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on

97
 Emma
their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing.” undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked
“I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the of: “for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so
case,” replied Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all
Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you
you know Enscombe.” exactly how the matter stands?”
“Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have “Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour
never been at the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!— of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain
But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank’s account; thing in the world.”
for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she “My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the
was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but certainty of caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not
she has always been kind to him (in her way—allowing for been attending before—”You must know, my dear Mrs.
little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr.
likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It de-
should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it pends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in short,
to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may ven-
in general; and the devil of a temper.” ture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends
Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing- upon her being willing to spare him.”
room: wishing her joy—yet observing, that she knew the first “Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,”
meeting must be rather alarming.—Mrs. Weston agreed to replied Isabella: “and I am sure I never think of that poor
it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly

98
 Jane Austen
living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must
what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could
be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any be over, the better.”
children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have “Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other
made them!” delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing
should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I
her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not hazard am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills’ to keep him to
with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his re-
conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, except- gard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his
ing those views on the young man, of which her own imagi- coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.”
nation had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But “He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a
at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly con-
very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sit- ceive a young man’s not having it in his power to do as much
ting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad hands, may be
endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; teazed, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be
and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always with; but one cannot comprehend a young man’s being un-
comfortable. der such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an op- father, if he likes it.”
portunity of saying, “One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the
“And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by family, before one decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs.

99
 Emma
Weston. “One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely,
judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one fam- may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them
ily; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by to visit us.”
general rules: she is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives
way to her.”
“But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a
favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it
would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for
the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing,
while she exercises incessant caprice towards him, she should
frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes
nothing at all.”
“My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet tem-
per, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you
must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at
times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impos-
sible for him to know beforehand when it will be.”
Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satis-
fied, unless he comes.”
“He may have a great deal of influence on some points,”
continued Mrs. Weston, “and on others, very little: and among

100
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XV nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And in
this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much
MR. WOODHOUSE was soon ready for his tea; and when he attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to
had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity
much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his with him.
notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at
appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on
to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room her account, than on Harriet’s—more anxious that she should
party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in
spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her
were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for the
and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them. present—to entreat her to promise him not to venture into
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion;
her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject
willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his
with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very first extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear—
subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. there was no concealing it—exactly like the pretence of being
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the
friend—her fair, lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?— most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in
had she heard any thing about her, since their being at behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore
Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must confess that the her assistance, “Would not she give him her support?—would

101
 Emma
not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse Knightley now came into the room from examining the
not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss weather, and opened on them all with the information of the
Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,
without a promise—would not she give him her influence in with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to
procuring it?” Mr. Woodhouse:
“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so care- “This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter en-
less for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at gagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and horses
home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of to be making their way through a storm of snow.”
catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but
Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I some right to com- every body else had something to say; every body was either
plain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.” surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or
Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried ear-
great, at an address which, in words and manner, was assum- nestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-
ing to himself the right of first interest in her; and as for her- law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
self, she was too much provoked and offended to have the “I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in ven-
power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could turing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would
only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow com-
must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, remov- ing on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home
ing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. very well. Another hour or two’s snow can hardly make the
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the re- road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown
proof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the

102
 Jane Austen
other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The hor-
midnight.” ror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confess- at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the
ing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but in a
not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncom- state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled,
fortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while
being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede she and her husband set forward instantly through all the pos-
their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would sible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.
find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, “You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said
that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with she; “I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off
the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get
be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walk-
him, that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, ing half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the
which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives
there being but two spare rooms in the house. me cold.”
“What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” “Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
was Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every
say for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her thing does give you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod
assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the
horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends horses.”
about them, revived him a little. Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the

103
 Emma
plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to isfied of there being no present danger in returning home,
Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay;
their being all able to get away; and they were still discussing and while the others were variously urging and recommend-
the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room im- ing, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sen-
mediately after his brother’s first report of the snow, came tences: thus—
back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to “Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”
examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest “I am ready, if the others are.”
difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either “Shall I ring the bell?”
now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep— “Yes, do.”
some way along the Highbury road—the snow was nowhere And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few
above half an inch deep—in many places hardly enough to minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome com-
whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, panion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool,
but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance and the other recover his temper and happiness when this
of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they visit of hardship were over.
both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend. The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own
they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either
account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of
subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a
had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was
comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was sat- afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor

104
 Jane Austen
Isabella would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the other carriage, than she found her subject cut up—her
the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do. hand seized—her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actu-
They must keep as much together as they could;” and James ally making violent love to her: availing himself of the pre-
was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for cious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be al-
the other carriage. ready well known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting if she refused him; but flattering himself that his ardent at-
that he did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very tachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could
naturally; so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much re-
into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be solved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It re-
lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a tete-a-tete ally was so. Without scruple—without apology—without
drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet,
it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions was professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him; but
of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the
the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one. But thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself
now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunk-
had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and enness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to
felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense. the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and
she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calm- half state, she replied,
ness and gravity of the weather and the night; but scarcely had “I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me! you
she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined forget yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to

105
 Emma
Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to politeness, replied,
me, if you please.” “It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made
“Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much be-
possibly mean!”—And he repeated her words with such as- yond any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I have
surance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement, that witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith—such at-
she could not help replying with quickness, tentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing—to be
“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness of char-
can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or acter, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me,
you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of
manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I such professions.”
will endeavour to forget it.” “Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the mean-
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his ing of this?—Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith
spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew in the whole course of my existence—never paid her any at-
his own meaning; and having warmly protested against her tentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were
suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon his dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise,
respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but acknowledging her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—ex-
his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he tremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss
resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss
for a favourable answer. Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no un-
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his steadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest
inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for against having paid the smallest attention to any one else.

106
 Jane Austen
Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly
been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent.
You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend
meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and un- yourself particularly to Miss Smith?—that you have never
derstood me.” thought seriously of her?”
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing “Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I
this—which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. assure you. I think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a
She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her re-
to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encour- spectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt,
agement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to there are men who might not object to—Every body has their
take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed— level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a
“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this inter- loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be
esting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.” addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my visits to
“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement
from having long understood you, I have been in a most com- I received—”
plete error with respect to your views, till this moment. As to “Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you
myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you
to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from my wishes— only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you
your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her, have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am
(pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it
very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might

107
 Emma
have been led into a misconception of your views; not being father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary
aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great in- drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner which he could
equality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disap- never bear to think of—and in strange hands—a mere com-
pointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no mon coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her re-
thoughts of matrimony at present.” turn only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kind-
decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling ness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the com-
resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to fort of her father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him
continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly
Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and com-
not been so much anger, there would have been desperate fort to all their little party, except herself.—But her mind had
awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room never been in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong
for the little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of
when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.
stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his
house; and he was out before another syllable passed.—Emma
then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The com-
pliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under
indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to
Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her

108
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XVI vering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The picture!—How eager he had been about the picture!—
THE HAIR WAS CURLED, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat and the charade!—and an hundred other circumstances;—how
down to think and be miserable.—It was a wretched business clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the
indeed!—Such an overthrow of every thing she had been wish- charade, with its “ready wit”—but then the “soft eyes”—in
ing for!—Such a development of every thing most unwel- fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth.
come!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the worst of all. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his man-
or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; ners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his
and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mis- way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as
taken—more in error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than one proof among others that he had not always lived in the
she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true
confined to herself. elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she
“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but
have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presump- grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.
tion to me—but poor Harriet!” To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea
How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was
he had never thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remem-
back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had bered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr.
taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had pro-
to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wa- fessed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and

109
 Emma
blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character with twenty, or with ten.
had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was But—that he should talk of encouragement, should con-
dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in sider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, mean-
many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and be- ing (in short), to marry him!—should suppose himself her
lieved him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own equal in connexion or mind!—look down upon her friend,
claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing
to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His no presumption in addressing her!—It was most provoking.
professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much
nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind.
wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his The very want of such equality might prevent his perception
eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she
as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses
for. There had been no real affection either in his language or had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the
manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons
but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was
any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Ab-
herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich bey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but
himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them
thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other
he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a

110
 Jane Austen
high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which “Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into
Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his being very much attached to this man. She might never have
way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have
thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his
civility.—But he had fancied her in love with him; that evi- attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to
dently must have been his dependence; and after raving a little think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her
about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a con- not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That
ceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and
and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so com- left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into
plaisant and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing
(supposing her real motive unperceived) might warrant a man some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more.
of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fan- But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have
cying himself a very decided favourite. If she had so misinter- been but half a friend to her; and if she were not to feel this
preted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that he, with disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of
self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. any body else who would be at all desirable for her;—Will-
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, iam Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a
it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two pert young lawyer.”
people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then
much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what
what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing expla-
ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. nation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet

111
 Emma
would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meet- and retentive—and that there could be no necessity for any
ings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the ac- body’s knowing what had passed except the three principals,
quaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and and especially for her father’s being given a moment’s uneasi-
avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful ness about it.
reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great
nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any
most dreadfully. thing was welcome that might justify their all three being
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though un- quite asunder at present.
der temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly The weather was most favourable for her; though Christ-
fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of mas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would
morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she
and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant
unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow,
pain and brighter hope. and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise,
than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening
evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note;
really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas
shocking to disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should not Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton’s absenting
be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute himself.

112
 Jane Austen
It was weather which might fairly confine every body at CHAPTER XVII
home; and though she hoped and believed him to be really
taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant MR. AND MRS. JOHN KNIGHTLEY were not detained long at
to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to
his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual,
Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her chil-
them,— dren, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to
“Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;—which
Mr. Elton?” poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated on, full
These days of confinement would have been, but for her of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently
private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclu- busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.
sion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be The evening of the very day on which they went brought a
of great importance to his companions; and he had, besides, note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, cer-
so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his emonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s best compliments,
amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at “that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morn-
Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speak- ing in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the press-
ing pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of cheer- ing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few
fulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was un-
such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with der, from various circumstances of weather and business, of
Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly
at ease. civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense—and had Mr.

113
 Emma
Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark.
them.” She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold,
Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s absence and it was desirable that she should have as much time as
just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired possible for getting the better of her other complaint before
him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs. Goddard’s accord-
for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could ingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of
not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her communication; and a severe one it was.—She had to de-
father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had stroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feed-
not even a share in his opening compliments.—Her name ing—to appear in the ungracious character of the one pre-
was not mentioned;—and there was so striking a change in ferred—and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-
all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all
his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.
not escape her father’s suspicion. The confession completely renewed her first shame—and
It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the the sight of Harriet’s tears made her think that she should
surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton never be in charity with herself again.
might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing ex- Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—
traordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of dispo-
supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversa- sition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with par-
tion during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse ticular advantage at that moment to her friend.
talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty
them away with all her usual promptitude. to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be

114
 Jane Austen
attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conver-
not consider herself as having any thing to complain of. The sation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly
great a distinction.—She never could have deserved him— done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge
and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss of such matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise
Woodhouse would have thought it possible. in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it seemed to
Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, her reasonable that at Harriet’s age, and with the entire ex-
that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s tinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a
eyes—and she listened to her and tried to console her with all state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return, as to
her heart and understanding—really for the time convinced allow them all to meet again in the common routine of ac-
that Harriet was the superior creature of the two—and that quaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or
to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and hap- increasing them.
piness than all that genius or intelligence could do. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple- non-existence of any body equal to him in person or good-
minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous ness—and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love
resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and re- than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natu-
pressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty ral, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort
now, inferior only to her father’s claims, was to promote unrequited, that she could not comprehend its continuing
Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection very long in equal force.
in some better method than by match-making. She got her If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as
to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would

115
 Emma
anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet’s persisting to CHAPTER XVIII
place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, MR. FRANK CHURCHILL did not come. When the time pro-
was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power posed drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the ar-
of removal, or of effecting any material change of society. rival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be
They must encounter each other, and make the best of it. spared, to his “very great mortification and regret; but still he
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her compan- looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no
ions at Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all distant period.”
the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be at Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more
Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her depen-
spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where dence on seeing the young man had been so much more so-
the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if ber: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more
anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any
cure, there could be no true peace for herself. proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present fail-
ure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston
was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that
Frank’s coming two or three months later would be a much
better plan; better time of year; better weather; and that he
would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer
with them than if he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs.

116
 Jane Austen
Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagree-
but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her con- ment with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, per-
cern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal ceived that she was taking the other side of the question from
more herself. her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really against herself.
about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disap- “The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley,
pointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no coolly; “but I dare say he might come if he would.”
charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of “I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceed-
temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should ap- ingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”
pear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as “I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he
much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it
Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as might naturally without proof.”
belong to their friendship. “How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and ex- make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?”
claimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a “I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in
part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his connexions,
in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal and to care very little for any thing but his own pleasure,
more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to from living with those who have always set him the example
their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at some- of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that
body new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious,
of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If

117
 Emma
Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficul-
contrived it between September and January. A man at his ties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be
age—what is he?—three or four-and-twenty—cannot be with- acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s tem-
out the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.” per, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can
“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he
been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, can at others.”
Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not “There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if
know what it is to have tempers to manage.” he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and fi-
“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and- nessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s
twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so,
amount. He cannot want money—he cannot want leisure. by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once,
he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the king- simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—`Every sacrifice of
dom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your
A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I
can leave the Churchills.” know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of re-
“Yes, sometimes he can.” spect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off
“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at once, in the tone
whenever there is any temptation of pleasure.” of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition
“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without made to his going.”
an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has “No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be

118
 Jane Austen
some made to his coming back again. Such language for a better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right
young man entirely dependent, to use!—Nobody but you, conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of
Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds
an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to would bend to his.”
your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech “I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little
as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in au-
are to provide for him!—Standing up in the middle of the thority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are
room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!—How quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if
can you imagine such conduct practicable?” you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and
“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you would
difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the be able to say and do just what you have been recommending
declaration—made, of course, as a man of sense would make for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills
it, in a proper manner—would do him more good, raise him might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would
higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break
on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst
Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims
they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a
by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being
well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.”
ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exert- “Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to pro-
ing their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the duce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”

119
 Emma
“Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would it will secure him many others.”
try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely “Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to
to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying
has been looking up to all his life.” himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit
“Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions
be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the
do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a very best method in the world of preserving peace at home
habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of and preventing his father’s having any right to complain. His
consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child, letters disgust me.”
but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have “Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body
roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their else.”
authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on “I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can
their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: stand-
ought, there would have been no difficulty now.” ing in a mother’s place, but without a mother’s affection to
“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is
nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she
weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I
not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or
likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of
than would suit your notions of man’s perfection. I dare say considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all
he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be

120
 Jane Austen
amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my
`aimable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable; time or thoughts.”
but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of “My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to
other people: nothing really amiable about him.” the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the wish
“You seem determined to think ill of him.” of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farm-
“Me!—not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; ing; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every body,
“I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to having that general information on all subjects which will
acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propri-
except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and ety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is
good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.” my idea of him.”
“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will “And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn
be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow
young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his com-
and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imag- pany—the great man—the practised politician, who is to read
ine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will pro- every body’s character, and make every body’s talents conduce
duce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his flat-
of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of teries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared
curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not
and speak of nobody else.” endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
“You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find “I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn
him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for

121
 Emma
him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.”
“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”
VOLUME II
“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of
CHAPTER I
it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided preju-
dice in his favour.”
EMMA AND HARRIET had been walking together one morning,
“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to
and, in Emma’s opinion, had been talking enough of Mr.
another,” said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which
Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet’s solace
made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she
or her own sins required more; and she was therefore indus-
could not comprehend why he should be angry.
triously getting rid of the subject as they returned;—but it
To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared
burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and
to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy
after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in
the real liberality of mind which she was always used to ac-
winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive—
knowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself,
”Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!” she found something else
which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before
must be done.
for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and
merit of another.
Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek safety
in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for such an
attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she
knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever
to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect,
and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their
122
 Jane Austen
scanty comforts. Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some mother’s, and sweet-cake from the beaufet—”Mrs. Cole had
from her own heart, as to her deficiency—but none were equal just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so
to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable,— good as to sit an hour with them, and she had taken a piece of
a waste of time—tiresome women—and all the horror of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much; and,
being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third- therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would
rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and do them the favour to eat a piece too.”
therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of
sudden resolution of not passing their door without going Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole
in—observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew
she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any what was coming; they must have the letter over again, and
letter from Jane Fairfax. settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was en-
The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss gaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he
Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies’ ball had
moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to them, been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest
the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed; and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always
the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in putting forward to prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.
the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss This she had been prepared for when she entered the house;
Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be
ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to
their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of

123
 Emma
Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared happy. I hope she is well?”
to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually “Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived
hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.—”Oh! here it is. I
abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife
“Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to danc- upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite
ing—Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost
Bath was—Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole,
us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began in- and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother,
quiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. When- for it is such a pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she
ever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far
her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as off, and here it is, only just under my huswife—and since
much as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;—but, first of
directly, saying, `I know you cannot have heard from Jane all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing
lately, because it is not her time for writing;’ and when I im- so short a letter—only two pages you see—hardly two—and
mediately said, `But indeed we have, we had a letter this very in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother
morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body more often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says,
surprized. `Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; `well, when the letter is first opened, `Well, Hetty, now I think you
that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’” will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’—don’t
Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she would con-
interest— trive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for
“Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely her—every word of it—I am sure she would pore over it till

124
 Jane Austen
she had made out every word. And, indeed, though my the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her
mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amaz- escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost resolved on
ingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss
such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
often says, when she is here, `I am sure, grandmama, you “My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just noth-
must have had very strong eyes to see as you do—and so much ing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two
fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my eyes may or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to
last me as well.’” my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct!
for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than
excellence of Miss Fairfax’s handwriting. she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my
“You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly grati- mother’s time of life—and it really is full two years, you know,
fied; “you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully your- since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her
self. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that could give us so before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know
much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does not how to make enough of her now.”
hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma’am,” addressing her, “Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”
“do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about “Oh yes; next week.”
Jane’s handwriting?” “Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.”
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly com- “Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body
pliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things.
comprehend it. She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury,

125
 Emma
as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but
say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent
carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do not know
send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote
yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. in Mr. Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin,
in the common course, we should not have heard from her and take them back to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beau-
before next Tuesday or Wednesday.” tiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty;
“Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance from Mr. Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever heard
of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.” about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you
“So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he
had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to was paying his addresses—and as Jane used to be very often
come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!—for she is to walking out with them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell
be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, were very particular about their daughter’s not walking out
positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame
you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling
Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think
come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go she wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of
over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them the place, views that he had taken himself. He is a most ami-
again—for till she married, last October, she was never away able, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing
from them so much as a week, which must make it very to go to Ireland, from his account of things.”

126
 Jane Austen
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion en- den whirling round of something or other among the sails,
tering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charm- would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was
ing Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind,
the insidious design of farther discovery, caught hold of her habit—(I can never think of it without
“You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be trembling!)—But ever since we had the history of that day, I
allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”
particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could “But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish
hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.” you and Mrs. Bates?”
“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have “Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and
always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just
have her at such a distance from us, for months together— what they should recommend; and indeed they particularly
not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see, wish her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well
every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and as usual lately.”
Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. “I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But
Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I
or pressing than their joint invitation, Jane says, as you will understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is
hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least back- not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax.”
ward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. “Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but cer-
Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when tainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss
they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sud- Campbell always was absolutely plain—but extremely elegant

127
 Emma
and amiable.” and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky
“Yes, that of course.” thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of
“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th reading Jane’s letters through to myself first, before I read
of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being
been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so
her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but
alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But however, she is no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell,
so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think than I burst out, quite frightened, with `Bless me! poor Jane
she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees is ill!’—which my mother, being on the watch, heard dis-
with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months tinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I
at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is certainly a great found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I
deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much
she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.” about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my
“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr.
world.” Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is
“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not
the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Mon- mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer
day following—as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sud- it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain,
den!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just
has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her ill- given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to
ness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal

128
 Jane Austen
better than I can tell it for her.” CHAPTER II
“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glanc-
ing at Harriet, and beginning to rise—”My father will be ex- JANE FAIRFAX was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s
pecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of youngest daughter.
staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the _______ regiment of
I merely called, because I would not pass the door without infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and
inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly de- pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it,
tained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action
good morning.” abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief
And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. soon afterwards—and this girl.
She regained the street—happy in this, that though much By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years
had been forced on her against her will, though she had in old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge,
fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had the consolation, the fondling of her grandmother and aunt,
been able to escape the letter itself. there had seemed every probability of her being permanently
fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means
could command, and growing up with no advantages of
connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature
had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and
warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave
a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who

129
 Emma
had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome,
most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter’s; but,
to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the
believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did means of respectable subsistence hereafter.
not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good
the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and
put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-
out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, minded and well-informed people, her heart and understand-
with only one living child, a girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane ing had received every advantage of discipline and culture;
became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in London, every
favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance
daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally
real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or
of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was ac- nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified
cepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel for the care of children, fully competent to the office of in-
Campbell’s family, and had lived with them entirely, only struction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted
visiting her grandmother from time to time. with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was
others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained
her father making independence impossible. To provide for with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational
her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell’s power; for pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home

130
 Jane Austen
and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the pe-
sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to re- riod. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had re-
mind her that all this might soon be over. solved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal
Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.
party from the circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not
in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in fea- oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long
ture could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home
higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They contin- might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would
ued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:—
of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began
often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attrac- to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted
tion to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, en- the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of
gaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relin-
agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was quished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any rea-
eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her sonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment.
bread to earn. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter’s
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any marriage; and till she should have completely recovered her
thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which,
entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and
the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning. varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circum-

131
 Emma
stances, to require something more than human perfection of Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her
body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort. the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her be thought herself; and though the accusation had been ea-
account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there gerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-exami-
might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give nation in which her conscience could not quite acquit her.
the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her But “she could never get acquainted with her: she did not
last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—
whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and
might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she was made
or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been always imag-
that they depended more on a few months spent in her native ined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were
air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. the same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of
Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, in- each other.” These were her reasons—she had no better.
stead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so
long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put up for magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first
the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the fresh- time after any considerable absence, without feeling that she
ness of a two years’ absence. had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, on her
Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was particularly struck
did not like through three long months!—to be always doing with the very appearance and manners, which for those two
more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very
not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest

132
 Jane Austen
value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all
every body would think tall, and nobody could think very this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from,
tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel any
medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-
ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. known particular entitling her to interest, were added the
Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face—her highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon,
features—there was more beauty in them altogether than she which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, noth-
had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing ing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sac-
beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eye- rifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to
brows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s actions from his
she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clear- wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had
ness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single,
a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, successless love on her side alone. She might have been un-
and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire consciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his
it:—elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of
so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland,
and merit. and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.
with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, chari-
of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dis- table feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and
like her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giv-

133
 Emma
ing her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of
about for her. politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was
These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
had committed herself by any public profession of eternal If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was
friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recanta- more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons
tion of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight
“She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!” Jane into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own value for his company,
had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general
aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distin-
Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as guished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown
ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first sur-
added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to mises. There probably was something more to conceal than
the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near
for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss
well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
her mother and herself; and Jane’s offences rose again. They The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank
had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was
praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affecta- known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of
tion of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off real information could Emma procure as to what he truly
in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, was. “Was he handsome?”—”She believed he was reckoned a
besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”—”He was gener-

134
 Jane Austen
ally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young CHAPTER III
man of information?”—”At a watering-place, or in a com-
mon London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such EMMA COULD NOT forgive her;—but as neither provocation
points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, un- nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had
der a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and
Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleas- pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next
ing.” Emma could not forgive her. morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr.
Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as
he might have done had her father been out of the room, but
speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He
had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great
pleasure in marking an improvement.
“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr.
Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told
that he understood, and the papers swept away;—”particu-
larly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good
music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting
at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such
young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with
conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the
evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad

135
 Emma
you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her close by her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you
grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.” had not a pleasant evening.”
“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I “Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in ask-
hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at ing questions; and amused to think how little information
Hartfield.” I obtained.”
“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “that I am sure you “I am disappointed,” was his only answer.
are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. “I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr.
If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if Woodhouse, in his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire
it had been handed round once, I think it would have been rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a
enough.” very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very
“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks
not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.
comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.” Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane
An arch look expressed—”I understand you well enough;” Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a
but she said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.” very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found
“I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon over- the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”
come all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, “True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”
all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least
discretion must be honoured.” for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could
“You think her diffident. I do not see it.” question—
“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one “She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s

136
 Jane Austen
eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the
her from my heart.” leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thor-
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he oughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moder-
cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. ately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I
Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates’s, said— do not consider it unwholesome.”
“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so con- “Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of
fined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is news for you. You like news—and I heard an article in my
so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of way hither that I think will interest you.”
any thing uncommon—Now we have killed a porker, and “News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do
Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small you smile so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?”
and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork—but He had time only to say,
still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure “No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when
of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax
without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss
can bear roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon
not you think so, my dear?” saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syl-
“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you lable of communication could rest with him.
would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, “Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss
which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any Woodhouse—I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful
manner they like.” hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard
“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married.”

137
 Emma
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and “I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago.
she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a He had just read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed
little start, and a little blush, at the sound. it to me directly.”
“There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,” said “Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of
Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are
some part of what had passed between them. too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compliments
“But where could you hear it?” cried Miss Bates. “Where could and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite
you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes oppress her.”
since I received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be more than “We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr.
five—or at least ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, Woodhouse—”indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all
just ready to come out—I was only gone down to speak to other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure
Patty again about the pork—Jane was standing in the passage— than—”
were not you, Jane?—for my mother was so afraid that we had “Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only
not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down too good to us. If ever there were people who, without hav-
and see, and Jane said, `Shall I go down instead? for I think you ing great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish
have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’— for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that `our lot is cast in
`Oh! my dear,’ said I—well, and just then came the note. A a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually
Miss Hawkins—that’s all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. saw the letter; well—”
But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for “It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exult-
the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down ing, of course.”—Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had
and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—” been so fortunate as to—I forget the precise words—one has

138
 Jane Austen
no business to remember them. The information was, as you he is just the happy medium. When you have been here a little
state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the
his style, I should imagine it just settled.” standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind.”
“Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as “Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very
she could speak. “He will have every body’s wishes for his best young man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told
happiness.” you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss
“He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s obser- Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent young woman. His ex-
vation. “He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me treme attention to my mother—wanting her to sit in the vic-
very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at arage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a
Hartfield.” little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she does not hear
“A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf.
Bates, joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!—she says she can- He fancied bathing might be good for it—the warm bath—
not bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. but she says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell,
This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never seen Mr. you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very
Elton!—no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him.” charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a hap-
Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as piness when good people get together—and they always do.
wholly to occupy her. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there
“No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on are the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys—I sup-
this appeal; “is he—is he a tall man?” pose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and
“Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,” turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “I think
would say `yes,’ Mr. Knightley `no;’ and Miss Bates and I that there are few places with such society as Highbury. I always

139
 Emma
say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.—My dear sir, if Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some
there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is young lady hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whis-
pork—a roast loin of pork—” pered to me—but I immediately said, `No, Mr. Elton is a
“As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has most worthy young man—but’—In short, I do not think I
been acquainted with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not
can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long ac- pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time,
quaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.” nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly.
wonderings, Emma said, She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss
“You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard
an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and see- from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little chil-
ing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so dren. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr.
deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account—we shall John Knightley. I mean in person—tall, and with that sort of
not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss look—and not very talkative.”
Hawkins.” “Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”
“When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “ I dare say I “Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body
shall be interested—but I believe it requires that with me. beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away with it.
And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?”
impression may be a little worn off.” “Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told
“Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss you he was plain.”
Woodhouse,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss “My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow

140
 Jane Austen
him to be plain, and that you yourself—” by him while he lamented that young people would be in
“Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I such a hurry to marry—and to marry strangers too—and the
have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It
gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news,
plain.” as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but
“Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that
The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be un- she could hope was, by giving the first information herself, to
easy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now
really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet
news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole’s; but I shall Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its beginning to rain, Emma
not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining
directly—I would not have you out in a shower!—We think her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would un-
she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do doubtedly rush upon her without preparation.
indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over
really do not think she cares for any thing but boiled pork: five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated,
when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morn- agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was
ing to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. likely to give; and the “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you
Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so think has happened!” which instantly burst forth, had all the
kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was
Hawkins!—Good morning to you.” given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kind-
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted ness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly

141
 Emma
through what she had to tell. “She had set out from Mrs. looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went
Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had been afraid it would to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near
rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every mo- the door!—Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must
ment—but she thought she might get to Hartfield first—she have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you
had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere
by the house where a young woman was making up a gown in the world but there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well,
for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of
went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one
there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she did another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not
not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me—
could, and took shelter at Ford’s.”—Ford’s was the principal (do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she
woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; came forward—came quite up to me, and asked me how I
the shop first in size and fashion in the place.—”And so, there did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not
she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten do any of it in the same way that she used; I could see she was
minutes, perhaps—when, all of a sudden, who should come altered; but, however, she seemed to try to be very friendly,
in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they always dealt at and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know
Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her no more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember
brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought
should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely
near the door—Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I
was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she was determined that nothing should stop me from getting

142
 Jane Austen
away—and then—only think!—I found he was coming up She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The young man’s
towards me too—slowly you know, and as if he did not quite conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result of real feeling, and
know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered— she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there
and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and
can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and said it did not genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them
rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what differ-
yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I ence did this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly
was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose
round by Mr. Cole’s stables, for I should find the near way her—they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had
quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise
been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of
him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Harriet’s description?—So easily pleased—so little discern-
Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—I believe I did— ing;—what signified her praise?
but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable,
Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite
happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in unworthy of being dwelt on,
seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, “It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but
too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me com- you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and
fortable again.” may never—can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not therefore you need not think about it.”
immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and think. Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about

143
 Emma
it;” but still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a twelvemonth
else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her might pass without their being thrown together again, with
head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant any necessity, or even any power of speech.
to give with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself
whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at
such a state of mind in poor Harriet—such a conclusion of
Mr. Elton’s importance with her!
Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she
did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the
day before, or an hour before, its interest soon increased; and
before their first conversation was over, she had talked herself
into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain
and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could
conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in
her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a
meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock,
without retaining any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived,
the Martins could not get at her, without seeking her, where
hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the conde-
scension to seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the

144
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER IV back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for
Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
HUMAN NATURE is so well disposed towards those who are in The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual
interesting situations, that a young person, who either mar- advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of
ries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would al-
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first ways be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some
mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself
other, discovered to have every recommendation of person and away—he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts;
mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and per- and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity—the first
fectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by dis-
in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, tinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole
there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Chris- of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious—the
tian name, and say whose music she principally played. steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away Mr. Green’s, and the party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and
rejected and mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, blushes rising in importance—with consciousness and agita-
after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; tion richly scattered—the lady had been so easily impressed—
and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself de- so sweetly disposed—had in short, to use a most intelligible
based to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and pru-
deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to dence were equally contented.
another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such cir- He had caught both substance and shadow—both fortune
cumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be;

145
 Emma
talking only of himself and his own concerns—expecting to him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty
be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and, with cor- miles off would administer most satisfaction.
dial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of the The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however,
place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solici-
cautiously gallant. tudes would be prevented—many awkwardnesses smoothed
The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only by it. A Mrs. Elton would be an excuse for any change of
themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary prepara- intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It
tions to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again, there would be almost beginning their life of civility again.
was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole’s Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She
did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished
Highbury he would bring his bride. enough for Highbury—handsome enough—to look plain,
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; probably, by Harriet’s side. As to connexion, there Emma was
but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims
give her the impression of his not being improved by the and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article,
mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air. She truth seemed attainable. What she was, must be uncertain;
was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had but who she was, might be found out; and setting aside the
ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so insepara- 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet’s supe-
bly connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that, ex- rior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss
cept in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of prof- Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol—
itable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of
thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it

146
 Jane Austen
was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably
been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always
used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him
heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure
some years ago, an uncle remained—in the law line—noth- just to meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his
ing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to
that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of
lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hear-
and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion ing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was al-
seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was very well mar- ways among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found
ried, to a gentleman in a great way, near Bristol, who kept nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and
two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was every report, therefore, every guess—all that had already oc-
the glory of Miss Hawkins. curred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs,
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continu-
She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to ally in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength
be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and
many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to be talked away. feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s
He might be superseded by another; he certainly would in- happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed
deed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would attached!—his air as he walked by the house—the very sit-
have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure ting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!
her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no

147
 Emma
pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother
Harriet’s mind, Emma would have been amused by its varia- and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It
tions. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquain-
Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the tance!—
other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of the agita- After much thinking, she could determine on nothing bet-
tion of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by ter, than Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they
the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside had understanding, should convince them that it was to be
by Elizabeth Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few days only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the car-
afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had riage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a little
been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no time for
touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kind- insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past,
ness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy
occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done was chosen for the future.
in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. She could think of nothing better: and though there was
But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While something in it which her own heart could not approve—
he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morn- something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—it must be
ing of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some done, or what would become of Harriet?
of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return
Elizabeth Martin’s visit.
How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would be
necessary—and what might be safest, had been a point of

148
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER V gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with
her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young
SMALL HEART had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour be- man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk—a Miss Mar-
fore her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars tin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly
had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, with ceremonious civility.
directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath, was to Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account.
be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butcher’s She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from
cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of
every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direc- pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the
tion, was consequently a blank. two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly;
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been talked
she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel almost all the time—till just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s say-
walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the front door, ing, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown,
the sight of every thing which had given her so much pleasure had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer
the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local agita- manner. In that very room she had been measured last Sep-
tion; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be look- tember, with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks
ing around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined and memorandums on the wainscot by the window. He had
her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the
hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness, the same
old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell. regrets—to be ready to return to the same good understand-
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white ing; and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet,

149
 Emma
as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be “This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And
cordial and happy,) when the carriage reappeared, and all was now we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know
over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then when I have been so disappointed.” And she leaned back in
felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away;
with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months probably a little of both—such being the commonest process
ago!—Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she
they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were
bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the
great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in
They were so deserving, that a little higher should have been sound—for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with,
enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?— “How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with
Impossible!—She could not repent. They must be separated; your father—glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-mor-
but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so much to row—I had a letter this morning—we see him to-morrow by
herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little dinner-time to a certainty—he is at Oxford to-day, and he
consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he had
to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was
Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather.
that neither “master nor mistress was at home;” they had both We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out
been out some time; the man believed they were gone to exactly as we could wish.”
Hartfield. There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoid-

150
 Jane Austen
ing the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, con- “but you must not be expecting such a very fine young man;
firmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his you have only had my account you know; I dare say he is
wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know really nothing extraordinary:”—though his own sparkling eyes
that she thought his coming certain was enough to make at the moment were speaking a very different conviction.
Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and
It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; “Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four
and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped o’clock,” was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with
Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. some anxiety, and meant only for her.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at “Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,”
Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most
entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up
method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and con- to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his
gratulated. horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked
“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be
conclusion. coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
speech, from his wife. “Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Ox-
“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are ford?”—was a question, however, which did not augur much.
detaining the girls.” But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at
“Well, well, I am ready;”—and turning again to Emma, once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they

151
 Emma
should both come in time. was actually before her—he was presented to her, and she did
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a very
Weston’s faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unex-
or twelve o’clock, that she was to think of her at four. ceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit
“My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental solilo- and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick and sensible.
quy, while walking downstairs from her own room, “always She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was
overcareful for every body’s comfort but your own; I see you a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which
now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with
room, to be sure that all is right.” The clock struck twelve as her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
she passed through the hall. “’Tis twelve; I shall not forget to He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased
think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his
perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain
of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon.” half a day.
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sit- “I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I
ting with her father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been told you all that he would be here before the time named. I
arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely fin- remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon
ished his explanation of Frank’s being a day before his time, a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has
and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s friends
and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than
surprize, introduction, and pleasure. any little exertion it needs.”
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, “It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the

152
 Jane Austen
young man, “though there are not many houses that I should a large neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded soci-
presume on so far; but in coming home I felt I might do any ety enough?—There were several very pretty houses in and
thing.” about it.—Balls—had they balls?—Was it a musical society?”
The word home made his father look on him with fresh But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquain-
complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to tance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an op-
make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by portunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each
what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her
thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration,
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father,
to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and pro- and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional
fessed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the proof of his knowing how to please—and of his certainly
country which none but one’s own country gives, and the thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not ad-
greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been vance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thor-
able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously oughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could
through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was know very little of the matter. He understood what would be
a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air welcome; he could be sure of little else. “His father’s mar-
of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in riage,” he said, “had been the wisest measure, every friend
a state of no common enjoyment. must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred
acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—”Was she a the highest obligation on him.”
horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s

153
 Emma
merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might
course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken
had formed Miss Woodhouse’s character, than Miss strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and
Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved to qualify whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of
his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of
wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were
of her person. agreeable.
“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he; She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking
“but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not ex- about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing
pected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he
certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young might have determined not to look, she was confident that
woman in Mrs. Weston.” he was often listening.
“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of
my feelings,” said Emma; “were you to guess her to be eigh- the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of pen-
teen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be ready to etration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance.
quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let her imagine Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than
that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman.” from foreseeing it.—Though always objecting to every mar-
“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon riage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from
it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so
should understand whom I might praise without any danger ill of any two persons’ understanding as to suppose they meant
of being thought extravagant in my terms.” to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the

154
 Jane Austen
favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know
a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any any family of that name?”
possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind- “To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we passed
hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank her house—I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are
Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the sad acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at
evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genu- Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means.”
ine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped “There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said
catching cold—which, however, he could not allow him to the young man; “another day would do as well; but there was
feel quite assured of himself till after another night. that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—”
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—”He “Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to
must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give
and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her here should
need not hurry any body else.” His son, too well bred to hear be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when
the hint, rose immediately also, saying, she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she
“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to
opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.”
or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the The son looked convinced.
honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turn- “I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma;
ing to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family “she is a very elegant young woman.”
of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her
finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a

155
 Emma
very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as
Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it. he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling
“If you were never particularly struck by her manners be- out, “My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows
fore,” said she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he
advantage; see her and hear her—no, I am afraid you will not may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump.”
hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue.” They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod
“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentle-
said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in con- men took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this
versation; “then give me leave to assure you that you will find beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think
her a very agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confi-
to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known dence in their comfort.
them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am
sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you
the way.”
“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can
direct me.”
“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the
Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a
great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is
a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my
coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street.”

156
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER VI him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should
make amends for it. But on seeing them together, she became
THE NEXT MORNING brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or
came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could
to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, it ap- be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—
peared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering
exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immedi- her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time
ately fixed on Highbury.—”He did not doubt there being enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their
very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all three
should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, walking about together for an hour or two—first round the
happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction.”— shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was
Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for
trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going farther was re-
walked thither directly. solved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who whole village, and found matter of commendation and inter-
had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his son est much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable
an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them walk- feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his father
ing up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his
see him again, and especially to see him in company with father’s father; and on recollecting that an old woman who
Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage

157
 Emma
from one end of the street to the other; and though in some and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately inter-
points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, ested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of
they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior
general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with. sashed windows which were open, to look in and contem-
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were plate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should
now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowl-
ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not been act- edge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough,
ing a part, or making a parade of insincere professions; and broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very
that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice. number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss
house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?—
pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of She who could do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper
the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond
companions had not expected to be detained by any interest the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to
excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could
large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he
a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a par- saw around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such
ticularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used a meeting; and even when particulars were given and families
as such;—but such brilliant days had long passed away, and described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconve-
now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to nience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there
accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into

158
 Jane Austen
their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I
man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—
surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so de- but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter
cidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else)
have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclina- joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with
tions of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady
Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely had not given me the possibility of escape before.”
enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too “And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”
much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, how- “Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to
ever, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston,
of lively spirits. is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill
Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the health.—A most deplorable want of complexion.”
Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence
before, and asked him if he had paid it. of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant,
“Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention it. but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and
A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave pecu-
very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the liar elegance to the character of her face.” He listened with all
talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people
been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him nothing
paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.

159
 Emma
Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your popularity will stand
to them all; and where they were good, the effect was—for- upon your own virtues.”
tunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s
“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.—At Beavers” and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying
least you admire her except her complexion.” on the counter, he said—”But I beg your pardon, Miss
He shook his head and laughed.—”I cannot separate Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were saying some-
Fairfax and her complexion.” thing at the very moment of this burst of my amor patriae.
“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of pub-
the same society?” lic fame would not make me amends for the loss of any hap-
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hast- piness in private life.”
ily exclaimed, “Ha! this must be the very shop that every body “I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss
attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me. He Fairfax and her party at Weymouth.”
comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, “And now that I understand your question, I must pro-
and has always business at Ford’s. If it be not inconvenient to nounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right
you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must
the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy some- already have given her account.—I shall not commit myself
thing at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”
they sell gloves.” “Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do
“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patrio- herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be
tism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the
before you came, because you were Mr. Weston’s son—but least information about any body, that I really think you may

160
 Jane Austen
say what you like of your acquaintance with her.” “Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much
“May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our
suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had lives since we both began. She plays charmingly.”
known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we “You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some
were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well,
agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the
woman. I like them all.” matter myself.—I am excessively fond of music, but without
“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what the smallest skill or right of judging of any body’s perfor-
she is destined to be?” mance.—I have been used to hear her’s admired; and I re-
“Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.” member one proof of her being thought to play well:—a man,
“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston a very musical man, and in love with another woman—en-
smiling; “remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill gaged to her—on the point of marriage—would yet never
hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the
situation in life. I will move a little farther off.” lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed to
“I certainly do forget to think of her,” said Emma, “as hav- like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in
ing ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.” a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a “Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—”Mr. Dixon
sentiment. is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouch-
shop again, “Did you ever hear the young lady we were speak- safed in half a year.”
ing of, play?” said Frank Churchill. “Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and

161
 Emma
I thought it a very strong proof.” “As to that—I do not—”
“Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great “Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss
deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell, would have Fairfax’s sensations from you, or from any body else. They
been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man’s having are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she
more music than love—more ear than eye—a more acute sen- continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one
sibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss may guess what one chuses.”
Campbell appear to like it?” “There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among
“It was her very particular friend, you know.” them all—” he began rather quickly, but checking himself,
“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather added, “however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms
have a stranger preferred than one’s very particular friend— they really were—how it might all be behind the scenes. I can
with a stranger it might not recur again—but the misery of only say that there was smoothness outwardly. But you, who
having a very particular friend always at hand, to do every have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge
thing better than one does oneself!—Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in
I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.” critical situations, than I can be.”
“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; “I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been
but she really did not seem to feel it.” children and women together; and it is natural to suppose
“So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not that we should be intimate,—that we should have taken to
know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her— each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did.
quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling—there was one I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from
person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust
She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction.” towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by

162
 Jane Austen
her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she
reserve—I never could attach myself to any one so completely had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his feelings
reserved.” warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of consid-
“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes ering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would
very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in go and look at, and would not join them in finding much
reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.” fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such
“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be
attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any
a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample
take the trouble of conquering any body’s reserve to procure room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a block-
one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of head who wanted more.
the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he
least—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and
of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea without ever thinking how many advantages and accommo-
about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being dations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the
something to conceal.” privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so her own mind, determined that he did know what he was
long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination
acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He
only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be
expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pan-

163
 Emma
try, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could CHAPTER VII
not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he
would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an EMMA’S VERY GOOD OPINION of Frank Churchill was a little
early establishment. shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to
London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed
to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise
and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more
important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There
was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice
over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and
nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord
with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or
even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed
herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love
of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing some-
thing, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his fa-
ther and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might
appear in general; he became liable to all these charges. His
father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good
story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough,
by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no

164
 Jane Austen
other comment than that “all young people would have their her by all their joint acquaintance.
little whims.” Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank
visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. admired her extremely—thought her very beautiful and very
Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether,
a companion he made himself—how much she saw to like in she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston
his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open observed, “all young people would have their little whims.”
temper—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry,
observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, through-
right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of out the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour;
talking of him—said he would be the best man in the world liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a
if he were left to himself; and though there was no being handsome young man—one who smiled so often and bowed
attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with grati- so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be soft-
tude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with re- ened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr.
spect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an un- Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the
fortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immedi-
denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her ately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his
imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really hand, “Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.” She
in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation con-
by her own indifference—(for still her resolution held of never vinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings,
marrying)—the honour, in short, of being marked out for and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.

165
 Emma
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, ties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place.
Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in another re- The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose
spect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they they would presume to invite—neither Donwell, nor
were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt her to go, if
was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish.
years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people— The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought
friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on
they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately gen- which the superior families would visit them. This lesson,
teel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived in she very much feared, they would receive only from herself;
proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had But she had made up her mind how to meet this presump-
brought them a considerable increase of means—the house in tion so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult
town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell
smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come
want of a larger house, their inclination for more company. for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it
They added to their house, to their number of servants, to with “I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they
their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune know you do not dine out,” was not quite sufficient. She felt
and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. that she should like to have had the power of refusal; and
Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there,
every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few par- consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,

166
 Jane Austen
occurred again and again, she did not know that she might the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which they hoped
not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and
the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking of it as therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour
they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank of his company. “Upon the whole, she was very persuadable;
Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might
not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. be done without neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs.
The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bear-
spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing ing him company—Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an
the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a day
comfort. now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons him. As for his going, Emma did not wish him to think it
were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too nu-
for though her first remark, on reading it, was that “of course merous. He was soon pretty well resigned.
it must be declined,” she so very soon proceeded to ask them “I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he—”I never was.
what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am
was most prompt and successful. sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not abso- be much better if they would come in one afternoon next
lutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed summer, and take their tea with us—take us in their after-
themselves so properly—there was so much real attention in noon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reason-
the manner of it—so much consideration for her father. “They able, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the
would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not

167
 Emma
expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous to therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with
have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, my compliments, of course. But you will do every thing right.
and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to
prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I
nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been
look of gentle reproach—”Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not there above once since the new approach was made; but still I
married, you would have staid at home with me.” have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away, you get there, you must tell him at what time you would
it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will have him come for you again; and you had better name an
step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.” early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was tired when tea is over.”
increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The la- “But you would not wish me to come away before I am
dies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, tired, papa?”
and every thing deliberately arranged. “Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”
enough for talking as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. “But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away
Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma early, it will be breaking up the party.”
should write a line, and invite her. James could take the note. “And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The
But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole.” sooner every party breaks up, the better.”
“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. “But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles.
You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and Emma’s going away directly after tea might be giving offence.

168
 Jane Austen
They are good-natured people, and think little of their own not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with
claims; but still they must feel that any body’s hurrying away Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is
is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing it would gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself,
be more thought of than any other person’s in the room. You instead of going to bed at your usual time—and the idea of
would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise
sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who me not to sit up.”
have been your neighbours these ten years.” He did, on the condition of some promises on her side:
“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to
much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take some-
sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people thing to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and that
they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt li- Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in
quor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bil- the house, as usual.
ious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means
of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider
this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and
Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might
wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly
safe, you know, among your friends.”
“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should
have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on
your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am

169
 Emma
CHAPTER VIII tentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak
to defend its own vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure that he
FRANK CHURCHILL came back again; and if he kept his father’s is not trifling or silly.”
dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him
was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his
to betray any imperfection which could be concealed. general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be
with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancy-
ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his ing what the observations of all those might be, who were
hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to now seeing them together for the first time.
wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at
as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the
thus moralised to herself:— failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well
people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wicked- as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing
ness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon the char- duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects to
acter of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is not a tri- them as they sat together after dinner; and while her father
fling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two
differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large
or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the os- slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling

170
 Jane Austen
self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off
them to practise during the meal.—She had provided a plen- very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air
tiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet
had been allowed to eat it. you under those circumstances. Now you have nothing to try
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are
pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley not striving to look taller than any body else. Now I shall
keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”
of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma’s “Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.
opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of
often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cor-
opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm dial respect which could not but please, and given all the con-
from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out. sequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the
“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentle- kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for
man.—I am quite glad to see you.” her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her
He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar
arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the object, and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as
drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.
me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You might not The party was rather large, as it included one other family,
have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.” a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles
“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the lawyer of Highbury.

171
 Emma
The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with think who could possibly have ordered it—but now, they
Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at din- were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one
ner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation quarter;—of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked “One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I
over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But
pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a
she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but I should
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to
expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it make the present. They might chuse to surprize her.”
well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke
fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from
she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had
the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a been made; and there were enough ready to speak to allow
very elegant looking instrument—not a grand, but a large- Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole.
sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the “I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that
end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, has given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me
and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have
Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially consider-
the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and ing how many houses there are where fine instruments are
niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s ac- absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to
count, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I

172
 Jane Austen
really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”
the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from an- “Very.”
other, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps “I rather wonder that it was never made before.”
may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, “Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long
who is mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of before.”
an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, “Or that he did not give her the use of their own instru-
to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but ment—which must now be shut up in London, untouched
yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particu- by any body.”
larly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself “That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large
in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours for Mrs. Bates’s house.”
might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use “You may say what you chuse—but your countenance testi-
than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument fies that your thoughts on this subject are very much like mine.”
was bought—or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of “I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more
it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be pre- credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile,
vailed with to try it this evening.” and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and find- present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel
ing that nothing more was to be entrapped from any com- Campbell is not the person, who can be?”
munication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill. “What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
“Why do you smile?” said she. “Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs.
“Nay, why do you?” Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable
“Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the

173
 Emma
mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman’s scheme look upon that as a mere excuse.—In the summer it might
than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for them
that your suspicions would guide mine.” in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires
“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most
Mr. Dixon in them.” cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her’s. I do not require
“Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a
it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are.”
speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an “And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability.
admirer of her performance.” Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can an-
“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an swer for being very decided.”
idea which I had entertained before.—I do not mean to re- “And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A
flect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard.
Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making He caught her.”
his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in “He did. I was there—one of the party.”
love with her, or that he became conscious of a little attach- “Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of
ment on her side. One might guess twenty things without course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been
guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a par- there, I think I should have made some discoveries.”
ticular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of “I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the
going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be lead- fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and
ing a life of privation and penance; there it would have been that Mr. Dixon caught her.—It was the work of a moment.
all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great

174
 Jane Austen
and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half an hour but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a prin-
before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too cipal in the business.”
general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be “Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your
observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At
not have made discoveries.” first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought
on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval be- it the most natural thing in the world. But when you men-
tween the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly tioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it
as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I
when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupa- can see it in no other light than as an offering of love.”
tion and ease were generally restored, Emma said, There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The con-
“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted viction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no
to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. De- more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the din-
pend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. ner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came in,
and Mrs. Dixon.” and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of con-
“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge versation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but
of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells.” by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other—
“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old
knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been news, and heavy jokes.
guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before
dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma

175
 Emma
watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if diately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness
she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt
only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but which accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colo-
could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsenti- nel Campbell.”
mental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly
pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help
There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject;
she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and
herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about
look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine’s coun-
the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; tenance.
but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feel- They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the
ings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortifica- very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the
tion of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments
vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of know- en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly
ing herself beloved by the husband of her friend. to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse;
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma
approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, divined what every body present must be thinking. She was
she felt too much in the secret herself, to think the appear- his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced
ance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments
at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost imme- afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had

176
 Jane Austen
never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her na- families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed,
ivete.” And she, “Only to be sure it was paying him too great and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs.
a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a Churchill were not in health and spirits for going; that they
little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her indignation, and made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though he
only turned from her in silence. had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty,
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentle- without considerable address at times, that he could get away,
man on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impa- She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury,
tient to leave the dining-room—hated sitting long—was al- taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who
ways the first to move when he could—that his father, Mr. had more retirement at home than he liked. His importance
Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it natu-
parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had rally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his
been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it,
of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he
Highbury altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable could with time persuade her to any thing. One of those points
families—that Emma began to feel she had been used to de- on which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had
spise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the wanted very much to go abroad—had been very eager indeed
society in Yorkshire—the extent of the neighbourhood about to be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This
Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his an- had happened the year before. Now, he said, he was begin-
swers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very ning to have no longer the same wish.
little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma

177
 Emma
guessed to be good behaviour to his father. keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outree!—
“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody
short pause.—”I have been here a week to-morrow—half my else looking like her!—I must go and ask her whether it is an
time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!—And Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you
I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just got acquainted shall see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”
with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I hate the recollection.” He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him stand-
“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one ing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect
whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut.” on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself
“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she
have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe could absolutely distinguish nothing.
myself fit to be seen.” Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs.
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma Weston.
found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, “This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—”one can get
and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had moved away, and near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am
her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and
Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while
who was sitting exactly opposite. the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece
“What is the matter?” said she. came here?”
He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I be- “How?—They were invited, were not they?”
lieve I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done “Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the man-
her hair in so odd a way—so very odd a way—that I cannot ner of their coming?”

178
 Jane Austen
“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?” usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for
“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect
very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it
late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked was only as an excuse for assisting them.”
at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it “Very likely,” said Emma—”nothing more likely. I know
struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be par- no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of
ticularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the thing—to do any thing really good-natured, useful, consider-
idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and ate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very
I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s ill-health,
may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for an act of
his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix
assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-
took us home; for I thought it would be making her com- day—for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it,
fortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, but he said not a word that could betray.”
you may be sure. `Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!’— “Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for
but with many, many thanks—`there was no occasion to more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I
trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into
to take them home again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The
I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind atten- more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I
tion—and so thoughtful an attention!—the sort of thing that have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax.
so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his See the consequence of keeping you company!—What do

179
 Emma
you say to it?” “I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear “I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foun-
Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. dation than what you mention. His good-nature, his human-
Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not marry!—You would not ity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the
have little Henry cut out from Donwell?—Oh! no, no, Henry horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, inde-
must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley’s pendent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad to shew them
marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-mak-
you should think of such a thing.” ing. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!—
“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would
it. I do not want the match—I do not want to injure dear not have him do so mad a thing.”
little Henry—but the idea has been given me by circumstances; “Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequal-
and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not ity of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see
have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of six years old, nothing unsuitable.”
who knows nothing of the matter?” “But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has
“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.— not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should
Mr. Knightley marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, he marry?—He is as happy as possible by himself; with his
and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to man-
women!” age; and he is extremely fond of his brother’s children. He has
“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart.”
very well know.” “My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he
“But the imprudence of such a match!” really loves Jane Fairfax—”

180
 Jane Austen
“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown
of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad
or her family; but—” connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly
good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respect- of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety about
able home.” her health—his concern that she should have no happier pros-
“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to pect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on those
himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How points!—Such an admirer of her performance on the piano-
would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?—To forte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could
have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea
for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—`So very kind and that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been sent here
obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind by somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to
neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a sentence, to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from
her mother’s old petticoat. `Not that it was such a very old Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is
petticoat either—for still it would last a great while—and, just the person to do it, even without being in love.”
indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all “Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love.
very strong.’” But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr.
“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me Knightley does nothing mysteriously.”
against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think “I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument re-
Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little peatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance
things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted would, in the common course of things, occur to him.”

181
 Emma
“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would gave a very proper compliance.
have told her so.” She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to
“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted
a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are gener-
particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.” ally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well.
“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by
as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank
sign of attachment—I believe nothing of the pianoforte— Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the
and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of
thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.” having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of mu-
They combated the point some time longer in the same sic; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing
way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They
for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her
little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and
the instrument in preparation;—and at the same moment instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from her-
Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do self, was infinitely superior to her own.
them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance
the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank
been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice,
Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreat- it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley
ies; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma’s mind;

182
 Jane Austen
and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. “I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our
Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am
voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to without the wish; but you know how impossible my father
Mr. Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside. She would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose.”
could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disap- “Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he
pointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. replied;—”but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he
A real injury to the children—a most mortifying change, and smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she
material loss to them all;—a very great deduction from her must proceed another step.
father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all “This present from the Campbells,” said she—”this piano-
endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. forte is very kindly given.”
Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley “Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent embar-
must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of rassment.—”But they would have done better had they given
Donwell. her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I
by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admi- should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”
ration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that
Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument.
however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment—
aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cut- whether there were no actual preference—remained a little
ting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disin- longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s second song, her
clination to dwell on any kindness of his own. voice grew thick.

183
 Emma
“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole,
aloud—”you have sung quite enough for one evening—now that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space.
be quiet.” Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and
Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;— beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming
they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her
only ask for one more.” And Frank Churchill was heard to hand, and led her up to the top.
say, “I think you could manage this without effort; the first While waiting till the other young people could pair them-
part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the selves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments
second.” she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about,
Mr. Knightley grew angry. and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial.
“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in
shewing off his own voice. This must not be.” And touching engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There
Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near—”Miss Bates, was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs.
are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this man- Cole—he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by
ner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her.” somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was
even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and
to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered;
evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delight-
young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the ful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They
proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew were a couple worth looking at.

184
 Jane Austen
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. CHAPTER IX
It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get
home, on her mother’s account. After some attempts, there- EMMA DID NOT REPENT her condescension in going to the Coles.
fore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next
thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the
“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the
Emma to her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles—
her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a
your’s.” name behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and
there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She
doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman
by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feel-
ings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been
so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission
to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration,
which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she
ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax;
and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and un-
equivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and sing-

185
 Emma
ing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her child- “Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know
hood—and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian
half. singing.—There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is
Harriet’s praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were
been comforted. wondering last night whether she would get into any great
“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!” family. How did you think the Coxes looked?”
“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more “Just as they always do—very vulgar.”
like her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.” “They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly;”
“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think but it is nothing of any consequence.”
you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though
hear you. Every body last night said how well you played.” fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the “They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Sat-
difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good urday.”
enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.” “Oh!”
“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she “He came to their father upon some business, and he asked
does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find him to stay to dinner.”
it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank “Oh!”
Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he “They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox.
valued taste much more than execution.” I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought
“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.” I should go and stay there again next summer.”

186
 Jane Austen
“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling chil-
Cox should be.” dren round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the ginger-
“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He bread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was
sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A
would be very glad to marry him.” mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can
“Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most see nothing that does not answer.
vulgar girls in Highbury.” She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged;
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most pru- two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they
dent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Mar- were walking into Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They
tins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous. were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates’s; whose
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford’s; and had all but
was always very long at a purchase; and while she was still knocked, when Emma caught their eye.—Immediately they
hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to crossed the road and came forward to her; and the agreeable-
the door for amusement.—Much could not be hoped from ness of yesterday’s engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure
the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she
walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new
office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exer- instrument.
cise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the live- “For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely
liest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morn-
fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman trav- ing. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had
elling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.”

187
 Emma
“And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I “I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.—”I am
hope,” said Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours,
her at Hartfield—if you are going home.” when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the
Mrs. Weston was disappointed. instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I under-
“I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very stood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.”
much pleased.” “Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very
“Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to
equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I re-
not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shop- ally wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an atten-
ping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse tion! and I always thought you meant it.”
looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?” He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to
“I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door.
only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the inter-
and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. esting counter,—trying, with all the force of her own mind,
Weston and hear the instrument.” to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no
“Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so
Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last
prove to have an indifferent tone—what shall I say? I shall be no it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A “Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs.
disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am Ford.—”Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern
the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood.” gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if

188
 Jane Austen
you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.— “My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run
And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with
want the ribbon directly—so it had better go to Hartfield— us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instru-
at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. ment; you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith?—
Ford, could not you?” Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston to come
“It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”
of two parcels.” “I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”
“No more it is.” “Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is de-
“No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. lightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is
Ford. Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good account.
“Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh! then, said I, I
Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s— must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me
I do not know—No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will
well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at be so very happy to see her—and now we are such a nice
night. What do you advise?” party, she cannot refuse.—`Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank
“That you do not give another half-second to the subject. Churchill, `Miss Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument will
To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.” be worth having.’—But, said I, I shall be more sure of suc-
“Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied, ceeding if one of you will go with me.—`Oh,’ said he, `wait
“I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.” half a minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would you
Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging
ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother’s

189
 Emma
spectacles.—The rivet came out, you know, this morning.— it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry,
So very obliging!—For my mother had no use of her spec- and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples,
tacles—could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportu-
ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane nity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet
said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I have so
thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morn- often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I
ing; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the
know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, how-
chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I, Patty do not come ever, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling.
with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress’s Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these la-
spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis dies will oblige us.”
sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,”
us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say that and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther
Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we delay from Miss Bates than,
have never known any thing but the greatest attention from “How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not
them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new
what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank
us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats noth- ye, the gloves do very well—only a little too large about the
ing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”
frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how “What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when
little she eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and they were all in the street.

190
 Jane Austen
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix. tion it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for bak-
“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! ing, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some of Mr.
my mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year;
Churchill! `Oh!’ said he, `I do think I can fasten the rivet; I and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere
like a job of this kind excessively.’—Which you know shewed as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother
him to be so very… . Indeed I must say that, much as I had says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But
heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far I was really quite shocked the other day—for Mr. Knightley
exceeds any thing… . I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we
most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could… talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them,
. `Oh!’ said he, `I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock.
excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I `I am sure you must be,’ said he, `and I will send you another
brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use.
friends would be so very obliging as to take some, `Oh!’ said William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this
he directly, `there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, year. I will send you some more, before they get good for
and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to ours
in my life.’ That, you know, was so very… . And I am sure, being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great
by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very many left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should
delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice— be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should
only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. be sending us more, so liberal as he had been already; and Jane
Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three said the same. And when he was gone, she almost quarrelled
times—but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to men- with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had

191
 Emma
a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had ate the remainder. And so Patty told me, and I was excessively
owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley know any
him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I thing about it for the world! He would be so very… . I wanted
did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had men-
William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the tioned it before I was aware.”
same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her
obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration
said every thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her desultory
an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, how- good-will.
ever, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was “Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turn-
all the apples of that sort his master had; he had brought ing. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark
them all—and now his master had not one left to bake or staircase—rather darker and narrower than one could wish.
boil. William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite
pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William, concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the
you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing; step at the turning.”
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being
all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not
be able to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty
this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing
to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would be cross sometimes,
and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who

192
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER X come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was
THE APPEARANCE of the little sitting-room as they entered, sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for
was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual em- her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work,
ployment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte
at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spec- again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did sus-
tacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, in- pect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet
tent on her pianoforte. possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to emotion; she must reason herself into the power of perfor-
shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. mance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever
“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them
at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me to her neighbour again.
trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.” At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly
“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full
you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working sil- justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was
versmith at this rate.” delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the
“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced
have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instru- to be altogether of the highest promise.
ment stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in “Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank
the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg Churchill, with a smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen
with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste at

193
 Emma
Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid
exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize. I answering,
dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very “Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a
minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not voice of forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any
you think so?” confidence. It must be all conjecture.”
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. “Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and
Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture
“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a ran- how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense
dom guess. Do not distress her.” one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues;
very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss
began again, Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done.
“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your
pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often spectacles, healed for the present.”
think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daugh-
day of the instrument’s coming to hand. Do you imagine ter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the piano-
Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward forte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to
just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the consequence play something more.
of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have “If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes
sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to we danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did
depend upon contingencies and conveniences?” not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I

194
 Jane Austen
believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement,
given worlds—all the worlds one ever has to give—for an- and much less compunction with respect to her.—This ami-
other half-hour.” able, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing
She played. very reprehensible feelings.
“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over
happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.” together.—Emma took the opportunity of whispering,
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and “You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
played something else. He took some music from a chair near “I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not
the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, in the least ashamed of my meaning.”
“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?— “But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken
Cramer.—And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from up the idea.”
such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the “I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to
instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave
it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.”
that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been “She is not entirely without it, I think.”
so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing “I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin Adair at
incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.” this moment—his favourite.”
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window,
being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that “Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible,
with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would

195
 Emma
give you all cold; but I can go into my mother’s room you he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused;
know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning.
Quite delightful to have you all meet so!—Our little room But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism.
so honoured!” “So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and carriage,” resumed Miss Bates.
opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. He cut her short with,
Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their conversation “I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for you?”
was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within “Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the
the same apartment. other day she wanted something from Kingston.”
“How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. “Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for
So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in you?”
time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. “No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is
You will find some friends here.” here?—Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the
to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and command- Crown, and come in.”
ingly did he say, “Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes,
“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after perhaps.”
you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I “And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—
hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell Quite delightful; so many friends!”
me how Miss Fairfax is.” “No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes.
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.”

196
 Jane Austen
“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.” you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We
“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. Will-
and hear the pianoforte.” iam Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it,
“Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delight- indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be
ful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would
see such dancing?—Was not it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse have been a pity not to have mentioned… . Well, (returning
and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it.” to the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley
“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he
suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hear- could do any thing… .”
ing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I “Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every
do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I thing.”
think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the “Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know,
very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr.
Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say some- Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing to be
thing pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot sure. `Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?’ said he; so I
stay to hear it.” just mentioned… . Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be go-
“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of con- ing?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”
sequence—so shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had
the apples!” already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of
“What is the matter now?” the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and
“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only

197
 Emma
to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before CHAPTER XI
they set off for Randalls.
IT MAY BE POSSIBLE to do without dancing entirely. Instances
have been known of young people passing many, many
months successively, without being at any ball of any descrip-
tion, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind;—
but when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid
motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it must be a
very heavy set that does not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed
to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which
Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at
Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on
the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal
in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficul-
ties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appear-
ance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people
again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse danced—for doing that in which she need not
blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax—and even for
simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of van-

198
 Jane Austen
ity—to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to But soon it came to be on one side,
see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the “But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do
dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, not think there will.”
in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal On another,
size, that it was a little the largest. “And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks
Mr. Cole’s should be finished there—that the same party seriously about it. It will not do to invite five couple. It can
should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with be allowable only as the thought of the moment.”
the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered into the idea Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her
with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly brother’s, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else
undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; and believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other evening,
the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up if she had been asked. A word was put in for a second young
exactly who there would be, and portioning out the indis- Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins
pensable division of space to every couple. who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance
“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five
the two Miss Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting specula-
“And there will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, tion in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be quite The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.
enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, “Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the pas-
will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple sage?” It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good
there will be plenty of room.” but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would

199
 Emma
be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now en-
and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of deavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.
health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could “We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unneces-
not be persevered in. sary room. Ten couple may stand here very well.”
“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and
I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?”
would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So “Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But still
you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do he went on measuring, and still he ended with,
not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them “I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”
talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very thought- “No, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable. It would
less. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther
the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in
evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does a little room!”
not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you against “There is no denying it,” he replied. “I agree with you ex-
him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!” actly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite ex-
importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it quisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is un-
away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given up, willing to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment
and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in to my father—and altogether—I do not know that—I am
resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill’s rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.”
part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little

200
 Jane Austen
self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind
pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise
and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to marry him, it them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is
might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided
to understand the value of his preference, and the character of you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were per-
his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he fectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would
was quite amiable enough. have been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and the whole time, but was too anxious for securing any thing to
he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent—I
the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came hope you consent?”
to announce an improvement. “It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr.
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” he almost immediately began, and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I
“your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened can answer for myself, shall be most happy—It seems the
away, I hope, by the terrors of my father’s little rooms. I bring only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it
a new proposal on the subject:—a thought of my father’s, an excellent improvement?”
which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther represen-
this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at tations were necessary to make it acceptable.
the Crown Inn?” “No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very
“The Crown!” bad plan—much worse than the other. A room at an inn was
“Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be

201
 Emma
inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at would think of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody
Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in his could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Danc-
life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh! ing with open windows!—I am sure, neither your father nor
no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.”
Crown than anywhere.” “Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes
“I was going to observe, sir,” said Frank Churchill, “that step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without
one of the great recommendations of this change would be its being suspected. I have often known it done myself.”
the very little danger of any body’s catching cold—so much “Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have sup-
less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might posed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished
have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could.” at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and,
“Sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, “you are very perhaps, when we come to talk it over—but these sort of
much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot re-
character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us solve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be
are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over,
can be safer for you than your father’s house.” and see what can be done.”
“From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall “But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”
have no occasion to open the windows at all—not once the “Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for
whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be
windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient
you well know, sir) does the mischief.” for the horses. They will be so near their own stable.”
“Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody “So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James

202
 Jane Austen
ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we “My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this mo-
can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired— ment,” said Frank Churchill, “examining the capabilities of
but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impa-
her, even by sight.” tient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded
“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired
will be under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them,
direct the whole.” if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do noth-
“There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear ing satisfactorily without you.”
Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and
what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone,
measles? `If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, the two young people set off together without delay for the
you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often have I heard you Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see
speak of it as such a compliment to her!” her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in
“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding
it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; every thing perfect.
that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry’s great “Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look!
attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more
from the first, it was a very good sort—which was our great yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”
comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope “My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What
whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight.
send for Perry.” It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any

203
 Emma
thing of it on our club-nights.” scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud
“Men never know when things are dirty or not;” and the gentle- upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must
men perhaps thought each to himself, “Women will have their not speak of it again. She then took another line of expedi-
little nonsenses and needless cares.” ency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did “I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many,
not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the you know.”
ballroom’s being built, suppers had not been in question; and And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with
a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition. What long steps through the passage, was calling out,
was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card- “You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear.
room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from
by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfort- the stairs.”
able supper? Another room of much better size might be se- “I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which ar-
cured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, rangement our guests in general would like best. To do what
and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at would be most generally pleasing must be our object—if one
it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts could but tell what that would be.”
for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor “Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your
the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could
crowded at supper. ascertain what the chief of them—the Coles, for instance.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates?
sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was She is still nearer.—And I do not know whether Miss Bates is

204
 Jane Austen
not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the “The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think
people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Sup- you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without
pose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?” the niece.”
“Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recol-
“if you think she will be of any use.” lect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to per-
“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” suade them both.” And away he ran.
said Emma. “She will be all delight and gratitude, but she Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-
will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your ques- moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a
tions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.” sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the
“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very passage again, and found the evils of it much less than she had
fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the supposed before—indeed very trifling; and here ended the
whole family, you know.” difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at least,
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table
proposed, gave it his decided approbation. and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves;
“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between
the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.—Every body invited, was cer-
I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do tainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to
away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could
too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be.
fetch them both. Invite them both.” Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that
“Both sir! Can the old lady?” … it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver,

205
 Emma
(a much safer character,) she was truly welcome. Her appro- CHAPTER XII
bation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could
not but please; and for another half-hour they were all walk- ONE THING ONLY was wanting to make the prospect of the
ing to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggest- ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a
ing, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the fu- day within the granted term of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry;
ture. The party did not break up without Emma’s being posi- for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she could not think
tively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the it so very impossible that the Churchills might not allow their
evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was
his wife, “He has asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time,
would!” nothing could be properly ready till the third week were en-
tered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceed-
ing and hoping in uncertainty—at the risk—in her opinion,
the great risk, of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in
word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please;
but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as
the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for an-
other, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt
as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking indifference
about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because
the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he

206
 Jane Austen
seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to pre-
against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any vent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look
future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure.”
could get no more approving reply, than, It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would
“Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!—she was
this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mis-
nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse plea- taken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and
sures for me.—Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; of compassionate attachment on his side—but no love.
and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr.
at home, looking over William Larkins’s week’s account; much Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately fol-
rather, I confess.—Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not I, in- lowed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from
deed—I never look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant return. Mrs.
dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without him;
who are standing by are usually thinking of something very she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)
different.” when writing to her nephew two days before, though from
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of
angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now
he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for
her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed the thought Enscombe without delay.
of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated—open The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a
hearted—she voluntarily said;— note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was

207
 Emma
inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though with- peared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his
out feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repug- sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come
nance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much
own convenience. to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really
Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing
to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the himself, it was only to say,
few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest “Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”
in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon.” “But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be
This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. your only visit to Randalls.”
When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, “Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may
but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball—the loss of be able to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be
the young man—and all that the young man might be feel- the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle
ing!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening as it and aunt go to town this spring—but I am afraid—they did
would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her not stir last spring—I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever.”
partner the happiest!—”I said it would be so,” was the only “Our poor ball must be quite given up.”
consolation. “Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not
Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought princi- seize the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed
pally of Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how by preparation, foolish preparation!—You told us it would
she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?”
dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home. “Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he ap- much rather have been merry than wise.”

208
 Jane Austen
“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father mentative mind might have strengthened yours.”
depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.” “Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it bet-
Emma looked graciously. ter. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and
“Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I
more precious and more delightful than the day before!— felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman
every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy that one may, that one must laugh at; but that one would not
those, who can remain at Highbury!” wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then”—
“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laugh- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
ing, “I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little “In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think
doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expecta- you can hardly be quite without suspicion”—
tions? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She
like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of
had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.” something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forc-
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sen- ing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by,
timent, Emma was convinced that it had been so. she calmly said,
“And you must be off this very morning?” “You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your
“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back to- visit, then”—
gether, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably
that every moment will bring him.” reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the
“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel
and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argu- that he had cause to sigh. He could not believe her to be

209
 Emma
encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear
sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, Highbury again.”
“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-
be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most bye,” closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank
warm”— Churchill. Short had been the notice—short their meeting;
He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.— he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so
He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin
who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.
made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every
the necessity of exertion made him composed. day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given
A very few minutes more, however, completed the present great spirit to the last two weeks—indescribable spirit; the
trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had
and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevi- brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his man-
table, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, “It was ners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be
time to go;” and the young man, though he might and did the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield
sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. days. To complete every other recommendation, he had al-
“I shall hear about you all,” said he; that is my chief conso- most told her that he loved her. What strength, or what con-
lation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. stancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point;
I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly
been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this
correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!— persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must

210
 Jane Austen
be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous deter- meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly
mination against it. unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which
“I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness, made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and em- not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to
ploy myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and in- impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor
sipid about the house!—I must be in love; I should be the of ill-health.
oddest creature in the world if I were not—for a few weeks at
least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have
many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill;
but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening
with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.”
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness.
He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his
very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had;
but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disap-
pointment of the others, and with considerable kindness
added,
“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing,
you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!”
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of
her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did

211
 Emma
CHAPTER XIII ing was to mark their parting; but still they were to part.
When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could
EMMA CONTINUED to entertain no doubt of her being in love. not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and
Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a
it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle
pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his than she could foresee in her own feelings.
sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; “I do not find myself making any use of the word sacri-
she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a fice,” said she.—”In not one of all my clever replies, my deli-
letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, cate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do
how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So
Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel
not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry
to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still to be more.”
busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imag- Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view
ine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him of his feelings.
so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thou- “He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing de-
sand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their at- notes it—very much in love indeed!—and when he comes
tachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing el- again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to
egant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable to do other-
on his side was that she refused him. Their affection was al- wise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine
ways to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charm- he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he

212
 Jane Austen
had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have scribing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed
been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encour- attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes
aged, his looks and language at parting would have been dif- now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling
ferent.—Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to
supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the
I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to
to be quite the sort of man—I do not altogether build upon shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have
his steadiness or constancy.—His feelings are warm, but I can been said but for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of
imagine them rather changeable.—Every consideration of the her own name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared
subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is more than once, and never without a something of pleasing
not more deeply involved.—I shall do very well again after a connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remem-
little while—and then, it will be a good thing over; for they brance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its
say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath
been let off easily.” of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all con-
perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and veyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were
admiration which made her at first shake her head over her these words—”I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you
own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. know, for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make
It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his my excuses and adieus to her.” This, Emma could not doubt,
journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, grati- was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being
tude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and de- her friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe

213
 Emma
were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for
Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming
own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again. us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the already look forward to with pleasure.”
material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf,
up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for
lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival
and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement in the conversation of
were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the
interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s
consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.—His wed-
the words which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” sug- ding-day was named. He would soon be among them again;
gested to her the idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affec- Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over
tions. Was it impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was the first letter from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride”
greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very was in every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgot-
much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm ten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks
simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circum- of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she
stance and connexion were in her favour.—For Harriet, it had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.
would be advantageous and delightful indeed. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there had been a great
“I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—”I must not think of deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evi-
it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But dent that she had not attained such a state of composure as

214
 Jane Austen
could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell- me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.”
ringing, and all. Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all of eager exclamation. Emma continued,
the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that “I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think
Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own
for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is
patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command
without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without be- in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to
ing able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to
submissively, and said “it was very true—it was just as Miss save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These
Woodhouse described—it was not worth while to think about are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are
them—and she would not think about them any longer” but very important—and sorry I am that you cannot feel them
no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a
her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before. At last very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from
Emma attacked her on another ground. greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet
“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy would not forget what was due—or rather what would be
about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach kind by me.”
you can make me. You could not give me a greater reproof This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The
for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss
not forgotten it, I assure you.—Deceived myself, I did very Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her
miserably deceive you—and it will be a painful reflection to wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was com-

215
 Emma
forted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to is worth a hundred such—And for a wife—a sensible man’s
what was right and support her in it very tolerably. wife—it is invaluable. I mention no names; but happy the
“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life— man who changes Emma for Harriet!”
Want gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for
nobody as I do for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how un-
grateful I have been!”
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that
look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had
never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly
before.
“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she
afterwards to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it.
Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open
manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for
attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which
makes my dear father so generally beloved—which gives
Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I know how
to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm
and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change
you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging fe-
male breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet

216
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XIV herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no ac-
count to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of be-
MRS. ELTON was first seen at church: but though devotion ing “elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.”
might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to
bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance;—
were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty ease, but not elegance.—She was almost sure that for a young
indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all. woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or pro- person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither
priety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
respects; and she made a point of Harriet’s going with her, thought at least it would turn out so.
that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she
as possible. would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be
same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to
three months ago, to lace up her boot, without recollecting. A acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off;
thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. Compliments, cha- she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege
rades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky
very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with
course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occu- the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted
pation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to

217
 Emma
marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind
wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever;—but being
could be. married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No, indeed,
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quit- Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and ad-
ted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to be- mire him now without any great misery. To know that he has
gin; “Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!—She does seem
you think of her?—Is not she very charming?” a charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy crea-
There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer. ture! He called her `Augusta.’ How delightful!”
“Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.” When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind.
“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.” She could then see more and judge better. From Harriet’s
“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.” happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father’s being present
“I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.” to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady’s
“Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her;
fortune; and she came in his way.” and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs.
“I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say she Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with her-
was very much attached to him.” self, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant
“Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had
the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her
a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have.” notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of
“Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her soci-
could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my ety would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.

218
 Jane Austen
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or re- of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have
fined herself, she would have connected him with those who spent so many happy months there! (with a little sigh of sen-
were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from timent). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who
her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The rich sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a
brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss
his place and his carriages were the pride of him. Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I
“My brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony.”
to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully
neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built. sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of “So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the
the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. house—the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe,
“Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same
the likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way—
morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”— just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree,
Mr. Elton was appealed to.—”Was not it astonishingly like?— with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My
She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove.” brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
“And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with
very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of any thing in the same style.”
the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great
Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared

219
 Emma
very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year.
was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recom-
therefore only said in reply, mend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very
“When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country
will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beau- of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes
ties.” them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely
“Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of En- fond of exploring. We explored to King’s-Weston twice last
gland, you know. Surry is the garden of England.” summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first
“Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that
Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”
well as Surry.” “No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance
“No, I fancy not,” replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties
smile.” I never heard any county but Surry called so.” you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe;
Emma was silenced. more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of
“My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, pleasure.”
or summer at farthest,” continued Mrs. Elton; “and that will “Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.
be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite
explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche- a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said,
landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, when she has been going to Bristol, `I really cannot get this
without saying any thing of our carriage, we should be able to girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by my-
explore the different beauties extremely well. They would self, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau

220
 Jane Austen
without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own much depressed. And as to its recommendations to you, I
good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The
time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclu- advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally under-
sion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves stood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who
up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure
much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, you some of the best society in the place. A line from me
without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my par-
understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse— ticular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided
(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father’s state of health with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?—In- attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into
deed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you public with.”
I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.” It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impo-
“My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without lite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what
receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, was called an introduction—of her going into public under
is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vul-
more likely to be useful now.” gar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just
“Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, made a shift to live!—The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of
where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs
so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly;
Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes “but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and

221
 Emma
she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her of the house too—knowing what I had been accustomed to—
better than her father.” And then, to prevent farther outrage of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he
and indignation, changed the subject directly. was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the world
“I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of
these occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes her; and retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself,
Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer.” the world was not necessary to me. I could do very well with-
“Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A out it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing;
superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider but my resources made me quite independent. And as to
from how partial a quarter your information came. I am smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could
doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—and my friends not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed
upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that
degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were
I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and spacious apartments. `But,’ said I, `to be quite honest, I do
delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I not think I can live without something of a musical society. I
absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be
me; and having always been used to a very musical society, a blank to me.’”
both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most “We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton
serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical
was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has
the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consid-

222
 Jane Austen
eration of the motive.” hend that a married woman has many things to call her atten-
“No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am de- tion. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with
lighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have my housekeeper.”
many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, “But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in
you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly so regular a train—”
meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good plan? If “Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”
we exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her mu-
allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable sic, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s pause,
for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
women, you know—there is a sad story against them, in gen- “We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found
eral. They are but too apt to give up music.” them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to
“But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent crea-
danger, surely?” ture—quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you.
“I should hope not; but really when I look around among And she appears so truly good—there is something so moth-
my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up mu- erly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one di-
sic—never touches the instrument—though she played rectly. She was your governess, I think?”
sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs.
Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.
and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. “Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to
Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentle-
be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to compre- woman.”

223
 Emma
“Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always par- discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being,
ticularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo, and her resources, and all
make them the safest model for any young woman.” her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to
“And who do you think came in while we were there?” discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old ac- will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I
quaintance—and how could she possibly guess? could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should
“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!— unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bo-
Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the som friends! And Mrs. Weston!—Astonished that the person
other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and
particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great curiosity. `My worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes.
friend Knightley’ had been so often mentioned, that I was Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank
really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how di-
justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. verted he would be! Ah! there I am—thinking of him directly.
Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. De- Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself
cidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.” out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!”—
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time
Emma could breathe. her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons’
“Insufferable woman!” was her immediate exclamation. departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably ca-
“Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! pable of attending.
Knightley!—I could not have believed it. Knightley!—never “Well, my dear,” he deliberately began, “considering we never
seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!—and saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady;

224
 Jane Austen
and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks “No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I
a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady—
rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avow-
strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss edly due to her. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the
Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved first in company, let the others be who they may.”
young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. “Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not
Though I think he had better not have married. I made the know what is. And I should never have expected you to be
best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young
and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I ladies.”
should in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone “My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of
before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has noth-
what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into ing to do with any encouragement to people to marry.”
Vicarage Lane.” Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could
“I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows not understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton’s of-
you.” fences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.
“Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid my
respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient.”
“But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and
therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects
to a bride? It ought to be no recommendation to you. It is
encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them.”

225
 Emma
CHAPTER XV she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs.
Elton’s praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought
EMMA WAS NOT REQUIRED, by any subsequent discovery, to to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily contin-
retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had ued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her
been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on being “very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.”
this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had
again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill- appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.—Of-
bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but fended, probably, by the little encouragement which her pro-
so little judgment that she thought herself coming with supe- posals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and
rior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a coun- gradually became much more cold and distant; and though
try neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was
such a place in society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could necessarily increasing Emma’s dislike. Her manners, too—and
surpass. Mr. Elton’s, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneer-
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all ing and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s
differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour
her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on sunk them both very much.—It was not to be doubted that
having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss poor Harriet’s attachment had been an offering to conjugal
Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new ac- unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring
quaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judg- the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had
ing, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or taking it in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the ob-
for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as ject of their joint dislike.—When they had nothing else to

226
 Jane Austen
say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; calculated to affect one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert
and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect ourselves and endeavour to do something for her. We must
to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered to
Harriet. remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those charm-
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the ing lines of the poet,
first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady
might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the ‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural ‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’
and reasonable admiration—but without solicitation, or plea,
or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.— We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.”
Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the “I cannot think there is any danger of it,” was Emma’s calm
third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight- answer—”and when you are better acquainted with Miss
errantry on the subject.— Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has been,
“Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that you
quite rave about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. will suppose her talents can be unknown.”
So mild and ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you I “Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retire-
think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to ment, such obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages
say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of music to she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at
speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely charm- an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure she does. She is very
ing! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my word, I timid and silent. One can see that she feels the want of en-
talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.—And her situation is so couragement. I like her the better for it. I must confess it is a

227
 Emma
recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for timidity— and being too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably
and I am sure one does not often meet with it.—But in those be my model more than it ought to be—for we do not at all
who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—How-
assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and in- ever, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.—I
terests me more than I can express.” shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall intro-
“You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how duce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw
you or any of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those out her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an
who have known her longer than yourself, can shew her any eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I
other attention than”— have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly.—
“My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my brother
those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we set and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her
the example, many will follow it as far as they can; though all extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them,
have not our situations. We have carriages to fetch and con- her fears will completely wear off, for there really is nothing
vey her home, and we live in a style which could not make in the manners of either but what is highly conciliating.—I
the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconve- shall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and I
nient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-
send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having landau in some of our exploring parties.”
asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea “Poor Jane Fairfax!”—thought Emma.—”You have not de-
of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I should, considering served this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr.
what I have been used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have
housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!—`Jane

228
 Jane Austen
Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me not suppose that was astonishing!—She could not have believed it possible that
she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!—But upon the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such soci-
my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of ety and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.
that woman’s tongue!” “She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she.—”To chuse to
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so remain here month after month, under privations of every
exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s notice
with a “dear Miss Woodhouse.” The change on Mrs. Elton’s and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the
side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace— superior companions who have always loved her with such
neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, real, generous affection.”
nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the very active patroness of Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months;
Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but
knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done. now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at
She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s grati- least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for
tude for Mrs. Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—it all came
of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would
worthies—the most amiable, affable, delightful woman— Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still
to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was that Jane Fairfax she had declined it!
should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she “She must have some motive, more powerful than appears,
seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sit- for refusing this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She
ting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the

229
 Emma
Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great “Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined,
resolution somewhere.—She is not to be with the Dixons. would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s
The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting.”
to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.” “I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by
subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her.
Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece
“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her
Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being always at own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natu-
home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant compan- ral wish of a little change.”
ion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a
quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to.” few minutes silence, he said,
“You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs.
“Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opin- Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of her. We all
ion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou,
associate, she would not have chosen her. But (with a reproach- the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a
ful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse
which nobody else pays her.” with each other—a something more early implanted. We can-
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary not give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have
glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.
blush, she presently replied, And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you

230
 Jane Austen
may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superi- “Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand.
ority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.”
Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston,
Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he
Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent her went on—
acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if “That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax,
not in consciousness.” I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am
“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. very sure I shall never ask her.”
Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and was
delicacy made her irresolute what else to say. pleased enough to exclaim,
“Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think “You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”
of her.” He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and in a
“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,
look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know “So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”
the worst at once—she hurried on—”And yet, perhaps, you “No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for
may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with
your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other.” you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh!
his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marry-
together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his ing Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit
face, as he answered, with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.”

231
 Emma
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his rev- can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs.
erie was, “No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admi- Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself
ration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never had a the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under
thought of her in that way, I assure you.” And soon after- any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I
wards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her
not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that
the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.” she will not be continually detailing her magnificent inten-
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. tions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the
“Well,” said she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?” including her in those delightful exploring parties which are
“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was to take place in the barouche-landau.”
mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does “Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—”I do not
not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.” accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are
“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance,
be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she patience, self-controul; but it wants openness. She is reserved,
speaks of the Coles—what she calls them! How can she find more reserved, I think, than she used to be—And I love an
any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my supposed attach-
She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole? And ment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and
so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civili- conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—
ties and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argu- but with no thought beyond.”
ment weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter “Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he
into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I left them, “what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying

232
 Jane Austen
Jane Fairfax?” CHAPTER XVI
“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much
occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I EVERYBODY in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr.
should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last. Do Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage.
not beat me.” Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and
his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon
the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disen-
gaged day.
“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead
among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated.
We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country,
it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday,
I assure you we have not a disengaged day!—A woman with
fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss.”
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made
evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had
given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the
want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-
cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good
deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would

233
 Emma
soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s
course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not be
superior party—in which her card-tables should be set out with in his company more than she could help. She was not yet
their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style— quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together,
and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own estab- without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would
lishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at ex- not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.” It was pre-
actly the proper hour, and in the proper order. cisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the for-
dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less titude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in
than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she
and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to
must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.—Since her last conversation
Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more con-
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table science-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been.—
himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane
should do it for him. Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody
The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides else paid her.
the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far “This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me,
it was all of course—and it was hardly less inevitable that which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of
poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:—but the same age—and always knowing her—I ought to have been
this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on more her friend.—She will never like me now. I have ne-

234
 Jane Austen
glected her too long. But I will shew her greater attention sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and
than I have done.” reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.
Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to
and all happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, how- Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpect-
ever, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. edly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day.
The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly
grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the see-
their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole ing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philo-
day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day of sophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed
this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of the chief of even Emma’s vexation.
his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and
by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight per- Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the
sons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother
bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking
that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could
being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours make her, he looked at in silence—wanting only to observe
without falling in with a dinner-party. enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss Fairfax was an old
She comforted her father better than she could comfort acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had
herself, by representing that though he certainly would make met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with
them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was
noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,

235
 Emma
“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, “Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become
or I am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are gen-
in time. I hope you turned directly.” erally a very positive curse.”
“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home “You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch friendship.”
the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a some- “I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied
thing to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good.” he coolly. “Business, you know, may bring money, but friend-
“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.” ship hardly ever does.”
“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.” “Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied, too well—I am very sure he understands the value of friend-
“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were ship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are
not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your
meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than being ten years older than myself which makes the difference,
they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to
at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and there-
you will begin to think letters are never worth going through fore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think,
the rain for.” must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather
There was a little blush, and then this answer, than to-day.”
“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of “When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress
every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that sim- of years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change
ply growing older should make me indifferent about letters.” of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as in-

236
 Jane Austen
cluding the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of for.—I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They
every attachment not within the daily circle—but that is not are some of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me
the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour to-
allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of
have as many concentrated objects as I have.” your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleas- at Hartfield.”
ant “thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and
quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady wel-
a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, come and easy.
who being, according to his custom on such occasions, mak- By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton,
ing the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compli- and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
ments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all his “My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-
mildest urbanity, said, office in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad
“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not
this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of there to take care of you.”
themselves.—Young ladies are delicate plants. They should Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any
take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did cold.
you change your stockings?” “Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do
“Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your not know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office
kind solicitude about me.” indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I
“My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared must positively exert our authority.”

237
 Emma
“My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object;
certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning
run such risks.—Liable as you have been to severe colds, in- before.”
deed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this “My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is deter-
time of year. The spring I always think requires more than mined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to
common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and
for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious
again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear
are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet
such a thing again.” with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point
“Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined as settled.”
Mrs. Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing again:”— “Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means
and nodding significantly—”there must be some arrangement consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to
made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could
who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my
forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them grandmama’s.”
to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from “Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a
us I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to kindness to employ our men.”
accept such an accommodation.” Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but
“You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John
my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I Knightley.

238
 Jane Austen
“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.— fined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an
”The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella
has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!” and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not
“It is certainly very well regulated.” always known their writing apart.”
“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So sel- “Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know
dom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”
passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not “Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr.
one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one con- Woodhouse; “and always did. And so does poor Mrs.
siders the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to Weston”—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
be deciphered, it increases the wonder.” “I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began,
“The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that
with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else—and the pause
them. If you want any farther explanation,” continued he, gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I going to introduce
smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all
capacity. The public pays and must be served well.” these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in York-
usual observations made. shire;—that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—
“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I
same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”
the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—”Mr.
reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly con- Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I

239
 Emma
ever saw.” her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the din-
“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small— ing-parlour, was saying—
wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.” “Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the
This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated way.”
him against the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not es-
strength—it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly caped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some
strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to pro- curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had
duce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having produced any. She suspected that it had; that it would not
answered the letter, had put it away. have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of
“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in
writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than
note of his.—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employ- usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.
ing him to write for you one day?” She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedi-
“He chose to say he was employed”— tion and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s
“Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to end—but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter
convince Mr. Knightley.” a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they fol-
“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” lowed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an
said Mr. Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and
Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.” grace of each.
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spo-
ken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached

240
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XVII “But have you really heard of nothing?”
“I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make
WHEN THE LADIES RETURNED to the drawing-room after din- any yet.”
ner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making “Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware
two distinct parties;—with so much perseverance in judging of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”
and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight “I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton,
herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost al- who can have thought of it as I have done?”
ways either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left “But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You
them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she do not know how many candidates there always are for the
soon began again; and though much that passed between them first situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood
was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge,
was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious
post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and friendship, to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-
were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable!
must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane—inquiries whether Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would
she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and pro- most wish to see you in.”
fessions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated activity. “Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by
“Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about midsummer,” said Jane. “I must spend some time with them;
you. June will soon be here.” I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may probably be
“But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take
looked forward to the summer in general.” the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”

241
 Emma
“Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giv- “Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you
ing me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was
can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall always rather a friend to the abolition.”
write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a “I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” re-
strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible.” plied Jane; “governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in
“Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who
subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not
giving any body trouble.” know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are adver-
“But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, tising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no
and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.”
accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A “Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, that
situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a mod-
for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s est creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have
notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.” you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior,
“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain
I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any circle, or able to command the elegancies of life.”
made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the “You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indiffer-
time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There ent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my
are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon pro- mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should
duce something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s family is all that
flesh—but of human intellect.” I should condition for.”

242
 Jane Austen
“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any Elton gaily, “in resolving to be always on the watch, and em-
thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good ploying my friends to watch also, that nothing really unex-
Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior tal- ceptionable may pass us.”
ents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any
knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity
have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in
much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the same half-whisper to Jane,
the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing “Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only
as well as play;—yes, I really believe you might, even without think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!—
the harp, stipulate for what you chose;—and you must and what a dear creature he is;—I assure you I like him excessively.
shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled be- I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much
fore the Campbells or I have any rest.” more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often dis-
“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the com- gusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had
fort of such a situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I
sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I
any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown.
obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who How do you like it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think,
feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the
done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed—quite a
remain where I am, and as I am.” horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because
“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a

243
 Emma
bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style ing, and might have been silent, who had been in more than
of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to quit
the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on
of dress,—show and finery are every thing. I have some no- the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the
tion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver world!—Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken
poplin. Do you think it will look well?” back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing- would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John
room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his
He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as shoulders, and said, “I could not have believed it even of him.”
soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the in-
best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy. Mr. dignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and
Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent
have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable
in mute astonishment.—That a man who might have spent among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife
his evening quietly at home after a day of business in Lon- as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful
don, should set off again, and walk half a mile to another directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed company till bed- abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a
time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the family communication, which, though principally addressed
noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly
man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morn- interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it
ing, and might now have been still, who had been long talk- was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way,

244
 Jane Austen
and had taken the liberty of opening it. Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion.
“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was
few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.” happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma
and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little sub- could not speak so fluently. She was a little occupied in weigh-
dued, but very audible to every body. ing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her
“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
what do you say to it?—I always told you he would be here Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too
again soon, did not I?—Anne, my dear, did not I always tell communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied
you so, and you would not believe me?—In town next week, with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest
you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she is as impatient as the of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the
black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely whole room must have overheard already.
they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he
nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr.
among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled,
when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;—from
This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was
not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would
put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself
but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circum- close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he neces-
stance to the others in a common way.” sarily began on the subject with her.

245
 Emma
CHAPTER XVIII that.—A most dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will
not let your neighbours follow your example.—Upon my
“I HOPE I SHALL soon have the pleasure of introducing my son word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must
to you,” said Mr. Weston. begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compli- believed it of you!”
ment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. “Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of your-
“You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” self, Mrs. Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—
he continued—”and know him to be my son, though he does written in a hurry, merely to give us notice—it tells us that
not bear my name.” they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s
“Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I account—she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks
am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to move south-
shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.” ward without loss of time.”
“You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I “Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in York-
am sure.—He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We shire?”
have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way “Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from
this morning, and seeing my son’s hand, presumed to open London. a considerable journey.”
it—though it was not directed to me—it was to Mrs. Weston. “Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles far-
She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever ther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is dis-
get a letter.” tance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You would
“And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes
Oh! Mr. Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice in one week

246
 Jane Austen
he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four “Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any
horses.” other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to
“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, any lady in the land for”—
“is, that Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she “Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine
complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her con- lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea.”
servatory without having both his arm and his uncle’s! This, “Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is
you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—but now she is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.”
so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaim-
nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly, deli- ing so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it be-
cate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. lieved that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps there was
You must grant me that.” want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and she was considering
“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take the part in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on.
of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find “Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you
me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up may suspect—but this is quite between ourselves. She is very
for women—and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her.
with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Besides, she is out of health now; but that indeed, by her own
Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina account, she has always been. I would not say so to every
says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have caught a little body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.
of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excel- Churchill’s illness.”
lent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?” “If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To

247
 Emma
Bath, or to Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately ex-
Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she claimed,
is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time station- “My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such
ary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want a thing possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s
change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired.” letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”
“Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more He had done his duty and could return to his son.
retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense “When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain
plantation all round it! You seem shut out from every thing— when we might see him again, which makes this day’s news
in the most complete retirement.—And Mrs. Churchill prob- doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That is,
ably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of I always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon,
seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in I was sure something favourable would turn up—but no-
herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman body believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully
cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful desponding. `How could he contrive to come? And how could
that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’
society.” and so forth—I always felt that something would happen in
“Frank was here in February for a fortnight.” our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton,
“So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition to in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly
the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I one month, they are sure to mend the next.”
may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may “Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used
never have heard of there being such a creature in the world.” to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of court-
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, ship, when, because things did not go quite right, did not

248
 Jane Austen
proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort
apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day
would be May before Hymen’s saffron robe would be put on or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to
for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy happiness than having him actually in the house. I think it is
ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and
disappointments about the carriage;—one morning, I remem- delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you
ber, he came to me quite in despair.” must not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought a fine
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s par-
instantly seized the opportunity of going on. tiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most
“You were mentioning May. May is the very month which gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.”
Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in “And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that
some warmer place than Enscombe—in short, to spend in my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so
London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the same time it
visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely the season of is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for
the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others.
the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of
out, and never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, him.—I am no flatterer.”
we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, Mr. Weston was musing.
damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know, “I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon
and we could not do half that we intended. Now will be the poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her
time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, injustice; but there are some traits in her character which make

249
 Emma
it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encum-
wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion bered with many low connexions, but giving themselves im-
with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, mense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old
between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. established families. A year and a half is the very utmost that
She was the instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their for-
slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but tune nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is
his pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent, not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston. One
gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is
only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride something direful in the sound: but nothing more is posi-
is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, tively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things I
she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evi-
when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but dently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suck-
ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out- ling, who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is
Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims: but in her- infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a
self, I assure you, she is an upstart.” resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him—
“Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have I believe, at least—I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling
quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thor- had completed the purchase before his death.”
ough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr.
that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the oppor-
and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your description tunity of walking away.
of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly. People of After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down

250
 Jane Austen
with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left “That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”
to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on “I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your
very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for con- father—or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your
versation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they have
inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits done lately.”
which would have made her prefer being silent. “Increase!”
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. “Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has
He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began made a great difference in your way of life.”
with— “Difference! No indeed I am not.”
“Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say “There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged
about the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every with company than you used to be. Witness this very time.
thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged
would be much more concise than her’s, and probably not with a dinner-party!—When did it happen before, or any thing
much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more
comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.” with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an
“I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls at the
do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes
for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and in your goings-on, is very great.”
physic.” “Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it all.”
“And if you find them troublesome, you must send them “Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have
home again.” less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing,

251
 Emma
Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. she is absent one—and who, when he is at home, is either
And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.” reading to himself or settling his accounts.”
“No,” cried Mr. Knightley, “that need not be the conse- Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and suc-
quence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at ceeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to
leisure.” talk to him.
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Emma, “you amuse me! I
should like to know how many of all my numerous engage-
ments take place without your being of the party; and why I
am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to
the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what
have they been? Dining once with the Coles—and having a
ball talked of, which never took place. I can understand you—
(nodding at Mr. John Knightley)—your good fortune in
meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights
you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two
hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of
dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little
boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I
do not think they would fare much better with Uncle
Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where

252
 Jane Austen

VOLUME III anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would
not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to
alter her present composed and tranquil state.
CHAPTER I
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston
had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opin-
A VERY LITTLE QUIET REFLECTION was enough to satisfy Emma
ion of Frank Churchill’s feelings. The Enscombe family were
as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank
not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was
Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself
at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple
she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for
of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from
him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere
Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all
nothing; it was not worth thinking of;—but if he, who had
her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was
undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the
influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost
two, were to be returning with the same warmth of senti-
friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in
ment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing.
seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring
If a separation of two months should not have cooled him,
for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in
there were dangers and evils before her:—caution for him and
the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he
for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to have her
was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the convic-
own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent
tion probably of her indifference, had produced this very natu-
on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
ral and very desirable effect.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever,
declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion of
and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur
their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather
253
 Emma
to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in Churchill’s removal to London had been of no service to the
his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill
not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was rest- was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at
lessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt,
that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health
the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to
hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. “He had seen proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not re-
a group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed—he had move, or at least that she might not have many years of exist-
not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but ence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all his
he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imagi-
did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, nary, or that she was as strong as ever.
he must hurry off.” She had no doubt as to his being less in It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She
love—but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual
seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her nephew’s
it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet reso- letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were
lution of not trusting himself with her long. going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent
ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come—but was person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-
always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much
her. Such was his own account at Randall’s. If he were quite benefit expected from the change.
sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this

254
 Jane Austen
arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the bless- he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the
ing of having two months before him of such near very distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!
neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the house was taken One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by
for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the this removal,—the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgot-
greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often ten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to at-
as he could even wish. tempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be;
Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous pros- every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the
pects. He was considering her as the source of all the happi- Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank,
ness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change,
bring it to the proof. and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for
Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name
delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished as early a day as possible.
for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-
neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?— morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and
An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The differ- happiness.
ence in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened
make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing the evil to him. May was better for every thing than Febru-
him never. Sixteen miles—nay, eighteen—it must be full eigh- ary. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield,
teen to Manchester-street—was a serious obstacle. Were he James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither
ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing
returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.

255
 Emma
CHAPTER II minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which
Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great
NO MISFORTUNE OCCURRED, again to prevent the ball. The day surprize. “So unreasonably early!” she was going to exclaim;
approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anx- but she presently found that it was a family of old friends,
ious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help
self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing was safe. Mr. Weston’s judgment; and they were so very closely fol-
No second meeting had there yet been between him and lowed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated
Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;—but it to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness, on
would be better than a common meeting in a crowd. Mr. the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might
Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriv- soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory in-
ing there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose spection.
of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on
rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite
him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confi-
young man’s company. She was to convey Harriet, and they dantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity.
drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness
sufficiently before them. would have made him a higher character.—General benevo-
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and lence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought
though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to be.—She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked
to have a delightful evening. They all walked about together, about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having noth-
to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few ing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to

256
 Jane Austen
observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, “But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, look-
that, though May, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant. ing about. “We thought you were to bring them.”
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them
number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had now. Emma longed to know what Frank’s first opinion of
stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to offer the use of their carriage, Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied
but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons. elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giv-
restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was look- ing her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
ing about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked
sound of other carriages,—impatient to begin, or afraid of of rain.—”I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank
being always near her. to his father: “Miss Bates must not be forgotten:” and away
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained
said he. “I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly
so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.” did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no
A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
but coming back, said, “A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I
“I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am
never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.—You
myself forward.” may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very hand-
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the some young man, and his manners are precisely what I like
proprieties passed. and approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least con-

257
 Emma
ceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body’s words,
puppies—quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who
at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many
patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cut- minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As
ting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with the door opened she was heard,
them much better.” “So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to sig-
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was nify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane
chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect declares—Well!—(as soon as she was within the door) Well!
that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with This is brilliant indeed!—This is admirable!—Excellently con-
happy smiles must hurry away. trived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane, look!—did
being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really
and horses are so extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive have had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know
faster than any body.—What a pleasure it is to send one’s her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing
carriage for a friend!—I understand you were so kind as to in the entrance. `Oh! Mrs. Stokes,’ said I—but I had not
offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may time for more.” She was now met by Mrs. Weston.—”Very
be very sure I shall always take care of them.” well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentle- happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headach!—see-
men, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think ing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble
it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s to receive them. Her you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs.
gestures and movements might be understood by any one Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!—excellent time.

258
 Jane Austen
Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Woodhouse, how do you do?—Very well I thank you, quite
Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and I am sure our thanks well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!—Such a transfor-
are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had mation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most
most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word,
two such offers in one day!—Never were such neighbours. I Miss Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s
said to my mother, `Upon my word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, hair?—You are a judge.—She did it all herself. Quite won-
my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I derful how she does her hair!—No hairdresser from London
made her take her shawl—for the evenings are not warm— I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare—and Mrs. Hughes.
her large new shawl—Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.—
kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you.
you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were three others, Jane This is delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—
says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell Oh! there he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better employed
rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—
not wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so I saw you the other day as you rode through the town—Mrs.
afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely—and there Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway
was a mat to step upon—I shall never forget his extreme po- and Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George
liteness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all do?—
mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.—Don’t
never came out again. My mother often talks of your good- I hear another carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the
nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this is charming to be stand-
Frank Churchill?—Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss ing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!—I am

259
 Emma
quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me—never take our styles suit.—A fine young man certainly is Frank
coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,—no hurry— Churchill. I like him very well.”
Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!” At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own
soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of
overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who the ladies were drowned for a while, till another suspension
were standing a little way behind her.—He was thoughtful. brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly forward.—Mr.
Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and “Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclu-
look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton sion?—I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would
was evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it begin to be impatient for tidings of us.”
was, “How do you like my gown?—How do you like my “Jane!”—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize
trimming?—How has Wright done my hair?”—with many and displeasure.—”That is easy—but Miss Fairfax does not
other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. disapprove it, I suppose.”
Mrs. Elton then said, “Nobody can think less of dress in gen- “How do you like Mrs. Elton?” said Emma in a whisper.
eral than I do—but upon such an occasion as this, when ev- “Not at all.”
ery body’s eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to “You are ungrateful.”
the Westons—who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly “Ungrateful!—What do you mean?” Then changing from
to do me honour—I would not wish to be inferior to others. a frown to a smile—”No, do not tell me—I do not want to
And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.—So Frank know what you mean.—Where is my father?—When are we
Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.—We shall see if to begin dancing?”

260
 Jane Austen
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to
humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quickly begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change.
back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of this little
with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted
Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and
must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before
which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that her.—She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley’s not danc-
distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude. ing than by any thing else.—There he was, among the standers-
“And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,—not
Mr. Weston. “She will think Frank ought to ask her.” classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former prom- players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance
ise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father till their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—
looked his most perfect approbation of—and it then appeared He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps any-
that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance with Mrs. Elton where, than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, up-
himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him right figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders
into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr. Weston and Mrs. of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every
Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not
followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, one among the whole row of young men who could be com-
though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for pared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer, and those
her. It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a man-
Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in ner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he

261
 Emma
but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his eye, she forced lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering
him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible
he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she was ex-
better.—He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter pecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.
herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of
her behaviour, she did not feel afraid. There was nothing like the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some,
flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty,
like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank Churchill and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not omit being
thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable. sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to those
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the inces- who were close to her.—Emma saw it. She was not yet danc-
sant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every ing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had
body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head
which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was a little she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the
repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this. whole group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer
Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she
productive than such meetings usually are. There was one, heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place
however, which Emma thought something of.—The two last between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his
dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no part- wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only
ner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had listening also, but even encouraging him by significant
been hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her
any one disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder seat to join him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to

262
 Jane Austen
which his prompt reply was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between
you will dance with me.” him and his wife.
“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than my- She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she
self. I am no dancer.” feared her face might be as hot.
“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr.
pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself Knightley leading Harriet to the set!—Never had she been
rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant.
it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and her-
with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.” self, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing— catch his eye again.
Miss Smith.” “Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, ex-
are extremely obliging—and if I were not an old married tremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky,
man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You will if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for
excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the dis-
your command—but my dancing days are over.” tinction which her happy features announced. It was not thrown
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down
what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma
Elton.—She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hard-
Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for ened as his wife, though growing very like her;—she spoke

263
 Emma
some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her partner, said I, `I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr.
“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-
goodnatured, I declare.” morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’ My dear sir, you
might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would not rather?—
her being seated at table and taking up her spoon. I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word,
“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your Jane on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us
tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how
she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though ev- elegant she looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in
ery thing has been done—One door nailed up—Quantities her train. Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, here we are
of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill, at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps.
oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so grati- Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were
fied! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and
I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort
again, and nobody missed me.—I set off without saying a and style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your
word, just as I told you. Grandmama was quite well, had a grandmama, Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The
charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know;
and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some as-
baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in paragus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not
some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out
how you were amused, and who were your partners. `Oh!’ again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than

264
 Jane Austen
sweetbread and asparagus—so she was rather disappointed, “Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?”
but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no
of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be answer, added, “She ought not to be angry with you, I sus-
so very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all pect, whatever he may be.—To that surmise, you say noth-
amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such el- ing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to
egance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since— marry Harriet.”
Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so “I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”
that Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is of no consequence. He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence
Oh! do you recommend this side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. with it, and he only said,
Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as you please. “I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”
What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, “Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain
how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? spirit ever tell me I am wrong?”
Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it “Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads
smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.” you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.”
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley “I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr.
till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discovered,
her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in
He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!”
had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton’s looks also “And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do
received the due share of censure. you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for him
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. better than he has chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has

265
 Emma
some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. CHAPTER III
An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely to be
preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as THIS LITTLE EXPLANATION with Mr. Knightley gave Emma con-
Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.” siderable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next morning
the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin danc- to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that they had come to so
ing again. good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their
“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and
are you all doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was pecu-
example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!” liarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a
“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.” few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening,
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley. had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if she looked forward to another happy result—the cure of
you will ask me.” Harriet’s infatuation.—From Harriet’s manner of speaking
“Will you?” said he, offering his hand. of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had
“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened,
know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the supe-
it at all improper.” rior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and
“Brother and sister! no, indeed.” Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened
again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings
of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed ne-

266
 Jane Austen
glect that could be farther requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very
Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not want- interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few
ing to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.
before her! Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked
told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stop- out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which,
ping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of though apparently public enough for safety, had led them
the day. She did not regret it. into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it be-
and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house came for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the
with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had sud-
boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep- denly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader
gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on
less expected to see together—Frank Churchill, with Harriet the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton,
leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment sufficed excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on
to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut
cheer her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She
yards asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her
immediately sinking into a chair fainted away. first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must it as made her absolutely powerless—and in this state, and

267
 Emma
exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain. forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young la- door, and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than
dies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole
invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman
soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own por-
woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in tion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet
look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more fright- eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just
ened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were
her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he
more, or to use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though had thought of no other place.
but slowly, and was moving away—but her terror and her This was the amount of the whole story,—of his commu-
purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather sur- nication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses
rounded, by the whole gang, demanding more. and speech.—He dared not stay longer than to see her well;
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling these several delays left him not another minute to lose; and
and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortu- Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs.
nate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the
bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleas- neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grate-
antness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, ful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.
and leave his horses to meet him by another road, a mile or Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely
two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly
pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the

268
 Jane Austen
steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had
could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had
what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and
heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted;
had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had been given,
other?—How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of
on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take
a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made. its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough
ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere
her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she
it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, would on no account proceed.
when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the
her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And knowing, as knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and
she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment
struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all
attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who
Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and ser-
most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the vants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news.
occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the The last night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr.
other. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen,

269
 Emma
would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to CHAPTER IV
go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him
that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for A VERY FEW DAYS had passed after this adventure, when Harriet
his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand,
well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began:
day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they “Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something
were all very indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for that I should like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—
she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma and then, you know, it will be over.”
would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak.
in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared
what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, quite as much as her words, for something more than
her, she could make no figure in a message. ordinary.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they “It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued,
took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury “to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily
might have walked again in safety before their panic began, quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you
and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say
importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in her imagi- more than is necessary—I am too much ashamed of having
nation it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me.”
still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, “Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”
and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest “How I could so long a time be fancying myself! …” cried
particular from the original recital. Harriet, warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at

270
 Jane Austen
all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care whether I meet She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words
him or not—except that of the two I had rather not see him— Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was greatly
and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him— excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with
but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty
nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well
and all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagree- lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma
able—I shall never forget her look the other night!—How- saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
ever, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, “Now,” said Harriet, “you must recollect.”
let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me an- “No, indeed I do not.”
other moment’s pang: and to convince you that I have been “Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could
speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one
have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept— of the very last times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few
I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).—However, days before I had my sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs.
now I will destroy it all—and it is my particular wish to do it John Knightley came—I think the very evening.—Do not
in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown. you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife,
Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?” said she, with a and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had
conscious look. none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply
“Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a
thing?” great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing
“No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me.
have valued very much.” And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a

271
 Emma
treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it “Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is
now and then as a great treat.” something still more valuable, I mean that has been more
“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand be- valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him,
fore her face, and jumping up, “you make me more ashamed which the court-plaister never did.”
of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was
all now; all, except your saving this relic—I knew nothing of the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
that till this moment—but the cutting the finger, and my “This was really his,” said Harriet.—”Do not you remem-
recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about ber one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morn-
me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while ing—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it was the Tues-
in my pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be day or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a
under a continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sit- memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer.
ting down again)—go on—what else?” Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brew-
“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I ing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he
never suspected it, you did it so naturally.” took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it
“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another, and
his sake!” said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept
feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never
she added to herself, “Lord bless me! when should I ever have parted with it again from that moment.”
thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that “I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember
Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to it.—Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley
this.” and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s seeming re-

272
 Jane Austen
solved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.—Stop; disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There
Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”
idea he was standing just here.” “And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of
“Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but Mr. Churchill?”
I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the begin-
much about where I am now.”— ning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy,
“Well, go on.” though she had told no fortune, might be proved to have
“Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after the alarm, they came
say—except that I am now going to throw them both behind to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma
the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.” was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the infor-
“My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happi- mation she received more valuable. She merely said, in the
ness in treasuring up these things?” course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry
“Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it I would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more
now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It of it, till after a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very
was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, serious tone, “I shall never marry.”
after he was married. I knew it was—but had not resolution Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was;
enough to part with them.” and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass
“But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I unnoticed or not, replied,
have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court- “Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”
plaister might be useful.” “It is one that I shall never change, however.”
“I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed

273
 Emma
from—I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?” prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think
“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—”Oh! no”— of you. Is not it so?”
and Emma could just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presump-
Elton!” tion to suppose—Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a plea-
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she sure to me to admire him at a distance—and to think of his
proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to sus- infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the grati-
pect nothing?—Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or an- tude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me es-
gry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might pecially.”
only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and “I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he
against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an rendered you was enough to warm your heart.”
open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was “Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The
perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I
say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. saw him coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness be-
Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined fore. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From
how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; perfect misery to perfect happiness!”
and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of “It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes,
her own brain laid down with speed.—She was decided, and honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But
thus spoke— that it will be a fortunate preference is more that I can prom-
“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. ise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by
Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marry- any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you
ing, results from an idea that the person whom you might are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feel-

274
 Jane Austen
ings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, CHAPTER V
unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of
him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give IN THIS STATE OF SCHEMES, and hopes, and connivance, June
you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought
on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Hence- no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit
forward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their
our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
now.—He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ire-
objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, land was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer,
Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months
been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s
would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried
end, be assured your raising your thoughts to him, is a mark into a delightful situation against her will.
of good taste which I shall always know how to value.” Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to him-
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. self, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill,
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect
bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That
refine her mind—and it must be saving her from the danger Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing de-
of degradation. clared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his mother-in-
law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,
discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so

275
 Emma
many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself mak- did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet
ing him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they
of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wis-
understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence be- est to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain;
tween them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admira- Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece,
tion on his side, which, having once observed, he could not who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching
persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of
he might wish to escape any of Emma’s errors of imagina- visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all
tion. She was not present when the suspicion first arose. He to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to
was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons’; it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates,
and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to
which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed some- accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging invitation.
what out of place. When he was again in their company, he As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by
could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his “By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston pres-
fire at twilight, ently, “what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his car-
“Myself creating what I saw,” riage?”
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a some- Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know
thing of private liking, of private understanding even, between that he ever had any such plan.”
Frank Churchill and Jane. “Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often months ago.”

276
 Jane Austen
“Me! impossible!” gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of
“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it Mr. and Mrs. Perry.”
as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told “It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should
somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing have had such a regular connected dream about people whom
to her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe.
did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?” Perry’s setting up his carriage! and his wife’s persuading him
“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.” to it, out of care for his health—just what will happen, I have
“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What
I must have dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded— an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at
Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream
sorry to find yourself at home.” certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you
“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”
Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her
I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?” guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was be-
“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it yond the reach of Mr. Weston’s hint.
from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. “Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been
Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must
Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—but speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank
as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not
it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in
every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowl-

277
 Emma
edge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, in-
herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it deed!”
as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to no- They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had pre-
body else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry ceded Miss Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s
was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed
my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed
she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember grandmama’s behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked
telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her
been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the deter-
to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her in-
mother—indeed I do not know who is not—and she had tently—in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between
mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to them into the hall, and looked at neither.
her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The
from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his
know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which
my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do some- Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but
times pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her
know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which
thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea
wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly “Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining

278
 Jane Austen
a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much
nephews taken away their alphabets—their box of letters? It as he could, with as little apparent observation. The word was
used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away. If meant to be
evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than sum- immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she
mer. We had great amusement with those letters one morn- should have looked on the table instead of looking just across,
ing. I want to puzzle you again.” for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word,
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She
box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The
no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves. word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there
They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not other-
body else who would be puzzled. The quietness of the game wise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream;
made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How
often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so
Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat hap- lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement.
pily occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at
departure of the “poor little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and
as he took up any stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on
had written it. Frank Churchill’s part.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave With great indignation did he continue to observe him;
a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded
was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and

279
 Emma
given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that Emma names were allowed,” pushed away the letters with even an
had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other
it was something which she judged it proper to appear to word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those
censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.
Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it “Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had
to her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it not spoken a word—”I was just going to say the same thing.
with eager laughing warmth. “No, no, you must not; you It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in,
shall not, indeed.” and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are
It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed too obliging. We really must wish you good night.”
to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt
complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to
and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could
study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity to know what not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another col-
this word might be, made him seize every possible moment lection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely
for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking
saw it to be Dixon. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to ac- for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it was
company his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they
the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.
letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full
and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to
ever perceived her, and saying only, “I did not know that proper assist his observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, as a

280
 Jane Austen
friend—an anxious friend—give Emma some hint, ask her engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any
some question. He could not see her in a situation of such thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference,
danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than
“Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you “My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do
and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance
how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”
distressing to the other.” “Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes,
Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to perfectly.—Why do you make a doubt of it?”
give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were “Have you never at any time had reason to think that he
by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever admired her, or that she admired him?”
imparted them. “Never, never!” she cried with a most open eagerness—
“Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant noth- ”Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea
ing; a mere joke among ourselves.” occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?”
“The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you “I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment
and Mr. Churchill.” between them—certain expressive looks, which I did not be-
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She lieve meant to be public.”
would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat “Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that
a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it
Interference—fruitless interference. Emma’s confusion, and will not do—very sorry to check you in your first essay—but
the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them,

281
 Emma
I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, CHAPTER VI
have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather
of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to ex- AFTER BEING LONG FED WITH HOPES of a speedy visit from Mr.
plain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to en-
which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, dure the mortification of hearing that they could not possi-
that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for bly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties
one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily
presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other
so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s indifference.” topics with which for a while the Sucklings’ coming had been
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satis- united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose
faction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the
and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped
the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child,
the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly enter- as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
tained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of
could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and
for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be
fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits re- still only talked of. So she thought at first;—but a little con-
quired almost every evening throughout the year, he soon af- sideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off.
terwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Suck-
and solitude of Donwell Abbey. lings did not come? They could go there again with them in

282
 Jane Austen
the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself there-
That there was to be such a party had been long generally fore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would
known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would
never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to
found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and the
agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due
three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable good-
them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant will of Mr. Weston’s temper.
way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regu- “I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very
lar eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and comfortably. “But I thought you would. Such schemes as
the Sucklings. these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And
could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave
hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. her out.”
Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in
parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton private.
had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and
objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle
great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must al- with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a
ready be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It
again:—it could not be done without a reproof to him, which might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse

283
 Emma
were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.
it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were “You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come.
inadequate to such an attack. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring
“Is not this most vexations, Knightley?” she cried.—”And Jane Fairfax?”
such weather for exploring!—These delays and disappoint- “I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some
ments are quite odious. What are we to do?—The year will others whom I would wish to meet you.”
wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last “Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—
year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring
Maple Grove to Kings Weston.” friends with me.”
“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble
“That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my straw- you to give any other invitations.”
berries. They are ripening fast.” “Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to need not be afraid of delegating power to me. I am no young
proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may
“Oh! I should like it of all things,” was not plainer in words be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will
than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, invite your guests.”
which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was neces- “No,”—he calmly replied,—”there is but one married
sary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what
who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is—”
again and again to come—much oftener than he doubted— “—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather
and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a mortified.

284
 Jane Austen
“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will man- “Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be
age such matters myself.” to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and
“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants
one preferred to herself.—”You are a humourist, and may say and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors.
what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there
with me—Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have shall be cold meat in the house.”
no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don’t “Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And,
scruple. I know you are attached to them.” by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with
“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall our opinion?—Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to
call on Miss Bates in my way home.” talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything—”
“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you “I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite “Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper
a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of is extremely clever.”
my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,—probably this “I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever,
basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you and would spurn any body’s assistance.”
see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or “I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to
parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gar- come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro
dens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;— sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing
and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of neces-
doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as sary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not
natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?” possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and very

285
 Emma
long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in win- upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not
ter there is dirt.” been at Donwell for two years. “Some very fine morning, he,
“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the
on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the
Cole’s. I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again
as possible.” exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs.
“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my Elton, and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any
good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I objection at all to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there
know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr.
thorough humourist.—Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully Knightley to invite them—very kind and sensible—much clev-
sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme. erer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining out.”
You have hit upon the very thing to please me.” Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well received,
the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the
Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.—Emma
them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from
him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pre- it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to
tence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude
be tempted away to his misery. which could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and

286
 Jane Austen
Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no act understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be
arguments to induce him to come. so interesting to her and all her family.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her
party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly
at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the
next,—the weather appearing exactly right. building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching down to mead-
Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one win- ows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old
dow down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance
the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor
for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite extravagance had rooted up.—The house was larger than
at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground,
achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or
not to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and
walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect
him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, un-
out, his patient listener and sympathiser. tainted in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unex-
soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad ceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names,
to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and cor- nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feel-
rect her memory with more particular observation, more ex- ings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was nec-

287
 Emma
essary to do as the others did, and collect round the straw- Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted
berry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude
Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Rich- after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come—and she was
mond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her a little uneasy.—She had some fears of his horse.
large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma
gathering, accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only straw- was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax
berries, could now be thought or spoken of.—”The best fruit were talking of.—A situation, a most desirable situation, was
in England—every body’s favourite—always wholesome.— in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morn-
These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather ing, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it
for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morn- was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell
ing decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good— short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an
hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—the others acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—white Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines,
wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in London— ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the of-
abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds fer closed with immediately.—On her side, all was warmth,
when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different— energy, and triumph—and she positively refused to take her
no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way— friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her
delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior that she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating
to cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gath- the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.—
ering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death— Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an ac-
could bear it no longer—must go and sit in the shade.” quiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at

288
 Jane Austen
all, was astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered,
speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action un- rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the
usual to her, proposed a removal.—”Should not they walk? river making a close and handsome curve around it.
Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—all the It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. En-
gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The perti- glish verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a
nacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear. sun bright, without being oppressive.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others
a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived
insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly lead-
broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the gar- ing the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an odd tete-
den at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There had been a time
the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing; nothing but a view when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned
at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an ap- conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would
proach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the
however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. It might be
itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty,
pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and
the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the
its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of consider- wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in look-
able abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—and ing around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes

289
 Emma
of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed prevented coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point
to say, “These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed
such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert no emotion.
Martin.”—She did not suspect him. It was too old a story.— The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once
Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.— more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-
They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun
was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of
of the day. being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr. Woodhouse, who
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and had already taken his little round in the highest part of the
eat;—and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even
Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in by him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain
vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her
at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed
would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to need.
to coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr.
so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers
them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family col-
to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might lection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend,
disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence— to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly
and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he

290
 Jane Austen
would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other “Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home
resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what in twenty minutes.”
he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before “But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let
this second looking over was begun, however, Emma walked my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage.
into the hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation It can be round in five minutes.”
of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly “Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would
there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from rather walk.—And for me to be afraid of walking alone!—I,
the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to who may so soon have to guard others!”
meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly
Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of. replied, “That can be no reason for your being exposed to
“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would
say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My be danger.—You are fatigued already.”
aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been “I am,”—she answered—”I am fatigued; but it is not the
absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am deter- sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss
mined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness
gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and
come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
have the goodness to say that I am gone?” Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and
“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house
to Highbury alone?” immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a

291
 Emma
friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her parting words, never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had staid at
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any de-
alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to gree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—and he sat down,
describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be prac- at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr.
tised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.
“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she “You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
turned back into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more “As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill
sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall be spared—but such a point had been made of my coming!
like you.” You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party break-
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had ing up. I met one as I came—Madness in such weather!—
only accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when absolute madness!”
Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been think- Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank
ing of him, she had forgotten to think of him—but she was Churchill’s state might be best defined by the expressive phrase
very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The black of being out of humour. Some people were always cross when
mare was blameless; they were right who had named Mrs. they were hot. Such might be his constitution; and as she
Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such
increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some re-
some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of com- freshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
ing, till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.
have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed “No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only
he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had make him hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in

292
 Jane Austen
his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, allow you to leave England.”
walked off. Emma returned all her attention to her father, “They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be
saying in secret— prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation of
“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong per-
like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. suasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to
Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.” travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may
meal, and came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-mor-
with good manners, like himself—able to draw a chair close row, if I could.”
to them, take an interest in their employment; and regret, in “You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you in-
a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was not in his vent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, “I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken.
made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were look- I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I
ing over views in Swisserland. am thwarted in every thing material. I do not consider myself
“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I at all a fortunate person.”
shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You “You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first
will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do
my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do something to ex- very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of
pose myself.” Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the
“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You rest of us.”
will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never “No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”

293
 Emma
“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It words to Emma were,
is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so “Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
much in want of a change. You will stay, and go with us?” She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a sum-
“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the mons from Richmond was to take him back before the fol-
evening.” lowing evening.
“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morn-
ing.”
“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”
“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think
of you all there without me.”
“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself.
Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon
collected. With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank
Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there was a
very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disap-
pearance being explained. That it was time for every body to
go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement
for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill’s little
inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last

294
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER VII as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent
on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between
THEY HAD A VERY FINE DAY for Box Hill; and all the other the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any
outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never
directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing
the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and worth hearing—looked without seeing—admired without in-
Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the telligence—listened without knowing what she said. While
Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull
with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy likewise; and they were both insufferable.
when they got there. Seven miles were travelled in expecta- When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great
tion of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, mak-
on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there ing her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that
was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable
of union, which could not be got over. They separated too in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and Emma, glad to
much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too,
took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission
belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most
to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an acciden- animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in
tal division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment
indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable of most people looking on it must have had such an appear-

295
 Emma
ance as no English word but flirtation could very well de- “Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
scribe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted “You are comfortable because you are under command.”
together excessively.” They were laying themselves open to “Your command?—Yes.”
that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple “Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-com-
Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma mand. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yester-
was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather day, and run away from your own management; but to-day
because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed you are got back again—and as I cannot be always with you,
because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for it is best to believe your temper under your own command
his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, rather than mine.”
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not “It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command
winning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend. without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not.
“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me And you can be always with me. You are always with me.”
to come to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should cer- “Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influ-
tainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite ence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so
determined to go away again.” much out of humour before.”
“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, “Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had
except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a seen you first in February.”
kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble. You “Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her
begged hard to be commanded to come.” voice)—nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too
“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.” much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven
“It is hotter to-day.” silent people.”

296
 Jane Austen
“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively “It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which
impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into.
Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party—I never was
on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in Feb- in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married
ruary.” And then whispering—”Our companions are excessively women—”
stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he mur-
serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by mured, in reply,
Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that “Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite
she desires to know what you are all thinking of?” unheard of—but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates as a joke. Every body knows what is due to you.”
said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss “It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most
Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address. La-
distinct. dies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say,
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all
we are all thinking of?” be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining
“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you,
could—”Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining
I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or
There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and two things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed,
Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.” and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.”

297
 Emma
“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who leads the
uneasy. `Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for way.”
me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon “No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conun-
as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking round with the drum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour.
most good-humoured dependence on every body’s assent)— Come, sir, pray let me hear it.”
Do not you all think I shall?” “I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It
Emma could not resist. is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters
“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me— of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?”
but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.” “What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, know.”
did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst “Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain,
on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that will never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—
it could pain her. Do you understand?”
“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning Understanding and gratification came together. It might be
to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal
make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—
such a thing to an old friend.” It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some
“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,
do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conun- “This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and
drum reckon?” Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have
“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—”but knocked up every body else. Perfection should not have come

298
 Jane Austen
quite so soon.” one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked
Elton; “I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the off. “Happy couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they
sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own were out of hearing:—”How well they suit one another!—
name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance
came from. An abominable puppy!—You know who I mean formed only in a public place!—They only knew each other,
(nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any
at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any pub-
out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the lic place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowl-
country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am edge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among
not one of those who have witty things at every body’s ser- their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just
vice. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivac- judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will gen-
ity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge erally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on
when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”
please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and my- Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among
self. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us. her own confederates, spoke now.
“Yes, yes, pray pass me,” added her husband, with a sort of “Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped
sneering consciousness; “I have nothing to say that can enter- by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
tain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old mar- “You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.
ried man—quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?” “I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate
“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women,

299
 Emma
I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and im- return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember.”
prudent attachment may arise—but there is generally time to Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission
recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the
that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happi- very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more
ness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet
an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an op- in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the
pression for ever.” education to her seemed to imply it.
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submis- “Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs.
sion; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, Elton?”
“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that “If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready.
whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well.
Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?— We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s some-
I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for body else. That’s one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at
the family, you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some all like her.—Well, I declare—”
body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her.” They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr.
“And make her like myself.” Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only
“By all means, if you can.” remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch
“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery
charming wife.” and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly
“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for noth- about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
ing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful

300
 Jane Austen
views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking “I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has
out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked
and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and of it—with what candour and generosity. I wish you could
the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to
gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from your-
was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of self and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”
pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-as- “Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in
sorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again. the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.”
her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, “They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she
and then said, prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence
“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of for-
do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must tune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance,
still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remon- I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner.
strance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how
could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from
age, and situation?—Emma, I had not thought it possible.” the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. probably sink more. Her situation should secure your com-
“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could passion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known
have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period
understand me.” when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thought-

301
 Emma
less spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what
her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could
whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at
treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck.
it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will The truth of this representation there was no denying. She
tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so
friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to
time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.” such ill opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him
While they talked, they were advancing towards the car- to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concur-
riage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had rence, of common kindness!
handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she
kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed.
combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet,
deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on enter- who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to
ing the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks
reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no ac- almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to
knowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out check them, extraordinary as they were.
with voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just
too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion.
She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what
appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill,

302
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER VIII her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact; scornful,
ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of
THE WRETCHEDNESS of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morn-
thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered by the ing, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,
rest of the party, she could not tell. They, in their different equal, kindly intercourse.
homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it She was just as determined when the morrow came, and
with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more com- went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not un-
pletely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at likely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her
the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than any way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her
she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the
her father, was felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure, appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes
for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty- were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be “The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the
the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked
could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe re- up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in confer-
proach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart. ring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
She hoped no one could have said to her, “How could you be There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving
so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was to
while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awk-
attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope ward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and
to be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her conscience told then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed

303
 Emma
both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a dis- have heard—and are come to give us joy. This does not seem
tinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear or
had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after
dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headach just
you are ill enough.” now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you know,
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. `My
she did not quite understand what was going on. dear,’ said I, `you will blind yourself ’—for tears were in her
“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It
know; they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—
here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever
wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—Have you a met with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful,
chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune—(again
here presently.” dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were to see
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know
of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as
came—”Very happy and obliged”—but Emma’s conscience low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how
told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation.
before—less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry You will excuse her not coming to you—she is not able—she
after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return is gone into her own room—I want her to lie down upon the
of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. bed. `My dear,’ said I, `I shall say you are laid down upon the
“Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room.

304
 Jane Austen
But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing
soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear
Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and
kept waiting at the door—I was quite ashamed—but some- solicitude—sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she
how there was a little bustle—for it so happened that we had collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on,
not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did might be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as
not know any body was coming. `It is only Mrs. Cole,’ said possible. “It must be a severe trial to them all. She had under-
I, `depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ `Well,’ stood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”
said she, `it must be borne some time or other, and it may as “So very kind! “ replied Miss Bates. “But you are always
well be now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you. kind.”
`Oh!’ said I, `it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through
see her.’—`I can see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—
would go away; and that was what made us keep you wait- “Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”
ing—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. `If you must “To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most supe-
go, my dear,’ said I, `you must, and I will say you are laid rior—to have the charge of her three little girls—delightful
down upon the bed.’” children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling’s own fam-
long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her ily, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with
present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four
suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from
of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged Maple Grove.”

305
 Emma
“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss vantages of Mrs. Smallridge’s situation, she had come to the
Fairfax owes—” resolution of accepting it.—I did not know a word of it till it
“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true was all settled.”
friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane “You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”
say, `No;’ for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day be- “Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled
fore yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr.
Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting Knightley. `You must all spend your evening with us,’ said
the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she—`I positively must have you all come.’”
she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel “Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”
Campbell’s return, and nothing should induce her to enter “No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and
into any engagement at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton de-
over and over again—and I am sure I had no more idea that clared she would not let him off, he did not;—but my mother,
she would change her mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening
whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one
not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather
as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she positively fagged after the morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is
declared she would not write any such denial yesterday, as fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of them seemed very
Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yester- much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall always think it a
day evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind
surprize to me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton friends who included me in it.”
aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the ad- “Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it,

306
 Jane Austen
had been making up her mind the whole day?” times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named as a
“I dare say she had.” salary on such occasions, dearly earned.”
“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to “You are so noble in your ideas!”
her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will have “And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”
every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the character “Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within
and manners of the family.” a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it
every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Ex- out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma’am, do not let us
cept the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nurs- think about it any more.”
ery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton’s “Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colo-
acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!— nel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged
A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the herself before their return?”
children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there “Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a
are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was
treated with such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing so astonished when she first told me what she had been say-
but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And her salary!—I really can- ing to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment
not venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even came congratulating me upon it! It was before tea—stay—
you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to
so much could be given to a young person like Jane.” cards—and yet it was before tea, because I remember think-
“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like ing—Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something hap-
what I remember to have been myself, I should think five pened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of

307
 Emma
the room before tea, old John Abdy’s son wanted to speak being the accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and
with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was, that a messen-
was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, ger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of
poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the the party from Box Hill—which messenger, however, had
rheumatic gout in his joints—I must go and see him to-day; been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a
John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him
parish; he is very well to do himself, you know, being head not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early;
man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home
still he cannot keep his father without some help; and so, directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have
when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown
been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise hav- chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the
ing been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Rich- boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.
mond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest,
that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.” and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united with the
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how per- subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast be-
fectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without sup- tween Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the world, and Jane
posing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing, the other nothing—
particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she proceeded to and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny, and
give them all, it was of no consequence. quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, Miss Bates’s saying,

308
 Jane Austen
“Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What CHAPTER IX
is to become of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking
of it just now.—`You must go,’ said she. `You and I must EMMA’S PENSIVE MEDITATIONS, as she walked home, were not
part. You will have no business here.—Let it stay, however,’ interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who
said she; `give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during
back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will her absence, and were sitting with her father.—Mr. Knightley
help me out of all my difficulties.’—And to this day, I do immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than
believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his usual, said,
daughter’s.” “I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am
the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjec- going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella.
tures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to Have you any thing to send or say, besides the `love,’ which
believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repetition nobody carries?”
of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes “Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”
which she really felt, took leave. “Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.”
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike
himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that
they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning
to go, but not going—her father began his inquiries.
“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did
you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say

309
 Emma
they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she
Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, thought nothing became him more.—It was with him, of so
as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!” simple, yet so dignified a nature.—She could not but recall
Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect am-
with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she ity.—He left them immediately afterwards—gone in a mo-
looked at Mr. Knightley.—It seemed as if there were an in- ment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which
stantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed
the truth from her’s, and all that had passed of good in her more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
feelings were at once caught and honoured.—He looked at Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but
her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it would
another moment still more so, by a little movement of more have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation
than common friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;— with Mr. Knightley.—Neither would she regret that he should
whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his
not say—she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a bet-
took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of ter time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have
carrying it to his lips—when, from some fancy or other, he been pleasanter.—They parted thorough friends, however; she
suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a scruple, why could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance,
he should change his mind when it was all but done, she and his unfinished gallantry;—it was all done to assure her
could not perceive.—He would have judged better, she that she had fully recovered his good opinion.—He had been
thought, if he had not stopped.—The intention, however, sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that
was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in she had not come back earlier!

310
 Jane Austen
In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the dis- her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on
agreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and going her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours af-
so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would ter his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any
be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after
and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
very useful check,—interested, without disturbing him. He It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a
had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s going out as degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed,
governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time,
going to London had been an unexpected blow. curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith
“I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so com- tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has noth-
fortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, ing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable,
and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs.
I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was
good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point
Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You know, my dear, she is she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to
going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness,
hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
to go away after it has been her home so long.” “Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and con-
every thing else into the background. An express arrived at tinual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a great
Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though shock—with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do

311
 Emma
without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be dreadful indeed. self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope,
Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr. Weston she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a
shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from
woman, who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke,
mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.
sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commis- Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, com-
eration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect municating all that was immediately important of their state
Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected;
very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for
Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in
them both with awe and compassion—and then rested with Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit
lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for
event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be
the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith possible on Emma’s side.
would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, indepen- It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane
dent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened,
to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that re- and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one
mained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness—and with
attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stron-
feel no certainty of its being already formed. ger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very

312
 Jane Austen
one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of room;—he could have wished it otherwise—and her good
regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be
to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consid- not the best companion for an invalid of that description.
eration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in
Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax
refused, and by a verbal message. “Miss Fairfax was not well derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with
enough to write;” and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and
same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed looked around eager to discover some way of being useful.
as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt, to
himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversa-
and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the tion, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time pro- following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling
posed. Her health seemed for the moment completely de- language she could command, that she would call for her in
ranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no ab- the carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning
solutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmo- that she had Mr. Perry’s decided opinion, in favour of such
nary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note:
family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had “Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite un-
undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so equal to any exercise.”
herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed over- Emma felt that her own note had deserved something bet-
come. Her present home, he could not but observe, was ter; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremu-
unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confined always to one lous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she

313
 Emma
thought only of how she might best counteract this unwill- herself—she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss
ingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet, which she
she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s, in the longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly
not do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, eat any thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food;
and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing but every thing they could command (and never had any body
might be of the greatest service—and every thing that mes- such good neighbours) was distasteful.
sage could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly,
to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very
mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.— superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a
Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was re-
powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates turned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but “dear
made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was
to let Miss Woodhouse in. “Indeed, the truth was, that poor a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she insisted on
dear Jane could not bear to see any body—any body at all— her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”
Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs. Cole had When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been
made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from
except them, Jane would really see nobody.” Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so pe-
Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force them- remptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could
selves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was

314
 Jane Austen
resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry, very CHAPTER X
sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the
more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsis- ONE MORNING, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease,
tency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not
her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with
esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consola- her.”—He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her
tion of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immedi-
able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been ately, to say, unheard by her father,
privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he “Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—
even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must
have found any thing to reprove. see you.”
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have
ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you
alone, and that you know—(nodding towards her father)—
Humph!—Can you come?”
“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to
refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the mat-
ter?—Is she really not ill?”
“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will
know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But

315
 Emma
hush, hush!” them is it?—I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. concealment.”
Something really important seemed announced by his looks; “Upon my word, Emma.”—
but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, “Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon
and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them?
now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house to- Good Heavens!—What can be to be broke to me, that does
gether and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls. not relate to one of that family?”
“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the “Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is
sweep gates,—”now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has not in the smallest degree connected with any human being
happened.” of the name of Knightley.”
“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—”Don’t ask me. I prom- Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
ised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you “I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being broke
better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does
come out too soon.” not concern you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.— hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no oc-
”Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has casion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a
happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If
you tell me this moment what it is.” we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”— Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little
“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely em-
of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of ployed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the

316
 Jane Austen
probability of its being some money concern—something just her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you
come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you
the family,—something which the late event at Richmond want me.”—And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen tone, before he quitted the room,—”I have been as good as
natural children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, my word. She has not the least idea.”
though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much
her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the mo-
“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they ment they were alone, she eagerly said,
proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping “What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant
his secret, than with any other view. nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it
“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We
not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will
to Windsor by this time.” do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be.”
“Has your son been with you, then?” “Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trem-
“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.” bling voice. “Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone a guess as to what you are to hear?”
much more guarded and demure, “So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”
“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we “You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you
did.” directly;” (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—”Well, looking up.) “He has been here this very morning, on a most
my dear,” said he, as they entered the room—”I have brought extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize.

317
 Emma
He came to speak to his father on a subject,—to announce an almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought
attachment—” I knew him.”
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was di-
then of Harriet. vided between two ideas—her own former conversations with
“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;—and for some
“an engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, re-
Emma—what will any body say, when it is known that Frank peated confirmation.
Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;—nay, that they have “Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a
been long engaged!” circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, ex- I can at all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the
claimed, winter—before either of them came to Highbury?”
“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do “Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt
not mean it?” me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some
“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still avert- part of his conduct we cannot excuse.”
ing her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not
have time to recover—”You may well be amazed. But it is pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the relief
even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his
ever since October—formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.”
from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves— Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s coun-
neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so won- tenance was as steady as her words.
derful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet “That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast,

318
 Jane Austen
of my present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will far- gaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he cer-
ther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our tainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with perse-
acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much vering attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged
disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and how to another?—How could he tell what mischief he might be
it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, doing?—How could he tell that he might not be making me
it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong indeed.”
three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, “From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather
Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.” imagine—”
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could “And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure with
find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering
more good than any thing else in the world could do. to another woman, before her face, and not resent it.—That
“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor
said she. “On this point we have been wretched. It was our respect.”
darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and “There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he
we were persuaded that it was so.—Imagine what we have said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much expla-
been feeling on your account.” nation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state
“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time
of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not ac- he could stay—but that there had been misunderstandings he
quit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought
greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possi-
affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very disen- bly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”

319
 Emma
“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery
Much, much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I can- of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which
not say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his
man should be!—None of that upright integrity, that strict uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an
adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and end to the miserable state of concealment that had been car-
littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of rying on so long.”
his life.” Emma began to listen better.
“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he “I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston.
has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long “He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he
enough to answer for his having many, very many, good quali- spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many par-
ties; and—” ticulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore,
“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—”Mrs. for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make
Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as gov- many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to
erness! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To be understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a
suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her even to think of hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love
such a measure!” him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one mate-
“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can rial point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well,
fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not com- and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered
municated to him—or at least not communicated in a way a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment.”
to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I know he said he was in “His sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to
the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill

320
 Jane Austen
take it?” her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion
“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with of—and there was every appearance of his having been feel-
scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have ing a great deal.”
done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I sup- “And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying
pose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibil- on with such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons,
ity;—but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, did none of them know of the engagement?”
than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little
she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue blush.
influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent “None; not one. He positively said that it had been known
with very little persuasion.” to no being in the world but their two selves.”
“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for “Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow rec-
Harriet.” onciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall
“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What
light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage,
fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was in such and treachery?—To come among us with professions of open-
a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more ness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us
necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, com-
but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much agitated—very pletely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of
much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a dif- truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who
ferent creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.— may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judg-
In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding ment on sentiments and words that were never meant for

321
 Emma
both to hear.—They must take the consequence, if they have nate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should
heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!” have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character
“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am and good judgment as I have always given her credit for—
very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one
which both might not have heard.” great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much
“You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my may be said in her situation for even that error!”
ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with “Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can
the lady.” ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation
“True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion like Jane Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that `the
of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spo- world is not their’s, nor the world’s law.’”
ken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling coun-
been safe.” tenance, exclaiming,
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance “A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my
from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curios-
a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, ity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really fright-
added, “Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and ened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at least.
look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns
him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate you, Mr.
it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of
favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill the most lovely and accomplished young women in England
does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortu- for your daughter.”

322
 Jane Austen
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him CHAPTER XI
that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy
effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice recov- “HARRIET, POOR HARRIET!”—Those were the words; in them
ered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of,
by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her.
that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself—very ill in
engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested many ways,—but it was not so much his behaviour as her
only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; own, which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape
and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave
had talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to the deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second
Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr.
from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possi- Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said,
bly have done. “Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith.”—She
was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.—It was
true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in
the former, with being the sole and original author of the
mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might other-
wise never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had
acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank
Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject;
but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she

323
 Emma
might have repressed. She might have prevented the indul- jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival; and well might
gence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed.
have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,
ought to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been
risking her friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could
Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feel-
she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there ings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither
were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet
her.—”But, with common sense,” she added, “I am afraid I was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to
have had little to do.” be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought;
dreadful.—As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s mind,
feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet producing reserve and self-command, it would.—She must
would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as pos-
about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of sible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s
course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her parting words. “For the present, the whole affair was to be
days of insignificance and evil were over.—She would soon completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as
be well, and happy, and prosperous.—Emma could now imag- a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and
ine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—
laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It

324
 Jane Austen
was her superior duty. “What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still per-
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost plexed.
ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and “Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr.
delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been
had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had privately engaged to one another this long while. How very
been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anx- odd!”
iously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hear- It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely
ing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her
Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls. Could character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to pro-
the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—But pose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar
of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable
“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into to speak.
the room—”is not this the oddest news that ever was?” “Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love
“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke)
by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody else—”
any hint. “Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my hav-
“About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? ing any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether
Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time
Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me that I was—tacitly, if not openly—encouraging you to give
it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of way to your own feelings?—I never had the slightest suspi-
mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it.” cion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill’s hav-

325
 Emma
ing the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that “I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that
if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.” you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never
“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should to name him—but considering how infinitely superior he is
you caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that
Churchill.” I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank
“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the sub- Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at
ject,” replied Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste
that there was a time—and not very distant either—when than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by
you gave me reason to understand that you did care about his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amaz-
him?” ing!—I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved
“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have
you so mistake me?” turning away distressed. considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare
“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—”What to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more
do you mean?—Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mis- wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches
take you!—Am I to suppose then?—” of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it
and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should possible—But if you, who had been always acquainted with
answer. him—”
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face “Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—”Let
turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when us understand each other now, without the possibility of far-
she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s. ther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”

326
 Jane Austen
“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body more precious circumstance—of Mr. Knightley’s coming and
else—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up
him, it was as clear as possible.” with me; and when there was no other partner in the room.
“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and
that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different per- generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel
son. I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank how superior he was to every other being upon earth.”
Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had ren- “Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortu-
dered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.” nate—most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!” “You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had un-
“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of derstood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I
what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder should have been, if the other had been the person; and now—
at your attachment; that considering the service he had ren- it is possible—”
dered you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that ser- “I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that
vice, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me
seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million
of it is strong on my memory.” times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss
“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may ap-
but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It pear—. But you know they were your own words, that more
was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity
meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me;

327
 Emma
and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but
have occurred before—and if I should be so fortunate, be- herself!
yond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—if Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her
he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which
you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been
in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.” acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how
Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blind-
round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said, ness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dread-
“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your af- ful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the
fection?” world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite
“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—”I must of all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance,
say that I have.” and a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently need of compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by
meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few min- Mr. Knightley—but justice required that she should not be
utes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolu-
heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made tion to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even appar-
rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she acknowl- ent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that
edged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into;
should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and inter-
Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s est which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained—
having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels

328
 Jane Austen
had never led her right.—Rousing from reflection, therefore, with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory
and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opin-
in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to ion of Harriet.
the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour
of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he
them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves. had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expec-
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was tation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss
yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had
manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he
and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a differ-
with great, though trembling delight.—Emma’s tremblings ent manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweet-
as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than ness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When
Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; they had been all walking together, he had so often come and
but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a develop- walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed
ment of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confu- to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have
sion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She been very much the case. She had often observed the change,
listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward to almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of
patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, approbation and praise from him—and Emma felt them to
or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his
contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautol- opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or
ogy of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—especially affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.—

329
 Emma
She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talk-
had dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived ing with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back
in Harriet’s memory, many little particulars of the notice she from her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield—
had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, stay five minutes—and his having told her, during their con-
had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circum- versation, that though he must go to London, it was very
stances that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and con- much against his inclination that he left home at all, which
tained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which
occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise this one article marked, gave her severe pain.
to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she
Emma herself.—The first, was his walking with her apart did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they “Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as
had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be
taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr. Martin’s interest
to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more par- in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
ticular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular “Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr.
way indeed!—(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Mar-
He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections tin, or to be suspected of it.”
were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) ap- When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her
peared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good

330
 Jane Austen
ground for hope. passed off through another door—and the moment she was
“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh
she, “but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and God! that I had never seen her!”
let his behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have. But The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough
now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion
chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful.” of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bit- moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must
ter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s be matter of humiliation to her.—How to understand it all!
side, to enable her to say on reply, How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practis-
“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley ing on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the blindness
is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she
any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he really tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place,
does.” every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly;
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying
so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree yet
fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably
penance, by the sound of her father’s footsteps. He was com- find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.
ing through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to en- To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was
counter him. “She could not compose herself—Mr. the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment
Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with which her father’s claims on her allowed, and every moment
most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she of involuntary absence of mind.

331
 Emma
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every Knightley.—Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, such With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the se-
influence begun?—When had he succeeded to that place in cret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance pro-
her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a short posed to arrange every body’s destiny. She was proved to have
period, occupied?—She looked back; she compared the two— been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done noth-
compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, ing—for she had done mischief. She had brought evil on
from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
they must at any time have been compared by her, had it— Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take
oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a
the comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be pro-
when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the duced only by a consciousness of Harriet’s;—and even were
superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely this not the case, he would never have known Harriet at all
the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancy- but for her folly.
ing, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to dis-
delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart—and, in short, tance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank
that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all! Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare,
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no
was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.—Mr.
which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.— Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her side!
She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensa- Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think
tion but the one revealed to her—her affection for Mr. how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the

332
 Jane Austen
smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his ex- merly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed
pense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thou- little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton’s be-
sand inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was ing to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.— Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who
Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to had been at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence
be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, but herself?—Who but herself had taught her, that she was to
perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would elevate herself if possible, and that her claims were great to a
seek him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be un- high worldly establishment?—If Harriet, from being humble,
equal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circum- were grown vain, it was her doing too.
stance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left
her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!—
Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express,
prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who
would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life
to which she ought to belong—all would have been safe; none
of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise
her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy
herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!—
But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than for-

333
 Emma
CHAPTER XII In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might
she not say, very dear?—When the suggestions of hope, how-
TILL NOW that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had ever, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could
never known how much of her happiness depended on being not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think
first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.—Sat- herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passion-
isfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it ately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She could not
without reflection; and only in the dread of being supplanted, flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to
found how inexpressibly important it had been.—Long, very her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.—
long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates!
connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her
claims could be compared with hers, and she had always on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but far,
known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright
had herself been first with him for many years past. She had justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no hope, noth-
not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse, slight- ing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort
ing his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of of affection for herself which was now in question; but there
half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,)
not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own— that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating
but still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough his regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the
excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all
from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never mar-
for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. rying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—

334
 Jane Austen
Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her ity for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk would be only
father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively,
and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friend- to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield;
ship and confidence, and her peace would be fully secured.— acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confi-
Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incom- dential discussion of one topic had better be avoided; and
patible with what she owed to her father, and with what she hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they
felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. met again, except in the company of others—she objected
She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley. only to a tete-a-tete—they might be able to act as if they had
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disap- forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted,
pointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together and approved, and was grateful.
again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chances This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear
for it were.—She should see them henceforward with the clos- Emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which had en-
est observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunder- grossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—
stood even those she was watching, she did not know how to Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law
admit that she could be blinded here.—He was expected back elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much
every day. The power of observation would be soon given— in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the
frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one particulars of so interesting an interview.
course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.— Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone
It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no through his share of this essential attention most handsomely;
good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved not to be but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an
convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no author- airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much

335
 Emma
more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady,
in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward and the rapturous delight of her daughter—who proved even
feelings, could have afforded. too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in
while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought
visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of
had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them.
write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious Miss Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs.
call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and
reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known; as, consid- declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in
ering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encour-
without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought agement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring
differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approba- her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her
tion to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the
any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling
be of any consequence; for “such things,” he observed, “al- towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the
ways got about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked
had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short— a good deal of the present and of the future state of the en-
and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of gagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversa-
the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every tion must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up
look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and

336
 Jane Austen
was very much pleased with all that she had said on the sub- ciples or the care of the friends who brought me up. The
ject. error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all
“On the misery of what she had suffered, during the con- the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I
cealment of so many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel
was energetic. This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, Campbell.’”
that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some “Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then exces-
happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the sively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only,
blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering lip, Emma, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection
which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.” must have overpowered her judgment.”
“Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, “Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to
for having consented to a private engagement?” him.”
“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is “I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often
disposed to blame herself. `The consequence,’ said she, `has have contributed to make her unhappy.”
been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But “On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But
after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when
not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blame- alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints
less. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had in-
the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kind- volved herself in,” she said, “was that of making her unrea-
ness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought sonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed
not to be.’ `Do not imagine, madam,’ she continued, `that I her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and
was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the prin- irritable to a degree that must have been—that had been—

337
 Emma
hard for him to bear. `I did not make the allowances,’ said that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit
she, `which I ought to have done, for his temper and spir- will be all on hers.”
its—his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs.
disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect;
am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her de-
were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of the great fence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of
kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too much to
blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick
me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and
not thank you too much—for every wish and every endeav- when Mrs. Weston ended with, “We have not yet had the
our to do her good. She was sensible that you had never re- letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon
ceived any proper acknowledgment from herself.” come,” she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at
“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seri- last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all rec-
ously, “which, in spite of every little drawback from her scru- ollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
pulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these “Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting ques-
thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn tion.
up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!—Well “Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give
(checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”
be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more
particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and
sure she is very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss

338
 Jane Austen
Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer ac- Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the
quaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that
had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she fol- she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a
lowed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that atten- perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three to-
tion to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she gether, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a
tried to know her better; had she done her part towards inti- thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the
macy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in agony of a mind that would bear no more.
Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at
from every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities, Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold
and education, had been equally marking one as an associate stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees
for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of
was she?—Supposing even that they had never become inti- the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.
mate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only
Fairfax’s confidence on this important matter—which was be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention
most probable—still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which had never cost
might, she must have been preserved from the abominable her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn
suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-day; but
she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured her- Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissi-
self, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she pated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of
greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might
the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the

339
 Emma
privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How was
no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.— it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s
But her present forebodings she feared would experience no sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in
similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was threat- Harriet’s society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the
ening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he
might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could be
might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield increasing Emma’s wretchedness but the reflection never far
must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her fa- distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
ther with the spirits only of ruined happiness. When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking
dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would about the room for a few seconds—and the only source
be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in whence any thing like consolation or composure could be
great measure, her husband also.—Frank Churchill would drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and
return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reason- the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be
able to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it
They would be married, and settled either at or near would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with her-
Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if self, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.
to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what
would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their
reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his
evening comfort!—No longer walking in at all hours, as if

340
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XIII calm. In half a minute they were together. The “How d’ye
do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after
THE WEATHER continued much the same all the following their mutual friends; they were all well.—When had he left
morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, them?—Only that morning. He must have had a wet ride.—
seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just
the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds were car- looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there,
ried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again. With all the preferred being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked
eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, sug-
out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, gested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communi-
smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after cating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner
a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the seren- in which they had been received.
ity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s com- They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was
ing in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face
father, she lost no time ill hurrying into the shrubbery.— than it suited her to give. And this belief produced another
There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment
she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley pass- to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to be-
ing through the garden door, and coming towards her.—It gin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to
was the first intimation of his being returned from London. any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not
She had been thinking of him the moment before, as un- bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She con-
questionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for sidered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—
the quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and “You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that

341
 Emma
will rather surprize you.” For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspi-
“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what na- cious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her
ture?” arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard
“Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.” him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say “Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your
no more, he replied, own excellent sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I
“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard know you will not allow yourself—.” Her arm was pressed
that already.” again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, “The
“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing feelings of the warmest friendship—Indignation—Abominable
cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her scoundrel!”—And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with,
that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way. “He will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am
“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this sorry for her. She deserves a better fate.”
morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover
of what had happened.” from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consider-
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a ation, replied,
little more composure, “You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set
“You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you right.—I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My
you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a
once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had attended to way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very fool-
it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to ishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay
have been doomed to blindness.” me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other rea-

342
 Jane Austen
son to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.” He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but
“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, in- he would not. She supposed she must say more before she
deed?”—but checking himself—”No, no, I understand you— were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be
forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much.— obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on,
He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, however.
I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more “I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was
than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear
farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your man- pleased.—An old story, probably—a common case—and no
ners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and
only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I
which I never believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temp-
the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet tation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually
young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.” here—I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for
“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously,
confused—”I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered, and I
let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time,
manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I
ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for serious-
the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a ness on my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not in-
woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I never jured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I can
have.” tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to at-

343
 Emma
tach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-
another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, twenty to have drawn such a prize! What years of felicity that
I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself— man, in all human calculation, has before him!—Assured of
except that I was not blinded—that it was my good fortune— the love of such a woman—the disinterested love, for Jane
that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him.” Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing
She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as re-
that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; gards society, and all the habits and manners that are impor-
and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tant; equality in every point but one—and that one, since the
tolerably in his usual tone, he said, purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase
“I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she
can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My wants.—A man would always wish to give a woman a better
acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And even if I home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it,
have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well.— where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the
With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no motive for happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite
wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets
involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection,
wish him well.” cannot even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he
“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma; and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife
“I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.” for him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt
“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His
energy. “So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, friends are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used

344
 Jane Austen
every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.— would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or
He is a fortunate man indeed!” reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or,
“You speak as if you envied him.” by representing to him his own independence, relieve him
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object from that state of indecision, which must be more intoler-
of my envy.” able than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a reached the house.
sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert “You are going in, I suppose?” said he.
the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak “No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed
of something totally different—the children in Brunswick manner in which he still spoke—”I should like to take an-
Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. other turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.” And, after proceeding a
Knightley startled her, by saying, few steps, she added—”I stopped you ungraciously, just now,
“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—But if you
determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but I have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my
cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—
though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.” as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear what-
“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. ever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think.”
“Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.” “As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—”Emma, that I
“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I
and not another syllable followed. hesitate?—I have gone too far already for concealment.—
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it may seem, I
confide in her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then,

345
 Emma
have I no chance of ever succeeding?” them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.—But
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my feel-
expression of his eyes overpowered her. ings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only
“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always to hear, once to hear your voice.”
be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dear- While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with
est, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say `No,’ if it is all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able—and
to be said.”—She could really say nothing.—”You are silent,” yet without losing a word—to catch and comprehend the
he cried, with great animation; “absolutely silent! at present I exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s hopes had been
ask no more.” entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delu-
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this sion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that she
moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative
dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling. to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feel-
“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in ings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her
a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from
tolerably convincing.—”If I loved you less, I might be able to herself.—And not only was there time for these convictions,
talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear with all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time
nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you, and lec- also to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to
tured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in En- resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was all the ser-
gland would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would vice she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of
tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her
them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet,

346
 Jane Austen
as infinitely the most worthy of the two—or even the more was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther ex-
simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for planation.
ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any
marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is
with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this
run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it
entered her brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would may not be very material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute
be a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart
as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in more disposed to accept of his.
reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influ-
degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.— ence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of
She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?— trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore
Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view, no view
enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to
to say more himself. He had despaired at one period; he had soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work of the
received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feel-
time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing to hear ings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards
him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;— Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged
her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conver- from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might
sation which she had just put an end to, might be a little gain her affection himself;—but it had been no present hope—
extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over

347
 Emma
judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his at- form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only
tempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which gradually in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other
opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even
which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, had his time been longer.—He had stayed on, however, vig-
was already his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a orously, day after day—till this very morning’s post had con-
thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like per- veyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness
fect happiness, that it could bear no other name. which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel,
Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving
each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen
from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.— anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden
On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as home through the rain; and had walked up directly after din-
the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill.—He ner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless
had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
from about the same period, one sentiment having probably He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was
enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank a villain.—He heard her declare that she had never loved him.
Churchill that had taken him from the country.—The Box Frank Churchill’s character was not desperate.—She was his
Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the
himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then,
attentions.—He had gone to learn to be indifferent.—But he he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.
had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic
happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a

348
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XIV most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the
slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or
WHAT TOTALLY different feelings did Emma take back into ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the
the house from what she had brought out!—she had then articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked
been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—she on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what
was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happi- they could have told him in return.
ness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fe-
flutter should have passed away. ver continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little
They sat down to tea—the same party round the same tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the sleepless
table—how often it had been collected!—and how often had night, which was the tax for such an evening, she found one
her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel,
the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—But never in that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father—
such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full
with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the com-
self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive fort of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to
daughter. her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley
against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cor- with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of
dially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have never quitting her father.—She even wept over the idea of it,
taken cold from his ride.—Could he have seen the heart, he as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an engage-
would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the ment; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger

349
 Emma
of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employ-
to him.—How to do her best by Harriet, was of more diffi- ment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr.
cult decision;—how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not
how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go
her enemy?—On these subjects, her perplexity and distress over the same ground again with him, literally and figura-
were very great—and her mind had to pass again and again tively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of
through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had the happiness of the evening before.
ever surrounded it.—She could only resolve at last, that she He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her
would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body else,
that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly de- when a letter was brought her from Randalls—a very thick
sirable to have her removed just now for a time from letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the
Highbury, and—indulging in one scheme more—nearly re- necessity of reading it.—She was now in perfect charity with
solve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation for her Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only
to Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; to have her thoughts to herself—and as for understanding
and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amuse- any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It
ment.—She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape be- must be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it
ing benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, was too surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ush-
and the children.—At any rate, it would be a proof of atten- ered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
tion and kindness in herself, from whom every thing was due; “I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding
a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when to you the enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will
they must all be together again. do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I think

350
 Jane Austen
we shall never materially disagree about the writer again; but who had still more to resent. My courage rises while I write.
I will not delay you by a long preface.—We are quite well.— It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I have
This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have already met with such success in two applications for pardon,
been feeling lately.—I did not quite like your looks on Tues- that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,
day, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will and of those among your friends who have had any ground
never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels of offence.—You must all endeavour to comprehend the ex-
a north-east wind.—I felt for your dear father very much in act nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls;
the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept
had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself in a
had not made him ill. situation requiring such concealment, is another question. I
“Yours ever, shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right,
“A. W.” I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below,
and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her
[To Mrs. Weston.] openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must
WINDSOR-JULY. be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate
My Dear Madam, enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to
“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop
expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with in charity to a secret engagement.—Had she refused, I should
candour and indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say, what was your
there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some hope in doing this?—What did you look forward to?—To
parts of my past conduct.—But I have been forgiven by one any thing, every thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow

351
 Emma
effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and ship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will
sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—A few
first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion,
and correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.—My
the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son, behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than
and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, it ought.—In order to assist a concealment so essential to me,
which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort
value of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I can-
on my first visit to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of not deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object—
wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not
look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been
Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will for- induced by any selfish views to go on.—Amiable and de-
give me instantly; but I must work on my father’s compas- lightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of
sion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was per-
from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. fectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as
My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent much my conviction as my wish.—She received my atten-
with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, ex- tions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which
cepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From
only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were
which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous ex- felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to un-
planation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friend- derstand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot

352
 Jane Austen
say;—when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I with the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set
was within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then them all to the right account.—Of the pianoforte so much
fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered
of her having since detected me, at least in some degree.— was absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never have
She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—The
have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, when- delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my
ever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to.
it did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly your-
hints of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed self.—No description can describe her. She must tell you her-
Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I self what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a hu-
hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admit- man creature who would so designedly suppress her own
ted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you merit.—Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I
saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against foresaw, I have heard from her.—She gives a good account of
Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Ac- her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not de-
quit me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the pend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you
acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps
whom I regard with so much brotherly affection, as to long it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am
to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.—What- impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few
ever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad
have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my busi- a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from
ness was to get my body thither as often as might be, and happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour

353
 Emma
I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shame-
generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the fully. And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in
uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She dis-
forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again!— approved them, which ought to have been enough.—My plea
But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.—She
for me to encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a
have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I
connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had fol-
light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, lowed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of
needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as what she deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest
you will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest unhappiness I have ever known.—We quarrelled.—Do you
prospects, I should not have presumed on such early mea- remember the morning spent at Donwell?—There every little
sures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was
me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk
any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused
mine with multiplied strength and refinement.—But I had to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now,
no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent
that woman—Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our en-
off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I have been gagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable par-
walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough ticularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the
to make the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in next to a proposal which might have made every previous

354
 Jane Austen
caution useless?—Had we been met walking together between she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the
Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.— whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever
I was mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her affec- filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel
tion. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended
provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, inso- towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against
lent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as the share of it which that woman has known.—”Jane,” in-
it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to deed!—You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself
endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words per- in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I
fectly intelligible to me.—In short, my dear madam, it was a must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons
quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I re- with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the inso-
turned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have lence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall
staid with you till the next morning, merely because I would soon have done.—She closed with this offer, resolving to break
be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I was not such a with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we
fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the never were to meet again.—She felt the engagement to be a
injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away de- source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.—
termined that she should make the first advances.—I shall This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s
always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill death. I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion
party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at
suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other
effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it pro- letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I,
duced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to

355
 Emma
satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I was rather she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imag-
disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but ine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved
I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and—may I add?— at the blunders of the post.—What was to be done?—One
too cheerful in my views to be captious.—We removed to thing only.—I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction
Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from I could not hope to be listened to again.—I spoke; circum-
her, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines at the same stances were in my favour; the late event had softened away
time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,
had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor
on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much
equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrange- happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it
ment concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a would be of a different sort.—Are you disposed to pity me
safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him,
not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury for my suspense while all was at stake?—No; do not pity me
within a week, I would forward them after that period to her till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do
at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached Highbury
Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late
knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her
It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character alone.—I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disap-
which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had main- pointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of
tained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away.
descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than

356
 Jane Austen
ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us CHAPTER XV
again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could
not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for THIS LETTER must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was
all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the con-
for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.—If you trary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As
think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line
your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agree-
hope she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is un- able; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still main-
doubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, tain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the
Your obliged and affectionate Son, writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love
F. C. Weston Churchill. must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had
gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to
feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than
she had supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—
and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love
with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was
no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must
have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley
came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs.
Weston’s wishing it to be communicated; especially to one,

357
 Emma
who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.
conduct. “He trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. He knows
“I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it seems he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He
long. I will take it home with me at night.” ought not to have formed the engagement.—`His father’s
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the disposition:’—he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr.
evening, and she must return it by him. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright
“I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.” comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—Very true; he did
He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say, “Had not come till Miss Fairfax was here.”
I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to “And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you
his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it
have been taken with such indifference.” over very handsomely—but you were perfectly right.”
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, “I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but
with a smile, observed, “Humph! a fine complimentary open- yet, I think—had you not been in the case—I should still
ing: But it is his way. One man’s style must not be the rule of have distrusted him.”
another’s. We will not be severe.” When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read
“It will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a
speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disap-
I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you probation; or merely of love, as the subject required; con-
dislike it—” cluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus—
“Not at all. I should wish it.” “Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a

358
 Jane Austen
most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank
his acquittal.—No judge of his own manners by you.—Al- Churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully was the
ways deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
little besides his own convenience.—Fancying you to have “I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark. “You
fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.”
intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Fi- And having gone through what immediately followed of the
nesse—how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct
not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of right, he made a fuller
truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?” pause to say, “This is very bad.—He had induced her to place
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and
Harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere expla- uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent
nation of. her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must have had much
“You had better go on,” said she. more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence,
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable
Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable.
young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had
very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear
cannot comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any that she should have been in such a state of punishment.”
proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party,
with; and he did know that she would have prevented the and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so
instrument’s coming if she could.” very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of

359
 Emma
his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall
and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momen- soon have done. What a letter the man writes!”
tary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving “I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”
pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. “Well, there is feeling here.—He does seem to have suf-
“There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good fered in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his
friends, the Eltons,” was his next observation.—”His feelings being fond of her. `Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he
are natural.—What! actually resolve to break with him en- may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconcilia-
tirely!—She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance tion.—He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and
and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a view this gives tens of thousands.—`Happier than I deserve.’ Come, he
of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most ex- knows himself there. `Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of
traordinary—” good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were
“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suf- they?—And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The child
fers.” of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?”
“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resum- “You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am;
ing the letter. “`Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better
all this?” of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you.”
“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s “Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of in-
children—a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple consideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his
Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves:
disappointment?” but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss
“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage

360
 Jane Austen
of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such
character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s comfort, per-
and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk haps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.
to you of something else. I have another person’s interest at Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought
present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the
Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find
my mind has been hard at work on one subject.” in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, at Hartfield; that so long as her father’s happiness in other
gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to words his life—required Hartfield to continue her home, it
the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to should be his likewise.
marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had
Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. “While her dear her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme
father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not oc-
her. She could never quit him.” Part only of this answer, how- curred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it evinced.
ever, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her fa- She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a
ther, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inad- great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living
missibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there
been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised
first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he
Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowl- was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes
edge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure

361
 Emma
her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking at Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing
away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to
thoughts to himself. increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerless-
“I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his ness before her!—Such a partner in all those duties and cares to
consent before you ask mine.” which time must be giving increase of melancholy!
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but
promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of find- every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the
ing it a very good scheme. sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was secur-
of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell ing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution,
Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in every way.
Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction
tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible differ- from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be
ence to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl her-
saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in de- self, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing
tecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s her in such a state of unmerited punishment.
marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that
had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very
and the aunt. early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to as-
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing sist the cure;—not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so

362
 Jane Austen
kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would CHAPTER XVI
never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really
was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in IT WAS A VERY GREAT RELIEF to Emma to find Harriet as desir-
love with more than three men in one year. ous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was pain-
ful enough by letter. How much worse, had they been obliged
to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed,
without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet
Emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a some-
thing bordering on it in her style, which increased the desir-
ableness of their being separate.—It might be only her own
consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have
been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and
she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it,
without resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss.
Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult
a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was delighted to be of use;
any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her—and
though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she
was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was

363
 Emma
thus settled on her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, ther; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.—
and found her very persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were
invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this
Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all com- period among those she loved—and the evil should not act on
pleted, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square. herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight,
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer,
now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to em-
most painful, which had haunted her when remembering how ploy half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss
disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that Fairfax.—She ought to go—and she was longing to see her;
moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings the resemblance of their present situations increasing every
which she had led astray herself. other motive of goodwill. It would be a secret satisfaction;
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in Lon- but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would cer-
don, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sen- tainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any
sations; but she could not think of her in London without thing Jane might communicate.
objects of curiosity and employment, which must be avert- She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door,
ing the past, and carrying her out of herself. but had not been into the house since the morning after Box
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled
the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings
communication before her, one which she only could be com- had been unsuspected.—The fear of being still unwelcome,
petent to make—the confession of her engagement to her fa- determined her, though assured of their being at home, to

364
 Jane Austen
wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a
announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton
Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre
nothing but the instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and would do them no harm.
a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane her- She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts,
self, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it
were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her look so well, was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself
so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation, acquainted with what was still a secret to other people. Emma
and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face;
manner could ever have wanted.—She came forward with an and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and
offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone, appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she saw her
“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is im- with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which
possible for me to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and
me for being so entirely without words.” return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying,
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want with significant nods,
of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting- “We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I
room had not checked her, and made it expedient to com- shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all
press all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs.
a very, very earnest shake of the hand. S. admits our apology, and is not offended. You see how de-
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was lightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You would
out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word more.

365
 Emma
Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!— does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a side-glance of great
You remember those lines—I forget the poem at this mo- meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a
ment: wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had seen her, as I did,
when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was say-
“For when a lady’s in the case, ing something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a
“You know all other things give place.” word of any assistance that Perry might have; not a word of a
certain young physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall
Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read——mum! a have all the credit.”
word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I “I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss
want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—My representa- Woodhouse,” she shortly afterwards began, “since the party to
tion, you see, has quite appeased her.” Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was some-
And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at thing wanting. Things did not seem—that is, there seemed a
Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper, little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it appeared to me at
“I mentioned no names, you will observe.—Oh! no; cau- least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so
tious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.” far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while
on every possible occasion. When they had all talked a little the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know,
while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found quite the same party, not one exception.”
herself abruptly addressed with, Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not
“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to
here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might

366
 Jane Austen
be said, and impatience to say every thing. “Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.— from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s com-
It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand— ing to him, on some pretence or other.—The magistrates,
dearest Jane’s prospects—that is, I do not mean.—But she is and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his
charmingly recovered.—How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.—
glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little circle as `Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, `rather you than I.—I
you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!— do not know what would become of my crayons and my
that is—so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such at- instrument, if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough
tention to Jane!”—And from her great, her more than com- as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable
monly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.—
Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resent- However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose
ment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her
graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which words from Emma—”A congratulatory visit, you know.—
placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said, Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”
“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so Miss Bates looked about her, so happily!—
long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; “He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage
but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up to-
promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you.” gether in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”
“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?— Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said,
That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like “Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot
morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.” walk.”

367
 Emma
“Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I
Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak should make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and
only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have your solidity would produce perfection.—Not that I presume
every thing their own way.” to insinuate, however, that some people may not think you
“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am al- perfection already.—But hush!—not a word, if you please.”
most certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to- It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give
morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the
spoke of it as for Saturday.” latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as far as
“Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not of-
answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on ten proceed beyond a look.
Mrs. Elton’s side.—”I do believe,” she continued, “this is the Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with
most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of some of her sparkling vivacity.
such things at Maple Grove.” “Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be
“Your parish there was small,” said Jane. an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe
“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard to come!—But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to
the subject talked of.” deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master
“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I appeared.—Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these
have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who
and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five- can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”
and-twenty children.” Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed
“Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid;

368
 Jane Austen
but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the traordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for
heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing. him.
“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be “I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity
found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent as a wife ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do
him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very last
certainly be at home till one.” person whom one should expect to be forgotten!—My dear
“Donwell!” cried his wife.—”My dear Mr. E., you have not Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he
been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and
the meeting at the Crown.” his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and
“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all,
Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broil- I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am
ing morning!—I went over the fields too—(speaking in a tone sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our
of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse. And sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges,
then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright
pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The house- a receipt, and never sent it.”
keeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.— “I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got
Very extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he near the house, and he told me I should not find his master at
was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, home, but I did not believe him.—William seemed rather
perhaps into his woods.—Miss Woodhouse, this is not like out of humour. He did not know what was come to his mas-
our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?” ter lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very ex- him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it really

369
 Emma
is of very great importance that I should see Knightley to- You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an
day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious incon- interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
venience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.” collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of miscon-
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home di- duct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me
rectly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is
there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as
deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards Will- to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to
iam Larkins. make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax deter- it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compas-
mined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even sion does not stand my friend—”
downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immedi- “Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma
ately made use of, to say, warmly, and taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and
“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them, is
Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—”
been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak “You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to
more openly than might have been strictly correct.—I feel you.—So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It
that I should certainly have been impertinent.” was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have disgusted you.”
“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which “Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on
Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do what-
elegance of all her usual composure—”there would have been ever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no
no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”

370
 Jane Austen
“Very.” CHAPTER XVII
“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose
you—just as I begin to know you.” MRS. WESTON’S FRIENDS were all made happy by her safety;
“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to
I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.” Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little
“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied girl. She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston. She
Emma, smiling—”but, excuse me, it must be thought of.” would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making
The smile was returned as Jane answered, a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons; but
“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and
to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as
Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three he grew older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older
months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports
imagine there will be nothing more to wait for.” and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never
“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be banished from home; and Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt
assured of.—Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite
that is decided and open!—Good-bye, good-bye.” a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should
not have their powers in exercise again.
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on
me,” she continued—”like La Baronne d’Almane on La
Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and
Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide edu-

371
 Emma
cated on a more perfect plan.” good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you
more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint
her at all. It will be the only difference.” of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become since you were thirteen at least.”
of her?” “I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very
“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own
disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor
I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dear- little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest
est Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for
not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?” me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.”
Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all “How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me,
your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. with one of your saucy looks—`Mr. Knightley, I am going
I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me with- to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s
out it.” leave’—something which, you knew, I did not approve. In
“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understand- such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings
ing:—Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done instead of one.”
well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. “What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should
It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”
me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was “`Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, `Mr. Knightley;’
done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet

372
 Jane Austen
it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to
not know what.” attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appear-
“I remember once calling you `George,’ in one of my ami- ances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware her-
able fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it self, that, parting under any other circumstances, they cer-
would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never tainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelli-
did it again.” gence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on
“And cannot you call me `George’ now?” Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of
“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but `Mr. being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very
Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant terse- little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
ness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will prom- Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could
ise,” she added presently, laughing and blushing—”I will prom- be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of
ise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a den-
when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in tist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over,
which N. takes M. for better, for worse.” she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to had known her before.—Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick
one important service which his better sense would have ren- observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with
dered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma’s com-
worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy with forts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s
Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.—She could being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at
not enter on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned be- least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in
tween them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring

373
 Emma
her back. “He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the
“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. two,” interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—”much
Knightley. “Here is his answer, if you like to see it.” less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without
It was the answer to the communication of his intended ceremony or reserve on the subject.”
marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an “Emma, my dear Emma—”
impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and “Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy
not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it,
Mr. Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I he will be much farther from doing you justice. He will think
well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the ques-
for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other tion; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into `poor
young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion towards
I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.” oppressed worth can go no farther.”
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she “Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily
had read the letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal
he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one
side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, part of John’s letter—did you notice it?—where he says, that
as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he
said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind.”
have believed him.” “If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your
“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—” having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me.

374
 Jane Austen
He seems perfectly unprepared for that.” speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided
“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She
into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spir-
conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that its she could command, she prepared him first for something
could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and
than at another.—But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there approbation could be obtained—which, she trusted, would
was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote
I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as the happiness of all—she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry;
usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, `Uncle by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addi-
seems always tired now.’” tion of that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
and other persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and
was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded,
Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be more than once, of having always said she would never marry,
employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to
and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to her father at remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Tay-
last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. lor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about him affec-
Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart tionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must
would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages
Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy
beginning she was to make.—She was forced to speak, and to change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be

375
 Emma
always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting,
or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure to consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a
that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. settled, and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly
Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr.
idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what was to be;
not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring
to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so use- him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feel-
ful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to ings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that
assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to some time or other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might
him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?— not be so very bad if the marriage did take place.
Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all
too often; he should be glad to see him every day;—but they that she said to him in favour of the event.—She had been
did see him every day as it was.—Why could not they go on extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first
as they had done? opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the
was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repeti- utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think
tion must do the rest.—To Emma’s entreaties and assurances he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every re-
succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose fond praise of her gave the spect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion,
subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so
talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—They had all the peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed
assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other

376
 Jane Austen
creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings ing that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of
in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How caps.
very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and
would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes
who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—
Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!— He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them
The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was
always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for a marriage very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far
between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of from believing that he had always foreseen it.
Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment— “It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are
less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself—but even always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows
he had never been able to finish the subject better than by them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.—I wonder
saying—”Those matters will take care of themselves; the young whether Jane has any suspicion.”
people will find a way.” But here there was nothing to be He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied him-
shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, self on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a
all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. daughter, his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs.
without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from
reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would
world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiv- be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the

377
 Emma
evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. now.—Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might made for her. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to
think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. throw cold water on every thing.—Extremely disagreeable!
One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the house-
and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another keeper the other day.—Shocking plan, living together. It would
might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried
upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not quarter.
softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it,
compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride
would now be contented;” and supposed “she had always
meant to catch Knightley if she could;” and, on the point of
living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather he than
I!”—But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.—
”Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for him.—She
was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a
thousand good qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—
Did not think him at all in love—not in the least.—Poor
Knightley!—There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse
with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine with
them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over

378
 Jane Austen
CHAPTER XVIII we do not think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling,
with his eyes fixed on her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—
TIME PASSED ON. A few more to-morrows, and the party from Do not you recollect?—Harriet Smith.”
London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of some-
Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a thing, though she knew not what.
great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came “Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he.
in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat “You have, I believe, and know the whole.”
of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began “No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”
with, “You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is.
“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.” Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.”
“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face. Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being pre-
“I do not know which it ought to be called.” pared—and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impos-
“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You sible!” but her lips were closed.
are trying not to smile.” “It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from
“I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”
much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when She was still looking at him with the most speaking amaze-
you hear it.” ment.
“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing “You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opin-
which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse ions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be
me too.” sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in
“There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject.”

379
 Emma
“You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exert- take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to be our
ing herself. “It is not that such a circumstance would now make brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend
me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibil- Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way;
ity!—You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine
Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to with them the next day—which he did—and in the course of
her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it.” that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speak-
“I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with ing to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—She made
smiling but determined decision, “and been accepted.” him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He
“Good God!” she cried.—”Well!”—Then having recourse came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me this morn-
to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and ing immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first
concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertain- on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate
ment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make
“Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. a much longer history when you see her.—She will give you
How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was more all the minute particulars, which only woman’s language can
surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.— make interesting.—In our communications we deal only in
How—how has it been possible?” the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s heart
“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and that he did
three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on
which I was wanting to send to John.—He delivered these quitting their box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs.
papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss
their party the same evening to Astley’s. They were going to Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a

380
 Jane Austen
crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.” I think Harriet is doing extremely well. Her connexions may
He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate re- be worse than his. In respectability of character, there can be
ply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unrea- no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely,
sonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has
would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!—for I had
observing her a little while, he added, reason to believe her very lately more determined against him,
“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would much more, than she was before.”
not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you “You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr.
more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil—but Knightley; “but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-
you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any
answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know young man who told her he loved her.”
him more. His good sense and good principles would delight Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my
you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr.
your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and
if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.— downright accepted him. I could suppose she might in time—
You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as but can she already?—Did not you misunderstand him?—
ill spare Robert Martin.” You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of
brought herself not to smile too broadly—she did—cheer- so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand
fully answering, that he was certain of—it was the dimensions of some fa-
“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. mous ox.”

381
 Emma
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be
Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could
to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course
that had so recently passed on Harriet’s side, so fresh the sound of this day.”
of those words, spoken with such emphasis, “No, I hope I “I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest
know better than to think of Robert Martin,” that she was smiles, “and most sincerely wish them happy.”
really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, “You are materially changed since we talked on this subject
premature. It could not be otherwise. before.”
“Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare “I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”
to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a “And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant
man is talking of?—What do you deserve?” you all Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for
“Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never your sake, and for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always
put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get
plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You
the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?” must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought
“I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin’s cause,
he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no ob- which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am
scurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good
can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happi-
as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. ness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of
Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”

382
 Jane Austen
“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—”Ah! poor Harriet!” her humility and circumspection in future.
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her
little more praise than she deserved. resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, some-
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the en- times in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a
trance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks
Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, sing- Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing
ing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know
talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit Robert Martin.
for nothing rational. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities,
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr.
out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation,
to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She
disappearing. could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensa- confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome
tions may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus re- as a duty.
moved in the prospect of Harriet’s welfare, she was really in In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her
danger of becoming too happy for security.—What had she father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he
to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the com-
intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. fortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed.

383
 Emma
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing- animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank
room:—but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Churchill to draw near her and say,
Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked “I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind
for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time
figures passing near the window. has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not
“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just retract what you then said.”
going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive “No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in
this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with
been persuaded to spend the day with us.—They are coming you—and to give you joy in person.”
in, I hope.” He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was ex- to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
tremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of confu- “Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards
sion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. Jane. “Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my
They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her.”
at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing
there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells,
began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she he named the name of Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade
had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of its being pronounced in her hearing.
seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. “I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”
When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the “The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But
baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early,

384
 Jane Austen
I know, you had none.” paused.—She coloured and laughed.—”I know you saw my
“I never had the smallest, I assure you.” letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour.
“That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I have
I wish I had—it would have been better. But though I was heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—
always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise.”
and such as did me no service.—It would have been a much Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the
better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own
you every thing.” concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were,
“It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma. “Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such deli-
“I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being per- cacy!—and yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call
suaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark
her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in eye-lashes and hair—a most distinguishing complexion! So
London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour enough for beauty.”
northward.—But now, I am at such a distance from her—is “I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma,
not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we have archly; “but do not I remember the time when you found
not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity fault with her for being so pale?—When we first began to
me?” talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?”
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden “Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I
accession of gay thought, he cried, dare—”
“Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking de- But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma
mure for the moment—”I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He could not help saying,

385
 Emma
“I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle
time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set.
sure you had.—I am sure it was a consolation to you.” I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will
“Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? not it be beautiful in her dark hair?”
I was the most miserable wretch!” “Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so
“Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that “How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in
you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to sus- such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this meeting
pect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had
some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think you failed to come.”
there is a little likeness between us.” The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giv-
He bowed. ing an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening
“If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a before, from the infant’s appearing not quite well. She be-
look of true sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the lieved she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she
destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry. Per-
much superior to our own.” haps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been
“True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the
side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and
is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who com-
gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as mended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and
she is looking up at my father.—You will be glad to hear only regretted that she had not done it. “She should always

386
 Jane Austen
send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though
disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be too pretending to listen to the others?”
soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and
perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said
child seemed well now, very well considering, it would prob- in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
ably have been better if Perry had seen it.” “How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to
Frank Churchill caught the name. me!—They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can court
“Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch them!”
Miss Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they say- He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly;
ing about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?— but Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument;
And how does he travel now?—Has he set up his carriage?” and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a compari-
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while son of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to
she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s counte- see Frank Churchill, and really regarding him as she did with
nance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Knightley’s
seem deaf. high superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy
“Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation
never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears of his worth which this comparison produced.
us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain
attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at this
instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the
report, is passing under her eye—that the whole blunder is

387
 Emma
CHAPTER XIX most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley’s,
and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the
IF EMMA HAD STILL, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?—The
a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had
cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love
accept another man from unbiased inclination, it was not her had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever be unin-
long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such telligible to Emma.
uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from Lon- The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was
don, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one giving her fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage
hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satis- became known. She proved to be the daughter of a trades-
fied—unaccountable as it was!—that Robert Martin had man, rich enough to afford her the comfortable maintenance
thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now form- which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always
ing all her views of happiness. wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It
first: but having once owned that she had been presumptu- was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a
ous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and confu- gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for
sion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her with- Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills—or even for Mr.
out a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or
present and future; for, as to her friend’s approbation, Emma wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man
her with the most unqualified congratulations.—Harriet was was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma

388
 Jane Austen
became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now intro- church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with
duced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in him all the ap- so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even con-
pearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her nected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could im-
little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s happiness with pair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,
any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next
offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stabil- fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest
ity, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of couple engaged of the three, were the first to be married.
those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored
retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerful- to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—
ness. She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only
to find her out. She would be respectable and happy; and waiting for November.
Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as
to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had deter-
a man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself. mined that their marriage ought to be concluded while John
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the fortnight’s
the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.—John
be regretted.—The intimacy between her and Emma must and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving
sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of good- it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be
will; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed induced to consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their
already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner. marriage but as a distant event.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable,

389
 Emma
that they were almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, manded his fullest dependence. While either of them pro-
gave less pain.—He began to think it was to be, and that he tected him and his, Hartfield was safe.—But Mr. John
could not prevent it—a very promising step of the mind on Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first
its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, week in November.
he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage The result of this distress was, that, with a much more vol-
failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him untary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed
fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-
almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month from the
that when once the event were over, his distress would be marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands
soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed. of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the
sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any won- parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from
derful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely
the same system in another way.—Mrs. Weston’s poultry- shabby, and very inferior to her own.—”Very little white satin,
house was robbed one night of all her turkeys—evidently by very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!—Selina would stare
the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the when she heard of it.”—But, in spite of these deficiencies, the
neighbourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was housebreaking wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small
to Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully
the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would have been un- answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
der wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, reso-
lution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, com-
FINIS
390
 To return to the Jane Austen page, go to

http://www.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/j-austen.htm

To return to the Electronic Classics Series page, go to

http://www.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/jimspdf.htm