Emma
Austen, Jane
Published: 1816
Categorie(s): Fiction, Romance
Source: Wikisource
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About Austen:
Jane Austen (16 December 1775 - 18 July 1817) was an English novelist whose works include Sense and Sensibility, Pride
and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, Northanger Abbey, and
Persuasion. Her biting social commentary and masterful use of
both free indirect speech and irony eventually made Austen
one of the most influential and honored novelists in English Literature. Source: Wikipedia
Also
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available on Feedbooks for Austen:
Pride and Prejudice (1813)
Sense and Sensibility (1811)
Persuasion (1818)
Mansfield Park (1814)
Northanger Abbey (1817)
Lady Susan (1794)
Juvenilia – Volume II (1790)
Juvenilia – Volume I (1790)
Juvenilia – Volume III (1790)
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Part 1
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Chapter
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Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the
best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one
years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her
sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early
period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more
than 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 family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the
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 of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and
Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss
Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of
having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think
a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which
threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger,
however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by
any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of
any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was
Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the
wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in
mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and
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the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine
together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening.
Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual,
and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr.
Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune,
suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it
was a black morning's work for her. The want of Miss Taylor
would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past
kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how
she had taught and how she had played with her from five
years old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and
amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the various
illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing
here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal
footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed
Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a
dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all
its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every
pleasure, every scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak
every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for
her as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend
was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware
that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only
half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with
all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great
danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved
her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not
meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his
life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man
in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the
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friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents
could not have recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was
much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and
November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her
husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her
pleasant society again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting
to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and
shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no
equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All
looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place,
for her father was universally civil, but not one among them
who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a
day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh
over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,
and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every
body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating
change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was
always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to
his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her but
with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too;
and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never
able to suppose that other people could feel differently from
himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had
done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have
been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her
life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she
could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it
was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at
dinner,
"Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity
it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"
"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he
thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you would not have had
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Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours,
when she might have a house of her own?"
"A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house
of her own? This is three times as large.—And you have never
any odd humours, my dear."
"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming
to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must begin; we
must go and pay wedding visit very soon."
"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance.
I could not walk half so far."
"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in
the carriage, to be sure."
"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for
such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while
we are paying our visit?"
"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know
we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr.
Weston last night. And as for James, you may be very sure he
will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter's
being housemaid there. I only doubt whether he will ever take
us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. You got Hannah
that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned
her—James is so obliged to you!"
"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I
would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any
account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she
is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her.
Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do,
in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do
needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the
right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent
servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to
have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever
James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be
hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are."
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of
ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father
tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets
but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor
immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
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Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-andthirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family,
but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of
Isabella's husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a
frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more
welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after
some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that
all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr.
Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good;
and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children
were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.
Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr.
Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am
afraid you must have had a shocking walk."
"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild
that I must draw back from your great fire."
"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you
may not catch cold."
"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them."
"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of
rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we
were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding."
"By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well
aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been
in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off
tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?"
"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."
"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot
possibly say `poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you
and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence
or independence!—At any rate, it must be better to have only
one to please than two."
"Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in
your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my
father were not by."
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"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful
and troublesome."
"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I
meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me,
you know— in a joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we
like to one another."
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could
see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told
her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to
Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her
father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body.
"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I
meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to
have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The
chances are that she must be a gainer."
"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass—"you want to hear
about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all
behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in
their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.
Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile
apart, and were sure of meeting every day."
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But,
Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor,
and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for."
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and
smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a
companion," said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so
well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how
much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows
how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to
be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to
be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of
Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."
"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said
Emma, "and a very considerable one—that I made the match
myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to
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have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many
people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort
me for any thing."
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly
replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and
foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass.
Pray do not make any more matches."
"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the
world! And after such success, you know!—Every body said
that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr.
Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so
perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied
either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful— Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did
not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry
again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her
deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him.
All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I
believed none of it.
"Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor
and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began
to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up
my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour;
and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear
papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."
"I do not understand what you mean by `success,'" said Mr.
Knightley. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been
properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring
for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy
employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your
planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, `I think it
would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were
to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and
then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your
merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and
that is all that can be said."
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"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a
lucky guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend
upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always
some talent in it. And as to my poor word `success,' which you
quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any
claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think
there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and
the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and
given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little
matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think
you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that."
"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to
manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done
harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference."
"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,"
rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my
dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are 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 very
good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you
want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and
dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing. I dare
say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him."
"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr.
Knightley, laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will
be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help
him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to
chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-andtwenty can take care of himself."
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Chapter
2
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had
been rising into gentility and property. He had received a good
education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an
active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the
militia of his county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in
love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and
his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride
and importance, which the connexion would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to
the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from the marriage,
and it took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness. Mrs.
Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband
whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every
thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in
love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had
not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will
in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from
missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond
their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of
Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she
wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss
Churchill of Enscombe.
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Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the
Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was proved to
have much the worst of the bargain; for when his wife died,
after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than
at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the
child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother's,
been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young
creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole
charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some
scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of
the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and
his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the
militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just employment
enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of
his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation
and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years
of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence—enough to secure the purchase of a
little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed
for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss
Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own friendly
and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of
youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never
settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on,
with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had
made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and
was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He
had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured
him from that, even in his first marriage; but his second must
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shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof of its
being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite
gratitude than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was
his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought
up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as
to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It
was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his
father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The
aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that
any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and,
as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year
in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as
a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride
in him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the
place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common
concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a
lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment
was so little returned that he had never been there in his life.
His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take
place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either
when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when
Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for
Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope
strengthened when it was understood that he had written to
his new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning
visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of the
handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr.
Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he
says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life."
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of
course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and
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such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great
good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and
every expression of congratulation which her marriage had
already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and
she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might
well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled,
and who could ill bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not
think, without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more
equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and
had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would
bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy
distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no
hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week
together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude
to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction—her more than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment,
was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her
father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able
to pity `poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the
centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the
evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a
gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be
very glad to stay."
There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of
ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation
to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were
over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great
distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear
nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he
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regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at
all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent
any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr.
Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the
comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to,
he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against
the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—perhaps with most people, unless taken
moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own,
Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly
married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no
rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake
in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.
16
Chapter
3
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked
very much to have his friends come and see him; and 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 without
liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his
own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr.
Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able
of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three
ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often, that
Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the
horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been
a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a
very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.
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She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and
was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite.
Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity
for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss
Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who
might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted
either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as
far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman
whom no one named without good-will. It was her own
universal good-will and contented temper which worked such
wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body's
happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself
a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in
such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and
friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity
and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful
spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters,
which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long
sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous pay might be
screwed out of health and into vanity—but a real, honest, oldfashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where
girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming
back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute—and
very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly
healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the
children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great
deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with
18
her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young
couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and
now thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a teavisit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's
kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and
win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's
sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She
was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very
much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the
quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every
evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had
fearfully anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a
close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to
bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for Miss
Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by
sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her
beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's
school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition
of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but what
had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned
from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had
been at school there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of
a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short,
plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular
features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of
the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as
her person, and quite determined to continue the
acquaintance.
19
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss
Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so
far from pushing, shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to
Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of
every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to,
that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all
those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had
already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom
she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be
doing her harm. They were a family of the name of Martin,
whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm
of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very
creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought
highly of them—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and
very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little
more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She would
notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from
her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she
would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming
her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking
and listening, and forming all these schemes in the inbetweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate;
and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for
which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all
set out and ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she
was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse of a
spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing
every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a
mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken
and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she knew would
be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their
guests.
20
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in
sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had
been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see any thing
put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his
visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him
grieve that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that
he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though
he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably
clearing the nicer things, to say:
"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these
eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be
afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs will
not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little bit of
tart—a very little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be
afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine? A
small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it
could disagree with you."
Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in
a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had
particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss
Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the
prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly
gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually
shaken hands with her at last!
21
Chapter
4
Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing.
Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting,
encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their
acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other.
As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how
useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss
had been important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his
long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs.
Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined.
She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her
privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she
approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile,
grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for
good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant
and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though
strength of understanding must not be expected. Altogether
she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the
young friend she wanted—exactly the something which her
home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the
question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did
not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard
which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be
loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston
there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
22
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find
out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was
ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she
liked—but she could never believe that in the same situation
she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what
Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs
of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the
conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of
Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins
occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very
happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders
of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness—amused by
such a picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of
Mrs. Martin's having "two parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawingroom; and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-andtwenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of
them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little
Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so
fond of it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a
very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day
next year they were all to drink tea:—a very handsome
summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people."
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the
immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family
better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a wrong idea,
fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and son's wife,
who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr.
Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
something or other, was a single man; that there was no young
Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her
poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and
that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to
sink herself forever.
23
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more
of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet
was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal
upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had
gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in
every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's
son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She
was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had
a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been
bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters
were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and
there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any
body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever
he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she
wanted him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what
you are about."
"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind
as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose
Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a
Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss
Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her."
"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond
the line of his own business? He does not read?"
"Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has
read a good deal—but not what you would think any thing of.
He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that
lay in one of the window seats—but he reads all them to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he
would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very
entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield.
He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of
the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as
ever he can."
24
The next question was—
"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"
"Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very
plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not,
you know, after a time. But did you never see him? He is in
Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through
every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very
often."
"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but
without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether
on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise
my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of people
with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two
lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might
hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But a
farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one
sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below
it."
"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by
sight."
"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I
know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What
do you imagine his age to be?"
"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference—which is
very odd."
"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry
him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could
meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his
own, with a little money, it might be very desirable."
"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty
years old!"
"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry,
who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine,
has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand
with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his
father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I
25
dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and
though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it
is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing
yet."
"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They
have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and
Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year."
"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he
does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for
though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry
any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your
birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's
daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by
every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of
people who would take pleasure in degrading you."
"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am
not afraid of what any body can do."
"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet;
but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as
to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I
want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it
will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be;
and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country
when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by
your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife,
who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without
education."
"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever
marry any body but what had had some education—and been
very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my
opinion against your's—and I am sure I shall not wish for the
acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for
the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very
sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as
me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly
I had better not visit her, if I can help it."
26
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech,
and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had
been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold,
and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side,
to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking
on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at
her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they
talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and
he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in
Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she
had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration
as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know
what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which
Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.
"Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It
was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by
Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He
thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not
been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy
the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he
goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet!
Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do
you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?"
"He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but that
is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no
right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no
idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I
had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."
"To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so
genteel as real gentlemen."
27
"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have
been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in
Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of
well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after
seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again
without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature—and
rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all
agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not
you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice
which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here."
"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a
fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!"
"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair
to compare Mr. Martin with him. You might not see one in a
hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley.
But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to.
What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr.
Martin with either of them. Compare their manner of carrying
themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must
see the difference."
"Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty."
"Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The
older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that
their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes.
What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin
is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's
time of life?"
"There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly.
"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances,
and thinking of nothing but profit and loss."
"Will he, indeed? That will be very bad."
"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain
from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book
you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market
28
to think of any thing else—which is just as it should be, for a
thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no
doubt that he will thrive, and be a very rich man in time—and
his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us."
"I wonder he did not remember the book"—was all Harriet's
answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which
Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore,
said no more for some time. Her next beginning was,
"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to
Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness.
They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an
openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston,
which every body likes in him, because there is so much goodhumour with it—but that would not do to be copied. Neither
would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of
manner, though it suits him very well; his figure, and look, and
situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to
set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended
to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured,
cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown
particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any
design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer
than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to
please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other
day?"
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had
drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet
blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton
very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving
the young farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would
be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural,
and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it. She
feared it was what every body else must think of and predict. It
was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled
her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during
the very first evening of Harriet's coming to Hartfield. The
longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its
29
expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the
gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same
time, not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful
birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home for her, and
Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him as a
good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man,
without any deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of
the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a
beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings
at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on
Harriet's there could be little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy.
And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man
whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned
very handsome; his person much admired in general, though
not by her, there being a want of elegance of feature which she
could not dispense with:—but the girl who could be gratified by
a Robert Martin's riding about the country to get walnuts for
her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton's admiration.
30
Chapter
5
"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 certainly 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 for her to
associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair
judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you
do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man
can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I
can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on
the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it
will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will
read together. She means it, I know."
"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was
twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawingup at various times of books that she meant to read regularly
through—and very good lists they were—very well chosen, and
31
very neatly arranged—sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit,
that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have
made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting
any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor
failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will
do nothing.—You never could persuade her to read half so
much as you wished.—You know you could not."
"I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so
then;—but since we have parted, I can never remember
Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished."
"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as
that,"—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two
he had done. "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such
charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At
ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer
questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever
since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house
and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to
cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must
have been under subjection to her."
"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on
your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family
and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have
spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always
thought me unfit for the office I held."
"Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed here; very fit
for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at
Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education
as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving
a very good education from her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were
bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I
should certainly have named Miss Taylor."
32
"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good
wife to such a man as Mr. Weston."
"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown
away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be
nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may
grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may
plague him."
"I hope not that.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not
foretell vexation from that quarter."
"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to
Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my
heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a
Churchill in fortune.—But Harriet Smith—I have not half done
about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself,
and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma
imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is
presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I
will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance.
Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other
places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be
uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's
doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a
girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in
life.—They only give a little polish."
"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do,
or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot
lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!"
"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind,
would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being
pretty."
"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing
nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and
figure?"
"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have
seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers.
But I am a partial old friend."
33
"Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular
features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a
bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a
firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her
bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being `the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grownup health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?"
"I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I
think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add
this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering
how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied
with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to
be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its
doing them both harm."
"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of
its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults,
she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better
daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has
qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one
really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma
errs once, she is in the right a hundred times."
"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an
angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings
John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and
therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he
does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the
children. I am sure of having their opinions with me."
"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or
unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I
consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's mother might have had) the
liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise
from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much
discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little
inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her
father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an
end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has
been so many years my province to give advice, that you
34
cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of
office."
"Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is
very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to."
"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made
unhappy about her sister."
"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep
my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in
Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an
anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what
will become of her!"
"So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much."
"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course,
means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet
ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for
her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like
to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do
her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and
she goes so seldom from home."
"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her
resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and
while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be
forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend
matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the
state, I assure you."
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts
of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the
quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to
"What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?"
convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise
about Hartfield.
35
Chapter
6
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a
proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity
to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton's being a remarkably handsome
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 fairest 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 striking 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 attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature."
"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet
only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints.
She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little."
"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant
Mr. Elton—
"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character,
have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her
way before."
"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!"
36
"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a
disposition more truly amiable."
"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not
less pleased another day with the manner in which he
seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet's picture.
"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?" said she:
"did you ever sit for your picture?"
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt
to say, with a very interesting naivete,
"Oh! dear, no, never."
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would
be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her
likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say, but two or three
years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or another, I gave it up
in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would
sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture!"
"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a
delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so
charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what your
drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is not this
room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and
has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her
drawing-room, at Randalls?"
Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do
with taking likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't
pretend to be in raptures about mine. Keep your raptures for
Harriet's face. "Well, if you give me such kind encouragement,
Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. Harriet's features
are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet
there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines
about the mouth which one ought to catch."
"Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the
mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt
it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an
exquisite possession."
37
"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She
thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her
manner of answering me? How completely it meant, `why
should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me.
But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand many
minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others. Emma
wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of
them had ever been finished, that they might decide together
on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon,
and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always
wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in
drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and
drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been
wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and
ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as to
her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not
unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been much
less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They
were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases every body; and Miss
Woodhouse's performances must be capital.
"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma. "I had only
my own family to study from. There is my father—another of
my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so
nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither of them
very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and again, and again,
you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my kindest friend on every
occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!—and the face
not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she
38
would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me
draw her four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here
come all my attempts at three of those four children;—there
they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet
to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the
rest. She was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three or four years old
stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are
coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here
is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he
was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his
cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his
head most conveniently. That's very like. I am rather proud of
little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here is
my last,"—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small
size, whole-length—"my last and my best—my brother, Mr.
John Knightley.—This did not want much of being finished,
when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being provoked; for after all my
pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of
it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very
like)—only too handsome—too flattering—but that was a fault
on the right side—after all this, came poor dear Isabella's cold
approbation of—"Yes, it was a little like—but to be sure it did
not do him justice." We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would
finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness,
to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I
did then forswear ever drawing any body again. But for
Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my resolution now."
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the
idea, and was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at
present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and
wives," with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began
to consider whether she had not better leave them together at
39
once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must
wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to
be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's,
and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very
honourable station over the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and
afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented
a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes
of the artist. But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton
fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him
credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze
again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to
it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a
kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her
part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith's."
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma
drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little
in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the
pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be
charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love
and his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite
enough pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on.
There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the
attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to
the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more
elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a
pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with
credit to them both—a standing memorial of the beauty of one,
the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many
other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising attachment was likely to add.
40
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as
he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one
of the party."
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the
whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy.
Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,"—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—"The expression of
the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows
and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has them not."
"Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect
of shade, you know."
"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr.
Elton warmly added,
"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the proportions
must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as
Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"
"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse. "So prettily done!
Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any
body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with
only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one think
she must catch cold."
"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day
in summer. Look at the tree."
"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."
"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must
confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of
Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with such
41
inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much
less in character. The naivete of Miss Smith's manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes from
it. I never saw such a likeness."
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and
here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must
be done in London; the order must go through the hands of
some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; and
Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be applied
to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not
bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of
December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton,
than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.
"Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride 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
world,"—brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the
frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so
pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him,
while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded
enough.
"What a precious deposit!" said he with a tender sigh, as he
received it.
"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma.
"I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man, and
will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an `Exactly so,' as he says
himself; but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal. I come in
for a pretty good share as a second. But it is his gratitude on
Harriet's account."
42
Chapter
7
The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh
occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had
been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a
time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned,
and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have
happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought
it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs.
Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and
finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left
a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away;
and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the
two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. "Who could have thought
it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes,
quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least
she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very
much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as
she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—"
Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased
and so doubtful.
"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined
not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can."
"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather
you would."
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation.
There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the
43
sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It
was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,
while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a
"Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter?
or is it too short?"
"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather
slowly—"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered,
I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly
imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other
day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own
powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it
is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No
doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural
talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a
pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so
with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous,
decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected."
"Well," said the still waiting Harriet;—"well—and—and what
shall I do?"
"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this letter?"
"Yes."
"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of
course—and speedily."
"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise
me."
"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You
will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no
danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing.
Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and
such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are
inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted
to write with the appearance of sorrow for his
disappointment."
"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking
down.
44
"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean?
Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have
been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the purport of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me
only as to the wording of it."
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma
continued:
"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect."
"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What
would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell
me what I ought to do."
"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing
to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your
feelings."
"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet,
contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in
her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery
of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,
"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman
doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to `Yes,' she
ought to say `No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered
into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my
duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to
you. But do not imagine that I want to influence you."
"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if
you would just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not
mean that—As you say, one's mind ought to be quite made
up—One should not be hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It
will be safer to say `No,' perhaps.—Do you think I had better
say `No?'"
"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I
advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own
happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if
you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in
company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this moment under
such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do
45
not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?"
The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire;
and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited the result
with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with
some hesitation, Harriet said—
"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I
must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr.
Martin. Do you think I am right?"
"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing
just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept
my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give
myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your
marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree
wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could
not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I
am secure of you for ever."
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it
struck her forcibly.
"You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast.
"No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure
and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the
world."
"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose
you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself
out of all good society. I must have given you up."
"Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have
killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!"
"Dear affectionate creature!—You banished to Abbey-Mill
Farm!—You confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar
all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the
46
assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of
himself."
"I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very
good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and
have a great regard for—but that is quite a different thing
from—and you know, though he may like me, it does not follow
that I should—and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes to compare
them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all, one is
so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think
Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me—and his
writing such a letter—but as to leaving you, it is what I would
not do upon any consideration."
"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will
not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because
she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a
tolerable letter."
"Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too."
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a
"very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the
clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of
the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter."
"Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be
always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined
to refuse him. But how shall I do? What shall I say?"
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed
to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued
to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact
given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his
letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency,
that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few
decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at
the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what
his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious
that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed
if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he
would have been accepted after all.
47
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The
business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all
the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets,
and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection,
sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in
rather a sorrowful tone.
"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be
spared to Abbey-Mill."
"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but at Hartfield."
Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be
very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure
Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very
well married, and it is only a linen-draper."
"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in
the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would
envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even
this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any
thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The
attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittletattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only
people to whom his looks and manners have explained
themselves."
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr.
Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was
tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.
"Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what
they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy,
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 sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after
being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your
name, your own dear name."
"My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street."
48
"Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear
little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in
Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is
his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens
his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our
nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful,
how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all
are!"
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
49
Chapter
8
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she
had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and
Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to
keep her with them as much as possible just at present. She
was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs.
Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return
to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time
with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had
previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his
daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of
both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave
Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing
of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and
civil hesitations of the other.
"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you
will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall 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 I can. I
treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We invalids think
we are privileged people."
"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me."
"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be
happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns—my winter walk."
"You cannot do better, sir."
"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious
to you; and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to
Donwell Abbey."
50
"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself;
and I think the sooner you go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you."
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of
being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever
heard before.
"I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a
pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her
disposition. Her character depends upon those...
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