A new event stirs Highbury. Mr. Elton brings home his bride. She is
first seen in her pew at church, and is ecstatically admired.
Emma withholds her judgment, even beyond the opportunity given by her
first call at the vicarage, when she takes Harriet Smith with her. Emma
will not pronounce an opinion yet, beyond the very modified admission
that Mrs. Elton is “elegantly dressed,” while the meekly magnanimous
little goose, Harriet, finds the bride “beautiful, very beautiful,”
and adds, with a sigh, “Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta;’ how
delightful!”
On farther acquaintance, Emma discovers, with a certain severe
satisfaction, that Mr. Elton, as she has learnt to know him, is fitly
mated.
Mrs. Elton is one of Jane Austen’s most cleverly and sharply-drawn
characters. The pretentious, underbred woman, “pert and familiar,”
without the faintest sense of her own deficiencies--on the contrary,
with an overflowing self-satisfaction and self-conceit patronising
everybody and everything--is hit to the life. We have all heard similar
boasting to that of Mrs. Elton on the subject of her rich Bristol
brother-in-law’s house, “Maple Grove.” We have listened to like-minded
proposals “to explore” with the Sucklings, when they bring over their
barouche-landau, our own accessible, familiar neighbourhood, every
step of which is intimately known to us. We have been recommended
to watering-places, and offered introductions by those whom we were
tempted to regard as little called upon or qualified to give us
advice and assistance. We have been treated to the modern “doubles”
of all Mrs. Elton’s bridal airs and affectations; that sporting of
the newly-acquired importance of the matron; that literal quoting,
in the worst taste, of Mr. E. and the “_cara sposa_;” that free and
easy manner of naming our own familiar friends by their surnames,[56]
as if the men were the new comer’s special cronies; that vulgar
superciliousness with regard to the supposed disadvantages and
consequent inferiority of other people whom we have every reason to
esteem and cherish. Have we not been in danger of crying out with
Emma, “Insufferable woman! worse than I had supposed. Absolutely
insupportable! Knightley! I could not have believed it. Knightley!
Never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley! and discover
that he is a gentleman! A little, upstart, vulgar being, with her
Mr. E. and her _cara sposa_, and her resources, and all her airs of
pert pretension and underbred finery,[57] actually to discover that
Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the
compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed
it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club!
One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston! Astonished that
the person who brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse!
I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes! Harriet is disgraced
by any comparison.”
Mr. Elton, fortunately or unfortunately, is more than satisfied with
his choice. It is fortunate for his matrimonial felicity; it is
unfortunate where the man’s mind and heart are concerned. It proves him
hardly capable of appreciating any higher qualities than those with
which his wife is endowed; and under her influence he is certain to
deteriorate.
Mrs. Elton soon shows her resentment at Emma’s coldness. Her pique
causes the vicar’s wife to behave to Harriet Smith with a sneering
negligence, which convinces Emma that Harriet’s attachment, and her own
share in it, have been “an offering to conjugal unreserve” which does
little credit to Mr. Elton’s generosity and honour.
With the ready propensity to rivalry of a small, vain, and vindictive
nature, Mrs. Elton puts herself, as she judges, at the head of an
opposite faction. She conceives a violent fancy for Jane Fairfax, whom
she oppresses with condescending notice and attention, accepted in
grateful good faith by Jane’s relations, and by Jane herself, because
no better friendship, as Mr. Knightley takes care to remind Emma,
offers itself to the lonely girl.
One good thing comes to Emma as the result of her conversation with
Mr. Knightley on the incongruity of Jane Fairfax’s intimacy at the
vicarage. Emma has the courage to hint to Mr. Knightley that the extent
of his admiration for Jane Fairfax may take him by surprise some day.
“Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or
some other cause, brought the colour into his face as he answered--
“‘Oh! are you there? But you are miserably behind-hand. Mr. Cole gave
me a hint of it six weeks ago.’
“He stopped, Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think. In a moment he went on--
“‘That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I
daresay, would not have me if I were to ask her, and I am sure I shall
never ask her.’
“Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest, and was pleased
enough to exclaim, ‘You are not vain, Mr. Knightley; I will say that
for you.’
“He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful, and, in a manner
which showed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, ‘So you have been
settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?’
“‘No, indeed, I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making
for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. Oh! no; upon my word
I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax, or Jane
anybody. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way
if you were married.’
“Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie
was--‘No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will
ever take me by surprise. I never had a thought of her in that way,
I assure you.’ And soon afterwards, ‘Jane Fairfax is a very charming
young woman; but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She
has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.’
“Emma could not but rejoice to hear she had a fault.
“‘Well, Mrs. Weston,’ said Emma triumphantly, when he left them, ‘what
do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?’
“‘Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of not being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were
to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.’”
At a dinner-party given by the Woodhouses, to which John Knightley has
come down by accident, Jane Fairfax is present by special invitation,
her hostess being a little conscience-stricken for her sins of omission
in that quarter.
John Knightley looks at Mrs. Elton in her lace and pearls, taking notes
for Isabella’s edification; but he consents to talk to a quiet girl and
old acquaintance like Jane Fairfax. In their conversation, it comes out
that she goes every morning before breakfast to the post-office[58] to
fetch the letters. It is her daily errand when at Highbury.
She provokes the remark from her companion that the post-office has
a great charm at one period of people’s lives. When Miss Fairfax has
lived to Mr. John Knightley’s age, she will begin to think letters are
never worth going through such a shower of rain as he has seen her out
in that morning, to obtain them.
He makes her blush. What is worse than his blunt, friendly
remonstrance, he attracts the attention of the rest of the company
to the subject. Mr. Woodhouse strikes in with his plaintive protest
against anybody, a young lady especially, exposing herself to wet. Mrs.
Elton rushes to the rescue with her loud, authoritative reproach: “My
dear Jane, what is this I hear? Going to the post-office in the rain!
You sad girl; how could you do such a thing?” Mrs. Weston is appealed
to, and she adds her quiet, sensible prohibition against young people’s
running any risk.
“Oh!” cries Mrs. Elton, “she _shall not_ do such a thing again. The man
who fetches our letters shall inquire for yours too, and bring them to
you.”
Jane, thus baited, stands mildly but firmly at bay. Mrs. Elton is
extremely kind, but Jane cannot give up her early walk.[59] She is
advised to be out of doors. The post-office is an object.
Mrs. Elton, who has neither good breeding nor tact, will not be put
down.
“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined--that is”
(laughing affectedly) “as far as I can presume to determine anything
without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,
you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves.”
Still Jane looks unconquered.
The conversation wanders to handwriting. John Knightley refers to the
statement that the same sort of writing often prevails in a family, and
observes that Isabella and Emma write very much alike.
“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what
you mean--but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”
“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said poor Mr. Woodhouse,
“and always did, and so does Mrs. Weston,” with half a sigh and half a
smile at her.
Dinner is on the table. Mrs. Elton, before she can be spoken to, is
ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse has reached her, with his request to be
allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, is saying--
“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way!”
Jane’s solicitude about fetching her letters has not escaped Emma, who
ascribes it to an unworthy source; and if the young hostess had not
been in her own house, therefore on honour to Jane, Emma might have
been wicked enough to make some remark on the expedition or the expense
of Irish mails.
Frank Churchill returns on the earliest opportunity, and the ball
at the Crown is to take place. A council of ladies and gentlemen is
first summoned to pronounce on the rooms. Emma thinks the preliminary
gathering absurdly large. It is no great compliment to be the
confidential adviser of Mr. Weston when he takes everybody into his
confidence.
Frank Churchill is almost as bad, restlessly rushing to the door to
receive every new arrival, and providing umbrellas, under which Miss
Bates and her niece may cross the street.
The Eltons, too, are there, Mrs. Elton eager to put in her word,
and demonstrative as usual to Jane Fairfax. Emma wonders what Frank
Churchill will think of the bride’s manners. She is not long left in
doubt.
“How do you like Mrs. Elton?” Emma asks him in a whisper.
“Not at all.”
“You are ungrateful,” said Emma, thinking of a flattering account she
has heard the lady give his father of what she had been told of Frank.
“Ungrateful! What do you mean?” he cries quickly; then, changing from a
frown to a smile, “No, do not tell me. I do not want to know what you
mean. Where is my father?”
Emma can hardly understand Frank Churchill; he seems in an odd humour,
but she makes no objection when he claims her for his partner, though
she has to submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, who opens the ball
with Mr. Weston; yet Emma has always considered it her ball. It is
almost enough to make her think of marrying. Still Emma is able to
enjoy the dance, and be satisfied that Frank Churchill dances as well
as she had thought; though it is indubitable to her, and to her honour,
the conviction rather affords her relief than wounds her vanity, that
Frank Churchill thinks less of her than formerly. There is nothing like
flirtation between them; they seem more like easy, cheerful friends
than lovers.
What troubles Emma more than Frank Churchill’s early secession as a
lover is Mr. Knightley’s not dancing. There he is, among the standers
by, where he ought not to be. He ought to be dancing, not classing
himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who are
pretending to feel an interest in the dance, till their rubbers are
made up--so young as he looks, his tall, upright figure among the bulky
forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men.
He moves a few steps forward, and these few steps forward are enough to
prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace he must
have danced would he but take the trouble.
Indeed, Emma has always entertained the highest opinion of George
Knightley’s air and looks. She has told Harriet Smith, in trying to
teach her simply what a well-bred man is like, that Mr. Knightley must
be put out of count, he is so very superior to other people. Emma has
never seen a man on whose whole person and address “gentleman” is more
legibly written--and here Emma is right.
The ball rewards the anxious cares and incessant attentions of
Mrs. Weston by going off happily, as old balls in county halls and
ball-rooms of market-town inns had a knack of doing. People had
fewer pleasures then, and were more easily entertained. They have
left a pleasant flavour behind them--these early, social, eminently
respectable country balls, when whitewashed walls were considered
picturesquely hidden by a few common evergreens, and the mere sight of
primitively chalked floors set young hearts dancing before the feet
executed their “steps.”
One incident impresses Emma. Harriet Smith is sitting down--the
only young lady without a partner. Mr. Elton is strolling about
ostentatiously in her vicinity. Mrs. Weston, as in duty bound, tries
to get him to dance. He professes his willingness, though getting an
old married man, to become her partner. She points out to him a more
fitting partner--the young lady who has sat down--Miss Smith. “Miss
Smith! Oh, Miss Smith he has not observed. Mrs. Weston is extremely
obliging, but his dancing days are over;” and a meaning smile passes
between him and his wife.
This is the amiable, obliging Mr. Elton of other days! Emma can
scarcely conceal her indignation, until she sees Mr. Knightley, whom
Mr. Elton has joined, come forward and lead Harriet to the set. Never
has Emma been more surprised, seldom more delighted. His dancing is
as good as she anticipated, and she would have been tempted to think
Harriet too lucky had it not been for what went before.
Emma expresses her gratification to Mr. Knightley later in the evening,
and he increases it by telling her he has found Harriet Smith more
conversable than he expected. She has some first-rate qualities which
Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl is infinitely to be preferred, by any man of sense and taste, to
such a woman as Mrs. Elton.
They are interrupted by Mr. Weston calling on everybody to begin
dancing again. “Come, Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what
are you all doing? Come, Emma, set your companions the example.
Everybody is lazy! everybody is asleep!”
“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asks Mr. Knightley.
She hesitates a moment, and then replies, “With you, if you will ask
me.”
“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.
“Indeed I will. You have shown that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
“Brother and sister!--no, indeed.”
As ill luck will have it, the very next day Frank Churchill rescues
Harriet Smith from the rudeness of a party of tramps and gipsies, and
brings her on his arm to the nearest house (Hartfield); when, acting
according to the instincts of such amiable but helpless heroines,
Harriet immediately faints away.
Such a romantic adventure is not lost on Emma. It stimulates immensely
her idle dream of how handsome a young couple Frank Churchill and
Harriet would make, and how desirable it would be to bring them
together.
Emma is not deterred from this last mischievous crochet, by a special
revelation of Harriet’s former foolish sentiments, which the girl
considers herself called on to make. Mr. Elton has behaved so very
badly to Harriet, that meek as the girl is, she can admire him at
a humble distance no longer. She brings solemnly to Emma a little
Tunbridge box, full of treasures which have become valueless, and which
Harriet wishes Miss Woodhouse should see her destroy. There is a bit
of court-plaister, left over from a piece with which Emma had made
Harriet supply Mr. Elton, when he had happened to cut his hand in their
service. There is also a stump of a pencil, which he flung aside after
he had used up the lead in writing a recipe for spruce-beer, at Mr.
Knightley’s dictation.
Emma is lost between wonder and shame. Harriet’s _auto da fé_ has a
double motive. She can no longer reverence Mr. Elton, and she can
reverence another man, for whose sake she vaguely protests she is
determined to remain single, since it would be utter presumption in her
to think he could ever seek her out.
Emma gathers as much as this from her companion, and hesitates, with
just a grain of dawning prudence, whether she ought to speak, or let
Harriet’s heroic resolution pass in silence.
But Harriet may think it unkind; besides, just a little encouragement,
judiciously administered, may not be amiss to check further confidences
on Harriet’s part. She is to be shown that her “dear Miss Woodhouse”
does not disapprove of her aspirations, and at the same time made to
comprehend that the old, improper, undesirable discussion of hopes
and chances is not to be renewed. Therefore, without mentioning Frank
Churchill’s name, Emma tells Harriet that her feelings are natural
and honourable to her, and at the same time bestows on her some
excellent significant advice about not giving way to her feelings; on
the contrary, she must let the gentleman’s behaviour be the guide to
her sentiments as well as to her conduct. But Emma rather undoes her
teaching by volunteering an additional “He is your superior, no doubt,
and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature;
but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place; there have
been matches of greater disparity.”
At the end of the little lecture Harriet is at once grateful and
submissive.
In the course of the summer, when, from Mr. and Mrs. Churchill’s
staying so near as Richmond, Frank Churchill can come often to
Randalls, Mr. Knightley, who has taken an early dislike to the popular
young man, learns to dislike him still more. He, Mr. Knightley, begins
to suspect double dealing on Frank Churchill’s part, double dealing
which has to do with Emma Woodhouse and Jane Fairfax. It seems plain
that Emma is his object. His own attentions coincide with his father’s
hints, and his step-mother’s guarded silence. But while all their world
is giving Frank Churchill to Emma, and Emma herself is secretly giving
him to Harriet, Mr. Knightley learns to suspect him of an inclination
to trifle with Jane Fairfax.
Mr. Knightley cannot read the riddle; but he is convinced that he
perceives symptoms of intelligence between Frank Churchill and Jane
Fairfax. There are not only betrayals of admiration for Jane--out of
place in Emma’s lover; but Mr. Knightley is persuaded, in spite of his
belief in Jane Fairfax’s discretion, that there is a liking, even a
private understanding, between the two visitors to Highbury.
A large party, including Mrs. Weston and Frank Churchill, Miss Bates
and Jane Fairfax, and Mr. Knightley, have met by chance at Hartfield.
Mr. Perry passes by on horseback.
“By-the-bye,” said Frank Churchill to his step-mother, “what became of
Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. Weston answers she never heard of it.
He maintains she wrote him word of it three months before.
She declares it is impossible.
He insists that he remembers it perfectly. Mrs. Perry had told
somebody, and was very happy about it. It had been her proposal, as she
thought being out in bad weather did him harm.
Mrs. Weston cannot remember.
Then it must have been a dream, Frank Churchill turns round and
suggests.
His father, who has not heard all the conversation, inquires if Perry
is really going to set up a carriage. Mr. Weston is glad Perry can
afford it. Did Frank have it from himself?
No, Frank replies, laughing, he seems to have had it from nobody. Of
course, it must have been a dream. He dreams of everybody at Highbury,
and when he has gone through his particular friends, then he begins
dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.
His father comments on the odd coherence and probability of the dream,
just what was likely to happen.
At last Miss Bates gets in her word. It is very singular--she does
not mean that Mr. Frank Churchill may not have had such a dream, but
there actually had been such a proposal. Mrs. Perry had come to Miss
Bates one morning in great spirits, believing that she had prevailed
in persuading her husband to have a carriage. It had been spoken of in
confidence, but the Coles had known of it. It was an extraordinary
dream.
Mr. Knightley, who has been listening to the whole discussion,
thinks he discerns confusion, suppressed and laughed away, in Frank
Churchill’s face. Mr. Knightley tries to see the expression of Jane
Fairfax’s, but in vain; at the same time he becomes aware that Frank
Churchill is striving still more intently to catch her eye, with equal
want of success.
During the evening Frank Churchill looks on a side-table for the little
Knightleys’ alphabets. It is a dull-looking evening, he says, fit for
winter amusements; and he wishes to puzzle Emma as he did once before.
When the box with the letters is brought, Frank and Emma begin quickly
forming words. He pushes one before Jane Fairfax. She glances round the
table and applies herself to it, discovers the word, and with a faint
smile pushes away the letters. They are not mixed with the others, and
Harriet Smith, who tries every heap without making anything of it,
draws this one towards her and begins to puzzle over it.
Mr. Knightley is sitting next to Harriet, and she turns to him for
help. Soon she proclaims with exultation, _blunder_. Jane Fairfax
blushes.
Mr. Knightley connects the word and the blush with the dream. Yet how
the delicacy of his favourite must have gone to sleep! He is grieved
and angry. He suspects the game is being made a mere vehicle for trick
and gallantry in Frank Churchill’s hands.
Indignant and alarmed, Mr. Knightley continues to watch Frank
Churchill. He prepares a short word for Emma, which she soon makes out.
The two laugh over it, though she cries, “Nonsense, for shame!”
Mr. Knightley hears Frank Churchill say, with a glance towards Jane, “I
will give it to her, shall I?”
Emma opposes the proceeding with laughing urgency. It is done, however.
Mr. Knightley’s keen curiosity assists him. He deciphers “_Dixon_,”
though he has not Jane Fairfax’s key to the insinuation.
She is evidently displeased; looks up, and seeing herself watched,
blushes deeply. She says, “I did not know that proper names were
allowed,” and pushes away the letters with even an angry spirit. She
turns to her aunt as a signal that it is time to leave.
Mr. Knightley thinks he sees another collection of letters anxiously
pushed towards her, and swept away by her unexamined. She is looking
for her shawl afterwards, and Frank Churchill is searching also for it.
It is growing dusk, the room is in confusion, and Mr. Knightley cannot
tell how they part.
Mr. Knightley remains behind the others, to give Emma a warning. He
asks her what is the peculiar sting of the last word given to her and
Miss Fairfax? Why is it entertaining to the one, and distressing to the
other?
Emma looks disconcerted. It is only a joke among themselves, she says.
The joke, he observes, gravely, seems confined to her and Mr. Churchill.
Mr. Knightley has not done. He tries, though disappointed by her
silence, and painfully impressed with the conviction of her attachment
to young Churchill, to furnish her with another hint. Is she perfectly
acquainted with the degree of intimacy between the gentleman and lady
they have been speaking of?
Perfectly, Emma tells him, with conviction.
Has she never received any reason to think he admired her, or she
admired him.
Never, for the twentieth part of a moment. How could such an idea come
into his head?
He has imagined he has seen something of attachment--looks which he did
not believe were meant for the public.
Emma is very much amused. She rallies him on the flights of his
fancy, which she would be sorry to check. There is no admiration.
The appearances he has noticed proceed from peculiar circumstances
she cannot explain. There is a good deal of nonsense in it all, but
no two people can be farther from admiration or attachment--at
least, she presumes it is so with Jane Fairfax. As to the gentleman’s
indifference, Emma can answer for it. She is in gay spirits, which Mr.
Knightley, in quitting her, does not at all share.