A cold, stormy rain sets in, stripping the July trees and shrubs. Mr.
Woodhouse, whose spirits are easily affected by the weather, is more
than usually dependent on cheering, at the very time that visitors
fail. Emma, struggling to do a loving daughter’s part, cannot prevent
herself from foreseeing how much more deserted Hartfield must soon
prove. Mrs. Weston’s baby will engross her, and supersede even Emma in
her friend’s affections. Both Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax will be
gone from Highbury; and--far worst change of all, Mr. Knightley will
be no longer walking in at all hours, when he has Harriet to keep him
company at Donwell. And if he can be content with Harriet, only one
reflection can increase Emma’s wretchedness--that it has been all her
own work.
The rainy clouds clear away the following afternoon, and Emma seizes
the opportunity of Mr. Perry’s calling and sitting with her father, to
stroll out into the shrubbery--where the first thing she sees is Mr.
Knightley passing the garden gate and coming towards her. She had not
heard of his return from London, but she must be collected and calm.
(Emma is a girl who possesses much self-respect and womanly dignity.)
Mr. Knightley, on his side, does not look cheerful; but he is perfectly
capable of conversing quietly, as he turns and walks with her.
Emma fancies that he wishes to talk to her of Harriet, and shrinks from
leading the way in the conversation, but braces herself to follow when
he takes the initiative. It is only his recurring fits of silence she
cannot bear.
She considers; tries to smile, and refers to some news for him to hear,
which ought to surprise him.
If she means Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, he has heard that
already, he tells her shortly.
Emma is relieved, but as she reminds him that he had once tried to give
her a caution, and she wishes she had attended to it, her voice sinks
and she sighs, adding, “I seem doomed to blindness.”
She suddenly finds her arm drawn within his and pressed, and hears him
fairly faltering, “Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound--the
feelings of the warmest friendship--indignation--abominable scoundrel!”
Emma[63] must undeceive him instantly.
“You are very kind, but you are mistaken. I am not in want of that sort
of compassion. I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things
which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures; but I have no
other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”
“Emma,” he cries eagerly, “are you indeed----” but checking himself,
“No, no. I understand you: forgive me. I am pleased that you can even
say so much. He is no object of regret. I could only be certain there
was a preference. He is a disgrace to the name of man, and is he to be
rewarded with that sweet young woman?”
Emma has to renew her protestations, striving for the old liveliness to
carry off her sense of awkwardness.
“I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in
your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression,
I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have
been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be
natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I
never have.”
Her companion says nothing, and Emma, to convince him, recapitulates
earnestly the true particulars of the case--Frank’s being the son of
Mr. Weston, his having been continually at Hartfield; the fact that his
attentions flattered her, even after she had come to look on them as a
habit, a trick, nothing that had called for seriousness on her part.
He had imposed on her, still he had not taken her in, in the serious
meaning of the words.
Mr. Knightley grows cooler, and admits he may have underrated Frank
Churchill. With such a woman he has a chance. He is a fortunate man,
at three-and-twenty to have drawn a prize. Everything turns out well
for him. “He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her
affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment; and had he
and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him,
they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His
aunt dies. He has only to speak; his friends are eager to promote his
happiness. He has used everybody ill, and they are all delighted to
forgive him.”
“You speak as if you envied him,” exclaims Emma.
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”
Emma can say no more; they seem within half a sentence of Harriet.
Emma wishes to change the subject, and speaks of the children in
Brunswick Square.
But he is too fast for her. “You will not ask me what is the point of
envy. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it
unsaid the next moment.”
“Oh, then don’t speak of it; don’t speak of it,” she cries impulsively;
“take a little time; consider; don’t commit yourself.”
“Thank you!” he said, in a tone of deep mortification.
Emma cannot bear to give him pain. He is wishing, perhaps, to consult
her. She may help him; give just praise to Harriet, represent to him
his independence.
Emma refuses to go in, and as they take another turn, says hurriedly,
“I stopped you ungraciously just now, Mr. Knightley; but if you have
any wish to speak to me openly, as a friend, you may command me. I will
hear whatever you like, I will tell you exactly what I think.”
“As a friend,” repeats Mr. Knightley. No, he has no wish. But why
should he hesitate when he has gone too far for concealment? He accepts
her offer as a friend. Will she tell him if he has any chance of ever
succeeding? He stops to look the question, and the expression of his
eyes overpowers her.
“My dearest Emma, for dearest you will always be to me, whatever the
event of this hour’s conversation, tell me at once; say ‘no’ if it is
to be said.”
She can really say nothing.
“‘You are silent,’ he cries, with great animation, ‘absolutely silent!
at present I ask no more.’
“Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The
dread of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most
prominent feeling.
“‘I cannot make speeches, Emma,’ he soon resumed, and in a tone of such
sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.
‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you
know what I am; you hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed
you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in
England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now,
dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps,
may have as little to recommend them. God knows I have been a very
indifferent lover. But you understand me. Yes, you see--you understand
my feelings, and will return them if you can. At present I ask only to
hear, once to hear your voice.’”
Emma’s mind is busy. Harriet’s hopes have been groundless--a delusion
as complete as any of her own--and Emma rejoices that Harriet’s secret
has not escaped her. “It was all the service she could now render her
poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might
have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself
to Harriet, as infinitely the more worthy of the two--or even the more
simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever,
without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both,
Emma had it not.” “She spoke then on being entreated. What did she say?
Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to
show there need not be despair, and to invite him to say more himself.”
“Mr. Knightley had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own
influence. He had come to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement
with no selfish view, the rest had been the work of a moment.
“_Her_ change was equal. This one half-hour had given to each the same
precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same
degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. On his side there had been
a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,
of Frank Churchill. He had been in love with Emma and jealous of
Frank Churchill from about the same period, one sentiment having
probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank
Churchill that had taken him from the country. The Box Hill party
had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing
again such permitted, encouraged attentions. He had gone to learn to
be indifferent, but he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much
domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a
form in it. Isabella was too much like Emma, differing only in those
striking inferiorities which always brought the other in brilliancy
before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.
He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day, till this very
morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. Then, with the
gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel,
having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma,
was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that
he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain, and had
walked up directly after dinner to see how this sweetest and best of
all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
“He had found her agitated and low. Frank Churchill was a villain.
He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
character was not desperate. She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of
Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of
fellow.” The concluding paragraph, in its mingled vivacity and satire,
is peculiarly Jane Austen’s.
Emma had left the house for a little respite from suffering. She
returns to it in an exquisite flutter of happiness. The reflections
of a sleepless night tranquillise Emma’s feelings. Her gravest
considerations are her father and Harriet, since Emma’s happiness by
no means absolves her, in her own opinion, in that of her author,
or in reality, from caring for others. She hardly knows yet what
Mr. Knightley will ask; but a very short parley with her own heart
produces the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father. She
even weeps at the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lives it
must be only an engagement, which, she flatters herself, might become
an additional comfort to him.
With regard to poor Harriet, Emma must still experience much bitter
self-reproach and many sorrowful regrets. The best that Emma can devise
for her friend, while still avoiding a meeting, and communicating what
she has to tell by letter, is to procure for Harriet an invitation to
visit Isabella. A few weeks spent in London will furnish some amusement.
Emma’s letter to Harriet, written the first thing before breakfast, is
so hard a task that Mr. Knightley, in walking over to breakfast, does
not come too soon. He has not left her long when a thick packet from
Mrs. Weston encloses Frank Churchill’s promised explanation.
It is a good letter--appealing not unsuccessfully to the candour and
indulgence of his reader. The writer dwells eloquently on all the
difficulties which beset his devoted attachment to Miss Fairfax, so
that if he had not persuaded her to stoop to a secret engagement, he
must have gone mad. He confesses ingenuously what had really been the
motive of his first visit to Highbury.
He admits that his attentions to Miss Woodhouse were partly for the
purpose of assisting in the concealment of his real object. But he
insists that, if he had not been convinced of her indifference, he
would not have acted as he did. They seemed to understand each other.
When he called to take leave of her, he had been on the verge of
confessing the truth. He believes she had some suspicion of it. He
remembers her telling him at the ball that he ought to be grateful to
Mrs. Elton. His heart was in Highbury, and his business was to get his
body there as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
Of the piano so much talked of, he need not say that it was ordered
entirely without the knowledge of Miss Fairfax, who would never have
allowed him to send it had any choice been given her. Afterwards he had
behaved shamefully. Does Mrs. Weston remember the morning at Donwell?
He was late. He met Miss Fairfax walking home by herself, and wanted
to walk with her; but she would not suffer it. He had thought her
over-cautious, even cold. He now saw she was perfectly right. “While
I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with
objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting
the next to a proposal which might have made every previous precaution
useless? Had we been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury,
the truth must have been suspected. I was mad enough, however, to
resent--I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on
Box Hill, when, provoked by such conduct on my side--such shameful,
insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it
would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure--she spoke
her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.”
Even then he was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in
time; but he went away, determined that she should make the first
advances.
In the meantime she closed with the offer of a situation as governess;
and wrote to him that, as she felt the engagement to be a source of
repentance and misery to each, she dissolved it.
The letter reached him on the very morning of his aunt’s death. He
answered it within the hour, but in the confusion which followed, his
answer, instead of being sent off with the many letters despatched
that day, was locked up in his writing-desk, while he trusted that he
had said enough, though in but a few lines, to satisfy her. He was
surprised at getting no answer till he received a parcel--his own
letters returned, with a note stating her surprise at not having heard
from him in reply to her last letter, and begging him to forward her
letters to Mrs. Smallridge’s, near Bristol.
He knew the name, the place, and instantly saw what she had been about.
What was to be done? One thing only. He must speak to his uncle;
without his sanction Frank could not hope to be listened to again. And
Mr. Churchill, softened by the late event, was earlier reconciled than
Frank could have ventured to expect.
Is Mrs. Weston disposed to pity Frank for having to plead his cause
with so much at stake? She must not pity him till he reached Highbury,
and saw how ill he had made _her_. He knew when to find her alone.
A great deal of very reasonable--very just--displeasure he had to
persuade away. But it was done; they were reconciled--dearer, much
dearer, than ever.
The letter makes its way to Emma’s heart. Frank had been wrong, but he
has suffered, and is very sorry; and he is so grateful to Mrs. Weston,
and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and Emma is so happy herself,
that there is no being severe. Could he have entered the room, she must
have shaken hands as heartily as ever.
Emma knows Mrs. Weston will like Mr. Knightley to see the letter; and
she herself is anxious that he should read it when he comes again.
He wishes to take it home with him; but when he has to look over it
then and there, he goes through it, supplying a running commentary of
caustic, humorous remarks: “Playing a dangerous game,” he observes
at one place; and when he comes to the piano, exclaims, “Ah! that
was the act of a very young man--too young to consider whether the
inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure.” “I
perfectly agree with you, sir,” Mr. Knightley echoes, “you did behave
very shamefully.” “What a letter the man writes!” protests the lover,
impatient on his own account.
“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him,” interposes
Emma.
“Well, there is feeling here,” admits Knightley. “He does seem to
have suffered in finding her ill. He has had great faults--faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves; but still, as
he is, beyond doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon,
it may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am
very ready to believe his character will be improved, and acquire from
hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle it wants.”
But Mr. Knightley has something else to talk of. “And it is in plain,
unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to
the woman he was in love with” that he introduces his subject, “how to
be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her
father.”
Emma’s answer is ready. She can never quit her father.
Mr. Knightley, unselfish in everything, feels this as strongly as
herself. But his mind has been at work all the morning to overcome the
obstacle. He had first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her
to Donwell; but Mr. Knightley’s knowledge of his future father-in-law’s
habits soon convinced him that this step was impossible. Mr. Woodhouse
taken from Hartfield! it ought not to be attempted. But Mr. Knightley’s
next plan “he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect
objectionable: it was, that he should be received at Hartfield! that
so long as her father’s happiness--in other words, his life--required
Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.”
The last solution of the difficulty has never occurred to Emma. “She
was sensible of all the affection it evinced. She felt that in quitting
Donwell he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours
and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house
of his own, there would be much--very much--to be borne with.[64] She
promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he
was fully convinced that no reflection could alter his wishes or his
opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long
and calm consideration. He had been walking away from William Larkins
the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.”
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am sure
William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you
ask mine.”
“She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
moreover, to think of it with the intention of finding it a very good
scheme.
“It is remarkable that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view
in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never
struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.”
Emma would be too happy but for poor Harriet. “In time, of course, Mr.
Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not
be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing
nothing to assist the cure; not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always
so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for everybody, would never
deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to
hope, even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than three
men in one year.”
Mrs. Weston’s friends are made happy by the birth of a daughter to her.
Emma and Mr. Knightley compare notes on Miss Weston’s education. He
declares he is losing his bitterness against spoiled children; they are
disagreeable in infancy, but correct themselves as they grow older.
Emma reminds him she had the advantage of his endeavours to qualify the
indulgence of other people. It would be the greatest humanity if he
would do as much for poor little Anna Weston, except fall in love with
her when she is thirteen.
“How often when you were a girl,” he tells her, “have you said to me
with one of your saucy looks, ‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so and
so; papa says I may,’ or ‘I have Miss Taylor’s leave;’ something which
you knew I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving
two bad feelings instead of one.”
“‘What an amiable creature I was! No wonder you should hold my speeches
in such affectionate remembrance.’
“‘Mr. Knightley, you always called me. Mr. Knightley, and from habit
it has not so very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want you to
call me something else, but I do not know what.’
“‘I remember once calling you George in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as
you made no objection, I never did it again.’
“‘And cannot you call me George now?’
“‘Impossible! I never can call you anything but Mr. Knightley. I will
not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton by
calling you Mr. K. But I will promise,’ she added presently, laughing
and blushing, ‘I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where: in the building in
which N. takes M. for better, for worse.’”
Harriet had answered Emma’s letter, breaking to her the true state
of affairs, much as might have been supposed, without reproaches, or
apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something
of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which
increased the desirableness of their being separate. It might be only
her own consciousness, but it seemed as if an angel only could have
been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
But an invitation from Isabella is procured, Harriet finds the excuse
of wishing to see a dentist, and Emma has the comfort of getting
Harriet conveyed in state, in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage, to Brunswick
Square, and established there for a fortnight.
John Knightley replies to his brother’s announcement of his intended
marriage, with brotherly congratulations, in which Emma declares
he writes like a sensible man. It is very plain he considers the
good fortune of the engagement as all on her side, but that he is
not without hope of her growing, in time, worthy of Mr. Knightley’s
affection.
Mr. Knightley remonstrates like a lover on this inference. He means no
such thing; he only means----
“Oh!” she cries, “if you fancy your brother does not do me justice,
only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion.
Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He
will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the
question--all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’
with him at once. His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go
no farther.”
The communication of the couple’s purpose is made in the gentlest
manner to Mr. Woodhouse. The information gives the poor gentleman
a considerable shock. He tries earnestly to dissuade Emma from her
intention. “She was reminded more than once of her having always said
she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better
for her to remain single, and told of poor Isabella and poor Miss
Taylor. But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately and
smiled, and said it must be so, and that he must not class her with
Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages, taking them from Hartfield,
had, indeed, made a melancholy change. But she was not going from
Hartfield. She was introducing no change in their numbers or their
comforts but for the better. Did not he love Mr. Knightley very much?
Would not he like to have him always on the spot?”
“Yes, that was all very true; Mr. Knightley could not be there too
often; he should be glad to see him every day; but they did see him
every day as it was. Why could not they go on as they had done?”
Mr. Woodhouse cannot soon be reconciled, but at least the matter is
broken to him.
Contrast the tender, protecting reverence of the gay and witty Emma
Woodhouse to her father’s weakness, with the flippant, bold, offensive
disrespect displayed by so many of the silly, ill-bred, unprincipled
heroines of modern novels to their despised and insulted fathers.
The proposed marriage has the warmest support from the rest of Emma’s
friends--above all, from Isabella and Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston, with
her baby on her knee, indulging in reflections on the perfection of the
match in every respect, “was one of the happiest women in the world. If
anything could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby
would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.”[65]
Mr. Weston walks into Highbury the morning after he has heard the good
news, to ascertain if “Jane” had any suspicion of it, and before night
it is all over the place. It is, generally speaking, a well-approved
match, though Mr. Elton can do no more than hope the young lady’s pride
will now be contented, and suppose she has always meant to “catch
Knightley;” and Mrs. Elton is forced to cry, “Rather he than I! Poor
Knightley!” There will be an end to their pleasant intercourse. No
more exploring parties to Donwell made for her. Shocking plan, living
together! She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been
obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter.
I must beg Mrs. Elton’s pardon for differing from her, in remarking how
far Jane Austen--with her hero and heroine--was above selfish insular
prejudices, in contemplating the humane, kindly arrangement which
did not fear to unite, in one household, kindred, old and young, of
different generations.
Harriet’s visit to London has been protracted to a month’s duration,
and Emma is rather anxiously anticipating her friend’s return in
company with John Knightley and his wife, when Mr. Knightley walks
in one morning, to tell her some news which he will not undertake to
define as either good or bad.
She cries, it is good, for she sees him trying not to smile.
“I am afraid,” he said, composing his features, “I am very much afraid,
my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.” He goes on
to observe there is one subject on which they differ--does she not
recollect it--Harriet Smith?
Emma’s cheeks flush, and she feels afraid for what is coming.
“You are prepared for the worst, I see, and very bad it is. Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin.”
Emma gives a violent start.
It is so, indeed. Mr. Knightley has had it from Robert Martin himself.
He left him not half an hour before.
Still Emma sits, the picture of amazement.
Mr. Knightley prepares to try to reconcile her to the fact.
She interrupts him. It is not that such a circumstance can now make
her unhappy; but she cannot believe it. He must only mean that Robert
Martin intends to propose to Harriet!
“I mean that he has done it, and been accepted.”
“Well!” exclaims Emma; and, oh! the significance of the
interjection!--she has to bend her face over her work-basket, to
conceal her expression of delight and entertainment, while she begs for
particulars.
“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days
ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting
to send to John. He delivered these papers to John at his chambers,
and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s.
They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party
was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John,--and Miss Smith. My
friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were
all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them next
day, which he did; and in the course of that visit, as I understand,
he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet, and certainly did
not speak in vain. She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as
he is deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me
this morning, immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings,
first on my affairs, and then on his own. That is all I can relate of
the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer
history when you see her. She will give you all the minute particulars,
which only woman’s language can make interesting. In our communications
we deal only in the great. However, I must say that Robert Martin’s
heart seemed for _him_ and to _me_ very overflowing; and that he did
mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their
box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and
little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one
time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”
Emma dares hardly speak, lest she should betray her unreasonable
happiness; but she ventures to say she has learnt to think Harriet is
doing extremely well; only the affair is so sudden, for she received
reason lately to believe Harriet Smith more determined against Mr.
Martin than ever.
“You ought to know your friend best,” replies Mr. Knightley; “but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be
very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”
Emma cannot help laughing. “Upon my word, I believe you know her quite
as well as I do.”
He says he has taken some pains, as Emma must have seen, both for her
sake and Robert Martin’s sake--he had reason to believe him as much
in love with Harriet as ever--to get better acquainted with Harriet;
and he has come to the satisfactory conclusion that she is an artless,
amiable girl, with “very good notions, very seriously good principles,
placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.”
No doubt, simple young Harriet Smiths, who are like wax in the hands
of their friends, have not died out in the land; but the great thing
for them, as for the wisest of their sex, is that they should possess
integrity, a high sense of duty, that “good and honest heart,” which
brings forth fruit a hundredfold. Having this greatest grace, they can
dispense even with the intellectual gifts which have been denied them.
Emma is very serious and humble in her thankfulness; “yet there was
no preventing a laugh sometimes. She must laugh at such a close--such
an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back--such a
heart--such a Harriet!”
“Now there would be a pleasure in her returning; everything would be a
pleasure; it would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.”
High among Emma’s pleasures is the consciousness that there will
soon be no farther need for concealment in any of her relations.
Her rejoicing at the prospect of a speedy escape from “disguise,
equivocation, mystery--so hateful to her in practice”--ought to be
written in letters of gold for an age of sorry romance, which is no
true romance, since its foundations are so often laid in deception and
double-dealing.
There is a charming conclusion to the second last chapter of “Emma,” in
which many of the actors in the story meet accidentally at Randalls.
There Emma first sees Frank Churchill after the explanations which have
occurred, and after the announcement of their respective marriages.
When a few moments of awkwardness have been surmounted, he thanks her
for her message of forgiveness; and after they have renewed their
friendly alliance on a more secure foundation, his spirits soon rise
to their old high level. “Was she not looking well?” he said, confident
of Emma’s sympathy, as he turned his eyes towards Jane; “better than
she used to do?”
He is soon ready to fix laughing eyes on his companion, as he mentions
the return of the Campbells, and names the name of Dixon.
Emma blushes, and forbids its being pronounced in her hearing.
“I can never think of it,” she cries, “without extreme shame.”
“The shame,” he answers, “is all mine--or ought to be”--a wise
reservation. Then he asks if it is possible she never had any
suspicion, and mentions how near he had once been to telling her
everything. He demands Emma’s pity for his being compelled to remain at
such a distance from Miss Fairfax, as not to have seen her once before
since their reconciliation. Then with a gay, “Oh, by-the-bye,” he hopes
Mr. Knightley is well, and returns her congratulations with interest.
“He is a man,” said Frank Churchill, “whom I cannot presume to praise.”
Emma is delighted, and wants him to go on in the same style.
No, he is off the next moment to his own concerns and his own Jane.
Did Emma ever see such a skin, such smoothness, such delicacy, a most
distinguishing complexion, just colour enough for beauty?
“‘I have always admired her complexion,’ replied Emma, archly; ‘but
do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
pale?--when we first began to talk of her--have you quite forgotten?’
“‘Oh, no. What an impudent dog I was; how could I dare----’
“But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not
help saying, ‘I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at
that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all. I am sure
you had. I am sure it was a consolation to you.’
“‘Oh, no, no, no! How can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the
most miserable wretch.’
“‘Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was
a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us
all in. Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the
truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.’
“He bowed.
“‘If not in our dispositions,’ she presently added, with a look of true
sensibility, ‘there is a likeness in our destiny--the destiny which
bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our
own.’
“‘True, true,’ he answered warmly. ‘No, not true on your side. You can
have no superior. But most true on mine. She is a complete angel. Look
at her! Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her
throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father. You will
be glad to hear’ (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) ‘that
my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new
set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will it
not be beautiful in her dark hair?’[66]
“‘Very beautiful indeed,’ replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly that he
gratefully burst out, ‘How delighted I am to see you again! and to see
you in such excellent looks! I would not have missed this meeting for
the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed
to come.’
“Mrs. Weston is talking of some little alarm she had felt about the
child, when she was within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry.
“Frank Churchill caught the name. ‘Perry!’ said he to Emma, and trying
as he spoke to catch Miss Fairfax’s eye, ‘My friend, Mr. Perry. What
are they saying about Mr. Perry? Has he been here this morning? and how
does he travel now? Has he set up his carriage?’
“Emma soon recollected and understood him; and while she joined in the
laugh, it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was really
hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
“‘Such an extraordinary dream of mine!’ he cried. ‘I can never think of
it without laughing. She hears us; she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see
it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her! Do
not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
which sent me the report, is passing under her eye; that the whole
blunder is spread before her; that she can attend to nothing else,
though pretending to listen to the others?’
“Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile
partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious,
low, yet steady voice--‘How you can bear such recollections is
astonishing to me! They will sometimes obtrude; but how can you _court_
them?’”
Jane Austen is not in favour of blindness in love. In the room of
doting adoration, she makes her men and women feel the nobler, more
rational, and infinitely more lasting love which sees all the faults of
the person beloved, yet loves on fondly and faithfully, doing love’s
best work in helping to remedy the imperfections. George Knightley
is capable--not merely of finding fault with Emma, but of sharply
reproving her, in his true and tender regard for her. Nay, we suspect
there is something which may find even less approval from some critics,
in Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Fairfax, at the summit of their happiness,
remaining still clear-sighted and impartial enough to perceive the weak
points, in characters so different as those of the two heroes, Darcy
and Frank Churchill, and to set themselves to remove the flaws, even as
the women themselves desire to be taught to recognise and amend their
own foibles.
What worthy, enduring, consecrated love it is which stands such
wholesome tests!
Neither is Miss Austen greatly on the side of love at first sight. She
is a little distrustful of first impressions, and rather prefers--as
the wiser and safer course--to give her girls to old and tried friends,
who have developed into faithful lovers.
It is Harriet’s turn to look a little foolish when she and Emma meet;
but having once owned that she had been presumptuous, silly, and
self-deceived, her pain and confusion seem to die away, and leave her
without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the
present and future--Emma’s unqualified congratulations removing every
fear on the score of Harriet’s friend. Harriet is most happy to give
every detail of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner next day.
The fact is, she had always liked Robert Martin, and his continuing to
love her has proved, under the circumstances, irresistible.
Emma becomes acquainted with Robert Martin, who is introduced at
Hartfield. She feels perfectly satisfied with regard to the future
respectability and happiness of her friend. At the same time
Harriet’s engagements with the Martins, which draw her more and
more from Hartfield, are not to be regretted. Jane Austen, with
her uncompromising good sense, adds--“The intimacy between her and
Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort of
good-will; and fortunately what ought to be, and must be, seemed
already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner.”
But Emma does not fail to attend Harriet to church, in the end of
that September, and see her hand bestowed on Robert Martin, with the
blessing pronounced by Mr. Elton; while Emma has not a thought to spare
for the identity of the officiating clergyman, beyond being engrossed
by the reflection that it will probably be the same man who will do a
like office for her and Mr. Knightley in the coming month of October.
Jane Fairfax has already quitted Highbury. She is restored to the
comforts and refinements of her beloved home with the Campbells. The
two Mr. Churchills--uncle and nephew--are also in town, and they are
only waiting for the expiration of their first three months’ mourning,
to celebrate the event which will remove Jane to preside over the
dignified establishment at Enscombe.
After all, Emma and Mr. Knightley owe to a comical accident the
power to go on with their share of the triple marriages at the time
appointed, without distressing Mr. Woodhouse too much, as Emma recoiled
from doing--though she perfectly believed the assurances of both the
Mr. Knightleys, that when the catastrophe was over, the distress would
soon be over too.
During the period of suspense, by an ill wind which blows
somebody good, Mrs. Weston’s poultry-house is robbed of all her
turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. “Other poultry yards in
the neighbourhood also suffered. Pilfering was _house-breaking_ to Mr.
Woodhouse’s fears. He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his
son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every
night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of
the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of
them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe. But Mr. John Knightley
must be in London again, by the end of the first week in November.”
The result is, that with a much more cheerful and voluntary consent
than she had ever ventured to hope for from her father, his daughter is
able to fix the marriage day.
“The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have
no taste for finery and parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars
detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby and very
inferior to her own. ‘Very little white satin; very few lace veils; a
most pitiful business! Selina would stare when she heard of it.’ But
in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,
the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the
ceremony were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.”
In some respects “Emma” stands first among Jane Austen’s novels. In
construction it is as nearly as possible perfect. The unparalleled art
which, from characters and incidents even simpler and more ordinary
than usual, builds up a tale which never for a moment loses its charm
and interest, which is made to “grow,” as in real life--the one
motive and the one action springing out of the other--the characters
developing and ripening in exact proportion, is carried to such a
height that critics have been justified in saying--and how rarely is
such an assertion warranted in fiction?--that there is not a single
chapter which could have been withdrawn without serious injury to the
skilfully interwoven threads of the story. For that matter, critics
might have gone a good deal further, and asserted that not a scene
or a conversation, hardly a paragraph, could have been abstracted or
shortened, without marring in a measure the succession of clearly
discriminating, exquisitely delicate touches by which the author has
done her work.
It is this artistic completeness which makes it so difficult--in
a sense so ungracious a task, to condense Jane Austen’s pages, or
tamper with them, however carefully and scrupulously. When one
thinks by contrast of the disgracefully slovenly--not to say weak
and foolish--performances which are often allowed to pass muster as
story-telling, it is with mortification and misery for many of the
professors of the “craft.”
Besides the incomparable finish which belongs to the author’s later
novels, we have a nearly unique power of reading nice varieties of
character in “Emma:” whether we turn to the plaintive, cautious Mr.
Woodhouse; to John Knightley in his trenchant speeches; to Miss Bates
in her pitter-patter of innocent gossip, to Emma in her rash blindness;
to Harriet in her sweet silliness; to Frank Churchill, in his boyish
enjoyment of stolen waters and bread eaten in secret, and the general
mystification of his friends and acquaintances, no less than in his
wilful, yet lovable and loyal passion for Jane Fairfax; to Mrs. Elton
in her vain airs and clamorous self-assertion; to Mr. Knightley in his
unpretending, kindly manliness.
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