_Characters._
_Miss Bates, Mrs Bates, Emma Woodhouse._
_N.B._—“After these came a second set, among the most come-at-able
of whom were Mrs and Miss Bates ... 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 everything but tea and
quadrille. 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 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
everybody, was interested in everybody’s happiness, quick-sighted to
everybody’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 everybody, and a mine of felicity
to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, full of
trivial communications and harmless gossip.... 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
herself was concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs Weston
(her former governess and best friend). The quiet gossipings of such
women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the
long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.”—_Emma_, Chap. III.
_Scene—Mrs Bates’ Parlour._
_Properties required:—One table L.C., with Jane Fairfax’s letter on
it under reticule; two chairs on either side of the table; another
table up R., with a cake upon it, and a knife to cut it; another
table up L.; in front of a cheerful fire, “a grandfather’s chair”
left of the table, with its back turned to the audience, in which Mrs
Bates is discovered sitting. In order to bring Mrs Bates on the stage
without being seen, a screen must be placed before the chair, and
when Mrs Bates is seated so as to be almost completely hidden from
the audience during the whole of the scene, Miss Bates must enter,
draw back the screen, and say in a loud voice to her mother._
_Miss Bates._ So kind of Mrs Cole to call upon us so early in the day,
and so interested in Jane’s letter. She was indeed, ma’am. How pleased
you will be to see dear Jane again. You must not think anything more
of her illness. There is nothing to be alarmed at in the least. She
says so herself in her letter; you remember, I read it to you—_Jane’s_
letter. (_Miss Woodhouse’s voice heard outside._)
_Emma_ (_outside_). Are Mrs and Miss Bates within this morning?
_Miss Bates._ Bless me, here is Miss Woodhouse. (_Runs to door._) Oh!
come up, Miss Woodhouse, pray come up. (_Runs to Mrs Bates._) Ma’am,
ma’am, Miss Woodhouse is so kind as to be calling on us. (_Runs to
door._) Oh, Miss Woodhouse, mind the step—so very treacherous. (_Enter
Emma, who curtseys first at the door, then to Mrs Bates._) And have you
walked? All the way? I trust your shoes are not wet or damp. (_Runs
back to Mrs Bates after offering chair R. of L.C. table, in which Emma
sits._) Miss Woodhouse has walked, ma’am, all the way—so kind. And
how is dear Mr Woodhouse? I trust he is well; my mother so enjoyed her
evening with him when we were all away at Mrs Weston’s, a great deal
of chat and backgammon. Tea was made downstairs—biscuits and baked
apples; and wine before she came away; amazing luck in some of her
throws. Are you seated comfortably? Pray is that chair quite?—yes?
Let me offer you some sweet-cake (_runs to table R. and cuts piece of
cake_). Mrs _Cole_ has just been here; just called in for ten minutes,
and was so good as to sit an hour with us. She is but just gone, and
_she_ took a piece of cake and was so kind as to say she liked it very
much; therefore I hope, Miss Woodhouse, you will do me the favour to
eat a piece, too. (_Emma takes a piece of cake and eats._)
_Miss Bates_ (_raising her voice and going to her mother_). Ma’am, Miss
Woodhouse has taken a piece of sweet-cake—(_to Emma_). Mrs Cole was so
kind as to sit some time with us, talking of my niece Jane; for as soon
as she came in, she began inquiring after her—Jane is so very great a
favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs Cole does not know how
to show her kindness enough, and I must say that Jane deserves it as
much as anybody can. And so she began inquiring after her directly,
saying—“I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is
not her time for writing.” And when I immediately said—“But indeed we
have, we had a letter this very morning,” I do not know that I ever saw
anybody more surprised. “Have you, upon your honour?” said she, “well,
that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.”
_Emma_ (_politely_). Have you heard from Miss Jane Fairfax so lately? I
am extremely happy: I hope she is well?
_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are so kind! (_hunting about for the
letter_). Dear! dear! where can the letter be? I had it but a moment
ago.
_Emma_ (_aside_). How provoking: I thought I had timed my visit so as
to escape a letter from Jane Fairfax.
_Miss Bates._ Ah! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but
I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it
was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost
sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs Cole, and, since
she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a
pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often
enough, so I knew it could not be far off; and here it is, only just
under my huswife. And since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she
says; but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise
for her writing so short a letter, only two pages, you see, hardly
two, and in general she fills the whole paper, and crosses half.
_Emma_ (_aside_). For that at least I am thankful.
_Miss Bates._ My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
She often says, when the letter is first opened, “Well, Hetty, now I
think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work,” and
then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself,
if she had nobody to do it for her, every word of it—I am sure she
would pore over it till she had made out every word. And indeed, though
my mother’s eyes are not good as they were, she can see amazingly well
still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing!
My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is
here, “I am sure, grandmamma, you must have had very strong eyes to see
as you do, and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my
eyes may last me as well.”
_Emma._ Miss Fairfax writes such an excellent hand—it is in itself
like fine embroidery.
_Miss Bates._ You are extremely kind, you who are such a judge, and
write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that
could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does
not hear; she is a little deaf, you know. I must tell her—(_speaking
loudly_)—Ma’am, do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say
about Jane’s handwriting?
_Mrs Bates._ _Eh?_
_Miss Bates._ Miss Woodhouse says Jane’s handwriting is like fine
embroidery.
_Mrs Bates._ _What, my dear?_
_Emma_ (_aside_). This is very trying.
_Miss Bates_ (_louder_). Miss Woodhouse is so very kind as to say that
Jane’s handwriting is like fine embroidery.
_Mrs Bates._ _Oh!_
_Miss Bates_ (_to Emma_). My mother’s deafness is very trifling, you
see, just nothing at all. By only raising my voice and saying anything,
two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to
my voice. But it is remarkable that she should always hear Jane better
than she does me; Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find
her grandmamma at all deafer than she was two years ago, which is
saying a great deal, at my mother’s time of life, and it really is full
two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without
seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs Cole, we shall hardly know
how to make enough of her now.
_Emma._ Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?
_Miss Bates._ Oh, yes! next week!
_Emma._ Indeed! that must be a very great pleasure.
_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Everybody
is so surprised; and everybody says the same obliging things. I am sure
she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury as they can be to
see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So
very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you
know. Oh! yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for,
in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next
Tuesday or Wednesday.
_Emma._ Yes, so I imagined—I was afraid there could be little chance
of my hearing anything of Miss Fairfax to-day.
_Miss Bates._ So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if
it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to
come here so soon. My mother is so delighted! for she is to be three
months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as
I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you
see, the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs Dixon (Colonel and Mrs
Campbell’s daughter, to whom Jane was companion before her marriage),
has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so
impatient to see them again; for till she married, last October, she
was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very
strange to be—in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but, however,
different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her
mother, or her father—I declare I do not know which it was, but we
shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in _Mr_ Dixon’s name as
well as her own, to press their coming over directly; and they would
give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country
seat, Baly-Craig—a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great
deal of its beauty—from Mr Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever
heard about it from anybody else,—but it was very natural, you know,
that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying
his addresses,—and as Jane used to be very often walking out with
them—for Colonel and Mrs Campbell were very particular about their
daughter’s not walking out often with _only_ Mr Dixon, for which I
do not at all blame them: of course she heard everything he might be
telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she
wrote us word that he had shown them some drawings of the place, views
that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I
believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland from his account of
things.
_Emma._ You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be
allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular
friendship between her and Mrs Dixon, you could hardly have expected
her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs Campbell.
_Miss Bates._ Very true, very true indeed. The very thing we have
always been rather afraid of; for we should not like to have her at
such a distance from us, for months together, not able to come if
anything was to happen; but you see everything turns out for the
best. They want her (Mr and Mrs Dixon) excessively to come over with
Colonel and Mrs Campbell, quite depend upon it; nothing can be more
kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will
hear presently. Mr Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any
attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he
rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the
water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other
among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and
actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence
of mind, caught hold of her habit,—I can never think of it without
trembling!—but ever since we had the history of that day, I have been
so fond of Mr Dixon.
_Emma._ But, in spite of all her friends’ urgencies and her own wish
to see Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs
Bates.
_Miss Bates._ Yes, entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and
Colonel and Mrs Campbell think she does quite right—just what they
should recommend; and, indeed, they particularly _wish_ her to try her
native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.
_Emma._ I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely, but
Mrs Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs Dixon, I understand, is
very charming, but has no remarkable degree of personal beauty,—is not
by any means to be compared to Miss Fairfax.
_Miss Bates._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how very kind! how very obliging!
I must tell my mother (_turning towards Mrs Bates, who is asleep_).
Ma’am, did you hear Miss Woodhouse’s amiable compliments (_turning to
Emma_). Ah! she is asleep; never mind, I will tell her when you are
gone—Oh! no—Certainly not—there is no comparison between them—Miss
Campbell always was absolutely plain, but extremely elegant and amiable.
_Emma._ Yes, that of course.
_Miss Bates._ Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the
7th of November (as I am going to read to you), and has never been well
since. A long time, is it not, for a cold to hang upon her? She never
mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her!
So considerate! But, however, she is so far from well that her kind
friends the Campbells think that she had better come home and try an
air that always agrees with her, and they have no doubt that three or
four months at Highbury will entirely cure her; and it is certainly a
great deal better that she should come here than go to Ireland if she
is unwell. Nobody could nurse her as we should do.
_Emma._ It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.
_Miss Bates._ And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and
the Campbells leave town on their way to Holyhead the Monday following,
as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden! you may guess, dear
Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for
the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her
grown thin and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky
thing happened to me as to that. I always make a point of reading
Jane’s letters through to myself first before I read them aloud to my
mother, you know, for fear of there being anything in them to distress
her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do; and so I began to-day
with my usual caution: but no sooner did I come to the mention of her
being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with “Bless me! poor
Jane is ill”—which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly,
and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not
near so bad as I fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to
her, that she does not think much about it: but I cannot imagine how
I could be so off my guard! If Jane does not get well soon, we will
call in Mr Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is
so liberal and so fond of Jane, that I dare say he would not mean to
charge anything for attendance, we would not suffer it to be so, you
know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be _giving_
away his time. Well now, I have just given you a hint of what Jane
writes about. We will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her
own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her (_turning to
the letter_).
_Emma_ (_rising abruptly_). I am afraid I must be running away. My
father will be expecting me. I had no intention, I thought I had no
power, of staying more than five minutes when I first entered the
house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without
enquiring after Mrs Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! And
now I must wish you and Mrs Bates good morning. (_Curtsies and exit._)
_Miss Bates_ (_during Miss Woodhouse’s speech._) Dear Miss Woodhouse,
so soon—must you really go; so kind of you to come. Jane’s letter so
short, only two pages—will not take one minute to read—pray mind the
step outside. Allow me. (_Exeunt Miss Bates and Emma._)
_Mrs Bates coughs and picks up her ball of wool. Re-enter Miss Bates._
_Miss Bates._ Ma’am, Miss Woodhouse assures me it is quite dry under
foot. I am sure you would enjoy a little walk up the road with me
(_helping her mother up and leading her out of the room, talking all
the time_); and I will tell you what Miss Woodhouse was so obliging as
to say about Jane’s beauty as we go—though perhaps it is hardly the
thing to repeat to everybody. She says that Mrs Dixon (_exeunt Mrs and
Miss Bates. Miss Bates’ voice fading away little by little outside_)
has no remarkable degree of beauty, and is not by any means to be
compared with our Jane—so kind of her, is it not? Ma’am, ma’am, mind
that step—no, not by any means to be compared with our Jane.
_End of Scene._