_Characters._
_Emma Woodhouse, Harriet Smith, Mr Knightley._
_N.B._—“_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 (Isabella) marriage,
been mistress of his house from a very early period.
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.”—_Emma_, Chap. I.
“_Mr Knightley_, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty,
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 Hartfield, was a frequent
visitor, and always welcome.... Mr Knightley had a cheerful manner,
which always did him (Mr Woodhouse) good.... 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.”—_Emma_, Chap. I.
“_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 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.... She (Emma) was not struck
by anything remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s conversation, but she
found her altogether engaging—not inconveniently shy, nor unwilling
to talk—and yet so far from pushing, showing so proper and becoming
a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to
Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of everything
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.... _She_ would notice her. She would improve her ... and
introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and
manners.... As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how
useful she might find her ... 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.”—_Emma_, Chaps. III. and IV.
_Scene—The morning-room at Hartfield. It is comfortably furnished. No
special properties are required except a centre table with two chairs
on either side of it; a work frame near one of the chairs, a window at
the back, and a fireplace with a lighted fire. Enter Emma, with an open
letter in her hand._
_Emma._ I can scarcely believe it. Jane Fairfax engaged to Frank
Churchill! Engaged to her all the winter—secretly engaged before
either of them came to Highbury. And I have encouraged my poor friend,
Harriet Smith, to think well of him, so she will be a second time the
dupe of my misconceptions and flattery. It seems like a fatality.
No sooner do I conceive the idea of arranging a suitable marriage
for her, than the man whom I choose deliberately engages himself to
another. I ought to have felt only too thankful to have her forget the
insufferable Mr Elton so soon after his marriage, instead of trying
to rouse her affections for Frank Churchill. But what right had he to
come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
very _disengaged?_ How could he tell that he might not be making _me_
in love with him? I cannot deny, indeed, that there was a time, in the
early period of our acquaintance, when I was very much pleased with his
attentions, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,
was attached—and how it came to cease is perhaps the wonder.
_Harriet_ (_outside_). Miss Woodhouse, are you within, and will you see
me?
_Emma._ Harriet! (_folding the letter hastily and putting it away_).
Yes, yes, pray come in. (_Enter Harriet, who curtseys at the door._)
You know I am always glad to see _you_, Harriet. (_Aside._) I wonder if
she has heard the news. She looks dejected.
_Harriet_ (_with a small parcel in her hand_). Miss Woodhouse, dear
Miss Woodhouse, you are always good to me. A great deal too good—but
if you are at leisure, I have something that I should like to tell
you; a sort of confession to make, and then, you know, it will be over.
_Emma_ (_sighs, aside_). Poor Harriet.
_Harriet._ It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish, to have no
reserves with you on this subject. As I am, happily, quite an altered
creature in _one respect_, it is very fit that you should have
the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary. I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done,
and I daresay you understand me.
_Emma._ I think I do, my poor Harriet—I hope I do; but it is all my
fault—all my fault.
_Harriet._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do not say such a thing! How could I
so long a time be fancying myself—It seems like madness, I can see
nothing at all extraordinary in him now.
_Emma_ (_aside_). To whom is she alluding—Mr Elton or Frank Churchill?
One never can tell.
_Harriet._ I do not care whether I meet him or not, except that of the
two I had rather _not_ see him; and, indeed, I would go any distance
round to avoid him. But I do not envy _Mrs_ Elton in the least.
_Emma_ (_aside_). Ah! it’s Mr _Elton_, not Frank Churchill.
_Harriet._ She is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think
her very ill-tempered and disagreeable. However, I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, I wish her no evil. No; let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment’s pang; and, to convince you that I
have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to
have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept: I know that
very well—However, now I will destroy it all; and it is my particular
wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am
grown (_sighs_). Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?
_Emma._ Not the least in the world. Did he ever give you anything?
_Harriet._ No, I cannot call them _gifts_; but they are things that I
have valued very much (_holding out the parcel to Emma_).
_Emma_ (_taking it and reading_). “Most precious treasures.” Harriet,
are you sure you would wish me to see these treasures?
_Harriet._ Yes, please, dear Miss Woodhouse.
_Emma_ (_undoing the parcel, which is wrapped up in several pieces of
paper and lined with cotton wool_). A piece of court plaister!!!
_Harriet._ Now, you _must_ recollect.
_Emma._ No, indeed, I do not.
_Harriet._ Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could
forget what passed in this very room about court plaister, one of the
very last times we ever met in it. It was a very few days before I had
my sore throat—I think the very evening before. Do not you remember
his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending
court plaister? But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you
desired me to supply him. So I took mine out and cut him a piece, but
in my agitation I cut it a great deal too large, and he had to make it
smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left before he gave
it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a
treasure of it; so I put it by, never to be used, and looked at it now
and then as a great treat.
_Emma_ (_putting her hands before her face_). My dearest Harriet! you
make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye,
I remember it all now; all except your saving this relic; I knew
nothing of that till this moment; but the cutting the finger, and my
recommending court plaister and saying I had none about me—Oh! my
sins! my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my pocket! One of my
senseless tricks! I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest
of my life.—Well (_sitting down_), go on, what else?
_Harriet._ And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never
suspected it. You did it so naturally.
_Emma._ And so you actually put this piece of court plaister by for
his sake. (_Aside_), Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of
putting by in cotton a piece of court plaister that anybody had been
fingering. I shall never be equal to this.
_Harriet._ There is something still more valuable—I mean that _has
been_ more valuable because it is what did really once belong to him,
which the court plaister never did? It is in the same box wrapped up in
another piece of silver paper.
_Emma_ (_unfolding a very small roll_). I am quite anxious to see this
superior treasure, Harriet. What is it?—The end of an old pencil! the
part without any lead!! What is this, Harriet?
_Harriet._ That was really his. Do not you remember one morning?—No,
I daresay you do not—but one morning—I forget exactly the day, but
perhaps it was the Wednesday or Tuesday before _that evening_, he
wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce
beer. Mr Knightley (_hanging her head_) had been telling him something
about brewing spruce beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he
took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all
away and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left
upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye upon it, and as
soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that
moment.
_Emma._ I do remember it. I perfectly remember it—talking of spruce
beer. Oh! yes, Mr Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr
Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember
it—Stop; Mr Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an
idea he was standing just here.
_Harriet_ (_confused_). I do not know. I cannot recollect. It is very
odd—but I cannot recollect where Mr Knightley was standing. Mr _Elton_
was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am.
_Emma._ Well, go on.
_Harriet._ Oh! that is all. I have nothing more to show you, or to say,
except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I
wish you to see me do it.
_Emma._ My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?
_Harriet_ (_sighing_). Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed
of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It
was so wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrance after he was
married, and when I had conceived so deep, so reverential a regard for
_another._ I knew it was, but I had not resolution enough to part with
them.
_Emma._ But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court plaister?
I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court
plaister might be useful.
_Harriet._ I shall be happier to burn it. It has a disagreeable look
to me. I must get rid of _everything._ I must not keep it now. It is
not right towards _him_ who is so superior in every way, so infinitely
superior. (_Emma groans._) These are no longer treasures. There they go
(_throwing them into the fire_), and there is an end, thank Heaven! of
Mr Elton. (_Turning cheerfully to Emma._) Ah! I feel happier now—much
happier! But, oh! Miss Woodhouse, is not this the oddest news that ever
was?
_Emma_ (_perplexed_). What news do you mean?
_Harriet._ Why, about Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear anything so
strange? Oh! you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr Weston
has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a
great secret; and therefore I should not think of mentioning it to
anybody but you, but he said you knew it.
_Emma_ (_still perplexed_). What did Mr Weston tell you?
_Harriet._ Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr Frank
Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged
to one another this long while. How very odd.
_Emma_ (_staring_). You know all about it?
_Harriet._ Yes! Had you any idea of his being in love with her?—you
perhaps might (_hanging her head_)—you who can see into everybody’s
heart; but nobody else—
_Emma._ Upon my word, I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not
openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings? I never
had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
sure that, if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.
_Harriet_ (_in astonishment_). Me! why should you caution me? You do
not think I care about Mr Frank Churchill?
_Emma_ (_laughing uneasily_). I am delighted to hear you speak so
stoutly on the subject. But you do not mean to deny that there was
a time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to
understand that you did care about him.
_Harriet._ _Him!_—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so
mistake me? (_turning away distressed._)
_Emma._ Harriet, what do you mean? (_A pause._) Good heaven! what do
you mean? Mistake you! am I to suppose—?
_Harriet_ (_with her back to Emma_). I should not have thought it
possible that _you_ could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed
never to name him—but, considering how infinitely superior he is to
everybody else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be
supposed to mean any other person. Mr Frank Churchill, indeed! I do
not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. And
that _you_ should have been so mistaken is amazing.
_Emma_ (_collecting herself resolutely_). Harriet, let us understand
each other now, without the possibility of further mistake. (_With
great effort._) Are you speaking—of Mr Knightley?
_Harriet._ To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of anybody
else—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as
clear as possible.
_Emma_ (_with forced calmness_). Not quite, for all that you then said
appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert
that you _named_ Mr Frank Churchill.
_Harriet._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, never—never.
_Emma._ Well, I am sure the service Mr Frank Churchill had rendered
you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.
_Harriet._ Miss Woodhouse! how you do forget!
_Emma._ My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what
I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your
attachment; that, considering the service he had rendered you, it was
extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very
warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your
sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue. The
impression of it is strong on my memory.
_Harriet._ Oh! dear! now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking
of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies.—It
was not Mr Frank Churchill that I meant. No—(_with some elevation_)—I
was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr Knightley’s
coming and asking me to dance, when Mr Elton would not stand up with
me, and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind
action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the
service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to any other
being upon earth.
_Emma_ (_with emotion_). Good God! this has been a most
unfortunate—most deplorable mistake! What is to be done?
_Harriet_ (_timidly_). You would not have encouraged me, then, if
you had understood me. At least, however, I cannot be worse off than
I should have been if Mr Churchill had been the person; and now—it
_is_ possible—for you see, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
appear—But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful
things had happened; matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place
than between Mr Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems
as if such a thing even as this may have occurred before; and if I
should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr Knightley
should really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try and put
difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.
_Emma._ Have you any idea of Mr Knightley’s returning your affection?
_Harriet_ (_modestly, but not fearfully_). Yes, I must say I have.
_Emma_ (_aside_). Good God! is it possible—is it possible that I have
been so blind even to the state of my own heart? _I_ see it all now.
Every moment of this day brings a fresh surprise, and every surprise
is a matter of humiliation to me. How improperly have I been acting by
Harriet! How inconsiderate, how irrational, how unfeeling has been my
conduct! What blindness, what madness has led me on?
_Harriet._ Miss Woodhouse, speak to me. Why is it so much worse for me
to be in love with Mr Knightley than with Mr Frank Churchill? Everyone
thought _you_ were in love with Mr Churchill. I thought so too, but did
not like to say it.
_Emma._ My dear Harriet (_rousing herself_), it is the suddenness of
this revelation which has bewildered me. But come, tell me all about
it. What makes you so hopeful in the conviction of Mr Knightley’s
regard for you?
_Harriet._ Oh! it has been so marked. I have been conscious of a
difference in his behaviour ever since that dance. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
how nobly he behaved to me when Mr Elton _refused_ to stand up with me,
and he spoke so beautifully that I was not afraid of him, and when I
spoke to him he listened so attentively, as if he quite enjoyed what I
said.
_Emma_ (_aside_). I remember he told me that on that occasion he had
found her much superior to his expectation. (_Aloud._) Well, Harriet,
go on.
_Harriet._ From that evening, or at least from the time of your
encouraging me to think of him (for though _you_ meant Mr Churchill,
I always meant Mr Knightley, and thought you meant him too), he has
had quite a different manner towards me—a manner of kindness and
sweetness. Latterly I have been more and more aware of it. When we have
been all walking together, he has so often come and walked by me, and
talked so very delightfully! He seemed to want to be acquainted with me.
_Emma._ Yes, Harriet, you are right; he has told me so himself.
_Harriet._ There, you see! And he has praised me so kindly several
times, I would rather not repeat what he said. But the two latest
occurrences, the two of strongest promise to me—you witnessed
yourself. The first was his walking with me apart from the others in
the lime-walk at Donwell when he gave the strawberry party, and he
took pains, I am convinced, to draw me from the rest to himself, and
at first he talked to me in a more particular way than he had ever
done before—in a very particular way indeed (_hanging her head_). He
seemed to be almost asking me whether my affections were engaged. But
as soon as you appeared likely to join us, he changed the subject, and
began talking of farming. The second is his having sat talking with me
here for nearly half an hour on the very last morning of his being at
Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
stay five minutes, and he told me during our conversation that though
he must go to London, it was very much against his inclinations that he
left home at all.
_Emma_ (_aside_). That is more than he acknowledged to me.
_Harriet._ Therefore, dear Miss Woodhouse, do you not think that I have
some reason to hope? I never should have presumed to think of it at
first, but for you—you told me to observe him carefully and let his
behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have.—But now I seem to feel
that I may deserve him; and that if he _does_ choose me, it will not be
anything so very wonderful after all.
_Emma_ (_turning away to hide her bitter feelings_). Harriet, I will
only venture to declare that Mr Knightley is the last man in the world
who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her
more than he really does.
_Harriet_ (_clasping her hands_). Dear, dear Miss Woodhouse, I knew you
would give me hope. You are always so good, so encouraging.
_Emma_ (_bending over her work_). Harriet, look out of the window;—is
not that Mr Knightley walking in the shrubbery with my father?
_Harriet._ It cannot be—for he was not to return for another week.
(_Goes to window._) Oh! Miss Woodhouse, you are right, it _is_ Mr
Knightley, and he and Mr Woodhouse are both entering the house. Oh!
dear, I must go, I am too agitated to encounter him; I could not
compose myself—I had better go.—May I go, Miss Woodhouse?
_Emma._ If you wish it, Harriet—go by all means. Good-bye.
_Harriet_ (_curtseying hurriedly_). Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, a
thousand thousand times. (_Exit._)
_Emma._ Oh! God! that I had never seen her! Mr Knightley in love with
Harriet Smith? Such an elevation on her side! such a debasement on
his! Yet it is far, very far from impossible. Is it a new circumstance
for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior
powers? Is it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of
a girl who would seek him? Is it new for anything in this world to be
unequal, inconsistent, or incongruous. Mr Knightley and Harriet Smith!
Oh! that I had never brought her forward!—that I had left her where I
ought, where he himself had once told me I ought!—Had I not, with a
folly which no tongue can express, prevented her marrying the farmer,
Mr Martin, who would have made her happy and respectable in a line of
life to which she ought to belong—all would be well—all would be safe
(_sitting to her work and bending down over it as Mr Knightley enters_).
_Knightley._ Emma, I have just met Harriet Smith, who told me you were
alone, so I have left Mr Woodhouse comfortably by the fire in the
study, and I have ventured upstairs unannounced.
_Emma_ (_rising and giving her hand_). You are returned sooner than we
hoped,—you bring good news from London?
_Knightley_ (_sighs_). My brother and his wife are well, so are the
children (_pause—he sits_).
_Emma._ You had a pleasant ride, I trust?
_Knightley._ Very——(_pause_).
_Emma_ (_aside_). He neither looks nor speaks cheerfully. Has he
communicated his plans to his brother, and been pained by their
reception?
_Knightley._ Your father is looking well—better than when I left for
London.
_Emma._ Yes (_a pause—she bends over her work, and he looks at her
anxiously. She continues aside_).—Perhaps he wishes to speak to me
of his attachment to Harriet, and is watching for encouragement to
begin—but I am not equal to lead the way to such a subject—he must do
it all himself—yet I cannot bear this silence,—with him, it is most
unnatural. I must say _something._ (_Aloud, with a smile._) You have
some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you.
_Knightley_ (_quietly, and looking at her_). Have I? of what nature?
_Emma._ Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.
_Knightley_ (_after waiting a moment as if to be sure she intended to
say no more_). If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have
heard that already.
_Emma._ Why, how is it possible? is every one in this secret?
_Knightley._ I had a few lines on parish business from Mr Weston
this morning, and at the end he gave me a brief account of what had
happened. That news was the cause of my early return.
_Emma._ You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you
had your suspicions, I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me caution. I wish I had attended to it—but (_with a sinking voice
and a heavy sigh_) I seemed to have been doomed to blindness—(_a
pause—Knightley then lays his hand on hers and takes it kindly. Emma
looks at him in surprise_).
_Knightley_ (_speaking low_). Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the
wound. Your own excellent sense; your exertions for your father’s sake;
I know you will not allow yourself—(_presses her hand_). I speak from
feelings of the warmest friendship——indignation (_rising suddenly_).
Abominable scoundrel! (_Returning and bending over the table._) He will
soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_, for
she deserves a better fate.
_Emma._ My dear friend, you are very kind, but you are mistaken, and
I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion.
My blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way
that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted
to say things of her to him 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.
_Knightley_ (_looking eagerly at her_). Emma, are you indeed...?
(_Checking himself._) No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am
pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret,
indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections
were not further entangled! I could never, I confess, from your
manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt. I could only
be certain that there was a preference, and a preference which I never
believed him to deserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he
to be rewarded with that sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a
miserable creature.
_Emma._ Mr Knightley, 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. (_A pause._) I have very little to say
for my own conduct. I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself
to appear pleased—an old story, probably—a common case—and no more
than has happened to hundreds of my sex before. Many circumstances
assisted the temptation. But, let me swell out the causes ever so
ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered
and I allowed his attentions; but, in short, I was somehow or other
safe from him.
_Knightley._ Hm! well, I have never had a high opinion of Frank
Churchill. I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him;
my acquaintance with him has been but trifling, and even if I have
not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well. With such a
woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill, and for
her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and
conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.
_Emma._ I have no doubt of their being happy together. I believe them
to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.
_Knightley_ (_with energy_). He is a most fortunate man. So early in
life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chooses a wife, he
generally chooses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize!
what years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before
him! Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. 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. He is a
fortunate man, indeed!
_Emma._ You speak as if you envied him.
_Knightley._ I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my
envy.
_Emma_ (_aside_). He means in the right to choose where he pleases. He
compares Frank Churchill to himself, Jane Fairfax to Harriet.
_Knightley._ You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are
determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise—but _I_ cannot
be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish
it unsaid the next moment.
_Emma_ (_eagerly_). Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it—take a
little time, consider, do not commit yourself.
_Knightley_ (_stiffly_). Thank you.
_Emma_ (_aside_). Oh, I have given him pain! He is wishing to confide
in me, to consult me; perhaps I might assist his resolution, or
reconcile him to it.
_Knightley._ I fear I must be going now; good-bye. (_Puts out his hand
as he rises._)
_Emma_ (_detaining it_). No—do not go—I stopped you ungraciously just
now, Mr Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain. But if you have
any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of
anything that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you
may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly
what I think.
_Knightley._ As a friend! Emma, that I fear is a word—No, I have no
wish. Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far already for
concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I
accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend (_looking earnestly into
her eyes_). Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?
_Emma_ (_overcome_). Good Heaven!
_Knightley._ My dearest Emma, for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma—tell me at once. Say “No” if it is to be said. You are silent
(_with animation_), absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.
(_Emma sinks into a chair, covering up her face with her hands._)
_Knightley._ I cannot make speeches, Emma. 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. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.
Look up, Emma, my dearest, look at me—(_she does so_). Say that you
understand me.—Say you understand my feelings—and will return them if
you can. At present I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.
_Emma_ (_faintly_). Mr Knightley, what can I say? How can I say it?
When you first spoke, believe me, I had no idea, no thought of what
you wished to say. How inconsistent must my conduct have appeared in
refusing to hear you one moment, and soliciting your confidence the
next—yet could I have dared to hope that you would speak to me as you
have done, I should through very shame have silenced you for ever.
_Knightley._ My dearest, best beloved Emma! I too had little thought
when first I entered here to try my influence. Jealousy of Frank
Churchill drove me from the country. I went to London to learn to be
indifferent; but I had gone to the wrong place. There was too much
domestic happiness in my brother’s house; but I stayed on, however,
vigorously, day after day, till this very morning’s post conveyed
the history of Jane Fairfax. Then, with the gladness which must be
felt, nay, which I did not scruple to feel, was there so much fond
solicitude, so much keen anxiety for you, that I could stay no longer.
I rode home at once and walked up here to see how this sweetest and
best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the
discovery. I found you agitated and low; Frank Churchill was a villain.
I heard you declare that you had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
character was not so desperate; and now, tell me that you are my own
Emma by hand and word.
_Emma_ (_putting her hands in his_). Mr Knightley, I am your own Emma,
by word and hand.
_Knightley_ (_bending over Emma’s hands_). “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.
_Emma._ I remember once calling you “George” in one of my amiable fits,
about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it might offend you;
but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.
_Knightley._ And cannot you call me “George” now?
_Emma._ 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 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.
_Knightley_ (_with emotion_). My Emma.
[_Exeunt._
_End of Scene._
[Illustration]