Emma E-Book

Jane Austen.

• Herausgeber: Madeley publishing
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Emma is a novel written by English author Jane Austen. It is set in the fictional country village of Highbury and the surrounding estates of Hartfield, Randalls and Donwell Abbey, and involves the relationships among people from a small number of families. The novel was first published in December 1815, although the title page is dated 1816. As in her other novels, Austen explores the concerns and difficulties of genteel women living in Georgian–Regency England.  Emma is a comedy of manners.

Leseprobe

Emma

––––––––

by Jane Austen

Madeley publishing

Contents

Jane Austen Biography

Jane Austen Interesting Facts

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

Jane Austen Biography

Jane Austen was born on December 16, 1775, in Steventon, Hampshire, England. While not widely known in her own time, Austen's comic novels of love among the landed gentry gained popularity after 1869, and her reputation skyrocketed in the 20th century. Her novels, including Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, are considered literary classics, bridging the gap between romance and realism.

The seventh child and second daughter of Cassandra and George Austen, Jane Austen was born on December 16, 1775, in Steventon, Hampshire, England. Jane's parents were well-respected community members. Her father served as the Oxford-educated rector for a nearby Anglican parish. The family was close and the children grew up in an environment that stressed learning and creative thinking. When Jane was young, she and her siblings were encouraged to read from their father's extensive library. The children also authored and put on plays and charades.

Over the span of her life, Jane would become especially close to her father and older sister, Cassandra. Indeed, she and Cassandra would one day collaborate on a published work.

In order to acquire a more formal education, Jane and Cassandra were sent to boarding schools during Jane's pre-adolescence. During this time, Jane and her sister caught typhus, with Jane nearly succumbing to the illness. After a short period of formal education cut short by financial constraints, they returned home and lived with the family from that time forward.

Ever fascinated by the world of stories, Jane began to write in bound notebooks. In the 1790s, during her adolescence, she started to craft her own novels and wrote Love and Freindship [sic], a parody of romantic fiction organized as a series of love letters. Using that framework, she unveiled her wit and dislike of sensibility, or romantic hysteria, a distinct perspective that would eventually characterize much of her later writing. The next year she wrote The History of England..., a 34-page parody of historical writing that included illustrations drawn by Cassandra. These notebooks, encompassing the novels as well as short stories, poems and plays, are now referred to as Jane's Juvenilia.

Jane spent much of her early adulthood helping run the family home, playing piano, attending church, and socializing with neighbours.

Steventon Church, as depicted in A Memoir of Jane Austen.

Her nights and weekends often involved cotillions, and as a result, she became an accomplished dancer. On other evenings, she would choose a novel from the shelf and read it aloud to her family, occasionally one she had written herself. She continued to write, developing her style in more ambitious works such as Lady Susan, another epistolary story about a manipulative woman who uses her sexuality, intelligence and charm to have her way with others. Jane also started to write some of her future major works, the first called Elinor and Marianne, another story told as a series of letters, which would eventually be published as Sense and Sensibility. She began drafts of First Impressions, which would later be published as Pride and Prejudice, and Susan, later published as Northanger Abbey by Jane's brother, Henry, following Jane's death.

In 1801, Jane moved to Bath with her father, mother and Cassandra. Then, in 1805, her father died after a short illness. As a result, the family was thrust into financial straits; the three women moved from place to place, skipping between the homes of various family members to rented flats. It was not until 1809 that they were able to settle into a stable living situation at Jane's brother Edward's cottage in Chawton.

Now in her 30s, Jane started to anonymously publish her works. In the period spanning 1811-16, she pseudonymously published Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice (a work she referred to as her "darling child," which also received critical acclaim), Mansfield Park and Emma.

In 1816, at the age of 41, Jane started to become ill with what some say might have been Addison's disease. She made impressive efforts to continue working at a normal pace, editing older works as well as starting a new novel called The Brothers, which would be published after her death as Sanditon. Another novel, Persuasion, would also be published posthumously. At some point, Jane's condition deteriorated to such a degree that she ceased writing. She died on July 18, 1817, in Winchester, Hampshire, England.

Jane Austen Interesting Facts

Help from the family

When Austen penned First Impressions, the book that would become Pride and Prejudice, in 1797, her proud farther George took it to a London publisher named Thomas Cadell for review. Cadell rejected it unread. It's not clear if Jane was even aware that George approached Cadell on her behalf.

Much later, in 1810, her brother Henry would act as her literary agent, selling Sense and Sensibility to London publisher Thomas Egerton.

Anonymous publications

From Sense and Sensibility through Emma, Austen's published works never bore her name. Sense and Sensibility carried the byline of "A Lady," while later works like Pride and Prejudice featured credits like, "By the Author of Sense and Sensibility."

Backing out of marriage

The year after her family's move to the city of Bath in 1801, Austen received a proposal of marriage from Harris Bigg-Wither, a financially prosperous childhood friend.

A 10 year break

When her family moved to Bath and subsequently kept relocating following her father's death in 1805, Austen's writing habits were severely disrupted. Once prolific—she completed three of her novels by 1801—a lack of a routine kept her from producing work for roughly 10 years. It wasn't until she felt her home life was stable after moving into property owned by her brother, Edward, that Austen resumed her career.

Straight pins

For an unfinished novel titled The Watsons, Austen took the pins and used them to fasten revisions to the pages of areas that were in need of correction or rewrites. The practice dates back to the 17th century.

Home brewing

In Austen's time, beer was the drink of choice, and like the rest of her family, Austen could brew her own beer. Her specialty was spruce beer, which was made with molasses for a slightly sweeter taste.

Poison

Austen lived to see only four of her six novels published. She died on July 18, 1817 at the age of 41 following complaints of symptoms that medical historians have long felt pointed to Addison's disease or Hodgkin's lymphoma. In 2017, the British Library floated a different theory—that Austen was poisoned by arsenic in her drinking water due to a polluted supply or possibly accidental ingestion due to mismanaged medication.

Court decisions

Jurists often use Austen as a kind of shorthand to explain matters involving relationships or class distinctions. Half of the decisions used the opening line from Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home

and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings

of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world

with very little to distress or vex her.

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,

indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage,

been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother

had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct

remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied

by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short

of a mother in affection.

Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family,

less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters,

but particularly of Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy

of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal

office of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed

her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being

now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and

friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked;

highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by

her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having

rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little

too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened

alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present

so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes

with her.

Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any

disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss

Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day

of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought

of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone,

her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect

of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself

to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit

and think of what she had lost.

The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston

was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age,

and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering

with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished

and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.

The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.

She recalled her past kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen

years—how she had taught and how she had played with her from five

years old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse

her in health—and how nursed her through the various illnesses

of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the

intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect

unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their

being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.

She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent,

well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family,

interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself,

in every pleasure, every scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak

every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her

as could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was

going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must

be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them,

and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages,

natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering

from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he

was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation,

rational or playful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had

not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;

for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity

of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years;

and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart

and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him

at any time.

Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony,

being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond

her daily reach; and many a long October and November evening must

be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next

visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little children,

to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,

to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies,

and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses

were first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had

many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil,

but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss

Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma

could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things,

till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful.

His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed;

fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them;

hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change,

was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled

to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her but

with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection,

when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from

his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to

suppose that other people could feel differently from himself,

he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad

a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal

happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield.

Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him

from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him

not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,

"Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it

is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"

"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such

a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves

a good wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us

for ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?"

"A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her own?

This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours,

my dear."

"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see

us!—We shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay

wedding visit very soon."

"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance.

I could not walk half so far."

"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,

to be sure."

"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for

such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we

are paying our visit?"

"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know we

have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston

last night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like

going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.

I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was

your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought

of Hannah till you mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!"

"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would

not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account;

and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil,

pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her,

she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner;

and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she

always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it.

I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great

comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is

used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know,

she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we

all are."

Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas,

and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably

through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own.

The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards

walked in and made it unnecessary.

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 Highbury, was a frequent visitor,

and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual,

as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had

returned to a late dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked

up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square.

It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.

Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good;

and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were

answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse

gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come

out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have

had a shocking walk."

"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild

that I must draw back from your great fire."

"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may

not catch cold."

"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them."

"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal

of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour

while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding."

"By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware

of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry

with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well.

How did you all behave? Who cried most?"

"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."

"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly

say `poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma;

but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At

any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two."

"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!"

said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head,

I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."

"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse,

with a sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."

"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose

Mr. Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant

only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—

in a joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another."

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see

faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them:

and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself,

she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would

not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being

thought perfect by every body.

"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I

meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used

to have two persons to please; she will now have but one.

The chances are that she must be a gainer."

"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass—"you want to hear

about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all

behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their

best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no;

we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart,

and were sure of meeting every day."

"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father.

"But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor,

and I am sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for."

Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.

"It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,"

said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir,

if we could suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to

Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be,

at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be settled in a home of her own,

and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision,

and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure.

Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily

married."

"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma,

"and a very considerable one—that I made the match myself.

I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place,

and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would

never marry again, may comfort me for any thing."

Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied,

"Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things,

for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any

more matches."

"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed,

for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And

after such success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would

never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower

so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife,

so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his

friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—

Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did

not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again.

Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed,

and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner

of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none

of it.

"Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I

met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle,

he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas

for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject.

I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed

me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave

off match-making."

"I do not understand what you mean by `success,'" said Mr. Knightley.

"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and

delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four

years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young

lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match,

as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself

one idle day, `I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor

if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself

every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where

is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess;

and _that_ is all that can be said."

"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?—

I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky

guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it.

And as to my poor word `success,' which you quarrel with, I do not

know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn

two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third—a something

between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's

visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed

many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all.

I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that."

"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,

unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their

own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself,

than good to them, by interference."

"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,"

rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear,

pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up

one's family circle grievously."

"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You

like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him.

There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him—and he has been

here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably,

that it would be a shame to have him single any longer—and I thought

when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if

he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think

very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing

him a service."

"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very

good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you

want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come

and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing.

I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him."

"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley,

laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much

better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best

of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife.

Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care

of himself."

CHAPTER II

Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,

which for the last two or three generations had been rising into

gentility and property. He had received a good education, but,

on succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become

indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers

were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social

temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.

Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances

of his military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill,

of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love

with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife,

who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and importance,

which the connexion would offend.

Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command

of her fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the

family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it

took place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill,

who threw her off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion,

and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found

more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper

made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness

of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit,

she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue

her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain

from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger,

nor from missing the luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond

their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe:

she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once

to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.

Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,

as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst

of the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage,

he was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.

From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved.

The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering

illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation;

and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own,

nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to

take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease.

Some scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed

to have felt; but as they were overcome by other considerations,

the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills,

and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to

improve as he could.

A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia

and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a

good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening.

It was a concern which brought just employment enough. He had still

a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent;

and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society,

the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away.

He had, by that time, realised an easy competence—enough to secure

the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had

always longed for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even

as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his own

friendly and social disposition.

It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence

his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth

on youth, it had not shaken his determination of never settling

till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long

looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects

in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune,

bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new

period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness

than in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy man;

his own temper had secured him from that, even in his first marriage;

but his second must shew him how delightful a well-judging and truly

amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest proof

of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen,

to excite gratitude than to feel it.

He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was

his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought

up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption

as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age.

It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his

father's assistance. His father had no apprehension of it.

The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely;

but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice

could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed,

so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London,

and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine

young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too.

He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his

merits and prospects a kind of common concern.

Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively

curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little

returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming

to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved.

Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed,

as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place.

There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when

Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and

Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank

Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was

understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion.

For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention

of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you

have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written

to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed.

Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he

says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life."

It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,

formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing

attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense,

and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression

of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt

herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough

to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only

regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship

for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.

She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think,

without pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering

an hour's ennui, from the want of her companionableness: but dear

Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal to her situation

than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy,

and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily

through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was

such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield,

so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston's

disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching

season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the

week together.

Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude

to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her

satisfaction—her more than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment,

was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father,

was sometimes taken by surprize at his being still able to pity

`poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her at Randalls in the centre

of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening

attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own.

But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,

and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay."

There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of

ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation

to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over;

he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event;

and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him,

was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he

could never believe other people to be different from himself.

What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body;

and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having

any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly

tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the pains

of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry

was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one

of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to,

he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the

bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree

with many—perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately.

With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped

to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the

cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till

it was all gone.

There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys

being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their

hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.

CHAPTER III

Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much

to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes,

from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature,

from his fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the

visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked.

He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle;

his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit

for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.

Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish,

and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley,

comprehended many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion,

he had some of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening

parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any

time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in the week

in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.

Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley;

and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it,

the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude

for the elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room,

and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being

thrown away.

After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able

of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies

almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield,

and who were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse

thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had it

taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.

Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a

very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.

She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was

considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady,

under such untoward circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed

a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young,

handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst

predicament in the world for having much of the public favour;

and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself,

or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect.

She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth

had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted

to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small

income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman,

and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own

universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders.

She loved every body, was interested in every body's happiness,

quicksighted to every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate

creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother,

and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted

for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature,

her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body,

and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon

little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial

communications and harmless gossip.

Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary,

or an establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of

refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality,

upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies for

enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but

a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable

quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price,

and where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble

themselves into a little education, without any danger of coming

back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's school was in high repute—and

very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy

spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty

of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer,

and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands.

It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked

after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman,

who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled

to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly

owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim

on her to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work,

whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.

These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently

able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake,

in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned,

it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted

to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with

herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings

of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent

was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.

As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close

of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting,

in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her;

a most welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen,

whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in,

on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned,

and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.

Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had

placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school,

and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar

to that of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known

of her history. She had no visible friends but what had been

acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit

in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her.

She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort

which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair,

with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features,

and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening,

Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite

determined to continue the acquaintance.

She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's

conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not

inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,

shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly

grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly

impressed by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style

to what she had been used to, that she must have good sense,

and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.

Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be

wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions.

The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her.

The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort

of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name

of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm

of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very creditably,

she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them—but they

must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates

of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance

to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her;

she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her

into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners.

It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking;

highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.

She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking

and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that

the evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table,

which always closed such parties, and for which she had been

used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready,

and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an

alacrity beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never

indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively,

with the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas,

did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and recommend

the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she

knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of their guests.

Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare.

He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion

of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome

made him rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his

hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing,

his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat.

Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that

he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he

might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing

the nicer things, to say:

"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs.

An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling

an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled

by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small,

you see—one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates,

let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit.

Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome

preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say

you to _half_ a glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler

of water? I do not think it could disagree with you."

Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in

a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had

particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness

of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse

was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the

introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble,

grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings,

delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated

her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!

CHAPTER IV

Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing.

Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging,

and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased,

so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion,

Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.

In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father

never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground

sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied;

and since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined.

She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant;

and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any

time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges.

But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her,

and was confirmed in all her kind designs.

Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile,

grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring

to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment

to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company,

and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that

there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must

not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet

Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly the

something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston

was out of the question. Two such could never be granted.

Two such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing,

a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object

of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.

Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful.

For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.

Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who

were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell

every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain.

Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked—but she could never

believe that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered

the truth. Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied

to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her;

and looked no farther.

Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the

school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation—and

but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm,

it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts

a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,

and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe

the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her

talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings,

and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much

exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good parlours,

indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room;

and of her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years

with her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys,

and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow indeed;

and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it should be

called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome summer-house

in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink

tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people."

For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause;

but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose.

She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter,

a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared

that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always

mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing something

or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin,

no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little

friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she

were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.

With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number

and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,

and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready

to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry

evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured

and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring

her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them,

and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his

shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.

She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself.

She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing.

He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them,

he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country.

She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters

were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there

was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body

to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married,

he would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry.

She was in no hurry at all.

"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about."

"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send

Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had

ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all

the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson,

to sup with her."

"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line

of his own business? He does not read?"

"Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has

read a good deal—but not what you would think any thing of.

He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay

in one of the window seats—but he reads all _them_ to himself.

But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read

something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining.

And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the

Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never

heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined

to get them now as soon as ever he can."

The next question was—

"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"

"Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain

at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,

after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every

now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way

to Kingston. He has passed you very often."

"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without

having any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback

or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.

The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I

can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable

appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their

families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help,

and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every

other he is below it."

"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have

observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight."

"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man.

I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well.

What do you imagine his age to be?"

"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is

the 23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference—which is very odd."

"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is

perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable

as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him,

she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet

with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own,

with a little money, it might be very desirable."

"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"

"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry,

who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine,

has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with

the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died,

whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say,

all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though,

with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to

impossible that he should have realised any thing yet."

"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably.

They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing;

and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year."

"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does

marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though

his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether

objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit

for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you

particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt

of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your

claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there

will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you."

"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit

at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse,

I am not afraid of what any body can do."

"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I

would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be

independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you