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      Jane Austen and Her Works | Project Gutenberg
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 70809 ***</div>





<h1>JANE AUSTEN AND HER WORKS.</h1>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">


<div class="chapter">

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img001">
<img src="images/001.jpg" class="w50"  alt="JANE AUSTEN">
</span></p></div>
<p class="center caption">JANE AUSTEN.<br></p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">


<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">
<span class="smcap xbig">Jane Austen</span><br>
<br><span class="big">
&amp; <i><span class="smcap">Her Works</span></i></span></p>

<p class="center">
<span class="figcenter"  id="img011">
<img src="images/011.jpg" class="w10"  alt="decorative image">
</span>
<span class="big"><i>by</i></span><span class="figcenter"  id="img012">
<img src="images/012.jpg" class="w10"  alt="decorative image">
</span><br><br>
<span class="smcap big"><i>Sarah Tytler</i></span>.</p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img000">
<img src="images/000.jpg" class="w50"  alt="Steventon Rectory Hants">
</span></p>
<p class="center caption"><i>Steventon Rectory Hants</i><br>
</p>
<p class="center p4">
<span class="smcap big">Cassell, Petter Galpin &amp; Co.</span><br>
<span class="smcap"><i>London, Paris &amp; New York</i></span><br>
<br>
[<span class="smcap">All Rights Reserved</span>]<br>
</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">


<div class="chapter">
<p class="center p0"><span class="xbig">
JANE AUSTEN</span>
<br><span class="big">
<i>AND HER WORKS</i>.</span>
</p>
<p class="center p2 p0">
<span class="small">BY</span><br>
<span class="big">SARAH TYTLER.</span></p>
<p class="center p2 p0">
<i>WITH A PORTRAIT ON STEEL.</i></p>
<hr class="r5">
<p class="center p2 p0">
<span class="smcap big">Cassell, Petter, Galpin &amp; Co.</span>:<br>
<i>LONDON, PARIS &amp; NEW YORK</i>.</p>
<hr class="r5"><p class="center p0">
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]<br>
</p>
</div>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>


<table class="autotable">

<tr><th></th><th class="tdr">PAGE</th></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Jane Austen</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Jane Austen’s Novels</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Pride and Prejudice</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Northanger Abbey</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Emma</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Sense and Sensibility, and Mansfield Park</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_322">322</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>
<span class="smcap">Persuasion</span>
</td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</h2>
</div>


<p>My intention in this book is to present in one volume
to an over-wrought, and in some respects over-read,
generation of young people the most characteristic of
Jane Austen’s novels, together with her life. I think
the tales and the life are calculated to reflect light on
each other; I think, also, that the arrangement of the
tales—which I have selected as the author wrote them,
and not as they happened to be published, particularly
in reference to the fact that the two which I have given
first were written more than ten years before “Emma”
and “Persuasion”—is an advantage, in permitting the
growth of the author’s mind and taste to be recognised.
I have used my own judgment in the selection of the
stories, and in the degree and manner in which I have
condensed them. It is with reverent hands that I
have touched these great English novels, for the
purpose of bringing them into such compass as may
make them readily accessible to all, and especially to
young readers, apt to be wearied by the slightest diffuseness.
Wherever it has been possible, in view of
my aim, I have used the author’s own words, as incomparably
the best for the characters and situations. I
have pointed out here and there the great changes in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span>
social standards, customs and fashions since Jane Austen
wrote; while it is her glory that the human nature in
her books and the human nature in every generation
are the same. I have occasionally called attention to
an unrivalled piece of art, which a too eager or an inexperienced
reader may be in danger of overlooking.</p>

<p>So far from presuming to wish to draw readers
from Jane Austen’s novels in their complete form, it is
my earnest desire to send many a young student who
may be tempted to quench her intellectual thirst at
sources utterly unworthy of the great English novelist,
to the originals of the tales I have abridged.</p>

<p>I have much pleasure in acknowledging the obligation
I owe to Mr. Austen Leigh, Jane Austen’s
nephew, who, with tender and reverent care, gathered
together and recorded all the particulars that remained
of her personal and family history. I have drawn
solely and largely from this biography, which is, indeed,
the only authorised memoir of the author.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>⁂ The portrait which, by the kindness of the Austen
Leigh family and Mr. Bentley, we are enabled to put
as the frontispiece to this work, has the interest of
being a faithful copy of the only portrait that was
ever taken of Jane Austen, a rough sketch made by her
sister Cassandra, and afterwards touched by the hand
of a professional artist, and while it cannot claim to
be a perfect portrait, it is considered by those who
have seen and known the great novelist to be a fairly
good likeness of her.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img002">
<img src="images/002.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>


<p class="center xbig">JANE AUSTEN AND HER WORKS.</p>


<hr class="tb">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="JANE_AUSTEN">JANE AUSTEN.</h2>
</div>


<h3>I.</h3>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_i.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> is said there is an ancient tradition in
the East, that close on a certain date
of the year are born the men to whom
are given special gifts to enlighten and
delight their fellow-creatures. To, or
near to, this date we can assign the
birthdays of William Caxton, by the
invention of printing the father of
widely-diffused learning; William Shakespeare, with
his marvellous knowledge of human nature; Cervantes,
the great humourist; and William Wordsworth, to
whom skies and hills, trees and flowers, beasts and
birds, had a voice, and told a story which he could
make plain to the duller comprehension of thousands.
But no Oriental sage had a word to say in anticipation
of the birthday—at a very different season of the year—when
there looked out for the first time on the world
and its wonders, the child-eyes of a woman who was
to edify and charm some of the wisest men of her
own and succeeding generations.</p>

<p>Women may well be proud of the woman who has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>
been held, on high authority, second only to Shakespeare
in the comprehension of the springs which move the
heart.</p>

<p>Girls may well be proud of the girl who, strange
to say, wrote two of her masterpieces, “Pride and
Prejudice” and “Northanger Abbey,” before she had
completed her twenty-third year. When other girls
were practising their music and working at their embroidery,
having their youthful gaieties and youthful
dreams, Jane Austen, who was fair to see and charming
to listen to, who practised her music, sewed at her
worsted-work, joined in gatherings of young people,
and had her morning visions with the best, possessed
in addition the power, and found the time, to accomplish
those wonders of fiction which, for their subtle reproduction
of character, and exquisite weaving of a web
so like that of the common lot, have been the instruction
and solace—not of companion girls alone, but
of statesmen and historians, philosophers and poets,
down to the present day.</p>

<p>Both men and women may be proud of the woman
who did this great thing, yet who never forfeited a
tittle of her womanliness; who was essentially as good,
true, and dear, as devoted to home, as cherished in its
narrow circle, as the most obscure of her sisters, who
are nothing to the world while they are everything to
their own people.</p>

<p>The slight yet not unsatisfactory record of Jane
Austen’s life came late to literature, after most of
the materials which might have supplied a fuller memoir
had been destroyed, and nearly every contemporary
recollection of her was lost. The relatives who were
left to accomplish a biography of the “Aunt Jane”
whose personal kindness had made so deep an impression
on them half a century before, and of whose
permanent and still-increasing fame they have remained
justly proud, were more or less elderly people, and were
not writers like the subject of the biography. But any
disadvantages which exist are not without their ample<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>
compensation in the affectionate simplicity and pathos
of the narrative.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was born a hundred and four years
ago, on December 16th, 1775, at the parsonage house
of Steventon, in Hampshire. The Austens were a Kent
family, originally one of those aristocratic clothworkers
who, possessing landed property in the Weald, did not
disdain to work in wool, and who were generally known
as “the Greycoats of Kent.” Mr. Austen Leigh, Jane
Austen’s nephew, writes that a trace of the family
origin survives in the family livery of light blue and
white, called “Kentish Grey.”</p>

<p>Jane Austen’s father, an orphan, brought up by an
uncle, a lawyer in Tunbridge, was, in succession, a scholar
at Tunbridge School, a fellow of St. John’s, Oxford, and
rector of the two livings of Deane and Steventon,
Hampshire villages little more than a mile apart, and
numbering a united population of not more than three
hundred.</p>

<p>The young rector married Cassandra Leigh, a
daughter of the incumbent of Harpenden, near Henley-on-the-Thames.
The Leighs were a Warwickshire
family, descended, on the mother’s side, from the
Chandos house. Jane Austen’s grand-uncle, Dr. Theophilus
Leigh, was Master of Balliol College for upwards
of half a century. I mention him because he was a
man famous in his day for ready repartee, and it is
possible his wit may have descended to his grand-niece
Jane.</p>

<p>For thirty years the Austens resided at Steventon;
and there Jane Austen spent, for the most part, the first
twenty-five years of her life, in a quiet country circle,
certainly not without its cultured members, among
whom was her father, a scholarly and accomplished
man.</p>

<p>When Mr. and Mrs. Austen were still a young
couple, they were entrusted with the charge of a son
of Warren Hastings, but the child died in infancy;
otherwise we might have had a long train of life-like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>
Anglo-Indians in fiction, many years before they were
conjured into existence by Thackeray.</p>

<p>The next parish to Steventon was Ashe, of which
the clergyman then happened to be Dr. Russell, grand-father
of Mary Russell Mitford.</p>

<p>The Rev. George Austen was so good-looking a
man, from youth to age, as to have been called “the
handsome proctor” at Oxford, and to be still noticed
at Bath, when he was over seventy years of age, on
account of his fine features and abundance of snow-white
hair. I have already said he was a man of
ability. He directed the studies of all his children,
and increased his income by the practice, usual with
clergymen, of taking pupils. Mrs. Austen was also
reputed a clever woman, endowed with a lively imagination,
in addition to much good sense.</p>

<p>Jane Austen’s biographer says rightly, the members
of her own family were so much to her, and the
rest of the world so little, that a brief sketch of her
brothers and sister is necessary, to furnish a complete
idea of her life. He remarks elsewhere, in alluding to
the retirement in which she generally dwelt, that she
had probably never been in company with anybody of
greater literary ability and reputation than herself. In
these observations, he touches inadvertently on what I
think formed the root of the defects—to which I shall
refer afterwards—in an otherwise fine character.</p>

<p>Jane Austen had five brothers and one sister.
James, the eldest of the family, and the father of
Jane’s biographer, is described as well read in English
literature, writing readily and happily both in prose
and verse. When yet a young man at Oxford, he
originated a periodical called the “Loiterer,” and by
his example may have turned Jane’s attention to authorship.
He was a clergyman, and succeeded his father
at Steventon. Edward Austen was early adopted by his
cousin, Mr. Knight, of Godmersham Park, in Kent,
and Chawton House, in Hampshire. He adopted the
name of Knight, and was, like Frank Churchill in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>
“Emma,” a good deal separated from his family in
their youth. But it was to his neighbourhood, and to
the support of his position as the squire of the parish,
that the women of the Austen family returned at last.
This brother Edward is said to have been full of
amiability and fun. He seems to have borne some
resemblance in his character, as well as in his circumstances,
to the Frank Churchill of Jane’s story.</p>

<p>Henry Austen was a good talker, but he was the
least successful of the brothers. While he resided in
London, he appears to have been the literary authority,
and the means of communication between his sister Jane
and her publishers.</p>

<p>Francis and Charles Austen were both sailors, and
both lived to become admirals. Francis possessed a
firm temper and a strong sense of duty. He was
distinguished by his religious principles at a time when
a religious profession was rare in the service. At one
station he was pointed out as “the officer who knelt in
church.” Charles—specially beloved in his family for
the sweet temper and affectionate disposition which resembled
Jane’s—was, on one occasion, seven consecutive
years absent from England on active service. He died
of cholera in the course of the Burmese war, Lord
Dalhousie expressing his admiration of the staunch,
high spirit which, notwithstanding his age (seventy-four)
and previous sufferings, had led the admiral to
take his part in the trying service that closed his career.</p>

<p>Cassandra Austen was three years Jane’s senior.
The warmest affection subsisted between the two,
Jane, in her maturity and fame, continuing to look up
to her elder sister, a beautiful, staid, thoughtful woman
from her girlhood. When Cassandra was sent to the
school of a Mrs. Latourville (probably a French <i>émigrée</i>),
in the Forbury of Reading, Jane went with her, not
because she was old enough, but because she would have
been miserable without her sister, her mother observing
“that if Cassandra were going to have her head cut off,
Jane would insist on sharing her fate.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></p>

<p>Steventon was one of those villages and parsonages
which Jane Austen so often described. “It was situated
among the low chalk hills and winding lanes of North
Hants. The parsonage house stood in a shallow valley,
surrounded by sloping meadows well sprinkled with
elm-trees, at the end of a small village of cottages, each
provided with a garden, scattered about prettily on
either side of the road.” Within the house, though it
was reckoned rather above the average of the parsonages
of its day, no cornice marked the junction of wall and
ceiling, while the beams which supported the upper
floors projected into the rooms below in all their naked
simplicity, covered only by a coat of paint or whitewash.
About five years after Jane Austen’s death, her old
home at Steventon was pulled down.</p>

<p>“At the front of the house was a carriage-drive
through turf and trees. On the south side the ground
rose gently, and was occupied by an old-fashioned
garden, in which flowers and vegetables kept each other
company, flanked on the east by a thatched mud wall,
and overshadowed by fine elms. Along the upper side
of the garden ran a terrace of fine turf, where Jane in
her childhood might have emulated young Catherine
Morland in rolling down the green slope.”</p>

<p>Mr. Austen Leigh says the chief beauty of Steventon
was in its hedgerows—borders of copsewood and timber,
often wide enough to contain a winding footpath or
rough cart-track. “There the earliest primroses, anemones,
and wild hyacinths were to be found, the first
bird’s-nest, and sometimes an unwelcome adder.” Two
such hedgerows radiated from the parsonage garden.
One, a continuation of the turf terrace, ran westward,
and formed the boundary of the home meadows. It
was made into a rustic shrubbery, with occasional seats,
and was called, in the sentimental language of the day,
“the Wood Walk.” No doubt Jane Austen often
strolled or sat there, alone, or with her sister, or one of
her brothers. She might carry there her little work-box,
or the volume of “Evelina,” or “Cecilia,” the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>
“Mysteries of Udolpho,” or the “Romance of the
Forest,” which she was devouring. It was to such a
shrubbery or “wilderness” that she sent Elizabeth
Bennet to seek her father—to read an important letter—or
to hold her famous interview with Lady Catherine
de Bourgh.</p>

<p>The other hedgerow bore the name of “the Church
Walk,” because it climbed the hill to the parish church,
near which, surrounded by sycamores, was a manor-house
of Henry VIII.’s time, tenanted for upwards of
a hundred years by a yeoman family bearing the
appropriate name of Digweed.</p>

<p>The little church without a spire, with its narrow
early English windows, is said to have been upwards
of seven hundred years old.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Sweet violets, purple
and white, grew in profusion beneath the south wall.
The churchyard had its hollow yew coeval with the
church, its old elms and thorns among its mossy stones
and green mounds.</p>

<p>We hear many regrets in our day for the demolition
of the old church of Haworth, in which the Brontë
family worshipped, that may very likely be followed by
the destruction of the old parsonage house. Jane
Austen’s admirers, though they are choice spirits and
cannot be denied the merit of fidelity, have not been so
enthusiastic. I do not know that one protesting voice
was raised when the iconoclast’s changes and improvements
reached the peaceful old parish. I am not sure
whether many pilgrims ever sought that birthplace, and
as to those who have visited the grave in Winchester
Cathedral, we have Mr. Austen Leigh’s authority for
the statement that they drew from the verger the puzzled
inquiry—what was there particular about the lady
buried there that people should come and ask to see her
resting-place? No: Jane Austen and her work must
always be regarded in one of two lights—that of quiet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>
though intense appreciation, or that of puzzled non-comprehension.</p>

<p>The large family at Steventon were worthy, prosperous,
and happy. They had in some respects the
position and privileges of the family of the principal
squire, as well as the rector of the parish, since the Rev.
George Austen represented the absentee cousin, of whom
the clergyman’s second son was the adopted son and
heir. The Austens kept a carriage and pair of horses,
and lived in a style equal to that of the neighbouring
county gentry, whose near relatives or intimate friends
the household at the parsonage were. In reckoning up
the special advantages of such a home in one of her
novels, Jane Austen lays stress on its being well connected,
“a well connected parsonage.”</p>

<p>Among the most frequent visitors at Steventon were
two families of cousins, who could both of them bring
fresh experiences to the country parsonage. The one
family, the Coopers, lived in the brilliant Bath of
their generation, where Cassandra and Jane Austen, as
young women, visited their relations long before they
ever thought of Bath as a residence for themselves.
Jane was still able to enjoy the gay watering-place with
the keen appetite of a country-bred girl, and it is these
vivid reminiscences which she transfers to the pages of
“Northanger Abbey,” while she reserves the much
more sober, rather adverse estimate of later years for
the concluding chapters of “Persuasion.” One of these
cousins, Jane Austen’s dear friend and namesake, was
married from her uncle’s house at Steventon to a captain
in the navy, under whom Charles Austen served. A few
years afterwards, this favourite cousin was suddenly
killed in a carriage accident.</p>

<p>Another cousin had been brought up in Paris, and
had married a Count de Feuillade, who was guillotined
during the French Revolution. His widow escaped
through many perils, took refuge in her uncle’s parsonage
of Steventon, and ended by marrying her cousin
Henry Austen, with whom she went to France, during
the short Peace of Amiens, in 1802, and narrowly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>
escaped being detained among the unfortunate English
prisoners of war, by Napoleon.</p>

<p>Thus the quiet Hampshire parsonage was not entirely
without its excitements, in addition to the arrivals
and departures of its sailor sons, the naval battles and
sieges in which they were engaged, the ship-intelligence
which was always eagerly scanned on their behalf.
Had the future author been so disposed, she might have
found in the conversation and adventures of her cousin
and sister-in-law materials for novels which would have
been more to the taste of a large section of the public
than Jane Austen’s perfect tales. As it was, the chief
immediate results of the young widowed countess’s stay
at Steventon, when Jane Austen was just entering on
her teens, were the improvement of the family French,
and the performance of amateur theatricals in a summer
theatre in the barn and a winter theatre in the little
dining-room. Out of these theatricals Jane Austen
made stock for “Mansfield Park,” in which, by the
way, she infers decided disapproval of the amusement.
Whether or not the real theatricals led to the attachment
and engagement of Henry Austen and Madame
de Feuillade we may conjecture, but cannot ascertain
from Mr. Austen Leigh’s narrative.</p>

<p>Jane Austen’s biographer writes of the Austens’ long
stay at Steventon as having remained unshadowed by
any serious family misfortune or death. But one great
disaster, which, though it did not concern Jane directly,
touched her nearly, befell a member of the family.
Cassandra Austen, more regularly beautiful than Jane,
wise for her years, and good, was engaged to be married
to a young clergyman who had a prospect of early
preferment from a nobleman, his relative and friend.
The two men went together to the West Indies, the
one to act for a time as chaplain to the regiment of
the other. Very soon the chaplain died of yellow fever.
The melancholy news, descending like a thunderbolt on
the cheerful Hampshire parsonage, brought great grief
to Cassandra Austen, and Jane was certain to suffer
with her sister.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>In person Jane Austen seems to have borne considerable
resemblance to her two favourite heroines,
Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse. Jane, too,
was tall and slender, a brunette, with a rich colour—altogether
“the picture of health” which Emma Woodhouse
was said to be. In minor points, Jane Austen
had a well-formed though somewhat small nose and
mouth, round as well as rosy cheeks, bright hazel eyes,
and brown hair, falling in natural curls about her face.</p>

<p>With regard to her knowledge and accomplishments,
Jane Austen was well acquainted with the English
history and literature of her day. When very young
she was an ardent partisan of Mary, Queen of Scots, and
Charles I., though one may be tolerably sure she modified
her views in later years. She read the Queen
Anne essayists and their followers. She was a warm
admirer of the works of Johnson, Crabbe, and Cowper.
Of Crabbe she said jestingly, in reference to the
author—not the man, whom she had not seen—that
if she ever married at all she could fancy herself Mrs.
Crabbe. She knew Richardson’s novels almost by
heart. She had great pleasure in Sir Walter Scott’s
poetry. Of his novels, only “Waverley,” “Guy Mannering,”
and “The Antiquary” had come out before
her death. She has expressed more than once in her
tales her lively appreciation of the novels of Mrs.
Radcliffe, Madame d’Arblay, and Miss Edgeworth.</p>

<p>As to foreign languages and literature, Jane Austen
had a considerable knowledge of French, and a slight
acquaintance with Italian. In music she could play
and sing pleasantly, with much the same degree of
proficiency that she attributed to Elizabeth Bennet
and Emma Woodhouse. Jane was accustomed to
practise her music before breakfast, with the laudable
purpose of not disturbing other members of the family<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>
less musically inclined. She would sing of an evening,
when required, simple old songs to her own accompaniment.
She was fond of dancing, and danced very
well, like several of her own heroines, and like her
sister-author, Anna Maria Porter.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was exceedingly neat-handed, with a
quick eye and a firm grasp. Her handwriting was at
once strong and fine, as well as very legible,<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I should
say, in broad contrast to what may be called the
Italian hand—an overflow of characterless elegance
which belonged to the generation. She sewed and
embroidered, as she did everything else, with exquisite
finish. She was great in satin-stitch. She spent much
of her time in sewing—not being above making her
own clothes, as well as those of the poor. She was
an adept in any of the old-fashioned games founded on
dexterity of hand, such as spillikins, and cup and ball.
She liked to play at such games when unable to read
and write long at a time, from weakness and weariness
in those bright, searching eyes of hers.</p>

<p>The great novelist was very fond of children, and
much beloved by them, like Anna Maria Porter again.
She could tell no end of fairy stories, was the make-believe
visitor in the children’s make-believe houses, and
readily improvised for her young listeners’ benefit.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was not without suitors, whom her independent
spirit, absorption in her family, and quiet
reserve could not repel. Her descendants were aware
of addresses paid to her by one gentleman who had
every recommendation of character, connections, and
position, to whom nothing was wanting save the lady’s
favour. There is also the lingering recollection of a
sorrowful little romance, bearing a resemblance to that
of her sister Cassandra, in connection with the brilliant,
witty, successful author. It was told by Cassandra
Austen to her young relatives long after Jane’s death.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>
The two girls, while spending some weeks during their
youth at a seaside place, became acquainted with a
gentleman whose attractions of person, mind, and
manners made even Cassandra think him worthy of
Jane, and likely to win her. When the young people
parted, the new friend expressed his intention of soon
seeing the sisters again, and Cassandra at least had no
doubt of his motives; but the second meeting never took
place. The sisters heard, not long afterwards, of the
gentleman’s sudden death, and with him perished, in
Cassandra Austen’s opinion, her sister Jane’s solitary,
short love-dream.</p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>Jane Austen wrote stories, in addition to all manner
of quips and cranks, impromptu verses, and mocking
stanzas, from her childhood upwards. In admitting the
childish practice, after she was a middle-aged woman,
she called it an innocent amusement, but a waste of
time which, as she had found to her regret, might have
been more profitably employed. She had accumulated
numerous copies, full of such stories—for the most part
burlesques of the melodramatic extravagances of other
writers—by the time she was sixteen. The published
story which is nearest to this style is “Northanger
Abbey.” She seems to have completed two stories,
which were not parodies, between the age of sixteen and
twenty. Both of these were in the old-fashioned form
of letters. One of them she re-wrote, in another shape,
and it was ultimately published under the title of
“Sense and Sensibility.” The other, “Lady Susan,”
was only published along with the little memoir of the
author, nine years ago.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p>

<p>Two among her masterpieces were written between
her twenty-first and twenty-third years. “Pride and
Prejudice,” named originally “First Impressions,”
was written in ten months, between 1796 and 1797;
“Sense and Sensibility,” the reproduction from the
earlier story, in letters, called “Ellinor and Marianne,”
occupied the author between 1797 and 1798; but
“Northanger Abbey,” which holds a place beside
“Pride and Prejudice,” was written also in 1798.</p>

<p>Jane Austen wrote with the knowledge and approval
of her father and mother and the rest of her family.
There is still in existence a letter written by Mr. Austen
and addressed to Mr. Cadell, in November, 1797, immediately
after the completion of “Pride and Prejudice.”
The father simply states that he has in his possession
a MS. novel in three volumes, about the length of
Miss Burney’s “Evelina.” He asks whether Mr. Cadell
would choose to be concerned in bringing it out, what
would be the expense of publishing if at the author’s
risk, and what the publisher would venture to advance
for the copyright if, on perusal, it was approved of.</p>

<p>The proposal was declined by return of post, more
from excess of caution than from erring criticism, since
the MS. was never in the publisher’s hands. It is
almost needless to say that the rejected novel has been
considered the best, as it is unquestionably among the
best, of English novels.</p>

<p>“Pride and Prejudice” was not published till sixteen
years after it had been composed; “Sense and Sensibility,”
the first published of Jane Austen’s novels, not
for thirteen years after the first time it was re-written.
“Northanger Abbey” was the first sold of these earlier
novels, but it cannot be considered more lucky than its
predecessors. Its fate was, if possible, still more mortifying.
It was disposed of to a publisher in Bath for
the modest sum of ten pounds, five years after it was
written, and two years before the death of Jane Austen’s
father. It lay ignominiously in a drawer in the shop of
its purchaser for many years. At last it was bought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>
back for the sum originally given, by one of the author’s
brothers, who, when the transaction was finished, triumphantly
informed the dilatory publisher that he had
just re-sold a work by the well-known author of “Pride
and Prejudice.” “Northanger Abbey,” on which Lord
Macaulay set such store, was not brought out till 1818,
after Jane Austen’s death, when it appeared together
with her last story, “Persuasion,” just twenty years
from the date at which the former novel was written.
Surely, few young authors have had to suffer greater
and more prolonged disappointment in finding a
publisher and a public. The experience may serve as
a consolation to all struggling literary aspirants. On
the other hand we may seek generation after generation
of authors doomed to obscurity, temporary or permanent,
before we find another Jane Austen. Of a
nephew and a niece of the author’s who took to youthful
novel-writing in their aunt’s lifetime, and received
all indulgence and encouragement from their kinswoman,
it is recorded that neither of their novels ever saw the
light; yet we might have said of them that they had
novel-writing in the blood. One of them wrote with
the inspiring association of dwelling in Steventon Parsonage,
the other received invaluable hints and suggestions
from a mistress of her art; but it was all of no
avail.</p>

<p>It is said that Jane Austen bore her early literary
disappointments very philosophically. She did not write
for money; her father was in easy circumstances. She
might not then anticipate fame—though she was far
from undervaluing her powers—and she did not over-rate
the worth of a literary reputation; still I can scarcely
comprehend the equanimity of a very young woman
remaining entirely unshaken by the unbroken train of
undeserved failures and rebuffs. There is one thing
that I feel sure Jane Austen must have grieved for:—her
father, who had superintended her education,
and taken a fatherly interest in her first attempts
at authorship, did not live to see the faint dawn of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>
the success which, though it came late, has proved
ample.</p>

<p>Before quitting the subject of the novelist’s youth at
Steventon, I should like to say a word on the influences
already referred to, which I believe affected her as a
woman and an author. During her whole life she
remained to a great extent engrossed by the interests of
her family and their limited circle of old and intimate
friends. This was as it should be—so far, but there may
be too much of a good thing. The tendency of strictly
restricted family parties and sets—when their members
are above small bickerings and squabblings—when they
are really superior people in every sense, is to form
“mutual admiration” societies, and neither does this
more respectable and amiable weakness act beneficially
upon its victims. In the incessant intercourse between
the Great House and Upper Cross Cottage in “Persuasion,”
we have an example, under Jane Austen’s own
hand, of the evils of such constant communication among
people of inferior understanding and intelligence. If
we look nearer home, we may have a glimpse of disadvantages
of a different sort, attendant on what Scotch
people call “clannishness” in a higher region. Good
as Jane Austen was, there is a certain spirit of exclusiveness,
intolerance, condescension, and what may be
classed as refined family selfishness, in the attitude which
she, the happy member of a large and united family,
distinguished by many estimable qualities, assumed to
the world without. She was independent of it to a large
extent for social intercourse; and so she told it candidly,
and just a little haughtily—forgetting, for the most
part, the wants of less favoured individuals—that she
needed nothing from it.</p>

<p>Fondly loved and remembered as Jane Austen has
been, with much reason, among her own people, in
their considerable ramifications, I cannot imagine her as
greatly liked, or even regarded with anything save some
amount of prejudice, out of the immediate circle of her
friends, and in general society. I hope I may not be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>
misunderstood. I do not mean that the novelist was
other than an excellent woman, pre-eminently a gentlewoman.
What I mean is, that she allowed her interests
and sympathies to become narrow, even for her day,
and that her tender charity not only began, but ended,
in a large measure, at home. No doubt I am alluding
to the characteristics of a generation and class, which
showed themselves, in a marked manner, in the repugnance
with which other intellectual gentlewomen
shrank from acknowledging the profession of authorship,
with its obligations, no less than its privileges, as if it
involved a degradation—something distinctly injurious to
them, both as women and gentlewomen. Fanny Burney,
on the other hand, was brought up among artists of every
description, which, perhaps, accounts for the transparent
literary vanity which forms so broad a contrast to the
shyness—often equally self-conscious—of her sister-authors.
But the whole bent of Jane Austen’s disposition
and rearing seem to point in the contrary
direction.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was the clear-sighted girl with the
sharp pen, if not the sharp tongue, who found in
the Steventon visiting-list materials for the <i>dramatis
personæ</i> of “Pride and Prejudice.” It would have
been little short of a miracle if she could have conducted
herself with such meekness, in her remote rural
world, or during the visits she paid to the great English
watering-place—while she was all the time laughing in
her sleeve—so as not to provoke any suspicion of her
satire, or any resentment at what might easily be held her
presumption.</p>

<p>We may grant fully that Jane Austen was far too
good an artist to make absolute copies from real persons
to figure in the pages of her books, and too good a
woman not to regard such a practice as a breach of
social honour and propriety. But we all know how
human beings—especially the duller among us, distrust
and dislike being turned into ridicule. “A chiel
amang us takin’ notes” is not half so offensive as an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>
audacious boy or girl convicted of taking us off, whether
behind our backs or to our faces. I do not mean to
infer that Miss Austen at any age was guilty of the
mean and disloyal practice called “drawing out people”
until they expose their weakness, and then making
game of the weaknesses, whether in the victim’s company
or out of it. I have it on excellent authority that,
however thoroughly she was able to sympathise with
the witty repartees of two of her favourite heroines, in
general company she herself was shy and silent; even
in more familiar circles she was innocent of speaking
sharp words, and was rather distinguished for her
tolerant indulgence to her fellow-creatures, than for her
hard judgments on them. The tolerance belonged, by
right, to her breadth of comprehension, and to the
humour which still more than wit characterised her
genius. The suggestion I make is that, seeing her
neighbours’ foibles, as she certainly did see them, she
could not, however generously she might use her
superior knowledge, conceal it altogether from her
neighbours, and this was less likely to be the case
when she was a young girl with some share, presumably,
of the thoughtlessness and rashness of other
girls, than when she was a mature woman, with the
wisdom and gentleness of experience. I have pointed
out the softened as well as the more serious tone of
her later novels, the difference, for instance, between
“Northanger Abbey” and “Persuasion.” But who is
to guess that the boy or the girl is to turn out a great
novelist and humourist, whose genius is a fire in the
bones, and an excuse for a hundred liberties?</p>

<p>As an author, in the few letters that have been
preserved in which we have Jane Austen’s private
feelings on the subject of her novels frankly written
to her family and friends, she gives one the impression
of having always found herself the queen of her company:
never in an arrogant, vulgar way; on the contrary,
with a sweet playfulness and gracious kindness
to those who were closely allied to her by kindred,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>
blood, and the ties of friendship; but all the same she
reigned queen. She might come down from her throne
and defer to her elder sister Cassandra, or to any
other relative, but her sceptre was still in her hand.
I do not draw inferences merely from Jane Austen’s
hearty, undissembled appreciation of her own work, and
her distinct perception, freely announced, of its superior
claims; doubtless that was inevitable to such a woman
as she was, in the circumstances in which she found
herself. It is in the whole assured tone of the half-jesting
criticism; the half-pretended impatience that
any new great novelist should enter the lists; the
total absence—as in the case of Mrs. Radcliffe—of any
natural desire to know and be known by her fellow-writers,
to measure herself in familiar intercourse with
them, above all, to give and receive sympathy.</p>

<p>Of course these peculiarities in the individual woman
were not enough to hinder her from admiring at a
distance, and occasionally generously proclaiming the admiration
for, some of her contemporaries. I am bound
also, in fairness, to add to my own impressions that it remained
the firm persuasion of Jane Austen’s biographer
that she was as far as possible from being censorious and
satirical. With regard to the censoriousness, I agree
perfectly with this witness; but as to the satire, I must
bring forward the opposite and impartial testimony of
her own writings. Jane Austen was on the whole more
humorous than satirical, yet in the earlier novels the
satire is prominent. I can give far more unqualified
credence to the statement that, while her unusually quick
sense of the ridiculous led her to play with all the
common-places of every-day life—whether as regarded
persons or things—she never played with its serious
duties or responsibilities.</p>

<p>With all her neighbours in the village—her humbler
neighbours, I suppose—Mr. Austen Leigh says she was
on friendly though not on intimate terms, “She took
a kindly interest in all their proceedings, and liked to
hear about them. They often served for her amusement,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>
but it was her own nonsense that gave zest to
the gossip.” The last is a nice distinction, hardly likely
to be understood by the neighbours over whose affairs
she laughed.</p>

<p>That Jane Austen, with her singular Shakespeare-like
sympathy in little, her power of putting herself in
another’s place, could not help feeling both interested
and entertained by the proceedings of the fellow-creatures
around her, I can easily believe. What I
doubt is that she who turned those simple souls, and
the incidents of their lives, inside out, for her mingled
instruction and diversion, could altogether conceal the
process, or render it palatable to the subjects of the
operation.</p>

<p>It was the conviction of the Austen family that
Jane’s occupation as a novel writer continued long
unsuspected by her ordinary acquaintances and neighbours.
That may have been, but we cannot imagine
that her close study of the characters around her, with
her shrewd, humorous conclusions—so extraordinary at
the age at which she began to make them—could have
been either quite unperceived or wholly approved of by
her associates.</p>

<p>There are one or two of Jane Austen’s letters from
Steventon published in her memoir. They are bright,
chatty letters, not far removed from those which any
merry-hearted, clever girl might have written. They
deal entirely with domestic and local details. The
arrival of a set of tables, with which everybody, for a
wonder, was pleased; a great November storm, that
made havoc among the Parsonage trees; an accident to
a neighbour’s son; an anticipated ball; the fact that Jane
was then reading Hume’s “History of England,” form
the topics. As there is no continuity, either in the letters
or the narrative, of which such incidents might supply
a part, they fall vaguely and flatly on the reader. The
most interesting paragraphs are those which refer to the
absent sailor brothers, and the eagerness of the mother
and sisters to hear stray news of them, or to forward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>
letters to them, and procure answering letters by the
chances of coming and going ships. There is one
passage which tallies with the details of a gift made
in “Mansfield Park”:—“Charles has received thirty
pounds for his share of the privateer, and expects ten
pounds more; but of what avail is it to take prizes if
he lays out the produce in presents to his sisters? He
has been buying gold chains and topaz crosses for us.
He must be well scolded.... I shall write again
by this post to thank and reproach him. We shall be
unbearably fine.”</p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>During an absence from home on Jane Austen’s
part, it was settled, before she knew, that her father, who
at the age of seventy had resigned his living of
Steventon to his son James, should remove with his wife
and daughters to Bath. However much Jane may have
felt the fascination of her girlish visits to Bath, she did
not approve of it as a place of residence in her more
mature womanhood. We are reminded of a sentence in
“Persuasion” where the author remarks drily Anne
Elliot did not like Bath; fancied it disagreed with her;
would have preferred any other place; therefore, to
Bath, as a matter of course, the family went. So much
for the unpropitiousness of events.</p>

<p>The Austens went to Bath in 1801, when Jane was
twenty-six years of age. The family resided first at
No. 4, Sydney Terrace, and later at Green Park Buildings.
An attraction to Bath, suggested by Mr. Austen
Leigh, is that Mrs. Austen’s only brother, Mr. Leigh
Perrot,<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> with his wife, was in the habit of spending his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>
time between Bath and his place of Scarletts. Like
his uncle, the Master of Balliol, Mr. Leigh Perrot was a
witty man, and some of his epigrams and riddles, in
which he must have far outshone Mr. Woodhouse, found
their way, among other morsels, into print. The
Austens, with their strong family proclivities, were
much with the Leigh Perrots.</p>

<p>Jane was still young, pretty, and cheerful enough
to enter with a fair proportion of enjoyment into the
gaieties of the place. She had given up writing, in a
great measure, since she was three or four and twenty,
whether chilled by her lack of success or distracted by
other engagements and amusements. However, it is
thought that it was during her stay in Bath she wrote
several chapters of an unfinished novel called “The
Watsons,” which, unlike the youthful performance,
“Lady Susan,” published along with these chapters in
the same volume with the memoir, bear a strong flavour
of Jane Austen in her sagacity and banter.</p>

<p>She may have been inspirited to the effort by the
sale, though for so small a sum, of the MS. of
“Northanger Abbey,” which happened two years after
she came to Bath, when she was twenty-eight years of
age. We know the sale proved fruitless, so far as
speedy publication was concerned, but the mortifying
conclusion could not have been foreseen, and the sale
of one of her novels for ten pounds was Jane Austen’s
first faint gleam of good fortune in authorship, the only
one which visited her during her father’s lifetime.</p>

<p>The Austens remained at Bath about four years.
In their last autumn there, the autumn of 1804, Jane,
with her father and mother, spent some weeks at the
lovely sea-bathing place of Lyme, which she admired so
much, and has immortalised in “Persuasion.” We cannot
avoid being struck by the small number of the
opportunities which Jane Austen had of seeing the
world, and by the great use she made of them. Her
journeyings were not so very much more extensive than
those of the Vicar of Wakefield and his wife in the days<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>
of their prosperity, but they were sufficient for her to
avail herself of them for the information and delight of
her fellow-creatures. It is not the amount of what we
see, but the eyes with which we see it, that signifies.</p>

<p>In the following spring, that of 1805, the Rev.
George Austen died at Bath. His widow and daughters
then removed to Southampton—drawn to its society
very likely by the sailor Austens—and there they stayed
for four more years. Mrs. Austen occupied a large
old-fashioned house in a corner of Castle Square. The
house had a pleasant garden, bounded on one side by
the old city wall. A flight of steps led to the top of
the wall, which formed a walk with an extensive view
of sea and land.</p>


<h3>V.</h3>

<p>In 1809 the Austens made their last removal. It
was back to the country—of which Jane always
makes her heroines fond—back to the old neighbourhood
of Steventon, her birth-place. Edward Knight
offered his mother a choice of two houses—the one on
his estate in Kent, the other on his estate in Hampshire.
She selected the house in Hampshire, Chawton Cottage,
near the squire’s occasional home, Chawton House.</p>

<p>Chawton Cottage, in the village of the same name,
was not originally a farm house, like Upper Cross
Cottage, in “Persuasion;” it had been intended for an
inn. Indeed, it stood so close to the high road on which
the front door opened, that a very narrow enclosure
“paled” in on each side had been necessary to protect
the building from the danger of collision with runaway
vehicles. In addition to the Gosport Road in front, the
Winchester Road skirted the house on one side, so that
it could not be regarded as a secluded habitation, but in
those days cheerfulness was more prized than seclusion.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>
There was a large pond close to Chawton Cottage, at
the junction of the two public roads. Happily the
theory which connects insalubrity with such ponds had
not yet been aired, so that to the Austens, no doubt,
Chawton pond was a very desirable sheet of water,
tending still more to enhance the attractions of the
scene. They would not much mind the duckweed and
other slimy vegetation. Horses and donkeys, ducks
and geese, would disport themselves there in summer.
In winter village sliders would bestow animation on
the ice.</p>

<p>The squire added to the house, and contrived some
judicious planting and screening. A good-sized entrance
and two sitting-rooms were managed. In the drawing-room
a window which looked to the Gosport Road was
blocked up and turned into a bookcase, and another
window was opened out and made to command only turf
and trees, for a high wooden fence and a hornbeam
hedge shut out the Winchester Road. Here was a little
bit of genteel privacy. A shrubbery was carried round
the enclosure, which Mr. Austen Leigh tells us gave a
sufficient space for “ladies’ exercise,” though we cannot
help thinking the exercise-ground must have been rather
limited for the middle-aged women.</p>

<p>However, there was a pleasant irregular mixture of
hedgerow, gravel-walk, and orchard, with grass for
mowing, made by two or three little enclosures having
been thrown together. As it happened, walking had to
be relinquished before many years by the younger sister,
and Jane Austen, as well as her mother, had to resort to
a donkey-carriage for exercise.</p>

<p>Altogether Chawton Cottage was “quite as good as
the generality of parsonages, and nearly in the same
style.” It was capable of receiving other members of
the family as frequent visitors. In this respect it must
have contrasted favourably in Jane’s mind with the
cottage in which she had established Ellinor and
Marianne Dashwood with their mother, in “Sense and
Sensibility.” Chawton Cottage was sufficiently well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>
furnished.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> Altogether it formed a comfortable and
“lady-like” establishment for a family of ladies whose
means were not large. To Jane Austen it was her own
house, among her own people, points which meant a
great deal to her. Besides, she was a woman possessed
at once of too much self-respect and self-resource, and of
too serene a spirit and lively a temper to care much either
for outward show or interior luxury.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was thirty-four years of age when she
settled down at Chawton, her sister Cassandra was
thirty-seven, their mother seventy. They were a household
of old and middle-aged women, increased either
then or a little later by a family connection—a Miss
Lloyd—who lived with the Austens. Their prospects
were as clearly defined as earthly prospects could well
be, and they accepted the definition. Jane Austen was
never seen without a cap, either in the morning or
the evening, after she went to Chawton. The Austen
sisters assumed early the caps which were then the mark
of matronhood or confirmed spinsterhood. Possibly
Cassandra Austen first adopted the badge as a quiet sign
that she wished to have nothing more to do with love
and marriage, and Jane bore her faithful company in
this as in everything else. Mr. Austen Leigh mentions
also—and every trifle is welcome which bears on the
novelist’s character and habits—it was held that his
aunts, though remarkably neat in their dress, as in all
their ways, were not sufficiently attentive to the fashionable
or the becoming. In short, Jane and Cassandra
Austen, though they had been the young beauties of
Steventon in their time, entertained no fear of being
styled dowdies or frights in their middle age, whether
by their young relatives or the “dressy” among their
contemporaries.</p>

<p>The Austens dwelt in the centre of family interests,
several members of the old Steventon household living<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>
near, while a younger generation was growing up, with
fresh claims on the affectionate sympathies of their
grandmother and aunts. In her family and among her
old friends Jane Austen was unsurpassed as a tender
sick-nurse, an untiring confidante, and a wise counsellor.</p>

<p>In these congenial circumstances it seemed as if a
fresh spring of courage and hopefulness, and with them
renewed inspiration in her art, came to the author.
She began the very year of her arrival at Chawton to
revise and prepare her old MSS. for publication. She
had found a publisher in a Mr. Egerton, and she brought
out in succession two novels—the first, “Sense and Sensibility,”
when she was thirty-six years of age, in 1811,
fourteen or fifteen years after it was re-written at
Steventon. She got for it, though after how short or
long an interval, or by what arrangement, we are not
told, a hundred and fifty pounds. In her gay way she
exclaimed at so large a reward for what had cost her
nothing—nothing save genius, ungrudging trouble, and
long patience. “Pride and Prejudice” was published
two years later, in 1813.</p>

<p>In the meantime Jane Austen began fresh work, for
“Mansfield Park” was commenced the year before.
She had no separate study; she worked in the family
sitting-room, undisturbed by the conversation, or the
various occupations going on around her, and subjected
to all kinds of interruptions. She wrote at a little
mahogany writing-desk, on small pieces of paper, which
could be easily put aside, or covered with blotting-paper
at the sight of visitors. But it would be a great
mistake to suppose that she did not take the greatest
pains with her work. She wrote and re-wrote, filed and
polished; her own comparison for the process was
painting on a few inches of ivory by repeated touches.</p>

<p>“Pride and Prejudice” attracted attention before long.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span><a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a>
When the secret of the authorship became known,
in spite of the author’s name being omitted on
the title-page, Jane Austen’s experience was that
of a prophet who has no honour in his own country.
Mr. Austen Leigh says that any praise which reached
the author and her family from their neighbours and
acquaintances was of the mildest description, and that
those excellent people would have considered Miss
Jane’s relatives mad if it had been suspected that they
put her, in their own minds, on a level with Madame
d’Arblay or even with far inferior writers. A letter is
given in which the novelist describes to her sister
Cassandra in the liveliest terms her feelings on seeing
“Pride and Prejudice” in print. She had got her own
darling child from London. The advertisement of it
had appeared in their paper that day for the first time.
Eighteen shillings! She should ask a guinea for her
two next, and twenty-eight shillings for her stupidest
of all.</p>

<p>A friend who was not in the secret had dined at
Chawton Cottage on the very day of the book’s coming,
and in the evening the family had fairly set to it and
read half the first volume to her without her having any
suspicion. “She was amused, poor soul!” observes the
author, and then adds, with admirable <i>naïveté</i>, “<i>That</i>
she could not help, you know, with two such characters
to lead the way, but she really does seem to admire
Elizabeth. I must confess that I think her as delightful
a creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shall
be able to tolerate those who do not like <i>her</i> at least, I
do not know.”</p>

<p>In another letter Jane Austen refers to the second
reading, which had not come off quite so well, and had
even caused her some fits of disgust. She attributed the
comparative failure to the rapid way in which her mother,
who seemed to have been the reader, got on, and to her
not being able to speak as the characters ought, though
she understood them perfectly. When we recollect that
the old lady was already seventy-four years of age, we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>
are rather astonished that she found voice and breath for
such a labour of love as reading aloud her daughter’s
novel, than that she was not able to give the dialogue
with sufficient point. Upon the whole, the daughter
winds up, she was quite vain enough and well satisfied
enough, and the only fault which she found with her
story was that it was rather too light, and bright, and
sparkling; it wanted to be stretched here and there with
a long chapter of sense, if it could be had, if not of
solemn specious nonsense. Unquestionably the novelist
was not plagued with diffidence, any more than with
mock-modesty.</p>

<p>In the same letter she refers to an out-of-the-way
book for a woman to read, with which she was then
engaged; it was an “Essay on the Military Police,
and Institutions of the British Empire, by Captain
Pasley, of the Engineers.” She declared it was delightfully
written, and highly entertaining, and that
the author was the first soldier she had ever sighed for.
The last assertion reminds one of Jane Austen’s strong
preference for the sister service, which may be best
explained by the circumstance that she had two brothers
in the navy, and none in the army. Her heroes are
squires, clergymen, and sailors, just as the male Austens
were. She uses their Christian names, James, Henry,
Frank, Edward, as well as her own. Her sister’s name
was too singular and conspicuous to be thus employed.</p>

<p>Another letter a year later, in 1814, supplies an
account of a journey which Jane Austen made “post”
to London, in company with her brother Henry, who
read the MS. of “Mansfield Park” by the way. It
sounds as if the brother and sister were themselves the
bearers of the new work to the publisher, who brought
it out the same year.</p>

<p>“Emma,” the heroine of which proved almost as
great a favourite as Elizabeth Bennet with their author,
was written and published two years later, in 1816. It
was in connection with this, the last book of hers which
Jane Austen lived to see come out, that she received<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>
what her nephew calls the only mark of distinction
ever bestowed upon her. She was in London during
the previous autumn of 1815, the year of Waterloo,
nursing her brother Henry through a dangerous illness,
in his house in Hans Place. Henry Austen was attended
by one of the Prince Regent’s physicians. To
this gentleman it became known that his patient’s nurse
was the author of “Pride and Prejudice.” The court
physician told the lady that the Prince was a great
admirer of her novels; that he read them often, and
kept a set in every one of his residences; that he himself
had thought it right to inform his royal highness
that Miss Austen was staying in London, and that the
Prince had desired Mr. Clarke, the librarian at Carlton
House, to wait upon her.</p>

<p>The next day Mr. Clarke made his appearance and
invited Jane Austen to Carlton House, saying that he
had the Prince’s instructions to show her the library,<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>
and other apartments, and to pay her every possible
attention. The invitation was of course accepted, and
in the course of the visit to Carlton House Mr. Clarke
declared himself commissioned to say that if Miss
Austen had any other novel forthcoming, she was at
liberty to dedicate it to the Prince. Accordingly, such
a dedication was immediately prefixed to “Emma,”
which was at that time in John Murray’s hands.</p>

<p>The first part of the civility, the invitation to Carlton
House, was a gracious enough mark of attention from
the first gentleman in Europe to the first lady novelist
in his kingdom; but at this distance of time, in the
full light enjoyed by posterity, it seems passing strange
that two such women as Jane Austen and Jane Porter—equal
in moral worth, though standing on very different
intellectual heights—should have eagerly availed themselves
of the permission to dedicate books to George IV.,
though he had been ten times the Prince Regent, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>
the future king. And what is if possible stranger, is
that the Prince Regent should have been, even professedly,
an admiring, assiduous reader of the novels—altogether
apart in literary merit, but alike in good tone
and taste—of these two upright and blameless women.
The fact is enough to tempt people to a disheartening
doubt of the moral influence of books.</p>

<p>As a qualification to the pleasure derived from the
princely compliment, Jane Austen had to suffer the
annoyance of receiving and declining to comply with
two rather preposterous suggestions offered to her by
Mr. Clarke. The one was for her to pourtray the habits
of life, character, and enthusiasm of a clergyman who
should pass his time between London and the country,
and who should bear some resemblance to Beattie’s
Minstrel.</p>

<p>In a letter in which she thanks her correspondent
for his praise of her novels, and expresses her anxiety
that her fourth work might not disgrace what was good
in the others, remarking she was haunted by the idea
that the readers who have preferred “Pride and Prejudice”
will think “Emma” inferior in wit; and those
who have preferred “Mansfield Park” will consider the
present novel deficient in sense, she demurely puts aside
Mr. Clarke’s hint for her next story, on the plea that,
though she might be equal to the comic part of it, the
learned side of the clergyman would demand a classic
education and an amount of acquaintance with ancient
and modern literature that was far beyond her. Perhaps
in self-defence from similar assaults, she concludes by
boasting herself, “with all possible vanity, the most
unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be
an authoress.”</p>

<p>But the irrepressible Mr. Clarke was not to be deterred
from his purpose of advising the novelist as to
the direction of her talents. His second piece of advice
was more startling and incongruous than his first.
Prince Leopold was then on the eve of his marriage
with Princess Charlotte. Mr. Clarke had had the good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>
fortune to be appointed Chaplain and private English
Secretary to the Prince. The clergyman might have
had a generous desire that another clergyman’s daughter
should have the chance of sharing his good luck and
assurance of preferment. Or he might have had a wish
to procure a compliment for his last princely patron, and
might have believed it was specially due from Jane
Austen as a small return for the notice which the
Prince Regent had condescended to take of her and her
work. Mr. Clarke proposed that Miss Austen should
write an historical novel illustrative of the august house
of Cobourg,<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> which would just then be very interesting,
and might very properly be dedicated to Prince Leopold.
The date of the proposal brings vividly before us the
deliberation with which public events were discussed in
those days. For a public event to be dealt with now-a-days
so as to take the tide of public interest at its height,
an author would require to be as much in advance of the
historical circumstance as publishers show themselves in
their anticipation of Christmas. It would be necessary,
in order that a novel founded on a royal marriage should
command readers, that the author should be taken into
what Mr. Clarke would have called the august confidence
of the principals at the very first step of the
negotiations, so that he might be able to bring out his
work within twelve hours of the ceremony.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was not so profoundly honoured by the
recommendation as Jane Porter felt when she set herself
to comply with a royal wish that she should commemorate
the first beginnings of the House of Brunswick.</p>

<p>After all, so-called historical novels were in Miss
Porter’s way and not in Miss Austen’s. Mr. Austen
Leigh speaks of the grave civility with which Jane
Austen refused to make such an attempt. It seems to
me that while she respectfully acknowledges the
courtesies of Carlton House, and readily responds with
answering friendliness to the friendly tone of Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>
Clarke’s communication, there is considerable impatience
and scorn in her merry but most decided dismissal
of his ridiculous project. Even to her congratulations
on his recent appointment she adds a sentence
which has a suspicion of irony in it. “In my opinion,”
she writes, “the service of a court can hardly be too
well paid, for immense must be the sacrifice of time and
feeling required by it.” She goes on to say, “You are
very kind in your hints as to the sort of composition
which might recommend me at present, and I am fully
sensible that an historical romance, founded on the House
of Saxe-Cobourg, might be much more to the purpose of
profit or popularity than such pictures of domestic life
in country villages as I deal in. But I could no more
write a romance than an epic poem. I could not sit
seriously down to write a serious romance under any
other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable
for me to keep it up, and never relax
into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure
I should be hung before I had finished the first chapter.
No; I must keep to my own style, and go on in my
own way; and though I may never succeed again in
that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any
other.”</p>

<p>There is an anecdote of Jane Austen which coincides
with her character, and has been widely circulated,
though it is not mentioned by Mr. Austen Leigh. If
it had a foundation in fact, it must have occurred
either during this visit to London or in the course of that
paid not long before. It is said that Miss Austen received
an invitation to a rout given by an aristocratic
couple with whom she was not previously acquainted.
The reason assigned for the invitation was, that the
author of “Pride and Prejudice” might be introduced
to the author of “Corinne.” Tradition has it that the
English novelist refused the invitation, saying, that to
no house where she was not asked as Jane Austen would
she go as the author of “Pride and Prejudice.”</p>

<p>The anecdote is often quoted with marks of admiration<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>
for the author’s independence. But even the most
honest and honourable independence has its becoming
limits. That of Jane Austen, ultra self-sufficing, fastidious,
tinged with haughtiness, is just a trifle repellant
out of that small circle in which she was always at
home.</p>

<p>Whether or not Madame de Staël was consulted
about the proposed meeting, she was not an admirer of
her sister author. The somewhat grandiloquent Frenchwoman
characterised the productions of that English
genius—which were the essence of common-sense—as
“<i>vulgaires</i>,” precisely what they were not.</p>

<p>Apparently, Jane Austen was not one whit more
accessible to English women of letters. There were
many of deserved repute in or near London at the dates
of these later visits. Not to speak of Mrs. Inchbald,<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>
whom her correspondent, warm-hearted Maria Edgeworth,
rejoiced to come to England and meet personally, there
were the two Porters, Joanna Baillie—at the representation
of whose fine play, <i>The Family Legend</i>, Sir Walter
Scott and Lord Byron had lately “assisted”—and the
veteran writer, Madame d’Arblay, whose creations were
the object of Jane Austen’s early and late admiration.
But we do not hear of a single overture towards acquaintance
between Miss Austen and these ladies, though her
work must have left as lively an impression on some
of their minds as theirs had done on hers. Men of
letters were no better known to her.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was destined to add only one more tale—and
that a short, if charming story—to the list of her
novels. In the course of 1816, she wrote “Persuasion,”
which is not merely very good, in her own style, but
possesses distinguishing excellences wanting in the
others.<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p>

<p>Between February, 1811, and August, 1816, rather
more than five years, Jane Austen wrote her three later
novels, “Mansfield Park,” “Emma,” and “Persuasion”—pendants,
as it were, to her three earlier works, “Pride
and Prejudice,” “Sense and Sensibility,” and “Northanger
Abbey,” belonging to 1796, ’97, and ’98—twenty
years before. The author’s second period of composition
was as productive as her first, if we take into consideration
that “Sense and Sensibility” was simply an adaptation
from a more juvenile story still.</p>

<p>Making allowance for the novelist’s strong individuality,
there is an undoubted change in the tone. There
are greater tolerance and tenderness especially noticeable
in “Persuasion”—more thoughtfulness and earnestness
in “Mansfield Park”—a perfection of composition which
belongs peculiarly to “Emma.” All the three novels
are distinguished by greater polish of the simple, vigorous
diction, and a still more determined adherence to probability.
The later novels may lack some amount of what
Jane Austen herself defined as the sparkle of “Pride and
Prejudice”—a sparkle which was often hard as well as
bright; but the notion of any falling-off in power in the
author would be absurd. There was an ample equivalent
for anything she might have lost in fresh spontaneousness
by what she had gained in reflection and feeling,
and in delicacy of execution.</p>


<h3>VI.</h3>

<p>The shadow of what proved a mortal illness was
already hanging over Jane Austen while she was working<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>
at “Persuasion,” and this circumstance may help to
account for a certain soft pensiveness in the book, in opposition
to the author’s earlier unbroken, often hard,
brilliance. But, as a proof that her high standard of literary
excellence, and the pains which she did not grudge
in order to attain it, had not abated, Mr. Austen Leigh
tells us that, having ended her novel, “Persuasion,” she
was dissatisfied with the close, and her dissatisfaction
preyed on her mind to such a degree as to affect her
usually cheerful spirits. She retired to bed one night
quite depressed, but rose next morning with renewed
energy and hope to make a fresh effort. She pulled
down what she had done so far as to cancel the chapter
containing the re-engagement of the hero and heroine,
which she had pronounced flat and tame. She wrote two
entirely new chapters—among the most delightful in the
book—in its place. Instead of reconciling the couple at
the Crofts’ lodgings, she brought the Musgroves and
Captain Harville to Bath, and we know the result. Any
one who has the least idea of the relief implied to a conscientious
artist in the conclusion of a long thought out,
long laboured at piece of work—the double relief when
bodily health and spirits have failed under the task—will
comprehend something of the devotion to her art and
concern for her reputation which compelled the novelist
thus to resume and re-construct her last scenes.</p>

<p>Struggling against illness as Jane Austen was from
the earlier stages of the internal disease which ultimately
proved fatal, in the January of 1817—the year in which
she died—she began another tale, and wrote on—in spite
of such bodily weakness that the last portions were first
traced in pencil, though the quantity continued as great
as twelve chapters in seven weeks—till the 17th of March,
two months before she left Chawton not to return, and
four months before her death. Mr. Austen Leigh mentions
some family troubles in the spring of 1816, which his
aunt took to heart, and which might have aggravated
her complaint. I do not know whether these had anything
to do with the persistent industry under adverse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>
circumstances; whether she might be anxious to contribute
her share still, as she had been doing within the last
few years, to the family income; or whether she might
be prompted feverishly to seek the distraction from other
cares afforded by mental work.</p>

<p>Certainly, those of Jane Austen’s letters which belong
to this date are as lively as ever, and wittier than in her
younger days. She wrote to a nephew in reference to
the weather that it was really too bad, and had been
too bad for a long time, much worse than any body
could bear, and she began to think it would never be
fine again. This was a <i>finesse</i> of hers, for she had
often observed that if anybody wrote about the weather
it was generally completely changed before the letter
was read. She chaffed the Winchester boy on having
first dated the letter from his father’s house at Steventon,
and then given the superfluous information that he
had returned home. She was glad that he had recollected
to mention his being come home. Her heart had
begun to sink within her when she had got so far
through his letter without its being mentioned. She
had been dreadfully afraid that he might have been
detained at Winchester by some illness—confined to his
bed, perhaps, and quite unable to hold a pen, and only
dating from Steventon in order, with a mistaken sort of
tenderness, to deceive her. But now she had no doubt
of his being at home, she was sure he would not have
said it so seriously unless it were so.</p>

<p>She changed the subject to describe countless post-chaises
full of Winchester boys passing the cottage on
their return home for their holidays—chaises full of
future heroes, legislators, fools, and villains. Before he
came to see his grandmother and aunts his mother must
get well, he must go to Oxford, and <i>not</i> be elected.
After that, a little change of scene might be good for
him, and his physicians, she hoped, would order him to
the sea, or to a house by the side of a very considerable
pond.</p>

<p>In another letter to the same correspondent, Jane<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>
Austen said that one reason of her writing was for the
pleasure of directing to the young fellow as Esquire.
She wished him joy on having left Winchester for good.
Now he might own how miserable he had been there;
now it would gradually all come out, his crimes and his
miseries: how often he had gone up by the mail to
London and thrown away fifty guineas at a tavern, and
how often he had been on the point of hanging himself,
restrained only, as some ill-natured person writing on
poor Winton had it, by the want of a tree within some
miles of the city.</p>

<p>This nephew, like one of the author’s nieces,
appears to have been perpetrating a boyish attempt at
a novel under the fascination of the favourite Aunt
Jane’s vocation. There was some delightful banter
from her on their common craft. After a brief allusion
to his Uncle Henry’s very superior sermons, she proceeded
to suggest that the budding novelist and herself
ought to get hold of one or two and put them into their
novels; it would be a fine help to a volume; they could
make their heroines read them aloud on a Sunday evening,
just as well as Isabella Wardlaw in the “Antiquary”<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> was
made to read the history of the Hartz demon in the ruins
of St. Ruth, though Jane believed on recollection Lovel
was the reader. She was quite concerned for the loss
the lad’s mother had mentioned in her letter. Two
chapters and a half to be missing was monstrous. It
was well that she had not been at Steventon lately, and
therefore could not be suspected of purloining them;
two strong twigs and a half towards a nest of her own
would have been something. She did not think, however,
that any theft of that sort would be really very
useful to her. What could she have done with his
strong, manly, vigorous sketches, full of variety and
glow? How could she possibly have joined them on to
the little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which she
worked with so fine a brush as produced little effect after
much labour?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p>
<p>Jane Austen’s disease increased gradually, while she
was spared much suffering. Her friends were not aware
how soon or how late she apprehended the serious nature
of her complaint. Her unselfishness and her buoyant
temper alike inclined her to make light of any illness.
An instance is given of her constant consideration for
those around her. In the usual sitting-room at Chawton
Cottage there was only one sofa, frequently occupied by
Mrs. Austen, then in her seventy-eighth year. Jane,
who was forced to lie down often, would never use the
sofa, even in her mother’s absence. She contrived a sort
of couch for herself with two or three chairs, and alleged
that the arrangement was much more comfortable to her
than a real sofa; but the importunity of a little niece
drew from the invalid the private explanation that she
believed if she herself had shown any inclination to use
the sofa, her mother might have scrupled being on it so
much as was good for her.</p>

<p>In a long letter to a friend, in the beginning of
1817, Jane wrote happily about herself, as having
certainly gained strength during the winter, and being
then not far from well. She thought she understood
her case better than she had done, and ascribed her
symptoms to biliousness, which could be kept off by
care. After various bits of family news she finished the
letter, then added in a postscript that the real object of
the epistle was to ask her friend for a recipe, but she had
thought it genteel not to let it appear early.</p>

<p>By April Jane Austen was seriously ill, and a young
niece who had walked over with an elder sister to inquire
for her aunt, received the impression of her as quite like
an invalid. She was in her dressing-gown, sitting in an
arm-chair, though she could get up and kindly greet the
visitors. She was very pale, her voice was weak and
low, and there was about her a general appearance of
debility and suffering. She was not equal to the
exertion of talking, and the visit of the nieces to the
sick room was a short one, their other aunt, Cassandra,
soon taking them away.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p>

<p>In the following month, May, Jane Austen was
induced to go to Winchester, to be near a skilful
doctor, who spoke encouragingly to his patient, but
who from the first entertained little expectation of a
permanent cure. She was accompanied by her life-long
friend and sister Cassandra. They could leave their
aged mother behind them with the friend and family
connection who made one of the household at Chawton
Cottage. Besides, Mrs. Austen was near several of her
children and grandchildren. In Winchester, where the
sisters had lodgings in the corner house in College
Street, at the entrance to Commoners, the Austens
had old and valued friends among the residents in
the Close. Still Jane wrote hopefully about herself
to the nephew to whom she appears to have been
so much attached. There was no better way of
thanking him for his affectionate concern for her
during her illness than by telling him herself, as soon
as possible, that she continued to get better. She
seems to have been aware of the change in her penmanship,
which struck him also, and hastened to
observe gaily that she would not boast of her handwriting:
neither that nor her face had yet recovered
their proper beauty, but in other respects she gained
strength very fast. She was then out of bed from
nine in the morning until ten at night—upon the sofa,
it was true, but she ate her meals with Aunt Cassandra
in a rational way, and could employ herself
and walk from one room to another. Mr. Lyford (the
surgeon) said he would cure her, and if he failed, she
would draw up a memorial to the Dean and Chapter,
and had no doubt of redress from that pious, learned,
and disinterested body. The sisters’ lodgings were very
comfortable. They had a neat little drawing-room
with a bow window, overlooking Dr. Gabell’s garden.
Thanks to the kindness of her correspondent’s father and
mother in sending her their carriage, her journey to
Winchester on Saturday had been performed with very
little fatigue, and had it been a fine day, she thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>
she would have felt none; but it had distressed her
much to see Uncle Henry and William Knight, who had
kindly attended them on horseback, riding in the rain
almost the whole way.</p>

<p>The cheerful letter ends solemnly: “God bless
you, my dear E——. If ever you are ill, may you be
as tenderly nursed as I have been. May the same
blessed alleviations of anxious sympathising friends be
yours; and may you possess, as I dare say you will,
the greatest blessing of all, in the consciousness of not
being unworthy of their love. <i>I</i> could not feel this.
Your very affectionate aunt, J. A.”</p>

<p>For amidst the sweet and jubilant sights and
sounds of an English May and June in the old grey
cathedral town, the great English novelist was fast
passing away. Jane Austen had always been a sweet-tempered,
contented woman, and all that was best and
noblest in her nature and her faith came out in the
patience, humility, and thankfulness with which she met
her last enemy. “I will only say farther,” are her
loving words, in one more letter, that “my dearest
sister, my tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse, has not
been made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe her,
and the anxious affection of all my beloved family on
this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray God to
bless them more and more.”</p>

<p>The sister who had lived together with Jane
in their home—who had been with her waking and
sleeping for forty-two years—who had served the little
girl as a model—who had held the office of the young
author’s sole confidante beforehand, as to her characters
and plots—who had rejoiced and suffered with her,
stood by and soothed Jane Austen’s death-bed; so did
a sister-in-law, to whom the dying woman said, almost
with her last breath, “You have always been a kind
sister to me, Mary.”</p>

<p>Two of her brothers, whom she had so cherished in
her faithful affection, both clergymen living near, were
frequently with her, administering the consolations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>
and services of their church, as well as testifying their
constant regard. She was fully acquainted with her
danger, though she continued hopeful. She had much
to bind her to life. “We may well believe,” Mr. Austen
Leigh writes, “that she would gladly have lived longer;
but she was enabled, without dismay or complaint, to
prepare for death. She was a humble, believing Christian.”
And she was strengthened to rule her spirit to
the last. Her sweetness of temper never failed. She
was always considerate of, and grateful to, those who
attended on her. At times, when she felt a little
better, the ruling spirit of playfulness revived, and she
amused her companions even in their sadness. She
sank rapidly in the end. On being asked whether there
was anything she wanted, her reply was, “Nothing but
death.” These were her parting words. In quietness
and peace, records Jane Austen’s nephew, she breathed
her last, on the morning of July 18th, 1817, at the age
of forty-two years. She was buried on the 24th of
July, in Winchester Cathedral, near the centre of the
north aisle, opposite the tomb of William of Wykeham.
A slab of black marble marks the place.<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p>

<p>The words with which Mr. Austen Leigh concludes
the memoir are full of simple pathos. “Her own
family only attended the funeral. Her sister returned
to her desolated home, there to devote herself to the
care of her aged mother, and to live much on the
memory of her lost sister, till called many years later
to rejoin her. Her brothers went back sorrowing to
their several homes. They were very fond and very
proud of her. They were attached to her by her
talents, her virtues, and her engaging manners; and
each loved afterwards to fancy a resemblance in some
niece or daughter of his own to the dear sister Jane,
whose perfect equal they yet never expected to see.”</p>

<p>Surely to be thus prized and mourned by her
nearest and dearest was beautiful and good—in one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>
sense best—while it need not have interfered with wider
interests and influences; and, doubtless, to be so cherished
was the meet reward of Jane Austen’s faithful performance
of the home duties from which no literary
career, however arduous and distinguished, absolved her,
and of her unswerving loyalty to the domestic affections
which form the inner citadel of all true natures. For
charity or love must always begin at home, and reign
paramount there, wherever it may end, though the extremities
of the earth may own its sway.</p>

<p>Jane Austen’s mother survived her ten years, dying
at the great age of eighty-eight. Cassandra Austen
lived nearly twenty years after her mother’s death,
nearly thirty years after the death of Jane, dying at the
age of seventy. On the death of Cassandra Austen,
Chawton Cottage was suffered to fall far down in the
social scale of houses: it was divided into tenements for
labourers. The rooms continued to be so used while
the walls were still standing, nine or ten years ago.</p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> My readers may remember the old church at Kellynch, which
was mentioned by Charles Musgrove as an apology to Captain Benwick
for visiting the village.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> We are reminded of the discussion on handwriting, and the
praise of Emma Woodhouse’s handwriting in “Emma.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> The members of the Austen and Leigh families seem to have been
much given to changing their names—sometimes acquiring estates in
the process. Thus we have Mr. Leigh Perrot, Mr. Knight (who
was originally Edward Austen), and at last Mr. Austen Leigh.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> There was a wise and really dignified moderation about people’s
ideas then. Is it to our honour to have departed so far from the contented
minds and simple habits of our predecessors?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> At the same time many popular lady novelists, including Miss
Edgeworth, Lady Morgan, the Miss Porters, and Mrs. Brunton, were
already in the field, and it was not immediately recognised, except
perhaps, by a few great men, that a queen of novelists had appeared
among them.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> It appears, however, to have been to her new publisher, Mr.
Murray, that Jane Austen was indebted for an early sight of the
books of the season, including “Paul’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Mr. Clarke’s tall language recalls the phrases of Mr. Collins in
“Pride and Prejudice.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> We have a single hint of Jane Austen’s delight in “a good
play.” She alludes with eager expectation, in one of her letters, to
her brother’s strenuous efforts to get tickets to hear Kean.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> “Persuasion” was published, together with “Northanger Abbey,”
by Mr. Murray, in 1818, the year after Jane Austen’s death. The
proceeds of her books which had fallen to her share in her lifetime were seven hundred pounds, but how the sum was apportioned to each
novel we are not told. If contemporary favour is rarely a test of a
book’s merit, still less is the sum of money which it fetches to begin
with. Among the lady novelists of her day—none of whom, not even
Maria Edgeworth or Susan Ferrier, deserves to be mentioned in the
same breath with Jane Austen—there were several whose pecuniary
gains must have been double and treble hers.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> <i>The</i> novel of the year.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> In addition, there is now a monument which was erected to Jane
Austen’s memory by her nephew, the writer of the memoir.</p>

</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p>
 <p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img003">
<img src="images/003.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="JANE_AUSTENS_NOVELS">JANE AUSTEN’S NOVELS.</h2>
</div>


<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_t.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> study of Jane Austen’s novels is
in some respects a liberal education.
The proper appreciation of these stories
has been suggested as a gauge of intellect.
But though the verdict of
the best judges, including the earnest,
well-nigh reverential approbation of
Sir Walter Scott, and the boundless
enthusiasm of Lord Macaulay, who has pronounced
Jane Austen, in her more limited walk, next to Shakespeare,
the test is unfair, so long as men and women’s
minds, no less than the schools of fiction, are in two
major, in addition to many minor divisions. Of course,
where authors are concerned, in rare and great instances,
as in that of Shakespeare, the divisions are
united, and we have a comprehensive, many-sided
genius. But these exceptions are few and far between,
like stars of the first magnitude. There is a cast of
inventive intellect, and a school of writing which deal
exclusively with human nature in the mass, choosing to
work with common materials, and to make them valuable
by the penetrating fidelity, and nice perception and
adaptation of the workmanship. There is another order
of genius and of wit, which selects an extraordinary,
sometimes an abnormal subject, whether man or woman,
story or surroundings, and by the sheer power and the
passionate insight which are shown in the treatment,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>
compel our comprehension and sympathy for what
would otherwise be strange, perhaps repugnant to us.</p>

<p>These minds and schools are, and always must be, in
natural antagonism to each other. The disciples of the
one have rarely such breadth of faculty and taste as to
be the disciples of the other. Among women, Jane
Austen may be taken as the representative of the first
class, Charlotte Brontë of the second. The fervent,
faithful followers of the one genius are apt, more or less,
to condemn and slight the other.</p>

<p>It is more than questionable whether the two women,
had they been contemporaries, could have sympathised
strongly. Of course, the opportunity was not granted
to Jane Austen; but in the case of Charlotte Brontë,
who stands here for what is, after all, the narrower
school, though its inspiration may be deeper, she was
perplexed and annoyed by the recommendation of a
critic to whom she paid deference that she should read
and re-read Miss Austen. Jane Austen’s work was
“tame and domestic,” if not peddling, to Charlotte
Brontë.</p>

<p>After dismissing the unfair insistence on a universal
acknowledgment of the surpassing qualities, in her own
line, of Jane Austen, it is still true that they are as
nearly as possible perfect. Great variety of character,
though in one class and amidst the same surroundings—which
rendered the achievement of such variety the
more remarkable—lively interest excited by the most
legitimate means; the artistic cunning with which every-day
events are handled; keen irony; delicate, exquisite
humour, which never fails; the greatest capacity for
selecting and grouping her materials—where shall we
find these attractions in an equal degree to that in
which they are to be met in Jane Austen’s novels?
Above all, every story is as wholesome and sweet, without
cloyness, as English wheat-fields repaying the cultivation
of generations, and the roses, set in hardy prickles,
of English gardens.</p>

<p>We hear much, with reason, of the great English<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>
humourists. Why has a secondary place among them
not been assigned to Jane Austen? Making due allowance
for sex and rank, and the double restrictions which
they laid upon her, none can read her novels with intelligent
appreciation and fail to see that she deserves to
stand high in the rank of English humourists, unless,
indeed, the root-word humour is understood to mean
oddity and eccentricity, and the definition humourist is
confined to the writer who illustrates oddities. For it is
one of Miss Austen’s crowning distinctions, that just as
she hardly ever exaggerated or caricatured, so she did
not care to have to do with men and women riding their
hobbies.</p>

<p>I have been amazed to read one criticism of Jane
Austen, which denies her all humour, and only grants
her a sense of the ridiculous and a power of expressing
it, in addition to her life-like pictures of English country
life in her own rank. The critic remarks that she only
provokes a smile, never a laugh. No doubt standards
are different, but I am inclined to suspect that the broad
burlesque and screaming farce, which to this critic appears
to sum up every display of humour, and which
might draw shouts of laughter from him and his school,
would not win so much as a smile from the admirers of
Miss Austen.</p>

<p>Another accusation which has been brought against
Jane Austen is, that she is deficient in strength and
warmth. But violence is not strength, neither is demonstrativeness
warmth. Unquestionably this novelist
never tears her passion to tatters. For that matter she
elected not to deal with fierce passions. But in her own
field of art, if restrained power and marvellous flexibility
be strength, then she is strong. Indeed, the idea of
weakness associated with Jane Austen is superlatively
absurd. Again, self-respectful, delicate reticence may
be called cold, but if so the coldness is shared by some
of the best writers of fiction in every generation, and it
would be well for modern English literature and its
readers if such coldness were more common.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p>

<p>I should like to say a word on the real limitations of
Jane Austen’s genius in her novels. In the first place,
while the talk and writing of our mothers and grandmothers
were, with regard to many things, simpler and
more plain-spoken than ours, there is another side on
which they were strictly reserved. Deep feeling, religious
opinions, personal testimony on the highest
questions, were, unless in exceptional circles, withheld
and kept hidden as too sacred for general discussion;
above all, as unfit for the pages of a story. No one
who knows much of the women and their books can
doubt the vital religious principles of Jane Austen and
Jane and Anna Maria Porter. But though Jane Porter
always included fervent religious faith among the attributes
of her idealised fantastic heroes of romance, Anna
Maria, in the only tale in which she showed how well
and pleasantly she could deal with contemporary life,
apologised anxiously in the preface for the serious tone
of the later volumes. Jane Austen, a stronger-minded
woman, could entertain a still more decided view of her
calling, and could restrain any impulse to overstep it.
She is almost absolutely silent on every motive and
principle out of what she held to be her province;
nay, she frequently brings forward the lower motives of
sound common sense and rational prudence, just as a
sensitive person would prefer to urge them still, in mixed
company, rather than bring in loftier obligations, when
to do so might be casting pearls before swine. We have
to study the conduct rather than the speeches of her
characters, just as we have to look at the lives of some
of the best men and women in every generation, to
discern to our satisfaction that they are, with all
their human frailties, thoroughly reverent and noble-minded.</p>

<p>There is nothing in the last observation to imply
that the author shirked any duty of speech which she
recognised. On the contrary, in carrying out her purpose
of exhibiting the deplorable results of an entirely
worldly education in the Crawfords and Bertrams in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>
“Mansfield Park;” in indicating the little straws of
former bad habits which are enough to expose a hypocrite
to eyes willing to be enlightened in Mr. Elliot
in “Persuasion,” she probably put force upon her
natural reserve, that she might not fail in her fidelity to
her moral. For one of the most gifted English novelists
never wrote without a good moral, more or less conspicuous.
So universally was the true morality of Jane
Austen’s novels acknowledged, that at a time when
novels were, with too much cause, largely tabooed in
many households, there was a general exception made
in favour of the tales in which the characters said
little or nothing about religion, but lived it to some
extent.</p>

<p>The absence of the most distant allusion to a higher
life and its power is most conspicuous in the clergymen
who figure largely in Miss Austen’s novels. Her
biographer and nephew, Mr. Austen Leigh, himself a
clergyman, and the son and grandson of clergymen,
sees himself called upon to refer to this, when he says in
her memoir that the standard of duty in the Church
is much higher than formerly, and that the profession
and practice even of Henry Tilney and Edmund Bertram
would be different to-day.</p>

<p>It is to this marked restraint which Jane Austen put
upon the expression of all sacred depths of feeling,
whether they belonged to religion or not, quite as much
as to her mental constitution, or to the formal conditions
of her generation, that another result is due. While we
have so much that may instruct, entertain, and delight
us in her stories, we have nothing that will harrow, and
not much that will move us to thoughts which lie too
deep for tears. There is no end of enchanting humour;
there is curiously little pathos.</p>

<p>With regard to that other criticism which may be
made of defective taste and sentiment in some of the
work which is otherwise so excellent, as in “Pride and
Prejudice,” in the free discussion not only by a vulgar
matchmaker like Mrs. Bennet, and by her silly, giddy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>
younger daughters, but by modest and charming girls
like Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, of the probability of
Mr. Bingley’s falling in love with one of the girls
among whom he has come, and marrying her—thus at
the same time securing her happiness and providing her
with an unexceptionable establishment—I believe it is
an example at once of blunter candour than exists at
present, and of the sole light in which a girl’s position
was then regarded. It goes without saying that Jane
and Elizabeth were incapable either of instituting unbecoming
and unwomanly attempts to attract the hero of
the hour, or of consenting to marry any other hero,
whom they could neither respect nor love, simply as the
means to secure an establishment in life. As it happened,
Cassandra and Jane Austen, in whom some of
their contemporaries saw the originals of Jane and
Elizabeth Bennet, proved equally incapable of the last
piece of unworthy time-serving. But Miss Austen was
what all true artists and teachers must be,—in advance
of the prevailing morality of her day. She argued and
acted on the side of what was upright and unworldly;
still she was so far affected by the tone of thought
around her as to cause her best women in “Pride and
Prejudice” to wait and watch for Bingley’s throwing the
handkerchief, while they coolly debate Jane Bennet’s
chances of attracting and fixing his regard. A hundred
or eighty years ago there was but one career for a woman
not possessed of an independent fortune—that of marriage.
Jane Austen never concealed—on the contrary,
she publicly proclaimed in “Emma,” that she looked
upon the necessity of a gentlewoman’s working for her
livelihood as a very hard and well-nigh degrading obligation,
an ordeal which would expose her to much that
was at once painful and injurious. We may hope
that we have to some extent happily changed all that.
Besides the prejudices, no doubt not ill-founded, on all
the evidence which was then in the possession of even the
wisest and most liberal-minded of our predecessors, we
must not forget that Miss Austen has placed her five<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>
Miss Bennets in a specially trying and precarious position.
Their father’s estate was entailed on male heirs, and on
his death passed to a cousin, who was a stranger to the
family. The interest of the mother’s small fortune of
four thousand pounds was inadequate to maintain her
daughters, save in a poor way, altogether beneath what
they had been accustomed to. The circumstances were
not enough to tempt the fine-spirited, true-hearted elder
girls into any betrayal of their real dignity and independence
in the matter of marriage. But Jane Austen
did not mean—it would be ridiculous in taking the
generation and its rooted restrictions into consideration,
to suppose she could—that the precariousness of the
Bennets’ prospects did not influence them, and their
friends for them, in desiring that they should be speedily
and well married.</p>

<p>There is an undeniable occasional hardness and
sharpness of satire, most perceptible in the earlier of the
novels, and softening as the author’s nature mellowed.
As an instance of change in a familiar custom, there is
hardly ever an abbreviation of a christian name in the
family life of Miss Austen’s novels, any more than in
the family life of her class in that day. With the
exception of Lizzy Bennet in “Pride and Prejudice,”
and Fanny Price in “Mansfield Park,” the abbreviations
end with the period of childhood. No perpetual
Charlies and Neds, Kates or Kittys, and Babs, meet us
at every step. There may be less formality in the
modern practice, but there is also a suspicion of less
manliness and womanliness, with their earnestness and
responsibility. What serious sense of duty can be expected
from a Hal, or a Loo, not to say from a Dolly
representing an Adolphus, or a Dot standing as a pet
name for a stately Margaret or a grandly simple Mary?</p>

<p>Jane Austen had a high opinion of the merit of her
work. When her characters were compared to living
people, she maintained stoutly that she was too proud of
her gentlemen to admit that they were only Mr. A. or
Colonel B., although she qualified the assertion by allowing—for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>
the credit of human nature, and for her own
credit—to avoid the accusation of painting angels instead
of men, that with regard to her favourites, Edmund
Bertram and Mr. Knightley, they were very far
from being what she knew English gentlemen often
were.</p>

<p>In the long list—growing always longer with the
years—of the distinguished admirers of Miss Austen’s
books, Mr. Austen Leigh quotes formidable names—formidable
to those who hold an opposite view of her claims
as an author. Among widely different names of men
are those of Southey, Coleridge, Sir James Mackintosh,
Guizot, Lord Holland, Whewell, Sydney Smith, Archbishop
Whately, Sir Walter Scott,<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> the American
statesman Quincey, and Lord Macaulay. Only one
woman’s name is given—that of Miss Mitford. We
must hope, for the honour of intellectual and literary
women, that many more names might have been added
of women who have gladly and gratefully acknowledged
Jane Austen as a queen of novelists. To the
examples cited, large additions might be made from
the names of modern thinkers and students of human
nature, since among them the novelist’s fame is still
increasing.</p>

<p>Let it never be said, for women’s own sakes, that it
is among women—among bright, quick-witted girls such
as she herself was when she wrote “Pride and Prejudice”
and “Northanger Abbey,” far outstripping mature competitors—that
Jane Austen begins to be no longer read
and reverenced.</p>

<p>In her own day, Jane Austen kept a collection of
such criticisms of her books as she could come across,
including in the collection various contemptuous opinions
as that “one lady could say nothing better of ‘Mansfield
Park’ than that it was a ‘mere novel.’”</p>

<p>Another owned that “she thought ‘Sense and Sensibility’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>
and ‘Pride and Prejudice’ downright nonsense,
but expected to like ‘Mansfield Park’ better, and, having
finished the first volume, hoped that she had got through
the worst.”</p>

<p>Another “did not like ‘Mansfield Park.’ Nothing
interesting in the characters, language poor.”</p>

<p>“One gentleman read the first and last chapters of
‘Emma,’ but did not look at the rest, because he had
been told that it was not interesting.”</p>

<p>“The opinions of another gentleman about ‘Emma’
were so bad that they could not be repeated to the
author.”</p>

<p>Among the most remarkable of the criticisms worthy
of the name of Jane Austen, are those of Sir Walter
Scott and Macaulay. The generous entry in Sir Walter’s
diary is as follows:—“Read again, for the third time
at least, ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ That young lady had
a talent for describing the involvements of feelings and
characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most
wonderful I ever met with. The big bow-wow strain
I can do myself, like any now going; but the exquisite
touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and
characters interesting from the truth of the description
and the sentiment, is denied to me. What a pity such a
gifted creature died so early!”</p>

<p>Macaulay has this entry in his journal:—“I have
now read once again all Miss Austen’s novels—charming
they are. There are in the world no compositions which
approach nearer to perfection.”</p>

<p>In Macaulay’s well-known essay on Madame
d’Arblay, there is, in the course of an admirable
comparison between the two writers, the following
high praise of Jane Austen:—</p>

<p>“Highest among those who have exhibited human
nature by means of dialogue, stands Shakespeare. His
variety is, like the variety of nature, endless diversity,
scarcely any monstrosity. The characters of which he
has given us an impression, as vivid as that which we
receive from the characters of our own associates, are to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>
be reckoned by scores. Yet in all these scores hardly one
character is to be found which deviates widely from the
common standard, and which we could call very eccentric
if we met it in real life. The silly rule that every man
has one ruling passion, and that this clue, once known,
unravels all the mysteries of his conduct, finds no countenance
in the plays of Shakespeare. There man appears
as he is, made up of a crowd of passions, which contend
for the mastery over him, and govern him in turn. What
is Hamlet’s ruling passion? Or Othello’s? Or Harry the
Fifth’s? Or Wolsey’s? Or Lear’s? Or Shylock’s? Or
Benedick’s? Or Macbeth’s? Or that of Cassius? Or
that of Falconbridge? But we might go on for ever.
Take a single example—Shylock. Is he so eager for
money as to be indifferent to revenge? Or so eager
for revenge as to be indifferent to money? Or so bent
on both together as to be indifferent to the honour of his
nation and the law of Moses? All his propensities are
mingled with each other, so that, in trying to apportion
to each its proper part, we find the same difficulty which
constantly meets us in real life. A superficial critic may
say that hatred is Shylock’s ruling passion. But how
many passions have amalgamated to form that hatred?
It is partly the result of wounded pride: Antonio has
called him dog. It is partly the result of covetousness:
Antonio has hindered him of half a million; and when
Antonio is gone, there will be no limit to the gains of
usury. It is partly the result of national and religious
feeling: Antonio has spat on the Jewish gabardine; and
the oath of revenge has been sworn by the Jewish Sabbath.
We might go through all the characters which
we have mentioned, and through fifty more in the same
way, for it is the constant manner of Shakespeare to
represent the human mind as lying not under the absolute
dominion of one despotic propensity, but under
a mixed government, in which a hundred powers balance
each other. Admirable as he was in all parts of his art,
we most admire him for this, that, while he has left us
a greater number of striking portraits than all other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>
dramatists put together, he has scarcely left us a single
caricature.</p>

<p>“Shakespeare has neither equal nor second; but
among the writers who, in the point which we have
noticed, have approached nearest to the manner of the
great master, we have no hesitation in placing Jane
Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud.
She has given us a multitude of characters, all in a
certain sense commonplace, all such as we meet every
day; yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from
each other as if they were the most eccentric of human
beings. There are, for example, four clergymen, none
of whom we should be surprised to find in any parsonage
in the kingdom—Mr. Edward Ferrars, Mr. Henry
Tilney, Mr. Edmund Bertram, and Mr. Elton. They
are all specimens of the upper part of the middle class;
they have all been liberally educated; they all lie
under the restraints of the same sacred profession; they
are all young; they are all in love; not one of them has
any hobby-horse, to use the phrase of Sterne; not one
has a ruling passion, such as we read of in Pope. Who
would not have expected them to be insipid likenesses
of each other? No such thing. Harpagon is not
more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph Surface is not more
unlike to Sir Lucius O’Trigger, than every one of
Miss Austen’s young divines to all of his reverend
brethren. And almost all this is done by touches so
delicate, that they elude analysis, that they defy
the powers of description, and that we know them to
exist only by the general effect to which they have
contributed.”</p>

<p>Macaulay’s sister, Lady Trevelyan, told Mr. Austen
Leigh that her brother had intended to write a memoir
of Jane Austen, with criticisms on her works, to prefix
it to a new edition of her novels, and from the
proceeds of the sale to erect a monument to her memory
in Winchester Cathedral. It is said that the references
to the novels in Lord Macaulay’s “Journal” served to
carry out his purpose so far, attracting a public which—to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>
its shame, shall I say?—knew not the author, and
selling off a whole edition of Jane Austen’s tales.
That the erection of the monument in Winchester
Cathedral followed is of less consequence. She needs
no monument save what her brain and hands wrought
out. Let her own works follow her.</p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img004">
<img src="images/004.jpg" class="w25"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Jane Austen’s nephew, on visiting Abbotsford, was suffered to
take into his hand one of the volumes of Sir Walter’s well-worn set
of her novels.</p>

</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p>
 <p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img005">
<img src="images/005.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="JANE_AUSTENS_NOVELS_AND_JANE_AUSTEN">JANE AUSTEN’S NOVELS, AND JANE AUSTEN.</h2>
</div>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PRIDE_AND_PREJUDICE13">“PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.”<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></h2>
</div>


<h3>I.</h3>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_i2.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">“It</span> is a truth universally acknowledged
that a single man in possession of a
good fortune must be in want of a
wife.” Such is the lively sentence
with which “Pride and Prejudice”
begins. Then the author proceeds to
illustrate the statement in her own
admirable way.</p>

<p>Mr. Bingley, a young bachelor, well-born, wealthy,
good-looking, agreeable, kindly-disposed—even sensible,
while not too clever for his company, suddenly sets the
whole country gentry of a quiet neighbourhood into a
pleasant ferment, by taking a lease of Netherfield Park,
and coming to occupy the house. My readers must
remember that it is nearly a century ago since this happened,
for it actually happened. The charm of Jane
Austen’s situations is that they must have happened
thousands of times. Her people all lived, are living
still, since human nature never dies. We may correctly
think and talk of Jane and Elizabeth Bennet,
and their father and mother; of Bingley and his
sisters; of Darcy and his sister; as if they were real
men and women. They were and are the very men
and women whom our grandfathers knew, whom we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>
know and visit, like and dislike, marry and refuse to
marry.</p>

<p>A few customs have changed: greater breathing-space
has come into every-day intercourse with better
education, increased facilities of helping ourselves,
moving about and knowing our neighbours—not only
in the next parsonage and country house, or at most in
a popular watering-place, but in the busy, endless
streets of London, or up in the romantic glens of the
Scotch highlands, or still farther away, in nooks of the
Apennines, or recesses of the Black Forest. Such revolutions
on revolutions have occurred in dress, that we
have come back from the antipodes of one fashion to
the same fashion again, looking new and fresh once
more on the lithe figures and about the blooming faces
of our nineteenth-century girls. Still we do not see a
young lady, her hair in turret curls, wearing a low-necked
gown long before even her early dinner-hour,
and holding above her head, as a much-needed protection,
one of the first specimens of the original large, green,
tent-shaped parasols such as I remember in a representation
of Elizabeth Bennet, when she accompanied
Lady Catherine de Bourgh to their memorable interview
in the wilderness on one side of the lawn at Longbourn.
Wildernesses, in their turn, have disappeared;
certain phrases have grown obsolete; but the men and
women who led that kind of life, dressed in a style
which, when we do not chance to be familiar with it,
we insist on regarding as <i>outré</i>, and spoke in a manner
half racy, half precise, are among us still, and will
always be among us, with merely slight superficial
differences.</p>

<p>But I wish to recall, at this moment, the distant
date of “Pride and Prejudice,” in order to say that
the arrival of a young man like Charles Bingley, or
“Bingley,” as he is called in the old use of surnames
in conversation, was a much greater event to a country
circle then, than it could be now.</p>

<p>It would still be a good deal—witness the use of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>
the same situation in the clever modern novel, “Mr.
Smith.” But the class of women who are powerfully
affected by Mr. Smith’s appearance on the scene, and
who make him the centre of all their hopes and plans,
are altogether inferior, socially and intellectually, to
the women with whom Jane Austen dealt.</p>

<p>About a hundred years ago “to paint tables, cover
screens, and net purses,” formed the general standard
of girls’ accomplishments—a standard which did not
furnish many topics of conversation. It is the girls’
own fault if they have not wider interests to-day.
Therefore, those among them who are in a fever of
curiosity when a new comer crosses their path, are
decidedly lower in the scale, in every respect, than the
gossips were in the time of Jane Austen.</p>

<p>We are first introduced to the Bennets of Longbourn
in their animated discussion of the welcome event in
their quiet lives. Soon we know the family intimately.
We find vulgar, shallow Mrs. Bennet assailing her
husband with unvarnished arguments that he ought
to be one of the first to call on their new neighbour
“for the sake of his daughters.”</p>

<p>We listen with much amusement to eccentric, witty,
Mr. Bennet, who has married his wife for her beauty,
and seeks compensation for her silliness in laughing
at it on all occasions, in those mocking, terse little
speeches, in which he responds to her profuse “my
dears” with an answering flow of “my dears,” while
he takes her off, to her broad, over-blown face, unsuspected
by her, at every word.</p>

<p>The two elder daughters are the cream of the family.
Jane is lovely and loveable. Her good understanding
is so well balanced by her gentle, tolerant temper that
she is able to bear patiently and tenderly with her
mother’s foibles, including her vain-glory in Jane’s
beauty. Jane is so fair, sweet, and reasonable in the
most unassuming fashion, that she cannot help winning—without
any effort at popularity—good opinions on all
sides, even from the most unlikely quarters.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p>

<p>Elizabeth, with her fine eyes, brown skin, light,
graceful figure, nimble feet in dancing, nimble tongue
in talking, is a warm-hearted, softened, womanly edition
of the father whose favourite she is. In answer to the
covert reproach once addressed to her, that the wisest
and best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their
actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose
first object in life is a joke, she defends herself frankly
yet earnestly, and we feel it is Jane Austen speaking
for herself by the lips of Elizabeth Bennet. “Certainly
there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them.
I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies
and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me,
I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.” Withal,
this laughter-loving girl, in spite of her naturally hasty
conclusions and rash judgments, struggles so faithfully
to be fair, is so candid in confessing her mistakes and
submitting to pay the penalty when they are brought
home to her—she is at once so frank and fearless, yet so
dutiful and reverent in the middle of her innocent daring,
so unselfish and devoted in her sisterly attachment, so
true a woman, so thorough a lady, that while we
willingly respect and like the more faultless Jane,
we do more, we love the more tempted and tried
Elizabeth.</p>

<p>It is good for young readers of the present day to
look at Elizabeth Bennet, and learn to discriminate
between the sparkling intelligence and gay, sweet
temper of the good, kind, young girl in her lawful
attractiveness, and the miserable travesty of her in many
modern heroines, in whom profanity and levity do duty
for wit, audacious ignorance for originality, and coarse
licence for nobility of nature.</p>

<p>The bond of sisterhood, more than any other relation,
seems to have influenced Jane Austen in her art. With
her own closest life-long friend in her sister Cassandra,
the author who so rarely repeats herself in the circumscribed
sphere in which she chose to work, again and
again draws a pair of sisters, for the most part sharing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>
every joy and sorrow.<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> In two or three cases—those of
the Bennets, the Dashwoods, Mrs. John Knightley
and Emma Woodhouse, we have the contrast between
the milder and more serene elder, and the livelier, more
impulsive younger sister, which caused their contemporaries
to say that Jane and Elizabeth Bennet stood
for Cassandra and Jane Austen. But the author’s
nephew pronounced against this conjecture. It is said,
indeed, that in gentleness of disposition and tenderness
of heart Jane Austen bore more resemblance to Jane
than to Elizabeth Bennet.</p>

<p>Mary Bennet, the third daughter in the household
at Longbourn, and the plainest member of a handsome
family, tries to supplement her deficient personal attractions
by such mental acquirements and accomplishments
as are within her reach. These are laboriously
learnt for the purpose of display. In contrast to her
sister Elizabeth, she has no natural shrewdness. She is
a pedantic, sententious young goose, with her elaborate
exhibition of worthless knowledge and formal speeches
out of commonplace books. Mary Bennet contrives to
render herself as ridiculous as her younger sisters, Kitty
and Lydia, who are precocious, noisy girls of seventeen
and fifteen. They are too unformed and callow to
be treated separately at first, but we have one significant
distinction between them. Lydia, big and bouncing for
her age, already arrogating rights from being the tallest
of the family, spoilt by her mother, invariably takes the
lead. Kitty simply runs after her more headstrong
junior. The most individual trait Kitty shows is the
peevish impatience of contradiction which belongs to a
weak character.</p>

<p>We may remark, by the way, that Jane Austen,
while she cuttingly condemns pedantry and conceit,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>
never dreams of offering a premium to sheer juvenility,
empty-headedness, and frivolity, after the example of
some of the strange preferences which are presented for
the consideration and edification of nineteenth-century
readers.</p>

<p>Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty Bennet spend the chief
part of each day in walking to Meryton, a market town,
where a militia regiment is stationed, which, unhappily
for the growth in wisdom of the young ladies, is situated
only a mile from the village of Longbourn, and Longbourn
House, their home.</p>

<p>In Meryton dwells Mrs. Philips, Mrs. Bennett’s sister,
the wife of a country attorney in a lower social grade
than the Bennets. Good-natured, commonplace Mrs.
Philips is gratified by her nieces’ company, and willing
to indulge them with any amount of dawdling and gossiping
in her house. When no better goal presents
itself, the shop windows, with the latest bonnets and
muslins, are always to be had. Above all, there is the
chance of encountering some of the militia officers in
their regimentals—those dazzling red coats, which filled
the imaginations of girls like Lydia and Kitty Bennet,
and which were not without their picturesque merits
even in the more reflective eyes of the elder sisters.
Well for girls that they have no regimentals, worn off
parade, to turn their heads to-day. If they are still caught
by the pomp and circumstance of glorious war, and enthralled
by its blatant trumpeting, at least, the “red
rags,” which are now for the most part kept sedulously
out of sight, are no longer to blame.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet calls on Mr. Bingley, as he has always
meant to do, in spite of all his protests to the contrary,
but the sisters first meet the hero at a Meryton assembly.</p>

<p>That was the era of assemblies—subscription balls,
in rooms provided for card-playing and supping as well
as dancing, under highly respectable auspices, given at
regular intervals in all the country towns, and duly
patronised by gentle and simple, clergy and laity.</p>

<p>If people stayed all the year round and year after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>
year in their own quiet country neighbourhood, some
recreation must be provided for them. The assemblies
were at once simple and social. The stereotyped recreations
of the last century were dancing and card-playing.
If both were liable to grave abuse, we may still hope
that many worthy people used them temperately and not
unconscientiously.</p>

<p>A rousing report had gone beforehand through the
ball-goers that the already popular Mr. Bingley was to
crown his popularity by attending the assembly, and
bringing with him twelve ladies and six gentlemen.
The reality falls short of the rumour, but there is consolation
to the belles of the place in the dwindling down
of the dozen strange ladies into Mr. Bingley’s two
sisters, one married and one unmarried, even though the
six gentlemen also fade away into a couple, one of whom
is Mr. Hurst, the husband of Mr. Bingley’s married
sister. But for half the time the ball lasts the other
gentleman makes up for every defalcation, and is a
power in himself. He is not only a tall, handsome,
distinguished-looking young man, he is also discovered
to be allied to the peerage, and to possess a large estate
in Derbyshire, with an unencumbered rent-roll of ten
thousand a-year—and here gossips’ tongues do not wag
too wildly.</p>

<p>But the exultation over such a guest is soon damped
by his cold, reserved manners. The stranger dances
once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley,
speaks only to the members of his own party, and
declines any introductions. And Meryton is spirited
enough to resent the inference. If Mr. Darcy considers
himself above his company, the company decline
any further homage to his air and figure—even to his
estate in Derbyshire.</p>

<p>In fact, Mr. Darcy is clever, proud, fastidious—conceiving
himself entitled by his many undeniable advantages,
which, however, he does not wear generously and
genially, to his pride and fastidiousness.</p>

<p>A man in a similar position may very well be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>
tempted to corresponding faults still, but even with a
later code of manners disfigured by laziness, self-indulgence,
and superciliousness, such arrogant haughtiness
as Darcy betrayed, could hardly now be entertained
by a man of Darcy’s sense and worth, and even if entertained,
would no longer be openly exhibited in modern
society. Local magnates were formerly permitted the
tone of small sovereigns, and even when they were from
home they were not required to come down from the
heights of their overweening dignity and exclusiveness.</p>

<p>It is at so early a stage of their acquaintance as this
important Meryton assembly that Bingley, accessible
and agreeable to everybody, and dancing every dance,
as a young man ought, shows his admiration of the
sweet young beauty of the room—Jane Bennet, of
Longbourn—by distinguishing her among his partners.
He dances twice—one may say four times, with her—for
we must remember that the old social, quaintly-performed,
quaintly-named country dances were generally
arranged in double sets. The couple who danced down
the first were landed, so to speak, at the bottom of the
second, up which they had to work their way, and then
dance down a second time. A very respectable portion
of time was thus employed. There were natural and
graceful opportunities afforded for making friends, and
for engaging, while still in a crowd, unexposed to
invidious notice and comment, in cheerful or sentimental,
more or less brilliant conversation <i>à deux</i>, but not so
much <i>à deux</i> that the speakers could not fall apart and
talk by way of variety to the ladies and gentlemen,
whom the couple were pretty sure to know, standing
above and below them in the set. Jane Austen repeatedly
uses these country dances as a means to the speedy
acquaintance of her young people. We have it on
record that she herself had a hearty enjoyment in
dancing, and was, like Anna Maria Porter and Susannah
Blamire, a proficient in what was then held a peculiarly
elegant accomplishment for a young lady. She was not,
therefore, likely to undervalue the merely graceful exercise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>
of dancing. Still, dancing must have been to her,
as no doubt it was to her heroes and heroines, a fitting
excuse for conversation—sensible as well as sprightly,
serious enough sometimes, without any consciousness of
incongruity in being in earnest in the middle of a
country dance.</p>

<p>I may be told that there is an ample and better provision
for a <i>tête à tête</i> in the conspicuous or the secluded
saunter between the rapid whirls of round dances, but
to my mind the earlier mode was the more daintily
decorous, the freer from compromise, not to say the
more social. One is tempted to wish back again the old
English country dances, in which fathers and mothers,
sons and daughters, often stood up in the same dance,
and went with merry method through the intricate
mazes with the suggestive names, “The White Cockade,”
dating from the Jacobite rebellion, “The Wind that
Shook the Barley,” of Irish origin, “The Country
Bumpkin,” an English measure, “Petronella” and the
“Boulanger,” like the Cotillon, of French descent. Will
they not return, with the Queen Anne furniture and the
Gainsborough costumes, and take their places along
with the time-honoured “Sir Roger de Coverley?”</p>

<p>Mr. Bingley’s promising preference for Jane Bennet
in these significant four dances is artlessly enough hailed
by all her friends and neighbours, and ingenuously owned
by herself to her dear sister and confidante, Lizzy.</p>

<p>It is at this ball, too, that Darcy makes that slighting
speech within earshot of Elizabeth, which starts their acquaintance
on an entirely wrong footing.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet, with her own unapproachable gifts
of eyes, and tongue, and toes, is a belle only second to
her sister, and it is an unwonted experience for her to be
sitting down during a couple of dances for lack of a
partner. As if that were not enough, she has the
mortification of hearing the repulse given to the well-disposed
but rash assault which Bingley at that moment
makes on his impracticable friend standing near her.</p>

<p>“Come, Darcy,” cries the amiable, indefatigable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>
dancer, “I must have you dance. I hate to have you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You
had much better dance.”</p>

<p>“I certainly shall not,” declines Darcy. “You know
how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with
my partner.” He adds that Bingley’s sisters are engaged,
and that there is not another woman in the
room with whom it would not be a punishment to him
to stand up.</p>

<p>Bingley cries out at his friend’s fastidiousness, and
maintains he has never met so many pleasant girls in
his life as on that evening, and there are several of them
uncommonly pretty.</p>

<p>“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the
room,” says Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.</p>

<p>“Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld,”
vows Bingley, with effusion. “But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you who is very
pretty, and I daresay very agreeable. Do let me ask my
partner to introduce you.”</p>

<p>“Which do you mean?” asks Darcy, and, turning
round, he looks for a moment at Elizabeth, till, catching
her eye, he withdraws his own, and coldly says, “She is
tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and
I am in no humour at present to give consequence to
young ladies who are slighted by other young men.
You had better return to your partner, and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”</p>

<p>Was ever heroine so put down in her own hearing?
Elizabeth, we are told, remains with no very cordial feelings
towards the offender, but, being the bright young
girl she is, she makes stock of the incident by telling
the story with great spirit among her friends; and for
the superb Mr. Darcy there is a proper punishment
preparing.</p>

<p>Mr. Bingley’s sisters are drawn with a few fine
touches. They are fashionable, stylish-looking women,
each possessing a fortune of twenty thousand pounds.
They have a great opinion of their own claims, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>
corresponding disdain of what they reckon the greatly
inferior claims of others. With all their polish and
<i>savoir faire</i>, which enable them to be entertaining when
they like, they are always arrogant and ill-bred, and can
be insolent when provoked.</p>

<p>Yet even Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley are attracted
by beautiful, gentle Jane Bennet, and drawn into the
semblance of a friendship for her. They are too independent
and too far removed, as they conceive, from
such rivalry, to experience any jealousy, or to take alarm
on their brother’s account, till matters have gone a considerable
length between Bingley and Jane.</p>

<p>Among other minor characters in the book are the
Lucas family, who occupy the next county house, and are
the nearest neighbours of the Bennets, and on intimate
terms with them. Charlotte Lucas, the eldest daughter, a
plain-looking, but sensible and agreeable young woman of
seven and twenty, is Elizabeth Bennet’s great friend after
her sister Jane. Charlotte’s father, Sir William, has been
in trade, from which he has retired on the accident of
receiving the honour of knighthood. He was always
civil and obliging, and from the great era in his life
he became elaborately courteous, with <i>bourgeois</i> fine
manners. He is profuse in good-natured—sometimes
<i>mal-à-propos</i>—compliments. Thus, at a large party at
Lucas Lodge, the host blandly praises Darcy—for his
dancing of all things, and then, struck with the notion
of doing a gallant thing, arrests Elizabeth Bennet, who
is passing them: “My dear Miss Eliza, why are not
you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present
this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.
You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much
beauty is at hand.”</p>

<p>Have we not all known, at some period in our lives,
the well-intentioned, obtuse, complacent, slightly Brummagem
Sir William, who can be terrible, without the
slightest suspicion of it, on occasions?</p>

<p>Elizabeth draws back, and refuses the partner very
decidedly, and her resistance does her no harm with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>
gentleman, though he has really not been unwilling to
lend himself to Sir William’s clumsy move.</p>

<p>In truth, the stately, grave Mr. Darcy, after refusing
to see anything worth the trouble of bestowing his notice
in Elizabeth Bennet—after taking the greatest pains to
convince all his party that she has not got a good feature
in her face—becomes keenly alive to the charm of that
face, and captivated by the animation and archness which
neither fear his censure nor solicit his favour. For
Elizabeth simply regards him as the man who makes himself
disagreeable everywhere, and who has spoken slightingly
of herself. She is happily careless of his pretensions.
What are his birth, estate, intellect, and person to her?
With her it is “handsome is that handsome does.”</p>

<p>And Darcy, with all his faults, has enough sterling
manliness and merit to be not piqued, but strangely
attracted by her easy indifference to his worldly advantages,
combined as it is with the girl’s quick intelligence
and happy, winning playfulness.</p>

<p>We appreciate, too, the independent spirit which
causes Darcy to make no secret of his change of opinion;
not that it is a matter of much consequence to his mind,
for a Darcy of Pemberley can never lower himself in
his own eyes, or those of his world, by marrying the
daughter of a poor, second-rate country gentleman,
whose wife has been taken from an inferior professional
circle. What is a great deal worse, the whole family of
the Bennets, with the exception of Jane and Elizabeth,
are more or less objectionable—Mr. Bennet in indulging
his caustic humour in total disregard of the figures his
wife and daughters cut in society; Mrs. Bennet, in
continually exposing her vulgarity and folly; Mary
Bennet, in rendering herself a laughing-stock by her
assumption of learning and wisdom, with small claims
to the same. As for Lydia and Kitty Bennet, while
there are militia officers in Meryton the girls will flirt
with them; and while Meryton remains at a mile’s
distance from Longbourn, the younger Miss Bennets
will go there every day.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p>

<p>But Darcy, in the face of the pronounced dislike to
the second Miss Bennet entertained by his friend’s
sisters—one of whom is laying close siege to Darcy’s
hand and heart—calmly revokes his judgment, announces
his admiration of Elizabeth’s eyes, and defends
her vivacity from the charge of pertness. It is in vain
Miss Bingley, with her eyes sharpened by jealousy,
takes the woman’s method to drive him from his
position by chaffing exaggeration of his sentiments, and
malicious predictions of his future experiences with his
mother-in-law; asking him if he will have his Elizabeth’s
uncle, the attorney’s, portrait, opposite that of his uncle,
the judge’s, and whether it may not be advisable for him
to restrain that something in the coming Mrs. Darcy’s
manners which borders on impertinence. Darcy stands
to his colours, so far as admiring Elizabeth Bennet, and
owning to the admiration, are concerned.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is so thoroughly without suspicion of her
modified conquest, that when she finds Mr. Darcy
looking at her, listening to her, and taking up his
station in the quarter of a room where he can see
and hear her better, she is so puzzled for his reasons,
that she is compelled to conclude there is something
about her peculiarly repugnant to his taste and sense
of propriety; and being of the temper which she supposes,
she fancies he takes a certain satisfaction in
reckoning up her deficiencies. When he asks her to
dance, she is so surprised that she accepts the unwelcome
honour before she knows what she is doing;
and then, provoked with her mechanical compliance, she
seeks revenge in trying to behave in the manner most
disagreeable to him. She will go down the double set
in unbroken silence, so far as the conversation rests with
her; and she is aware young Darcy is a quiet, grave
man, while she is well known as a ready, gay talker.
All at once it strikes her that a solemn mute performance
of their duty as dancers may be exactly what
he wishes; and then she challenges him, in an archly-defiant
speech, to make conversation for her. After all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>
he is nothing loth, though she does provoke and offend
him by the determined conviction she constantly shows
that they are two persons of entirely different characters
and inclinations, and by her wilful, half-jesting misunderstanding
of his feelings and opinions.</p>

<p>On one occasion he is led into the admission that
he has an unyielding temper. His good opinion once
lost is lost for ever.</p>

<p>“That is a failing indeed,” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable
resentment is a shade in a character. But you
have chosen your fault well; I really cannot laugh at
it. You are safe from me.”</p>

<p>The girl’s mingled light-hearted banter and vehement
antagonism form, after all, part of her fascination;
and we are told that against any affront they inflict she
has a powerful pleader in the feeling she has already
excited in Darcy’s breast.</p>

<p>The progress of Bingley’s lover-like attentions to
Jane, and Darcy’s brisk skirmishing with Elizabeth, is
considerably accelerated by a visit of almost a week’s
duration paid perforce by the girls to Netherfield.</p>

<p>Jane had been invited to dine with the two ladies
of the house, to relieve their dulness in the absence
of the gentlemen, who were dining with the officers in
Meryton. She had been detained by rain in the first
place, and by a violent cold in the second.</p>

<p>Elizabeth hearing of her sister’s illness, and being
unable to procure the carriage, set out and walked the
three miles between Longbourn and Netherfield. She
was fearless of fatigue, or the accusation of unfeminine,
unladylike independence of escort. She was equal to
muddy roads, intervening stiles, and the cool reception
she was likely to receive from Miss Bingley, so that
Elizabeth could but relieve her anxiety concerning Jane,
reach her, and be a comfort in nursing her through
her little illness.</p>

<p>Elizabeth arrives with draggled skirts and rosy
cheeks. She cheerfully surmounts Miss Bingley’s and
Mrs. Hurst’s contemptuous amazement at what they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>
regard as Miss Eliza Bennet’s uncalled-for Amazonian
feat. At last they are under the necessity, in common
civility, of requesting Elizabeth to remain with her
sister; and the patient, suffering Jane is ill enough for
the moment to make Elizabeth thankful that she has
come, and to justify her in the step she has taken.</p>

<p>Besides, Elizabeth is gratified by the master of the
house’s cordial reception, and by his unfeigned anxiety
on behalf of his invalid guest. As to the fact that
Darcy is successful in silencing the strictures of the
ladies of the house on the “fright” Miss Eliza Bennet
has chosen to appear before them, by dwelling on the
additional brilliancy the early walk has lent to her complexion,
and by maintaining that certainly the expedition
proves her to be a most affectionate sister, Elizabeth
remains profoundly ignorant of his championship.</p>

<p>Two new figures appear on the stage. The first is
Mr. Collins, the vicar of Hunsford, in Kent, and the
cousin, hitherto a stranger to the Bennet family, who, by
the terms of the entail, succeeds to the Longbourn estate
after Mr. Bennet’s death. He proposes a friendly visit,
in a letter which is the reflex of the writer, who is a
stupid, narrow-minded young man, while yet perfectly
respectable and not ill-intentioned. His pompous self-importance,
in which there is some family likeness to
the leading mental traits in his cousin Mary Bennet,
is blended with an equally natural subserviency and obsequiousness,
with such a breadth of skill and comicality,
that he is one of the great artist’s triumphs.</p>

<p>Jane Austen was a good woman and a good church-woman.
She was a clergyman’s daughter, and two of
her brothers were clergymen. The parsonage as well as
the hall had a special place in her novels. In “Mansfield
Park” she insisted on the honourable office of a
clergyman. She was the last person wantonly to bring
disrespect on her father’s cloth, but she was also the most
sincere of women and of artists. She was acquainted
with the Collins type of clergymen, which had replaced
the still more accommodating, even vicious, family<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>
chaplain, under the lower and coarser moral standard
of previous generations. Her Mr. Collins is not unprincipled
or unconscientious, but his patroness engrosses
his small, mean mind, and usurps the rights of his other
parishioners; until, to give satisfaction at the great house—to
come in there as an acknowledged, privileged dependent—to
carve a joint—to help to make up the card-table—to
amuse the old and the young—to pass away a dull
hour—to take upon himself any troublesome task he can
appropriate, are looked upon by him as at once among
his chief duties and greatest advantages.</p>

<p>With unshrinking, incisive hand, Jane Austen did
good service to all the churches by aiding in ridding
them of despicable toadies.</p>

<p>Mr. Collins is all in a piece, while he is of complex
fabric, with his haunting self-consciousness, his perpetual
references to his “humble abode,” and his
“revered patroness, Lady Catherine,” with her splendid
establishment at Rosings, to which he is so affably
summoned several times a week. His densely thick-headed,
sycophantish homage is extended to Lady
Catherine’s kindred in the person of her nephew, the
resisting, disgusted Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins’s self-complacent,
over-done, heavy civility is bestowed freely
on everybody, and he promises liberally beforehand
formal letters of thanks to his hosts for their esteemed
hospitality.</p>

<p>Such a man, however diverting to her strong sense
of the ludicrous, cannot but be odious in other respects to
Elizabeth Bennet, yet it is at Elizabeth’s feet that he lays
his dull, conceited, exasperatingly considerate proposals.</p>

<p>Lady Catherine is of opinion Mr. Collins, as a clergyman,
should marry soon. His solid merits and unexceptionable
position in life warrant him in seeking a wife.
He is led to Longbourn with the laudable intention of
making some reparation to his fair cousins for the circumstance
that, on the death of their respected father,
Mr. Collins must inherit the property; and in Elizabeth
he flatters himself he has found the excellent, charming,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>
economical young woman who will at once secure to
him the felicity he is entitled to expect, and satisfy the
just expectations of Lady Catherine.</p>

<p>To the extreme mortification of her mother, but with
the entire approval of her father, Elizabeth declines the
obliging proposal. The scene is unique and unapproachable,
in which the sublimely confident, quite unembarrassed
Mr. Collins does not so much plead his cause
solemnly as unfold his credentials, while Elizabeth refuses
him in stronger and stronger language, for the
suitor will not accept his <i>congé</i>, and persists in attributing
it to the becoming coyness of “an elegant female.”</p>

<p>At last Elizabeth escapes, referring Mr. Collins to
her father, protesting in despair that whatever his
answer may be, at least Mr. Collins cannot interpret
Mr. Bennet’s behaviour as the becoming coyness of “an
elegant female.”</p>

<p>Mr. Collins’ heart is scarcely touched, but his vanity—thick-skinned
as it is—has received a wound, for
which, however, there is a speedy cure, since within
three days he transfers his suit with the happiest result
to Elizabeth’s friend Charlotte Lucas, who has not
hesitated to plan this conclusion.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is amazed and hurt at the absence of right
principle and feeling on the part of Charlotte, who has
been so quickly wooed and won—nay, who has herself
stooped to woo a man for whom she can have neither
respect nor regard.</p>

<p>But in Jane Bennet’s remonstrances against the hard
terms which Elizabeth uses when speaking of the marriage—in
the emphasis with which the elder sister dwells
on Mr. Collins’ respectable establishment as well as his
unblemished character—above all, in the way in which
Charlotte’s choice is made to turn out tolerably well for
her in the end, we find that Jane Austen, while revolting
at the conduct which she herself could never have practised,
is inclined so far to endorse the reasoning of the
prudent, steady gentlewoman who has offended against
Elizabeth’s nobler instincts.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p>

<p>“Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony,”
Jane Austen says of Charlotte Lucas, “marriage
had always been her object: <i>it was the only honourable
provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
and, however uncertain of giving happiness, must be
their pleasantest preservation from want</i>. This preservation
she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven,
without having ever been handsome, she felt all
the good luck of it.”</p>

<p>Poor Mrs. Bennet’s chagrin is complete. She is
deprived of the opportunity of “marrying” one of her
daughters very fairly. Lady Lucas is to have a
daughter married first. And Charlotte Lucas is eventually
to supplant Mrs. Bennet in her own house of Longbourn.
Can the irony of destiny go farther?</p>

<p>The other new comer appears in a fresh officer who
joins the militia regiment in Meryton. He is a Mr.
Wickham, a young man of exceedingly attractive looks
and manners, being as universally agreeable and sympathetic
as Darcy is the reverse.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Wickham are mutually
struck with each other on their introduction in the High
Street of Meryton, and the impression at first sight is
confirmed when they spend an evening in company
together, at a tea and supper party given by Mrs.
Philips, the Bennets’ aunt.</p>

<p>Wickham’s place in the round game of cards for the
young people is between Elizabeth and her boisterous
young sister Lydia, who would have proceeded to engross
the gentleman had it not been for the rival
attractions of the game of “Lottery Tickets,” and her
zeal in acquiring mother-of-pearl fishes—the old
counters.</p>

<p>Elizabeth and Wickham are permitted to talk together
and to discover how their views and tastes coincide.
Not the least bond of union is the confirmation
of Elizabeth’s worst prejudices against Mr. Darcy.
Wickham happens also to be a Derbyshire man, and he
has actually been brought up in the most intimate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>
relations with the Darcys. Wickham’s father was the
confidential agent of Darcy’s father, who had been
George Wickham’s godfather, and had charged himself
with educating and providing for the lad. By appearing
to respond unwillingly to the roused curiosity of
Elizabeth, and by the flattery of giving her the idea
that he is confiding in her alone, the young man
manages, without seeming to be publicly proclaiming
his wrongs, to convey to her the information of how
badly he has been treated by young Darcy. This
haughty, hard, unscrupulous man has defrauded his
early companion of the church living bequeathed to him
by his godfather. Darcy has a young sister, Georgiana,
who had been very fond of her father’s favourite when
he petted and played with her as a child, but her brother
has infected her with the inordinate pride and selfishness
of the family, and set her also against Wickham.</p>

<p>Elizabeth drinks in the whole story, which is a testimony
to her own acuteness, is full of pity for Wickham
and of wrath against Darcy.</p>

<p>The younger Miss Bennets have teased Mr. Bingley
to give a ball, which comes off with great <i>éclat</i> at
Netherfield. The host’s attentions to Jane Bennet are
the talk of the room.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bennet goes so completely off her head that, to
the intense mortification and shame of Elizabeth, she
overhears her mother enlarging on her eldest daughter’s
brilliant prospects to Lady Lucas, at the supper-table,
with so little reserve, that Elizabeth is sure Darcy, who
is opposite, is listening—first with grave surprise, and
afterwards with an unsuppressed expression of scorn.</p>

<p>Indeed, poor Elizabeth is doomed to experience anything
rather than pleasure at the long-looked-forward-to,
much-talked-of, ball at Netherfield. In the earlier part
of the evening she is disappointed by the non-appearance
of Wickham with the other officers; and she is full of
resentment against Darcy for having either deprived him
of an invitation, or caused the injured young man to
avoid the painful encounter, though he had expressly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>
told his warm adherent that it was not for him to go
out of Mr. Darcy’s way.</p>

<p>Under the irritation produced by this suspicion,
Elizabeth, when Darcy seeks her out, turns upon him
with serious instead of playful antagonism. She mentions
Wickham’s name, for the express purpose of observing
Darcy’s annoyance. She provokes him to the
cold observation that Mr. Wickham is well qualified to
attract friends, but it remains to be seen whether he is
equally fitted to retain them.</p>

<p>Elizabeth’s blood boils at the insinuation from the
man who has so wronged her friend.</p>

<p>Then, as if the evil genius of the family had been at
work, not Mrs. Bennet alone, but more of Elizabeth’s
relations, make themselves obnoxious to censure and
ridicule. Mary in her conceit consents, with her weak
voice, to sing an after-supper song; and when it is
received with forced approval, she volunteers to give
another, amidst the covert smiles of her audience.</p>

<p>Elizabeth looks in agony to her father to interfere,
lest Mary should go on singing all night; and he
crowns the trying situation by one of his most ironical,
disconcerting speeches.</p>

<p>“That will do extremely well, child. You have
delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies
have time to exhibit.”</p>

<p>One word on the terribly keen young eyes with
which Elizabeth Bennet sees the faults and follies of
her family, including her mother’s silliness, and the
objectionable behaviour of her father in amusing
himself at the expense of his wife, so as to risk rendering
her an object of contempt in the eyes of her
children.</p>

<p>No doubt, Elizabeth Bennet does not dream of being
anything save respectful and dutiful to her father and
mother, whom she addresses commonly with the old-fashioned,
ceremonious “Sir” or “Madam.” The partiality
of the former to her not only fills the young girl
with honest filial pride, but it touches her indescribably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>
at a crisis in her history. She seeks to screen her mother,
and she strives to improve her younger sisters.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet would have died rather than proclaimed
the shortcomings of her family—far less have
been so lost to all wholesome shame as to have made
game of what formed her greatest affliction. She is
removed, by a world of good principle and good feeling,
from those heroines of the present day whose
authors write as if they considered the absence of all
reverence and tenderness, in the sacred relation in which
children stand to parents, as a mark of emancipation
from old-fashioned prejudices, of freedom from what is
goody-goody, narrow and obsolete. These desperately
ill-bred, benighted, worse than heathen young people, in
their professed confessions to the public, or their confidences
to their fellow-puppets, speak evil of dignities
with a vengeance, have nothing save an ugly grimace
or a heartless gibe for all that is honourable in years,
wisdom, or virtue, and for all that is holy in natural
affection. They pour forth their railings and mockings
at the authors of their being with an absolute profanity,
a base disloyalty, and an absence of common decency in
their family disclosures, which would be altogether horrible
and hideous, were it not also absurdly false and
despicable, as well as odious.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet was a very different being—an
essentially Christian and civilized gentlewoman.</p>

<p>But one is impelled to wish that, especially where
her mother was concerned, there had been a greater
reluctance, even an incapability, to judge and condemn—a
piteous veil drawn by the strong over the weak,
in a relationship in which these attributes ought to have
been reversed. For, whether the offence be wickedness
or vulgarity,—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“A mother is a mother still,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The holiest thing alive.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Jane Austen would have said probably that if Elizabeth
Bennet’s nearest relations were guilty of impropriety<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>
and folly, she could not help seeing it. We know that
the author herself was very happy in the family relations
of which she proved herself worthy. She was a
devoted daughter and loving sister, tempted to rest
content with her own family circle, and to refuse, with
a certain refined churlishness, other and wider associations.
She may have been in his position who</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Jests at scars that never felt a wound.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>She could hardly perhaps realise, though she excelled in
realising, how a good, affectionate girl, while forced in
her sense and sincerity to condemn the failings of her
kindred, yet instinctively shuts her eyes to them, so far
as she can do so without moral injury to herself and
others; or sees them through a half-shrouding mist of
eager respect and faithful fondness for the merits which,
in most cases, we may be thankful, balance the failings.</p>

<p>Besides, Jane Austen was very young when she wrote
“Pride and Prejudice,” and gentle in some respects as
youth may be, it is not from it that we are warranted
in expecting charity. Youth at its best—a very sweet
best, but with its sweetness consisting mainly of the
unbounded promise of still better things—is in its
ignorance, rashness, and unshaken self-confidence, impatient
of all wrong-doing, nay, of all blundering, and
intolerant to the wrong-doers and blunderers. It would
be to rob the bountifulness of riper years of one of their
chief gains if we were to deny them their prerogative of
greater long-suffering with stupidity and pity for error.</p>

<p>In none of her other novels was Miss Austen quite
so unsparing in her censure and withering in her satire—sufficiently
provoked though it was—as in “Pride and
Prejudice.” She is gentle to the comparatively harmless,
kindly silliness and selfishness of Lady Bertram in
“Mansfield Park;” while she is really tender, with a
touch of pathos, to that worthiest and most lovable of
old chatterboxes, Miss Bates, in “Emma.”</p>

<p>The Netherfield ball is fatal to Jane Bennet’s interest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>
innocent as Jane is of any of the family misdemeanors
on the occasion. Bingley has to leave the next day for
London, from which he certainly means to return soon.
But his sisters and friend suddenly make up their minds
to follow him, with the intention, if they can manage it,
that the household shall not come back to Netherfield
for the winter. Caroline Bingley communicates the
news of the step, which takes the whole neighbourhood
by surprise, in a plausible note to the victim, Jane.</p>

<p>Elizabeth reads between the lines, and discerns the
truth, that the sisters and Mr. Darcy have at last taken
alarm, and are bent on putting an end to the attachment
on Mr. Bingley’s part before it has gone the length of
a declaration, by detaining the naturally light-hearted,
easily-impressed young fellow among the excitements
and distractions of the town, away from Netherfield.</p>

<p>The sequel shows the conspirators successful. Sweet
Jane Bennet is ruthlessly jilted, while bearing no
malice, and insisting in her confidential intercourse with
her sister that the affair has been all a mistake, caused
by her fancy, the partiality of her friends, and Bingley’s
amiable desire to please. She declares she is sure she
will soon forget it, and be as happy as before.</p>

<p>In the meantime, Jane has to endure the mortification
of hearing her mother lament, openly and loudly,
over the ill-usage which her daughter has received.</p>

<p>The modern match-making mother has more guile,
if she is not more delicate-minded, than to betray her
feelings in a similarly unreserved fashion.</p>

<p>Elizabeth hotly resents the wrong done to her dear
and gentle sister, is furious with Darcy and Miss
Bingley, and begins to despise Bingley for proving a
mere tool in the hands of his friends, whose interference
in his affairs has been utterly unjustifiable.</p>

<p>Elizabeth and Wickham’s mutual preference goes no
further. She says afterwards that every girl within
visiting distance of Meryton lost her senses for a time
where the winning young officer was concerned. But
she herself did not lose her senses to such an extent as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>
to be beyond recovering them; though the only remonstrance
which reached her was on the indiscretion of
allowing herself to be drawn into an attachment and
engagement with a penniless officer, while she herself
was little better provided for in a worldly sense, so that
their marriage must either be impossible, or an event
long deferred.</p>

<p>The warning, no doubt, has a mercenary ring, especially
for young readers; but such worldly considerations
were simply held reasonable in Jane Austen’s days, and
reckless disregard of consequences and headstrong wilfulness
in marriage, as in any other affair in life, were
not qualities held up for admiration.</p>

<p>At the same time, Jane Austen was too true a woman
not to deprecate what amounted to cold-blooded, calculating
caution in marriage. More than once she
exposes its fallacy and danger, and she has devoted a
whole novel to show the injury which may be inflicted
by over-carefulness on the part of a well-intentioned
friend, and by over-submissiveness on the side of an
amiable girl, in breaking off an engagement with a
young man who had only his high character and hope of
rising in his profession as hostages to fortune.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet and Wickham’s mere liking for
each other rather dwindles away after a time than meets
with a sharp check; and Elizabeth considers that if they
had been sufficiently in love they might have justifiably
faced the risks of a long engagement and a poor marriage—even
while she tries to be so hardened and cynical
a philosopher as to think and say that Wickham is
doing what he ought in withdrawing his attentions
gradually from her, and setting himself to pay his
addresses to a girl in Meryton who has nothing in particular
to distinguish her save that she has recently
inherited a fortune. This worldly argument is forced
work by Elizabeth, and when she is a very little older
and wiser she recants, and is affronted by the coarseness
of sentiment into which her determination to be
indifferent and reasonable had led her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>In the following spring Elizabeth Bennet accompanies
Sir William Lucas and his daughter Maria, travelling
post, to pay her old friend Charlotte a visit in her Kent
parsonage.</p>

<p>Any little awkwardness and coolness—there never
was estrangement—between the friends have died out;
“a good memory is inexcusable in such a case.”
Elizabeth only recollects that she was Mr. Collins’ first
choice when she has a passing comical impression that
he is showing off his excellent garden and comfortable
house, not without a design of letting her feel all she
has lost.</p>

<p>But Mr. Collins is well content, as he may be, with
the sensible, good-tempered wife who, in making the
best of the home she has secured for herself, fully
recognises that it is for her dignity to keep up his;
though she encourages him to spend a great part of his
time in working in his garden, and has her sitting-room
at the back of the house, since, if it had commanded a
view of the lane, and the passers-by, it would have been
apt to entail on her a large portion of her husband’s
spare time and company.</p>

<p>Elizabeth has the honour of being included along
with the Lucases in the Collins summons, twice a week,
to relieve the dulness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s
family party at Rosings, and of being patronised and
dictated to by Lady Catherine, a domineering, self-sufficient
woman, who tells Mr. Collins how to manage
his parish, Mrs. Collins how to keep her house and rear
her poultry, Elizabeth how to practise her music, and
Maria Lucas how to pack her trunk.</p>

<p>With the exception of Charlotte and Elizabeth,
the recipients of these favours are overwhelmed, and
awed into the humblest gratitude and obedience. Charlotte
looks over Lady Catherine’s foibles, because they
belong “to a superior woman and kind neighbour,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>
exactly as the judicious young matron takes care to value
at the highest rate all the advantages of her position,
and to ignore as far as possible its drawbacks, thus contriving
to remain tolerably satisfied with her lot.</p>

<p>Elizabeth, entirely undazzled by the assumption and
splendour which prevail at Rosings, amuses herself with
detecting a resemblance between Mr. Darcy and his
aunt, and feels satisfied that Lady Catherine’s only child,
Miss de Bourgh, a sickly, supercilious girl, with a large
fortune, who is designed for her cousin, will make him
a fit wife.</p>

<p>Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, another nephew of
Lady Catherine’s, arrive on a visit at Rosings, while
Elizabeth and Maria Lucas are still staying at Hunsford
Vicarage, which is only divided by the lane and
the park palings from the great house.</p>

<p>Naturally, the two young men, whatever the aristocratic
trammels under which they labour, are attracted
daily to the more congenial society of the parsonage.
For that matter, Colonel Fitzwilliam, though the
younger son of an earl, is agreeable and unassuming,
likely to make himself happy among any fairly well-born
and well-educated young people, and especially
with a pretty, witty young girl like Elizabeth Bennet.</p>

<p>But even Darcy, under stress of circumstances,
thaws considerably. He pays his homage unmistakably
in the same quarter as that which attracts his cousin,
and betrays considerable annoyance and shame when
his aunt’s impertinence is directed at Elizabeth.</p>

<p>With regard to the great lady, she is so firmly convinced
of her own supreme deserts and those of her
daughter, that she does not so much as see the strong
inclination to defection on the part of the gentlemen.
Elizabeth Bennet likes Colonel Fitzwilliam, and is
rather surprised to find that he is on cordial cousinly
terms with Darcy. It does not mollify her in the least
to discover that the latter seeks to renew their acquaintance
on a more intimate footing, and perplexes Mrs.
Collins by the extent of his civilities to the parsonage.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p>

<p>Elizabeth avoids the man she detests as much as she
can; and when she has the ill luck to encounter him in
the pretty country walks, and the strolls in Rosings Park,
of which she is the only lady in the house to avail herself,
she expressly mentions to him, without a grain of
coquetry, her favourite path, that no untoward accident
may occur again. She attributes the circumstance that
she still meets Mr. Darcy to his letting himself come
in the way, as a resource for sheer idleness, if not with
the express purpose of spoiling her walk. He turns and
walks with her without getting any encouragement,
asks odd questions as to her opinion of Mr. and Mrs.
Collins’ happiness, and—most unaccountable eccentricity
of all—seems to imply, when they are talking of the
rooms at Rosings, that the next time he and she are in
Kent, she too will be staying at the great house, instead
of at the parsonage. Elizabeth wonders, is momentarily
put out, and thinks no more of it.</p>

<p>In a conversation between Elizabeth and Colonel
Fitzwilliam, just before the two gentlemen are to take
their departure, after the Colonel has mentioned that
they would have been gone long ago, if Darcy had not,
again and again, put off their leaving Rosings, and
Elizabeth has hinted that Mr. Darcy has no objection
to direct his friends’ movements, the talk turns on
Darcy’s well-known influence over his great friend
Bingley. Fitzwilliam, in his ignorance, refers to a
service which Darcy has done this friend, and of which
the benefactor has spoken to his cousin, without, however,
mentioning names. Darcy has congratulated himself
on having been able to rescue a friend from the
misfortune of contracting a very undesirable marriage.</p>

<p>Elizabeth, understanding the allusion, feels her
blood boil at what she regards as a heartless boast
thus unconsciously repeated to one interested in the
transaction. After she has parted from her innocent
informant, she occupies herself with re-reading Jane’s
last letters, and imagines she sees in them proofs of
broken spirits and impaired tranquillity.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p>

<p>Elizabeth is herself so troubled that she pleads with
reason a violent headache to excuse her from accompanying
the Collins’ and Maria Lucas to dine at Rosings.
Elizabeth feels she cannot encounter Darcy with calmness,
after this confirmation of the injury he has inflicted
on her sister.</p>

<p>In the course of the evening Elizabeth Bennet is
startled by a ring at the door-bell. To her utter amazement,
Mr. Darcy walks in. He has left the party at
Rosings, and he at once imputes his visit to a wish to
hear that she is better.</p>

<p>Elizabeth answers with cold civility.</p>

<p>He rises and walks about the room, comes towards
her in an agitated manner, and bursts forth “In vain
have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will
not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how
ardently I admire and love you!”</p>

<p>Elizabeth’s astonishment is beyond expression. She
stares, colours, doubts, and is silent. “For once a young
lady is incredulous on the subject of a proposal made to
her.”</p>

<p>Darcy treats her silence as sufficient encouragement,
and proceeds to plead his cause—speaking well, like the
able man he is.</p>

<p>But, unfortunately, there are other feelings than love
to be described, and he is as eloquent on his pride—of
which he has never learnt to be ashamed—on the contrary,
he has always been proud of his pride—as on his
tenderness. With great candour, but little tact, he expatiates
on the obstacles his attachment has had to
overcome, refers to her inferior position, and lets it be
plainly seen he considers an alliance with her family in
one sense a degradation.</p>

<p>In short, Mr. Darcy pays his addresses in a high
and mighty fashion, which belonged as much to the
privileges of the great “quality” of the period as to
the man.</p>

<p>Little wonder that, though he urges with some
justice the strength of a regard which has been proof<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>
against such trials, and claims its due reward in her
acceptance of his hand—speaking of apprehension and
anxiety, but with his countenance expressing real security,
so that it is evident he has no doubt of a favourable
answer—a high-spirited girl like Elizabeth Bennet,
who already looks upon herself as aggrieved by this
man, her sister’s worst enemy, should become exasperated
into forgetting her first sense of the compliment of
Darcy’s affection, and pity for his inevitable disappointment.</p>

<p>With hardly more humility than he has displayed,
she gives him his answer. She waives with disdain the
usual expressions of obligation. She declares she cannot
thank him. She has never desired his good opinion,
and it is certain he has bestowed it most unwillingly.
She is sorry to cause pain to any one. It has been most
unconsciously done, however, and she hopes will be of
short duration. The feelings which he has just told
her have long prevented the acknowledgment of his
regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after
this explanation.</p>

<p>Mr. Darcy, who is leaning against the mantelpiece
with his eyes fixed on her face, hears her with as much
resentment as surprise or pain. In fact, it is with the
white heat of anger, rather than the extremity of grief,
that his complexion grows pale; and when he has put
just enough force on himself to speak calmly, it is with
imperiousness and not with despair—above all, without
the most distant idea of stooping to implore her mercy—that
he demands, “And this is all the reply which I am
to have the honour of expecting? I might, perhaps,
wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”</p>

<p>Thus pressed and goaded, Elizabeth speaks her mind
with passionate, youthful freedom as well as dignity and
scorn. She accuses him of a design to offend and insult
her, by choosing to tell her he likes her against his will,
against his reason, even against his character. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>
asks if he could think that, though her feelings had not
decided against him, though they had been indifferent,
even favourable, any consideration could ever induce her
to marry a man who has destroyed the happiness of a
beloved sister?</p>

<p>He is guilty of saying that he has been kinder to
Bingley than to himself.</p>

<p>She retorts that she has long ago known his character
from Mr. Wickham, and dares him to contradict what
she has heard.</p>

<p>His hasty exclamation, “You take an eager interest
in that gentleman’s concerns!” betrays that jealousy is
the first emotion aroused by her reproach.</p>

<p>But when she goes on to protest against the injuries
he has inflicted on his father’s godson, in withholding
from him what Darcy must have known to be his due,
other feelings are awakened in her hearer.</p>

<p>“And this,” he cries, as he walks with quick steps
across the room, “is your opinion of me? This is the
estimation in which you hold me? I thank you for
explaining it so freely. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed.”</p>

<p>But he is not so much hurt that pride and resentment
are not to have the last word. He stops his indignant
cry, to assert that perhaps his offences might
have been overlooked if he had not wounded her pride
by the honest confession of his scruples. Her bitter
accusations might have been suppressed if he had flattered
her with the belief that he was impelled by unqualified
inclination. But he is not ashamed of the
feelings he has related. They were natural and just.
Could she expect him to rejoice in the inferiority of her
connexions?</p>

<p>Here is the most masterful of incensed lovers. But
he meets his match in the most resolute of indignant
girls.</p>

<p>“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth says,
with all the calmness she can summon to her aid, “if
you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>
me in any other way than as it spared me the concern
which I might have felt, in refusing you, had you behaved
in a more gentlemanlike manner.”</p>

<p>She sees him start at this terrible home-thrust, and
she is not inclined to be magnanimous in pursuing her
advantage. “You could not have made me the offer of
your hand in any possible way that would have tempted
me to accept it,” she adds. Surely this is enough.
But the obvious astonishment with which he hears her,
the expression of mingled incredulity and mortification
with which he looks at her, spurs on the intrepid,
wrathful girl to explain further that from the very
beginning—from the first moment of their acquaintance
almost—his manners have impressed her with the fullest
belief in his arrogance and conceit. She speaks out the
disapprobation which has ended in invincible dislike, and
winds up with the somewhat gratuitous statement that
she had not known him a month before she felt that he
was the last man in the world whom she could ever be
prevailed on to marry.</p>

<p>Rash, foolish—if perfectly sincere—words can go no
further.</p>

<p>“You have said quite enough, madam,” Darcy puts
an end to the altercation. “I perfectly comprehend
your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of
what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken
up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for
your health and happiness.”</p>

<p>So the stormy interview terminates, and Elizabeth is
left to recover from the tumult of her feelings, though
it is too soon for her to be sorry for having spoken so
many vehement words in her anger.</p>

<p>Of course, Elizabeth keeps an honourable silence on
what has befallen her. She has no confidante save her
own thoughts, and she is reduced next morning to walking
out alone to indulge them in peace, when again she
sees a gentleman in the distance. This time she retreats
from him, but she hears Mr. Darcy’s voice repeat her
name. She has no choice save to stop and face him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p>

<p>He comes up, holds out a letter, and saying quietly
and haughtily, “Will you do me the honour of reading
that letter?” bows himself off.</p>

<p>With the strongest curiosity, though with no expectation
of pleasure, Elizabeth opens the letter, and is still
more surprised to find it contains two sheets (the old,
spacious sheets) written quite through in a close hand,
with the cover also full.</p>

<p>The letter is not a love-letter, or a letter of apology;
it is simply a vindication of the writer’s character from
the charges which Elizabeth had impulsively brought
against it.</p>

<p>In the first part, which deals with the accusation
against Darcy for having deliberately separated Bingley
and Jane, he begins by making the small atonement of
emphatically declaring that he had acted under a mistaken
impression. He has been persuaded that, while
his friend was rapidly becoming attached to Miss Bennet,
she, on her part, was still sufficiently indifferent to him
to prevent her happiness being seriously implicated in
the affair. In this light, Darcy has thought himself
at liberty to take all lawful means to hinder the marriage
for his friend’s sake, while he himself was still
successfully struggling with his admiration for Elizabeth.</p>

<p>In recapitulating the objections to the marriage, the
writer sins afresh, and worse than ever where his reader’s
feelings are concerned. He writes some very plain and
hard words of the Bennet family which, in the middle
of his strong determination to clear himself, he must
have known would wound Elizabeth to the quick. He
says that the inferiority of her mother’s origin, however
much to be regretted, is nothing in comparison
with that total want of propriety so frequently—almost
so uniformly—betrayed by Mrs. Bennet herself, by
Elizabeth’s three younger sisters, and occasionally even
by her father.</p>

<p>Apparently, Darcy has relented a little after writing
these harsh words, for in the next sentence he does ask
her shortly to pardon him. He protests it pains him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>
offend her. He even goes a little out of his way, to
bid her, in her concern for the defects of her relations,
and her displeasure with him for unreservedly pointing
them out, take comfort from the consideration that she
and her elder sister have so conducted themselves as to
escape any share of the censure liberally bestowed on
the others. He says, with lurking tenderness, under
the guise of stern justice, that the exemption is honourable
to the sense and disposition both of Jane and
Elizabeth.</p>

<p>In proceeding to dispose of her violent advocacy of
Wickham’s cause and consequent severe aspersions of
his own character, Darcy treats the subject as more
serious, and here the higher nature of the man comes
in. In proportion to the greater injury done him, he
grows calmer, more reasonable, almost magnanimous.
With a manly self-restraint and absence of all invective,
which are in themselves proofs of his honesty of purpose,
he consents to make plain to her, at whatever sacrifices
of his pride and reserve, how very different from what
she supposes have been his relations with Wickham.
He even puts himself to the pain of entrusting to her
honour a portion of the story which involves another
member of his family, the young sister to whom he is
confessedly the best of brothers, in order to complete
the exposure of the wholesale misrepresentation, the
tangled web of truth and falsehood, with which Wickham
has deceived her.</p>

<p>While young men at college together, Darcy knew
how far Wickham fell short of the elder Darcy’s good
opinion, without attempting to deprive the lad of his
patron’s favour. In those days Wickham had shown
himself as disinclined, as he was unfit, to take orders; and
at the death of his godfather, who had only recommended
him to the family living conditionally—on his
proving suitable, and on the younger Darcy’s approbation
of the presentation—Wickham had announced
his objections to the step proposed, and had accepted
£3,000 as an equivalent. It was not till after he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>
failed in studying for the bar, and when he had wasted
the money he had received, that he had again applied
to Darcy with cool effrontery, professing his readiness
to comply with the necessary conditions, and claiming
the presentation to the living.</p>

<p>On Darcy’s refusal, Wickham had attempted to
revenge himself, and at the same time to secure
Georgiana Darcy’s fortune of £30,000 by renewing his
acquaintance with Darcy’s sister, and making use of her
childish affection for him, until he had sufficiently ingratiated
himself with the inexperienced girl of fifteen,
to induce her to believe herself in love, and to consent to
an elopement with him. Georgiana was only saved
from a miserable fate by the affection for the elder
brother who had been like a second father to her, which
caused her, at the last moment, to refuse to go any
further in deceiving and defying him, and to confess
to him her foolish intention.</p>

<p>Darcy ends his letter by referring Elizabeth Bennet
for confirmation of his account, should she be inclined to
question it, to his cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who is
acquainted with the entire particulars, and who can have
no motive in misleading her.</p>

<p>Then with the revived regret and charity with
which a man will say farewell to the woman he has
loved—and loves still, in spite of her cruel treatment
of him—he bids God bless her, before he signs himself
Fitzwilliam Darcy.</p>

<p>Elizabeth reads eagerly, with a throng of conflicting
emotions. She commences by being incredulous. “This
could not be true,” she says of his assertion that he has
thought Jane free from any special partiality for Bingley,
while she writhes under the cutting references to her
other relations and their exhibition of themselves at the
Netherfield ball.</p>

<p>Again she cries out with still more energy, “This
must be false,” when she comes to the temperate statement
of Wickham’s misconduct and absolute untrustworthiness.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p>

<p>But as she reads, and re-reads, and reflects on the contents
of the letter, the girl’s good sense, her own fairness
and truthfulness come to her aid against the rooted prejudice
which had so blinded her judgment—finding
ample food as it did in the besetting sin of Darcy,
which reflected itself in his unpopular and unconciliatory
manner, in contrast with the superficially pleasant
address, masking the unprincipled selfishness of Wickham.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is forced to see how completely she has
been taken in, how little ground she has had to go upon
in either case, save vanity piqued on the one hand and
gratified on the other. She shrinks abashed before her
own errors of observation and reasoning—she who has
been so proud of her penetration and cleverness.</p>

<p>She hates to remember her zealous support of Wickham,
of whom she had literally known nothing, except
that he was handsome and agreeable, and from the
stories he has told her himself with a frankness which,
even if he had been perfectly sincere, would have been
imprudent and indelicate in so recent an acquaintance.</p>

<p>She recoils from the recollection of her sharpness
and uncalled-for taunts to Darcy, and is brought to
admit that his warm, constant regard for her, in the
teeth of her unconcealed dislike to him, has been no
common compliment from such a man; though she
must still think that he urged his suit in an improper
and unamiable manner.</p>

<p>When Elizabeth returns to Longbourn, she is
doubtful whether or not she ought to tell so much of
what she has learned of Wickham’s real character as
to open the eyes of their common acquaintances; but
hearing, to her immense relief, that the militia regiment
stationed at Meryton is under orders to go into camp
at Brighton, and that Wickham must leave the neighbourhood,
in company with the rest of the officers, in
the course of a fortnight, she resolves, with the approval
of her sister Jane, who has been the astonished
listener to all Elizabeth’s adventures, to leave Wickham<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>
the opportunity of redeeming the past, by refraining
from the uncongenial task of exposing him to his
associates.</p>

<p>The two younger Miss Bennets, in company with
the more thoughtless girls of their immediate circle,
are sunk in the depths of despair at the prospect of
the loss of liveliness in their society, which the removal
of the regiment involves. But Lydia, who has
been loudest in her lamentations, is more than consoled,
for the present, by an invitation from the wife of the
colonel of the regiment, a newly-married woman, little
older and hardly less empty-headed than Lydia herself,
to accompany her on a visit to Brighton.</p>

<p>As Lydia’s ideas of felicity are summed up in
flirting noisily with six officers at once, Brighton and
its camp appear like Paradise to her.</p>

<p>In some respects, Lydia Bennet and George Wickham
are not unlike the fast heroine and lady-killing
hero of many modern novels. It is edifying to contemplate
the unqualified contempt and reprobation with
which Jane Austen viewed the couple.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet is so conscious of the risk and
harm to Lydia, in allowing her to go to a town which
combines all the disadvantages of a watering-place and
regimental quarters with such slender guardianship as
that of her friend, Mrs. Foster, that the elder sister
feels bound to risk giving mortal offence to Lydia,
and incurring the indignation of their mother, who is
nearly as bent on her daughter’s paying the undesirable
visit, as is the forward, spoilt girl of sixteen on her
own account. So Elizabeth goes to her father, and
urges him to keep her youngest sister at home.</p>

<p>But Mr. Bennet will not be stirred up to exercise
his authority. He is as convinced as anybody can
be of the silliness and folly of Lydia, but, acting on
his usual plan, he is more inclined to laugh at her
than to try to restrain her. Lydia will never be easy
till she has exposed herself at some public place, and
she could never do it at less expense and inconvenience<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>
to her family. They will have no peace at Longbourn
if she does not go to Brighton. As the officers will
find women better worth their notice there, let her
relations hope Lydia may be taught her own insignificance.
At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees
worse, without authorising them in locking her up for
the rest of her life.</p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>Elizabeth has a gratification in store for her, to which
she has long looked forward, so simple and common a
one in this generation, that it is refreshing to hear
how much, even in anticipation, a trip to the Lakes or
to Derbyshire has been to the untravelled girl, with her
fresh, unjaded tastes. In the same way, it is touching
to read in some of the last published letters of Charlotte
Brontë how the gifted, hard-faring woman was disposed
to think a week by the sea, which she had not seen
before, in the company of a congenial friend, implied
almost too much happiness for this world.</p>

<p>The Bennets have an uncle and aunt in London,
in trade, like the rest of their mother’s relations, inhabiting
a house in the City region of Gracechurch Street,
but who are in all other respects different from Mrs.
Bennet and the Philips in Meryton. Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner are sensible, intelligent, amiable people, much
esteemed by their elder nieces. The couple have promised
to take Elizabeth with them on a summer tour of
a month’s duration to the Lakes; the idea cheers and
consoles the girl under a hundred depressing and mortifying
influences.</p>

<p>As it happens, Mr. Gardiner cannot go so far as
the Lakes, and the expedition is limited to Derbyshire,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>
with its dales, towns, and great houses, its Peak, and
its caverns. Elizabeth enjoys herself heartily, without
an <i>arrière pensée</i>, till the excursion brings the party to
the little town of Lambton, where Mrs. Gardiner had
once lived for several years, and where she has still old
acquaintances. Elizabeth is aware that Lambton is
within a mile or two of Mr. Darcy’s estate and house
of Pemberley. She cannot be without some curiosity
to see the fine place, of which, had she so chosen, she
might have been by this time mistress. Therefore,
when her companions, who are in complete ignorance of
their niece’s special interest in Pemberley, propose to
drive to it, as one of the show-places of the neighbourhood,
Elizabeth, having carefully ascertained that not
one of the family is at home, willingly consents to accompany
her uncle and aunt.</p>

<p>Jane Austen hardly ever describes scenery. The
criticism on a recent tale, that there is not much of
human nature but a great deal about the weather in
the book, could never have been spoken of her stories.
The fashion in the fiction of her day tended to two
extremes—to the gorgeous ideal foreign landscape of
Mrs. Radcliffe, or to the ignoring of inanimate nature
in all save the barest accessories, practised by Mrs. Inchbald
and Fanny Burney. Jane Austen preferred the
latter style of treatment; her interest is not merely
centred in her men and women, it is monopolised by
them. As in the old tragic ballads, which were yet so
far removed from her stories, there seems no time for
elaborate analyses of earth, sea, and sky, with the
moulding of these mute forces into subtle sympathy,
or clashing discord with men’s moods, a tendency which
belongs to artificial and self-conscious art.</p>

<p>Yet we receive the impression that Jane Austen loved
the country and country walks. Once and again she
paints little landscape pictures which indicate her taste
and feeling. As might have been expected in her generation,
she shows her preference for rich, cultivated,
smiling, or at most prettily picturesque, thoroughly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>
domestic scenery. Her description of Pemberley Park
is one of her rare bits of landscape. She dwells with
much approbation—not only on the large, handsome stone
building (the age which revels in mellow brick, and puts
Queen Anne, not to say Queen Elizabeth, houses, far
before Georgian mansions, had not yet arrived), standing
well on a rising ground—but also on the ridge of
wooded hills which forms the background, and on the
stream of some natural importance, and “swelled” into
still greater, but without any artificial appearance, with
banks which are neither formal nor falsely adorned, that
constitutes the foreground. One has no difficulty in
conjuring up the place—somewhat heavy, yet stately
and tranquil, with its stretches of fine wood, its open
vistas contrived for “prospects,” and its careful adaptation
of the fall of the ground to “a valley narrowing
into a glen,” according to the principles of the landscape
gardening of the period.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is disinterestedly delighted. She feels that
to be mistress of Pemberley might have been something.
She is no less pleased with the house, and its lofty, well-proportioned
rooms, each window commanding a charming
view; the furniture suitable to the fortune of the
owner, but neither gaudy nor needlessly fine, with less
splendour but more real elegance than the furniture at
Rosings. “And of this place,” thinks Elizabeth, with
some pardonable hankering, “I might have been mistress.
With these rooms I might have been familiarly
acquainted. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I
might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed
to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But, no—” a
wholesome recollection stops the current of her thoughts
in time—“I should not have been allowed to invite
them.”</p>

<p>The housekeeper, an elderly, respectable-looking
woman, much more civil and less fine than Elizabeth
had expected, shows the visitors over the house. After
Elizabeth has recovered from a momentary alarm, and
made a mental note of thanksgiving that they have not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>
come a day later, on the servant’s observing that she
expects her master the next morning with a large party
of friends, the girl is able to listen with a mixture of
feelings, in which wonder and bewilderment are not the
least, to the talk which goes on among the others as
the family pictures are being looked at. The housekeeper,
on finding by some words which drop from
Mrs. Gardiner that Elizabeth is acquainted with her
master, begins to speak of him with honest pride and
warmth. How good a master and landlord he is! How
affectionate a brother! How kind to the poor! Does
the young lady not think him a very handsome gentleman?</p>

<p>“Very handsome,” answers poor Elizabeth briefly.</p>

<p>One example of the praise thus freely bestowed
strikes Elizabeth as of all others the most extraordinary.
“I have never had a cross word from him in his life,
and I have known him ever since he was four years old,”
declares the old servant. And yet, if there was one
fault more than another which Elizabeth Bennet had
been accustomed to ascribe unhesitatingly to the lordly
bear, Darcy, it was a bad temper; but, according to this
credible witness, the bear abroad must be a lamb at
home.</p>

<p>As Elizabeth digests the reflections aroused by this
evidence, and looks at a full-length portrait of the master
of the house, in which the face wears such a smile as she
had noticed sometimes on the lips of the living man
when he looked at her, she feels a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than she has yet experienced for the love
which had been so strong, though there was little of the
courtier in the lover.</p>

<p>The little party are consigned to the gardener, who
is conducting them across the lawn to the river.
Elizabeth has turned back to look again. Her uncle
and aunt have stopped also, and are conjecturing the
date of the house, when its owner comes suddenly forward
from the road leading to the stables.</p>

<p>The two so much interested are within twenty yards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>
of each other, and cannot avoid an encounter. Their
eyes meet; both grow crimson. He absolutely starts,
and for a moment seems immovable with surprise, but
shortly recovering himself, advances and speaks to
Elizabeth with perfect civility, if not perfect composure.</p>

<p>Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner recognise Mr. Darcy from
his resemblance to his picture and from the exclamation
of the gardener. They stand a little aloof, while the
new comer and their niece exchange greetings.</p>

<p>In the meantime Elizabeth is reduced to a state of
extreme confusion and discomfort. She scarcely dares
lift her eyes to her quondam lover’s face. She cannot
forget, and she knows he must recall with equal vividness,
the circumstances under which they parted at
Hunsford.</p>

<p>She is keenly alive to the impropriety, the indelicacy
of his finding her at Pemberley. Why did she come? or
why has he thus returned a day before he was expected?
How strange her being there must appear to him! In
what a disgraceful light may it not strike so vain a
man! For Elizabeth still holds forlornly to the last
rag of the mental and moral habiliments in which she
clothed him. She clings to the conviction of his high
opinion of himself and his deserts. But, in spite of
herself, amidst all the jumble of sensations which his
appearance has excited, none is more distinct or strikes
her more forcibly, than the realisation that he is heaping
coals of fire on her head, by behaving to the girl who
had rejected him—well-nigh with contumely—with the
greatest, most sedulous courtesy that a true gentleman
could show on such a trying occasion. More than that,
there is a complete alteration in his whole tone, which
she cannot fail to observe, that might have been perceptible
even to a stranger. He has overcome his old
aversion to the small polite forms and genialities of
social intercourse, along with his old stiffness and coldness.
He puts himself to the trouble of inquiring for
the very relations he stigmatised, as well as for herself.
He asks when she has left home, and how long she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>
means to stay in Derbyshire. He is interested in her
answers. He is animated and agreeable, in the middle
of his evident agitation, for the first time since she has
known him. His words only fail him when his last
idea deserts him, and, after standing a moment silent,
he recollects himself, and takes his leave.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is full of astonishment in her distress, and
all the time she walks about the grounds, mechanically
responding to their praises on the part of her companions,
and hearing the gardener triumphantly announce that the
park is ten miles round, she is puzzling out the riddle,
asking herself what Mr. Darcy thinks of her; whether
she is still dear to him, in defiance of everything? She
cannot tell, not even from her own heart, if he has felt
most pain or pleasure in seeing her again; but certainly
he has not been at ease.</p>

<p>While the visitors are still wandering about, Elizabeth
is again surprised by seeing Darcy at a little distance
coming towards them. For a moment she thinks
he will strike into another path, but when a turn of the
road shows him still advancing, and preparing to greet
them with all his newly-acquired cordiality, she determines
to emulate him, and gets out the words “delightful,”
“charming,” when it strikes her that praise
of Pemberley from her may be misconstrued, and she
colours and is silent.</p>

<p>Darcy asks if she will do him the honour of introducing
her friends.</p>

<p>This is a stroke of civility which even yet Elizabeth
did not expect. She cannot suppress a smile at his seeking
the acquaintance of some of the very people against
whom, viewed as her connections, his pride had revolted.
“What will be his surprise,” she thinks, with girlish
glee in her reviving spirits, “when he knows who they
are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”</p>

<p>As she names the Gardiners’ relationship to herself,
she steals a mischievous glance at Darcy, to see how he
bears it. She is not without a suspicion that he will decamp,
as fast as he can, from such disgraceful companions.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p>

<p>On the contrary, though he is surprised, he bears
the news with apparent fortitude, and, so far from
going away, turns and walks with them, entering into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner.</p>

<p>Elizabeth cannot but be pleased—cannot but triumph.
It is consoling that Darcy should know she has some
relations for whom there is no need to blush. She
listens attentively to all that passes, and glories in every
sentence of her uncle’s which marks his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.</p>

<p>Soon Elizabeth hears Mr. Darcy invite her uncle,
who is fond of fishing, to fish in the stream while he
is in the neighbourhood. Elizabeth says nothing, but
it gratifies her exceedingly; the compliment must be
all to herself. In place of continuing to torment herself
with the reproach “Why has she been so foolish as
to visit Pemberley?” she begins to ask more agreeable
questions. “Why is he so altered? It cannot be for
me? It cannot be for my sake his manners are thus
softened? It is impossible he should still love me.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth finds an opportunity, when Mrs. Gardiner
has taken her husband’s arm, and their niece has been
forced to walk behind with Darcy, to let him know she
had not expected to see him there, observing that his
return must have been unexpected, since his housekeeper
had said he would certainly not be back till to-morrow.</p>

<p>He tells her he had ridden on before his party, to
arrange some business with his steward. His sister and
the others—among whom are old acquaintances of hers,
Mr. Bingley and his sisters—will follow early the following
morning.</p>

<p>Elizabeth simply bows. Her thoughts fly back to
the last occasion on which Mr. Bingley’s name was
mentioned between them, and if she may judge by his
complexion, his mind is not very differently engaged.</p>

<p>But Mr. Darcy is still to give the crowning proof of
his condonement of Elizabeth’s offence, and his unshaken—if
possible, increased—respect for her. He tells her
there is one person in his party who particularly wishes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>
to be known to her. Will she allow him or does he
ask too much, to introduce his sister to her acquaintance
during her stay in Derbyshire?</p>

<p>This flattering request from the proud, exclusive,
great man of the neighbourhood, who is naturally still
more exclusive for his young sister than for himself,
is delicate homage indeed, such as Elizabeth is well
qualified to appreciate. Any desire Miss Darcy has to
know her must be the work of her brother, and, without
looking further, it is very gratifying to have this strong
testimony that his resentment has not made him think
really ill of her.</p>

<p>Elizabeth hardly knows how she accedes to the
petition, only it cannot have been very ungraciously.
He wishes her to walk into the house, but she excuses
herself, saying she is not tired, and the two stand together
on the lawn talking indefatigably of Matlock
and Dovedale, to avoid an awkward silence, till the
Gardiners came up, when, after a renewed and pressing
invitation to enter the house and take some refreshment,
Mr. Darcy hands the ladies into the carriage.</p>

<p>Elizabeth has to listen to her uncle and aunt’s remarks
on the Squire of Pemberley, who, in spite of his
formidable reputation for hauteur and reserve, has shown
himself “perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming.”
“I can now say with the housekeeper,” ends
Mrs. Gardiner, with a great deal more point than she
is aware of, “that though some people may call him
proud, I have seen nothing of it.”</p>

<p>The probability of such a reformation of manners on
Darcy’s part remains an open question. Perhaps the
sudden change in him is one of the most unlikely occurrences
which happen in Jane Austen’s life-like novels.
But her readers must remember that Darcy was only
eight-and-twenty years of age. He was a young man
of high character and many fine qualities, though these
had been warped by the false self-importance which was
the result of the over-indulged, isolated, really narrow
experience of the only son and heir of a great family,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>
confined largely to the circle of his own friends—at the
utmost his dependents. And the influence brought to
bear on Darcy, with such telling effect, was his strong
attachment to the bright, true-hearted girl who told
him his faults so plainly, yet who could not alienate
him, partly because of the single-heartedness of her
nature, partly because of the elements of nobility in his.
Love and his mistress, acting together on good principles
which had been suffered to lie dormant, were Darcy’s
teachers, and at twenty-eight such teachers are still
powerful.</p>

<p>The gradual change of Elizabeth’s feelings towards
Darcy is wrought out with great skill.</p>

<p>Darcy is so eager to fulfil his intention with regard
to Elizabeth Bennet and his sister, that on the very
afternoon of Georgiana’s arrival at home he drives her
over to the inn in Lambton, where the Gardiners are
staying.</p>

<p>Elizabeth has not been able to tell her uncle and
aunt the compliment which she is to receive, and her confusion
when the Pemberley livery is seen in the streets,
together with the effort to be calm, impresses them with a
new idea. There is no way to account for so marked
attentions from such a quarter, unless by supposing a
partiality for their niece—a supposition highly acceptable
to the worthy uncle and aunt.</p>

<p>Elizabeth finds Miss Darcy, who is a ladylike girl,
though not pretty, no alarming critic. She is shy instead
of proud, but her shyness does not prevent her
from being eager to like the friend her brother has
presented to her.</p>

<p>A few minutes afterwards Bingley also “waits upon”
Elizabeth, and is as friendly as of old. Her anger
against him has vanished long ago. She is glad to see
him again. She is pleased to fancy that he looks at her
once or twice as if he were seeking to trace a resemblance
between her and Jane. He is clearly on terms of simple
friendship with Georgiana Darcy, for whom his sister,
in complacently contemplating the possibility of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>
double family match, has designed him. And Elizabeth
believes she detects a regretful remembrance in the tone
in which he refers to its having been a long time since
he has seen her. She approves of the promptness and
exactness of the mental calculation which follows: “It
is above eight months; we have not met since the 20th
of November, when we were all dancing together at
Netherfield.”</p>

<p>An invitation to dine at Pemberley follows. It is
accepted with pleasure by the Gardiners, under the
agreeable persuasion that Mr. Darcy is much better
acquainted with Elizabeth than her friends had any idea
of; in fact, that he is very much in love with her. Of
the gentleman’s feelings there can be no doubt; with
regard to the sentiments of the lady—whom her relatives
do not choose to embarrass by pressing for her confidence
on the great conquest of which she has been far from
boasting—there is still an interesting uncertainty.</p>

<p>Once more in agitating circumstances Elizabeth visits
Pemberley, in paying the return call which she and her
aunt make upon Miss Darcy prior to the dinner.</p>

<p>Miss Darcy is as hospitable as her shyness will allow.
Darcy comes in and shows how anxious he is that
Elizabeth and his sister should get better acquainted.</p>

<p>Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are the marplots.
They greet Elizabeth with no more than a curtsey, till,
in the imprudence of anger at the master of the house’s
manner towards one of his guests, Caroline Bingley, who
has been watching the pair jealously, calls out, “Pray,
Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire militia removed from
Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.”</p>

<p>The impertinence stings more than one of the
listeners, in a way which the speaker has never contemplated.
The friend to whom Miss Bingley professes herself
to be devoted, Georgiana Darcy, is yet more distressed
than Elizabeth at the association with Wickham which
the mention of the militia regiment calls up, while Darcy
actually neglects to watch the effect of the malicious
speech on Elizabeth, in his sympathy with his young sister.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p>

<p>The callers are no sooner gone than Miss Bingley
expatiates on how ill Eliza Bennet is looking. She has
never in her life seen any one so much altered. Eliza
Bennet has grown quite brown and coarse.</p>

<p>Mr. Darcy confesses he has seen no alteration in
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, save her being tanned—no
miraculous consequence of travelling in summer.</p>

<p>The infatuated woman is not to be silenced. She
pulls every feature of her successful rival’s face to pieces.
Elizabeth’s face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliance; her nose lacks character; her eyes, which
have been called fine, possess a sharp, shrewish look.</p>

<p>Darcy remains resolutely silent.</p>

<p>His assailant, unfortunately for herself, is determined
he shall speak. “I remember when we first met in
Hertfordshire,” she continues in an airy strain, “how
amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed
beauty;<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> and I particularly recollect your saying one
night after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a
beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But
afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe
you thought her rather pretty at one time.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” replies Darcy, who can contain himself no
longer, “but that was only when I first knew her, for
it is many months since I have considered her one of the
handsomest women of my acquaintance.”</p>

<p>Well done, Mr. Darcy! always fearless in announcing
even a change of opinion, and now loyal to the absent,
and true to your mistress’s colours!</p>

<p>A terrible catastrophe is at hand.</p>

<p>That dinner-party at Pemberley never takes place.
Elizabeth has been expecting a letter from Jane, and
wondering at its non-arrival.</p>

<p>The delay is explained by two letters coming at one
time, and the Gardiners set out to visit some of Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>
Gardiner’s old friends, leaving Elizabeth at the inn to
go leisurely through the home news. They are of an
alarming, disastrous description. Lydia has eloped from
Brighton with Wickham. The worst reports are in circulation
with regard to his debts and his disreputable
character. The family at Longbourn are in the utmost
distress. Mr. Bennet has followed the fugitive pair to
London, where Mr. Gardiner is implored to join him.
Elizabeth is summoned home immediately.</p>

<p>As Elizabeth reads the letters in the height of
dismay, passionately lamenting what is likely to be the
miserable fate of her youngest sister, keenly sensible
of the disgrace brought on the whole family, bitterly
blaming herself for having abstained from letting her
circle know what she had heard against Wickham when
she was at Hunsford, Mr. Darcy is shown into the
room.</p>

<p>“Oh, where is my uncle?” Elizabeth has just been
crying to herself, and she has no further words for her
visitor than a hurried “I beg your pardon, but I must
leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on
business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant
to lose.”</p>

<p>Before he has time to think, he calls out, “What is
the matter?” then begs to go himself, or to send a
servant after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. He fears she is
ill. He cannot leave her in such a state. With the
utmost gentleness and consideration he urges her to let
him help her, to suffer him to call her maid, to get her a
glass of wine.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is forced to explain herself. There is
nothing wrong with her health. She is only grieved by
dreadful tidings from Longbourn, and at the words she
bursts into tears. After having said so much it is idle
to withhold the rest of the truth; indeed, the scandal
must be over the whole country soon.</p>

<p>Elizabeth tells Darcy her youngest sister has eloped
and is in the power of Mr. Wickham. She breaks off to
reproach herself anew. She might have prevented it, if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>
she had but explained some part of what she had learnt
to her family. But it is too late! too late! and Darcy
might have said, “I told you so. The tables are turned
with a vengeance.” But he is only amazed, sorry,
shocked. At last he scarcely seems to see her, as he
walks up and down the room in earnest thought, his
brow contracted, his air gloomy.</p>

<p>Elizabeth observes and understands. Her power is
sinking in the balance; everything must sink under
such an overwhelming evidence of family weakness.
“And never had she so honestly felt that she could have
loved him as now, when all love must be vain.”</p>

<p>At last Darcy recollects himself, and with a voice
which indicates compassion, but also restraint, excuses
himself for intruding on her and staying so long. He
would fain have helped her, but he will not torment her
with vain wishes. He fears the unfortunate affair will
prevent his sister’s having the pleasure of seeing her at
Pemberley that day.</p>

<p>Elizabeth hastily acquiesces, begs him to apologise
to Miss Darcy, and adds a miserable entreaty that he
will conceal the unhappy truth as long as possible—she
knows it cannot be long.</p>

<p>He readily assures her of his secrecy, again expresses
his sorrow for her distress, wishes it a happier ending
than seems probable, leaves his compliments for her
relations, and with only one serious parting look, goes.</p>

<p>As Darcy quits the room, Elizabeth feels how improbable
it is that they two will ever see each other again
on the happy terms which have marked their meetings
in Derbyshire. But though the consideration is full of
pain, the loyal girl has no time to spare for her own loss,
in the calamity<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> which has befallen her family.</p>

<p>The Gardiners, returning, are ready with the utmost
sympathy and regret. They promise every assistance
in their power, including the immediate escort of Elizabeth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>
to Longbourn, after which Mr. Gardiner will join
Mr. Bennet in London.</p>

<p>“But what is to be done about Pemberley?”
exclaims Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy
was here when you sent for us. Was it so?”</p>

<p>“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to
keep our engagement; that is all settled,” cries Elizabeth,
hurrying out of the room in a fever to set off.</p>

<p>“What, is all settled?” repeats the other; “and are
they on such terms as for her to disclose the real truth?
If I only knew how it is!”</p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>In as short a time as fresh horses can convey them,
the party are at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner repairs to
London, and induces Mr. Bennet, whose researches
have been fruitless, to return home.</p>

<p>At last, after a period of wretched suspense, the
news reaches Longbourn from Mr. Gardiner that he
has discovered the couple. For Lydia’s sake, little as
she has deserved it, they are married from Mr. Gardiner’s
house. Certain stipulations have been made on
Wickham’s part, that the bride shall in time inherit her
share of her mother’s few thousand pounds; that her
father shall allow Mrs. Wickham a hundred a year
during his lifetime; that Wickham’s debts shall be paid,
and a commission procured for him in “the regulars.”
Withal, little real happiness could be expected from
such a marriage. Wickham has only turned to Lydia
when he was repulsed in other quarters. His debts
have been the compelling cause of his flight from
Brighton. Her fondness for him is made up of giddiness
and a foolish passion on which she has put no
restraint.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span></p>

<p>But Mrs. Bennet is as elated at having a daughter
married at last, and married at sixteen, as if the marriage
had come about in a more honourable way.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet views the matter in a different light.
He is satisfied that his brother-in-law has kept back
the amount of money furnished by him to Wickham,
which Mr. Bennet must somehow, sooner or later, repay.</p>

<p>Her father has told Kitty, in the driest of sore-hearted
jesting, that no officer is to be allowed to enter
his house again, or even to pass through the village.
Balls are to be absolutely prohibited, unless she stands
up with one of her sisters; and she is never to stir out
of the house till she can prove that she has spent ten
minutes of every day in a rational manner.</p>

<p>Kitty has received those threats in a serious light,
and begins to cry.</p>

<p>“Well, well,” cries the incorrigible humourist,
“don’t make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl
for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at
the end of them.”</p>

<p>At first, Mr. Bennet refuses to permit a visit from
Mr. and Mrs. Wickham before he shall join his regiment
in the North; but, on the earnest representations
of his two elder daughters that to withhold the forgiving
countenance of Lydia’s family from the young
couple will be to lessen their slender chances of respectability,
he allows the culprits to come for a short
time to Longbourn, on their way to Newcastle.</p>

<p>The arrival of the Wickhams is in perfect keeping
with what went before it, and is a splendid bit of serio-comedy.
Jane blushes and Elizabeth blushes; but the
cheeks of the two who cause their relations’ confusion
suffer no increase of colour. Lydia is Lydia still,
untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. Wickham
is not at all more distressed than herself; but his
manners have always been so pleasing that, had his
audience not known his character, the smiling ease and
grace with which he claims their relationship would
have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>
believed him quite equal to such assurance, but she
resolves thenceforth to draw no limits to the impudence
of an impudent man.</p>

<p>I hope I may be pardoned for drawing particular
attention to the exquisite truthfulness of the couple’s
behaviour. The correct definition of it is specially
valuable at a time when slightly-altered versions of
such conduct are classed differently, and passed off on
inexperienced and thoughtless readers, to the grave detriment
of their standards of good morals and good
taste.</p>

<p>Lydia, in her total want of proper feeling and
modesty, cries out, “Oh, mamma, do people hereabouts
know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might
not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle
to-day, so I was determined he should know it, and so
I let down the side glass next to him and took off my
glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window-frame,
so that he might see the ring, and then I
bowed and smiled like anything.”</p>

<p>When the family party go in to dinner, Lydia,
with eager parade, walks up to her mother’s right
hand, saying triumphantly to her eldest sister, “Ah,
Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower,
because I am a married woman.”</p>

<p>After dinner the bride retires to show her ring, and
boast of being married, to the housekeeper and maid-servants.</p>

<p>When the ladies are all together again in the
breakfast-parlour, which a hundred years ago did duty
as a drawing-room, unless on state occasions, Mrs.
Wickham patronises her whole family by giving them
a general invitation to Newcastle, where she hopes
there will be balls, and she will take care to find good
partners for her sisters. After her father and mother
go away, one or two of the girls may be left behind,
when their <i>chaperon</i> expresses a sanguine hope that she
will get husbands for them before the winter is over.</p>

<p>“Thank you for my share of the favour,” says<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>
Elizabeth, “but I do not particularly like your way of
getting husbands.”</p>

<p>“Sour grapes! spiteful thing!” we can imagine
Lydia saying, hardly below her breath. Do we not
see her before us, as large as life, in all her native
colours, the pert, hoidenish, vulgar-minded girl—as
destitute of delicacy as of dutifulness, or sweet unselfishness,
or gentle affection—who has become, by
some strange, sad chance, a favourite in the literature
of the day? I appeal to my readers—Is she not still
the same, though the fashion of her dress, or the manner
in which she wears her hair, and a few of her phrases,
may be altered, and though—alas! for the lower tone
of much modern English fiction—she is now held up to
approbation instead of reprobation.</p>

<p>In the course of her shameless boasting about her
marriage, Lydia lets out before her sisters that Mr.
Darcy was present.</p>

<p>“Mr. Darcy!” exclaims Elizabeth, in utter bewilderment.</p>

<p>“Oh! yes, he was to come there with Wickham,
you know. But, gracious me, I quite forgot! I ought
not to have said a word about it. I promised them so
faithfully. What will Wickham say? It was to be
such a secret.”</p>

<p>“If it was to be such a secret,” says the honourable
Jane, “say not another word on the subject. You may
depend upon my seeking no farther.”</p>

<p>“Oh! certainly,” says Elizabeth, though burning
with curiosity, “we will ask you no questions.”</p>

<p>“Thank you,” answers Lydia coolly, “for if you did
I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would
be angry.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth has to run away from the temptation.
She has one resource, however; she can write and ask
a private explanation from her kind aunt.</p>

<p>Elizabeth learns the whole truth, though Mrs.
Gardiner does not conceal her surprise that the information
is required in such a quarter. After Darcy’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>
parting from Elizabeth in Derbyshire, he had gone
immediately to London—and, in fact, done everything.
It was he who, through his previous acquaintance with
Wickham’s habits and associates, had discovered the
couple, and brought them to Mr. Gardiner’s knowledge.
It was Darcy who had conducted all the negotiations—in
fine, it was Darcy who had insisted on paying the
necessary money—a thousand pounds for Wickham’s
debts; another thousand to be settled, in addition to
her own, on Lydia; and the purchase-money for her
husband’s commission. The reason which Darcy had
urged for being allowed to take the lead in the matter,
and to furnish the money, was that it had been through
his own unjustifiable reserve, and want of consideration
for others, that Wickham’s character had not been known,
so that he had been received and noticed in respectable
society.</p>

<p>But Mr. Gardiner would not have yielded up his
right of making some sacrifice for his niece—or, rather,
for her family—had he not been persuaded that Mr.
Darcy of Pemberley had even a nearer interest in the
affair, by being either actually engaged, or on the point
of being engaged, to Lydia Bennet’s sister Elizabeth.
Indeed, Mrs. Gardiner is still so convinced of the truth
of the impression, and of the happy prospects of one of
her favourite nieces, in a marriage with a man of much
worth, as well as of great social consideration, who only
wants a little more liveliness—which a judicious choice
of a wife may supply—that, in closing her letter, she
gaily begs Elizabeth not to punish the writer’s
presumption by excluding her from Pemberley, since
she can never be quite happy till she has been all round
the park—an expedition for which a low phaeton, with a
nice pair of ponies, would be the very thing.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is greatly moved by the efforts and the sacrifices
of feeling—still more than of money—which Darcy
has made on Lydia’s behalf. It could not have been for
Lydia alone. But when Elizabeth asks herself, Were
the Gardiners right in arguing it was for her—Elizabeth’s—sake?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>
she is met by the humbling reflection that
the assistance he has rendered must, and ought to be,
the last tribute paid by Darcy to a loyal, disinterested
regard, which has proved in every way unfortunate.
The idea of the proud, sensitive master of Pemberley
voluntarily seeking to become the brother-in-law of
Wickham, the son of his father’s steward—the man
who has so wronged him and his, who has outraged
Darcy’s every principle and instinct—the man whom of
all others Darcy most abhors, and has reason to abhor—is
not to be thought of for an instant. Yet Elizabeth
is half-pleased, in the middle of her pain, to see how
confidently her uncle and aunt have reckoned on her
marriage with Darcy.</p>

<p>Mrs. Bennet is consoled for the Wickhams’ departure
by the news, which quickly circulates in Meryton, that
Mr. Bingley is coming down to Netherfield for the shooting.
At once she resumes all her former projects for her
eldest daughter, and poor Jane, in addition to the conflict
in her own heart, has to submit to her mother’s pointedly
looking at her, smiling at her, or shaking her head over
her, every time the tenant of Netherfield’s name happens
to be mentioned—which, for the present, is incessantly.</p>

<p>The old argument as to Mr. Bennett’s calling immediately
at Netherfield is renewed.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet stoutly refuses. “No, no; you forced
me into visiting him last year, and promised me if I
went to see him he should marry one of my daughters.
But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a
fool’s errand again.”</p>

<p>In the middle of the doubts as to what brings
Bingley back, and whether he comes with or without
his friend’s gracious permission, Elizabeth thinks in her
own merry way, “It is hard that this poor man cannot
come to a house which he has legally hired without
rousing all this speculation. I will leave him to himself.”</p>

<p>On the first morning after Bingley’s return into
Hertfordshire, Mrs. Bennet has the joy of seeing him,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>
from her dressing-room window, riding up the paddock
to Longbourn House. She calls her daughters to share
her exultation. Jane sits still. Elizabeth, to satisfy
her mother, goes to the window; she looks, she sees Mr.
Darcy with his friend, and sits down again by her sister.</p>

<p>“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” says the
unconscious Kitty, and then adds the next moment,
“La! it looks just like that man who used to be with
him before, Mr. What’s-his-name? That tall, proud
man.”</p>

<p>“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy; and so it does, I
vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley will always be
welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I
hate the very sight of him.”</p>

<p>These are some of the many expressions of dislike to
Darcy and misconception of his character, for which
Elizabeth has partly herself to thank, since she had
helped largely to originate them. She has now to
listen to them in silence, while she alone is aware of the
benefits he has conferred on the whole family, and that
he has saved her mother’s favourite daughter from
destruction.</p>

<p>Elizabeth had meant to watch closely Jane’s first
interview with Bingley on his return; but the attention
of the young watcher is sadly distracted by her own
position and that of Darcy, while she has nearly as
many doubts of Darcy’s intentions as of Bingley’s.
Darcy’s coming there at all might have been supposed
to have only one significance, but Elizabeth will not be
sure.</p>

<p>As it happens, the double awkwardness of the situation
is so great that all those most concerned in it
labour under the greatest constraint—a constraint which,
unhappily, is only too likely to be misconstrued.</p>

<p>Jane is pale and sedate.</p>

<p>Bingley is looking embarrassed as well as pleased.</p>

<p>Darcy strikes Elizabeth as more like what he used
to be in Hertfordshire than as he had seemed in the
pleasant days in Derbyshire.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p>

<p>Of Elizabeth’s own unwonted gravity, naturally she
can have no just conception.</p>

<p>Matters are made worse by Mrs. Bennet, whose fulsome
civility to Bingley, on the one hand, contrasted as
it is with her cold politeness to Darcy, on the other, fill
both her elder daughters with distress and mortification;
though it is only Elizabeth who suffers agonies of shame
from Mrs. Bennet’s most <i>mal à propos</i> dwelling on her
youngest daughter’s marriage, and her hit at Darcy
when she reflects, in reference to Wickham, “Thank
Heaven! he has some friends, though, perhaps, not so
many as he deserves.”</p>

<p>In the vehemence of youth, Elizabeth Bennet is persuaded
that years of happiness—supposing they should
ever come—could not make Jane and her amends for
moments of such painful confusion. The first wish of
her heart, Elizabeth declares to herself, is never more to
be in the company of either of the gentlemen again.
“Let me never see either one or the other again.”</p>

<p>Yet Jane Austen remarks with quiet fun, in the very
next sentence, the misery for which years of happiness
were to offer no compensation received material relief
when Elizabeth was able to observe how speedily
Bingley’s admiration for her sister was reviving in her
presence. No doubt, also, Elizabeth derived some
pleasure from the fact that both visitors engaged themselves
to dine at Longbourn, on Mrs. Bennet’s eager
invitation.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask
them to stay and dine that day, but though she always
kept a good table she did not think anything less than
two courses<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> could be good enough for a man on whom
she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite
and pride of one who had £10,000 a year.”</p>

<p>After the visitors are gone, Elizabeth asks herself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>
again, “If he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,
why did he come at all?”</p>

<p>The dinner brings no satisfaction and enlightenment
where Elizabeth’s private affairs are concerned. Bingley,
no doubt, is renewing his attentions to Jane beyond
the possibility of mistake, so that Mrs. Bennet may be
almost excused for fully expecting him to come and
propose next day; though the sensible and amiable Jane
still nervously assures herself and her sister Elizabeth
that any apparent partiality to her only proceeds from
Bingley’s pleasing manners; and that, as for herself, she
has become most desirably and comfortably indifferent
with regard to his sentiments. But Darcy at the dinner-table
is entirely separated from Elizabeth, and seated at
the right hand of Mrs. Bennet, with whom he only exchanges
an occasional formal word. In the drawing-room
he does show an inclination to stand by Elizabeth,
at the table where she and Jane are making tea and
coffee, in the old, pretty, genial fashion; but the mere
accident of the ladies of the party gathering about the
table, and of a girl moving closer to Elizabeth with the
stage whisper, “The men shan’t come and part us, I am
determined; we want none of them, do we?” is sufficient
to cause him to walk away. His tongue may
have been tied, and yet his eyes might have spoken;
but as far as Elizabeth could discern he looked as much
and as earnestly at Jane as at herself, both on this occasion
and on that of his call. It is all a tormenting puzzle.</p>


<h3>V.</h3>

<p>Bingley calls again without his friend, announcing
that Darcy has gone to London, but will return to
Netherfield in ten days. From this date Bingley’s
wooing thrives apace. He makes daily engagements to
shoot, or dine, or sup at Longbourn.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Bennet practises the most transparent manœuvres
to leave him alone with Jane, so that he may have
the opportunity of saying “Barkis is willin’,” or some
equivalent phrase, since Barkis had not yet made his
model proposal. For a short space Jane and Elizabeth
defeat these arrangements.</p>

<p>At last, one evening when Elizabeth has gone out of
the room to write a letter, believing that all the others,
including Bingley, are safely seated at cards, the indefatigable
matchmaker contrives to dissolve the party,
sends Mary to her piano, and carries away Kitty to sit
with her mother in her dressing-room, while Mr. Bennet
is, as usual, ensconced in his library. Elizabeth, returning
to the drawing-room, where she expects to find the
family, discovers that her mother has been too ingenious
for her. On opening the door she perceives her sister
and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if
engaged in earnest conversation, and had this led to no
suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily turn and
move away from each other, would have told all. There
is a momentary awkwardness, till Bingley leaves the
room to seek Mr. Bennet, when Jane is ready to proclaim
herself the happiest girl in the world.</p>

<p>Elizabeth smiles at the rapidity and ease with which
an affair that has cost them so much suspense and
anxiety is finally settled. “And this,” she says to herself,
“is the end of all his friend’s anxious circumspection,
of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance,—the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end.”</p>

<p>If Jane Bennet is the happiest girl, Mrs. Bennet is
the happiest woman, according to her ideas of happiness.
Lydia and Wickham are superseded; Jane is promoted,
beyond comparison, her mother’s favourite child.</p>

<p>Meryton soon hears the tale, and after having, only a
few weeks before, when Lydia ran away, pronounced the
Bennet household marked out for misfortune, now declares
them the luckiest family in the kingdom.</p>

<p>One morning, shortly after Jane’s engagement, a
chaise and four drives up to Longbourn House. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>
equipage and liveries are not familiar. The horses are
“post.” It is too early for visitors.</p>

<p>Amidst the speculation thus aroused, Jane and
Bingley retreat into the shrubbery, leaving Mrs. Bennet,
Elizabeth, and Kitty to receive the strangers, whoever
they may be.</p>

<p>In a few minutes Lady Catherine de Bourgh is
shown into the room. With the same arrogant ill-breeding
which had distinguished the great lady’s behaviour
at home, she now conducts herself in another
person’s house, merely bowing to Elizabeth—the only
member of the family with whom she has any previous
acquaintance—sitting down, and in return for Mrs.
Bennet’s fluttered attentions, putting her through a
series of impertinent questions, and finding fault with
the park and the sitting-room.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is at a loss to account for the unsolicited
favour of her ladyship’s company, unless, indeed, she
comes with a message from Mrs. Collins, but none is
given.</p>

<p>At last Lady Catherine proposes that Elizabeth
should take a turn with her in the wilderness, to which
the girl accompanies her visitor, followed by an anxious
direction from her mother to show her ladyship the
different walks and the hermitage. As the couple go
out, Lady Catherine opens the doors of the dining-parlour
and drawing-room, and after a short survey, allows that
they are “decent-looking rooms.”</p>

<p>The carriage stands at the door with Lady Catherine’s
waiting-woman in it, announcing that Lady Catherine
is on a journey taken with a set purpose.</p>

<p>Elizabeth leaves her companion, who is more than
usually insolent and disagreeable, to begin the conversation,
which she is not slow to do. “You can be at no
loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
journey hither: your own heart, your own conscience,
must tell you why I come.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth professes her unaffected astonishment and
entire ignorance.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span></p>

<p>“Miss Bennet,” says her ladyship angrily, “you
ought to know that I am not to be trifled with.”
Then, with a little preamble on the sincerity and frankness
of her own character, she informs Elizabeth that a
report of a most alarming nature had reached her two
days before. “I was told,” says Lady Catherine, “that
not only your sister was on the point of being most
advantageously married, but that <i>you</i>—that Miss Elizabeth
Bennet—would in all likelihood be soon afterwards
united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy.
Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood,
though I would not injure him so much as to suppose
the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting
off for this place, that I might make my sentiments
known to you.”</p>

<p>Filled with resentment as Elizabeth is, she remains
mistress of the situation. “If you believe it impossible
to be true,” says the high-spirited, quick-witted
girl, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far.
What could your ladyship propose by it?”</p>

<p>“At once to insist on having such a report universally
contradicted.”</p>

<p>“Your coming to Longbourn to see me and my
family,” says Elizabeth, with cool shrewdness, “will
be rather a confirmation of it, if indeed, such a report
is in existence.”</p>

<p>“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it?
Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves?
Do you not know that such a report is spread
abroad?”</p>

<p>But Elizabeth is a match for her absurd inquisitor.
The girl is neither to be insulted nor browbeaten into
giving Lady Catherine such satisfaction as she has not
the smallest right to require, or into submitting to her
tyranny.</p>

<p>In vain Lady Catherine presses her as to the report
and its origin; Elizabeth will neither confess nor deny
the implication.</p>

<p>“This is not to be borne!” exclaims her ladyship.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>
“Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he,
has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”</p>

<p>“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible,”
replies Elizabeth, with demure imperturbability.</p>

<p>“It ought to be so,” her ladyship protests, hotly;
but then—as she hints, broadly—Elizabeth’s arts and
allurements may have made the young man, in a
moment of infatuation, forget what is due to himself
and his family. She may have drawn him in.</p>

<p>“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it,”
Elizabeth answers.</p>

<p>Lady Catherine brings forward another imperative
reason why such a proceeding can never take place: Mr.
Darcy is engaged to her daughter.</p>

<p>“If he is so,” says the unshaken Elizabeth, “you
can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer
to me.”</p>

<p>Lady Catherine is forced to hesitate, and to condescend
to an explanation. The engagement is a
family arrangement, based on perfect suitability of
rank, fortune, and character. It had been planned by
the two mothers, when the cousins were still children
in their cradles. Can Elizabeth, a young woman of
inferior birth, and of no importance in the world, be
so lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy as to
disregard the wishes of Mr. Darcy’s friends, and presume
to alter the destiny which, from his earliest years,
has united him with his cousin?</p>

<p>Yes; Elizabeth is intrepid enough to do it, and to
tell the domineering woman that if there were no
other objection to her—Elizabeth’s—marrying Lady
Catherine’s nephew, she would certainly not be kept
from it by knowing that his mother and aunt had
wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh.</p>

<p>It is useless for Lady Catherine to threaten the
penalties which the outraged family will inflict, ending
in that direst indignity of all, that Elizabeth’s name
will never be mentioned by any one of them; Elizabeth
assures the speaker, almost airily, that though these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>
may be heavy misfortunes, the wife of Mr. Darcy must
have such extraordinary sources of happiness, that upon
the whole she could have no cause to complain.</p>

<p>No wonder the incensed great lady is reduced to the
somewhat undignified alternative of calling Elizabeth
names—“obstinate, headstrong girl;” to telling her
she is ashamed of her; to sitting down and crying—well-nigh
piteously, waxing childish and maudlin, like many
another baulked, irrational tyrant—that she will carry
out her purpose; she has not been used to any person’s
whims; she has not been in the habit of brooking
disappointment; and it is not to be endured that her
nephew and daughter are to be divided by the upstart
pretensions of a young woman who, if she were sensible
of her own good, would not wish to quit the
sphere in which she had been brought up.</p>

<p>Elizabeth ventures to suggest that she is a gentleman’s
daughter.</p>

<p>“True,” grants Lady Catherine; only to add,
“but who was your mother? who are your uncles and
aunts?”</p>

<p>“Whatever my connexions may be, if your nephew
does not object to them, they can be nothing to you,”
says Elizabeth. She could not have been without a
tingling recollection that he had objected to them pretty
strongly, though she had just been marvelling how she
could ever have imagined a resemblance between him
and his aunt—the fact being that Lady Catherine presents
a striking caricature of Darcy’s original defects,
without any of his redeeming virtues.</p>

<p>“Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?”
demands Lady Catherine.</p>

<p>Though Elizabeth has no cause to oblige Lady
Catherine by giving a reply, her own candour and
self-respect compel her to answer, “I am not.”</p>

<p>Lady Catherine shows herself pleased. “And will
you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?”
She pursues her advantage with determination.
“I will make no promises of the kind,” Elizabeth refuses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>
point-blank, and Lady Catherine’s short-lived satisfaction
is dashed to the ground. She resumes her reproaches.
She is shocked. At last she is guilty of
the meanness and cruelty of taunting Elizabeth with
her sister Lydia’s misconduct, ending by crying, “And
is such a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is her husband—the
son of his father’s late steward—to be his
brother? Heaven and earth, of what are you thinking?
Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”</p>

<p>The extravagant theatrical declamation of her ladyship
might have provoked a smile from Elizabeth, but
she has already borne too much, and she winces under
the last ungenerous stab. “You can have nothing
further to say to me,” she exclaims, in her wounded
feeling, with a simple dignity that contrasts well with
the inflated pretensions of the other. “You have insulted
me in every possible method; I must beg to
return to the house.”</p>

<p>Lady Catherine is not to be taught a lesson: she
has long outlived such a possibility. The thick skin of
her arrogance and conceit is impenetrable. She assails
Elizabeth with fresh abuse and importunity.</p>

<p>“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say,”
Elizabeth contents herself with repeating. “You know
my sentiments.”</p>

<p>Lady Catherine talks on till the carriage is reached,
when she finishes her prolonged attack very characteristically.
“I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet; I send
no compliments to your mother; you deserve no such
attention. I am most seriously displeased.”</p>

<p>The interview between Lady Catherine and Elizabeth,
like the scene in which Mr. Collins proposes to
the heroine, is a triumph of art. It is the perfection
of true comedy, as opposed to the coarse farce which
frequently stands for it, not only in its wonderful exhibition
of Lady Catherine’s densely stupid egotism and
self-importance, but in what is so successfully opposed
to them in Elizabeth Bennet’s strong common sense,
racy mother wit, and sterling truth to her lover and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>
to herself. Where a weak woman might have been
cowed—at least, into a show of yielding for the time—or
a foolishly sentimental girl might have been betrayed
by the false glamour of unnecessary and uncalled-for self-sacrifice,
Elizabeth stands firm, and comes out triumphantly.
The whole passage, in its genius and wisdom, is
a protest against the bathos of mock heroism, which is
occasionally in danger of entrapping unwary actors in
the drama of life. It is still more apt to mislead the
artists who picture life, and mistake soft, even silly
submission for unselfish resignation, and self-martyrdom
for true martyrdom.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Bennet is dutiful in all the relations of
life; she is even scrupulous as to its proprieties; but she
is not a puppet in the hands of a Lady Catherine.</p>

<p>There is a curiously parallel scene drawn by one of
Jane Austen’s favourite authors—Fanny Burney, in her
novel of “Cecilia”—where the heroine is driven by
nearly similar arguments—employed, however, by the
mother, and not merely the aunt of the hero, who has
also been a true friend, to whom Cecilia was deeply
indebted—to give up the lover to whom she is doubly
bound. In spite of these differences in the situation,
which are in Fanny Burney’s favour, the opposite results
of the two chapters go far to prove the immense superiority
of Jane Austen as a writer.</p>

<p>Elizabeth has undergone the ordeal without blenching;
but the reaction is to come. No doubt Lady
Catherine will see her nephew in passing through
London—how far may not her prejudiced version of
what has passed between her and Elizabeth, with a
vigorous personal appeal to Darcy, sway him as he still
halts between two opinions? It is said that a woman
who hesitates is lost—on the other side of the question;
but the same saying does not hold good of a man.
Lady Catherine is Darcy’s aunt; he must view her in
another light from that in which Elizabeth regards her.
It is natural to suppose she has some influence over
him, while Elizabeth is only too well aware how much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>
weight he once put on some of his kinswoman’s violent
objections.</p>

<p>Elizabeth makes up her mind that if Darcy does not
return to Netherfield at the appointed date, she will
know what to think.</p>

<p>In the meantime Elizabeth is summoned by her
father to hear a letter from Mr. Collins read. In the
tallest of tall language the writer solemnly congratulates
the family on the brilliant prospects of his cousin Jane.
Then, after referring to what is even the surpassing
splendour of the alliance said to be within his cousin
Elizabeth’s reach, Mr. Collins servilely and with nervous
timidity states the unconquerable opposition of
his revered patroness, and implores Elizabeth not to
provoke Lady Catherine’s anger.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet regards the report to which Mr. Collins
has alluded, as the most preposterous mistake, and calls
upon Elizabeth to laugh at it, as the best joke out.
“Now, Lizzy, I think I have surprised you. Mr. Darcy,
who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and
who probably never looked at you in his life!”</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet is rather provoked because his daughter
does not enjoy the absurdity of the idea as he had
expected. “You are not going to be missish, I hope,”
he says reproachfully, “and pretend to be affronted by
an idle report.”</p>

<p>Poor Elizabeth! such incredulity is hard at this
moment.</p>

<p>But Darcy returns punctually, and comes over to
Longbourn with his friend; and in a walk undertaken
by several of the young people, in which Elizabeth is
Darcy’s companion, she musters courage to thank him
as the only member of the family who knows how much
they owe him for what he has done for her sister.</p>

<p>Darcy is surprised, but perhaps not sorry to have such
an opening given to a shy man. “If you will thank
me,” he says, “let it be for yourself alone. That the
wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the
other inducements which led me on I shall not attempt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>
to deny; but your family owe me nothing, much as I
respect them; I believe I thought only of you.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth is too embarrassed to say a word.</p>

<p>After a short pause her companion adds, “You are
too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still
what they were last April, tell me so at once. <i>My</i>
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from
you will silence me on the subject for ever.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness
and anxiety of his situation, now forces herself
to speak, and immediately, though not very fluently,
gives him to understand that her sentiments have undergone
so material a change since the period to which he
has alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and
pleasure his present assurances.</p>

<p>The happiness which this reply produces is such as
Darcy had probably never felt before, and he expresses
himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as
a man violently in love could be supposed to do. Had
Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might
have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight
diffused over his face became him; but though she
cannot look she can listen, and he speaks of feelings
which, in proving of what importance she is to him,
make his affection every moment more valuable.</p>

<p>Various happy explanations follow. Among others
he tells her Lady Catherine did visit him and relate the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling
on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship’s
opinion, denoted Elizabeth’s perverseness and assurance.
But, unfortunately for his noble aunt, the effect of the
communication proved the reverse of what she had intended.
“It taught me to hope,” he says, “as I had
scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew
enough of your disposition to be certain that had you
been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you
would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly
and openly.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth colours and laughs as she replies, “Yes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>
you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable
of that; after abusing you so abominably to your face,
I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your
relations.”</p>

<p>“What did you say to me that I did not deserve?”
protests the ardent, magnanimous lover, and goes on to
farther penitent and grateful confessions.</p>

<p>In reference to the engagement between Bingley
and Jane, with which Darcy declares himself delighted,
“I must ask whether you were surprised,” says
Elizabeth.</p>

<p>“Not at all. When I went away I felt it would
soon happen.”</p>

<p>“That is to say, you had given your permission. I
guessed as much.” Elizabeth rallies the speaker gaily.</p>

<p>Though he exclaims at the word, she finds that it
had been pretty much the case.</p>

<p>On the evening before his last visit to London,
Darcy had honestly told his friend of his own attachment
and proposal to Elizabeth Bennet, which rendered
his former interference between Bingley and Jane
Bennet “simply impertinent.” The speaker had also
courageously acknowledged that he believed from his
observation of the latter he had been mistaken in his
impression of Jane’s indifference.</p>

<p>“Your assurance,” says Elizabeth, with half-smothered
fun, “I suppose carried immediate conviction
to him?”</p>

<p>“It did,” replies Darcy, in perfect good faith.
“Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence
had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so
anxious a case; but his reliance on mine made everything
easy.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth longs to observe that Mr. Bingley has
been a most delightful friend—so easily guided that his
worth is invaluable; but she checks herself. She remembers
that he has yet to learn to be laughed at, and
it is rather too early to begin.</p>

<p>Here is one of Jane Austen’s characteristic touches.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>
Elizabeth, in the middle of her love and admiration for
Darcy, sees, as such a woman could not fail to do, his
weak points, and is not only tempted to laugh at him,
but with a grand faith in his sense and love, and true to
the character which had won his regard, she contemplates
subjecting him in time to the wholesome discipline
of her kindly laughter. And she lives to put her
purpose into execution, for we are told Darcy’s young
sister, in her delight in the sister he has given her, is
forced to wonder at the liberties Elizabeth takes with
her husband. For Georgiana Darcy had to learn that a
wise man will bear and relish from his wife what would
be out of place and unwelcome from the sister fifteen
years his junior.</p>

<p>Surely any man worthy of his salt would prefer to
be so dealt with by the woman who in her heart of
hearts dearly loves and heartily honours and obeys him,
rather than receive the mawkish and fulsome—even
when it is free from deliberate falsehood—flattery and
submission, not of a friend and mate, but of a toy and
slave.</p>

<p>Elizabeth, in her happiness, has still to suffer for the
violent, unreasonable prejudice, so freely expressed, which
had marked the commencement of her intercourse with
Darcy. She knows what she has to expect when even
Jane, who, through Bingley, understands something of
Darcy’s really fine nature, and who is besides prepossessed
in his favour by what she imagines his hopeless passion
for Elizabeth, yet meets her sister’s news with something
like stony incredulity. “You are joking. This cannot
be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no; you shall not
deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”</p>

<p>“This is a wretched beginning,” cries Elizabeth,
lively in her very vexation. “My sole dependence was
on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me if
you do not.”</p>

<p>“Oh! Lizzy, it cannot be. I know how much you
dislike him.”</p>

<p>“You know nothing of the matter,” Elizabeth contradicts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>
her indignantly. “That is all to be forgotten.
Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now,”
she submits to own, “but in such cases as these a good
memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall
ever remember it myself.”</p>

<p>“My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate
you; but are you certain—forgive the question—are you
quite certain that you can be happy with him?”</p>

<p>“There can be no doubt of that,” asserts the bride-elect,
briskly. “It is settled between us already that
we are to be the happiest couple in the world!”</p>

<p>Elizabeth has still to hear the ungracious epithets she
herself had first applied bestowed liberally on her lover.
So successful had she been in diffusing her ideas, that
the faith in them—together with Darcy’s reserve—prevents
even Mrs. Bennet, whose head is as full of lovers
and future husbands as the feather-head of any extremely
silly girl of sixteen, from viewing him in that
light. “Good gracious!” she cries, as she stands at a
window next morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy
is not coming here again with our dear Bingley. What
can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming
here? I had no notion but that he would go a-shooting,
or something or other, and not disturb us with his company.
What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must
walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s
way.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth cannot help laughing at so convenient an
arrangement; still she smarts at the prolonged echo of
her own idle words.</p>

<p>It is still worse when Darcy has asked Mr. Bennet
for Elizabeth’s hand, on the understanding that she herself
has accepted him, and Elizabeth is bidden go to her
father.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet is walking up and down the library,
looking grave and anxious. “Lizzy,” he says, “what
are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be accepting
this man? Have not you always hated him?”</p>

<p>How she wishes her former opinions had been more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>
reasonable, her expressions more moderate, that her pride
and modesty might have been spared unsaying her own
declarations on the one hand, and on the other making
professions which are generally taken for granted. In
some confusion she assures her father of her regard for
Mr. Darcy.</p>

<p>“Or, in other words, you are determined to have
him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have finer
clothes and finer carriages than Jane. But will they
make you happy?”</p>

<p>“Have you any other objection than your belief in
my indifference?” Elizabeth finds voice to say.</p>

<p>“None at all,” her father admits. “We all know
him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but that
would be nothing if you really liked him.”</p>

<p>“I do, I do like him, I love him,” protests poor
Elizabeth, with unwonted tears in her bright eyes, partly
called forth by the trial of having to make such an
awkward confession, partly provoked by the aspersions
cast on Darcy, for which she was to blame in the first
instance. “Indeed, he has no improper pride. He is
perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is;
then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such
terms.”</p>

<p>In spite of this warm defence, Mr. Bennet, with an
honourable disinterestedness that does him credit as a
man, and with no lack of fatherly tenderness—which even
goes so far as to hint at the rock on which his own happiness
has been wrecked—continues to remonstrate with
his favourite daughter. No doubt he has given Darcy
his consent, he says, with a flavour of his usual sardonic
humour in his speech, for he is the kind of man to whom
he should never dare refuse anything which he condescended
to ask. Her father will give the same consent
to Elizabeth if she is resolved on having it. But,
changing his tone, he implores her to think better of the
step she is about to take. She will be neither happy nor
respectable unless she truly esteems her husband—unless
she looks up to him as a superior. Her lively talents<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>
will be a snare to her. “My child,” he ends with
seriousness and feeling, “let me not have the grief of
seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.”</p>

<p>It is only after Elizabeth has entered into the fullest
details of the progress of her love and Darcy’s, with the
obstacles it has overcome, and after she has told all that
Darcy did for Lydia, that Mr. Bennet is not merely
reconciled to the match, but is duly impressed by the
merits of his future son-in-law. “And so Darcy did
everything, made up the match, gave the money, paid
the fellow’s debts, and got him his commission! So
much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must
and would have paid him; but these violent young
lovers carry everything their own way. I shall offer
to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his
love for you; and there will be an end of the matter.”</p>

<p>At last Mr. Bennet is in sufficient spirits to dismiss
his daughter with the injunction, “If any young men
come for Mary and Kitty, send them in, for I am quite
at leisure.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Bennet receives the announcement of her
second daughter’s prospects in a very different fashion,
for which Elizabeth is not responsible. Elizabeth takes
care to tell the tale in the privacy of her mother’s
dressing-room, after she has retired for the night. Here
is the witty account of what followed. After remarking
that the effect of Elizabeth’s communication was most
extraordinary, the author enters into particulars:—</p>

<p>“Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a
syllable; nor was it until many, many minutes that
she could comprehend what she heard, though not in
general backward to credit what was for the benefit of
her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any
of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget
about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and
bless herself. “Good gracious! Lord bless me! only
think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! who would have thought
it? and is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>
how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money!
what jewels! what carriages you will have!
Jane’s is nothing to it—nothing at all! I am so
pleased—so happy! Such a charming man! so handsome!
so tall! Oh, my dear Lizzy, pray apologise for
my having disliked him so much before. I hope he
will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy! A house in town!—everything
that is charming. Three daughters married!
Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! what will
become of me? I shall go distracted!””</p>

<p>When Elizabeth escapes, she has not been in her
own room three minutes before her mother comes after
her. “My dearest child!” she cries, “I can think of
nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very likely
more! ’Tis as good as a lord! And a special licence!
You must and shall be married by a special licence!
But, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is
particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”</p>

<p>Elizabeth dreads the next day, but after all, it goes
off better than she has dared to expect; for, luckily, Mrs.
Bennet stands in such awe of her intended son-in-law,
that she does not venture to speak to him, unless it
is in her power to offer him any attention, and mark
her deference for his opinion.</p>

<p>Elizabeth turns for relief to write, like an affectionate
young girl at the summit of human bliss, telling her
Aunt Gardiner to suppose as much as she chooses,
bidding her write again soon, and praise <i>him</i> (the one
him for Elizabeth then) a great deal more than she
has done in her last letter; thanking her for not going
to the Lakes last summer; declaring the idea of the
ponies is delightful. They will go round the park
every day. She—Elizabeth—is the happiest creature
in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before,
but none with such justice. She is happier, even, than
Jane; <i>she</i> only smiles, Elizabeth laughs. Mr. Darcy
sends Mrs. Gardiner all the love in the world that he
can spare from the writer. They are all to come to
Pemberley at Christmas.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p>

<p>Was ever a young bride’s letter more full of frank,
girlish joy; natural exultation, and glad look-out into the
future?</p>

<p>Darcy writes to Lady Catherine, and acquaints her
with the impending catastrophe, and she replies in such
terms as for a time puts a stop to all intercourse between
aunt and nephew.</p>

<p>Jane Austen begins her last chapter in her most
sarcastic vein. “Happy for all her maternal feelings
was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two
most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley and talked of Mrs.
Darcy may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the
sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her
earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her
children produced so happy an effect as to make her a
sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of
her life; though, perhaps, it was lucky for her husband,
who might not have relished domestic felicity in so
unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous,
and invariably silly.”</p>

<p>The rest of the few remaining paragraphs are in a
gentler strain, though they record that even Bingley’s
easy temper and Jane’s affectionate heart discover a
year’s residence in the immediate neighbourhood of Mrs.
Bingley’s relations enough for them; though scrupulous
mention is made of Miss Bingley’s paying all her
arrears of civility to Elizabeth as Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley;
and though a place is found for Lydia’s letter,
wishing her sisters joy, and containing the impudent,
mendacious request that, after they have become so
rich, they will think of her and Wickham when they
have nothing better to do. He would like a place at
Court, and she does not think they have money enough
to live on without some help.</p>

<p>The concluding paragraphs tell a little more which
is pleasanter as far as human nature is concerned. Jane
and Elizabeth’s darling wish is gratified by Bingley at
last buying an estate in one of the counties next to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>
Derbyshire, so that the sisters dwell only thirty miles
apart.</p>

<p>Mr. Bennet misses his second daughter so much
that he is frequently found, a welcome guest, at
Pemberley.</p>

<p>Mary and Kitty—especially the latter—derive lasting
benefit from their elder sisters’ marriages, and the
superior society opened up to them.</p>

<p>Elizabeth and Georgiana Darcy love each other,
like true sisters.</p>

<p>By Elizabeth’s intercession Darcy is reconciled to
his aunt, Lady Catherine, who consents to revisit
Pemberley, in spite of the pollution which its woods
have sustained, not merely from the presence of such a
mistress, but from the visits of her uncle and aunt from
the city. For Darcy and Elizabeth show how true and
lasting is their happiness by always testifying the
most cordial esteem and gratitude to the friends who
had been the means, by bringing her to Derbyshire, of
uniting the couple.</p>

<p>Thus ends a novel which has for nearly a century
been viewed, with reason, as one of the best novels in
the English language, which has been the delight of
some of the greatest geniuses of this and other countries.
It must always remain a marvel that it was the work of
a country-bred girl in her twenty-first year.</p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> Written in 1796-97.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> Besides Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, we have Ellinor and Marianne
Dashwood, Anne and Lucy Steele, Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove,
among the sisters who have most things in common; and as
couples of unsympathetic and rival sisters there are Elizabeth and
Anne Elliot, and Maria and Julia Bertram.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> When such gifts were strictly localised, the possession of them
was better defined and more insisted upon. The “beauties” as well
as the “fortunes” of a district were carefully classified and registered
for the public good.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> Elopements were not uncommon among the highly-coloured
events of those days, but the consequences were apt to be even more
disastrous than they are to foolish young people of this generation.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> Would anything less than two courses be now reckoned “a
good table” for a country gentleman’s family? Can we say the
growing reckless luxury of these expensive times is well for ourselves
and well for our fellow-citizens?</p>

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<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p>
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<h2 class="nobreak" id="NORTHANGER_ABBEY18">NORTHANGER ABBEY.<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></h2>
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<h3>I.</h3>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_n.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
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<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">“Northanger</span> Abbey” begins in
a quizzical vein, with a record of
Catherine Morland’s disqualifications
for her post of heroine, according to
the popular acceptation of the term
in Jane Austen’s days.</p>

<p>“No one who had ever seen
Catherine Morland in her infancy would
have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation
in life, the character of her father and mother, her own
person and disposition, were all equally against her.
Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected
or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name
was Richard, and he had never been handsome. He
had a considerable independence, besides two good
livings, and he was not in the least addicted to locking
up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful
plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more
remarkable, with a good constitution. She had three
sons before Catherine was born, and instead of dying
in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might
expect, she still lived on—lived to have six children
more, to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy
excellent health herself. A family of ten children<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>
will be always called a fine family, where there are
heads, and legs, and arms enough for the number,
but the Morlands had little other right to the word,
for they were in general very plain, and Catherine,
for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had
a thin, awkward figure, a sallow skin, without colour,
dark lank hair, and strong features; so much for her
person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed
her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and greatly
preferred cricket, not merely to dolls, but to the more
heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding
a canary-bird, and watering a rose-bush. Indeed,
she had no taste for a garden, and if she gathered
flowers at all it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief,
at least so it was conjectured, from her always preferring
those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her
propensities; her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before she
was taught, and sometimes not even then, for she was
often inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother
was three months in teaching her only to repeat ‘The
Beggar’s Petition,’ and, after all, her next sister, Sally,
could say it better than she could. Not that Catherine
was always stupid; by no means; she learned the fable
of ‘The Hare and Many Friends’ as quickly as any
girl in England. Her mother wished her to learn
music, and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she
was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn
spinet, so at eight years old she began. She learned a
year, and could not bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did
not insist on her daughter’s being accomplished in spite
of incapacity and distaste, allowed her to leave off.
The day which dismissed the music-master was one of
the happiest of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing
was not superior, though whenever she could obtain the
outside of a letter from her mother, or seize upon any
other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that
way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and chickens,
all very much like one another. Writing and accounts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>
she was taught by her father; French by her mother.
Her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she
shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What
a strange, unaccountable character! for with all these
symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither
a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn,
scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little
ones, with few interruptions of tyranny. She was,
moreover, noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness,
and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling
down the green slope at the back of the house.”</p>

<p>The story agrees with the first paragraph. With
the exception of “Pride and Prejudice,” “Northanger
Abbey”—another of Jane Austen’s earlier novels—is the
most purely humorous and satirical of the whole.</p>

<p>At fifteen, appearances are mending with Catherine.
She begins to curl her hair, and long for balls. Her
complexion improves, her features are softened by
plumpness and colour, her eyes gain more animation,
her figure more consequence, and from fifteen to seventeen
her mind is in training for a heroine. She reads—in
addition to the stories which had formerly constituted
all her voluntary reading—such books as Jane Austen
tells us, in her merry mockery, heroines must read in
order to supply their memories with those quotations
which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes
of their eventful lives. Catherine studies Pope
and Gray, Thomson and Shakespeare. Can Catherine’s
sisters, in these days of much cramming and innumerable
pursuits, bring forward even so respectable a list
of authors with whom the young readers are intimately
acquainted?</p>

<p>In drawing<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> Catherine is most wanting. Though
she cannot write sonnets, she can read them; though
there seems no chance of her throwing a whole party
into raptures by a prelude on the piano, of her own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>
composition, she can listen to other people’s performances
with very little fatigue. But she has not even sufficient
command of the pencil to attempt a sketch of her lover’s
profile, that she may be detected in the design. She is
not so conscious of the deficiency in the meantime, since
she has reached the age of seventeen without the suspicion
of a lover. Her biographer accounts for the
blank in that bantering tone she assumes:—“There was
not one lord in the neighbourhood; no, not even a
baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance
who had reared and supported a boy accidentally
found at their door; not one young man whose
origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the
squire of the parish no children.”</p>

<p>But the perverseness of forty families cannot interfere
with the destiny of a young lady who is to be
a heroine: the wind will blow a hero to her.</p>

<p>Mr. Allen, the principal squire in Mr. Morland’s
Wiltshire parish of Fullerton, is ordered to Bath for
the benefit of a gouty constitution; and his wife, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably
aware that, if adventures will not befall a young lady in
her own village, she must seek them abroad, invites the
happy Catherine to accompany her.</p>

<p>Catherine was in luck, for Bath was the queen
of the old watering-places; and a popular English
watering-place at the close of the last century was a
centre of bustle and gaiety, just as a country village
was apt to be sunk in obscurity.</p>

<p>Before beginning Catherine’s Bath career, Jane
Austen suddenly lapses into seriousness for a moment,
to tell her readers—lest they should ever have doubted
it—that this young Catherine, going out into the
world to meet her fortune, has an affectionate heart, her
disposition is cheerful and open—without conceit or
affectation of any kind, her manners are just removed
from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl, her person
is pleasing, and when in good looks pretty. Here the
author’s not very lavish indulgence to her heroine collapses—“and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>
her mind,” the sentence ends, is “about as
ignorant and uninformed as the female mind at seventeen
usually is.”</p>

<p>How old was the judge who made this sweeping,
though good-humouredly disdainful estimate of the
mental acquirements of her companions? Just five or
six years older. Jane Austen had not quite attained
the venerable age of twenty-three when she uttered
this severe reflection.</p>

<p>Compared to some of Jane Austen’s other heroines,
Catherine Morland has none of the astuteness and
brilliance of Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse,
the delicate intuitions of Fanny Price, or the gentle,
womanly wisdom of Anne Elliot. Catherine is a
simple, single-hearted girl who, in her guilelessness and
ignorance of the world, falls into mistakes impossible
for the others. But she does not lack judgment, which
one feels will ripen with her years. Above all, she is
like every one of her author’s heroines, right-minded
and wholesome-hearted. At the same time she is a
genuinely girlish girl, as much carried away by her
feelings and her imagination as the most foolish of
good girls can be; but withal we always recognise in
her the possibilities of a sensible as well as an amiable
woman.</p>

<p>The witty banter on the author’s part is soon
resumed. At parting, Mrs. Morland, in place of solemnly
warning her daughter against the noblemen and
baronets who were in the habit of cozening away young
ladies to remote farm-houses, simply bids her wrap herself
warm about the throat when she comes from “the
Rooms” at night, and try to keep an account of what
money she spends.</p>

<p>Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of
common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without
altering her name as far as she can?), the sister next
Catherine in age, does not exact from her a promise to
write by every post, and repeat each detail that happens
to her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p>

<p>Mr. Morland, instead of giving Catherine an unlimited
order on his banker, or even putting a hundred
pounds bank bill into her hands, gives her only ten
guineas, and promises her more when she wants it.</p>

<p>Nay, the journey to Bath provides neither tempests
nor robbers (see again the “Mysteries of Udolpho,”
with which Jane Austen was so familiar, to which she
refers with strong and repeated commendation in this
very story, which is, however, in many passages, a
burlesque on the old romance). No greater alarm
occurs than a fear on Mrs. Allen’s side of having once
left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that fortunately
turns out to be groundless.</p>

<p>The mention of the clogs, and the inference of the
nights at the inns by the way, a necessary experience
of travellers who journeyed in their own carriages, or by
post as Jane Austen herself was accustomed to do, are
the sole things which remind us that the little party
travelling thus in the last century do not belong to
our neighbours to-day.</p>

<p>Farther removed from us is Bath when it was the
height of the fashion, and frequented by crowds of
pleasure-seekers in addition to health-seekers. Its
gaiety was at once systematic and exuberant, when all
the company gathered regularly in the Pump-room,
where the visitors not only drank their allotted draughts
of water, but walked about, sat, read, gossiped, or
looked at the pretty knick-nacks in what formed a
kind of bazaar. The evenings were still more social;
with their assemblies, held within the early hours that
permitted their nightly recurrence, their parties for tea
and cards, in addition to dancing, their Master of the
Ceremonies to play propriety. Bath brought together
old friends and strangers from the ends of the earth, who
would not otherwise have had a chance of meeting. It
enabled quiet, home-keeping young people to see and
enjoy, for a little, society and the great world. In its
use and abuse it was the scene where innumerable love
affairs had their origin and marriages were made up.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>
Its seasons had their stars, belles, and lions, like the
London seasons.</p>

<p>A few foreign watering-places offer at present the
nearest resemblance, but that in a very modified degree,
to Bath in its palmy days.</p>

<p>Jane Austen knew Bath well, both by reading and
personal experience, alike in her youth and in her mature
years. She introduces it as the locality—largely or in
part—of two of her novels, and has a pointed reference to
it in a third.<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a> The lady humourist indicates with a
sharp pen, as she indicates most things, the advantages
and disadvantages of the watering-places, which figured
so prominently in the social life of the period. In
“Northanger Abbey” the advantages rather prevail.
If Bath brings Catherine some undesirable friends, it
brings her also the indispensable hero—not forthcoming
elsewhere.</p>

<p>Miss Austen had resided years in Bath, and it was
common ground which had lost its illusions to her when,
after she had quitted it, she brought it and its convenient
round of visitors and gaieties into “Persuasion.”</p>

<p>I fancy I detect a different spirit in treating the
subject in “Northanger Abbey.” Bath had still to the
author something of the ineffable charm it must have had
for Catherine Morland, in the glamour of first acquaintance,
and of the introduction of a country clergyman’s
young daughter into a brilliant and fascinating society—a
society which was then great in courtly, gallant,
distinguished figures—royal, naval, military, literary.
Tunbridge had waned before Bath, which was the field
of much picturesque and interesting display. Now it
was a wandering prince or princess, who was to be
mobbed and stared at by the well-dressed throng.
Another evening, patriotic enthusiasm persecuted a brave
soldier, who had served in Egypt under Abercrombie and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>
Moore, or a gallant sailor who had nailed his colours to
the mast under Nelson or Collingwood; or it might be
the crowd surged to and fro to enable honestly marvelling
and admiring eyes to gaze on that wonderful
genius, little Miss Burney, full of self-consciousness,
as she tripped through the Rooms under the wing
of the great brewer’s wife, beautiful, dashing Mrs.
Thrale, in the centre of a cluster of learned men and
<i>petit-maîtres</i>.</p>

<p>Mrs. Allen, Catherine Morland’s chaperon, is
thoroughly commonplace—except in a passion for dress,
if that can be called uncommon. She believes she has
done her best for Catherine in preparing her for her introduction
to society, when Mrs. Allen and her maid
have seen that the girl’s hair is cut (in a crop!) and
dressed by the most stylish hand, and her clothes put
on with care. The next thing is to take her to one of
the crowded assemblies, to struggle along and get
squeezed, in the rush of strangers, to reach the top of the
room, and see over the heads of the spectators—who
always form a large preponderance of the company—the
high feathers<a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> of some of the privileged ladies
who are dancing. Then the struggle begins again to
reach one of the tea-rooms, and finally Mrs. Allen and
Catherine leave, without speaking to anybody save
Mr. Allen.</p>

<p>But though Mrs. Allen is content to be fine, and to
look at other fine people, Catherine’s wishes naturally
extend a little further—to no purpose, for her companion
is indolent, and does nothing more than serenely regret
that they know nobody, and that the Skinners who were
at Bath last year are not there again. Catherine, though
by no means an unreasonable girl, feels slightly disappointed
and tired of the irksomeness of an imprisonment
in a crush of men and women, in full dress, with faces<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>
unknown to her, furnishing no deliverer. Her first ball—that
eagerly looked-forward-to era—threatens her
with the shock and mortification of proving a good deal
of a failure.</p>

<p>At last, when the rooms are beginning to thin and
patient sitters can be better seen, though nobody starts
with rapturous wonder on beholding Catherine, no
whisper of eager inquiry runs round the room, nor is
she once called a divinity by anybody, Catherine overhears
two gentlemen speak of her as “a pretty girl.”</p>

<p>“Such words had their due effect. She immediately
thought the evening pleasanter than she had found it
before; her humble vanity was contented; she felt more
obliged to the two young men for this simple praise
than a true quality heroine would have been for fifteen
sonnets in celebration of her charms, and went to her
chair in good humour with everybody, and perfectly
satisfied with her share of public attention.”</p>

<p>Fresh-hearted, girlish, young Catherine! with her
innocent satisfaction in the bare information that she
possesses her moderate share of God’s gift of womanly
beauty. One can fancy her little feet, in their clocked
stockings and shoes with buckles, tapping out on the
floor of the ancient sedan-chair, in which she is borne
home from her modest revelry, that dance of which she
has been defrauded.</p>

<p>But was it not like Jane Austen to leave her heroine
without a partner at her first ball? After all, may not
the temporary eclipse befall a girl without any fault of
hers, or of others, and cannot the example of Catherine
Morland teach her fellow-sufferers good-humoured resignation?
It is the arrogant, ungenerous employment of
such petty terms of slighting reproach as “wallflowers,”
with the exaggeration of their influence by sensitive,
inexperienced girls, which often renders harmless, youthful
gaieties fertile in miserable mean jealousies, despicable,
ill-bred triumphs, and endless heart-burnings.</p>

<p>After the usual routine of shopping and sightseeing,
in addition to the Pump-room, after the Allens had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>
visited the Lower as well as the Upper Rooms with
which Bath was supplied, Catherine has at last the satisfaction
of finding the Master of the Ceremonies leading
up to her, according to the etiquette of his office, a
gentlemanlike young man named Tilney, who has desired
to be presented to her, in order to ask her to be
his partner in a country dance.</p>

<p>Catherine’s partner, whom she regards with a flush
of flattered pleasure, because he has flattered her by
his selection of her—an absolute stranger in the crowded
assembly, is about four or five and twenty, rather tall,
and has one of those pleasing countenances to which
Jane Austen always gave a marked and deserved preference
over mere regularity of feature or glow of
colouring. As to an interesting haggardness, a charming
suspicion of wickedness, she, with all other good women
in their senses, could not see either interest or charm
in them.</p>

<p>Mr. Tilney possesses another advantage which was
also in special favour with the author—a very intelligent,
lively eye. The languidly supercilious and stupid
“swells” of the nineteenth century would have been
odious to the brilliant novelist of the eighteenth,
even though she could have seen them endowed with
tawny beards, Greek profiles, and that comically
dubious attribute, a sleepy blue eye. The reputation
of these fine gentlemen as lady-killers of the first
water would have struck her in the light of an unmitigated
disgrace, and not a crowning honour. The
flavour of vice which seems to have so irresistible an
attraction for many writers and readers would have
been utterly repugnant to her, as to all pure-minded,
high-souled men and women.</p>

<p>Henry Tilney begins his acquaintance with Catherine
Morland, by making kindly fun to her and of her, with
great impartiality.</p>

<p>Catherine, sometimes seeing through his assumptions,
sometimes thoroughly taken in by them, is equally
pleased, in sheer willingness to be pleased.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p>

<p>Henry Tilney mimics successfully the stereotyped
conversation of newly-introduced partners at the Rooms.
For his own amusement and Catherine’s he describes
the different lights in which he may figure in her
journal—“‘Friday—Went to the Lower Rooms; wore
my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings, plain
black shoes; appeared to much advantage; but was
strangely harassed by a queer half-witted man, who
would make me dance with him, and distressed me by
his nonsense;’ or, ‘I danced with a very agreeable
young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great
deal of conversation with him; seems a most extraordinary
genius; hope I may know more of him.’ <i>That</i>,
madam, is what I wish you to say.”</p>

<p>He hoaxes her on the easy style of letter-writing
for which ladies are so generally celebrated.</p>

<p>“I have sometimes thought,” says Catherine,
naïvely, “whether ladies do write so much better letters
than gentlemen.”</p>

<p>Mr. Tilney declares letter-writing among women
is faultless, save in three particulars—a general deficiency
of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar.</p>

<p>We fear that ladies’ letters still come largely under
Mr. Tilney’s definition.</p>

<p>The young fellow even chaffs Mrs. Allen, when she
appears to beg Catherine to take a pin out of her sleeve.
She fears a hole has been torn in the gown, which is
a favourite, though it cost but nine shillings a yard.</p>

<p>“That is exactly what I should have guessed it,
madam,” said Mr. Tilney, looking at the muslin.</p>

<p>“Do you understand muslins, sir?”</p>

<p>“Particularly well: I always buy my own cravats,
and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister
has often trusted me in the choice of a gown. I
bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced
to be a prodigious bargain by every lady who
saw it. I gave but five shillings a yard for it, and a
true Indian muslin.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. “Men
commonly take so little notice of those things,” said
she. “I can never get Mr. Allen to know one of my
gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to
your sister, sir.”</p>

<p>“I hope I am, madam.”</p>

<p>“And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland’s
gown?”</p>

<p>“It is very pretty, madam,” said he, gravely
examining it; “but I do not think it will wash well.
I am afraid it will fray.”</p>

<p>“How can you,” said Catherine, laughing, “be
so——” she had almost said “strange?”</p>

<p>“I am quite of your opinion, sir,” replied Mrs.
Allen, “and so I told Miss Morland when she bought
it.”</p>

<p>“But then you know, madam, muslin always turns
to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough
out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin
can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in
buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it
to pieces.”<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p>

<p>A few inquiries satisfy Mr. Allen that young
Tilney is a clergyman belonging to a very respectable
family in Gloucestershire.</p>

<p>Catherine having found a partner, is next to secure
a young lady friend. Mrs. Allen stumbles unexpectedly
in the Pump-room on an old acquaintance of early days in
a Mrs. Thorpe, the mother of several sons and daughters.</p>

<p>Isabella Thorpe, the eldest daughter, on being introduced
to Catherine, surprises her by exclaiming on her
resemblance to her brother, and Catherine recollects that
her eldest brother had spent the last week of his college
vacation with the family of a member of his college,
named Thorpe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p>
<p>Miss Thorpe is a beautiful girl, four years older
than Catherine, and more than four years better informed
in knowledge of the world. She has no objection to
bestow her superior knowledge—in discovering a flirtation
between any gentleman and lady who only smile
on each other, and pointing out a quiz<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a>—on her companion.
As for Catherine, she might have been a
little afraid of such undreamt-of powers of observation,
had it not been for what she readily accepted as the
easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe’s manner, and for the gratitude
inspired by the circumstance that her new friend
was profuse in her expressions of delight over their
acquaintance.</p>

<p>The reproach of being “gushing,” with the affectation
of being destitute of natural affection, good principles,
good feelings, and good manners, did not exist last century.
But my readers will observe that, while Isabella Thorpe
gushes to excess, Catherine, simple and natural, is in a
great measure free from the offence.</p>

<p>Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe renew their old intimacy,
and Isabella and Catherine rush into a bosom
friendship. “They called each other by their Christian
names, were always arm-in-arm when they walked,
pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not
to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived
them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in
meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves
up to read novels together.”</p>

<p>Jane Austen takes this opportunity of writing a
spirited defence of her art. “Yes, novels,” she repeats,
“for I will not adopt the ungenerous and impolitic
custom so common with novel-writers<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> of degrading by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>
their contemptuous censure the very performances to the
number of which they are themselves adding; joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest
epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting
them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally
take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid
pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel
be not patronised by the heroine of another, from whom
can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve
of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such
effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new
novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with
which the press now groans. Let us not desert one
another; we are an injured body. Although our productions
have afforded more extensive and unaffected
pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in
the world, no species of composition has been so much
decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes
are almost as many as our readers; and while the
abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History
of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in
a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior,
with a paper from the ‘Spectator,’ and a chapter from
Sterne, are eulogised by a thousand pens, there seems
almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labours of the novelist, and of slighting
the performances which have only genius, wit and
taste to recommend them. ‘I am no novel reader;’ ‘I
seldom look into novels;’ ‘Do not imagine that <i>I</i> often
read novels;’ ‘It is really very well for a novel;’—such
is the common cant. ‘And what are you reading,
Miss ——?’ ‘Oh, it is only a novel!’ replies the young
lady; while she lays down her book with affected
indifference or momentary shame. It is only ‘Cecilia,’
or ‘Camilla,’ or ‘Belinda,’ or, in short, only some work
in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed,
in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature,
the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest
effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>
in the best-chosen language.<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> Now had the same
young lady been engaged with a volume of ‘The Spectator’
instead of such a work, how proudly would she
have produced the book and told its name!”</p>

<p>It would be strange indeed if a young lady were
now discovered reading a volume of “The Spectator.”
One might as soon expect to see a modern maiden seated
at a spinning-wheel, or twirling a distaff and spindle.</p>

<p>But what an analysis of schoolgirl friendships, occupations,
and interests survives in the sixth chapter of
“Northanger Abbey!” The following conversation is
an example of the attachment of the friends after an
acquaintance of eight or nine days, and of the “delicacy,
discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment:”—</p>

<p>“They met by appointment, and as Isabella had
arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first
address naturally was, ‘My dearest creature, what can
have made you so late? I have been waiting for you
at least this age!’</p>

<p>“‘Have you, indeed? I am very sorry for it, but
really I thought I was in very good time. It is but
just one. I hope you have not been here long?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, these ten ages, at least. I am sure I have
been here this half-hour. But now let us go and sit
down at the other end of the room and enjoy ourselves.
I have a hundred things to say to you. In
the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this
morning, just as I wanted to set off: it looked very
showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies!
Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine
in a shop-window in Milsom Street, just now: very like
yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green;
I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what
have you been doing with yourself, all this morning?
Have you gone on with “Udolpho?”’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p>
<p>“‘Yes; I have been reading it ever since I woke;
and I am got to the black veil.’</p>

<p>“‘Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh, I
would not tell you what is behind the black veil for
the world! Are you not wild to know?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell
me; I would not be told, on any account. I know it
must be a skeleton. I am sure it is Laurentina’s
skeleton! Oh, I am delighted with the book! I
should like to spend my whole life in reading it, I
assure you. If it had not been to meet you, I would
not have come away from it for all the world.’</p>

<p>“‘Dear creature! how much I am obliged to you!
And when you have finished “Udolpho,” we will read
“The Italian” together; and I have made out a list of
ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.’</p>

<p>“‘Have you, indeed? How glad I am! What are
they all?’</p>

<p>“‘I will read you their names directly; here they
are, in my pocket-book—“Castle of Wolfenbach,” “Clermont,”
“Mysterious Warnings,” “Necromancer of the
Black Forest,” “Midnight Bell,” “Orphan of the
Rhine,” and “Horrid Mysteries.” Those will last us
some time.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid? Are
you sure they are all horrid?’<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p>

<p>“‘Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine,
a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest
creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I
wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted
with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak
you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an
angel; and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring
her. I scold them all amazingly about it.’</p>

<p>“‘My dearest Catherine, have you settled what to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>
wear on your head to-night?’ asked Isabella Thorpe,
a few minutes afterwards. ‘I am determined, at all
events, to be dressed exactly like you. The men take
notice of that sometimes, you know.’</p>

<p>“‘But it does not signify if they do,’ said Catherine,
very innocently.</p>

<p>“‘Signify! Oh, Heavens! I make it a rule never
to mind what they say. They are often amazingly
impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and
make them keep their distance.’</p>

<p>“‘Are they? Well, I never observed <i>that</i>. They
always behave very well to me.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, they give themselves such airs. They are
the most conceited creatures in the world, and think
themselves of so much importance! By-the-bye, though
I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always
forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion
in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?’</p>

<p>“‘I hardly know. I never much thought about it.
Something between both, I think;—brown: not fair,
and not very dark.’</p>

<p>“‘Very well, Catherine; that is exactly he. I have
not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney—“a brown
skin, with dark eyes and rather dark hair.” Well, my
taste is different: I prefer light eyes; and as to complexion,
do you know I like a sallow better than any
other. You must not betray me, if you should ever
meet with any one of your acquaintance answering that
description.’</p>

<p>“‘Betray you! What do you mean?’</p>

<p>“‘Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said
too much. Let us drop the subject.’</p>

<p>“Catherine, in some amazement, complied; and after
remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of
reverting to what interested her, at that time, rather
more than anything else in the world—Laurentina’s
skeleton—when her friend prevented her, by saying,
‘For Heaven’s sake! let us move away from this end
of the room. Do you know there are two odious young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>
men who have been staring at me this half-hour. They
really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and
look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.’</p>

<p>“Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella
examined the names, it was Catherine’s employment to
watch the proceedings of these alarming young men.</p>

<p>“‘They are not coming this way, are they? I hope
they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let
me know if they are coming: I am determined I will not
look up.’</p>

<p>“In a few moments, Catherine, with unaffected pleasure,
assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as
the gentlemen had just left the Pump-room.</p>

<p>“‘And which way are they gone?’ said Isabella,
turning hastily round. ‘One was a very good-looking
young man.’</p>

<p>“‘They went towards the churchyard.’</p>

<p>“‘Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them;
and now what say you to going to Edgar’s Buildings
with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you
should like to see it.’</p>

<p>“Catherine readily agreed. ‘Only,’ she added,
‘perhaps we may overtake the two young men.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, never mind that. If we make haste, we shall
pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you
my hat.’</p>

<p>“‘But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be
no danger of our seeing them at all.’</p>

<p>“‘I shall not pay them any such compliment, I
assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such
respect. That is the way to spoil them.’</p>

<p>“Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning,
and therefore, to show the independence of Miss
Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set
off immediately, as fast as they could walk, in pursuit
of the two young men.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>As the girls are crossing a street, they are stopped
by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad pavement,
by a most knowing-looking coachman, with all the vehemence
that could most fully endanger the lives of himself,
his companion, and his horse.</p>

<p>“Oh! these odious gigs,” cries Isabella, “how I
detest them!”</p>

<p>But the detestation—though so just, is of short
duration, for she looks again and exclaims, “Delightful!
Mr. Morland and my brother!”</p>

<p>James Morland, a steady, amiable young man, had
fallen a victim to Isabella’s charms. Two results which
had followed his subjection were his own forced alliance
with Isabella’s brother, John, and Isabella’s violent
friendship with James’s sister, Catherine.</p>

<p>James and Catherine Morland, an affectionate brother
and sister, are very happy to meet each other—quite unexpectedly
on Catherine’s part. But little leisure is left for
fraternal greetings, since the bright eyes of Miss Thorpe
are incessantly challenging Mr. Morland’s notice.</p>

<p>John Thorpe, who has only slightly and carelessly
touched his sister’s hand, is sufficiently impressed by
Catherine to grant her a whole scrape, and half a short
bow.</p>

<p>John Thorpe is one of Jane Austen’s finished and
unsurpassable portraits. He is the “buck” of the
period, the slangy, horsey, blustering, bragging young
fellow of all time.</p>

<p>“He was a stout young man of middling height,
who, with a plain face and ungraceful form, seemed
fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the dress
of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he
were easy where he ought to be civil, and impudent
where he might be allowed to be easy.”</p>

<p>I am not able to afford space for much of his highly
characteristic talk, but here is a specimen. “He took out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>
his watch. ‘How long do you think we have been
running it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?’</p>

<p>“‘I do not know the distance.’</p>

<p>“Her brother told her that it was twenty-three
miles.</p>

<p>“‘Three-and-twenty!’ cried Thorpe; ‘five-and-twenty,
if it is an inch.’</p>

<p>“Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of
road-books, inn-keepers and mile-stones; but his friend
disregarded them all; he had a sure test of distance.
‘I know it must be five-and-twenty,’ said he, ‘by the
time we have been doing it. It is now half after one;
we drove out of the inn-yard at Tetbury as the town-clock
struck eleven; and I defy any man in England to
make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;
that makes it exactly twenty-five.’</p>

<p>“‘You have lost an hour,’ said Morland; ‘it was
only ten o’clock when we came from Tetbury.’</p>

<p>“‘Ten o’clock! it was eleven, upon my soul! I
counted every stroke. This brother of yours would persuade
me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do but look
at my horse, did you ever see an animal so made for speed
in your life?’</p>

<p>“Catherine remarked the horse did look very hot.</p>

<p>“‘Hot! he had not turned a hair till we came to
Walcot Church; but look at his forehead; look at his
loins; only see how he moves; that horse <i>cannot</i> go less
than ten miles an hour; tie his legs, and he will get on.
What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat
one, is it not? Well hung; town-built;’” and so on,
ringing endless changes on John Thorpe’s possessions,
their super-excellence, and his cleverness in securing them.</p>

<p>John Thorpe pronounces his criticism on the novels
of the day, in a slashing, manly style, which still survives
here and there. Poor Catherine, tired of his bets, and
his short, sharp praise or condemnation of every woman’s
face they pass, ventures to introduce the subject uppermost
in her thoughts, “Have you ever read ‘Udolpho,’
Mr. Thorpe?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p>

<p>“‘Udolpho!’ Oh! Lord! not I; I never read
novels; I have something else to do.”</p>

<p>Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to
apologise for her question; but he prevented her.</p>

<p>“Novels are all so full of stuff and nonsense,” he
said, with more to the same purpose, winding up by
the assertion of novels in general that “they are the
stupidest things in creation.”</p>

<p>“I think you must like ‘Udolpho,’ if you were to
read it,” Catherine pleads wistfully for her favourite,
“it is so very interesting.”</p>

<p>“Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs.
Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough; they are
worth reading; some fun and nature in <i>them</i>.”</p>

<p>“‘Udolpho’ was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said
Catherine, with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying
him.</p>

<p>“No, sure; was it? Ay, I remember; so it was.
I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by
that woman they made such a fuss about; she who
married the French emigrant.”</p>

<p>John Thorpe’s manners do not please Catherine, inexperienced
though she is; but he is James’s friend,
and Isabella’s brother. Besides, Catherine is told by
Isabella that John finds her the most charming girl in
the world, and John himself engages her for one of the
dances at the evening’s assembly. Jane Austen points
out—and here she has a gentle explanation of a girlish
weakness—that, had Catherine been older and vainer,
such attacks might have done little; but where youth
and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness
of reason to resist the attraction of being called the
most charming girl in the world, and of being so very
early engaged as a partner.</p>

<p>The young Morlands and Thorpes, with the good-natured
concurrence of Mr. and Mrs. Allen, form many
morning and evening engagements together. In the
course of these engagements, Catherine likes John
Thorpe less and less, in spite of his boisterous professions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>
of admiration. She even begins to have painful
doubts of the perfect amiability and good taste of her
bosom friend and future sister—a prospective relationship
which Catherine hailed with delight in the beginning.</p>

<p>Indeed, Isabella behaves with all the rampant selfishness,
reckless disregard of appearances, and insatiable
appetite for admiration with which a vain, coarse-minded,
heartless Isabella Thorpe can behave. Her loud, insincere
professions, which her practice contradicts so
glaringly, could not have deceived Catherine even so
long as they did, had it not been that the younger
girl, brought up in the worthy clergyman’s upright,
kind-hearted household, is unsuspicious of evil, and
guileless as a dove.</p>

<p>In broad contrast to the two wilful, wild Thorpes,
are Henry Tilney and his sister, a sensible, good, pretty,
and well-bred girl, who is young and attractive, and can
enjoy herself at a ball, without wanting to fix the attention
of every man near her, and without exaggerated
feelings of ecstatic delight or inconceivable vexation on
every little trifling occurrence.</p>

<p>In these <i>blasé, nil admirari</i> days, when many young
people find nothing worth the trouble of being excited
about, when enthusiasm is dead, and even moderate
interest seems fast expiring, it may be thought that
such warnings as are conveyed in the praise of Eleanor
Tilney are not required. But I suspect it is a case of
scratch the Russian, and you will find the Tartar. It is
the fashion to appear indifferent and cynical, and so our
very children—held up to us in the mirror of “Punch”—babble
weariness with the world, and misanthropy.
But the languor and scorn—happily for humanity—form
a mere accidental crust, beneath which, more or less
visible, are the old ardour and impetuosity, which need
to be tutored to temperance and prudence, and charged
never to forget their Christian baptism of generous self-forgetfulness
and chivalrous magnanimity, in a peaceful
drawing-room as well as on a stricken battle-field.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p>

<p>The Tilneys, to whom Catherine is so strongly attracted,
though perfectly civil in any encounter with the
Thorpes, instinctively recoil from them. The different
qualities of the young people, no less than the different
sets in which they move, prevent amalgamation.</p>

<p>Many capital scenes in “Northanger Abbey” exhibit
young Catherine Morland’s puzzled distress at the
clashing social elements among which she finds herself,
with her own decided preference for the Tilneys, opposed
to what she conceives is her allegiance, alike of
friendship and sisterly fidelity, to the Thorpes.</p>

<p>The best and most comical of the sketches are those
in which Catherine is twice entrapped into driving with
John Thorpe in the watering-place fashion of the time,
making one of a party which is completed by James
Morland and Isabella Thorpe in another open carriage.</p>

<p>“‘You will not be frightened, Miss Morland,’ said
Thorpe as he handed her in, ‘if my horse should dance
about a little at first setting off. He will most likely
give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the reins for a
minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full
of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him.’</p>

<p>“Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting
one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too
young to own herself frightened; so resigning herself
to her fate, and trusting to the animal’s boasted knowledge
of its owner, she sat peaceably down and saw
Thorpe sit down by her. Everything being then arranged,
the servant who stood at the horse’s head was
bid, in an important voice, ‘to let him go,’ and off
they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a
plunge or a caper, or anything like one.</p>

<p>“Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke
her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion
immediately made the matter perfectly simple
by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly
judicious manner in which he had then held the
reins and the singular discernment and dexterity with
which he had directed his whip.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p>

<p>“‘Old Allen is as rich as a Jew, is not he?’ said
Thorpe, breaking a silence. Catherine did not understand
him, and he repeated his question, adding in
explanation, ‘Old Allen, the man you are with?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, Mr. Allen you mean. Yes. I believe he is
very rich.’</p>

<p>“‘And no children at all?’</p>

<p>“‘No, not any.’</p>

<p>“‘A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your
godfather, is not he?’</p>

<p>“‘My godfather! No.’</p>

<p>“‘But you are always very much with them?’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, very much.’</p>

<p>“‘Ay, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind
of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his
time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does
he drink his bottle a day now?’</p>

<p>“‘His bottle a day! No. Why should you think
such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you
could not fancy him in liquor last night?’</p>

<p>“‘Lord help you! You women are always thinking
of men’s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a
man is overset by a bottle?’”</p>

<p>Modest as Catherine is in her unsophisticatedness,
she betrays unconsciously her admiration of Henry
Tilney, both to the gentleman and his sister. Fortunately,
Catherine has fallen into good hands. Eleanor
Tilney only likes her friend the better for liking her
brother. With regard to the effect on the hero, of the
girl’s tribute to his merits, Jane Austen has made a few
pungent observations.</p>

<p>It may be that the world has grown a little wiser
as well as older during the last hundred years. Certainly
sensible, good young girls—however young and simple—have
learnt, for the most part, to put more outward
restraint, we would fain hope, in the course of some
improvement on their education, on their inner sentiments.
Girls have acquired a degree of the subtlety of
the serpent in addition to the artlessness of the dove.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p>

<p>The Catherine Morland of the past is always frank,
sweet, and dutiful. We can never, we are thankful,
doubt her reverence and uprightness. We need never
fear scandalous defiance of the laws of God and man
from her. But drawn as she is, by the masterly pen of
Jane Austen, Catherine is often exasperatingly foolish,
and especially so in falling deeply in love, on the very
slightest provocation, so far as any symptom of reciprocity
of feeling on Henry Tilney’s side is made plain
to the readers of “Northanger Abbey.”</p>

<p>Indeed, Jane Austen expressly states, with her usual
dauntless candour, that the love begins on Catherine’s
side, and that the agreeable—let us hope grateful—sense
of the regard he has unwittingly inspired, is the
spark which kindles a responsive flame in the young
man’s breast.</p>

<p>But what would have become of Catherine had
Henry Tilney been—not pre-engaged, we do not suspect
him of unworthy concealment in such circumstances; of
course he would have smiled the smile, bowed the bow,
and danced the dance of a man whose heart and hand
were bespoken;—but had he only been less complacent,
less gracious, less honourable?—she must have wasted
her young love, and smarted under the sense of having
given it unasked and in vain. Surely Catherine, inexperienced
as she was, might have had the mother-wit to
anticipate such a probability, and guard against the
catastrophe, by being a little more dignified and reserved
in allowing scope to her imagination and inclination?
I hope that at least so much forethought may
be looked for from sensible girls,—I say nothing of
silly ones,—in the present generation. I am free to own
that if a modern girl permitted her affections to be so
easily entangled, with the entanglement so transparently
displayed, as was true of Catherine Morland, I for one
should at once set her down as a very impulsive, heedless
young woman, from whom little self-respect and
discretion could be looked for, at any time.</p>

<p>I do not take it upon me to say, whether a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>
girl’s chance of winning kindred regard might or might
not be imperilled, in proportion to her capacity for practising
womanly reticence. For the honour of men, I
must hope it would.<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p>

<p>It is with diffidence that I presume to differ so far
from such a close and accurate reader of human nature
as Jane Austen was. But while I look at the different
standards of different generations, I say that it would
cast a serious reflection on the judgment and disinterestedness
of all heroes, real or imaginary, if Jane
Austen were in earnest and were right in her inference.
This, at least, I entirely believe—that whether or not a
girl may more readily gain or lose love by her reserve,
without it she will never win respect, either from man
or woman, and love without respect is like food without
salt, destitute of permanent relish and endurance.</p>

<p>Catherine is eager to go to the cotillon ball, at
which she is aware beforehand the Tilneys will be
present. “What gown and what head-dress she should
wear on the occasion become her chief concern. She
cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous
distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often
destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very
well; her grand-aunt had read her a lecture on the
subject only the Christmas before, and yet she lay
awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between
her spotted and tamboured muslin, and nothing
but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a
new one for the evening. This would have been an
error in judgment, great, though not uncommon, from
which one of the other sex rather than her own, a
brother rather than a great-aunt, might have warned
her; for man only can be aware of the insensibility of
man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to
the feelings of many ladies could they be made to understand
how little the heart of man is affected by what is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>
costly or new in their attire, how little it is biassed by
the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of
peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jaconet. Woman is fine for her own
satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more,
no woman will like her the better for it.”</p>

<p>I have quoted this paragraph because it ought to be
studied by the women of the present day. Alas! for
the higher intelligence and refinement in fashion, when
even the over-elaboration and extravagance of an earlier
generation strike a later, as meagre shabbiness. Would
that the young girls who now “walk in silk attire,” and
<i>crêpe de Chine</i>, and only condescend to tulle over satin,
in a variety of evening dresses, could return to the
spotted and sprigged muslins which were new when
they were clean!<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> For old people who remember the
grandmothers of modern belles, persist in saying that the
faces now set in silver hair and puckered with wrinkles,
the figures shrunk and bent, were “fairer,” more
graceful far—“lang syne.”</p>

<p>Catherine has engaged herself with the greatest
alacrity to walk with the two Tilneys among the
beautiful environs of Bath the morning after the ball.
The weather proves rainy—but Catherine, after alternations
of hope and despondency, fruitless solicitations
of Mrs. Allen’s opinion, and equally fruitless wishes
that they had such weather as was to be found in
“Udolpho” the night that poor St. Aubyn died, for
instance—has the great joy of seeing the sky clear. She
is still waiting for her friends, when the two Thorpes
and James Morland arrive in the greatest hurry to
claim her for an excursion to Bristol.</p>

<p>Catherine excuses herself from accompanying the
others, on the plea of her pre-engagement to walk with
the Tilneys.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p>
<p>The Thorpes loudly exclaim at such an objection as
not worth mentioning, and will take no denial—the
truth being that Isabella, free and easy as she is, cannot
well accompany the two gentlemen, for the rest of the
day, unless she is countenanced by another lady. The
casual mention of Blaize Castle, as certain to be visited
in the course of the excursion, shakes even Catherine’s
fidelity to the Tilneys. Is it really a castle, an old
castle such as they read of?</p>

<p>John Thorpe, with his forward unscrupulous assurance,
is ready to pledge himself that it is the oldest castle in
the kingdom, with towers and long galleries by dozens.</p>

<p>The wavering Catherine admits she should like to
see it, but she cannot give up her walk with the Tilneys.
She is sure they will be in Pulteney Street soon.</p>

<p>“‘Not they, indeed,’ cries John Thorpe with
decision; ‘for as we turned into Broad Street I saw
them. Does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?’</p>

<p>“‘I do not know, indeed.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking
of the man you danced with last night, are not you?’</p>

<p>“‘Yes.’</p>

<p>“‘Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the
Lansdowne Road, driving a smart-looking girl.’</p>

<p>“‘Did you, indeed?’</p>

<p>“‘Did, upon my soul, knew him again directly; and
he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too.’</p>

<p>“‘It is very odd. But I suppose they thought it
would be too dirty for a walk.’</p>

<p>“‘And well they might, for I never saw so much
dirt in my life.’”</p>

<p>Catherine gives way. She starts in an unsettled
frame of mind, divided between sorrow for the loss of
her walk and still greater vexation at the thought that
the Tilneys have not acted well by her, and delight at
exploring an edifice like “Udolpho”—as her fancy
represents Blaize Castle to be—which John Thorpe freely
promises she shall explore in every hole and corner.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p>

<p>Are there left in England half-a-dozen romantic girls
to whom the opportunity of visiting an old castle would
be so great a treat?</p>

<p>But unfortunately for what peace of mind is left to
Catherine, as she and John Thorpe rattle along, his
question “Who was that girl who looked at you so
hard as she went by?” calls her attention to the right-hand
pavement, where, to her mingled delight and dismay,
she recognises Miss Tilney on her brother’s arm,
walking slowly down the street. Catherine sees them
both looking back at her.</p>

<p>“‘Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe!’ she impatiently cried, ‘it
is Miss Tilney, it is indeed. How could you tell me
they were gone? Stop, stop! I will get out this
moment and go to them.’</p>

<p>“But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only
lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who
had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment
out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in
another moment she was herself whisked into the Market
Place. Still, however, and during the length of another
street, she entreated him to stop. ‘Pray, pray stop,
Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on, I will not go on; I must
go back to Miss Tilney.’</p>

<p>“But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip,
encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on;
and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no
power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point,
and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared.</p>

<p>“‘How could you deceive me so, Mr. Thorpe? How
could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdowne
Road? I would not have had it happen so for
the world. They must think it so strange, so rude of
me, to go by them, too, without saying a word! You
do not know how vexed I am. I shall have no pleasure
at Clifton, nor in anything else. I had rather, ten
thousand times rather, get out now and walk back to
them. How could you say you saw them driving out in
a phaeton?’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p>

<p>“Thorpe defended himself very stoutly, declared he
had never seen two men so much alike in his life, and
would hardly give up the point of its having been
Tilney himself.”</p>

<p>It is unnecessary to dwell on Catherine’s distress
when even her unassuming, good-natured civility fails
her. Her single comfort is Blaize Castle, but Blaize
Castle she is not destined to see. It is too late in the
day, the horses are not equal to the expedition, and the
party have to turn back to Bath.</p>

<p>Catherine ventures to call on Miss Tilney, to explain
why she has not kept her appointment. She is not
admitted at the house in Milsom Street, though she
has a wretched conviction that Miss Tilney is at
home—a conviction confirmed by seeing her in a few
moments afterwards go out with her father, General
Tilney.</p>

<p>Catherine is punished—even, she thinks, too severely—but
she is too miserable to be angry.</p>

<p>Catherine next sees the Tilneys at the theatre.
Henry Tilney bows, but with a changed countenance;
still, he comes round to the Allens’ box to pay his respects
to Mrs. Allen, and there Catherine, like the
impetuous, humble-minded young girl she is, overwhelms
him with the breathlessness and earnestness
of her apologies. “Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite
wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You
must have thought me so rude; but, indeed, it was not
my own fault. Was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell
me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a
phaeton together? And then, what could I do? But I
had ten thousand times rather have been with you. Now,
had not I, Mrs. Allen?”</p>

<p>The words bring a more cordial, more natural smile
to the gentleman’s lips, though he suggests a little
sarcastically that he and his sister were at least much
obliged to her for wishing them a pleasant walk. She
had looked back on purpose.</p>

<p>After all, the lingering air of being piqued, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>
Henry Tilney cannot conceal, is the best evidence of
Catherine’s dawning influence.</p>

<p>But the stupid girl takes his words literally. “Indeed,
I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never
thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe
so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as
ever I saw you. Now, Mrs. Allen, did not——Oh!
you were not there. But indeed I did; and if Mr.
Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped
out and run after you.”</p>

<p>“Is there a Henry in the world,” exclaims Jane
Austen, “who could be insensible to such a declaration?”
Perhaps not. Yet we are tempted to wonder
if Jane Austen had ever listened to the sarcastic old
song—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“The fruit that will fall without shaking</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Is rather too mellow for me;”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="p0">or to that valuable warning in wooing—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“When a woman is willing,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">A man can but look like a fool.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>If all girls were as quickly captivated as Catherine
Morland, what would become of the wooing—the pursuit—the
probation, during which Elizabeth Barrett
Browning asserts a man may be content to be treated
“worse than dog or mouse” when it is but the prelude to
the girl’s becoming his for ever?</p>

<p>Catherine, in her extreme candour, persists that
Miss Tilney must have been angry, since she was in
the house, but would not see her—Catherine—when she
called.</p>

<p>In Henry Tilney’s hasty explanation that it was his
father—there was nothing in it, beyond the circumstance
that General Tilney wished his daughter to walk
out with him, and could not be kept waiting—we have
the first hint that General Tilney has “ways.” He
is, for that matter, an extremely tyrannical old gentleman.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p>

<p>Catherine has her walk, and for once the reality
fulfils the expectation.</p>

<p>Whether intentionally or accidentally, Jane Austen
illustrates the contrast between John Thorpe and Henry
Tilney by their different estimates of novels. The
walking-party had determined to walk round Beechen
Cliff—“that noble hill,” Jane Austen calls it, in more
than her ordinary chary words of description, “whose
beautiful verdure and hanging coppice<a id="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> render it so
striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.”</p>

<p>“‘I never look at it,’ said Catherine, as they walked
along the side of the river, ‘without thinking of the
south of France.’</p>

<p>“‘You have been abroad then?’ said Henry, a little
surprised.</p>

<p>“‘Oh, no; I only mean what I have read about.
It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily
and her father travelled through in the ‘Mysteries of
Udolpho.’ But you never read novels, I dare say.’</p>

<p>“‘Why not?’</p>

<p>“‘Because they are not clever enough for you; gentlemen
read better books.’</p>

<p>“‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not
pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid. I
have read all Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, and most of them
with great pleasure. The ‘Mysteries of Udolpho,’
when I had once begun it, I could not lay down again;
I remember finishing it in two days, my hair standing
on end the whole time.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes,’ added Miss Tilney; ‘and I remember that
you undertook to read it aloud to me; and that when I
was called away for only five minutes to answer a note,
instead of waiting for me, you took the volume into
the Hermitage Walk; and I was obliged to stay till you
had finished it.’<a id="FNanchor_30" href="#Footnote_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p>

<p>“‘But I really thought before,’ persisted Catherine,
‘young men despised novels amazingly?’</p>

<p>“‘It is <i>amazingly</i>; it may well suggest <i>amazement</i>,
if they do, for they read nearly as many as women.
I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not
imagine that you can cope with me in a knowledge
of Julias and Louisas. If we proceed to particulars,
and engage in the never-ceasing inquiry of ‘Have you
read this?’ or ‘Have you read that?’ I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as—what shall I say? I
want an appropriate simile—as far as your friend Emily
herself left poor Valancourt, when she went with her
aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have
had the start of you. I had entered on my studies
at Oxford while you were a good little girl, working
your sampler at home.’”</p>

<p>About this time Captain Tilney, General Tilney’s
eldest son, a handsome, fashionable young man, arrives
on a visit to his family. Catherine is most willing to
acknowledge his advantages, but his tastes and manners
are decidedly inferior, in her opinion, after she hears
him, at one of the assemblies, not only protest against
every thought of dancing himself, but even laugh openly
at his brother Henry for finding it possible.</p>

<p>Isabella, who has begun by announcing her intention
to sit all the evening, in compliment to James
Morland’s temporary absence, is soon seen dancing with
Captain Tilney, in spite of his and her protest.</p>

<p>James Morland’s application to his father for his
consent to his marriage with Isabella Thorpe brings
a kind and considerate answer. A family living of four
hundred a year is to be resigned to James; an estate
of nearly equal value is secured to him. The greatest
trial is that the young couple must wait two or three
years, till James Morland can take orders.</p>

<p>James and Catherine, being good and reasonable children,
are perfectly satisfied with their father’s generosity.</p>

<p>Isabella says the prospect is very charming, but says
it with a grave face.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p>

<p>The period of the Allens’ visit to Bath is drawing
to a close; and the question whether they may stay
longer or not seems to involve the happiness of Catherine’s
whole life; and so, when the lodgings are taken for
another fortnight, everything appears secured. “What
this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond
the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney, made
but a small part of Catherine’s speculation;” Jane
Austen comments with regard to her heroine’s unreasonable
joy. “Once or twice, indeed, since James’s
engagement had taught her what <i>could</i> be done, she
had got so far as to indulge in a secret ‘perhaps;’
but, in general, the felicity of being with him for the
present bounded her views. The present was now comprised
in another three weeks; and her happiness being
certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such
a distance as to excite but little interest.” This is pre-eminently
the calculation of seventeen, when a month
in anticipation reckons as a year, a year as a lifetime.</p>

<p>However, when Catherine calls for Miss Tilney with
the glad news, she receives an unexpected blow. The
Tilneys are to quit Bath soon. Poor Catherine cannot
hide her dejection, but an ample compensation, far
beyond her brightest hopes, awaits her.</p>

<p>Miss Tilney stammers some words of invitation,
which are at once seconded by her father. The General,
so far from being haughty to Catherine, has distinguished
her by an oppressively marked degree of attention, which
has rather a tendency to extinguish the frank kindness
of his son and daughter.</p>

<p>Catherine is now pressed in the most flatteringly
solicitous manner, by this somewhat overpowering fine
gentleman, to go with the family to Northanger Abbey,
and give his daughter the pleasure of her company there,
for a few weeks.</p>

<p>Catherine is to be the Tilneys’ chosen visitor: “She
was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person
whose society she most prized; and in addition to all
the rest; this roof was to be the roof of an Abbey! Her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>
passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her
passion for Henry Tilney, and castles and abbeys made
usually the charm of those reveries which his image did
not fill. To see and explore either the ramparts and
keep of the one, or the cloisters of the other, had been
for many weeks a darling wish, though to be more than
the visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible
for desire; and yet this was to happen. With all the
chances against her of house, hall, place, court and
cottage, Northanger turned up an Abbey, and she was to
be its inhabitant. Its long damp passages, its narrow
cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily
reach; and she could not entirely subdue the hope of
some traditional legends, some awful memorials of an
injured and ill-fated nun.”</p>

<p>Catherine’s happiness is not without alloy. Isabella
improves the occasion of being with Catherine at the
Pump-room one morning, to tell her that John Thorpe
is over head and ears in love with her, and to urge his
suit, greatly to Catherine’s astonishment and discomfiture.
For has not Isabella long professed herself convinced
of a mutual attachment between Henry Tilney
and her friend?</p>

<p>Catherine, with all the innocence of truth, protests
her ignorance of Mr. Thorpe’s wishes, and her incapacity
to respond to them.</p>

<p>Isabella accepts her brother’s disappointment with a
wonderfully good grace, though she will imply, in spite
of Catherine’s indignant denial, that there has been a
relinquished flirtation, a change of mind on Catherine’s
part, which Isabella would be the last person to blame.</p>

<p>As the girls are speaking, they are joined by Captain
Tilney, and Catherine is first bewildered and then shocked
to find him addressing her friend and future sister in
terms which cannot be mistaken. “‘What! always
to be watched in person or proxy?’ he said low, but
not too low for Catherine to hear.</p>

<p>“‘Pshaw! nonsense!’ was Isabella’s answer, in the
same half-whisper; ‘why do you put such things into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>
my head? If I could believe it! my spirit, you know,
is pretty independent.’</p>

<p>“‘I wish your heart were independent, that would be
enough for me.’</p>

<p>“‘My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with
hearts? You men have none of you any hearts.’</p>

<p>“‘If we have not hearts we have eyes, and they give
us torment enough.’</p>

<p>“‘Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find
anything so disagreeable in me. I will look another
way. I hope this pleases you’ (turning her back on
him). ‘I hope your eyes are not tormented now.’</p>

<p>“‘Never more so, for the edge of a blooming cheek
is still in view, at once too much and too little.’”</p>

<p>Catherine will not remain longer. She is confounded;
but still the girl who is so honourable herself
can think no greater evil than that Captain Tilney has
fallen in love with Isabella, and that Isabella is unconsciously
encouraging him—unconsciously it must be,
for Isabella’s attachment to James is as certain as their
engagement.</p>

<p>But when Catherine sees Isabella admitting Captain
Tilney’s attentions in public as readily as they are
offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with
James of her notice and smiles, charity itself cannot
vindicate the lady’s conduct.</p>

<p>Catherine has too much good sense to continue to
be deceived. She tries to believe still that Isabella
cannot be aware of the pain she is inflicting; but
her friend must resent the wilful thoughtlessness, since
James is the sufferer.</p>

<p>When Catherine Morland learns that Captain Tilney
is to remain in Bath after his family have left, she
speaks to Henry Tilney on the subject. She expresses
her regret for his brother’s evident admiration of Miss
Thorpe, and entreats him to make known her engagement.</p>

<p>“‘My brother does know it.’</p>

<p>“‘Does he? Then why does he stay here?’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p>

<p>“He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of
something else; but she eagerly continued, ‘Why do
not you persuade him to go away? The longer he
stays the worse it will be for him at last. It is only
staying to be miserable.’</p>

<p>“Henry smiled, and said, ‘I am sure my brother
would not wish to do that.’</p>

<p>“‘Then you will persuade him to go away?’</p>

<p>“‘Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me if
I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have
myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He
knows what he is about, and must be his own master.’</p>

<p>“‘No, he does not know what he is about,’ cried
Catherine; ‘he does not know the pain he is giving
my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but
I am sure he is very uncomfortable.’</p>

<p>“‘And are you sure it is my brother’s doing?’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, very sure.’</p>

<p>“‘Is it my brother’s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or
Miss Thorpe’s admission of them, that gives the pain?’”</p>

<p>Catherine, in her ignorance of the ways of the world,
wonders General Tilney does not interfere; is sure if <i>he</i>
spoke to Captain Tilney he would go away.</p>

<p>Henry Tilney has some trouble in convincing her
that her “amiable solicitude” is a little mistaken.
Will her brother thank her, either on his own account
or on that of Miss Thorpe, for supposing that her
affection, or at least her good behaviour, can only be
secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? For
anything further, Frederick must soon rejoin his regiment,
and what will then become of his acquaintance
with Miss Thorpe? The mess-room will drink “Isabella
Thorpe” for a fortnight, and she will laugh with
Catherine’s brother over poor Tilney’s passion for a
month.</p>

<p>This is a novel view of the situation to Catherine,
but she cannot refuse comfort from such a quarter; and
she parts not only placably but affectionately from her
friend.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>The bustle of the Tilneys starting on their journey
is rendered trying by the exactions and complaints of
the arrogant, ill-tempered master of the household; still
he is all complaisance and sedulous politeness to Miss
Morland; and his first fretful murmur at the chaise’s
being overcrowded with parcels, is professedly that she
will not have room to sit. “And so much was he influenced
by this apprehension when he handed her in,
that she had some difficulty in saving her own new
writing-desk from being thrown out into the street.”</p>

<p>Luckily, the General drives in his son’s curricle;
but even the agreeable conversation of Eleanor Tilney,
the bliss of their destination, the glory of travelling in
“a fashionable chaise and four, postilions handsomely
liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and numerous
outriders properly mounted,”<a id="FNanchor_31" href="#Footnote_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> sink a little
under the tediousness of a two hours’ bait at Petty
France.</p>

<p>The General, in his anxiety that Catherine may see
the country, proposes to her to change places, and drive
with his son for the rest of the way.</p>

<p>Catherine’s recent experiences of such driving have
not been encouraging, and she recalls an unfavourable
opinion delivered too late by Mr. Allen, on the presence
of young ladies in young men’s open carriages. For I
am glad to be able to show that Catherine, though
extremely in love, has neither forgotten duty nor propriety
in her love; but backed by the powerful sanction,
even the recommendation, of such a judge of good
manners as General Tilney, she feels she need have no
scruple in giving the consent she longs to give.</p>

<p>Henry Tilney is as far removed from John Thorpe in
driving as in everything else. The young clergyman
drives so well, so quietly, without making any disturbance,
without parading to her, or swearing at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>
horses, “so different from the only gentleman-coachman
whom it was in her power to compare him with! And
then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of
his great-coat looked so becomingly important.<a id="FNanchor_32" href="#Footnote_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> To be
driven by him was, next to dancing with him, certainly
the greatest happiness in the world. In addition
to every other delight, she had now that of listening to
her own praise, of being thanked, at least on his sister’s
account, for her kindness in thus becoming her visitor,
of hearing it ranked as real friendship and described as
creating real gratitude.”</p>

<p>It is a little drawback, certainly, to hear that Henry
Tilney has an establishment at his parsonage at Woodston,
nearly twenty miles off, where he has to spend
some of his time,<a id="FNanchor_33" href="#Footnote_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> but what pleasure under the sun is
without drawback?</p>

<p>Unfortunately, too, as it proves, Henry Tilney, with
his propensity for chaffing, cannot resist making game
of his companion with regard to her expectations of
Northanger Abbey. He conjures up for her benefit a
fac-simile of the abbeys and castles of her beloved
romances, and pictures her like Emily in “Udolpho”—conducted
by an ancient housekeeper along gloomy
passages—standing by a bed with its dark velvet coverlet
resembling a pall—inspecting broken lutes and cabinets
of ebony, while peals of thunder rattle overhead, and
the flame of her lamp sinks in the socket just as she
has been impelled to unlock the folding-doors and search
through every drawer of the cabinet, and has come upon
a roll of manuscript.</p>

<p>In short, Jane Austen, speaking by Henry Tilney,
in the most barefaced and liveliest manner, parodies and
makes fun of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances, which she has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>
praised so highly elsewhere;<a id="FNanchor_34" href="#Footnote_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> and this example of the
humourist’s satire shows how free it is ordinarily from
illiberality and harshness. She laughs merrily here at
what she really esteems, the merits of which in another
light she is the first to acknowledge.</p>

<p>It is not in a thunderstorm, but under the more
prosaic inconvenience of “a scud of rain,” fixing all
Catherine’s attention on the welfare of her new straw
bonnet, that she arrives at her destination, with only
a dim apprehension—from the modern lodge-gates, the
smooth gravel of the avenue, and the Rumford grate
and ornaments of pretty English china on the chimney-piece
of the drawing-room, to which she is hurried—that
the Abbey, in one sense, may not come up to her
dreams.</p>

<p>The hall has been large and lofty, and there is a
broad staircase of shining oak, up which Catherine is
taken to her room. But that comfortable room possesses
papered walls and a carpeted floor, while the
windows are neither less perfect nor dimmer<a id="FNanchor_35" href="#Footnote_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a> than those
of the drawing-room.</p>

<p>Catherine receives some consolation, as she is hastening
to remove her riding-habit (the common travelling
dress of the day), to dress for dinner, in time to suit the
fiery punctuality of the General. Her eye falls on a large,
high chest in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.
The chest, which is of cedar, curiously inlaid with some
darker wood, and furnished with a tarnished silver lock,
might have formed a treasure among the Queen Anne
furniture and art curiosities of to-day; but it is not
from premature æsthetic tastes that Catherine flies to it,
entranced at the sight—it is because the chest looks like
a realisation of her visions, a prelude to adventures in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>
her own person, such as those which her favourite
heroines have encountered and surmounted triumphantly.</p>

<p>The incidents which follow the discovery of this
chest would be impossible in the days of social science
and board schools. They read like exaggerations, even
in Jane Austen’s usually temperate, as well as witty,
pages.<a id="FNanchor_36" href="#Footnote_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a></p>

<p>Then we must keep in remembrance that Catherine
Morland was, in age, but sweet, immature seventeen,
while George III’s reign was in many things removed
from that of Queen Victoria.</p>

<p>Miss Tilney’s maid, and later Miss Tilney herself,
surprise Catherine in what looks like burglarious intentions,
in her eager investigation of the chest. In the
last instance, Catherine has just succeeded in throwing
back the lid, and discovering——a nicely-folded white
cotton counterpane!</p>

<p>This anti-climax does not prevent the infatuated
Catherine, when she has retired for the night, during
an appropriate storm of wind and rain, looking about
her, at intervals, in pursuit of more old furniture. And
just as she is about to step into bed, her eyes light
on an ebony and gold cabinet, such as her mischievous
lover has described. To be sure the cabinet is not
exactly of ebony and gold, but it is of the next thing
to them—black and yellow Japan—with the yellow
looking like gold. The key is in the door—wonderful
to relate, as Henry has said! Catherine cannot sleep
till she has turned it. Naturally, the lock tries her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>
trembling, unfamiliar fingers, but she overcomes its
difficulties, only to open drawer after drawer with
emptiness revealed. The middle cavity alone remains
unexplored. She succeeds with the second lock as with
the first, and meets her reward—a roll of paper, pushed
far back for concealment, lies before her.</p>

<p>Catherine’s heart flutters, her knees tremble, her
cheeks grow pale. She seizes the precious MS. without
a doubt as to her right to take possession of it. Has
one of her heroines hesitated in similar circumstances?
She glances round, as if by instinct, to detect the next
accomplishment of Henry Tilney’s predictions, in the
waning of her light. It happens to be a half-burnt-down
candle needing snuffing, instead of a lamp with
the wick burnt to the socket. Sometimes modern
prosaic substitutes prove convenient. Catherine has
only to snuff her candle to restore its brightness.
Alas! in her agitation she snuffs it out, and leaves
herself at once in total darkness. Gas might not have
served her any better, since gas runs the risk, in these
circumstances, of being turned off.</p>

<p>Poor Catherine’s plight has become lamentable, since,
as a matter of course, she believes she distinguishes receding
footsteps, and the closing of a distant door, the
moment she has put out her light. A cold sweat stands
on her forehead, the manuscript falls from her hand, and,
groping her way to the bed, she jumps in, seeking some
suspension of agony by creeping unheroically far underneath
the clothes. Sleep must be impossible, and actually
eludes Catherine’s grasp till all the clocks about the place
have struck three.</p>

<p>The housemaid’s folding back her window-shutters
at eight o’clock rouses Catherine to a bright morning
and a cheerful fire. With revived spirits and curiosity,
she waits only to be alone, in order to surrender herself
to the absorbing interest and distinction of her discovery.
She sees at once she must not expect a manuscript of
equal length to those she is accustomed to read when
printed. Here are only some small, unconnected sheets<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>
of paper. “Her greedy eye glanced rapidly over a page.
She started at its import. Could it be possible, or did
not her senses play her false? An inventory of linen,
in coarse and modern characters, seemed all that was
before her! If the evidence of sight might be trusted,
she held a washing-bill in her hand. She seized another
sheet, and saw the same articles, with little variation;
a third, a fourth, and a fifth presented nothing new.
Shirts, stockings, cravats, and waistcoats faced her in
each. Two others, penned by the same hand, marked
an expenditure scarcely more interesting in letters, hair-powder,
shoe-strings, and breeches ball; and the larger
sheet, which had enclosed the rest, seemed by its first
cramped line—‘To poultice chesnut mare’—a farrier’s
bill! Such was the collection of papers (left, perhaps,
as she could then suppose, by the negligence of a servant,
in the place whence she had taken them) which
had filled her with expectation and alarm, and had
robbed her of half her night’s rest! She felt humbled
to the dust.”</p>

<p>Catherine fervently trusts that nobody—above all,
not Henry Tilney, who is in some respects the originator
of her misadventure, but whom, of course, she magnanimously
forgives—will ever learn what she has been
about.</p>

<p>She soon forgets her affronted discomfiture in
a little conversation with Henry Tilney, in the breakfast-parlour,
before the others come down. She is
praising Miss Tilney’s hyacinths, and adds, “I have
just learnt to love a hyacinth.”</p>

<p>“And how might you learn? By accident, or argument?”</p>

<p>“Your sister taught me: I cannot tell how. Mrs.
Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me
like them; but I never could, till I saw them, the
other day, in Milsom Street. I am naturally indifferent
about flowers.”<a id="FNanchor_37" href="#Footnote_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p>
<p>Henry Tilney ends the conversation with the assertion,
“At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have
learnt to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning
to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition
in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my sister a
pleasant mode of instruction?”</p>

<p>I need not quote further than that Catherine is
delightfully embarrassed, and that she has the happiness
of being still more discomposed by a hint from the
General when he appears, which does sound as if the
formidable great man were deigning to rally the young
couple on a sympathetic habit of early rising.</p>

<p>But Catherine is not yet quite cured of her romantic
fancies.<a id="FNanchor_38" href="#Footnote_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a> She has been forced to see that the Abbey,
in spite of its indisputable pretensions to antiquity
and grandeur, its fine situation, and the ostentatious
display made by the present owner of his rank and
fortune, in its gardens and hot-houses, is, according to
her standard, a mere commonplace, handsome, country
house. She has found out for herself that old chests
and cabinets may be no better than humbugs; still,
she must hanker after family secrets and terrible mysteries.
She cannot like pompous, despotic General
Tilney, before whom his daughter trembles, and his
sons grow silent—let him be ever so grandly polite to
herself—not even though he seems to imply his gracious
approbation, before it is asked, of his son Henry’s suit,
with the General’s earnest desire that Catherine may
accede to that suit.</p>

<p>Perverse Catherine takes it into her head that the
General interferes to prevent her from being shown over
the Abbey, and that he avoids certain parts of the
grounds. Her rampant, over-stimulated imagination
leaps to the conclusion, on the customary grounds, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>
these suspicions peculiarities have to do with General
Tilney’s late wife, of whom her husband never speaks,
who has died rather suddenly, during her daughter’s
absence from home.</p>

<p>Has Mrs. Tilney died a natural death? Catherine
begins to question herself quakingly; or is she dead
at all? Can her children have been imposed upon?
May she not be secluded and imprisoned in some remote
turret or dungeon, to serve an unknown purpose of her
unworthy husband? In that case, Catherine must be
destined to restore the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney to her
children and the world.<a id="FNanchor_39" href="#Footnote_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a></p>

<p>Catherine considers that she has a strong confirmation
of her worst fears in what she is told of the
General’s habits of sitting up late, and walking up and
down his room at night.</p>

<p>Before taking it upon her to act the part of a
private detective in any more original or offensive
manner, Catherine sets out one evening to enter
secretly the closed room which Eleanor has pointed out
to her as that in which her mother died.</p>

<p>Catherine goes into the Bluebeard chamber—which
is certainly not kept locked—on tiptoe. “She beheld
what fixed her to the spot, and agitated every feature.
She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, a handsome
dimity bed unoccupied, arranged with a housemaid’s
care, a bright Bath stove, mahogany wardrobes
and neatly-painted chairs, on which the warm beams of
a western sun gaily poured through two sash-windows.
Catherine had expected to have her feelings worked
upon, and worked upon they were. Astonishment and
doubt first seized them, and a shortly-succeeding ray of
common sense added some bitter emotions of shame.”</p>

<p>She is endeavouring to retreat as quickly as she has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>
come. She has got as far as the gallery, when she
hears footsteps approaching. It would be awkward for
a servant, it would be dreadful for the General to meet
her prowling about there.</p>

<p>Happily for Catherine, though she cannot think so
at the time, it is Henry Tilney who comes running up
the side stair.</p>

<p>“‘Mr. Tilney,’ she cries, taken by surprise, ‘how
did you come here?’</p>

<p>“‘How did I come up that staircase?’ he echoes, as
much astonished as she is; ‘because it is my nearest
way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why
should I not come up it?’</p>

<p>“Catherine recollected herself, blushed deeply, and
could say no more. He seemed to be looking in her
countenance for that explanation which her words did
not afford. She moved on towards the gallery.</p>

<p>“‘And may I not, in my turn,’ said he, as he pushed
back the folding doors, ‘ask how came <i>you</i> here?
This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the
breakfast-parlour to your apartment as that staircase
can be from the stables to mine.’</p>

<p>“‘I have been,’ said Catherine, looking down, ‘to
see your mother’s room.’</p>

<p>“‘My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary
to be seen there?’</p>

<p>“‘No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean
to come back till to-morrow.’”</p>

<p>But he will not be put off the subject, and a few
more skilful questions enlighten him with regard to
her preposterously uncharitable surmises. Though
Henry Tilney is the gay deceiver who has played on her
imagination not so long ago, he is considerably scandalised
at the length to which she has gone. After
gravely explaining to her all the simple, natural circumstances
of his mother’s illness and death, and of his
father’s sincere affliction for his loss—since, though
his temper may have injured her in life, his judgment
never did—the son takes Catherine to task very earnestly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>
if tenderly, for her most unwarrantable flights of fancy.
“Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of
the suspicions you have entertained. What have you
been judging from? Remember the country and the
age in which we live. Remember that we are English,
that we are Christians.”</p>

<p>Catherine is punished. In the retirement of her
own room she cries bitterly. She hates herself for
her folly, and becomes a more reasonable woman for all
time to come.<a id="FNanchor_40" href="#Footnote_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>Catherine is recalled from her compunction and mortification,
which unquestionably Henry Tilney soothes
to the best of his power, by the trials of real life.
After nine successive mornings of looking in vain for
letters, Catherine receives one from James at Oxford.
It is a short, manly letter, full of pain, but full also of
self-command and forbearance, announcing the breaking
off of his engagement with Miss Thorpe, and hoping, for
his sister’s sake, that her visit to Northanger Abbey
may be over before Captain Tilney makes known his
engagement.</p>

<p>Catherine cannot conceal her sorrow for James, and
is soon induced to tell what will not remain long concealed
to her sympathising friends, Eleanor and Henry
Tilney. Isabella Thorpe has given up Catherine’s
brother, and is to marry theirs. Both her listeners—Henry
Tilney especially—are full of pity for Catherine’s
wondering sorrow that such fickleness and everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>
which is bad can exist in the world and make
her brother James their victim; but the Tilneys doubt
that part of her information which relates to their
brother. They do not dispute Frederick’s share in the
lovers’ quarrel, but they are exceedingly sceptical with
regard to Frederick’s marrying Isabella Thorpe—a
lawyer’s daughter without any portion. Henry’s incredulity
is only shaken by the recollection of Frederick’s
former pretensions and confidence in himself, and by the
fact that he, Henry, has too good an opinion of Miss
Thorpe’s prudence to suppose that she would part with
one gentleman before another was secured.</p>

<p>Henry Tilney’s humour asserts itself, as usual, through
his vexation. He begs Eleanor to prepare for a sister-in-law
open and guileless as the day. He heartily
endorses Catherine’s innocent argument—intended to
be consolatory—that, perhaps, though Isabella has behaved
so badly to the Morland family, she may behave
better to the Tilneys—she may be constant to Captain
Tilney.</p>

<p>“‘Indeed, I am afraid she will,’ replied Henry
Tilney, ‘unless a baronet should come in her way; that
is Frederick’s only chance. I will get the Bath paper
and look over the arrivals.’</p>

<p>“‘You think it is all for ambition, then?’ inquired
Catherine, at length beginning to see there were some
things which looked very like it. ‘I never was so
deceived in any one’s character in my life.’</p>

<p>“‘Among all the great variety you have known and
studied,’ Henry Tilney cannot resist saying.” And
really the masterful young lover makes game of his
simple mistress so habitually, that one is tempted to
imagine he is purposely testing the sweetness of her
temper, and her freedom from pride and vanity.</p>

<p>He is soon rallying her on the loss which she herself
has sustained. Society must have become irksome—the
very idea of such amusements as she has shared
with Isabella Thorpe cannot but prove abhorrent to her.
Catherine would not now, for instance, go to a ball for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>
the world. She must feel that she has no longer any
friend to whom she can speak without reserve, on whose
regard she can depend.</p>

<p>But Catherine answers him very sensibly, and with
a charming sincerity that disarms his mocking mood.
“No,” said Catherine, “ought I? To say the truth,
though I am hurt and grieved that I cannot still love
her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to
see her again, I do not feel so very much afflicted as
one would have thought.”</p>

<p>“You feel as you always do, what is most to the
credit of human nature. Such feelings ought to be
investigated, that they may know themselves.”</p>

<p>We can easily understand how Catherine’s spirits
revive under this conversation.</p>

<p>The happiest episode of Catherine’s visit to Northanger
Abbey is her going with the Tilneys—the idea of
the visit having originated with the General—to “eat
their mutton” with Henry in his parsonage at Woodston.
An abbey has become no more to Catherine than
any other building. There is nothing now so alluring
to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a
“well-connected parsonage”—something like Catherine’s
home at Fullerton, but better. Fullerton has its faults,
but Woodston probably has none.</p>

<p>Before the visit, it has seemed to Catherine that
the Wednesday when she is to go to Woodston will
never come. She dreads the arrival in the meantime
of Captain Tilney to ask his father’s consent to his
marriage. But no Captain Tilney makes his appearance,
and all goes well. The day comes, proves fine, and
Catherine treads on air. “By ten o’clock the chaise
and four conveyed the party from the Abbey, and after
an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles they entered
Woodston, a large and populous village in a situation
not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how
pretty she thought it, as the General seemed to think
an apology necessary for the flatness of the country and
size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>
any place she had ever been at, and looked with great
admiration at every neat house above the rank of a
cottage, and at all the little chandler’s shops which they
passed. At the farther end of the village, and tolerably
disengaged from the rest of it, stood the parsonage, a
new-built, substantial, stone house, with its semi-circular
sweep and green gates; and as they drove up to the
door, Henry, with the friends of his solitude—a large
Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers—was
ready to receive and make much of them.”</p>

<p>The General’s hints and allusions, with his requests
for Catherine’s opinion and approval, which now become
more conspicuous and significant than ever, may be embarrassing,
but it is a delicious embarrassment.</p>

<p>Catherine thinks the house the most comfortable
in England, and cannot hide her admiration of the
prettily-shaped unfurnished drawing-room. “‘Oh! why
do you not fit up this room, Mr. Tilney? What a pity
not to have it fitted up. It is the prettiest room I ever
saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!’</p>

<p>“‘I trust,’ said the General with a most satisfied
smile, ‘that it will very speedily be furnished: it waits
only for a lady’s taste.’</p>

<p>“‘Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere
else. Oh! what a sweet little cottage there is
among the trees; apple-trees too! It is the prettiest
cottage——’</p>

<p>“‘You like it? you approve of it as an object? It
is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken
to about it. The cottage remains.’</p>

<p>“Such a compliment recalled all Catherine’s consciousness
and silenced her directly; and though pointedly
applied to by the General for her choice of the prevailing
colour of the paper and hangings, nothing like an
opinion on the subject could be drawn from her. The
influence of fresh objects and fresh air, however, was of
great use in dissipating those embarrassing associations;
and having reached the ornamental part of the premises,
consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>
which Henry’s genius had begun to act about half a
year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to think it
prettier than any pleasure-ground she had ever been in
before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than
the green branch in the corner.</p>

<p>“A saunter into other meadows, and through part of
the village, with a visit to the stables to examine some
improvements, and a charming game of play with a
litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them to
four o’clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could
be three. At four they were to dine, and at six to set
off on their return. Never had any day passed so
quickly.”</p>

<p>Yet reflection might have suggested one drawback
to the delights of Woodston. Catherine had already
marvelled and even exclaimed when Henry Tilney proposed
to go away from Northanger several days before
the date of their visit, in order to make preparations for
their entertainment at Woodston. How could he think
so much trouble necessary for their dinner, when the
General had particularly desired him not to put himself
about, and had made a point of his providing nothing
extraordinary? But Henry had only smiled, and started
betimes for Woodston.</p>

<p>Now on the occasion of the visit, Catherine “could
not but observe that the abundance of the dinner did
not seem to create the smallest astonishment in the
General; nay, that he was even looking at the side-table
for cold meat which was not there. His son and
daughter’s observations were of a different kind. They
had seldom seen him eat so heartily at any table but his
own; and never before known him so little disconcerted
by the melted butter being oiled.”</p>

<p>Catherine might at least have foreseen that, however
eager the General was to welcome her as a daughter-in-law,
he would prove an alarming parent to visit Woodston
in days to come.</p>

<p>The morning after the happy day at Woodston,
Catherine is surprised by a letter from Isabella Thorpe,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>
which is so cleverly characteristic of that transparently
designing and entertaining girl, I must give it all.</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right">
“<i>Bath, April</i>——.<br>
</p>

<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dearest Catherine</span>,—I received your two
kind letters with the greatest delight, and have a thousand
apologies to make for not answering them sooner.
I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this
horrid place one can find time for nothing. I have had
my pen in my hand to begin a letter to you almost
every day since you left Bath, but have always been
prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to
me soon, and direct at my own home. Thank God!
we leave this vile place to-morrow. Since you went
away I have had no pleasure in it; the dust is beyond
anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe
if I could see you I should not mind the rest, for
you are dearer to me than anybody can conceive. I am
quite uneasy about your dear brother, not having heard
from him since he went to Oxford, and am fearful of
some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all
right. He is the only man I ever did or could love,
and I trust you will convince him of it. The spring
fashions are partly down, and the hats the most frightful
you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly,
but am afraid you never think of me. I will not say
all that I could of the family you are with, because I
would not be ungenerous, and set you against those you
esteem; but it is very difficult to know whom to trust,
and young men never know their minds two days
together. I rejoice to say that the young man whom
of all others I particularly abhor has left Bath. You
will know from this description I must mean Captain
Tilney, who, as you may remember, was amazingly
disposed to follow and tease me, before you went away.
Afterwards he got worse, and became quite my shadow.
Many girls might have been taken in, for never were
such attentions; but I knew the fickle sex too well.
He went away to his regiment two days ago, and I trust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>
I shall never be plagued with him again. He is the
greatest coxcomb I ever saw, and amazingly disagreeable.
The last two days he was always by the side of
Charlotte Davis. I pitied his taste, but took no notice
of him. The last time we met was in Bath Street, and
I turned directly into a shop that he might not speak
to me; I would not even look at him. He went into
the Pump-room afterwards, but I would not have followed
for all the world. Such a contrast between him
and your brother! Pray send me some news of the
latter; I am quite unhappy about him; he seemed so
uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or
something that affected his spirits. I would write to
him myself, but have mislaid his direction; and as I
hinted above, am afraid he took something in my
conduct amiss. Pray explain everything to his satisfaction;
or if he still harbours any doubt, a line from
himself to me, or a call at Putney when next in town,
might set all to rights. I have not been to the rooms
this age, nor to the play, except going in last night
with the Hodges, for a frolic, at half-price. They
teased me into it; and I was determined they should
not say I shut myself up because Tilney was gone.
We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they pretended
to be quite surprised to see me out. I knew
their spite: at one time they could not be civil to me,
but now they are all friendship; but I am not such a
fool as to be taken in by them. You know I have a
pretty good spirit of my own. Anne Mitchell has tried
to put on a turban like mine, as I wore it the week
before at the concert, but made wretched work of it.
It happened to become my odd face, I believe; at least
Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was
upon me; but he is the last man whose word I would
take. I wear nothing but purple now; I know I look
hideous in it, but no matter; it is your dear brother’s
favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest
Catherine, in writing to him and to me,</p>

<p class="right">
“Who ever am, &amp;c.”<br>
</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p>

<p>But the upright, unsuspicious young girl who thinks
no evil, is not a fool, and in this respect she has a great
advantage over such female characters as the Amelia of
another great humourist, Thackeray. It is refreshing
to learn that the inconsistencies, contradictions, and
falsehoods of that letter strike Catherine from the very
first. “She was ashamed of Isabella, and ashamed of
having ever loved her. The professions of attachment
were now as disgusting, as her excuses were empty, and
her demands impudent.” “Write to James on her behalf!
No, James should never hear Isabella’s name
mentioned by her again.”</p>

<p>On Henry’s arrival from Woodston, Catherine makes
known to him and Eleanor their brother’s safety, congratulating
them with sincerity on it, and reading aloud
the most material passages of her letter with strong
indignation. When she has finished it, “So much for
Isabella,” she cries, “and for all our intimacy. She
must think me an idiot, or she could not have written
so; but perhaps this has served to make her character
better known to me than mine is to her. I see what
she has been about. She is a vain coquette, and her
tricks have not answered. I do not believe she had
ever any regard either for James or for me, and I wish
I had never known her.”</p>

<p>“It will soon be as if you never had,” said Henry.</p>


<h3>V.</h3>

<p>The unpleasant sequel of Catherine Morland’s visit
to Northanger Abbey is, we trust, barely possible in our
day. The unworthy resentment, unworthily vented on
an innocent victim by an arrogant, worldly-minded man,
foiled in his selfish schemes, and enraged at finding
himself taken in by so shallow a conspirator as John
Thorpe, may be common enough at all times; but, at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>
least, we live in a generation when men do not wear
their tempers, any more than their vices, on their
sleeves.</p>

<p>General Tilney has gone up to London, while Catherine’s
visit to Northanger Abbey is prolonged at Eleanor
Tilney’s request, with her father’s full approval. The
girls have been left alone one evening, by Henry’s having
found himself under the necessity of taking his curate’s
place at Woodston. They are about to separate at eleven
o’clock at night, when they hear a carriage drive up to
the door, followed by the loud noise of the door-bell.</p>

<p>Eleanor predicts the unexpected arrival of her elder
brother Frederick, and Catherine retreats to her room in
some discomposure. But her trepidation at the notion
of encountering her brother’s rival is nothing compared
to her affright when, half an hour later, she discovers
her friend Eleanor hovering about Catherine’s door, in a
state of extreme agitation. Eleanor is the reluctant,
grieved, and affronted messenger from her father to
the guest whom he has hitherto delighted to honour.
General Tilney has recollected an engagement which
will take the whole family away from Northanger
Abbey on Monday (this day is Saturday). The Tilneys
are all going to Lord Longtown’s, near Hereford, for a
fortnight. General Tilney has sent Eleanor, her heart
swelling with sorrow and shame, to tell Catherine of a
departure which, in the most unceremonious and unkind
manner, compels her own.</p>

<p>Great and unpleasant as her surprise is, I am glad to
say Catherine displays dawning dignity. She suppresses
her feelings, speaks of a second engagement’s yielding
to a first, and declines to take offence. She will finish
her visit to Northanger Abbey at some other time, and
cannot Eleanor come to her? Happy thought! cannot
Eleanor come to Fullerton on her way back from Herefordshire?</p>

<p>“It will not be in my power, Catherine,” Eleanor
answers briefly, in awkwardness and dejection.</p>

<p>Still Catherine continues resolutely cheerful. Let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>
Eleanor come when she can. Then Catherine betrays
she is calculating on bidding another friend good-bye.
She will be able to go when the rest set out on Monday,
she says. It does not matter, though word has not been
forwarded to her father and mother. The General, she
hopes, will send a servant with her half-way. She will
soon be at Salisbury, and then she will only be nine
miles from home.</p>

<p>My readers must remember that the inconveniences
of young ladies travelling alone were multiplied indefinitely,
and even magnified to dangers, when girls had
to go in post-chaises, or by coaches, over rough roads,
and in a very deliberate fashion—largely affected by
the merits or defects of the inns on the route, the
horses, and, above all, the weather—even granting that
highwaymen had waxed scarce by the close of last
century.</p>

<p>Poor Eleanor has the still harder task of dashing
these modest expectations to the ground. The General
has sent his daughter with the unconscionably insulting
and unfeeling message that Catherine must leave early
next morning. Even the choice of the hour is not left
to her: the carriage is ordered at seven o’clock, and no
servant will be offered to her.</p>

<p>I am fain to think such rude insolence, such an ungentlemanlike
and unfatherly breach of hospitality to,
and consideration for, a young girl—his invited guest,
his daughter’s friend—could seldom have been perpetrated
by the most irresponsible member of the old
“quality”—the most selfish tyrant who ever figured in
an antiquated army list. I believe General Tilney’s
action on this occasion to be one of the few-and-far-between
exaggerations to be found in Jane Austen’s
earlier novels.</p>

<p>Catherine sits down breathless and speechless under
the outrage. She can scarcely listen to Eleanor’s
earnest, humble apologies, her faltering explanations
that her father’s temper is not happy, and something
has occurred recently to ruffle it in an uncommon degree.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p>

<p>When Catherine speaks, after she has put the one
wistful, fruitless question, “Have I offended the
General?” it is to say, quietly and firmly, that she is
very sorry if she has offended Eleanor’s father; it is the
last thing she would willingly have done. She bids
Eleanor not be unhappy; a few days longer would not
have made any great difference. The journey of seventy
miles by post will be nothing. She can be ready at
seven. She begs to be called in time.</p>

<p>In short, Catherine behaves at this crisis with a
simple self-respect and an absence of either rancour or
frenzy which brings her out in striking and agreeable
contrast to the rampaging termagants of later fiction.</p>

<p>But when she is left alone, poor young Catherine
cannot so much as attempt to persuade herself that she
has not been very badly treated, and that she is not
smarting under the sense of the unprovoked ill-usage in
addition to her own little private stock of wretchedness.
For not only has the polite, high-bred General Tilney,
who had seemed so particularly fond of her, behaved to
her with gross incivility, there is the crowning misery of
the knowledge that the false and barbarous General is
Henry Tilney’s father, and that she will not even see
Henry to hear what he thinks of the cruel injustice, and
to bid him farewell. Besides, what will her father and
mother, the Allens, and the world think of the disgraceful
indignity which has been put upon her, the
bitter mortification to which she has been subjected?</p>

<p>But there is no help for it, and though sleep is
impossible, Catherine can be as punctual as her friend
Eleanor, who is up to do all that the most sincere
affection and hearty regret can contrive, to atone for her
father’s conduct. Catherine may be unable to swallow
a mouthful when she thinks of the last breakfast in the
same room: “Happy, happy breakfast! for Henry had
been there; Henry had sat by her and helped her.”
But she is able to decline decidedly, though tenderly,
to write to Eleanor when Catherine finds that correspondence
has been prohibited between the girls, and the one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>
letter, announcing Catherine’s safe arrival, for which
Eleanor entreats, must be directed under cover to her
maid Alice. It is only Eleanor’s distress at her refusal
which draws from Catherine a promise to commit this
single infringement of the prohibition.</p>

<p>At the last moment, had it not been for Eleanor
Tilney’s anxious forethought in ascertaining whether
Catherine’s purse would meet the requirements of the
journey, the inexperienced young girl would have found
herself “turned from the house without even the means
of getting home.” The necessary loan is quickly offered
and accepted, but this realisation of the situation so
overwhelms the two girls that they exchange their
parting embrace in silence. Catherine forces her quivering
lips to leave “My kind remembrance for my absent
friend,” but the reference is too much for her, and she
has to hide her face as she jumps into the chaise and is
driven from the door.</p>

<p>The only solution which Catherine can think of, for
the unaccountable change in the General’s behaviour to
her, is too dreadful for her to dwell upon, though it has
a serio-comic effect, as Jane Austen no doubt intended,
on the reader. Can General Tilney have found out, by
any means short of a tremendous breach of faith on the
part of Henry or Eleanor Tilney, that Catherine has
been so foolish and wicked as to suspect him of being a
murderer, and is he now revenging himself upon her,
almost justifiably, by refusing to let her remain in the
same house with him, or to hold any farther communication
with his family?</p>

<p>The real explanation may as well be given here.
Catherine’s one great offence in the General’s eyes is
that she is less rich and prosperous in every way than he
had believed her to be. The fine gentleman is capable
of the most mercenary efforts for the aggrandisement of
his family. His greed has caused him to fall an easy
prey to so vulgar a schemer as John Thorpe. In the
days when Isabella Thorpe and her brother were ready
to hail the probability of a double family alliance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>
with James Morland and his sister. General Tilney had
chanced to notice his son’s attentions to Catherine in
the theatre at Bath. Being on speaking terms with
John Thorpe, the General had not disdained to fish for
some information with regard to the young lady’s
circumstances.</p>

<p>John Thorpe, in his vanity and bluster, had bragged
his very best. He was not content with representing
the Morlands’ prospects invested with the brilliance
which his credulous imagination and that of Isabella,
stimulated by self-interest, had already bestowed on
them, but added twice as much to everything, for the
grandeur of the moment. “By doubling what he chose
to think the amount of Mr. Morland’s preferment,
trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and
sinking half the children, he was able to represent the
whole family to the General in a most respectable
light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of
the General’s curiosity and his own speculations, he had
yet something more in reserve; and the ten or fifteen
thousand which her father could give her would be a
pretty addition to Mr. Allen’s estate. Her intimacy
there had made him seriously determine on her being
handsomely legacied hereafter, and to speak of her as
the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton
naturally followed.”</p>

<p>General Tilney had not doubted the authority of
his informant, and had shaped his course accordingly.
He had been enlightened as to his mistake by the very
person who had deceived him. The General had encountered
Thorpe in town, when under the influence
of exactly opposite feelings—irritated by Catherine’s
refusal, and yet more by the failure of an endeavour
to reconcile James Morland to Isabella—John Thorpe
turned, and not only coolly contradicted every word he
had ever said to the advantage of the Morlands, he went
as far in lying to their disadvantage. Mr. Morland
was not a man either of substance or credit. He had not
been able to give his son even a decent maintenance in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>
the contemplation of his marriage. The whole Morland
family were necessitous—numerous, too, almost beyond
example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood;
aiming at a style of life to which they were
not entitled; seeking to better themselves by wealthy
connections; a forward, scheming race. (I hope my
readers admire the accuracy with which, in slandering
the Morlands, John Thorpe describes himself and his
sister, in fulfilment of the adage, that as we do ourselves
we judge our neighbours.)</p>

<p>The horrified General pronounced the name of Allen.</p>

<p>Here, too, Thorpe had found out his error. The
Allens had lived near the Morlands too long; besides,
John Thorpe knew the young man on whom the Fullerton
estate must devolve.</p>

<p>General Tilney had heard enough. He set off in
a fury for the Abbey, to undo his own performance.</p>

<p>In the meantime Catherine is travelling home to
Fullerton. “To return in such a manner was almost
to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those whom
she loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an
eleven weeks’ absence.”</p>

<p>“She rather dreaded than sought for the first view
of that well-known spire, which would announce her
within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had
known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage, she had been indebted to the post-masters
for the names of the places which were then to
conduct her to it, so great had been her ignorance of
her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress
or frighten her. Her gentle, civil manners, and
liberal pay, procured her all the attention that a traveller
like herself could require; and stopping only to
change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours,<a id="FNanchor_41" href="#Footnote_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a>
without accident or alarm; and between six and seven
o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p>

<h3>VI.</h3>

<p>Jane Austen has here an excellent opportunity for
one of her ironical paragraphs. “A heroine returning at
the close of her career to her native village in all the
triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a
countess, with a long train of noble relations in their
several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling
chaise-and-four behind her, is an event on which the
pen of the contriver may well delight to dwell; it gives
credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in
the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different: I bring back my heroine to her home
in solitude and disgrace, and no sweet elation of spirits
can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack
post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment as no attempt
at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly, therefore,
shall her postboy drive through the village, amid
the gaze of sundry groups, and speedy shall be her
descent from it.”</p>

<p>But the very next sentences are full of the warm
human kindness of the humourist in opposition to the
cold cynicism of the mere satirist. “But whatever
might be the distress of Catherine’s mind as she thus
advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation
of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing
enjoyment of no every-day nature for those to whom
she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage, and
secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a
rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately
at the window; and to have it stop at the
sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye, and
occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked-for by
all but the two youngest children, a boy and a girl of
six and four years old, who expected a brother and a
sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first
distinguished Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed
the discovery! But whether such happiness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>
were the lawful property of George or Harriet could
never be exactly understood.</p>

<p>“Her father, mother, Sarah, George and Harriet, all
assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate
eagerness, was a sight to awaken the best feelings of
Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she
stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed
beyond anything that she had believed possible. So
surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy. In the
joyfulness of family love everything for a short time
was subdued; and the pleasure of seeing her leaving
them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were
all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had
hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale
and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any
inquiry so direct as to demand a positive answer was
addressed to her.”</p>

<p>Even the soreness of the explanation becomes bearable
because of the true fellow-feeling with which it is
heard. Besides, though the Morlands cannot but be
hurt and angry on account of the insult to their daughter,
they are not naturally irritable people, and do not
dwell on the injury.</p>

<p>“It was a strange business, and he must be a very
strange man,” soon become words enough to express their
indignation and wonder. In fact, her father and mother
are much too philosophic for Catherine’s feelings when
she has to listen to such sentences as “Catherine is safe
home, and our comfort does not depend on General
Tilney;” “This has been a strange acquaintance, soon
made and soon ended. And you were sadly out of luck,
too, in your Isabella. Ah! poor James! well, we must
live and learn; and the next new friends you make I
hope will be better worth keeping.”</p>

<p>Catherine’s great comfort at this time is in walking
over to the Allens, to talk with Mrs. Allen over their
never-to-be-forgotten visit to Bath. If Mrs. Allen is
neither very wise nor very witty, nor possessed of any
penetration to speak of—at least she mentions Henry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>
Tilney’s name occasionally, and calls him a very agreeable
young man.</p>

<p>For two days Mrs. Morland bears with her eldest
daughter’s restlessness and sadness, but on the third
morning the mother remonstrates: “My dear Catherine,
I am afraid you are growing quite a fine lady. I do not
know when poor Richard’s cravats would be done, if he
had no friend but you,<a id="FNanchor_42" href="#Footnote_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a> your head runs too much upon
Bath; but there is a time for everything—a time for
balls and plays, and a time for work. You have had
a long run of amusement, and now you must try to be
useful.”</p>

<p>Catherine took up her work directly, saying, in a
dejected voice, that her head did not run upon Bath—much.</p>

<p>“Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that
is very simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see
him again. You should never fret about trifles.” After
a short silence, “I hope, my Catherine, you are not
getting out of humour with home, because it is not so
grand as Northanger; that would be turning your visit
into an evil, indeed. Wherever you are, you should
always be contented, but especially at home, because
there you must spend the most of your time. I did not
quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about
the French bread at Northanger.”</p>

<p>“I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all
the same to me what I eat.”</p>

<p>“There is a very clever essay in one of the books
upstairs upon much such a subject—about young girls
who have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance—the
‘Mirror,’ I think—I will look it out for you some
day or other, because I am sure it will do you good.”</p>

<p>Do sensible, kindly mothers still select such essays as
those in Henry Mackenzie’s papers, and bring them for
their daughters to read, with a sanguine expectation that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>
the essays will answer their purpose? If not, is it
because girls are less docile than they were wont to be,
or because they are apt to imagine that they are considerably
better informed than their elders, who have
been in the world twice as long?</p>

<p>Mrs. Morland goes to fetch the work in question,
but household matters keep the busy mistress of the
family absent for some time. When she returns, she is
unaware that a visitor has been shown in while she was
away, and is surprised on re-entering the room to find a
young man there she has never seen before.</p>

<p>With a look of much respect he immediately rises,
and is introduced to Mrs. Morland by her conscious
daughter as “Mr. Henry Tilney.”</p>

<p>With the embarrassment of real feeling he begins to
apologise for his appearance there, “acknowledging that
after what had passed he had little right to expect a
welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be
assured of Miss Morland’s having reached her home in
safety as the cause of his intrusion.”</p>

<p>He does not address himself to an illiberal judge.
Far from comprehending him and his sister in their
father’s misconduct, Mrs. Morland has always been well
disposed to both, and instantly pleased by his appearance,
receives him with the simple professions of unaffected
good-will, “thanking him for such an attention to her
daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children
were always welcome there, and entreating him to say
not another word of the past.”</p>

<p>He is not disinclined to obey her request, trying as
the situation is, while the agitated, happy Catherine sits
perfectly silent in the conversation about the weather
and the roads, which follows, “but her glowing cheek
and brightened eye made her mother trust that this
good-natured visit would, at least, set her heart at ease
for a time; and gladly, therefore, did she lay aside the
first volume of ‘The Mirror’ for a future hour.”</p>

<p>Then Henry Tilney, after a couple of minutes’
silence, and an inquiry whether the Allens are at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>
Fullerton, with a rising colour, asks Catherine whether
she will have the goodness to show him the way to her
friends’ house?</p>

<p>“You may see the house from this window, sir,”
is a piece of most malapropos information volunteered by
Catherine’s younger sister Sarah, which produces only a
bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman.</p>

<p>But good-natured, considerate Mrs. Morland comes
to his aid. She sincerely pities his painful position, and
believes he may have something to say, on his father’s
account, which will be more easily said to Catherine
alone. She sends away the couple together to the
Allens.</p>

<p>Mrs. Morland is not entirely mistaken. Henry
Tilney has some explanations to give on his father’s
behalf, but “his first purpose was to explain himself,
and before they reached Mr. Allen’s grounds he had done
it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be
repeated too often.”</p>

<p>Jane Austen thus coolly defines the lovers’ relations:—Catherine
“was assured of his affections, and that heart
in return was solicited which, perhaps, they pretty equally
knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry
was now sincerely attached to her—though he felt and
delighted in all the excellences of her character, and
truly loved her society—I must confess that his affection
originated in nothing better than gratitude; or, in other
words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had
been the only cause of his giving her a serious thought.
It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge,
dreadfully derogatory to a heroine’s dignity; but if it
be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination
will at least be all my own.”</p>

<p>It is only after the pair have, in the formal phraseology
of the day, “waited on the Allens,” when Henry
Tilney talks at random, and Catherine Morland, wrapped
in the contemplation of her unutterable happiness,
scarcely opens her lips; that she hears, to her dismay,
from her lover what has passed between him and his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>
father only two days before. On Henry’s return from
Woodston to Northanger, the General had told him
angrily of Miss Morland’s departure, and forbidden
him to think of her any more.</p>

<p>But if ever a young man is justified in acting in
defiance of such a command, it is Henry Tilney. He
has not only been encouraged in cherishing and displaying
an attachment for Catherine, his father has in
every possible way compromised his son, and bound him,
in honour no less than in affection, to the young girl
from whom General Tilney now seeks all at once, in
the most unjust and despotic manner, to separate Henry.</p>

<p>It can be no matter to a young fellow who has
never shared the General’s mercenary motives, and who
is possessed of the sentiments of a man and a gentleman,
that his father has been misled, and has committed
himself to the course he has taken under an error.</p>

<p>The father and son, after their meeting and explanation,
have parted in serious disagreement, and Henry
Tilney has repaired, on his own responsibility, to Fullerton.
But he has considerately saved Catherine from
the obligation to a conscientious rejection of his addresses,
by engaging her faith before telling her what
had passed.</p>

<p>Luckily Mr. and Mrs. Morland, when they are
appealed to, and have got over their surprise at being
asked to give their consent to Henry Tilney’s suit to
their daughter, are inclined to be moderate and indulgent
in their views. Their parental pride and affection
are gratified; they have not a single objection to urge
against the young man personally. They recognise his
good manners and good sense, and they are ready to
give him credit for his good character. “Catherine
would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper, to be
sure,” was the mother’s foreboding remark; but quick
comes the consolation of there being nothing like
practice.</p>

<p>The one obstacle is, that while Henry Tilney’s father
refuses his consent to the marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Morland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>
cannot formally sanction an engagement. Their
tempers are mild, but their principles are steady. They
do not demand a great show of regard, but a decent
acquiescence must be given. The General’s money may
go. Henry Tilney’s present income is enough for independence
and comfort, and he is entitled eventually,
under his mother’s marriage settlement, to a very considerable
fortune. But he must at least have his
father’s countenance to his proposals.</p>

<p>The young people can neither be surprised nor can
they complain, however much they may deplore the
decision. They part for the time, hoping against hope
for a speedy change in the General. “Henry returned
to what was now his only home, to watch over his
young plantations and extend his improvements for her
sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward;
and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether
the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine
correspondence let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland
never did; they had been too kind to exact any
promise, and whenever Catherine received a letter, as at
that time happened pretty often, they always looked
another way.”</p>

<p>The probation ends much sooner than might have
been expected, and the cause of the General’s yielding
is the marriage of his daughter, in the course of the
summer, to a man of fortune and consequence. This
accession of reflected dignity brings on such a fit of good
humour, that General Tilney does not recover from it
till after the good, kind Eleanor has procured his forgiveness
of her brother, and their father’s ungracious
permission for Henry “to be a fool if he liked it.”</p>

<p>What renders Eleanor Tilney’s happiness more complete
is, that it is the prosperous end of a course of
true love which had not formerly run smooth; the lover
having only recently and unexpectedly come into the
title and fortune which so recommended the match to
the General, that he had never “loved his daughter so
well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>
patient endurance, as when he first hailed her ‘your
ladyship.’”</p>

<p>Jane Austen adds with joy for Eleanor’s sake, that
“her husband was really deserving of her, independent
of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to
a precision the most charming young man in the world.”</p>

<p>I must here point out another instance of Miss
Austen’s thorough independence of precedent, and of
the popular verdict in fiction. I think it is also a sign
how true-hearted and unworldly she was herself in the
main, under the class prejudices which she undoubtedly
held, that she should, in the reasonableness which she
so insisted upon, indicate how lightly within certain
well-defined limits she valued the accidental advantages
of rank and riches, in comparison with mutual affection,
and mutual and moral affinity. To her, certainly,</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“True hearts are more than coronets,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And simple faith than Norman blood,”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="p0">when she makes her heroine, whom she loves dearly,
while she laughs at her from first to last, marry with
all her will a simple country clergyman and younger
son, while a secondary character in the story carries off
the peer and charming fellow in one.<a id="FNanchor_43" href="#Footnote_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a></p>

<p>I desire to call attention to this significant treatment
of her heroine because, in dealing with General Tilney’s
hectoring, grasping misdemeanours, though we are
perfectly sensible that Jane Austen cordially despises the
man, we are also conscious that his rank and position
are made to throw a respectable cloak over his infirmities.
Catherine is not caused to shrink from
association with such a father-in-law, as she would have
been represented shrinking from him, had he happened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>
to be a vulgar nobody, yet at the same time not more
domineering, purse-proud, and mean than the well-born,
well-educated General, with his oppressively
artificial fine manners. Jane Austen was a born aristocrat,
as she shows in many instances, but she was great
enough to rise habitually above class weakness and
narrowness.</p>

<p>The influence of the Viscount and Viscountess with
General Tilney on the proscribed pair’s behalf is assisted
by that right understanding of Mr. Morland’s circumstances
which, as soon as the General will allow himself
to be informed, they are qualified to give. “It taught
him that he had been scarcely more misled by Thorpe’s
first boast of the family wealth than by his subsequent
malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word
were they necessitous or poor; and that Catherine would
have three thousand pounds.”</p>

<p>This is a comfort, and so is the private intelligence
which the calculating match-maker secures, that the
Fullerton estate is at the disposal of the present proprietor,
and therefore open to greedy speculation.</p>

<p>Accordingly, General Tilney permits his son to return
to Northanger, “and thence made him the bearer
of his consent, very courteously worded, in a page full of
empty professions to Mr. Morland. The event which
it authorised soon followed: Henry and Catherine were
married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and as
this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day
of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful
delays occasioned by the General’s cruelty, that they were
essentially hurt by it.”</p>

<p>Jane Austen ends “Northanger Abbey,” as she began
it, with a little paradoxical mocking comment, fitted to
bewilder stupid people.</p>

<p>“To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of
twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing
myself, moreover, convinced that the General’s
unjust interference, so far from being really injurious
to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>
by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding
strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled
by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of
this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny
or reward filial disobedience.”<a id="FNanchor_44" href="#Footnote_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></p>

<p>Among the last things which Miss Austen did was
to flatter the great public—unless, indeed, one considers
that she paid it the highest compliment of all—by assuming
it was a clever public, and must enjoy being made
game of, to its face. A stupid public was not, and has
never been, Jane Austen’s public. On such her fine
sense and abounding humour, pervaded by the true
refinement in which neither the woman nor the gentlewoman
is for a moment forgotten, fall absolutely flat.
I cannot conceive such a public, which is ordinarily
fond of coarse, crude mental stimulants, as appreciating
and enjoying Jane Austen, though her consummate
art as a story-teller may beguile it into dozing over
her pages, or hurrying through them. But there is such
a thing as having a good taste cultivated and not perverted,
and budding intelligence may be drawn out,
not stultified.</p>

<p>To those who are not by mental constitution
impelled altogether into the abnormal school of fiction—to
those who can read between the lines—reading
Jane Austen will always be studying under a wise
teacher, and keenly relishing an exquisite treat.</p>

<p>In some respects “Northanger Abbey” is among
the author’s masterpieces. It contains two or three of
her most finished portraits. Nowhere is her writing
more incisive, her epigrams neater, her wit at once drier
and more sparkling.</p>

<p>But “Northanger Abbey” has also blemishes which
are absent from other works by the same novelist. It
lacks unity; it does not grow out of itself in close
sequence, like “Emma.” Its different parts are so far
inconsistent with each other, for strong realism and airy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>
burlesque do not match quite well together. There are
considerable improbabilities in “Northanger Abbey”—above
all, there is not a trace of the lurking pathos
and pensive charm which blend with and relieve the
humour of “Persuasion.”</p>

<p>On the contrary, the almost incessant banter of
“Northanger Abbey,” excellent as it is in its way,
has a certain hardness in it—perhaps, in this instance,
the result of the unripe youth of the author—and possesses
a tendency to fatigue and vex the reader who
wishes to be serious for a moment—who regards the
best of life and art as that which, in one fashion or
another, reflects both life and art as serious and earnest.</p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img007">
<img src="images/007.jpg" class="w25"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> Written in 1798. “Read Dickens’s ‘Hard Times,’ and another
book of ‘Pliny’s Letters;’ read ‘Northanger Abbey,’ worth all
Dickens and Pliny together, yet it was the work of a girl.”—<i>Macaulay.</i></p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> Jane Austen may have had in her mind Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines;
to whom sketching from nature seems to have come by nature—who
were all, as a matter of course, accomplished artists.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> Weymouth and Ramsgate, among sea-bathing places, seemed to
rise most readily before her mind, though she alluded also to
Southend and Cromer—not to say described Lyme—which she
made her own.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> The fashion was a little absurd in its stateliness. Ladies were
wont to wear nodding plumes of ostrich feathers, as at the Queen’s
drawing-rooms, standing upright on the head, till they added a foot,
at least, to the fair amazons’ height.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> Let us echo Henry Tilney’s praise of muslin. Will its simple,
elegant, once wide reign never return? The prevalence of calico
balls is a poor substitute for its sway.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> The old-fashioned term “quiz” was freely applied last century.
It was originally associated with the first specimen of eye-glass,
through which the short-sighted were supposed to quiz their neighbours.
I should suppose Jane Austen must have been called a quiz in
her day. The accusation was half coveted, half dreaded, according to
the temper of the individual who incurred it.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> The remonstrance is still needed.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> Since these words were written we have had the whole of the
“Waverley Novels,” not to mention more modern gains added to
our wealth of excellent English works of fiction.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> There is this to be said for the sensational horrors which enchanted
the girls of the last century, that these horrors, when founded
on the model of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances, were well principled, and
free from inherent moral coarseness and license of tone.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> Perhaps the number of jilts in the last century have to do with
spontaneous combustion where hearts were concerned.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> Some of the beautiful portraits of the last century (one, if I
recollect rightly, which represents Mrs. Sheridan and her sister) give
an idea how daintily becoming, how perfectly elegant, these muslin
costumes could be.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_29" href="#FNanchor_29" class="label">[29]</a> Wood and water always figure largely in Jane Austen’s landscapes.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_30" href="#FNanchor_30" class="label">[30]</a> The <i>furor</i> about the “Mysteries of Udolpho,” in its day, was,
indeed, not confined to school-girls. It extended over the whole
reading world. It was European, as well as English.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_31" href="#FNanchor_31" class="label">[31]</a> Such was the style of travelling <i>en grand seigneur</i> last century.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_32" href="#FNanchor_32" class="label">[32]</a> What a quaint, pretty picture the young man in his coachman’s
great-coat, the girl in her riding-habit and straw bonnet, which she is
soon so anxious to protect from the rain, would make, taken as she
stepped in or stepped out of Henry’s “curricle!”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_33" href="#FNanchor_33" class="label">[33]</a> Even a good clergyman measured his duties differently last
century.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_34" href="#FNanchor_34" class="label">[34]</a> Mrs. Radcliffe, who appears to have been unable to stand a joke
on her romances, even from their admirers, and who was much hurt
by a laughing reference of Sir Walter Scott’s in “Waverley,” would
have looked aghast at this levity.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_35" href="#FNanchor_35" class="label">[35]</a> Revived mediævalism in æsthetics has changed all this, and
gone far to banish again the garish light of day from “modern
antique” houses.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_36" href="#FNanchor_36" class="label">[36]</a> My impression is that Jane Austen began “Northanger Abbey”
with the simple intention of executing, in accordance with an early
amusement of hers, a gay parody on romances in general, and on one
romance in particular. But her genius proved too much for her;
and though she never entirely lost sight of her original design, she
departed so far from it, by prolonging the Bath portion of the tale,
as to destroy its unity, and make somewhat of a jumble of the whole
book. On the other hand, the exercise of her great gifts, in their
proper field of real life and character-drawing, has produced for us,
instead of a clever burlesque for the amusement of contemporaries,
a disjointed work of genius for the edification and enjoyment of
succeeding generations.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_37" href="#FNanchor_37" class="label">[37]</a> What a candid admission from a heroine, or from any girl! But
to love flowers was not obligatory last century.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_38" href="#FNanchor_38" class="label">[38]</a> Withal, one must be struck by Catherine’s unworldly disinterestedness.
She has given her love to a son of the house; but in
place of taking the opportunity to ascertain and exult over the Tilneys’
wealth and position, she is occupied with foolish romancing on her
own account.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_39" href="#FNanchor_39" class="label">[39]</a> I am able to conjecture, by the help of my own early studies, that
Jane Austen is not foreseeing, and casting mockery on some modern
sensational novels in this passage. She is simply borrowing from,
and holding up to ridicule, a leading incident in the once popular
romance of “The Children of the Abbey,” by Elizabeth Helme.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_40" href="#FNanchor_40" class="label">[40]</a> If Jane Austen be right—and she was a great judge of human
nature—in the implication that an eager, enthusiastic young reader is
impelled to reproduce in personal experience what he or she reads, and
if modern sensational novels come to be <i>lived</i> by our young men and
women, where shall we look—how shall we answer for the wrong done
by our idiotic, noxious, light literature?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_41" href="#FNanchor_41" class="label">[41]</a> A period of time which would now suffice to take a traveller
from London to Brussels with ease.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_42" href="#FNanchor_42" class="label">[42]</a> The Morlands were “gentlefolks,” but that did not prevent all
the fine stitching required by the family being done as a matter of
course by the ladies.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_43" href="#FNanchor_43" class="label">[43]</a> Concerning this gentleman, Jane Austen says, with one of her
merry gibes, “I have only to add (aware that the rules of composition
forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable)
that this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind
him that collection of washing bills, resulting from a long visit to
Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most
alarming adventures.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_44" href="#FNanchor_44" class="label">[44]</a> But “Northanger Abbey” has another moral—a warning against
romance run mad.</p>

</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p>
<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img008">
<img src="images/008.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="EMMA45">EMMA.<a id="FNanchor_45" href="#Footnote_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a></h2>
</div>


<h3>I.</h3>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_e.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Emma</span> Woodhouse, whose
Christian name supplies the title to
the novel in which she figures as
heroine, is one of Jane Austen’s
lively, warm-hearted girls; but her
personality is rendered quite distinct
from that of Elizabeth Bennet by
a thousand light yet significant
touches. Emma’s circumstances
alone would have sufficed, with the moulding power
which such influences have in reality, and in the hands
of a true artist, to shape her—always within certain
limits—those of a well-principled, well-educated, essentially
feminine girl, who is also a thorough lady, to
different ends.</p>

<p>The novel of “Emma” is largely the record of the
girl-heroine’s rash blunders and errors; but to me it is
instructive and comforting to find the faults, with their
impressive enough lessons, not only so girlish, but
always within the region, I may say, of an innocent,
upright, kindly, well-bred girl, whose many failings
lean to virtue’s side. Emma Woodhouse is as incapable
of deliberate undutifulness, dishonourable double-dealing,
heartless levity, or disgraceful imprudence, and
the coarse, evil-minded rubbing shoulders with vice, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>
I not only earnestly hope, but fervently believe, every
God-fearing, virtuous, loving girl in any rank, in any
nation, is to this day, however impudently and wickedly
she may be travestied in the lower literature of her
country.</p>

<p>Emma Woodhouse, at twenty-one years of age, is
at the head of her father’s comfortable, well-ordered
establishment of Hartfield, in the village of Highbury,
sixteen miles from London, where Emma’s elder sister
Isabella, who has been married for several years, is
settled.</p>

<p>The two sisters are the sole children of Mr. Woodhouse,
who has been a widower since Emma was a
child. But her dead mother’s place has been well
supplied by an excellent governess, chaperon, and family
friend. Miss Taylor, who marries and settles unexceptionably,
with a worthy husband, in a country house
at half a mile’s distance from Hartfield.</p>

<p>Emma is introduced to the reader on the afternoon
of Miss Taylor’s wedding-day, left, for the first time
in her life, to dine and spend a long evening with her
father, a most amiable man, but a confirmed invalid,
whose valetudinarian weaknesses and absurdities Jane
Austen often makes irresistibly ridiculous—though all
the time she treats him with larger-hearted, gentler
consideration than is to be found in her manner of
dealing with the foibles of the characters in “Pride
and Prejudice,” and “Northanger Abbey;” for the
very good reason that the authoress, when she wrote
“Emma,” was no longer the brilliant, rather hard girl,
but the mature merciful, woman. Between the writing
of “Pride and Prejudice” and “Emma” she
had learnt a grand lesson—the acquisition of which,
though it cost the labour of a lifetime, would be well
worth the time and trouble—that of tolerance: “to
make allowance for us all,” which is not the mere
result of a facile, careless temper, or a secret fellow-feeling
with the offender in his offence, or a low moral
standard, but is simply the widened sympathy and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>
deepened comprehension, both of the better Christian
and the greater genius. Thus Mr. Woodhouse is respectable
and lovable, in spite of his mild egotism and
foolish hypochondria; while Miss Bates—one of the
gems of the book—is still more winning in her singleness
of heart and inexhaustible contentment and charity,
along with her shallow simplicity, thorough humdrumness,
and boundless garrulity.</p>

<p>While her father is taking his after-dinner nap
Emma contemplates, a little ruefully, the prospect of
many such <i>tête-à-tête</i> dinners and long evenings. Yet
though Jane Austen tells us plainly that the real evils
to which Emma is exposed consist of her having too
much of her own way, and being slightly inclined to
think too well of herself, she is full of tender reverence
and care for her father, in deed even more than in word.
All through their history she considers his well-being
as the first thing, never hesitates to make sacrifices to
ensure it, and caters for his entertainment with the
anxious, womanly forethought of a much older and wiser
person. In the same way, though it is distinctly a disadvantage
and stumbling-block to Emma Woodhouse—not
only that the Woodhouses are the persons of greatest
consequence in their social circle, but that the circle
over which Emma reigns, far too entirely for her own
good, is composed of the most commonplace narrow
elements that can be found in any village or country
neighbourhood—and though Emma wearies of it, becomes
impatient of it, is guilty of girlish ebullitions
of fretting and fuming where her engagements and acquaintances
are concerned—still she never once behaves
with the absolute insolence, hardly with the superciliousness,
of underbred, ungenerous, self-engrossed youth,
exulting in its passing advantages, spurning at what
it can see of the defects and infirmities of an older,
perhaps more incapable, and illiterate generation, while
it is blind in its ignorance to indemnifying stores of
homely wisdom and experience.</p>

<p>The claims of hospitality are sacred to the girl, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>
she is always not only a good woman, but a gentlewoman.
We are sure that such vulgar, mean words as “old
frumps” and “old tabbies” have never soiled Emma
Woodhouse’s lips. Once she so far forgets herself as to
prove guilty of being noisy and conspicuous at a picnic,
and in the course of that indiscretion of publicly taking
off and laughing at an old friend; but Emma does not
require the sharp rebuke of the hero to be bitterly sorry
for the offence, very much ashamed of it, and eagerly
desirous to atone for it by all the kindness in her
power.</p>

<p>On the evening of Miss Taylor’s wedding-day, Emma
is striving to chat cheerfully with her father, who, fond
of everybody he is used to, hates to part with any one of
them, hates changes of every kind, and matrimony as
the cause of change, and keeps speaking of the fortunate
bride with uncalled-for compassion. “Poor Miss
Taylor! I wish she were here again. What a pity it
is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”</p>

<p>“I cannot agree with you, papa;” Emma tries to
arrest his lamentations, and to put the step which has
been taken in the pleasantest light, by dwelling on the
excellence of Mr. Weston’s character and temper (Jane
Austen is apt to bring forward temper as of cardinal
importance), on Miss Taylor’s natural satisfaction in
having a house of her own—for how often they will be
going to see her and she will be coming to see them.
They must begin, they must go and pay their wedding
visit very soon.</p>

<p>“My dear, how am I to get so far?” objects plaintive
Mr. Woodhouse. “Randall’s is such a distance, I
could not walk half so far.”</p>

<p>“No, papa! nobody thought of your walking. We
must go in the carriage, to be sure.”</p>

<p>“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?”<a id="FNanchor_46" href="#Footnote_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p>
<p>“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stables,
papa. You know we have settled 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.”</p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness and innocent self-importance
are equally gratified by being reminded of this good
deed. He is enticed to expatiate on civil, pretty-spoken
Hannah, for whom he has procured an advantageous
place—not the least of its advantages in Mr.
Woodhouse’s eyes being, that when James goes over to
see his daughter, he will carry her news of the family at
Hartfield.</p>

<p>Emma spares no exertions to encourage the happier
train of thought, and by the help of backgammon is
sanguine about getting her father tolerably through
the evening, when a frequent visitor, another near
neighbour, walks in, and renders the backgammon-table
unnecessary.</p>

<p>“Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or
eight and thirty, was not only a very old and intimate
friend of the family, but connected with it as the elder
brother of Isabella Woodhouse’s husband.”</p>

<p>Did ever hero enter more unassumingly on the
scene? Was ever even the merest walking gentleman
more succinctly or prosaically described? And yet
George Knightley is a very hero of heroes, far in
advance of Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice” where the
highest manliness and generosity of character are in
question.</p>

<p>I shall only pause a moment to remark that Jane
Austen, in depriving Mr. Knightley of the bloom of
youth, goes in the teeth of contemporary standards of
age to which she herself paid deference in “Sense and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>
Sensibility,” when she made Marianne Dashwood regard
Colonel Brandon—a contemporary of Mr. Knightley’s—as
quite an old man, fitted for flannel vests and
rheumatism.</p>

<p>To Mr. Knightley Emma starts an idea which has
taken possession of her susceptible imagination, and
which has a considerable influence on her later
conduct.</p>

<p>“I made the match, you know, four years ago,” she
says triumphantly, in allusion to the topic of the day.
“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 anything.”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley shakes his head at her. He has
known her from infancy, seen her grow up with all that
is charming in her, only slightly spoilt. He has more
than an old friend’s regard for her, but he is also one of
the few persons among her friends who sees her faults,
and tells her of them—a process not particularly agreeable
to Emma, and still more distasteful to her doting
father; so that she has to assert stoutly, as if she liked
the censure, “Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with
me, you know, in a joke, only in a joke. We always say
what we like to each other.”</p>

<p>In defiance of Mr. Knightley’s shake of the head—indeed,
spurred on by it—Emma insists that she arranged
the match from the day Mr. Weston gallantly went
and borrowed two umbrellas from Farmer Mitchell’s,
and brought them to her and Miss Taylor when it began
to drizzle in Broadway Lane. Emma boasts of the
success of her scheme, and laughingly announces herself
a future match-maker.</p>

<p>She does not go unchallenged by Mr. Knightley.</p>

<p>“I do not know what you mean by ‘success,’” he
says, and observes, with brotherly bluntness and irony,
that her time has been properly and delicately spent if
she has been endeavouring for the last four years to
bring about a marriage—a worthy employment for a
young lady’s mind. Then he treats her pretensions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>
with smiling scorn, and alleges she made a lucky guess,
which is all that can be said.</p>

<p>Emma argues that she promoted Mr. Weston’s
visits to Hartfield, and when her father begs in all
sincerity that she will make no more matches, craves
mischievously to be allowed one exception. “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. He has been here a whole year, and he 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
of doing him service.”</p>

<p>“Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the
best of the fish and the chicken,” said Mr. Knightley,
“but leave him to choose his own wife. Depend upon
it, a man of six or seven and twenty can take care of
himself.”</p>

<p>My readers will observe that Emma is as disengaged
and disinterested in making matches for her friends as
if she were a young matron. She has not a notion of
the incumbency of marriage on herself, as even Jane
and Elizabeth Bennet felt it, to a certain extent, to be
an obligation on them. There is no worldly necessity
for it in Emma’s case. She is the independent mistress
of Hartfield, at the head of her indulgent father’s establishment,
and amply provided for in the future. Jane
Austen’s women, as a rule, are not too susceptible.
Love and marriage for themselves are not the beginning,
middle, and end of their dreams. They are quite
willing to grant due prominence to other influences and
interests. They would have blushed to have been engrossed
by one passion, however lawful—even honourable.
It is only because Catherine Morland is very
young and simple that she is so entranced by Henry
Tilney’s attentions. As it is, had the couple been
finally separated, she would have submitted to the inevitable,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>
and been content in time without him. Fanny
Price’s devotion to her cousin Edmund is the habit of
many years, and is largely made up of gratitude for
constant protection and kindness. When Edmund
Bertram’s marriage to Mary Crawford appears certain,
and when Henry Crawford is wooing Fanny with
manly ardour and tender consideration for her difficulties,
she is in a fair way—Jane Austen does not conceal
it—for transferring her gentle affections from Edmund
to Henry. The author’s older women are fine, sensible
creatures, capable of being useful and happy in all the
relations of life. They can love, with what unselfish
fidelity after hope is gone, Anne Elliot shows; but they
are always mistresses of themselves, never love-sick—the
poor puppets and slaves of passion.</p>

<p>Mr. Weston, Miss Taylor’s husband, has been a
widower like Mr. Woodhouse, and his son by the first
wife is destined to play a prominent part in the story.
Frank Churchill has been early adopted by a wealthy,
childless uncle and aunt—his mother’s relations—who
give him their name, and are to make him their heir.
He has been seldom seen in Highbury, but his praises
have gone before him, and it does not diminish his
popularity that he writes “a very handsome letter” to
his stepmother, though he is not able to pay her a visit.</p>

<p>Within the round of Hartfield visiting—abridged,
as it is, by Mr. Woodhouse’s delicate health and invalid
habits—are Donwell Abbey,<a id="FNanchor_47" href="#Footnote_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a> Mr. Knightley’s seat; the
vicarage occupied by the young bachelor clergyman,
Mr. Elton; the houses in the village which belong
respectively to Mr. and Mrs. Perry, the country doctor
and his wife; Mrs. Bates, the widow of the late vicar,
and her daughter; and Mrs. Goddard, who was the
mistress of a school—not a seminary.</p>

<p>Jane Austen gives her view of the education of the
period, which was in a transition state, in her definition
of a school as distinguished from a seminary—not “an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>
establishment, or anything 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.” These
views were regarded as eminently sensible, moderate,
and practical in their day; and no doubt there was,
and is, some truth in them. At the same time, the
general notion of education is narrow and prejudiced,
to be held by so able a woman.</p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse’s habits make him go abroad rarely,
but he is fond of company in a quiet way at home, and
Emma finds such company is best secured in the form of
“tea visits” from such accommodating old neighbours
as the Bateses and Mrs. Goddard. She is delighted to
see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased
with herself for contriving things so well; but the
prosings of the elderly and homely guests do not prove
very congenial entertainment for the bright, clever
young girl. Therefore she welcomes Mrs. Goddard’s
respectful request to be allowed to bring a parlour
boarder,<a id="FNanchor_48" href="#Footnote_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a> Miss Smith, with her.</p>

<p>Harriet Smith is a plump, blooming, blue-eyed,
sweet-tempered girl, whose beauty delights Emma’s eye,
while her innocent deference and gratitude, together
with her unqualified admiration for everything at Hartfield—including
its young mistress—touch Emma’s
heart and flatter her vanity. She determines, in modern
parlance, to “cultivate” Harriet Smith, who is to a
great extent friendless, to improve her, to raise her into
better society, and to make a companion of her.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p>
<p>Emma does not scruple to propose detaching the
girl from the only friends she has—a farmer’s family
named Martin. Some of the daughters had been school-fellows
of Harriet’s at Mrs. Goddard’s, and they and
their mother and brother had been kind to her. These
Martins are tenants of Mr. Knightley at the Abbey
Mill Farm, and Emma knows that he thinks highly of
them; but in her youthful aristocratic fashion she leaps
to the conclusion that, from their rank in life, they must
be coarse and unpolished. She will be doing a good deed
to separate Harriet from her former allies, to whom the
girl is so superior. It will be a delightful and praise-worthy
task to improve and introduce into Emma’s
world this very pretty, modest young creature, who is,
of course, to look up to her benefactress and attach herself
closely to her.</p>

<p>There is a comical, often-quoted <i>contretemps</i> constantly
occurring at these parties of Emma’s. They
usually end with suppers,<a id="FNanchor_49" href="#Footnote_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a> in which such little delicacies
as minced chicken and scalloped oysters, carefully provided
by the young hostess, are peculiarly acceptable to
the guests, whose narrow incomes for the most part
necessitate frugal living. But though poor Mr. Woodhouse
would have made his guests welcome to anything
and everything, his care for their health, in an egotistical
reflection of his own experience, causes him to grieve that
they will eat. “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 anything put upon it. 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 away the nicer things, to say—</p>

<p>“‘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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>
than anybody; I would not recommend an egg boiled
by anybody 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 <i>little</i> bit of
tart—a <i>very</i> 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
<i>half</i> a glass of wine?—a small half-glass put into
a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree
with you.’”</p>

<p>Imagine the dilemma of the poor, baulked ladies,
with their healthy appetites and the little treats laid
before them, while the guests could hardly refuse the
well-meant advice of the host.</p>

<p>But Emma comes to the rescue, allows her father to
talk, but supplies the wants of her company in a much
more satisfactory style. She is never indifferent to
doing the honours of her father’s house “well and
attentively.” Well-bred girls of Emma Woodhouse’s
era would in her position have felt ashamed to be found
“mooning” and self-absorbed, destitute of any sense of
responsibility and thought for others. Nobody then
described selfishness with enthusiasm, as an irresistible
charm and crowning merit.</p>

<p>Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield is soon a
settled thing. Emma does nothing by halves. As for
the simple, docile girl whom Emma has taken up,
Harriet is only too proud and pleased to be thus distinguished
by the beautiful, “elegant” Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield.</p>

<p>Emma amuses herself by encouraging Harriet’s
prattle, which, when it forsakes school-life, runs persistently
on the two months’ holiday she had spent
with the Martins at Abbey Mill Farm. At first
Harriet is in blissful ignorance of the social inferiority
of the Farm, and talks with exultation of the two
parlours—one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s
drawing-room; the upper maid, who had lived five-and-twenty
years with Mrs. Martin; the eight cows—one of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>
them a little Welsh cow, a very pretty little Welsh
cow, of which Harriet had been so fond Mrs. Martin
had said it should be called <i>her</i> cow; and the handsome
summer-house in the garden, in which, some day next
year, they are all to drink tea. And Harriet, after a little
encouragement, shows no dislike to talk of the young
farmer who is the master of the house. He has shared
in the moonlight walks and merry games of his sisters
and their friend. “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 everything
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
everything. He had a very fine flock, and while
she was with them he had been bid more for his wool
than anybody in the county. She believed everybody
spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very
fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (there
was a blush as she said it) that it was impossible for
anybody to be a better son, and therefore she was sure
whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she <i>wanted</i> him to marry. She was in no
hurry at all.”</p>

<p>“Well done, Mrs. Martin,” thought Emma; “you
know what you are about.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information
beyond the line of his own business. He does not
read?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes—that is, no—I do not know, but I
believe he has read a good deal, but not what you would
think anything of. He reads the agricultural reports,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>
and some other books that lie in one of the window-seats,
but he reads all <i>them</i> to himself. But sometimes
of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read
something aloud out of ‘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.”</p>

<p>Emma sets herself to change all these cordial relations
with the Martins, above all the appreciation of
young Martin, in which she sees special danger for her
<i>protégée</i>.</p>

<p>Emma begins by gently “setting down” Harriet
as to the position of yeomen, and the improbability of
her—Emma Woodhouse—having noticed one of them,
since Harriet supposes Miss Woodhouse must have seen
and known Robert Martin when he rode to market. On
the occasion of an accidental encounter between the
young farmer and the two girls, Emma takes care to
let Harriet perceive that she thinks the young man
very plain and clownish in his air. Emma makes
Harriet contrast his lack of “gentility”—which, by the
way, was not so odious a word last century—with the
well-bred manners of Mr. Elton, among others of their
acquaintance.</p>

<p>In fact, it is for the young vicar that Emma
destines her friend; and in order to bring about an
attachment and marriage, which she considers will be
advantageous to both, Emma encourages Mr. Elton to
spend many of his disengaged evenings at Hartfield,
where she has always Harriet Smith with her. The
young mistress of the house is altogether oblivious of
the fact that the gentleman who, though well enough
disposed, is by no means without self-love, and a head
which is liable to be turned, may altogether mistake
her graciousness.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley does not approve of the great intimacy
between Emma and Harriet Smith. There is no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>
use in Mrs. Weston, Emma’s attached old friend,
urging that it may induce Emma to read more; as she
wishes to see Harriet better informed, the girls will read
together.</p>

<p>“Emma has been meaning to read more ever since
she was twelve years old. I have seen a great many
lists of her drawing up, at various times, of books that
she meant to read regularly through—and very good
lists they were, very well chosen, and neatly arranged—sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other
rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen, I remember
thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I
preserved it some time, and I dare say she may have
made out a very good list now. But I have done with
expecting a course of steady reading from Emma.”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley adds his estimate of the pretty, popular
girl. “Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of
her family. At ten years’ old she had the misfortune of
being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister
at seventeen. She was always quick and assured, Isabella
slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve,
Emma has been mistress of the house, and of you all.”</p>

<p>He inveighs against the unsuitable friendship between
Emma and Harriet Smith, as sure to be injurious to both.
Harriet is an unconscious flatterer. Her ignorance is
in itself hourly flattery. On the other hand, Hartfield
will put Harriet out of conceit with her natural sphere.
She will only grow refined enough to be uncomfortable
among the people with whom her lot is cast.</p>

<p>In the middle of their argument, the two friends
break off the dispute to agree in their affectionate admiration
of Emma’s person. Here is a graphic and
charming picture of the heroine, which removes her
attractions far out of the category of what is sickly
and fantastic:—“Such an eye! the true hazel eye—and
so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a
complexion—oh, what a bloom of full health! and such
a pretty height and size! such a firm and upright
figure! There is health not merely in her bloom, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>
in her air, her head, her glance. One hears something
of a child’s being ‘the picture of health;’ now, Emma
always gives me the idea of being the complete picture
of grown-up health.”</p>

<p>Yes, indeed, that is what every girl—plain or handsome,
should desire to be, for her own good and that of
all connected with her. In a summary of the bountiful
gifts bestowed on the late Catherine Tait, wife of
the Archbishop of Canterbury, what were reckoned as
not the least were the health and strength, beyond those
of ordinary women, which fitted her for the worthy
performance of her many and arduous duties. Will
girls never lay the lesson to heart in time, before they
so often fritter and fling away, by culpable neglect and
recklessness, one of God’s greatest boons?</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley returns to the charge of the mischievous
association of the girls, until he stirs up Mrs.
Weston to protest, with regard to Emma: “Where
shall we see a better daughter, a kinder sister, a truer
friend?”</p>

<p>“Very well,” he answers, “I will not plague you
any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my
spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.
John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a
blind affection; and Isabella always thinks as he does,
except when he is not quite frightened enough about
the children. I am sure of having their opinions with
me.”</p>

<p>“I have a very sincere interest in Emma,” Mr.
Knightley repeats. “Isabella does not seem more my
sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps,
hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in
what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become
of her?”</p>

<p>“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”</p>

<p>“She always declares she will never marry, which,
of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no
idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It
would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>
love, with a proper object. I should like to see Emma
in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her
good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attract her;
and she goes so seldom from home.”</p>

<p>“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to
break her resolution at present,” says Mrs. Weston, “as
can well be.”</p>

<p>The truth is, Mrs. Weston and her husband have a
pet plan for their favourite Emma, which is not to be
disclosed prematurely.</p>

<p>Emma paints Harriet’s miniature, and Mr. Elton
lends all the help of his advice, while complimenting
Miss Woodhouse on her talent for drawing, which she
regards as his gratitude on Harriet’s account.</p>

<p>Emma takes care to fix upon Mr. Elton as the
person with whom she can entrust her little picture to
be conveyed to London and framed; while he shows a
sufficient sense of her confidence. “He will suit Harriet
exactly,” reflects Emma, complacently; “but he does
sigh, and languish, and study for compliments, rather
more than I could endure as a principal.”</p>

<p>In the meantime, Harriet receives a direct proposal
of marriage from young Martin, couched in manly,
unaffected terms.</p>

<p>Poor little Harriet, who is really as guileless and
kind-hearted as she is simple and silly, is at first much
and favourably impressed.</p>

<p>But Emma’s influence, though she does not mean
to exercise it unduly, causes Harriet, not without lingering
regret, to resolve to decline the offer.</p>

<p>“I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of
Abbey Mill Farm,” says Emma, and Harriet is fixed
in her resolve.</p>

<p>“That would have been too dreadful, dear Miss
Woodhouse. I would not give up the pleasure and
honour of being acquainted with you, for anything in
the world.”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley comes in a happy mood to Hartfield,
to tell Emma something that will please her about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>
her little friend, Harriet Smith. Though he has condemned
the friendship, he can appreciate Harriet’s
girlish good qualities; he is even magnanimous enough
to compliment Emma on having cured her companion
of her school-girl giggle. Robert Martin has confided
his attachment to his friend and landlord, who is eager
to inform Emma that Harriet Smith will soon have an
offer of marriage from a most unexceptionable quarter—Robert
Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey Mill
in the summer has done his business, and he means to
marry her.</p>

<p>“He is very obliging,” said the well-informed
Emma; “but is he sure that Harriet means to marry
him?”</p>

<p>“Well, well—means to make her an offer, then;
will that do?” Mr. Knightley, “who had nothing of
ceremony about him,” conceives that Emma is speaking
from some scruple of womanly dignity as to his mode
of expressing himself. He enlarges on the advantages
of the marriage, and his satisfaction with it. He ends
with the laughing supposition that Martin may be
detaining Harriet in Highbury at that very moment,
and she may not be thinking him one of those “tiresome
wretches”—as Emma has just styled the Highbury
gossips.</p>

<p>“Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who has been
smiling to herself, “how do you know that Mr. Martin
did not speak yesterday?”</p>

<p>Certainly he did not absolutely know, but he had
understood Harriet Smith was with her all that day.</p>

<p>“Come,” said she, “I will tell you something in
return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday;
that is, he wrote, and was refused.”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley is incredulous and indignant. At
last he accuses Emma, with reason, as the moving
spirit in the step Harriet has taken. “You have been
no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma,” he said; and
with equal sense and sincerity he contrasts Harriet with
Robert Martin, to the advantage of the latter, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>
remarks how happy the girl had been among the
Martins, till Emma’s injudicious interference.</p>

<p>In the hot argument which ensues, Mr. Knightley
takes occasion to tell Emma that if she intends to
make a match between Elton and Harriet, her labour
will be in vain.</p>

<p>Emma laughs and disclaims.</p>

<p>But Mr. Knightley’s penetration is not to be baffled,
and he goes on to assure her Elton will not do. He
is a good sort of young man, and a respectable vicar of
Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent
marriage.</p>

<p>It is Emma’s turn to be incredulous, though she
will not admit her intentions.</p>

<p>The two part in mutual vexation, which causes a
coolness between them for weeks.</p>

<p>Emma’s pride is now piqued to accomplish her
design; her head gets so full of it, that she is ill-judged
enough to let Harriet see what she wishes and
expects, and actually talks the foolish girl—who is, at
least, perfectly unassuming—into a persuasion that she
has inspired Mr. Elton with a passion for her, the
belief in which is more than sufficient to create an
answering passion in Harriet’s soft, childish heart.</p>

<p>We have next an example of an old favourite employment
with girls. Instead of the reading, which
never went beyond a few chapters, the only literary
pursuit which engages Harriet, and in which Emma,
too, takes an interest, the only mental provision she is
making for the evening of life,<a id="FNanchor_50" href="#Footnote_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a> is the collecting and
transcribing all the riddles of every sort she can come
across.</p>

<p>These were days when, in gatherings of young
people even a little above Harriet in rank and education,
the company in cropped hair and white frocks, in
Brutuses and high-necked, short-waisted coats, played
at such ingenious games as “The Traveller,” and circulated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>
riddles for the general entertainment. A new
riddle was quite a precious possession to a girl, nearly
as good as a new song.</p>

<p>Miss Nash, Mrs. Goddard’s head teacher, had written
out as many as three hundred riddles, and Harriet hopes
to have more.</p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse is almost as much interested in the
work as the girls, and tries in vain to revive old recollections
of the excellent riddles of his youth, which
always end in</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Mr. Elton, who is constantly with the girls, is induced
to furnish a riddle of his own composition—though,
with the bashfulness of incipient authorship,
he passes it off as a charade which a friend of his has
addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration—and
he is gone the next moment. The charade is
as follows:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Another view of man my second brings,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“But, ah! united what reverse we have,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Man’s boasted power and freedom all are flown;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">May its approval beam in that soft eye!”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Emma reads, ponders, catches the meaning “courtship,”
and happily confident that Mr. Elton, is coming
to the point, hands the paper to Harriet.</p>

<p>“‘That soft eye’ can only refer to Harriet,” thinks
Emma. “‘Thy ready wit.’ Humph! Harriet’s ready
wit! All the better. A man must be very much in
love to describe her so.”</p>

<p>Harriet’s ready wit exhibits itself in not having an
idea of the answer. Can it be “Woman,” or “Neptune,”
or “Trident?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p>

<p>Emma is slightly exasperated; but she takes pains
to explain the riddle in detail, and to draw the strongest
inferences from its subject, while Harriet beams and
blushes with joy and confusion.</p>

<p>Emma now becomes as assiduous as ever Mrs.
Bennet, of Longbourn House, showed herself with
regard to her daughter, Jane, and her lover Bingley,
in making opportunities for Mr. Elton to propose to
Harriet Smith.</p>

<p>But lovers are perverse, and will not always avail
themselves of the best-planned assistance.</p>

<p>In the course of a walk which Emma and Harriet
chance to take past the vicarage, in which the girls are
overtaken by the vicar, Emma, having discovered that
Harriet had never been inside the house, perpetrates a
<i>ruse</i> to enable her friend to see her future home.
Emma contrives to break her boot-lace, then announces
the accident, and asks Mr. Elton to allow her
to go into the vicarage and get a bit of riband or string
from his housekeeper to keep the boot on.</p>

<p>Mr. Elton looks all happiness, and is as alert in
conducting the ladies to his house as can be wished.
But though Emma retires with the housekeeper, and
stays as long away as she can manage, she finds on her
return that the two standing together at one of the
windows, however friendly, are not yet an engaged
couple.</p>

<p>Christmas brings Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley and
their children to enliven Hartfield.</p>

<p>Mrs. John Knightley is a pretty, elegant little
woman, gentle and quiet, wrapt up in her family—a
devoted wife, a doting mother, and so tenderly attached
to her father and sister, that but for those higher ties,
a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She has
inherited her father’s delicate constitution, is over-careful
of her children, has many fears and nerves, and
is as fond of her own doctor in town as her father can
be of his Mr. Perry.</p>

<p>Mr. John Knightley is tall, gentlemanlike, very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>
clever, a rising barrister. He is domestic and estimable
in private life. But he has a cold, dry manner, and he
is capable of being sometimes out of humour. He has
all the mental clearness and quickness his wife lacks,
and he can on occasions act an ungracious, or say a
severe thing. He is not a great favourite with his
sister-in-law. She is quick in feeling the little injuries
to Isabella which Isabella never feels for herself.
Perhaps Emma might have passed over more, had his
manners been more flattering to Isabella’s sister;
but they are only those of a calmly kind brother and
friend. However, his chief offence is, now and then, a
want of forbearance with Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities
and fidgetiness. Mr. John Knightley has really a great
regard for his father-in-law, but sometimes the younger
man cannot resist delivering a rational remonstrance, or
a sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It does not often
happen, but it occurs too frequently for Emma’s charity.</p>

<p>Though such collisions do not usually take place
early in the Knightleys’ visits, one is brought about
on the very evening of John Knightley and his wife’s
arrival.</p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella are very happy, expatiating
on the merits of a basin of nice, smooth gruel—thin,
but not too thin—and exchanging their little
valetudinarian confidences, when, unfortunately, a reference
is made to Mrs. Knightley’s last sea-bathing
experience at Southend, seeing that the two great
medical authorities of the father and daughter—Perry
and Wingfield—differ on the respective recommendations
of Southend and Cromer.</p>

<p>“Southend is an unhealthy place,” Mr. Woodhouse
harps. “Perry was surprised to hear you had
fixed on Southend.”</p>

<p>“We had all our health perfectly well there,”
Isabella defends her side of the question. “Mr.
Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose
the place unhealthy. I am sure he may be depended
upon, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>
air. His own brother and family have been there
repeatedly.”</p>

<p>“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear,” insists
Mr. Woodhouse. “Perry was a week at Cromer
once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing
places. Better not move at all, better stay
in London altogether, than travel forty miles to get
into a worse air. That is just what Perry said. It
seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”</p>

<p>John Knightley is able to stand this no longer.
“Mr. Perry,” he said, “would do well to keep his
opinion till it is asked for. I may be allowed, I hope,
the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want
his directions no more than his drugs.” Then, more
coolly, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a
wife and five children a distance of a hundred and
thirty miles, with no greater expense and inconvenience
than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer
Cromer to Southend, as he could be himself.”</p>

<p>“True, true,” said George Knightley, hastily
changing the subject, and warding off further danger,
as Emma is accustomed to do. Still, Mr. Woodhouse
is rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend
Perry—to whom he has, in fact, though unconsciously,
been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions,
Jane Austen adds with a masterly touch—so that
it requires all the soothing attentions of his daughters
to set him at ease again.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley of Donwell Abbey had joined the
family at dinner. Emma had recognised his right to
do so, and she had hoped that they might be friends
again, for it was time their disagreement should end.
She trusted their nephews and nieces would serve as
a bond of union, and help in the peace-making. Accordingly,
when he found her with the youngest, a child
of eight months, in her arms, though he looked grave,
and spoke shortly to begin with, he soon took the child
out of her arms, with the unceremoniousness of restored
amity.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span></p>

<p>The conviction gave Emma first satisfaction, and
then a temptation to sauciness. It was a comfort they
thought alike on their nephews and nieces, she said.</p>

<p>He was not unwilling to renew the old discussions
half-banteringly, acquiescing in the mock humility of
her assertion that, in their differences, she must always
be in the wrong. Yes, and reason good, he said; he was
sixteen years old when she was born, and he had the
advantage of not being a pretty woman and a spoilt
child. But “tell your aunt, little Emma, that she
ought to set you a better example than to be renewing
old grievances.”</p>

<p>“I only want to know,” said Emma, “that Mr.
Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”</p>

<p>“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full
answer.</p>

<p>“Ah! indeed, I am very sorry,” Emma made the
penitent acknowledgment; “come, shake hands with me.”</p>

<p>This ceremony had just taken place with great
cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance,
and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John, how are
you?” succeeded in the true English style (which has
not warmed much in the course of nearly another
century), burying under a calmness that seemed all but
indifference the real attachment which would have led
either of them, if requisite, to do everything for the
good of the other.</p>

<p>There could not be a happier creature than Mrs.
John Knightley in her visit to Hartfield, going about
every morning among her old acquaintances, with her
five children, and talking every evening over what she
had done with her father and sister.</p>

<p>The animation of the Knightleys’ visit nerves Mr.
Woodhouse to the exertion of dining out with them
at Randalls; where Mr. and Mrs. Weston consult his
comfort in every respect, by fixing an early dinner-hour,
and limiting their invited guests to his family and particular
set, including the elder Mr. Knightley, Mr.
Elton, and Harriet Smith.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p>

<p>The incidents in connection with this dinner-party
furnish a strange and unwelcome revelation to Emma’s
mind. In the first place, Harriet is attacked by a
feverish sore-throat, and cannot form one of the party.
Emma considers that Mr. Elton ought to make an
excuse to be absent also—in fact, she is so obliging as
to furnish him with one. She complains of the coldness
of the weather,—wonders how any one would dine out
who could help it. She and her father cannot disappoint
the Westons, but there is no such obligation
on Mr. Elton. She detects some hoarseness in his
voice already. With the duties of next day—Sunday—before
him, she thinks it would be no more than
common prudence in him to stay at home and take
care of himself.</p>

<p>Mr. Elton looks as if he did not know what to
answer. He is not accustomed to contradict a lady,
especially when her anxiety for his welfare is of the
most gratifying description. But the next moment,
a little to her disgust, Emma hears him accept with
alacrity an offer from John Knightley, to secure him
from any exposure to the weather by giving him a seat
in their carriage.</p>

<p>The second shock to Emma is John Knightley’s
hinting that Mr. Elton’s exaggerated efforts to please
ladies, culminate in his desire to oblige Emma.</p>

<p>She laughs the idea to scorn; still, as coming from a
man of her brother-in-law’s judgment and penetration,
it annoys her.</p>

<p>There is additional discomposure in her drive in
company with John Knightley and Mr. Elton, while
her father and Isabella occupy the other carriage, to
Randalls. Mr. Elton is in exasperatingly good spirits,
in spite of the tidings which Emma takes care to convey
to him, that there is no abatement in Harriet’s indisposition.
He outdoes himself in blandness. John
Knightley, on the contrary, indulges in a fit of ill-humour
at being dragged from the hearth-rug at
Hartfield and his children’s company at dessert, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>
growls in the most approved fashion over the folly of
dining out, the whole way between Hartfield and
Randalls—Emma being unable to afford him the
sedative of “Very true, my love!” which, no doubt, is
administered by his usual travelling companion.</p>

<p>Mr. Elton’s happy countenance and solicitous attentions
haunt Emma all the evening, spoiling her pleasure,
frightening her with the remembrance of John Knightley’s
view of the case, which she herself defines as
“absurd and insufferable.” In the drawing-room she
is still farther offended by Mr. Elton’s asking her to
<i>promise him</i> not to expose herself to infection in visiting
Harriet Smith, and calling upon Mrs. Weston to
support him in his entreaty. “So scrupulous for others,
so careless of herself. She wanted me to nurse my cold
by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to
avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore-throat
herself? Is that fair, Mrs. Weston? Judge between
us.” Well might Mrs. Weston look surprised, and
Emma feel too much provoked to be able to answer
him.</p>

<p>John Knightley comes into the room with a cool
report that it is snowing hard, and a caustic congratulation
of poor Mr. Woodhouse’s spirit in venturing out
with his carriage and horses in such weather.</p>

<p>Jolly Mr. Weston wishes that the roads may become
impassable, to keep them all at Randalls.</p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse and his elder daughter are in consternation.
How can the chronic invalid face being
overturned on the common, or the fond mother consent
to be blocked up, for days and nights, from her children?
(The country roads of last century were less trustworthy
than those of to-day.)</p>

<p>Helpful George Knightley comes back from walking
down the sweep and along Highbury Road, with the
comforting assurance that matters are not nearly so bad
as his brother and Mr. Weston have supposed. In some
cases the ground is hardly white, and both of the coachmen
agree there is no real difficulty.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p>

<p>Everybody is in a hurry to get off, and by John
Knightley’s forgetfulness in following his wife into her
father’s carriage, Emma finds herself, to her dismay, in
the Knightleys’ carriage, alone with Mr. Elton. She believes
that he has drunk too much of the Westons’ good
wine,<a id="FNanchor_51" href="#Footnote_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a> and will want to talk nonsense. To restrain
him, she prepares to speak with exquisite calmness of
the weather; but scarcely has she begun, scarcely have
they passed the gate, when she finds Mr. Elton actually
and unmistakably making violent love to her.</p>

<p>Emma clings to the refuge of thinking her companion
half intoxicated; disgraceful as the excuse is—above
all in a clergyman—it was not altogether unwarranted
by the lax practices of the time.</p>

<p>But Mr. Elton has only drunk wine enough to elevate
his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellect. Emma, in her
trepidation and vexation, strives to parry his addresses
and to recall him to his senses, by an attempt at playful
reproach. “I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This
to <i>me</i>! You take me for my friend. Any message to
Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver.”</p>

<p>But Mr. Elton repeats, with undaunted assurance and
a great show of amazement, “Message to Miss Smith!”
what can she possibly mean?</p>

<p>“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct,”
cries the distressed Emma. “You are not yourself; say
no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”</p>

<p>Far from it, Mr. Elton resumes the subject of his
passion, and presses for a favourable answer.</p>

<p>As Emma’s notion of his inebriety yields to a conviction
of his inconsistency and presumption, she speaks
with fewer struggles for politeness; but her indignation
is principally directed against what she declares is the
contrast between his behaviour to Miss Smith during
the last month—what she has herself witnessed, of his
daily attentions,—and his present most unwarrantable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>
profession of love to herself, which is far, indeed, from
affording her gratification.</p>

<p>“Good Heavens!” cries Mr. Elton, “what can be the
meaning of this? Miss Smith—I never thought of Miss
Smith in the whole course of my existence; never paid
her any attentions but as your friend; never cared
whether she were dead or alive but as your friend.”</p>

<p>This is plain speaking from the compliment-paying
Mr. Elton; but worse is to come.</p>

<p>“Miss Smith, indeed! Oh! Miss Woodhouse, who
can think of Miss Smith when Miss Woodhouse is near?
No!” in accents meant to be insinuating, “I am sure
you have seen and understood me.”</p>

<p>It has all been a miserable mistake, in the course of
which Emma has not only grossly misled poor, foolish
little Harriet, Emma has also fed with false hopes the
conceit and interested motives—rather than the honest
regard—of a vain, ambitious man, who has been seeking
wealth and worldly position as the first recommendations
in a wife.</p>

<p>Emma is struck dumb, and when she says nothing
her silence is still farther misinterpreted.</p>

<p>“Charming Miss Woodhouse, allow me to interpret
this interesting silence. It confesses that you have
long understood me.”</p>

<p>Then Emma finds her voice: “No, sir, it confesses
no such thing.”</p>

<p>She tells him again in no measured terms how
completely she has misunderstood him. Shaken and
staggered as she is by his behaviour, she still goes back
to her persuasion of his attachment to Miss Smith. Does
he mean to say he has never thought seriously of her?</p>

<p>“Never,” cries Elton, affronted in his turn. “I
think seriously of Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very
good sort of girl, and I should be happy to see her
respectably settled. I wish her extremely well, and,
no doubt, there are men who would not object to——Everybody
has their own level; but as for myself, I am
not, I think, quite so much at a loss, I need not so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>
totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing
myself to Miss Smith.”</p>

<p>The smallness of Mr. Elton’s nature is betrayed in
his manner of speaking of Harriet at this time, as well
as in many of his subsequent actions. He is not a fool—at
least, not where men are concerned, like Mr. Collins
in “Pride and Prejudice.” Mr. Elton is altogether a
better-bred man. But in this last specimen of a clergyman
who is at once a coxcomb and a fortune-hunter,
Jane Austen deals another blow at parsonolatry. One
must think of Henry Tilney, Edward Ferrars, and
Edmund Bertram, to understand how heartily she
respected her father’s cloth when it was worthily worn.</p>

<p>Mr. Elton is almost as obstinate as Emma, and
hardly more flattering in reminding her of the encouragement
he has received.</p>

<p>“Encouragement!” cries Emma, insulted by the
word. “I gave you no encouragement, sir; you have
been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen
you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other
light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance.”</p>

<p>“He was too angry to say another word, her manner
too decided to invite supplication, and in this state of
swelling resentment and mutually deep mortification
they had to continue together a few minutes longer,
for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a
foot pace. If there had not been so much anger there
would have been desperate awkwardness; but their
straightforward emotions left no room for the little
zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when
the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane or when it
stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door
of his house; and he was out before another syllable
passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a
good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly
and proudly; and under indescribable irritation of spirits
she was then conveyed to Hartfield.”</p>

<p>It is a wretched business, Emma decides when she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>
has retired for the night, and her maid has curled her
hair—in those days of curls—and she is left alone with
full opportunity for the unpleasant operation of thinking.
Such a blow for Harriet! That is the worst of all.
Emma’s conscience and heart are in the right place,
though her wilfulness and self-confidence may carry her
away; so her first thought is, “If I had not persuaded
Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne anything.
He might have doubled his presumption to
me—but poor Harriet!”</p>

<p>Emma cannot spare any pity for Mr. Elton’s disappointment.
She has never been personally vain, as
George Knightley noted, and she is shrewd enough
to comprehend the kind of attraction of Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield, and her thirty thousand pounds, to
Mr. Elton, the vicar of Highbury, without any connections
to speak of, with only a moderate income, and
nothing but his situation and civility to recommend
him. She feels inclined at first to accuse him of double
dealing in his manner towards Harriet and herself; and
it is hard for her to be dislodged from the most sincere
conviction that she has lent his forward advances to
intimacy with herself, and his delusion as to her partiality
to him, no encouragement.</p>

<p>But Emma’s honesty is too great for her and her
present peace. On looking back, she cannot help seeing
how many incidents in connection with the miniature,
his charade, &amp;c., might have had a double significance.
How far her own fancy had coloured looks and words;
how much the wish had been father to the thought!
Then, when she passes in review before her, her own
constant invitations to Mr. Elton—the complaisance
with which she treated all he said and did—her furbished-up
apology for entering the vicarage, she blushes
with shame at the misconstruction he might have put
on such behaviour, and the sufficient though mistaken
warrant she had afforded for such misconstruction. She
heartily repents what she has done, wishes she had
submitted to be warned by Mr. Knightley—almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>
wishes she had consented to Harriet’s marriage with
Robert Martin.</p>

<p>It is a great relief to Emma when, by the time the
snow-storm has ended, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley
have returned to London, a ceremonious note comes from
Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, announcing that he is
about to comply with the pressing entreaties of some
friends to pass a few weeks in Bath. His absence
could not be better timed, and the unpleasant task of
breaking to Harriet Smith his defection—or, rather, the
worse explanation that he has never been her suitor—will
be got over before he comes back. Emma is fain
to trust that Harriet has not a retentive nature, and
will soon forget her imaginary lover. But the match-maker
is punished by Harriet’s very meekness and uncomplainingness
under the double injury—though it is
some time before Emma recognises in her friend the
weak tenacity of a nature which is feeble in its gentleness
and guilelessness.</p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>Jane Fairfax enters presently on the scene. Jane
is the grand-daughter of the old vicar, the daughter of
a young officer who fell in action, and whose wife did
not survive her loss. Their little child had been committed
to the care of her affectionate grandmother and
aunt, who, however, could only have afforded her the
most slender advantages in the way of education, had a
compassionate fellow-officer of her late father not stepped
forward, and taken the little girl to be educated with
his own daughter. Jane’s home from childhood to
womanhood has, therefore, been with the family of
Colonel Campbell, and she has only returned at intervals
to visit her relatives, Mrs. and Miss Bates, at
Highbury.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span></p>

<p>The intention had been that the unprovided-for girl
should be trained to render herself independent by teaching.
But her friends shrank from anticipating what
Jane Austen calls “the evil of Jane Fairfax’s going
out into the world to earn her bread.” Farther on in
the book, the author expresses still more decidedly,
through her heroine, her pity for a woman in Jane
Fairfax’s position. These were the settled opinions of
gentlewomen in Jane Austen’s generation. We cannot
now regard them as either very liberal or very wholesome,
in the light of what has been developed of
womanly independence, usefulness, courage, and cheerfulness.
Most people of native spirit and intelligence,
whatever their grade, would now be disposed to regard
Jane Fairfax’s position, after she was grown up, in
Colonel Campbell’s family—however good and kind
they might be—as more detrimental to Jane’s self-respect,
more disparaging in the eyes of others, more
trying in every way, than encountering the ordeal of
working for herself among comparative strangers.</p>

<p>Another—what I must call weakness and prejudice
of the gifted writer, is visible here and elsewhere. In
dwelling on the superior cultivation and refinement of
the more intelligent and polished society which Jane
Fairfax shared, while she resided in the London house
of a man of good position and large income, to
what she must have submitted to in the village of
Highbury, in the house of her excellent but poorly-educated
grandmother and aunt, whose narrow means
are in keeping with their confined interests, I think
Jane Austen’s aristocratic bias carries her too far in the
line of mere superficial advantages. True culture is not
so dependent on rank and wealth; and culture, though
something, is hardly of such importance as she makes
it. A rough diamond is a great deal better worth than
a polished pebble. But Jane Fairfax is the diamond,
not the pebble; so that polish is not wasted on her.
She has a very pleasing person, a good understanding,
and, what is more to the purpose, an excellent heart,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>
which is not injured by her undesirable circumstances.
She does not learn to despise and undervalue Highbury
or her homely kindred, in London, among her influential
friends. She is a sort of heroine in Highbury, when
she comes there on her periodical visits.</p>

<p>Jane Austen gives Emma Woodhouse’s impression
of Jane Fairfax, when Emma sees Jane, after two
years’ absence. Jane is very elegant, remarkably
elegant (an exploded term of commendation often used
by Jane Austen, when she desires to impress on her
readers somebody’s special grace and refinement); and
Emma has herself the highest value for elegance. “Her
height was pretty, just such as almost everybody
would think tall; her figure particularly graceful; her
size a most becoming medium between fat and thin,
though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to
point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could
not but feel all this; and then her face, her features—there
was more beauty in them altogether than she had
remembered: it was not regular, but it was very pleasing
beauty. Her eyes—a deep grey, with dark eyelashes
and eyebrows—had never been denied their praise; but
the skin, which she had been used to cavil at as wanting
colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed
no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty of which
elegance was the reigning character, and as such she
must in honour, by all her principles, admire it; elegance
of which, whether of person or mind, she saw so little
in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar was distinction
and merit.”</p>

<p>Yet Emma has no inclination, or only the most
fleeting disposition, to cultivate Jane’s friendship. The
fact is, the two girls, of the same age, have all their
lives been held up to each other as most desirable
companions and friends, until human nature, in its waywardness,
has rebelled against the obligation.</p>

<p>George Knightley has told Emma very frankly that
she does not like Jane Fairfax, because Emma sees in
her the really accomplished young woman that Emma<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>
wishes to be herself, but that she has not the self-denial
and perseverance to become actually. Emma, in
her best and most candid moments, is driven to own
there is some truth in this accusation. At other times
she defends her bad taste in preferring Harriet Smith
as a friend, by asserting that she—Emma—can never
get acquainted with Jane Fairfax. “She did not know
how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve,
such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not;
and then her aunt was such an eternal talker! and she
was made such a fuss with by everybody; and it was
always imagined that they were to be so intimate;
because their ages were the same, everybody had supposed
they must be so fond of each other.”</p>

<p>In the meantime Miss Campbell, with whom Jane
had been brought up, though inferior to her friend both in
beauty and accomplishments, has, as Jane Austen says,
“by that luck which so often defies anticipation in
matrimonial affairs,” engaged the affections and married
happily, after a short acquaintance, a Mr. Dixon, a
young, agreeable, and rich man.</p>

<p>Jane Fairfax is one-and-twenty, the age at which
she had fixed, in her own mind, on beginning her career
as a governess. The following are the strong terms in
which the author refers to the step about to be taken:—“With
the fortitude of a devoted noviciate, she had
resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and
retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse,
equal society, peace and hope, to penance and
mortification for ever.” Surely this is exaggerated
language, even for the last century, and reflects painfully
both on the footing which governesses occupied,
and on the qualifications deemed essential to gentlewomen,
among our mothers and grandmothers. There
is also an inconsistency in it where this tale is concerned,
and one perceives that Jane Austen’s rooted
class prejudices cause even so wise a woman to contradict
herself; for in the beginning of the book we
have an evident indication how much respected and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>
liked Mrs. Weston had been when, as Miss Taylor, she
had filled the post of governess to Emma Woodhouse.
No relations in the story are happier and pleasanter than
those which are involved in the warm and lasting friendship
between the two who had been formerly teacher
and pupil. Why might not Jane Fairfax have looked
forward to being another Miss Taylor?</p>

<p>Colonel and Mrs. Campbell’s good sense had led
them to acquiesce in Jane Fairfax’s determination, loth
as they were to lose her company, and it was only
because she had not been quite well, or in equal spirits
for some time, that they had used their influence to
induce her not to enter immediately on her arduous
duties, but to spend the last three months of her liberty
with her fond grandmother and aunt in Janet’s native
air, while the Campbells paid their first visit to their
married daughter settled in Ireland.</p>

<p>Emma heard the first, not very welcome news of
Jane Fairfax’s coming, as she sought to get rid of
Harriet Smith’s dolefulness, and at the same time to do
an irksome duty by taking Harriet to call at the Bateses.
Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and Emma
knew she was “considered by the very few who presumed
ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent
in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought
to the stock of their scanty comforts.”</p>

<p>“She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley, and
some from her own heart, as to her deficiency, but none
were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very
disagreeable—a waste of time—tiresome women—and
all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the
second and third rate of Highbury, who were calling on
them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near
them.” But now she made the sudden resolution of not
passing their door without going in, observing, as she
proposed it to Harriet, that as well as she could calculate,
they were just now quite safe from any letter
from Jane Fairfax.</p>

<p>“The house belonged to people in business; Mrs. and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>
Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there,
in the very moderate-sized apartment which was everything
to them, the visitors were most cordially and even
gratefully welcomed; the quiet, neat old lady, who,
with her knitting, was seated in the warmest corner,
wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse;
and her more active, talking daughter almost ready to
overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their
visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after
Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about
her mother’s, and sweet cake from the buffet.”</p>

<p>Emma had argued without her host, as she soon
hears from Miss Bates, who prattles with the delightful
<i>abandon</i> of the most innocent, unsuspicious heart, in
company with the most honest thick head in the world.
She rambles, breaks off, diverges right and left in her
monologues, as only a very talkative, simple-minded,
elderly woman—a Mrs. Nickleby or a Miss Bates—can
wander, pull herself up, and start afresh in her conversation.
Miss Bates has only just finished reading a letter
from her niece to a previous visitor, and, of course,
mentions what she has been about.</p>

<p>“Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say,
with smiling interest, ‘Have you heard from Miss
Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she
is well?’”</p>

<p>“‘Thank you, you are so kind!’ replied the happily-deceived
aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.
‘Oh, 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 put
under my huswife; and since you are so kind as to wish
to hear what she says——But first of all I really must,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>
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. 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”—don’t you, ma’am? And then I
tell her I am sure she would contrive to make it out for
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 so 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.’</p>

<p>“All this spoken extremely fast, obliged Miss
Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something
civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax’s handwriting.</p>

<p>“‘You are extremely kind,’ replied Miss Bates,
highly gratified, ‘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. Ma’am,’ addressing her, ‘do you
hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging as to say
about Jane’s handwriting?’</p>

<p>“And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own
silly compliment repeated twice over before the good
old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering in
the meanwhile upon the possibility, without seeming
very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s
letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away
directly, under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates
turned to her again and seized her attention.</p>

<p>“‘My mother’s deafness is very trifling, you see,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>
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 very
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.’</p>

<p>“‘Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, yes, next week.’</p>

<p>“‘Indeed! That must be a very great pleasure.’</p>

<p>“‘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 him 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 Tuesday or Wednesday.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be
little chance of my hearing anything of Miss Fairfax
to-day.’<a id="FNanchor_52" href="#Footnote_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a></p>

<p>“‘So obliging of you!’ the kindly soul took the
words in good faith, and surely smote Emma’s better
nature. ‘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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>
of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the
Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon 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—Ballycraig—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 has 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.’</p>

<p>“At this moment an ingenious and animating idea
entering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax,
this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland,
she said, with the insidious design of further discovery—‘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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>
to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell.’</p>

<p>“‘Very true; very true, indeed. The very thing
that we have always been rather afraid of; for we
should not have liked 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 and
pressing than their <i>joint</i> 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!’</p>

<p>“‘But in spite of all her friend’s urgency, and her
own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting
her time to you and Mrs. Bates?’</p>

<p>“‘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 <i>wish</i> her to try her native air,
as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.’”</p>

<p>The idea which has entered into Emma’s idle, fertile
brain, is that Mr. Dixon, while paying his addresses to
the well-endowed Miss Campbell, may in his secret heart
have preferred her portionless friend; that there may
also have been an unfortunate hidden attachment on
Jane Fairfax’s part—one result of which is her disinclination
to visit the Dixons.</p>

<p>Altogether, Emma’s notion is neither very sensible
nor charitable. But sensible and amiable conclusions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>
are not always to be expected from spoilt girls, who,
with rather an overweening opinion of their own deserts,
are not altogether indisposed to find fault with the alleged
perfections of threatened rivals. My readers will
long ago have discovered that caution and prudence are
not Emma Woodhouse’s strong points. Emma guesses
as much herself, and on that very account is the more
tempted to take a naughty pleasure in detecting undreamt
of follies in that model of discretion—Jane
Fairfax. But it is only by degrees that Emma is led
on to the serious offence against fairness and kindness,
of attributing anything more dishonourable than a rash,
ill-judged bestowal of her affections, to Jane Fairfax.</p>

<p>When Emma and Jane first meet again on the
occasion of Jane’s three months’ visit to Highbury,
Emma is shaken for a moment, in her unreasonable
dislike and unjustifiable fancies, till the old influences
begin anew to work. Miss Bates is more tiresome than
ever in her anxiety about her niece’s health. It is affectation
in Jane to praise Emma’s playing on the piano,<a id="FNanchor_53" href="#Footnote_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a>
when her own is so superior; worst of all, Jane Fairfax is
so cold and reserved in her perfect good breeding—if anything
more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and
the Dixons than on any other, and Emma believes she
knows how to explain this caution.</p>

<p>But neither is Jane Fairfax communicative on
another topic which is of the deepest interest to all
Highbury, including even Emma Woodhouse, who considers
herself above local gossip in general. Jane Fairfax
had met Mr. Weston’s son, Frank Churchill, at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>
Weymouth, but not a syllable of real information can
Emma get from her as to what he is like. “Is he handsome?”
She believes he is reckoned a very fine young
man. “Is he agreeable?” “He is generally thought
so.” “Does he appear a sensible young man? a young
man of information?” “At a watering-place, or in a
common London acquaintance, it is difficult to decide on
such points.”</p>

<p>Emma cannot forgive Jane Fairfax.</p>

<p>For Emma Woodhouse has a double source of interest
in Frank Churchill. He is her friend, Mrs. Weston’s
unknown step-son, who has indeed written her “a very
handsome letter,” on her marriage with his father, but
has not yet shown her the attention of coming to Randalls.
He is kept away, his friends agree, by the
tyrannical whims of the aunt who adopted him.</p>

<p>Emma with her lively penetration has also seen, and
that not with displeasure, in spite of her protest against
marriage for herself, that Mr. and Mrs. Weston have
fixed on her, as far as they can have any choice in the
matter, for Frank’s wife—nay, that all Highbury look
on them as a predestined happy couple. Everything
is so suitable—age, good looks, agreeable qualities,
position, fortune. Emma does not deny these recommendations.
No wonder she is curious to hear more of
Frank Churchill.</p>

<p>Highbury is suddenly excited by the announcement
of the approaching marriage of Mr. Elton, who has improved
his time in Bath, and only returned to proclaim
his happiness and prepare for his bride.</p>

<p>Emma is bent, as part of her atonement, on breaking
the news to Harriet Smith, when Harriet comes in
heated and agitated, crying “Oh, Miss Woodhouse, what
do you think has happened?”</p>

<p>The blow has fallen already, Emma is sure, and
prepares to bestow all the kindness that is due from
her.</p>

<p>But the susceptible Harriet is occupied with quite
another train of ideas. She has been shopping in Ford the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>
linendraper’s, when who should come in but Elizabeth
Martin and her brother, the first time Harriet has met
them since she refused young Martin. She thought she
would have fainted. The sister had seen her directly,
and looked another way. When the brother found her
out, there was a little whispering, and Harriet had
guessed he was persuading his sister to go up to her and
speak to her as usual. She had been in such a tremble;
but she had seen that the Martins, especially the
brother, had tried to behave with the old kindness and
friendliness. Poor little Harriet had been conscience-stricken,
yet comforted by his good nature.</p>

<p>It is in the middle of this comical counter-current of
distress, which at last swells high enough to provoke and
alarm Emma, that in order to put the Martins out of
Harriet’s silly, vacillating head, her friend, in a hurry, and
not at all with the tender care she had intended, tells
the girl of Mr. Elton’s prospects. And the shock revives
Mr. Elton’s supremacy.</p>

<p>The future Mrs. Elton is a Miss Hawkins, who is
said to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, perfectly
amiable, and the possessor of ten thousand pounds.
No wonder Mr. Elton is triumphant in the abundant
consolation which has come to him.</p>

<p>Emma, while satisfied that a Mrs. Elton will be a
relief and an aid in renewing her intercourse with the
vicar, and while too indifferent on the subject to think
much of the lady, has this sop for her mortification on
Harriet’s account, that though, doubtless, good enough
for Mr. Elton and Highbury, there is no superiority of
connexion on Miss Hawkins’ side. She brings no name,
no blood, no alliance. She is the younger daughter of
a Bristol merchant. “All the grandeur of the connexion
seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was
<i>very well married</i>, to a gentleman in a great way, near
Bristol, who kept two carriages. That was the wind-up
of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.”</p>

<p>From these reflections, we may judge that Emma
has more than a tinge of Mr. Darcy’s pride and superciliousness.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>
Was Jane Austen herself entirely free from
the same defects? We are all fallible mortals.</p>

<p>Harriet Smith, easily carried captive by public
opinion, now hears so much of Mr. Elton in every house
she enters, and is so impressed by the gifts, graces, and
happiness of the bride, that she would have been in a
fair way to break her heart over her disappointment,
had it not been for the diversion caused by a slight
revival of her intercourse with the Martins. Under
the influence of Robert Martin’s good feeling, his sister
has called again for Harriet; and Emma is sufficiently
shrewd to comprehend the danger of a heart’s being
caught on the rebound. She takes care to regulate
Harriet’s return of this civility. She herself carries
Harriet in the Hartfield carriage to Abbey Mill Farm,<a id="FNanchor_54" href="#Footnote_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a>
and pays a visit to an old servant while Harriet
makes her call, which is thus abridged to a quarter
of an hour’s length. Harriet’s account of it is
rather a sad one. Mrs. Martin and the girls have
been as uncomfortable as their visitor; and just when
they were becoming more cordial, in consequence of
somebody saying that Harriet was grown, when the
whole party could not help looking at the wainscot by
the window, where the different heights of all the girls
stood as they had been noted by <i>him</i> last summer, the
Hartfield carriage was announced. That was enough;
the style and the shortness of the visit could not be
mistaken. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with
whom Harriet had thankfully passed six weeks, not six
months ago!</p>

<p>Though Emma has contrived it all, she has the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>
grace to feel it is a bad business, and would have
given a great deal to have had the Martins in a higher
rank of life.</p>

<p>It is some comfort to Emma to hear that Frank
Churchill is at last coming to Randalls, to stay a whole
fortnight. His father brings him at once to the Woodhouses;
and the young man is, as nearly as possible, all
that Emma’s fancy had painted him—handsome, gentlemanlike,
lively, eager to be pleased, and by no means
unwilling to admire, and show that he admires, Emma
Woodhouse.</p>

<p>After he has won her good-will by his warm praises
of his stepmother, and contrived in complimenting Mrs.
Weston to compliment Emma, she begins to wonder if
he, too, is aware of what their friends expect from their
knowing each other, and whether his merry compliments
are signs of acquiescence or defiance. As for
herself, she must wait and know him better before she
has any opinion on the subject; but the first impression
is greatly in his favour.</p>

<p>Mr. Weston has business at the Crown Inn, and
his son asks carelessly if there is a family named
Fairfax—no, he believes the name is Barnes, or Bates—living
near, as he has a call to make on them. There
had been that degree of acquaintance between him and
one of the members of the family, when living at Weymouth,
which requires such an attention, and it may be
as well shown then as afterwards.</p>

<p>To be sure, his father knows the Bateses and Miss
Fairfax; let Frank call upon her by all means.</p>

<p>Any day will do, the young man explains; there is
no particular necessity for calling that morning.</p>

<p>But Mr. Weston decides promptly that the mark of
respect ought to be shown at once. Frank had met
Jane Fairfax at the Campbells, where she was everybody’s
equal; here she is with a poor old grandmother
who has barely enough to live on. If he does not call
early it will be a slight. And the young man allows
himself to be convinced.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Weston, in her turn, brings Frank Churchill—with
whom she is on the happiest terms—the following
day; and Emma walks and shops with them in Highbury.
She is on such an easy footing with the young
fellow already as to inquire about his visit of the previous
morning.</p>

<p>He thanks Emma for her preparatory hint about
the talkative aunt, who would otherwise have been the
death of him. As it was, she entangled him into a
visit of three-quarters of an hour’s length, when he had
only meant to stay ten minutes.</p>

<p>Emma asks how he thinks Miss Fairfax is looking?</p>

<p>Ill, very ill, he tells her, that is, if a young lady can
ever be allowed to look ill, and Miss Fairfax is naturally
so pale as almost to give the appearance of bad health—a
most deplorable want of complexion.</p>

<p>Emma defends Jane Fairfax’s soft, delicate skin
from the accusation of having a sickly hue; but her
companion only makes the defence adroitly into an opportunity
for professing his preference for “a fine glow
of health.”</p>

<p>Still Emma insists he must admire Miss Fairfax in
spite of her complexion.</p>

<p>But he only shakes his head, laughs, and says he
cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion.</p>

<p>Emma is curious to know how much he had known
of Jane Fairfax at Weymouth.</p>

<p>But when he first leaves the question unanswered,
because he must go into a shop and show himself a
citizen of Highbury by buying something, and then
asserts it is always a lady’s right to decide on the degree
of acquaintance, she has to inform him he is as discreet
as Miss Fairfax herself.</p>

<p>After all, he is not unwilling to return to the subject,
and talk of Miss Fairfax and her piano-playing;
and Emma is as foolishly elated as a child, by a chance
admission of his, which seems to confirm her former
conclusion. Frank Churchill has proclaimed his own
inability to judge Miss Fairfax’s musical powers, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>
added that a gentleman who was a musical man would
never ask the young lady to whom he was engaged to
sit down to “the instrument,” if Miss Fairfax could sit
down instead. The next moment Frank has to admit
that the gentleman was Mr. Dixon, and the lady, to
whom he was on the point of marriage, Miss Campbell.</p>

<p>Emma, in her amusement at the corroboration of her
suspicions, does not attempt to conceal her inference
from what her companion has said. Poor Mrs. Dixon!
As to Miss Fairfax, she must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill hesitates a little. “There appeared
such a perfectly good understanding among
them;” but the next moment he owns that it is impossible
for him to tell how it might have been behind
the scenes, and leaves Emma to suppose what she
likes.</p>

<p>Emma’s good opinion of Frank Churchill is in some
danger of being nipped in the bud, when she hears that
he has gone off to London merely to have his hair cut.
A sudden freak seems to have seized him at breakfast,
and he has sent for a chaise and set off, intending to
return to dinner; but with no more important view
that appeared than having his hair cut. There is no
harm in his travelling sixteen miles on such an errand,
but there is an air of foppery and nonsense in it which
Emma cannot approve.</p>

<p>His father only calls him a coxcomb; but Mrs.
Weston passes the matter over as quietly as possible,
and Mr. Knightley, when informed of the expedition, is
heard to mutter over his newspaper, “Hum! just the
trifling, silly fellow I took him for.”</p>

<p>Frank Churchill comes back punctually. He has
got his hair cut, and he laughs at himself with a good
grace, but without seeming really ashamed of what he
has done.</p>

<p>At a dinner-party in the neighbourhood, Emma
receives a very interesting addition to the little history
she has made out for Jane Fairfax. A fine piano from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>
Broadwood’s has arrived at the Bateses’, to the great
astonishment of the family, who have at length come
to the conclusion that it is one of Colonel Campbell’s
kind gifts.</p>

<p>But why should Colonel Campbell present Jane
Fairfax with a piano at this late date, and in this
mysterious manner? Emma, on the first opportunity,
taxes Frank Churchill with sharing her thoughts on the
subject. The piano has not come from the Campbells;
it might have come from the Dixons, from <i>Mr.</i> as well
as Mrs. Dixon; and then Emma is so foolish and wrong
as to repeat to Frank Churchill all her suspicions of
Mr. Dixon’s secret preference for Jane, and Jane’s
response to that preference, without, however, for a
moment impugning the good intentions and principles
of either.</p>

<p>He hears it all with the greatest gravity, and fully
acknowledges the probability of her version of the gift.
He is ready to be guided by her greater penetration.
He did see in it at first only a mark of paternal kindness
from Colonel Campbell; but when she mentioned
Mrs. Dixon, he has felt how much more likely it is that
the piano should be the tribute of warm female friendship;
and now he can regard it in no other light than as
an offering of love.</p>

<p>Oh! mischievous, thoughtless Frank, and credulous,
confident Emma!</p>

<p>Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, Harriet Smith, and
other less important guests, join the party in the evening.
Jane looks superior to all the others; still Emma
can affectionately rejoice in the blooming sweetness and
artless manner of her friend, with regard to whom it
could never have been guessed how many tears she had
been shedding lately. For “to be in company nicely
dressed herself, and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit
and smile, and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough
for the happiness of the present hour.”</p>

<p>When the gentlemen join the ladies in the drawing-room,
Frank Churchill immediately seeks out Emma, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>
enters into an animated conversation with her, devoting
himself to her.</p>

<p>Once, indeed, she notices him looking intently across
the room at Miss Fairfax. “What is the matter?”
Emma asks.</p>

<p>He starts. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replies;
“I believe I have been very rude; but really, Miss
Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way that I cannot
keep my eyes from her. I never saw anything so <i>outré</i>.
Those curls! I see nobody else looking like her. I
must go and ask whether it is an Irish fashion—shall I?
Yes, I will; I declare I will, and you shall see how she
likes it—whether she colours.”</p>

<p>He is gone immediately, and Emma soon sees him
standing before Miss Fairfax and talking to her; but as
to the effect of his conversation, he has placed himself
inadvertently exactly between her and Emma, so that
the latter can distinguish nothing.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston tells Emma that Mr. Knightley’s carriage—for
the use of which on this occasion, Emma, who
stands up for proper dignity, had already complimented
him—brought over Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, and is
to take them home again.</p>

<p>Both Mrs. Weston and her old pupil are agreed in
their praise of Mr. Knightley’s consideration and kindness.
But when Mrs. Weston suggests another motive,
and says Emma has infected her, for she has made a match
between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax, the listener
bursts forth into vehement opposition. How can Mrs.
Weston think of such a thing! Mr. Knightley must not
marry. Emma cannot have little Henry, her nephew,
cut out of Donwell. Jane Fairfax mistress of the
Abbey! No, no! Mr. Knightley does not want to
marry. Mrs. Weston is not to put it in his head. He
is as happy as possible by himself, with his farm, and
his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage.
And he is extremely fond of his brother’s children. He
has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his
heart.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Weston is accustomed to Emma’s ebullitions.
The elder lady contents herself with reminding her
companion that if the gentleman really loves Jane
Fairfax——</p>

<p>“Nonsense,” Emma interrupts the speaker hotly.
“He does not care about Jane Fairfax in the way of
love; I am sure he does not.”</p>

<p>Emma goes on to protest in extravagant terms that
it would be a shameful, degrading connexion to have
Miss Bates haunting the Abbey, thanking him all day
long for his great kindness in marrying Jane, and then
flying off through half a sentence to her mother’s old
petticoat, not that it was such a very old petticoat either.</p>

<p>“For shame, Emma!” Mrs. Weston cries out at
being diverted against her conscience; and she will not
resign her fancy. She has heard Mr. Knightley speak
so very highly of Jane Fairfax. He is so concerned for
her welfare. He is such an admirer of her music.
What if he and not the Campbells prove the donor of
the piano?</p>

<p>Emma, too, remains unconvinced, and as indignant
as unconvinced. Mrs. Weston takes up ideas and runs
away with them, as she has many a time reproached
Emma for doing. She believes nothing of the kind of
the piano. Only absolute proof will convince her that
Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane
Fairfax.</p>

<p>In the interest of the argument, Emma has lost
sight of Frank Churchill, beyond the fact that he had
found a seat next Miss Fairfax. Presently, however,
he comes over to join their host in pressing Miss Woodhouse—the
young lady of most consequence at the
party—to play and sing.</p>

<p>Emma complies, only attempting what she can
accomplish with credit. She is agreeably surprised by
having Frank Churchill volunteer a pleasant second.
He has all the praise usual on such occasions, and the
two sing together again to their mutual satisfaction and
that of the company.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span></p>

<p>Emma, conscious that she is to be far outstripped,
resigns her place to Jane Fairfax. Frank Churchill
sings with her also. It seems that they have sung
together at Weymouth; but Emma cannot attend to
them for the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most
attentive of the listeners. Her objections to his marriage
crowd into her mind and supersede every other
thought. It would be a great disappointment to her
brother, and consequently to her sister, a real injury
to the children, a mortifying change to all. For herself
she cannot endure the prospect. A Mrs. Knightley
for them all to give way to! No, Mr. Knightley must
never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of
Donwell.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley looks round, and comes and sits by
Emma. She tries him in various ways. His admiration
of the music is warm, but except for Mrs. Weston’s
words would not have struck her. He cuts short her
allusion to his kindness in reference to the carriage, but
then he will never dwell on any kindness of his own.
Above all he speaks with perfect calmness, and a shade
of consolatory disapprobation, on the great topic of the
evening, the gift of the piano. It was kindly given,
but the Campbells would have done better to have
announced their intention. Surprises are foolish things.
He should have expected better judgment from Colonel
Campbell.</p>

<p>From that moment Emma could have taken her
oath Mr. Knightley had nothing to do with the present.</p>

<p>Jane Fairfax’s voice grows husky.</p>

<p>“That will do,” said Mr. Knightley, aloud. “You
have sung quite enough for one evening.”</p>

<p>The inconsiderate audience beg for another song;
and Frank Churchill is heard saying, “I think you
could manage this without effort.”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley now grows angry. “That fellow
thinks of nothing but showing off his own voice.
This must not be;” and he calls on Miss Bates to
interfere.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p>

<p>The singing is put an end to, as there are no other
young lady performers, but a dance is got up.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston, capital in her country dances, takes
her place at the piano.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill, with most becoming gallantry,
secures Emma’s hand, and takes her to her place at the
top of the set.</p>

<p>Emma is nothing loth, but she cannot help watching
Mr. Knightley. He is no dancer in general; if he is
now alert in seeking Jane Fairfax as a partner, the
sign will be ominous. But no, he continues talking to
his hostess, and looks on unconcernedly while Jane is
claimed by some other.</p>

<p>Emma has no longer any alarm for Henry; his interests
are yet safe; and she leads off the dance with
genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five
couples can be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness
of it make it very delightful, and she finds
herself well matched in a partner. They are a couple
worth looking at.</p>

<p>Two dances, unfortunately, are all that can be
allowed. It is growing late, and Miss Bates becomes
anxious to get home, on her mother’s account. After
some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin
again, they are obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look
sorrowful, and have done.</p>

<p>“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he
attended Emma to her carriage. “I must have asked
Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have
agreed with me, after yours.”</p>

<p>Emma had gone next day to shop with Harriet
Smith at the Highbury linendraper’s. Shopping with
Harriet was no easy matter, when it involved convincing
Harriet that if she wanted a plain muslin it was of no
use to look at a figured; and that a blue riband, be
it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow
pattern.</p>

<p>Already the young ladies have encountered Frank
Churchill and Mrs. Weston at the door of the Bateses’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>
house, opposite. Mrs. Weston is there, in performance
of a promise she had forgotten, but of which her stepson
had reminded her, that she should go and hear the
newly-imported “instrument.”</p>

<p>Frank Churchill has attempted to get off from
accompanying Mrs. Weston after he met Emma, and
she refused to be one of the party. The matter has
ended in Mrs. Weston’s carrying off Frank Churchill,
according to their original intention, and the girls
making their purchases at Ford’s. But in a few
moments Miss Bates and Mrs. Weston come over together,
and entreat Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith to
join the others, and give their opinion of the piano.</p>

<p>Miss Bates pours forth one of the most amusing of
her effusions.</p>

<p>“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are——”
began Emma.</p>

<p>“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother
is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night.
How is Mr. Woodhouse? I am so glad to hear such a
good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.
‘Oh, then,’ said I, ‘I must run across. I am sure
Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run across, and
entreat her to come in. My mother will be so very
happy to see her; and now we are such a nice party,
she cannot refuse.’ ‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank
Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument
will be worth having.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘I shall be more
sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.’
‘Oh!’ said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished
my job,’ for, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse,
there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world,
fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles. The
rivet came out, you know, this morning; so very
obliging!—for my mother had no use of her spectacles,
could not put them on, and, by-the-bye, everybody ought
to have two pair of spectacles; they should, indeed, Jane
said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders,
the first thing I did, but something or other hindered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>
me all the morning; first one thing, and then another,
there is no saying what, you know. At one time, Patty
came to say she thought the kitchen-chimney wanted
sweeping. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘Patty, do not come with
your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your
mistress’s spectacles out.’ Then the baked apples came
home. Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are
extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always.
I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be
uncivil, and give a very rude answer; but we have never
known anything but the greatest attention from them.
And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for
what is our consumption of bread, you know? only
three of us. Besides, dear Jane at present—and she
really eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast,
you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not
let my mother know how little she eats; so I say one
thing, and then I say another, and it passes off. But
about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there
is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and
they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity
the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet
him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before.
I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a
baked apple. I believe it is the only way Mr. Woodhouse
thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have
apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an
excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have
prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us.”</p>

<p>Emma would be very happy to wait on Mrs.
Bates; and they did at last move out of the shop,
with no further delay from Miss Bates than “How do
you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon; I did not see
you before. I hear you have a charming collection of
new ribands from town. Jane came back delighted
yesterday. Thank ye! the gloves do very well, only a little
too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”</p>

<p>“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again
when they were all in the street.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p>

<p>Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she
would fix.</p>

<p>“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.
Oh, my mother’s spectacles! So very obliging of Mr.
Frank Churchill! ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I do think I can
fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively;’
which, you know, showed him to be so very——Indeed,
I must say, that much as I have heard of him before,
and much as I had expected, he far exceeds anything—I
do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He
seems everything the fondest parent could——‘Oh,’ said
he, ‘I can fasten that rivet; I like a job of that kind
excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner; and
when I brought out the baked apples from the closet,
and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to
take some, ‘Oh,’ said he directly, ‘there is nothing in
the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking
home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’
That, you know, was so very——and I am sure, by his
manner, it was no compliment. Indeed, they are very
delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full
justice, only we do not have them baked more than
twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have
them done three times; but Miss Woodhouse will be so
good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are
the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from
Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply.
He sends us a sack every year, and certainly there never
was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees—I
believe there are two of them. My mother says the
orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I
was really quite struck the other day, for Mr. Knightley
called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples,
and we talked about them, and said how much she
enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to
the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must be,’ said
he, ‘and I will send you another supply, for I have a
great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins
let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>
send you some more before they get good for nothing.’
So I begged he would not—for really, as to ours being
gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great
many left—it was but half a dozen, indeed—but they
should all be kept for Jane, and I could not at all bear
that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had
been already, and Jane said the same; and when he was
gone she almost quarrelled with me—no, I should not
say quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives,
but she was quite distressed that I had owned the apples
were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe
we had a great many left. ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘my dear, I
did say as much as I could.’ However, the very same
evening William Larkins came over with a large basket
of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged,
and went down and spoke to William Larkins, and said
everything, as you may suppose. William Larkins is
such an old acquaintance, I am always glad to see him.
But, however, I found out afterwards from Patty that
William said it was all the apples of that sort his master
had; he had brought them all, and now his master had
not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to
mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master
had sold so many—for William, you know, thinks more
of his master’s profit than anything—but Mrs. Hodges,
he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away.
She could not bear that her master should not be able to
have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this,
but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say anything
to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges <i>would</i> be cross sometimes,
and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not
signify who ate the remainder; and so Patty told me,
and I was exceedingly shocked indeed! I would not
have Mr. Knightley know anything about it for the
world! He would be so very——I wanted to keep it
from Jane’s knowledge, but unluckily I had mentioned
it before I was aware.”</p>

<p>“Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the
door, and her visitors walked upstairs without having<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>
any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the
sounds of her desultory good-will. ‘Pray take care,
Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase;
rather darker and narrower than one could wish. Miss
Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite
concerned; I am sure you have hurt your foot. Miss
Smith, the step at the turning.’”<a id="FNanchor_55" href="#Footnote_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a></p>

<p>The scene which the opening of the door presents is
often quoted for its perfection of quiet realism. “The
appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered
was tranquillity itself. Mrs. Bates, deprived of her
usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire;
Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deeply occupied
about her spectacles; and Jane Fairfax, standing
with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.”</p>

<p>“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you
finished it yet? You would not earn a very good livelihood
as a working silversmith at this rate.”</p>

<p>“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied;
“I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying
to make her instrument stand steadily; it was not quite
firm, an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see
we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was
very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was
almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”</p>

<p>This last sentence is for Emma, as he immediately
renews his marked attentions to her, contrives that she
shall be seated by him, looks out the best roasted apple
for her, and tries to make her advise him in his work,
till Jane is ready to sit down to the piano.</p>

<p>There is no doubt Jane is agitated. Emma imagines
that she has not possessed the instrument long enough
to get accustomed to its associations. When the player<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>
is able to do herself justice, everybody is loud in praise
of the piano.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill, in the middle of an assertion that
whoever Colonel Campbell had employed, the person has
not chosen ill, introduces with a smile to Emma certain
<i>doubles entendres</i> with regard to the musical taste of
the old Weymouth party, and to the enjoyment which
Miss Fairfax’s friends in Ireland must have in imagining
what she will be doing, until even Emma tells him in a
whisper it is not fair, hers has been a random guess.</p>

<p>Jane pretends not to hear, and answers with the
briefest acknowledgment of his apparent meaning. He
goes to her and urges her to play one of the waltzes
they danced last night, exclaiming, “Let me hear them
once again.”</p>

<p>As she plays, he exclaims on the felicity of hearing
again a tune which has made one happy before, adding,
“If I mistake not, that was danced at Weymouth.”</p>

<p>She looks at him for a moment, colours deeply, and
plays something else.</p>

<p>He brings over some music, including a new set of
“The Irish Melodies,” to show to Emma. The music
had been selected and sent with the piano. Frank
Churchill honours that part of the gift particularly. It
has all been so thoughtful, so complete. True affection
only could have prompted it.</p>

<p>Emma wishes he would not be so pointed in his
remarks, but glancing at Jane, she catches the ghost of
a smile hovering about her lips, and has less scruple in
her amusement. This excellent Jane Fairfax indulges
in very reprehensible feelings.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley passes the window on horseback; and
Miss Bates trots into the next room, and from an open
window holds a colloquy with him, charmingly characteristic
of both speakers, and perfectly audible to the
visitors in the apartment she has just quitted.</p>

<p>“How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Very well, I thank
you; so obliged to you for the carriage last night. We
were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>
come in; do come in; you will find some friends
here.”</p>

<p>So began Miss Bates, and Mr. Knightley seemed
determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely
and commandingly did he say, “‘How is your niece,
Miss Bates? I want to inquire after you all, but particularly
your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope
she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day?
Tell me how Miss Fairfax is!’</p>

<p>“And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct
answer before he would hear anything else. The
listeners were amused, and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a
look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her
head in steady scepticism.</p>

<p>“‘So obliged to you! So very much obliged to you
for the carriage,’ resumed Miss Bates.</p>

<p>“He cut her short with, ‘I am going to Kingston.
Can I do anything for you?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, dear! Kingston, are you? Mrs. Cole was
saying the other day she wanted something from
Kingston.’</p>

<p>“‘Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do anything
for <i>you</i>?’</p>

<p>“‘No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you
think is here? Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith, so
kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up
your horse at the Crown, and come in.’</p>

<p>“‘Well,’ said he, in a deliberating manner, ‘for
five minutes, perhaps.’</p>

<p>“‘And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill,
too. Quite delightful, so many friends.’</p>

<p>“‘No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two
minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, do come in; they will be so very happy to see
you.’</p>

<p>“‘No, no; your room is full enough. I will call
another day and hear the pianoforte.’</p>

<p>“‘Well, I am so sorry. Oh, Mr. Knightley, what a
delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>
Did you ever see such dancing? Was not it delightful?
Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw
anything equal to it.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less,
for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill
are hearing everything that passes, and’ (raising his
voice still more) ‘I do not see why Miss Fairfax should
not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances
very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country
dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if
your friends have any gratitude, they will say something
pretty loud about you and me in return; but I
cannot stay to hear it.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something
of consequence—so shocked! Jane and I are both so
shocked about the apples!’</p>

<p>“‘What is the matter now?’</p>

<p>“‘To think of you sending us all your store apples.
You said you had a great many, and now you have not
one left. We really are so shocked. Mrs. Hodges
may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it
here. You should not have done it, indeed you should
not have done it. Ah, he is off.’”</p>

<p>Frank Churchill easily induces his father to consent
to give a ball the night before Frank is to leave Randalls.
No room in the house is large enough to meet
the hospitable gentleman’s views, and it is at last fixed
to give the ball at the Crown Inn. Emma is
engaged by the hero of the evening for the first two
dances; and even the grave Jane Fairfax is sufficiently
moved by the brilliant prospect to exclaim, “Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, I hope nothing will happen to prevent the
ball. I look forward to it, I own, with very great
pleasure.”</p>

<p>But time and tide, and the humours of a tyrannical
woman, accommodate themselves to no man. A
summons arrives for Frank Churchill to return instantly
to his uncle’s place at Enscombe, as his aunt is far too
unwell to do without him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p>

<p>Frank has no great belief in the illness, but he is
forced to obey orders. The ball has to be deferred to
the uncertain period of his next visit.</p>

<p>Extremely disconsolate, he pays his farewell calls,
and when at Hartfield, while talking of other things—the
length of time before he came to Highbury, his
recent leave-taking at the Bateses, he seems suddenly
on the point of a serious declaration, “In short,” said
he, after getting up and walking to a window—“perhaps,
Miss Woodhouse—I think you can hardly be without
suspicion——”</p>

<p>But either Emma does not afford him sufficient
encouragement, or some other obstacle occurs to hinder
him, for he goes no further than a profession of warm
regard for Hartfield.</p>

<p>To Emma the loss of the ball and her partner is a
severe disappointment. She finds Jane Fairfax’s comparative
composure on the misfortune odious. But she is a little
softened by hearing of the bad headaches from which
Jane has been suffering, and is willing to admit that
her unbecoming indifference may proceed from the
apathy engendered by bad health.</p>

<p>Emma has arrived at the point of believing she
returns Frank Churchill’s love. At first, when she
misses him and the ball most, she fancies she is very
much in love; then the “very much” dwindles down
to a “little,” since Emma, who is still quite capable of
reasoning on her feelings, makes the acute observation,
that though she admires and likes him, she continues
to see faults in him; and she notices that in all the
imaginary scenes and dialogues which she invents for
herself and Frank Churchill, while he is to urge his
suit with all the eloquence of passion and true affection,
she is always to refuse him, in the tenderest
and most delicate manner indeed, but still to refuse
him. Their love is inevitably destined to subside into
friendship.</p>

<p>Emma had long ago determined never to quit her
father, but it strikes her now—that were she strongly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>
attached to Frank, there would be, even in anticipation,
more struggle in the sacrifice.</p>

<p>Having come to this sage conclusion, Emma is a
little sorry for Frank; the next thing is to provide him
with a substitute for the wife he can never win from
Hartfield. Her own partiality for her friend, and desire
to atone to her for her former error, together with an
accidental polite reference in one of his letters to his
step-mother, puts Harriet Smith into Emma’s creative
brain. For she is not cured of match-making, she is
still inveterately possessed with what is most apt to be
the clever, warm-hearted matron’s mania for arranging
the matrimonial affairs of others.</p>

<p>In fact, Emma, with all her youthful pride and
dignity, is in some danger of becoming a meddler and
busybody in other people’s business. Even the knowledge
she might have had of how different are Mr. and
Mrs. Weston’s—not to say Mr. and Mrs. Churchill’s—expectations
for their son and nephew, does not serve to
crush the foolish idea, though it only lurks in the background
in the meantime.</p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>A new event stirs Highbury. Mr. Elton brings
home his bride. She is first seen in her pew at church,
and is ecstatically admired.</p>

<p>Emma withholds her judgment, even beyond the
opportunity given by her first call at the vicarage, when
she takes Harriet Smith with her. Emma will not pronounce
an opinion yet, beyond the very modified admission
that Mrs. Elton is “elegantly dressed,” while the
meekly magnanimous little goose, Harriet, finds the bride
“beautiful, very beautiful,” and adds, with a sigh,
“Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta;’ how delightful!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p>

<p>On farther acquaintance, Emma discovers, with a
certain severe satisfaction, that Mr. Elton, as she has
learnt to know him, is fitly mated.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton is one of Jane Austen’s most cleverly
and sharply-drawn characters. The pretentious, underbred
woman, “pert and familiar,” without the faintest
sense of her own deficiencies—on the contrary, with
an overflowing self-satisfaction and self-conceit patronising
everybody and everything—is hit to the life.
We have all heard similar boasting to that of Mrs. Elton
on the subject of her rich Bristol brother-in-law’s house,
“Maple Grove.” We have listened to like-minded
proposals “to explore” with the Sucklings, when they
bring over their barouche-landau, our own accessible,
familiar neighbourhood, every step of which is intimately
known to us. We have been recommended to
watering-places, and offered introductions by those
whom we were tempted to regard as little called upon
or qualified to give us advice and assistance. We
have been treated to the modern “doubles” of all
Mrs. Elton’s bridal airs and affectations; that sporting
of the newly-acquired importance of the matron; that
literal quoting, in the worst taste, of Mr. E. and the
“<i>cara sposa</i>;” that free and easy manner of naming our
own familiar friends by their surnames,<a id="FNanchor_56" href="#Footnote_56" class="fnanchor">[56]</a> as if the men
were the new comer’s special cronies; that vulgar superciliousness
with regard to the supposed disadvantages
and consequent inferiority of other people whom we
have every reason to esteem and cherish. Have we not
been in danger of crying out with Emma, “Insufferable
woman! worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insupportable!
Knightley! I could not have believed
it. Knightley! Never seen him in her life before, and
call him Knightley! and discover that he is a gentleman!
A little, upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E.
and her <i>cara sposa</i>, and her resources, and all her airs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>
of pert pretension and underbred finery,<a id="FNanchor_57" href="#Footnote_57" class="fnanchor">[57]</a> actually to
discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt
whether he will return the compliment, and discover
her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And
to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical
club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And
Mrs. Weston! Astonished that the person who brought
me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse!
I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes!
Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.”</p>

<p>Mr. Elton, fortunately or unfortunately, is more
than satisfied with his choice. It is fortunate for his
matrimonial felicity; it is unfortunate where the man’s
mind and heart are concerned. It proves him hardly
capable of appreciating any higher qualities than those
with which his wife is endowed; and under her influence
he is certain to deteriorate.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton soon shows her resentment at Emma’s
coldness. Her pique causes the vicar’s wife to behave
to Harriet Smith with a sneering negligence, which
convinces Emma that Harriet’s attachment, and her
own share in it, have been “an offering to conjugal
unreserve” which does little credit to Mr. Elton’s
generosity and honour.</p>

<p>With the ready propensity to rivalry of a small,
vain, and vindictive nature, Mrs. Elton puts herself, as
she judges, at the head of an opposite faction. She
conceives a violent fancy for Jane Fairfax, whom she
oppresses with condescending notice and attention,
accepted in grateful good faith by Jane’s relations, and
by Jane herself, because no better friendship, as Mr.
Knightley takes care to remind Emma, offers itself to
the lonely girl.</p>

<p>One good thing comes to Emma as the result of
her conversation with Mr. Knightley on the incongruity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>
of Jane Fairfax’s intimacy at the vicarage. Emma
has the courage to hint to Mr. Knightley that the
extent of his admiration for Jane Fairfax may take
him by surprise some day.</p>

<p>“Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower
buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the
exertion of getting them together, or some other cause,
brought the colour into his face as he answered—</p>

<p>“‘Oh! are you there? But you are miserably
behind-hand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six
weeks ago.’</p>

<p>“He stopped, Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs.
Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a
moment he went on—</p>

<p>“‘That will never be, however, I can assure you.
Miss Fairfax, I daresay, would not have me if I were
to ask her, and I am sure I shall never ask her.’</p>

<p>“Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest,
and was pleased enough to exclaim, ‘You are not vain,
Mr. Knightley; I will say that for you.’</p>

<p>“He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful,
and, in a manner which showed him not pleased, soon
afterwards said, ‘So you have been settling that I should
marry Jane Fairfax?’</p>

<p>“‘No, indeed, I have not. You have scolded me too
much for match-making for me to presume to take such
a liberty with you. Oh! no; upon my word I have not
the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax, or
Jane anybody. You would not come in and sit with us
in this comfortable way if you were married.’</p>

<p>“Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result
of his reverie was—‘No, Emma, I do not think the
extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by
surprise. I never had a thought of her in that way,
I assure you.’ And soon afterwards, ‘Jane Fairfax is
a very charming young woman; but not even Jane
Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the
open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.’</p>

<p>“Emma could not but rejoice to hear she had a fault.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span></p>

<p>“‘Well, Mrs. Weston,’ said Emma triumphantly,
when he left them, ‘what do you say now to Mr.
Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?’</p>

<p>“‘Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very
much occupied by the idea of not being in love with
her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his
being so at last. Do not beat me.’”</p>

<p>At a dinner-party given by the Woodhouses, to
which John Knightley has come down by accident,
Jane Fairfax is present by special invitation, her hostess
being a little conscience-stricken for her sins of omission
in that quarter.</p>

<p>John Knightley looks at Mrs. Elton in her lace and
pearls, taking notes for Isabella’s edification; but he
consents to talk to a quiet girl and old acquaintance
like Jane Fairfax. In their conversation, it comes out
that she goes every morning before breakfast to the
post-office<a id="FNanchor_58" href="#Footnote_58" class="fnanchor">[58]</a> to fetch the letters. It is her daily errand
when at Highbury.</p>

<p>She provokes the remark from her companion that
the post-office has a great charm at one period of
people’s lives. When Miss Fairfax has lived to Mr.
John Knightley’s age, she will begin to think letters
are never worth going through such a shower of rain
as he has seen her out in that morning, to obtain
them.</p>

<p>He makes her blush. What is worse than his blunt,
friendly remonstrance, he attracts the attention of the
rest of the company to the subject. Mr. Woodhouse
strikes in with his plaintive protest against anybody,
a young lady especially, exposing herself to wet. Mrs.
Elton rushes to the rescue with her loud, authoritative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>
reproach: “My dear Jane, what is this I hear? Going
to the post-office in the rain! You sad girl; how could
you do such a thing?” Mrs. Weston is appealed to,
and she adds her quiet, sensible prohibition against
young people’s running any risk.</p>

<p>“Oh!” cries Mrs. Elton, “she <i>shall not</i> do such
a thing again. The man who fetches our letters shall
inquire for yours too, and bring them to you.”</p>

<p>Jane, thus baited, stands mildly but firmly at bay.
Mrs. Elton is extremely kind, but Jane cannot give up
her early walk.<a id="FNanchor_59" href="#Footnote_59" class="fnanchor">[59]</a> She is advised to be out of doors.
The post-office is an object.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton, who has neither good breeding nor tact,
will not be put down.</p>

<p>“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing
is determined—that is” (laughing affectedly) “as far as
I can presume to determine anything without the concurrence
of my lord and master. You know, Mrs.
Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express
ourselves.”</p>

<p>Still Jane looks unconquered.</p>

<p>The conversation wanders to handwriting. John
Knightley refers to the statement that the same sort
of writing often prevails in a family, and observes that
Isabella and Emma write very much alike.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a
likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma’s hand
is the strongest.”</p>

<p>“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said
poor Mr. Woodhouse, “and always did, and so does Mrs.
Weston,” with half a sigh and half a smile at her.</p>

<p>Dinner is on the table. Mrs. Elton, before she
can be spoken to, is ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse
has reached her, with his request to be allowed to
hand her into the dining-parlour, is saying—</p>

<p>“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always
leading the way!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span></p>
<p>Jane’s solicitude about fetching her letters has not
escaped Emma, who ascribes it to an unworthy source;
and if the young hostess had not been in her own house,
therefore on honour to Jane, Emma might have been
wicked enough to make some remark on the expedition
or the expense of Irish mails.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill returns on the earliest opportunity,
and the ball at the Crown is to take place. A council
of ladies and gentlemen is first summoned to pronounce
on the rooms. Emma thinks the preliminary gathering
absurdly large. It is no great compliment to be the
confidential adviser of Mr. Weston when he takes everybody
into his confidence.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill is almost as bad, restlessly rushing
to the door to receive every new arrival, and providing
umbrellas, under which Miss Bates and her niece may
cross the street.</p>

<p>The Eltons, too, are there, Mrs. Elton eager to put
in her word, and demonstrative as usual to Jane Fairfax.
Emma wonders what Frank Churchill will think of the
bride’s manners. She is not long left in doubt.</p>

<p>“How do you like Mrs. Elton?” Emma asks him in
a whisper.</p>

<p>“Not at all.”</p>

<p>“You are ungrateful,” said Emma, thinking of a
flattering account she has heard the lady give his father
of what she had been told of Frank.</p>

<p>“Ungrateful! What do you mean?” he cries
quickly; then, changing from a frown to a smile, “No,
do not tell me. I do not want to know what you
mean. Where is my father?”</p>

<p>Emma can hardly understand Frank Churchill; he
seems in an odd humour, but she makes no objection
when he claims her for his partner, though she has to
submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, who opens the
ball with Mr. Weston; yet Emma has always considered
it her ball. It is almost enough to make her
think of marrying. Still Emma is able to enjoy the
dance, and be satisfied that Frank Churchill dances as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>
well as she had thought; though it is indubitable to her,
and to her honour, the conviction rather affords her
relief than wounds her vanity, that Frank Churchill
thinks less of her than formerly. There is nothing like
flirtation between them; they seem more like easy,
cheerful friends than lovers.</p>

<p>What troubles Emma more than Frank Churchill’s
early secession as a lover is Mr. Knightley’s not dancing.
There he is, among the standers by, where he ought not
to be. He ought to be dancing, not classing himself
with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who
are pretending to feel an interest in the dance, till their
rubbers are made up—so young as he looks, his tall,
upright figure among the bulky forms and stooping
shoulders of the elderly men.</p>

<p>He moves a few steps forward, and these few steps
forward are enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a
manner, with what natural grace he must have danced
would he but take the trouble.</p>

<p>Indeed, Emma has always entertained the highest
opinion of George Knightley’s air and looks. She has
told Harriet Smith, in trying to teach her simply what a
well-bred man is like, that Mr. Knightley must be put
out of count, he is so very superior to other people.
Emma has never seen a man on whose whole person and
address “gentleman” is more legibly written—and here
Emma is right.</p>

<p>The ball rewards the anxious cares and incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston by going off happily, as old
balls in county halls and ball-rooms of market-town inns
had a knack of doing. People had fewer pleasures then,
and were more easily entertained. They have left a
pleasant flavour behind them—these early, social,
eminently respectable country balls, when whitewashed
walls were considered picturesquely hidden by a few
common evergreens, and the mere sight of primitively
chalked floors set young hearts dancing before the feet
executed their “steps.”</p>

<p>One incident impresses Emma. Harriet Smith is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>
sitting down—the only young lady without a partner.
Mr. Elton is strolling about ostentatiously in her vicinity.
Mrs. Weston, as in duty bound, tries to get him to
dance. He professes his willingness, though getting an
old married man, to become her partner. She points out
to him a more fitting partner—the young lady who has
sat down—Miss Smith. “Miss Smith! Oh, Miss
Smith he has not observed. Mrs. Weston is extremely
obliging, but his dancing days are over;” and a meaning
smile passes between him and his wife.</p>

<p>This is the amiable, obliging Mr. Elton of other days!
Emma can scarcely conceal her indignation, until she sees
Mr. Knightley, whom Mr. Elton has joined, come forward
and lead Harriet to the set. Never has Emma
been more surprised, seldom more delighted. His
dancing is as good as she anticipated, and she would
have been tempted to think Harriet too lucky had it
not been for what went before.</p>

<p>Emma expresses her gratification to Mr. Knightley
later in the evening, and he increases it by telling her
he has found Harriet Smith more conversable than he
expected. She has some first-rate qualities which Mrs.
Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded,
artless girl is infinitely to be preferred, by
any man of sense and taste, to such a woman as Mrs.
Elton.</p>

<p>They are interrupted by Mr. Weston calling on
everybody to begin dancing again. “Come, Miss Woodhouse,
Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing? Come, Emma, set your companions the example.
Everybody is lazy! everybody is asleep!”</p>

<p>“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am
wanted.”</p>

<p>“Whom are you going to dance with?” asks Mr.
Knightley.</p>

<p>She hesitates a moment, and then replies, “With
you, if you will ask me.”</p>

<p>“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.</p>

<p>“Indeed I will. You have shown that you can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>
dance, and you know we are not really so much brother
and sister as to make it at all improper.”</p>

<p>“Brother and sister!—no, indeed.”</p>

<p>As ill luck will have it, the very next day Frank
Churchill rescues Harriet Smith from the rudeness of a
party of tramps and gipsies, and brings her on his arm
to the nearest house (Hartfield); when, acting according
to the instincts of such amiable but helpless heroines,
Harriet immediately faints away.</p>

<p>Such a romantic adventure is not lost on Emma. It
stimulates immensely her idle dream of how handsome a
young couple Frank Churchill and Harriet would make,
and how desirable it would be to bring them together.</p>

<p>Emma is not deterred from this last mischievous
crochet, by a special revelation of Harriet’s former foolish
sentiments, which the girl considers herself called on to
make. Mr. Elton has behaved so very badly to Harriet,
that meek as the girl is, she can admire him at a humble
distance no longer. She brings solemnly to Emma a
little Tunbridge box, full of treasures which have become
valueless, and which Harriet wishes Miss Woodhouse
should see her destroy. There is a bit of court-plaister,
left over from a piece with which Emma had made
Harriet supply Mr. Elton, when he had happened to cut
his hand in their service. There is also a stump of a
pencil, which he flung aside after he had used up the
lead in writing a recipe for spruce-beer, at Mr. Knightley’s
dictation.</p>

<p>Emma is lost between wonder and shame. Harriet’s
<i>auto da fé</i> has a double motive. She can no longer
reverence Mr. Elton, and she can reverence another man,
for whose sake she vaguely protests she is determined to
remain single, since it would be utter presumption in her
to think he could ever seek her out.</p>

<p>Emma gathers as much as this from her companion,
and hesitates, with just a grain of dawning prudence,
whether she ought to speak, or let Harriet’s heroic
resolution pass in silence.</p>

<p>But Harriet may think it unkind; besides, just a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>
little encouragement, judiciously administered, may not
be amiss to check further confidences on Harriet’s part.
She is to be shown that her “dear Miss Woodhouse”
does not disapprove of her aspirations, and at the same
time made to comprehend that the old, improper,
undesirable discussion of hopes and chances is not to
be renewed. Therefore, without mentioning Frank
Churchill’s name, Emma tells Harriet that her feelings
are natural and honourable to her, and at the same time
bestows on her some excellent significant advice about
not giving way to her feelings; on the contrary, she
must let the gentleman’s behaviour be the guide to her
sentiments as well as to her conduct. But Emma rather
undoes her teaching by volunteering an additional
“He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem
objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but
yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place;
there have been matches of greater disparity.”</p>

<p>At the end of the little lecture Harriet is at once
grateful and submissive.</p>

<p>In the course of the summer, when, from Mr. and
Mrs. Churchill’s staying so near as Richmond, Frank
Churchill can come often to Randalls, Mr. Knightley,
who has taken an early dislike to the popular young man,
learns to dislike him still more. He, Mr. Knightley,
begins to suspect double dealing on Frank Churchill’s
part, double dealing which has to do with Emma Woodhouse
and Jane Fairfax. It seems plain that Emma is
his object. His own attentions coincide with his father’s
hints, and his step-mother’s guarded silence. But while
all their world is giving Frank Churchill to Emma, and
Emma herself is secretly giving him to Harriet, Mr.
Knightley learns to suspect him of an inclination to
trifle with Jane Fairfax.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley cannot read the riddle; but he is
convinced that he perceives symptoms of intelligence
between Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax. There are
not only betrayals of admiration for Jane—out of place
in Emma’s lover; but Mr. Knightley is persuaded, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>
spite of his belief in Jane Fairfax’s discretion, that there
is a liking, even a private understanding, between the
two visitors to Highbury.</p>

<p>A large party, including Mrs. Weston and Frank
Churchill, Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, and Mr.
Knightley, have met by chance at Hartfield. Mr.
Perry passes by on horseback.</p>

<p>“By-the-bye,” said Frank Churchill to his step-mother,
“what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting
up his carriage?”</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston answers she never heard of it.</p>

<p>He maintains she wrote him word of it three months
before.</p>

<p>She declares it is impossible.</p>

<p>He insists that he remembers it perfectly. Mrs.
Perry had told somebody, and was very happy about it.
It had been her proposal, as she thought being out in
bad weather did him harm.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston cannot remember.</p>

<p>Then it must have been a dream, Frank Churchill
turns round and suggests.</p>

<p>His father, who has not heard all the conversation,
inquires if Perry is really going to set up a carriage.
Mr. Weston is glad Perry can afford it. Did Frank
have it from himself?</p>

<p>No, Frank replies, laughing, he seems to have had
it from nobody. Of course, it must have been a dream.
He dreams of everybody at Highbury, and when he has
gone through his particular friends, then he begins
dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.</p>

<p>His father comments on the odd coherence and probability
of the dream, just what was likely to happen.</p>

<p>At last Miss Bates gets in her word. It is very
singular—she does not mean that Mr. Frank Churchill
may not have had such a dream, but there actually had
been such a proposal. Mrs. Perry had come to Miss
Bates one morning in great spirits, believing that she
had prevailed in persuading her husband to have a
carriage. It had been spoken of in confidence, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>
the Coles had known of it. It was an extraordinary
dream.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley, who has been listening to the whole
discussion, thinks he discerns confusion, suppressed and
laughed away, in Frank Churchill’s face. Mr. Knightley
tries to see the expression of Jane Fairfax’s, but in
vain; at the same time he becomes aware that Frank
Churchill is striving still more intently to catch her eye,
with equal want of success.</p>

<p>During the evening Frank Churchill looks on a side-table
for the little Knightleys’ alphabets. It is a dull-looking
evening, he says, fit for winter amusements;
and he wishes to puzzle Emma as he did once before.
When the box with the letters is brought, Frank and
Emma begin quickly forming words. He pushes one
before Jane Fairfax. She glances round the table and
applies herself to it, discovers the word, and with a faint
smile pushes away the letters. They are not mixed
with the others, and Harriet Smith, who tries every
heap without making anything of it, draws this one
towards her and begins to puzzle over it.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley is sitting next to Harriet, and she
turns to him for help. Soon she proclaims with exultation,
<i>blunder</i>. Jane Fairfax blushes.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley connects the word and the blush with
the dream. Yet how the delicacy of his favourite must
have gone to sleep! He is grieved and angry. He
suspects the game is being made a mere vehicle for
trick and gallantry in Frank Churchill’s hands.</p>

<p>Indignant and alarmed, Mr. Knightley continues to
watch Frank Churchill. He prepares a short word for
Emma, which she soon makes out. The two laugh over
it, though she cries, “Nonsense, for shame!”</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley hears Frank Churchill say, with a
glance towards Jane, “I will give it to her, shall I?”</p>

<p>Emma opposes the proceeding with laughing urgency.
It is done, however. Mr. Knightley’s keen curiosity
assists him. He deciphers “<i>Dixon</i>,” though he has not
Jane Fairfax’s key to the insinuation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p>

<p>She is evidently displeased; looks up, and seeing
herself watched, blushes deeply. She says, “I did not
know that proper names were allowed,” and pushes
away the letters with even an angry spirit. She turns
to her aunt as a signal that it is time to leave.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley thinks he sees another collection of
letters anxiously pushed towards her, and swept away
by her unexamined. She is looking for her shawl afterwards,
and Frank Churchill is searching also for it. It
is growing dusk, the room is in confusion, and Mr.
Knightley cannot tell how they part.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley remains behind the others, to give
Emma a warning. He asks her what is the peculiar sting
of the last word given to her and Miss Fairfax? Why is
it entertaining to the one, and distressing to the other?</p>

<p>Emma looks disconcerted. It is only a joke among
themselves, she says.</p>

<p>The joke, he observes, gravely, seems confined to
her and Mr. Churchill.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley has not done. He tries, though disappointed
by her silence, and painfully impressed with
the conviction of her attachment to young Churchill, to
furnish her with another hint. Is she perfectly acquainted
with the degree of intimacy between the
gentleman and lady they have been speaking of?</p>

<p>Perfectly, Emma tells him, with conviction.</p>

<p>Has she never received any reason to think he admired
her, or she admired him.</p>

<p>Never, for the twentieth part of a moment. How
could such an idea come into his head?</p>

<p>He has imagined he has seen something of attachment—looks
which he did not believe were meant for
the public.</p>

<p>Emma is very much amused. She rallies him on
the flights of his fancy, which she would be sorry to
check. There is no admiration. The appearances he
has noticed proceed from peculiar circumstances she
cannot explain. There is a good deal of nonsense in it
all, but no two people can be farther from admiration<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>
or attachment—at least, she presumes it is so with Jane
Fairfax. As to the gentleman’s indifference, Emma
can answer for it. She is in gay spirits, which Mr.
Knightley, in quitting her, does not at all share.</p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>There are to be two expeditions to Box Hill, the
one having given rise to the other. Mrs. Elton has organised
an “exploring” picnic for her brother and sister,
the Sucklings, of Maple Grove, with their barouche-landau.
Emma and the Westons are to have something
of the same description, but very different—quiet,
unpretending, and elegant, in contrast to the fuss,
ostentation, and regular eating and drinking of the first.</p>

<p>What is Emma’s disgust to find that Mr. Weston,
in his incorrigible good nature, has proposed to unite
the two parties, since Mrs. Elton had been deprived of
the company of the Sucklings. Chagrin or no chagrin,
Emma has to submit; and Mrs. Elton is impatient to
settle about the pigeon pies and cold lamb, when a lame
carriage-horse overthrows all calculation, and threatens
a delay of weeks.</p>

<p>“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” Mrs.
Elton appeals, with her characteristic freedom, to the
Squire of Donwell. “Such weather for exploring!”</p>

<p>“You had better explore Donwell,” suggests the
forbearing gentleman; “that may be done without
horses. Come and eat my strawberries; they are
ripening fast.”</p>

<p>If he has spoken in jest, he has to act in earnest,
for the proposal is caught at with delight. Not only so;
Mrs. Elton elects herself queen of the feast. “I am
lady patroness, you know. It is my party. I will
bring my friends with me.”</p>

<p>But the host is quite capable of repelling aggression.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>
“I hope you will bring Elton,” he says, with courteous
calmness; “but I will not trouble you to give any
other invitation.”</p>

<p>Oh, he need not be afraid of delegating power to
<i>her</i>. She is no young lady on preferment. Married
women may be safely authorised. It is her party.
Leave it all to her; she will invite the guests.</p>

<p>“No,” he calmly replies; “there is but one married
woman in the world whom I can allow to invite what
guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is——”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Weston, I suppose?” interrupts the mortified
Mrs. Elton.</p>

<p>“No—Mrs. Knightley; and till she is in being I
will manage matters myself.”</p>

<p>Was ever rebuff better given, with equal judgment
and moderation? In spite of her pushing self-assertion
Mrs. Elton has to subside into a mere guest, with the
comfort, however, of telling everybody that she has
originated the party—that Knightley has given it to
gratify her.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton has insisted it is to be a morning
scheme—quite a simple thing. She is to wear a large
bonnet, and bring one of her little baskets hanging on
her arm. They are to walk about the gardens, and
gather the strawberries themselves, sit under trees, and
have a table spread in the shade—everything as natural
and simple as possible. Is not that his idea?</p>

<p>“Not quite;” he puts down her officiousness and
affectation with quiet, well-bred humour. His idea of
the simple and the natural would be to have the table
spread in the dining-room; when they were tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there should be cold meat in
the house.</p>

<p>She wishes she had a donkey, the thing would be
for them all to come on donkeys—Jane, Miss Bates, and
herself, with her <i>cara sposa</i> walking by. In country life
a donkey is a sort of necessary; in summer there is dust
and in winter there is dirt.</p>

<p>No doubt Mr. Knightley keeps his countenance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>
while he assures her Donwell Lane is never dusty, and
at that season of the year it is dry. “Come on a
donkey, however, if you prefer it; you can borrow Mrs.
Cole’s.”</p>

<p>One reason for Mr. Knightley’s declining to make
his guests dine out of doors is, that he hopes to persuade
Mr. Woodhouse to accompany Emma; and Mr. Woodhouse,
who has not been at Donwell for two years, is
open to persuasion.</p>

<p>In fact, everybody accepts his or her invitation, and
as happy events—like sad ones—do not come singly, the
lame horse recovers, so the party to Donwell is settled
for the one day and the excursion to Box Hill for the
next.</p>

<p>Mr. Weston, in the innocence of his heart, proposes to
get his son Frank over from Richmond to attend both
parties, and Mr. Knightley is obliged to say he will be
glad to see the young man.</p>

<p>On a bright June day Mr. Woodhouse is safely
driven over in the carriage, with one window down, to
join in the <i>al fresco</i> party, by sitting in one of the most
comfortable rooms in the Abbey where a fire has burnt
all the morning, with Mrs. Weston to bear him company.</p>

<p>The few words representing Donwell Abbey have the
usual effect of Jane Austen’s spare but graphic, and perfectly
unaffected, unlaboured descriptions. The house
and grounds, under the brooding heat of the midsummer
day, lie before us. The Abbey is an ample and irregular
building, low-lying, with all the old neglect of “prospect,”
but having abundance of “timber” in rows and avenues,
which neither fashion nor extravagance has rooted up.
There are extensive gardens, stretching down to meadows
washed by a stream. We can understand Emma Woodhouse’s
“honest pride and complacency” in her connection
with the present and future proprietor of Donwell
Abbey.</p>

<p>There is an unaccountable delay in the arrival of Frank
Churchill, who was to have come on horseback, and some
fears as to his horse are entertained.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p>

<p>In the meantime Mrs. Elton picks strawberries and
talks for everybody—not excepting Miss Bates.</p>

<p>At last, when the various groups are resting on the
seats in the shade, Emma cannot help overhearing Mrs.
Elton urging on Jane Fairfax the acceptance of a situation
as governess, offered to her through the Sucklings
of Maple Grove.</p>

<p>Miss Fairfax is replying that she cannot fix on any
arrangement till the return of the Campbells from
Ireland.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton is declining to be put off, and insisting
on returning an answer in the affirmative by the next post.</p>

<p>Emma wonders how Jane can bear it, and even Jane
looks vexed, speaks pointedly, and proposes to walk
farther.</p>

<p>It is hot, and insensibly the company gather under
the “delicious” shelter of a short avenue of limes,
stretching beyond the gardens, and leading to nothing,
unless to a view over a low stone wall, with high pillars,
giving the appearance of an approach to the house where
none had ever existed. The author objects to the sham,
but expatiates—for her—on the view:—the distant bank,
well clothed with wood—the Abbey Mill Farm, and its
meadows—the river, making a curve around them. Jane
Austen adds the short, significant sentence:—“It was
a sweet view—sweet to the eye and mind. English
verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a
sun bright without being oppressive.”</p>

<p>In this walk, Emma is amused to find Mr. Knightley
and Harriet Smith leading the way. It is an odd <i>tête-à-tête</i>,
but Emma is glad to see it, and to meet Mr.
Knightley’s smile when she joins the couple, and finds
him giving Harriet information on modes of agriculture.
The smile seems to say—“These are my own concerns.
I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being
suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”</p>

<p>The cold repast is over, and still Frank Churchill
does not put in an appearance. His father and mother
are anxious, but take refuge in attributing his absence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span>
to some nervous attack of his aunt’s. Emma looks at
Harriet. That young lady is learning self-restraint;
she behaves very well, betraying no emotion.</p>

<p>The party go out again to see some old fish-ponds,
and, perhaps, to get as far as the clover, which is to be
cut to-morrow.</p>

<p>Emma makes up her mind to remain indoors with
her father. He has been very well entertained hitherto
with the books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos
and shells brought out of the cabinets for his amusement.
He has shown them all to Mrs. Weston; he will show
them over again to Emma. The occupation is not so
engrossing to Emma as to her father; she strolls into
the hall, where she meets Jane Fairfax, coming quickly
from the gardens, with a look of escape about her.</p>

<p>Jane hurriedly begs Emma to make her excuses if
she should be missed. It is late. She ought to be at
home. She does not want to say anything about going
to give trouble. But will Miss Woodhouse kindly say,
when the others come in, that she is gone?</p>

<p>Certainly, Emma says; but she remonstrates on
Jane Fairfax’s walking to Highbury alone.</p>

<p>It will not hurt her; she walks fast; she will be at
home in twenty minutes.</p>

<p>Emma, who never forgets what is due to herself and
others when she can render her neighbour a service,
offers her father’s servant; wishes to order the Hartfield
carriage.</p>

<p>“Thank you, thank you!” Jane says, but resolutely
declines, adding with agitation, “For <i>me</i> to be afraid
of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard
others.”</p>

<p>Emma’s really kind heart is touched. She entreats
to be allowed to lend the carriage, and urges that the
heat is cause sufficient, since Jane is fatigued already.</p>

<p>Some of the bonds which fetter Jane’s spirit give
way; she and Emma are nearer being friends at that
moment than they have ever been before. Jane confides
so far in her companion: “I am fatigued,” she owns,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>
“but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will
refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times
what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess,
are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me
will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I
am gone when it is necessary.”</p>

<p>Emma has not another word to say, and is full of
commiseration, when the words that burst from Jane at
parting, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being
sometimes alone!” betray the continued endurance the
poor girl has to practise, even with some of those who
love her best.</p>

<p>Jane has not been gone for a quarter of an hour, and
Emma and her father have only reached the views of
St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill enters
the room. His father and mother were right. A nervous
seizure which had attacked Mrs. Churchill was the cause
of his delay. He had almost given up the idea of
coming, and if he had known how late he must be, and
what he should have to suffer from the heat of the
weather, he would not have started.</p>

<p>This is not like a speech which could come from the
gallant Frank Churchill; but he continues to rail at
the heat and at his own sufferings—sitting at the greatest
possible distance from the small remnant of Mr. Weston’s
fire, and looking deplorable—though Emma takes it upon
her to assure him, somewhat exasperatingly, perhaps,
that he will soon be cooler if he will sit still.</p>

<p>As soon as he is cooler he will go back again. He
could ill be spared, only such a point had been made of
his coming. They will all be going presently. He has
met one of the party as he came—madness in such weather.</p>

<p>Emma can come to no other conclusion than that
Frank Churchill is out of humour. Some people are
always cross when they are hot. Eating and drinking
often cures such incidental complaints. She obligingly
recommends him to take some refreshment, and points
out the dining-room door.</p>

<p>No, he is not hungry; eating would only make him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>
hotter; but he thinks better of it and goes off, muttering
something about spruce beer.<a id="FNanchor_60" href="#Footnote_60" class="fnanchor">[60]</a></p>

<p>Emma is glad she has done being in love with him;
but Harriet has a sweet temper.</p>

<p>He comes back with his good manners, if not his
good spirits, restored, enters into the Woodhouses’ occupation,
but announces, <i>apropos</i> of sketches and Switzerland,
that he hopes soon to go abroad. He wants a change.
He is sick of England.</p>

<p>He is sick of prosperity, his lively companion tells
him; but she does not think he is so miserable as when
he arrived. Let him eat and drink a little more.
Another slice of cold meat, another draught of madeira
and water, and he will do very well.</p>

<p>No, he will sit by her; she is his best cure.</p>

<p>They are going to Box Hill to-morrow. It is not
Switzerland, but it will be something for a young man
so much in want of a change.</p>

<p>No, certainly not; he will go home in the cool of the
evening.</p>

<p>But he may come back again in the cool of the morning.</p>

<p>No, it would not be worth while. If he came he
would be cross.</p>

<p>Then pray let him stay at Richmond.</p>

<p>But if he does, he will be crosser still. He could
never bear to think of them all enjoying themselves
without him.</p>

<p>He must settle these difficulties, and choose his own
degree of crossness. She will press him no more.</p>

<p>Chaff was not a slang word early in the century. But
how charmingly Jane Austen can chaff by the lips of
more than one of her heroines! And what arch, sweet,
perfectly womanly and ladylike chaff it is!</p>

<p>Frank Churchill<a id="FNanchor_61" href="#Footnote_61" class="fnanchor">[61]</a> is very wrong, and yet there is a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>
grain of excuse for him when he says to Emma at parting,
“Well, if <i>you</i> wish me to stay and join the party,
I will.”</p>

<p>Emma smiles her acceptance of the concession, very
nearly as indefensibly.</p>

<p>There is another fine day for Box Hill; but though
the scenery is much admired, the excursion somehow is
not successful.</p>

<p>There is a want of spirit and a want of union which
cannot be got over. The Eltons walk by themselves, Mr.
Knightley takes charge of Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax,
Frank Churchill escorts Emma and Harriet. Mr.
Weston tries in vain to bring everybody together, and
make the thing harmonious.</p>

<p>At first it is downright dulness to Emma, for Frank
Churchill is actually stupid, and, of course, Harriet is no
better. They are both insufferable. It would have
been well if they had continued dull, though Emma
flatters herself it is a great deal better when they all sit
down together, and Frank grows talkative and gay,
making Emma his first object; while she, glad to be
enlivened, and not sorry to be flattered, affords him every
encouragement, in forgetfulness, it must be confessed,
of what Harriet’s feelings may be. But then Harriet
is the most placid of human beings, the most confiding
of friends.</p>

<p>Emma means nothing: she even believes that he
means nothing; but in the opinion of most people
present only one English word, “flirtation,” could
describe their behaviour. “Mr. Frank Churchill and
Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively” might be
the report sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one
lady, to Ireland by another. Yet it is really because
Emma is less—not more—happy than usual, that she
lays herself open to the imputation.</p>

<p>Frank Churchill piles up his compliments, and Emma
parries them merrily. The rest of the company fall
into silence, as if to constitute themselves an audience
for the genteel comedy, until Emma objects aloud to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span>
talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent
people.</p>

<p>“They shall talk,” Frank ordains. “Ladies and
gentlemen, I am desired by Miss Woodhouse to say
that she desires to know what you are all thinking
of?”</p>

<p>There is a little flutter of amusement here, and indignation
there.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley’s answer is most distinct, and most
to the purpose: “Is Miss Woodhouse sure she would
like to hear what we are all thinking of?”</p>

<p>“Oh, no! no!” cries Emma, laughing as carelessly
as she can; “upon no account in the world. Let me
hear anything rather than what you are thinking of.”</p>

<p>“It will not do,” whispers Frank to Emma; “they
are most of them affronted. I will attack them with
more address. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by
Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and
only requires something very entertaining, from each of
you, in a general way. Here are seven of you besides
myself (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining
already), and she only demands from each of you either
one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or
repeated; or two things moderately clever; or three
things very dull indeed; and she engages to laugh
heartily at them all.”</p>

<p>“Oh, very well,” exclaims Miss Bates; “then I
need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed!’
That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure
to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my
mouth, sha’n’t I?” (looking round with the most good-humoured
dependence on everybody’s assent). “Do not
you all think I shall?”</p>

<p>Emma cannot resist. “Ah, ma’am, but there
may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited
as to the number—only three at once.”</p>

<p>Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of the
manner, does not immediately catch the meaning; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>
when it bursts on her, it cannot anger, though a
slight blush shows that it can pain her.</p>

<p>“Ah! well, to be sure! Yes, I see what she means,”
turning to Mr. Knightley, “and I will try to hold my
tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she
would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”</p>

<p>Mr. Weston volunteers a conundrum, which is not
very clever, but which he is sure Emma will not guess.
“What two letters stand for perfection?—‘M’ and ‘A’—Em—ma.”</p>

<p>It may be a very indifferent piece of wit, but
Emma finds a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley says, gravely, “This explains the
sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have
knocked up everybody else. <i>Perfection</i> should not have
come quite so soon.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Elton is swelling with resentment. “I really
cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of
thing. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way,
but I must really be allowed to judge when to speak,
and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,
Mr. Churchill! pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and
myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one
of us?”</p>

<p>“Yes, yes, pray pass <i>me</i>,” adds her husband, with
a sort of sneering consciousness. “I have nothing to
say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other
young lady. An old married man—quite good for
nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”</p>

<p>“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring
so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other
arm.”</p>

<p>Jane declines, and the husband and wife walk off.</p>

<p>“Happy couple!” says Frank Churchill, as soon as
they are out of hearing; “how well they suit one
another! Very lucky, marrying, as they did, upon an
acquaintance formed only in a public place. They only
knew each other, I think, a few weeks, at Bath.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span>
Then, suddenly becoming serious, he volunteers his
emphatic opinion that there can be no knowledge of a
person’s disposition in such circumstances, finishing
with the sentence, “How many a man has committed
himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest
of his life!”</p>

<p>Jane Fairfax wishes to speak. “Such things do
occur, undoubtedly.” She is stopped by a cough.</p>

<p>“You were speaking?” said Frank Churchill.</p>

<p>She recovers her voice. “I was only going to
observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do
sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot
imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent
attachment may arise, but there is generally
time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood
to mean that it can be only weak, irresolute
characters (whose happiness must be always at the
mercy of chance) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance
to be an inconvenience, an oppression for
ever.”</p>

<p>He makes no answer, merely looks and bows in submission,
then resumes his flirtation with Emma, more
furiously than before. Will she choose a wife for him?
He is sure he will like anybody fixed on by her. He is
in no hurry. Emma may adopt her, educate her.</p>

<p>“And make her like myself!” cries the heedless
Emma.</p>

<p>By all means, if she can.</p>

<p>She undertakes the commission in high glee. He
shall have a charming wife.</p>

<p>He only stipulates for two things. She must be
lively, and she must have hazel eyes. He will go
abroad for a couple of years, and when he returns he
will come to her for a wife.</p>

<p>This jesting commission appeals to Emma’s special
weakness. Will not Harriet be the very creature described—barring
the liveliness and the hazel eyes—either
sops of personal flattery thrown in for Emma herself,
whose appetite for that commodity is not small, or words<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>
spoken at random? Might not Harriet be in his
thoughts when he referred the education of his wife to
Emma?</p>

<p>“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we
join Mrs. Elton?”</p>

<p>Miss Bates is ready, so is Mr. Knightley; it seems,
to use a homely expression, that their absence will be
better than their company.</p>

<p>Yet, after the rest of the party are gone, the pitch
to which the young man’s spirits rise becomes almost
unpleasant to Emma. She is fairly tired of fun and
flattery. She welcomes the appearance of the servants
and the ordering of the carriages.</p>

<p>But Emma is not to escape without the rebuke she
deserves. She finds Mr. Knightley seeking to speak
with her where nobody can hear. He says, “‘Emma, I
must once more speak to you as I have been used to do—a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps; but
I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong
without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling
to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your
wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?
Emma, I had not thought it possible.’</p>

<p>“Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to
laugh it off. ‘Nay, how could I help saying what I
did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very
bad. I daresay she did not understand me.’</p>

<p>“‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning.
She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard
how she talked of it—with what candour and generosity.
I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance,
in being able to pay her such attentions as she
was for ever receiving from yourself and your father,
when her society must be so irksome.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better
creature in the world; but you must allow that what is
good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately
blended in her.’</p>

<p>“‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>
were she prosperous I could allow much for the occasional
prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she
a woman of fortune, I would leave her every harmless
absurdity to take its chance. I would not quarrel with
you for any liberties of manner. Were she equal in
situation—but, Emma, consider how far this is from
being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the
comforts she was born to; and if she live to old age
must probably sink more. Her situation should secure
your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You,
whom she had known from an infant, whom she had
seen grow up from a period when her notice was an
honour—to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and
the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and
before her niece, too, and before others, many of
whom (certainly <i>some</i>) would be entirely guided by <i>your</i>
treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma,
and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I
will, tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving
myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting
that you will, some time or other, do me greater justice
than you can do now.’”</p>

<p>Nothing can be juster, manlier, more faithful than
the remonstrance. It goes straight to Emma’s heart.
Mr. Knightley is quite mistaken in imagining that she
cannot appreciate it at its true worth. In the middle
of her contrition and distress, she is eager to show him
that she feels no sullenness. Not the least of her vexation
is occasioned by her having failed, in the hurry of
the moment, to acknowledge the true friendship of his
tone, and by their having exchanged no friendly leave-taking.</p>

<p>How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss
Bates; how could she have exposed herself to such an ill
opinion in any one she valued, and then to suffer him to
go without one word of gratitude and common kindness?</p>

<p>Truly, Emma is candid, good, and gracious, in spite
of her worst faults, when these are contrasted with the
intolerable flippancy, the selfish heartlessness of some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>
so-called heroines. We are sorry for her as she drives
away with Harriet, the tears stealing down Emma’s
cheeks in the comparative privacy of such companionship.</p>

<p>That scene at Box Hill, with its lights and shades,
its apparent comedy and hidden tragedy, its diversity of
characters and feelings so finely indicated, is the best in
the book.</p>

<p>“Who breaks—pays.” Emma has, next morning,
as the inevitable result of her regardless folly the day
before, to face a host of wretched reflections. Girl-like,
she is in haste to atone, as if atonement were always
easy or possible. She will go that very day to the
Bateses, and, though she cannot speak out her compunction,
she will, from this time henceforth, do all that is
in her power to make up for her offence, by lavishing
friendly kindness on the family.</p>

<p>She fears for a moment she is to be refused admittance,
but it is only Jane Fairfax who is retreating from
the visitor. The mother and daughter are as civil and
humble as usual, though it pains Emma to recognise, at
first, that Miss Bates is less cheerful and easy in her
volubility.</p>

<p>But Emma’s special friendliness soon reconciles the
good old lady to herself and all the world. Emma
hears the present trouble poured forth in the usual
jumble of ideas and sentences. The substance is that
Jane has suddenly made up her mind to accept the
situation Mrs. Elton hunted up for her.</p>

<p>Emma is sincerely interested, and sorry for them
all, and expresses her feelings earnestly.</p>

<p>“So very kind,” replies the grateful Miss Bates,
“but you are always kind.”</p>

<p>This is certainly heaping coals of fire on Emma’s
head. She hastens to ask where Miss Fairfax is going.</p>

<p>“To Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—to have
the charge of three little girls—delightful children.”</p>

<p>Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove;
but unfortunately Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry,
and Jane is to leave in a fortnight.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p>

<p>On Emma’s return home, she finds Mr. Knightley
with her father, looking in upon him before leaving for
London, and wishing to learn if they have any messages
for John and Isabella, with whom he is going to spend
a few days.</p>

<p>Emma had not heard of the visit, though Mr.
Knightley says he had been thinking of it for some
time; and she is certain he has not forgiven her, he
looks so unlike himself.</p>

<p>As they stand talking, Mr. Woodhouse begins to inquire
for Mrs. Bates and her daughter, with whom
Emma has been—she is so attentive to them.</p>

<p>At this peculiarly <i>mal apropos</i> praise, Emma’s colour
rises, while she looks at Mr. Knightley and shakes her
head.</p>

<p>It seems as if he instantly understands all that has
been passing in her heart. He looks at her with a glow
of regard, he takes her hand—she is not sure afterwards
that she did not offer it, but he takes it, presses it, and
is certainly on the point of carrying it to his lips, when,
from some fancy or other, he suddenly lets it go.</p>

<p>He would have judged better, she thinks, if he had
not stopped, but she can at least recall the attempt with
great satisfaction. It speaks such perfect amity. The
next moment he is gone.</p>

<p>The following day brings news from Richmond which
throws everything else into the shade. An express had
arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill. The great Mrs. Churchill (the tyrannical
rich woman who has demanded such deference from both
husband and nephew) is no more.</p>

<p>Jane Austen has a most pertinent reflection on the
event and some of its consequences. “It was felt as
such things must be felt. Everybody had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed,
solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable
time, curiosity to know where she would be buried.
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to
folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>
stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended
as a clearer of ill fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked
at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate
allowances. In one point she was fully justified.
She had never been admitted before to be seriously
ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and
all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.”</p>

<p>Emma soon begins to consider that now an attachment
on Frank’s part to Harriet Smith will have nothing
to encounter.</p>

<p>Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, is feared by
nobody; an easy, guidable man—to be persuaded into
anything by his nephew.</p>

<p>Harriet again behaves admirably, and betrays no
agitation. Emma is delighted to have this evidence of
her friend’s strengthened character.</p>

<p>In the interval, before anything can be known of
Frank Churchill’s future, Emma longs to do the little
she can to compensate for her neglect of Jane Fairfax,
and for the idle, unworthy fancies of which she begins
to feel thoroughly ashamed. But Jane is not so accessible
to advances as her aunt is. Emma would have Jane
spend a day at Hartfield before she quits Highbury,
and writes to invite her. The invitation is refused,
and a message sent that “Miss Fairfax is not well
enough to write.”</p>

<p>Mr. Perry, in visiting the Woodhouses, confirms the
accounts of Jane Fairfax’s illness. She is seriously
indisposed, suffering from headaches, with nervous fever,
and her appetite is gone. He doubts the possibility of
her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time fixed. He is
uneasy about Jane Fairfax, though there are no absolutely
alarming symptoms. Her present home is unfavourable
to a nervous disorder.</p>

<p>Emma’s regrets and self-reproaches increase. She
is eager to be useful; she writes again, with the greatest
tact and feeling she can command, and proposes to take
Jane for a drive, at any hour she will name.</p>

<p>Once more a verbal message is returned:—“Miss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>
Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal
to any exercise.”</p>

<p>Emma thinks her note deserves more, but cannot be
angry under the circumstances. She would have tried
personal persuasion, but only Miss Bates comes to the
carriage door to excuse her niece.</p>

<p>Hearing of Mr. Perry’s recommendation of nourishing
food, Emma returns home, and calling the housekeeper,
despatches some arrowroot of very superior
quality, with a most friendly note to Miss Bates. In
half an hour the arrowroot is returned with a thousand
thanks from Miss Bates, but “dear Jane” would not be
satisfied till it was sent back. It is a thing she cannot
take, and she insists on her aunt saying that her niece
is not in want of anything.</p>

<p>Such obduracy is unconquerable, and when Emma
hears that Jane Fairfax had been wandering about the
meadows at some distance from Highbury on the afternoon
of the day on which she declined carriage exercise,
Emma is forced to see that Jane is resolved to receive no
kindness from <i>her</i>. She is sorry and mortified, but she
has the comfort of thinking Mr. Knightley would have
understood and appreciated her motives.</p>

<p>Ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s death, Mr. Weston
comes himself one morning to Hartfield to beg Emma to
accompany him to Randalls. Mrs. Weston is not ill,
but she has something very particular to say to her
friend. He will not tell beforehand what has happened,
but on the road he is led into such explanations as
“The most unaccountable business;” “she will break
it to you better than I can.”</p>

<p>At the last words Emma stops short in terror.
Something must have happened in Brunswick Square
(where Isabella lives). Which of them is it? She
must hear at once.</p>

<p>It is only on his solemnly assuring her that what
has occurred has nothing to do with the name of
Knightley that she is relieved, and walks on. “Who
is that gentleman on horseback?” she asks, speaking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>
in order to keep up a conversation on indifferent
topics.</p>

<p>It is one of the Otways. Not Frank. She will not
see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.</p>

<p>Has his son been with them, then?</p>

<p>Oh, yes! Did she not know? Well, never mind.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston looks ill, and much disturbed, and no
sooner is she left alone with Emma than the girl begs
affectionately to be informed what unpleasant event has
befallen her friends.</p>

<p>“Have you no idea?” said Mrs. Weston, in a
trembling voice.</p>

<p>Emma does guess it has to do with Mr. Frank
Churchill.</p>

<p>She is right, Mrs. Weston confesses, resuming her
work, and fixing her eyes upon it. He had been there
that morning on a most extraordinary errand. He came
to speak to his father—to announce an attachment.</p>

<p>Emma thinks first of herself and then of Harriet.</p>

<p>“More than an attachment—a positive engagement.
What will you say, Emma, what will anybody say, when
it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged—nay, that they have been long engaged?”</p>

<p>Emma even jumped with surprise and consternation.
Jane Fairfax! Mrs. Weston is not serious. She does
not mean it?</p>

<p>“You may well be amazed,” returns Mrs. Weston,
steadily averting her eyes; “you may well be amazed.”</p>

<p>There had been a solemn engagement between them
ever since October, formed at Weymouth, and kept a
secret from everybody, not a creature knowing it but
themselves, neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.</p>

<p>Emma scarcely hears what is said. Her mind is
divided between two overwhelming ideas—her own
former conversations with him about Jane Fairfax, and
poor Harriet. “Well,” she exclaims at last, “this is a
circumstance I must think of at least half a day before I
can comprehend it. What! engaged to her all the
winter, before either of them came to Highbury?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span></p>

<p>“It has hurt me very much,” said Mrs. Weston;
“it has hurt his father equally; some part of his
conduct we cannot excuse.”</p>

<p>Emma cannot pretend to misunderstand the speaker’s
meaning. On the contrary, she is eager and glad to
remove this load from the Westons’ minds. In a few
words she explains that Frank Churchill’s attentions
to her have not produced the effect his father and
mother feared. It seems too good news to be true; but
Emma confirms her assertions of indifference by owning
there was a time when she did like him, but that time
soon passed—why, she cannot tell, and she has not cared
about him for the last three months.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston kisses her, and cries with joy and
thankfulness. On this point she and her husband have
been wretched. They had warmly wished the match,
and heartily believed in a mutual attachment. They
have been miserable on Emma’s account.</p>

<p>Emma is grateful for her escape, but she is by no
means inclined to excuse the offender. She turns, with
her usual frankness and fervour, to protest against his
conduct. “What right had he to come among us with
affections and faith engaged, and manners so very disengaged?
What right had he to endeavour to please—as
he certainly did—to distinguish any young woman,
as he certainly did, while he really belonged to another?
How could <i>she</i> bear such behaviour? Composure, with
a witness! to look on while repeated attentions were
offering to another woman before her face, and not
resent it.”</p>

<p>Now that Mrs. Weston’s mind is so agreeably
relieved, she seeks to find an apology for the delinquents.</p>

<p>Emma will not even listen to a reminder of his many
good qualities. “Mrs. Smallridge, too!” she is exclaiming;
“Jane actually on the point of going as
governess! What could he mean by such horrible
indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer
her even to think of such a measure!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span></p>

<p>But Mrs. Weston is able to clear her stepson on this
point—he knew nothing of it. There had been misunderstandings.
Jane had taken a private resolution,
which had somehow come round to Frank only the day
before; it had determined him to come forward at once,
own all to his uncle, and throw himself on his kindness.
Had Mrs. Churchill lived there could hardly have been
a hope of the family’s consent; with her influence
gone everything had been easy. Frank was off with
the morning light to Highbury, went straight to the
Bateses, and then came on to his father’s. He had to
return immediately to his uncle, but was to write in full
to his stepmother.</p>

<p>Emma remarks dryly, she supposes they will immediately
get reconciled to the idea, and she wishes the
couple happy. But she will always think it a very
abominable system of hypocrisy, deceit, espionage, and
treachery. They must take the consequence, if they
have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly
agreeable.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston congratulates herself that she has
always thought so highly of Jane Fairfax, she can
never have said ill of her to Frank.</p>

<p>Emma, smarting under her own consciousness, can
only say her friend is in luck. But she is able to set
worthy Mr. Weston’s mind at rest at once, by congratulating
him, without the smallest difficulty, on
having the loveliest and most accomplished young
woman in England for his daughter-in-law.</p>

<p>“Harriet! poor Harriet!” There is the next
torment. How is Emma to break such news a second
time to her friend? Mr. Knightley’s words begin to
sound prophetic—“Emma, you have been no friend to
Harriet Smith.”</p>

<p>There is no necessity for farther solicitude on Jane
Fairfax’s behalf. Her days of insignificance and evil
are over. Now Emma can comprehend why her late
offers of assistance and regard have been repulsed. In
Jane’s eyes she has been a successful rival. In that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>
light an airing in the Hartfield carriage would have
been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield store-room
must have proved poison.</p>

<p>But Harriet. Frank Churchill’s engagement is to
be still kept a strict secret during the family’s period
of mourning for Mrs. Churchill; however, there must
be an explanation, on Harriet’s account.</p>

<p>Emma is reflecting Mrs. Weston’s agitation on her
own behalf, when Harriet comes in, with the eager
exclamation, “Is not this the oddest news that ever
was about Jane Fairfax?” Mr. Weston has told her as
the greatest secret. “How very odd!”</p>

<p>Harriet’s behaviour is so extremely odd, that Emma
does not know what to make of it. She may spare her
pity, if Harriet’s self-command has reached this height.
Harriet is even asking, with the utmost coolness, if
Miss Woodhouse had ever guessed that Mr. Frank
Churchill was in love with Miss Fairfax?</p>

<p>“Never!” protests Emma; “you may be sure of
that. If I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”</p>

<p>“Me!” cries Harriet, colouring; “why should you
caution me? You do not think that I care about Mr.
Frank Churchill?”</p>

<p>If it is not Frank, who can it be? Is Emma to
suppose——?</p>

<p>But Harriet is quite ready to explain herself in the
middle of her agitation. They have agreed not to name
him; but he is so infinitely superior to everybody else, that
Harriet does not see how she could have been thought to
mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed!
Harriet does not know who would look at him in the
presence of the other. And she has received the encouragement
from Emma herself, when it would have
seemed too much presumption almost, to dare to think of
him—that more wonderful things had happened—there
had been matches of greater disparity.</p>

<p>“Harriet,” cries Emma, “let us understand each
other now, without the possibility of further mistake—are
you speaking of Mr. Knightley?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span></p>

<p>To be sure she is—she never could have an idea of
anybody else.</p>

<p>Emma brings herself to ask, has Harriet any idea
of Mr. Knightley’s returning her affection?</p>

<p>“Yes,” replies Harriet modestly, but not fearfully,
“I must say I have.”</p>

<p>Emma is silent, in the bitterness of her heart. Why
is it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with
Mr. Knightley than with Mr. Churchill? Why is the
evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some
hope of a return of her love? There can only be one
explanation—it darts through Emma’s mind with the
swiftness of an arrow’s flight—Mr. Knightley must
marry no one but herself.</p>

<p>Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, lies bare
before her. How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational,
how unfeeling has been her behaviour! And if she
has acted improperly by Harriet, she may have done
still worse by Mr. Knightley. He had said she had
been no friend to Harriet Smith. She may prove to
have been his worst enemy, if it be possible that his
association with Harriet can bring him to demean himself
to make a girl, so inferior to him in every respect,
his wife.</p>

<p>But Emma must not make Harriet suffer for her
fault. Emma is always courageous in taking upon
herself the heaviest penalty for her misdoings.</p>

<p>She gently questions Harriet as to her reason, besides
the assurance Emma has given her, under a misconception,
of Mr. Knightley’s growing regard for her. And
as Harriet, with great <i>naïveté</i>, brings forward the different
proofs—from his dancing with her at the ball at
the Crown, down to his seeking her out, and walking
with her at his own party at Donwell, including the
change in his tone, his increased kindness, the pains he
takes to ascertain her opinions in conversation, even
to an effort to discover whether her affections are still
disengaged, Emma, sick at heart, is compelled to admit
there is some truth in what Harriet alleges. Emma<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>
herself has been struck with the additional notice which
Mr. Knightley bestows on Harriet Smith, and several
times lately he has praised her cordially to Emma.</p>

<p>If one could go so far as to conceive Mr. Knightley
choosing a partner for life so inferior to him in understanding,
as well as in every other desirable recommendation,
then it might be that he would marry Harriet,
though the vision of her as the mistress of Donwell
Abbey humbles Emma for its master’s sake even
more than for her own. If she had only not brought
the two together; if she had but left Harriet to marry
the unexceptionable young man who would have made
her happy in the line of life to which she belonged—in
which she ought to have remained. Mr. Knightley and
Harriet Smith! It is a union to distance every wonder
of the kind. The attachment of Frank Churchill and
Jane Fairfax becomes commonplace and threadbare—presents
no disparity by comparison. Such elevation
on Harriet’s side—such debasement on Mr. Knightley’s.
It is impossible. And yet it is 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 will seek him?</p>

<p>Still Emma can be honourably fair to Harriet, and
gentle with her. But she does faintly suggest that
Mr. Knightley may be paying attention to Harriet with
Mr. Martin’s interest in view.</p>

<p>But Harriet rejects the suggestion with such spirit—she
hopes she knows better now than to care for Mr.
Martin, or to be suspected of it—and so holds Emma to
her former advice to observe the gentleman’s behaviour,
and let it be the rule of hers (Harriet’s); that, though it
requires a great exertion, Emma brings herself to say
Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world who would
intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling
more for her than he really did.</p>

<p>In return for the guarded speech, Harriet could have
worshipped her reluctant friend.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span></p>

<p>Emma seeks to weigh her regard for Mr. Knightley—to
ascertain its beginning and strength. Till she was
threatened with its loss, she had never known how much
her happiness was dependent upon him. She had long
been first with him, for there was only Isabella to
compete with her in his affections; and she had been
aware that she came before her sister with him. She
had known she was dear to him; and in her self-confident
security, and her delusions and fancies, she
had never so much as suspected that to be first and
dearest with Mr. Knightley, or to have another woman
supplant her, constituted the fulness or the blankness, the
gladness or the sadness, of her lot.</p>

<p>Tried as Emma is, her good sense does not forsake
her; she will not believe in her own and Mr. Knightley’s
loss, so long as unbelief is possible. To continue to
discuss the matter with Harriet is intolerable. She
contrives to keep Harriet away from Hartfield.</p>

<p>A visit from Mrs. Weston is a distraction to Emma’s
cares, though it is no longer of the importance it would
have been before the last miserable discovery.</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston comes with the news of the Westons’
visit to the Bateses. Very great had been the evident distress
and confusion of <i>the</i> lady, while the innocent
satisfaction and delight of her grandmother and aunt
had been almost touching.</p>

<p>Jane Fairfax had spoken with energy to Mrs.
Weston on the misery she had suffered during the concealment
for so many months. This was one of her expressions:—“I
will not say that since I have entered into
the engagement I have not had some happy moments,
but I can say that I have never known the blessing of
one tranquil hour.”<a id="FNanchor_62" href="#Footnote_62" class="fnanchor">[62]</a></p>

<p>She had added:—“After all the punishment that misconduct
can bring, it is still not less misconduct. The
fortunate turn that everything has taken, and the kindness
I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span>
ought not to be. Do not imagine, madam, that I was
taught wrong. I shall dread making the story known
to Colonel Campbell.”</p>

<p>Emma is softened. “Poor girl! her affection must
have overpowered her judgment.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston’s communications increase Emma’s
esteem, compassion, and sense of past injustice to Jane
Fairfax. To all her other regrets and sources of self-reproach
is added the sense of having missed, by a feeling
of jealousy, the friendship with Jane—marked out by
equality of birth, abilities, and education, which all her
friends had proposed for her, and which might have been
of benefit to both girls. Instead, Emma had preferred the
unsuitable, humble companionship and worship of Harriet
Smith; and what has come of it?</p>


<h3>V.</h3>

<p>A cold, stormy rain sets in, stripping the July trees
and shrubs. Mr. Woodhouse, whose spirits are easily
affected by the weather, is more than usually dependent
on cheering, at the very time that visitors fail. Emma,
struggling to do a loving daughter’s part, cannot prevent
herself from foreseeing how much more deserted Hartfield
must soon prove. Mrs. Weston’s baby will engross
her, and supersede even Emma in her friend’s affections.
Both Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax will be gone from
Highbury; and—far worst change of all, Mr. Knightley
will be no longer walking in at all hours, when he has
Harriet to keep him company at Donwell. And if he
can be content with Harriet, only one reflection can increase
Emma’s wretchedness—that it has been all her
own work.</p>

<p>The rainy clouds clear away the following afternoon,
and Emma seizes the opportunity of Mr. Perry’s calling
and sitting with her father, to stroll out into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>
shrubbery—where the first thing she sees is Mr.
Knightley passing the garden gate and coming towards
her. She had not heard of his return from London, but
she must be collected and calm. (Emma is a girl who
possesses much self-respect and womanly dignity.)</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley, on his side, does not look cheerful;
but he is perfectly capable of conversing quietly, as he
turns and walks with her.</p>

<p>Emma fancies that he wishes to talk to her of
Harriet, and shrinks from leading the way in the conversation,
but braces herself to follow when he takes
the initiative. It is only his recurring fits of silence
she cannot bear.</p>

<p>She considers; tries to smile, and refers to some
news for him to hear, which ought to surprise him.</p>

<p>If she means Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill,
he has heard that already, he tells her shortly.</p>

<p>Emma is relieved, but as she reminds him that he
had once tried to give her a caution, and she wishes she
had attended to it, her voice sinks and she sighs, adding,
“I seem doomed to blindness.”</p>

<p>She suddenly finds her arm drawn within his and
pressed, and hears him fairly faltering, “Time, my
dearest Emma, time will heal the wound—the feelings
of the warmest friendship—indignation—abominable
scoundrel!”</p>

<p>Emma<a id="FNanchor_63" href="#Footnote_63" class="fnanchor">[63]</a> must undeceive him instantly.</p>

<p>“You are very kind, but you are mistaken. I am
not in want of that sort of compassion. I was very
foolishly tempted to say and do many things which
may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures; but I
have no other reason to regret that I was not in the
secret earlier.”</p>

<p>“Emma,” he cries eagerly, “are you indeed——” but
checking himself, “No, no. I understand you: forgive
me. I am pleased that you can even say so much. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>
is no object of regret. I could only be certain there was
a preference. He is a disgrace to the name of man, and
is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?”</p>

<p>Emma has to renew her protestations, striving for
the old liveliness to carry off her sense of awkwardness.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Her companion says nothing, and Emma, to convince
him, recapitulates earnestly the true particulars
of the case—Frank’s being the son of Mr. Weston, his
having been continually at Hartfield; the fact that his
attentions flattered her, even after she had come to
look on them as a habit, a trick, nothing that had called
for seriousness on her part. He had imposed on her,
still he had not taken her in, in the serious meaning of
the words.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley grows cooler, and admits he may
have underrated Frank Churchill. With such a woman
he has a chance. He is a fortunate man, at three-and-twenty
to have drawn a prize. Everything turns out
well for him. “He meets with a young woman at a
watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary
her by negligent treatment; and had he and all his
family sought round the world for a perfect wife for
him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt
is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to speak;
his friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has
used everybody ill, and they are all delighted to forgive
him.”</p>

<p>“You speak as if you envied him,” exclaims
Emma.</p>

<p>“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is
the object of my envy.”</p>

<p>Emma can say no more; they seem within half a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>
sentence of Harriet. Emma wishes to change the
subject, and speaks of the children in Brunswick Square.</p>

<p>But he is too fast for her. “You will not ask me
what is the point of envy. Emma, I must tell you
what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the
next moment.”</p>

<p>“Oh, then don’t speak of it; don’t speak of it,” she
cries impulsively; “take a little time; consider; don’t
commit yourself.”</p>

<p>“Thank you!” he said, in a tone of deep mortification.</p>

<p>Emma cannot bear to give him pain. He is wishing,
perhaps, to consult her. She may help him;
give just praise to Harriet, represent to him his
independence.</p>

<p>Emma refuses to go in, and as they take another
turn, says hurriedly, “I stopped you ungraciously just
now, Mr. Knightley; but if you have any wish to speak
to me openly, as a friend, you may command me. I
will hear whatever you like, I will tell you exactly what
I think.”</p>

<p>“As a friend,” repeats Mr. Knightley. No, he has
no wish. But why should he hesitate when he has gone
too far for concealment? He accepts her offer as a
friend. Will she tell him if he has any chance of ever
succeeding? He stops to look the question, and the
expression of his eyes overpowers her.</p>

<p>“My dearest Emma, for dearest you will always be
to me, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation,
tell me at once; say ‘no’ if it is to be said.”</p>

<p>She can really say nothing.</p>

<p>“‘You are silent,’ he cries, with great animation,
‘absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.’</p>

<p>“Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation
of this moment. The dread of being awakened from
the happiest dream was perhaps the most prominent
feeling.</p>

<p>“‘I cannot make speeches, Emma,’ he soon resumed,
and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>
tenderness as was tolerably convincing. ‘If I loved you
less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you
know what I am; you hear nothing but truth from me.
I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have
borne it as no other woman in England would have
borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now,
dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them.
The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend
them. God knows I have been a very indifferent lover.
But you understand me. Yes, you see—you understand
my feelings, and will return them if you can. At
present I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.’”</p>

<p>Emma’s mind is busy. Harriet’s hopes have been
groundless—a delusion as complete as any of her own—and
Emma rejoices that Harriet’s secret has not escaped
her. “It was all the service she could now render her
poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment
which might have prompted her to entreat him to
transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely
the more worthy of the two—or even the more simple
sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for
ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could
not marry them both, Emma had it not.” “She
spoke then on being entreated. What did she say?
Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.
She said enough to show there need not be despair, and
to invite him to say more himself.”</p>

<p>“Mr. Knightley had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious
of his own influence. He had come to see how she bore
Frank Churchill’s engagement with no selfish view, the
rest had been the work of a moment.</p>

<p>“<i>Her</i> change was equal. This one half-hour had
given to each the same precious certainty of being
beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of
ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. On his side there had
been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even
the expectation, of Frank Churchill. He had been in
love with Emma and jealous of Frank Churchill from
about the same period, one sentiment having probably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>
enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of
Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country.
The Box Hill party had decided him on going away.
He would save himself from witnessing again such
permitted, encouraged attentions. He had gone to
learn to be indifferent, but he had gone to a wrong
place. There was too much domestic happiness in his
brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in it.
Isabella was too much like Emma, differing only in those
striking inferiorities which always brought the other in
brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even
had his time been longer. He had stayed on, however,
vigorously, day after day, till this very morning’s post
had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. Then, with
the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not
scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill
to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond
solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could
stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain,
and had walked up directly after dinner to see how this
sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all
her faults, bore the discovery.</p>

<p>“He had found her agitated and low. Frank
Churchill was a villain. He heard her declare that
she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s character
was not desperate. She was his own Emma, by hand
and word, when they returned into the house; and if
he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he
might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.”
The concluding paragraph, in its mingled vivacity and
satire, is peculiarly Jane Austen’s.</p>

<p>Emma had left the house for a little respite from
suffering. She returns to it in an exquisite flutter of
happiness. The reflections of a sleepless night tranquillise
Emma’s feelings. Her gravest considerations
are her father and Harriet, since Emma’s happiness
by no means absolves her, in her own opinion, in that
of her author, or in reality, from caring for others. She
hardly knows yet what Mr. Knightley will ask; but a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>
very short parley with her own heart produces the most
solemn resolution of never quitting her father. She even
weeps at the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he
lives it must be only an engagement, which, she flatters
herself, might become an additional comfort to him.</p>

<p>With regard to poor Harriet, Emma must still experience
much bitter self-reproach and many sorrowful
regrets. The best that Emma can devise for her friend,
while still avoiding a meeting, and communicating what
she has to tell by letter, is to procure for Harriet an
invitation to visit Isabella. A few weeks spent in
London will furnish some amusement.</p>

<p>Emma’s letter to Harriet, written the first thing
before breakfast, is so hard a task that Mr. Knightley,
in walking over to breakfast, does not come too soon.
He has not left her long when a thick packet from
Mrs. Weston encloses Frank Churchill’s promised explanation.</p>

<p>It is a good letter—appealing not unsuccessfully to
the candour and indulgence of his reader. The writer
dwells eloquently on all the difficulties which beset his
devoted attachment to Miss Fairfax, so that if he had
not persuaded her to stoop to a secret engagement, he
must have gone mad. He confesses ingenuously what
had really been the motive of his first visit to Highbury.</p>

<p>He admits that his attentions to Miss Woodhouse
were partly for the purpose of assisting in the concealment
of his real object. But he insists that, if he had
not been convinced of her indifference, he would not
have acted as he did. They seemed to understand each
other. When he called to take leave of her, he had been
on the verge of confessing the truth. He believes she
had some suspicion of it. He remembers her telling
him at the ball that he ought to be grateful to Mrs.
Elton. His heart was in Highbury, and his business
was to get his body there as often as might be, and with
the least suspicion.</p>

<p>Of the piano so much talked of, he need not say that
it was ordered entirely without the knowledge of Miss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>
Fairfax, who would never have allowed him to send it
had any choice been given her. Afterwards he had
behaved shamefully. Does Mrs. Weston remember the
morning at Donwell? He was late. He met Miss
Fairfax walking home by herself, and wanted to walk
with her; but she would not suffer it. He had thought
her over-cautious, even cold. He now saw she was
perfectly right. “While I, to blind the world to our
engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable
particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting
the next to a proposal which might have made every
previous precaution useless? Had we been met walking
together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must
have been suspected. I was mad enough, however, to
resent—I doubted her affection. I doubted it more the
next day on Box Hill, when, provoked by such conduct
on my side—such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and
such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have
been impossible for any woman of sense to endure—she
spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly
intelligible to me.”</p>

<p>Even then he was not such a fool as not to mean
to be reconciled in time; but he went away, determined
that she should make the first advances.</p>

<p>In the meantime she closed with the offer of a
situation as governess; and wrote to him that, as she
felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and
misery to each, she dissolved it.</p>

<p>The letter reached him on the very morning of his
aunt’s death. He answered it within the hour, but in
the confusion which followed, his answer, instead of
being sent off with the many letters despatched that
day, was locked up in his writing-desk, while he trusted
that he had said enough, though in but a few lines, to
satisfy her. He was surprised at getting no answer
till he received a parcel—his own letters returned, with
a note stating her surprise at not having heard from
him in reply to her last letter, and begging him to
forward her letters to Mrs. Smallridge’s, near Bristol.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span></p>

<p>He knew the name, the place, and instantly saw
what she had been about. What was to be done? One
thing only. He must speak to his uncle; without his
sanction Frank could not hope to be listened to again.
And Mr. Churchill, softened by the late event, was earlier
reconciled than Frank could have ventured to expect.</p>

<p>Is Mrs. Weston disposed to pity Frank for having
to plead his cause with so much at stake? She
must not pity him till he reached Highbury, and
saw how ill he had made <i>her</i>. He knew when to find
her alone. A great deal of very reasonable—very just—displeasure
he had to persuade away. But it was done;
they were reconciled—dearer, much dearer, than ever.</p>

<p>The letter makes its way to Emma’s heart. Frank
had been wrong, but he has suffered, and is very sorry;
and he is so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in
love with Miss Fairfax, and Emma is so happy herself,
that there is no being severe. Could he have entered
the room, she must have shaken hands as heartily as
ever.</p>

<p>Emma knows Mrs. Weston will like Mr. Knightley
to see the letter; and she herself is anxious that he
should read it when he comes again. He wishes to
take it home with him; but when he has to look over
it then and there, he goes through it, supplying a
running commentary of caustic, humorous remarks:
“Playing a dangerous game,” he observes at one place;
and when he comes to the piano, exclaims, “Ah! that
was the act of a very young man—too young to consider
whether the inconvenience of it might not very
much exceed the pleasure.” “I perfectly agree with
you, sir,” Mr. Knightley echoes, “you did behave very
shamefully.” “What a letter the man writes!” protests
the lover, impatient on his own account.</p>

<p>“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit
towards him,” interposes Emma.</p>

<p>“Well, there is feeling here,” admits Knightley.
“He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill. He
has had great faults—faults of inconsideration and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>
thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves;
but still, as he is, beyond doubt, really attached to Miss
Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage
of being constantly with her, I am very ready
to believe his character will be improved, and acquire
from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle it
wants.”</p>

<p>But Mr. Knightley has something else to talk of.
“And it is in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English,
such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was
in love with” that he introduces his subject, “how to
be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
happiness of her father.”</p>

<p>Emma’s answer is ready. She can never quit her
father.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley, unselfish in everything, feels this as
strongly as herself. But his mind has been at work all
the morning to overcome the obstacle. He had first
hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to
Donwell; but Mr. Knightley’s knowledge of his future
father-in-law’s habits soon convinced him that this step
was impossible. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!
it ought not to be attempted. But Mr. Knightley’s
next plan “he trusted his dearest Emma would not find
in any respect objectionable: it was, that he should
be received at Hartfield! that so long as her father’s
happiness—in other words, his life—required Hartfield
to continue her home, it should be his likewise.”</p>

<p>The last solution of the difficulty has never occurred
to Emma. “She was sensible of all the affection it
evinced. She felt that in quitting Donwell he must
be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours
and habits; that in living constantly with her father,
and in no house of his own, there would be much—very
much—to be borne with.<a id="FNanchor_64" href="#Footnote_64" class="fnanchor">[64]</a> She promised to think
of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>
fully convinced that no reflection could alter his wishes
or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he
could assure her, very long and calm consideration.
He had been walking away from William Larkins the
whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.”</p>

<p>“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried
Emma. “I am sure William Larkins will not like it.
You must get his consent before you ask mine.”</p>

<p>“She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty
nearly promised, moreover, to think of it with the intention
of finding it a very good scheme.</p>

<p>“It is remarkable that Emma, in the many, very
many, points of view in which she was now beginning
to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any
sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.”</p>

<p>Emma would be too happy but for poor Harriet.
“In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten,
that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to
happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be
doing nothing to assist the cure; not like Mr. Elton.
Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate
for everybody, would never deserve to be less
worshipped than now; and it really was too much to
hope, even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more
than three men in one year.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Weston’s friends are made happy by the birth
of a daughter to her. Emma and Mr. Knightley compare
notes on Miss Weston’s education. He declares he
is losing his bitterness against spoiled children; they are
disagreeable in infancy, but correct themselves as they
grow older.</p>

<p>Emma reminds him she had the advantage of his
endeavours to qualify the indulgence of other people. It
would be the greatest humanity if he would do as much
for poor little Anna Weston, except fall in love with
her when she is thirteen.</p>

<p>“How often when you were a girl,” he tells her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>
“have you said to me with one of your saucy looks, ‘Mr.
Knightley, I am going to do so and so; papa says I may,’
or ‘I have Miss Taylor’s leave;’ something which you
knew I did not approve. In such cases my interference
was giving two bad feelings instead of one.”</p>

<p>“‘What an amiable creature I was! No wonder you
should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.’</p>

<p>“‘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.’</p>

<p>“‘I remember once calling you George in one of
my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I
thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection,
I never did it again.’</p>

<p>“‘And cannot you call me George now?’</p>

<p>“‘Impossible! I never can call you anything but
Mr. Knightley. I will not promise even to equal the
elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton by calling you Mr. K.
But I will promise,’ she added presently, laughing and
blushing, ‘I will promise to call you once by your
Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you
may guess where: in the building in which N. takes M.
for better, for worse.’”</p>

<p>Harriet had answered Emma’s letter, breaking to her
the true state of affairs, much as might have been supposed,
without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage;
and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment,
a something bordering on it in her style, which
increased the desirableness of their being separate. It
might be only her own consciousness, but it seemed as
if an angel only could have been quite without resentment
under such a stroke.</p>

<p>But an invitation from Isabella is procured, Harriet
finds the excuse of wishing to see a dentist, and Emma
has the comfort of getting Harriet conveyed in state, in
Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage, to Brunswick Square, and
established there for a fortnight.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p>

<p>John Knightley replies to his brother’s announcement
of his intended marriage, with brotherly congratulations,
in which Emma declares he writes like a sensible
man. It is very plain he considers the good fortune of
the engagement as all on her side, but that he is not
without hope of her growing, in time, worthy of Mr.
Knightley’s affection.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley remonstrates like a lover on this
inference. He means no such thing; he only means——</p>

<p>“Oh!” she cries, “if you fancy your brother does
not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the
secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will
be much farther from doing <i>you</i> justice. He will think
all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the
question—all the merit on mine. I wish I may not
sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once. His
tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no
farther.”</p>

<p>The communication of the couple’s purpose is made
in the gentlest manner to Mr. Woodhouse. The information
gives the poor gentleman a considerable shock.
He tries earnestly to dissuade Emma from her intention.
“She was reminded more than once of her having
always said she would never marry, and assured that it
would be a great deal better for her to remain single,
and told of poor Isabella and poor Miss Taylor. But it
would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately
and smiled, and said it must be so, and that he must
not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose
marriages, taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed,
made a melancholy change. But she was not going
from Hartfield. She was introducing no change in their
numbers or their comforts but for the better. Did not
he love Mr. Knightley very much? Would not he like
to have him always on the spot?”</p>

<p>“Yes, that was all very true; Mr. Knightley could
not be there too often; he should be glad to see him
every day; but they did see him every day as it was.
Why could not they go on as they had done?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p>

<p>Mr. Woodhouse cannot soon be reconciled, but at
least the matter is broken to him.</p>

<p>Contrast the tender, protecting reverence of the gay
and witty Emma Woodhouse to her father’s weakness,
with the flippant, bold, offensive disrespect displayed by
so many of the silly, ill-bred, unprincipled heroines of
modern novels to their despised and insulted fathers.</p>

<p>The proposed marriage has the warmest support from
the rest of Emma’s friends—above all, from Isabella
and Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her
knee, indulging in reflections on the perfection of the
match in every respect, “was one of the happiest women
in the world. If anything could increase her delight, it
was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown
its first set of caps.”<a id="FNanchor_65" href="#Footnote_65" class="fnanchor">[65]</a></p>

<p>Mr. Weston walks into Highbury the morning after
he has heard the good news, to ascertain if “Jane” had
any suspicion of it, and before night it is all over the
place. It is, generally speaking, a well-approved match,
though Mr. Elton can do no more than hope the young
lady’s pride will now be contented, and suppose she has
always meant to “catch Knightley;” and Mrs. Elton
is forced to cry, “Rather he than I! Poor Knightley!”
There will be an end to their pleasant intercourse. No
more exploring parties to Donwell made for her.
Shocking plan, living together! She knew a family
near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to
separate before the end of the first quarter.</p>

<p>I must beg Mrs. Elton’s pardon for differing from
her, in remarking how far Jane Austen—with her hero
and heroine—was above selfish insular prejudices, in contemplating
the humane, kindly arrangement which did
not fear to unite, in one household, kindred, old and
young, of different generations.</p>

<p>Harriet’s visit to London has been protracted to a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>
month’s duration, and Emma is rather anxiously anticipating
her friend’s return in company with John
Knightley and his wife, when Mr. Knightley walks in
one morning, to tell her some news which he will not
undertake to define as either good or bad.</p>

<p>She cries, it is good, for she sees him trying not to
smile.</p>

<p>“I am afraid,” he said, composing his features,
“I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will
not smile when you hear it.” He goes on to observe
there is one subject on which they differ—does she not
recollect it—Harriet Smith?</p>

<p>Emma’s cheeks flush, and she feels afraid for what is
coming.</p>

<p>“You are prepared for the worst, I see, and very
bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.”</p>

<p>Emma gives a violent start.</p>

<p>It is so, indeed. Mr. Knightley has had it from
Robert Martin himself. He left him not half an hour
before.</p>

<p>Still Emma sits, the picture of amazement.</p>

<p>Mr. Knightley prepares to try to reconcile her to
the fact.</p>

<p>She interrupts him. It is not that such a circumstance
can now make her unhappy; but she cannot
believe it. He must only mean that Robert Martin
intends to propose to Harriet!</p>

<p>“I mean that he has done it, and been accepted.”</p>

<p>“Well!” exclaims Emma; and, oh! the significance
of the interjection!—she has to bend her face over her
work-basket, to conceal her expression of delight and
entertainment, while she begs for particulars.</p>

<p>“It is a very simple story. He went to town on
business three days ago, and I got him to take charge
of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.
He delivered these papers to John at his chambers, and
was asked by him to join their party the same evening
to Astley’s. They were going to take the two eldest
boys to Astley’s. The party was to be our brother and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span>
sister, Henry, John,—and Miss Smith. My friend
Robert could not resist. They called for him in their
way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked
him to dine with them next day, which he did; and in
the course of that visit, as I understand, he found an
opportunity of speaking to Harriet, and certainly did
not speak in vain. She made him, by her acceptance, as
happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday’s
coach, and was with me this morning, immediately
after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first
on my affairs, and then on his own. That is all I can
relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend
Harriet will make a much longer history when you see
her. She will give you all the minute particulars,
which only woman’s language can make interesting.
In our communications we deal only in the great.
However, I must say that Robert Martin’s heart seemed
for <i>him</i> and to <i>me</i> very overflowing; and that he did
mention, without its being much to the purpose, that
on quitting their box at Astley’s, my brother took charge
of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed
with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one
time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith
rather uneasy.”</p>

<p>Emma dares hardly speak, lest she should betray
her unreasonable happiness; but she ventures to say
she has learnt to think Harriet is doing extremely well;
only the affair is so sudden, for she received reason lately
to believe Harriet Smith more determined against Mr.
Martin than ever.</p>

<p>“You ought to know your friend best,” replies
Mr. Knightley; “but I should say she was a good-tempered,
soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very
determined against any young man who told her he
loved her.”</p>

<p>Emma cannot help laughing. “Upon my word, I
believe you know her quite as well as I do.”</p>

<p>He says he has taken some pains, as Emma must
have seen, both for her sake and Robert Martin’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span>
sake—he had reason to believe him as much in love with
Harriet as ever—to get better acquainted with Harriet;
and he has come to the satisfactory conclusion that
she is an artless, amiable girl, with “very good notions,
very seriously good principles, placing her happiness in
the affections and utility of domestic life.”</p>

<p>No doubt, simple young Harriet Smiths, who are
like wax in the hands of their friends, have not died out
in the land; but the great thing for them, as for the
wisest of their sex, is that they should possess integrity,
a high sense of duty, that “good and honest heart,”
which brings forth fruit a hundredfold. Having this
greatest grace, they can dispense even with the intellectual
gifts which have been denied them.</p>

<p>Emma is very serious and humble in her thankfulness;
“yet there was no preventing a laugh sometimes.
She must laugh at such a close—such an end
of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back—such
a heart—such a Harriet!”</p>

<p>“Now there would be a pleasure in her returning;
everything would be a pleasure; it would be a great
pleasure to know Robert Martin.”</p>

<p>High among Emma’s pleasures is the consciousness
that there will soon be no farther need for concealment
in any of her relations. Her rejoicing at the prospect of
a speedy escape from “disguise, equivocation, mystery—so
hateful to her in practice”—ought to be written in
letters of gold for an age of sorry romance, which is no
true romance, since its foundations are so often laid in
deception and double-dealing.</p>

<p>There is a charming conclusion to the second last
chapter of “Emma,” in which many of the actors in the
story meet accidentally at Randalls. There Emma first
sees Frank Churchill after the explanations which have
occurred, and after the announcement of their respective
marriages. When a few moments of awkwardness have
been surmounted, he thanks her for her message of
forgiveness; and after they have renewed their friendly
alliance on a more secure foundation, his spirits soon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span>
rise to their old high level. “Was she not looking
well?” he said, confident of Emma’s sympathy, as he
turned his eyes towards Jane; “better than she used
to do?”</p>

<p>He is soon ready to fix laughing eyes on his companion,
as he mentions the return of the Campbells, and
names the name of Dixon.</p>

<p>Emma blushes, and forbids its being pronounced in
her hearing.</p>

<p>“I can never think of it,” she cries, “without
extreme shame.”</p>

<p>“The shame,” he answers, “is all mine—or ought
to be”—a wise reservation. Then he asks if it is
possible she never had any suspicion, and mentions how
near he had once been to telling her everything. He
demands Emma’s pity for his being compelled to remain
at such a distance from Miss Fairfax, as not to have seen
her once before since their reconciliation. Then with a
gay, “Oh, by-the-bye,” he hopes Mr. Knightley is well,
and returns her congratulations with interest. “He is
a man,” said Frank Churchill, “whom I cannot presume
to praise.”</p>

<p>Emma is delighted, and wants him to go on in the
same style.</p>

<p>No, he is off the next moment to his own concerns
and his own Jane. Did Emma ever see such a skin,
such smoothness, such delicacy, a most distinguishing
complexion, just colour enough for beauty?</p>

<p>“‘I have always admired her complexion,’ replied
Emma, archly; ‘but do not I remember the time when
you found fault with her for being so pale?—when we
first began to talk of her—have you quite forgotten?’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, no. What an impudent dog I was; how
could I dare——’</p>

<p>“But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that
Emma could not help saying, ‘I do suspect that in the
midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very
great amusement in tricking us all. I am sure you had.
I am sure it was a consolation to you.’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span></p>

<p>“‘Oh, no, no, no! How can you suspect me of such
a thing? I was the most miserable wretch.’</p>

<p>“‘Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth.
I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you,
to feel that you were taking us all in. Perhaps I am
the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I
think it might have been some amusement to myself in
the same situation. I think there is a little likeness
between us.’</p>

<p>“He bowed.</p>

<p>“‘If not in our dispositions,’ she presently added,
with a look of true sensibility, ‘there is a likeness in
our destiny—the destiny which bids fair to connect us
with two characters so much superior to our own.’</p>

<p>“‘True, true,’ he answered warmly. ‘No, not true
on your side. You can have no superior. But most
true on mine. She is a complete angel. Look at her!
Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn
of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at
my father. You will be glad to hear’ (inclining his head,
and whispering seriously) ‘that my uncle means to give
her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set. I
am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head.
Will it not be beautiful in her dark hair?’<a id="FNanchor_66" href="#Footnote_66" class="fnanchor">[66]</a></p>

<p>“‘Very beautiful indeed,’ replied Emma; and she
spoke so kindly that he gratefully burst out, ‘How
delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such
excellent looks! I would not have missed this meeting
for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield,
had you failed to come.’</p>

<p>“Mrs. Weston is talking of some little alarm she had
felt about the child, when she was within half a minute
of sending for Mr. Perry.</p>

<p>“Frank Churchill caught the name. ‘Perry!’ said
he to Emma, and trying as he spoke to catch Miss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span>
Fairfax’s eye, ‘My friend, Mr. Perry. What are they
saying about Mr. Perry? Has he been here this morning?
and how does he travel now? Has he set up his
carriage?’</p>

<p>“Emma soon recollected and understood him; and
while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from
Jane’s countenance that she too was really hearing him,
though trying to seem deaf.</p>

<p>“‘Such an extraordinary dream of mine!’ he cried.
‘I can never think of it without laughing. She hears
us; she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her
cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at
her! Do not you see that, at this instant, the very
passage of her own letter, which sent me the report,
is passing under her eye; that the whole blunder is
spread before her; that she can attend to nothing else,
though pretending to listen to the others?’</p>

<p>“Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment;
and the smile partly remained as she turned towards
him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice—‘How
you can bear such recollections is astonishing to
me! They will sometimes obtrude; but how can you
<i>court</i> them?’”</p>

<p>Jane Austen is not in favour of blindness in love.
In the room of doting adoration, she makes her men
and women feel the nobler, more rational, and infinitely
more lasting love which sees all the faults of the person
beloved, yet loves on fondly and faithfully, doing love’s
best work in helping to remedy the imperfections.
George Knightley is capable—not merely of finding
fault with Emma, but of sharply reproving her, in
his true and tender regard for her. Nay, we suspect
there is something which may find even less approval
from some critics, in Elizabeth Bennet and Jane
Fairfax, at the summit of their happiness, remaining
still clear-sighted and impartial enough to perceive the
weak points, in characters so different as those of the two
heroes, Darcy and Frank Churchill, and to set themselves
to remove the flaws, even as the women themselves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span>
desire to be taught to recognise and amend their own
foibles.</p>

<p>What worthy, enduring, consecrated love it is which
stands such wholesome tests!</p>

<p>Neither is Miss Austen greatly on the side of love
at first sight. She is a little distrustful of first impressions,
and rather prefers—as the wiser and safer course—to
give her girls to old and tried friends, who have
developed into faithful lovers.</p>

<p>It is Harriet’s turn to look a little foolish when she
and Emma meet; but having once owned that she had
been presumptuous, silly, and self-deceived, her pain and
confusion seem to die away, and leave her without a
care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in
the present and future—Emma’s unqualified congratulations
removing every fear on the score of Harriet’s
friend. Harriet is most happy to give every detail of the
evening at Astley’s, and the dinner next day.</p>

<p>The fact is, she had always liked Robert Martin, and
his continuing to love her has proved, under the circumstances,
irresistible.</p>

<p>Emma becomes acquainted with Robert Martin, who
is introduced at Hartfield. She feels perfectly satisfied
with regard to the future respectability and happiness of
her friend. At the same time Harriet’s engagements
with the Martins, which draw her more and more from
Hartfield, are not to be regretted. Jane Austen, with
her uncompromising good sense, adds—“The intimacy
between her and Emma must sink; their friendship
must change into a calmer sort of good-will; and
fortunately what ought to be, and must be, seemed
already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural
manner.”</p>

<p>But Emma does not fail to attend Harriet to church,
in the end of that September, and see her hand bestowed
on Robert Martin, with the blessing pronounced by Mr.
Elton; while Emma has not a thought to spare for the
identity of the officiating clergyman, beyond being
engrossed by the reflection that it will probably be the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span>
same man who will do a like office for her and Mr.
Knightley in the coming month of October.</p>

<p>Jane Fairfax has already quitted Highbury. She is
restored to the comforts and refinements of her beloved
home with the Campbells. The two Mr. Churchills—uncle
and nephew—are also in town, and they are only
waiting for the expiration of their first three months’
mourning, to celebrate the event which will remove Jane
to preside over the dignified establishment at Enscombe.</p>

<p>After all, Emma and Mr. Knightley owe to a comical
accident the power to go on with their share of the
triple marriages at the time appointed, without distressing
Mr. Woodhouse too much, as Emma recoiled from
doing—though she perfectly believed the assurances of
both the Mr. Knightleys, that when the catastrophe was
over, the distress would soon be over too.</p>

<p>During the period of suspense, by an ill wind which
blows somebody good, Mrs. Weston’s poultry-house is
robbed of all her turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity
of man. “Other poultry yards in the neighbourhood
also suffered. Pilfering was <i>house-breaking</i> to Mr.
Woodhouse’s fears. He was very uneasy; and but for
the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would have been
under wretched alarm every night of his life. The
strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr.
Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While
either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.
But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again, by
the end of the first week in November.”</p>

<p>The result is, that with a much more cheerful
and voluntary consent than she had ever ventured to
hope for from her father, his daughter is able to fix the
marriage day.</p>

<p>“The wedding was very much like other weddings,
where the parties have no taste for finery and parade;
and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her
husband, thought it all extremely shabby and very inferior
to her own. ‘Very little white satin; very few
lace veils; a most pitiful business! Selina would stare<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span>
when she heard of it.’ But in spite of these deficiencies,
the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of
the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony
were fully answered in the perfect happiness of
the union.”</p>

<p>In some respects “Emma” stands first among Jane
Austen’s novels. In construction it is as nearly as possible
perfect. The unparalleled art which, from characters
and incidents even simpler and more ordinary than
usual, builds up a tale which never for a moment loses
its charm and interest, which is made to “grow,” as in
real life—the one motive and the one action springing out
of the other—the characters developing and ripening in
exact proportion, is carried to such a height that critics
have been justified in saying—and how rarely is such an
assertion warranted in fiction?—that there is not a single
chapter which could have been withdrawn without
serious injury to the skilfully interwoven threads of the
story. For that matter, critics might have gone a good
deal further, and asserted that not a scene or a conversation,
hardly a paragraph, could have been abstracted or
shortened, without marring in a measure the succession
of clearly discriminating, exquisitely delicate touches
by which the author has done her work.</p>

<p>It is this artistic completeness which makes it so
difficult—in a sense so ungracious a task, to condense
Jane Austen’s pages, or tamper with them, however
carefully and scrupulously. When one thinks by
contrast of the disgracefully slovenly—not to say weak
and foolish—performances which are often allowed to
pass muster as story-telling, it is with mortification and
misery for many of the professors of the “craft.”</p>

<p>Besides the incomparable finish which belongs to the
author’s later novels, we have a nearly unique power
of reading nice varieties of character in “Emma:”
whether we turn to the plaintive, cautious Mr. Woodhouse;
to John Knightley in his trenchant speeches; to
Miss Bates in her pitter-patter of innocent gossip, to
Emma in her rash blindness; to Harriet in her sweet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span>
silliness; to Frank Churchill, in his boyish enjoyment of
stolen waters and bread eaten in secret, and the general
mystification of his friends and acquaintances, no less
than in his wilful, yet lovable and loyal passion for Jane
Fairfax; to Mrs. Elton in her vain airs and clamorous
self-assertion; to Mr. Knightley in his unpretending,
kindly manliness.</p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img009">
<img src="images/009.jpg" class="w25"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_45" href="#FNanchor_45" class="label">[45]</a> Written in 1815-16.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_46" href="#FNanchor_46" class="label">[46]</a> What a capital picture, of an amiable rich man’s bondage.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_47" href="#FNanchor_47" class="label">[47]</a> Are old abbeys so common in Hampshire that Jane Austen
should have made two of her country-houses abbeys?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_48" href="#FNanchor_48" class="label">[48]</a> The habit, now gone out of fashion, of having grown-up parlour-boarders
in schools, rendered them more like homes for young people
of all ages.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_49" href="#FNanchor_49" class="label">[49]</a> These old genial suppers have vanished, being crowded out of
existence by late dinners, which are very different meals.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_50" href="#FNanchor_50" class="label">[50]</a> We can, however, imagine Harriet’s showing that book, with
lingering pride and pleasure, to her grandchildren.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_51" href="#FNanchor_51" class="label">[51]</a> The more convivial habits of the period peep out here and there
in Jane Austen’s novels.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_52" href="#FNanchor_52" class="label">[52]</a> Disingenuous, mocking Emma!</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_53" href="#FNanchor_53" class="label">[53]</a> In reading Jane Austen’s novels one is carried back to the time
when good playing on the piano, or “the instrument” as it is frequently
called, was held, in the higher classes, as it is now in much
lower grades, a crowning mark of a liberal education in a girl. Yet
Jane Austen herself fell short of this attainment, and she almost invariably
makes her heroines—as in the experiences of Elizabeth
Bennet, Emma Woodhouse, Catherine Morland, and Fanny Price—either
to have failed in the duty of practising, so as not to have
acquired more than a moderate proficiency in music, or else to have
been deficient in musical taste or deprived of musical education.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_54" href="#FNanchor_54" class="label">[54]</a> I have already said that Jane Austen wastes no time in descriptions
of places; yet she often contrives to suggest so much in a few
lines, that her pleasant, homely English scenes, no less than her life-like
characters, rise vividly before the mind. That briefest description
of Abbey Mill Farm—comfortable and tidy, with the short, straight
walk between the apple-trees up to the front door—does its business
thoroughly. I have seen more than one such cosy, trim, old-fashioned
farmhouse, which has brought the exclamation to my lips, “That was
where Harriet Smith visited the Martins.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_55" href="#FNanchor_55" class="label">[55]</a> I think it was Archbishop Whately who said, <i>apropos</i> of Jane
Austen’s novels, that so far from its being easy to represent the
simplicity and folly which, like poverty, we have always with us,
so as to divert a reader, it demands nothing short of genius for the
task.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_56" href="#FNanchor_56" class="label">[56]</a> Already, in the interval between the writing of “Pride and Prejudice”
and of “Emma,” the constant use of men’s surnames in
conversation was going out in good society.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_57" href="#FNanchor_57" class="label">[57]</a> I have heard that a great modern statesman, who takes some
relaxation in reading novels, and who is an ardent admirer of Jane
Austen, is specially in love with Mrs. Elton. Her portrait is his
favourite in this wonderful picture-gallery.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_58" href="#FNanchor_58" class="label">[58]</a> In the course of the conversation, Jane Austen puts into Jane
Fairfax’s mouth a strong expression of admiration for the post-office
arrangements, with their regularity and despatch. Yet these were the
days of heavily-taxed letters and delayed conveyance by coach.
What would Jane Austen have thought of the penny post, with its
multiplied responsibilities and requirements, to which railway celerity
is given? and still the system bears the strain, and admirably fulfils
the intention of its founder.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_59" href="#FNanchor_59" class="label">[59]</a> Morning walks, “taken fasting,” are now, we may be thankful,
an utterly exploded prescription for delicate men and women.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_60" href="#FNanchor_60" class="label">[60]</a> In how many country houses in England is spruce beer to be
found to-day?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_61" href="#FNanchor_61" class="label">[61]</a> The position of Frank Churchill—dependent on his uncle and
aunt, bound to humour their whims and wait on their pleasure—seems
never to have struck Jane Austen as unmanly and undesirable.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_62" href="#FNanchor_62" class="label">[62]</a> A striking illustration of what a good woman must suffer from
such a false step as that which Jane Fairfax had taken.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_63" href="#FNanchor_63" class="label">[63]</a> Emma has as much trouble in convincing her friends that she is
not attached to Frank Churchill, as Elizabeth Bennet found in persuading
her relations that she returned the affection of Darcy.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_64" href="#FNanchor_64" class="label">[64]</a> Mr. Knightley’s quiet superiority to public opinion in making
such a suggestion, is another fine point in a fine character.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_65" href="#FNanchor_65" class="label">[65]</a> Babies’ tiny caps have disappeared, like some other articles of
costume in Emma’s day. What would Mrs. Weston have thought
of the bald little polls which are now fearlessly exposed by mothers
and nurses?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_66" href="#FNanchor_66" class="label">[66]</a></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“They’ve robed that maid so poor and pale</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">In silks and samites rare;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And pearls for drops of frozen hail</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Are glistening in her hair.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p>
<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img010">
<img src="images/010.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="SENSE_AND_SENSIBILITY_AND">“SENSE AND SENSIBILITY,” AND
“MANSFIELD PARK.”</h2>
</div>


<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_o.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Of</span> the two novels for which I have not
found space here, the one belongs to
the first, and the other to the second
series of Jane Austen’s tales.</p>

<p>“Sense and Sensibility” in its
original form was, with the exception
perhaps of “Lady Susan,” the first
written of the author’s stories which
have come down to us. It has always seemed to me
inferior to the novels which follow it, though its writer
not only re-wrote it in her youth, but prepared it again
for the press in her mature years, and brought it out
before “Pride and Prejudice.” The astonishing precedence
thus given might, however, have been accidental,
or it might have been the result of the publisher’s
choice. It might also have been an instance of Jane
Austen’s confidence in her own powers and steadfastness
of purpose. Certainly she appears to have valued
“Sense and Sensibility” as highly as her other novels:
an example of the proverbial blindness of authors to
the proportion of merit in their own writings.</p>

<p>To say that “Sense and Sensibility” is inferior to
its companions is by no means to suggest that it is without
excellence. It has many of the attractions of Miss
Austen’s work. It is bright, clever, interesting and exceedingly
life-like. Here and there, as in the characters<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span>
of Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood, Mr. and Mrs.
Palmer, and Mrs. Jennings there is a good deal of the
author’s critical acumen and dry humour, yet they hardly
arrive at their subsequent perfection. Thus Mr. and Mrs.
Palmer, who are a little like Mr. and Mrs. Bennet in
their youth, lag behind that entertaining couple.</p>

<p>In accordance with the name,<a id="FNanchor_67" href="#Footnote_67" class="fnanchor">[67]</a> the story turns upon
the relative advantages and disadvantages of sense and
sensibility, the verdict being given, as might have been
expected from the author, in favour of sense.</p>

<p>Two sisters, Ellinor and Marianne Dashwood, equally
good, but the one full of quiet self-control, the other
of impetuous feeling, which she never seeks to restrain,
rather priding herself on its indulgence, as a proof of
the strength and depth of her opinions and affections,
have an oddly similar fate, being both in turn disappointed
in love, and in a manner jilted by their
respective lovers—Edward Ferrars, the reserved, sober-minded,
somewhat sad, young clergyman; and John
Willoughby, a frank, fervent, reckless young fellow,
the masculine type which matches with the style of girls
like Marianne Dashwood.</p>

<p>The causes and ends of the two sisters’ histories
are quite different from each other. And the happy
termination of Ellinor’s trials is not made a consequence
of her superior wisdom and moderation—a nice distinction,
with its appreciation of the facts of life, and of
the rewards and punishments which must be inward,
not outward, certainly remarkable in a young author.</p>

<p>Edward Ferrars’ unwitting injury to Ellinor proceeds
from his too great susceptibility to her attractions,
and his involuntary betrayal of his attachment
when he is thrown much in her company, while all
the time he is an unresisting victim to a foolish
youthful engagement. The lady is a pert, underbred
Lucy Steele, with an irrepressible sister Anne; both of
them determined not to lose sight of a great match for
Lucy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span></p>
<p>Willoughby, after a romantic introduction to Marianne,
first compromises himself by paying the most
marked attention to the girl; and then, to meet the
views of the relative on whom he is dependent, consents
to give her up with the most cruel abruptness and harshness,
and to pay his addresses to an heiress who is, in
every respect save her fortune, repugnant to him.</p>

<p>Ellinor, who is made painfully aware of her lover’s
entanglement by the cunning of Lucy Steele in selecting
the very girl whom Edward Ferrars prefers for her confidante,
behaves not merely with perfect honour, but
bears the mortification and grief with such gentle dignity
and patience, and such magnanimous consideration for
the unhappiness of Edward and the rights of Lucy, as
to rob her unhappiness of half its sting, and to escape
all humiliating exposure to the speculation and pity of
her friends and acquaintances.</p>

<p>Marianne—who, far from checking, has gloried in
Willoughby’s extravagant devotion, and has never
dreamt of concealing her answering devotion, which she
regards as his due—abandons herself in the same proportion
to incredulity, anguish, and despair on his desertion,
until her life nearly pays the forfeit, and she
has rendered herself an object either of ridicule or compassion
to her whole circle.</p>

<p>At last Edward Ferrars is released, without dishonour
on his part, from his rash engagement to Lucy
Steele, by that calculating young lady’s having found a
still better match in Edward’s less worthy brother, who
is, however, the favourite son of their rich, tyrannical
mother. The jilted man is thus free to consult his
heart, and lays his tithes and parsonage at the feet of
Ellinor Dashwood, who, on her part, is not too intolerant
to accept the offer.</p>

<p>Marianne is cured of her folly by the shock of the
illness which brings her to the brink of the grave, and
by such atonement as Willoughby can offer, in the
violence of his self-accusation and misery, when he
believes she is dying, really killed by his barbarity.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span>
He takes a long night’s journey to inquire for her, and
makes a clean breast to Ellinor of the reality of his love
for her sister, and his remorse for the ill usage which,
in his cowardliness and selfishness, he has inflicted on her.</p>

<p>Marianne Dashwood is so effectually cured—there
is much hope for the broken heart of eighteen—that
she listens before long, with gratitude and sympathy,
to the constant, tender suit of that Colonel Brandon
whom she had formerly laughed at and scorned as a
lover, because he had reached the advanced age of
thirty-five, had to take precautions against rheumatism,
and confessed to having, when a young man, suffered
from an unfortunate attachment; while Marianne Dashwood
has not believed hitherto in any love save first love.</p>

<p>The evil of the gushing sensibility or sentimentality
which, during the last century, girls were understood to
cherish till it disqualified them for sober duty and
rational behaviour, against which their mentors—whether
young, blooming, and arch, like Jane Austen when she
wrote “Sense and Sensibility,” or old, wrinkled, and
grave, like Dr. Gregory when he delivered his advice to
his daughters—were constantly warning young women,
has given place in many quarters in this nineteenth
century to a rollicking pretence of no feeling, a fast
assumption of hardness, heartlessness and utter carelessness.
Of the two evils the last would be the worse, if
we could believe in its being anything more than an
unlovely mask, in which bad manners and bad taste are
occasionally combined with morbid shyness and sensitiveness,
which, rather than betray themselves, assume
the guise of levity, worldly-mindedness, or stolid indifference.</p>

<p>But the old frantic manifestations of love, hatred,
and anguish are still to be found in a coarse, crude
enough fashion; and, strange to say, are welcomed when
found by the very readers who reprobate the existence in
their own breasts of a pin’s prick of the piled-up agonies
which they enjoy in print in not a few modern novels.</p>

<p>“Mansfield Park,” one of Jane Austen’s later tales,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span>
is also one of her best. The story is intended to show the
wrong and suffering, the positive moral taint produced
by an entirely worldly education—whether the worldliness
has been confined to practice in opposition to
principles, or whether the very principles have never
been inculcated, or have been presented in such a distorted
form as to lose all power for good.</p>

<p>The handsome, healthy, wealthy, well-born and well-bred
sons and daughters of Sir Thomas Bertram, of
Mansfield Park, have been fortunate in inheriting all
the good things of this life; and not the least fortunate
in possessing an honourable and upright father—though
his social prejudices and his partiality to his own flesh
and blood somewhat warp his judgment and dull his
perceptions—and a mother who, though an indolent,
self-indulgent woman, is utterly incapable of active
unkindness or wrong-doing.</p>

<p>The counteracting, overbalancing loss against so
much gain is, that the young Bertrams, with one exception,
have never learnt the first rudiments of self-denial
and self-restraint. Tom, Maria, and Julia Bertram,
under a thin varnish of polish and liveliness, are
thoroughly selfish, self-willed young people, not really
happy amidst all their advantages and the popularity
secured by them, and altogether unprepared for the temptations
and vicissitudes of life. Only Edmund Bertram—who,
as the younger son, brought up to fill the family
living, may by comparison have borne the yoke in his
youth—is manly, generous, and kind.</p>

<p>The Bertrams’ great friends, Henry and Mary Crawford,
who had been left as orphans to the care of an
uncle and aunt—of whom the first was one of the worst
specimens of the coarse and vicious naval officer<a id="FNanchor_68" href="#Footnote_68" class="fnanchor">[68]</a> of the
day, and the second had lived a cat-and-dog life with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span>
her husband—have missed what ought to have been the
firm foundation of the Bertrams’ characters.</p>

<p>No sacred sense of duty, no fine perception of rectitude
extending to word and thought, no unsullied purity
of tone, had been, even in theory, instilled into the
Crawfords by the couple who, with all their faults, had
still loved and petted the boy and girl entrusted to them;
and so had been in one sense armed with deadliest
weapons to destroy the children’s moral nature.</p>

<p>Henry and Mary Crawford have, according to a
graphic old saying, hung as they grew, without training,
unless in evil. They have been endowed with many
fine natural gifts and qualities, in addition to the accessories
of rank and wealth. With regard to the last,
Henry has a good estate in Norfolk, and Mary possesses
a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. In reference to
the first, Mary is a lovely brunette, as well as a witty,
merry, good-natured woman, who can play on the
harp and sing in the long summer evenings to distraction—so
far as young men are concerned. Henry,
though not handsome, has a good figure and “a fine
countenance,” by which old-fashioned phrase I understand
a highly agreeable and intelligent expression of
face. He is even wittier and more talented than his
sister, frank, equal to any difficult occasion of social
life, and capable of winning golden opinions in all;
a special treasure in a dull country house; “a charming
fellow”—in short, a very fascinating young man.</p>

<p>The two Crawfords present the fairest exterior on
first acquaintance. They are cast in an altogether
finer mould than Tom Bertram and his sisters, and are
fitted for better things by a subtle touch of their
author’s art. It takes time and trial to discover that
under the winning surface there is neither soundness
nor steadfastness: the very core is corrupt.</p>

<p>In broad contrast to the Crawfords and the Bertrams—all
save Edmund—are Fanny and William Price, the
daughter and son of the poor, worthless Lieutenant
of Marines. They have been called upon from their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span>
earliest childhood to be helpful, contented with little,
and self-forgetful. If Jane Austen dwelt somewhat
strongly in “Emma” on the blessings of prosperity, in
“Mansfield Park” she had already taught, and never with
greater effect, how sweet were the uses of adversity.</p>

<p>Probably, of all the author’s heroines, Fanny Price,
if not the most charming, is the greatest triumph of
genius, for one can hardly conceive two natures moulded
by circumstances more unlike than the life of Jane
Austen in her youth, and that of the timid, shrinking,
sickly Fanny Price. She comes as a humble <i>protégée</i>
to Mansfield Park, and has to endure all the well-meant
but somewhat oppressive patronage of Sir
Thomas, the perpetual fault-finding of her aunt Norris,
and the alternate condescension and snubbing of her
cousins—always excepting her champion, Edmund. But
a little later on, even Edmund turns without knowing
it against his little cousin, whom he has defended,
encouraged, and been fond of ever since she came to
Mansfield Park. For it is the worst heart-ache of all to
Fanny to see the cousin Edmund whom she has looked
up to, and loved all these years, about to throw himself
away on Mary Crawford, whom Fanny knows, by sure
instinct, to be unworthy of him. Edmund in his blindness
insists on making his friend-pupil the confidante of
his hopes and fears; nay, as if to add insult to injury, in
his affectionate zeal for his young cousin’s welfare, he
presses on her to accept the suit of another man.</p>

<p>So completely did Jane Austen realise all the softness
and sweetness, and yet the staunchness—all the
fragrant, white-violet-like charm of Fanny Price—so well
did the author describe the pangs of wounded love in the
tenderest of hearts—the meek mortification of a gentle
nature which bore no grudge against its enemies—the
pensive joys, the tremulous apprehensions of the situation—that
Archbishop Whately went near to asserting
the conviction that only a woman who had been
herself crossed in love could thus fully interpret her
heroine.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Norris—Fanny’s terrible Aunt Norris, with her
unslumbering activity, her restless meddling, her good
deeds done by proxy in the parsimony which was
stronger even than the love of rule, her doting indulgence
to the young Bertrams, her carping snappishness
to Fanny Price and her brother William—is an
unsurpassed representation of a domineering, time-serving,
radically harsh and mean nature, under all
its pretensions and self-deceptions, as well as an inimitable
piece of genteel comedy.</p>

<p>William Price—Fanny’s frank, light-hearted young
sailor brother—with his pride in his profession, and his
fondness for his sister, is also very good.</p>

<p>I do not wish to tell in a few words how Fanny
escaped the imminent peril of being won by Henry
Crawford. Indeed the peril, in the author’s fidelity
to nature, is so imminent, in spite of Fanny’s pre-engaged
affections—granting that they were hopeless—and
the reader is so enchanted with the flattered
young prince’s sudden keen appreciation of the neglected
Cinderella, that he or she is tempted against reason,
almost against conscience, to long that Henry Crawford’s
love may prevail over his levity, vanity, and lack
of settled principles, and earn its reward, rendering him
at once a better and a happier man.</p>

<p>But Jane Austen knew better, and the grievous sin
and shame which separate for ever Henry Crawford
and Fanny Price, is made to open Edmund Bertram’s
eyes to the moral gulf between his nature and that
of Mary Crawford, which, no less than his sister’s
degradation, simply renders it impossible for him to
marry Mary.</p>

<p>The obstacles between the couple, who have been
fitted for each other from the first, thus doubly swept
away, Jane Austen does not waste many words in
bringing them together, and leaving them happy for
ever afterwards.</p>

<p>The scenes during the private theatricals—when
Sir Thomas is lending dignified encouragement to Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span>
Crawford’s attentions to his niece, by giving a ball at
Mansfield Park—when Fanny is sent to pay her visit
to her home at Portsmouth, not so much to punish her
for her obstinate refusal of her gallant, undaunted lover,
as to teach her when she is well off, and how she ought
to prize the good fortune within her reach—are among
the best Jane Austen has painted.</p>

<p>Jane Austen had something of a parental affection
for her books. She wrote to a friend, whose little
daughter had been lately born, “I trust you will be
as glad to see my ‘Emma’ as I shall be to see your
Jemima.” She did not dismiss from her mind the
creatures of her fancy with the narrative in which they
had figured. She seemed to like to follow them in
imagination in the careers into which she had launched
them. They were real men and women<a id="FNanchor_69" href="#Footnote_69" class="fnanchor">[69]</a> to her. She
would, when asked, supply further particulars of the
history of some of these brain-children. Her friends
learned in this way that Anne Steele found a husband
in the doctor; that Kitty Bennet was satisfactorily
married to a clergyman near Pemberley, while Mary
obtained nothing higher than one of her Uncle Philip’s
clerks, and was content to be considered a star in
Meryton; that the considerable sum given by Mrs.
Norris to William Price was one pound; that the letters
placed by Frank Churchill before Jane Fairfax, which
she swept away unread, contained the one word
“<i>pardon!</i>” and that Mr. Woodhouse survived his
daughter’s marriage, and kept her and Mr. Knightley
from Donwell about two years.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_67" href="#FNanchor_67" class="label">[67]</a> Jane Austen must have had a partiality for alliteration.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_68" href="#FNanchor_68" class="label">[68]</a> In “Mansfield Park” it would seem as if Jane Austen impartially
afforded a glimpse in Admiral Crawford and Lieutenant Price—though,
to be sure, the last was only a lieutenant of marines—of the
dark side of the members of the naval profession, whose bright side
she illustrated, <i>con amore</i>, in William Price and in the naval officers in
“Persuasion.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_69" href="#FNanchor_69" class="label">[69]</a> Children and animals are as much in the background in Jane
Austen’s novels as they were in the society of her day.</p>

</div></div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span></p>
<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter"  id="img005b">
<img src="images/005.jpg" class="w50"  alt="decorative image">
</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="PERSUASION70">“PERSUASION.”<a id="FNanchor_70" href="#Footnote_70" class="fnanchor">[70]</a></h2>
</div>


<h3>I.</h3>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/dc_a.jpg" width="100" height="113" alt="">
</div>

<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">At</span> eighteen Anne Elliot, a pretty, gentle,
motherless girl, one of the three
daughters of a poor and proud baronet,
had met a gallant young naval officer,
a Lieutenant Wentworth, who had
paid ample homage to her attractions.
The couple had fallen very genuinely
and deeply in love. Their marriage
was impossible till the gentleman should rise in his profession,
or come home with prize-money. But Sir Walter
Elliot, more from indifference than indulgence to Anne,
would have permitted the engagement—entered into for
a brief space of mingled happiness and misery—to continue.
It was Lady Russell—Anne’s mother’s friend—who
interfered, and by her urgent representations of the
trials of a long engagement, and the sacrifice of the
man’s prospects, still more than those of the woman,
in a poor marriage, induced Anne to consent to the
engagement being broken off.</p>

<p>The couple parted in mutual sorrow, strongly dashed
by resentment on the gentleman’s side. They did not
meet, they hardly heard of each other again, for eight
years, during which the young officer followed his profession
and won honours and fortune; while the girl he
had loved lived on with her uncongenial relatives, and
passed, with more than usual rapidity, from blooming,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span>
light-hearted girlhood to pale, serious womanhood.<a id="FNanchor_71" href="#Footnote_71" class="fnanchor">[71]</a> In
the interval certainly she might have married, with the
approval of Lady Russell, who began to take alarm, and
grow less exacting for her favourite. But Anne refused
Charles Musgrove, younger, of Uppercross, who contented
himself afterwards with her sister Mary. This
event happened two years after the rupture with Lieutenant
Wentworth, and six or seven years before the
opening of the story. Since then, to Lady Russell’s
mortification, no desirable wooer had succeeded these
earlier suitors.</p>

<p>In the course of the thirteen years during which
Elizabeth Elliott, a handsome, cold-hearted woman, had
presided over Kellynch and her father’s house in London,
opened county balls, and taken the lead at county
dinner parties, Sir Walter, a foolish old coxcomb, had
managed to get into embarrassed circumstances. The
father and daughter had a capacity for spending, but
none for retrenchment; so that when economy became
absolutely necessary, the only feasible plan which presented
itself was for Sir Walter to let Kellynch, and
retire to Bath, where he could practise a certain amount
of display with less outlay. Lady Russell, the great
friend of the family, reluctantly advised this course.</p>

<p>The termination of the war is turning many naval
officers ashore, and Kellynch is soon let to an Admiral
Croft. On the first mention of him as a possible tenant
Sir Walter asks superciliously, “And who is Admiral
Croft?” and Anne joins in the conversation all at once,
volunteering the minute information, “He is Rear-admiral
of the White. He was on the Trafalgar
station, and has been in the East Indies since. He has
been stationed there, I believe, several years.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span></p>
<p>When it is nearly settled that Admiral Croft is
to come to Kellynch, Anne Elliott reflects sadly as she
paces her favourite walk, “A few months more, and <i>he</i>,
perhaps, may be walking here.” “He” is not Admiral
Croft, but his brother-in-law, Captain Wentworth.</p>

<p>When it is fixed that the Crofts are to come to
Kellynch, and the Elliots are to go to Bath, it is also
fixed that Anne is to pay visits to Lady Russell and
to young Mrs. Musgrove, before she joins the rest of
her family.</p>

<p>At Uppercross village there are the Great House,
occupied by the squire and his wife, with their numerous
younger children, prominent among whom are the
two pleasant girls, Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove, and
the Cottage where Charles Musgrove and his wife, Anne
Elliott’s sister, reside. Mrs. Charles, though selfish,
and not over-wise, is less destitute of family affection
than Elizabeth Elliot. Charles Musgrove is well-intentioned
and friendly, with more brains than his wife,
though the great object of his life is sport.</p>

<p>The Great House gaieties serve to enliven the family
life at the Cottage, for the Musgroves are extremely
popular, have a constant succession of neighbourly
visitors, give many dinner-parties, and even an occasional
unpremeditated little ball, because the girls are
“wild for dancing.”</p>

<p>Kellynch and Uppercross are near enough for visiting,
and the Musgroves have to call for the Crofts. Anne is
glad enough to be spared the visit, but she has no
objection to be at home during the return visit.</p>

<p>Admiral Croft and his wife, who has been almost
as much at sea as her husband—since these were the
days when entire domestic establishments were permitted,
to some extent, on board the ships in his
Majesty’s navy—show themselves frank, unaffected, and
cordial, as become their antecedents. Anne would have
heartily approved of Mrs. Croft, even though she had
not been prepossessed in her favour, and specially interested
in her, because of the opportunity of watching<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span>
for a likeness. The regard is extended to the bluff,
good-humoured admiral. Just one or two awkward
references are made. Mrs. Croft reminds Anne of her
acquaintance with the elder lady’s brother, but it turns
out to be Edward Wentworth, the clergyman, and not
Frederick, the sailor, to whom their sister refers. It
may be, also, the same Edward of whom the admiral
is thinking, when he remarks, “We are expecting a
brother of Mrs. Croft’s here soon,” and is prevented
from saying anything more.</p>

<p>But the next communication with one of the Misses
Musgrove proves it was not Edward who was the
coming brother. When the Crofts had called that
morning, they had happened to say her brother, Captain
Wentworth, just returned to England, or paid off, or
something, was coming to see them almost directly;
“and, most unluckily, it came into mamma’s head,
when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something
like it, was the name of poor Richard’s captain at one
time; I do not know when, or where, but a great
while before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking
over his letters and things she found it was so, and is
perfectly sure that this must be the very man; and her
head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard.”<a id="FNanchor_72" href="#Footnote_72" class="fnanchor">[72]</a></p>

<p>In a few days Captain Wentworth is at Kellynch.
Mr. Musgrove has fulfilled his intention of calling for
him, and it is by the merest chance that Anne and Mary,
in one of their daily visits to the Great House, have not
encountered Captain Wentworth paying his return visit.</p>

<p>The two sisters were stopped by a bad fall which one
of the children had, in which his collar-bone was dislocated,
and such alarming consequences apprehended for a
time, that Anne was entirely engrossed by the claims
upon her.</p>

<p>When the little boy is rather better, his young aunts
who have come to inquire for him are at liberty to speak
of some other person, and to try to express how perfectly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span>
delighted they are with Captain Wentworth—how
much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they think
him than any individual among their male acquaintances
who has been at all a favourite before; how glad they
are that he has promised, in reply to their papa and
mamma’s pressing invitation, to dine with them to-morrow.</p>

<p>To begin with, neither Charles Musgrove nor his
wife can think of leaving the child to join the dinner
party. But after the boy has passed a good night, and
the surgeon’s report is favourable, they—first the father
and then the mother—allow themselves to leave him, for
a few hours, in the care of his aunt.</p>

<p>Charles Musgrove and his wife come home delighted
with their new acquaintance. He is to shoot with
Charles Musgrove next morning. There had been some
mention of Captain Wentworth’s coming to breakfast at
the cottage, but he had been afraid of being in Mrs.
Charles Musgrove’s way on account of the child, and it
had been agreed that Charles should meet him at the
Great House instead.</p>

<p>Anne understands it. He wishes to avoid seeing her.
He has inquired for her slightly, as might suit a former
slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as
she had acknowledged, probably with the same view of
escaping an introduction when they do meet.</p>

<p>The morning hours of the Cottage were later than
those at the other house. Mary and Anne are only
beginning breakfast when Charles comes in for his dogs,
and announces that his sisters are following with Captain
Wentworth, who proposes to wait on Mrs. Charles Musgrove,
for a few minutes, if convenient; and though Charles
has answered for the state of the child, he would not be
satisfied without Charles’s running on to give notice.</p>

<p>Mary is full of gratification at the little attention,
“while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this
was the most consoling that it would soon be over. And
it was soon over. In two minutes after Charles’s preparation
the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span>
Her eye half met Captain Wentworth’s; a bow,
a curtsey passed. She heard his voice; he talked to
Mary, said all that was right, said something to the
Misses Musgrove, enough to mark an easy footing; the
room seemed full, full of persons and voices; but a
few minutes ended it. Charles showed himself at the
window. All was ready; their visitor had bowed and
was gone, the Misses Musgrove were gone too, suddenly
resolving to walk to the end of the village with the
sportsmen; the room was cleared, and Anne might finish
her breakfast as she could.”</p>

<p>“It is over! it is over!” she repeated to herself
again and again in nervous gratitude. “The worst is
over!”</p>

<p>After the Misses Musgrove have finished their visit
at the Cottage, Anne receives the spontaneous information
from Mary, “Captain Wentworth is not very
gallant by you, Anne, though he was so attentive
to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you
when they went away, and he said you were so altered
he should not have known you again.”</p>

<p>Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister’s
in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of
having inflicted any peculiar wound. She had been
a girl at school during Anne’s brief engagement, and
had never been made acquainted with it.</p>

<p>“Altered beyond his knowledge! Anne fully submitted
in silent, deep mortification. Doubtless it was
so, and she could take no revenge, for he was not
altered, or not for the worse, she had already acknowledged
it to herself, and she could not think differently,
let him think of her as he would. No; the years
which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only
given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no
respect lessening his personal advantages. She had
seen the same Frederick Wentworth.</p>

<p>“Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something
like them, but without an idea that they would
be carried round to her. He had thought her wretchedly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</span>
altered;<a id="FNanchor_73" href="#Footnote_73" class="fnanchor">[73]</a> in the first moment of appeal had spoken as
he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had
used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse,
she had shown a feebleness of character in doing so,
which his own decided, confident temper could not
endure. She had given him up to oblige others. It
had been the effects of over-persuasion. It had been
weakness and timidity.</p>

<p>“He had been most warmly attached to her, and had
never seen a woman since, whom he thought her equal;
but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he
had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with
him was gone for ever.</p>

<p>“It was now his object to marry. He was rich, and
being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon
as he could be properly tempted; actually looking
round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a
clear head and quick taste could allow. He had a
heart for either of the Misses Musgrove if they could
catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young
woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot.
This was his only secret exception.”</p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne
Elliot meet repeatedly in the same circle, and whatever
may have become of former feelings, former times are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</span>
inevitably alluded to in the conversation:—“That was
in the year ’six,” “That happened before I went to
sea in the year ’six,” he has occasion to say, the very
first evening they spend together, and though his voice
does not falter, while she has no reason to suppose his
eyes wander towards her, she knows what must be in
the minds of both.</p>

<p>“They had no conversation together, no intercourse
but what the commonest civility required. Once so
much to each other! now nothing! There had been a
time when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room
at Uppercross they would have found it most
difficult to cease to speak to one another, with the exception,
perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs. Croft, who
seemed particularly attached and happy (Anne would
allow no other exception, even among the married
couples), there could have been no two hearts so open,
no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances
so beloved. Now they were as strangers—nay,
worse than strangers, for they could never become
acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”</p>

<p>He is in the foreground, the greatest and best talker
present. Anne is in the background, silent, like</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>“One mute shadow, watching all.”</p>
</div>

<p>The pretty, sweet young daughter of Sir Walter
Elliot, whom Lieutenant Wentworth must have found
a person of some consequence, however unassuming in
her disposition, in the old society in which they mingled,
appears now an individual of very little moment, though
she is civilly treated, of course, even well liked, when
he meets her again, in the character of an unmarried
sister of Mrs. Charles Musgrove, at Uppercross.</p>

<p>Anne hears Captain Wentworth enlightening the
ignorance of the Misses Musgrove as to the manner of
living on board ship. “Their surprise at his accounts,
at learning the degree of accommodation and arrangement
which was practicable, drew from him some
pleasant ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</span>
when she, too, had been ignorant, and she, too, had been
accused of supposing sailors to be living without anything
to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or
any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.”</p>

<p>“It was a merry, joyous family party, and no one
seemed in higher spirits than Captain Wentworth. She
felt that he had everything to elevate him which general
attention and deference, and especially the attention of
all the young women, could do. The Misses Hayter (belonging
to a family of cousins of the Musgroves) were
apparently admitted to the honour of being in love with
him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they both
seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but
the continued appearance of the most perfect good-will
between themselves could have made it credible that they
were not decided rivals. If he were a little spoilt by such
universal, such eager admiration, who could wonder?”</p>

<p>These are some of the thoughts which occupy Anne
while her fingers are mechanically at work. <i>Once</i> she
feels he is looking at her, perhaps trying to find some
traces of the face which had formerly charmed him.
“<i>Once</i> she knew that he must have spoken of her; she
was hardly aware of it till she heard the answer, but then
she was sure of his having asked his partner whether
Miss Elliot never danced. The answer was ‘Oh, no!
never. She has quite given up dancing. She had rather
play. She is never tired of playing.’ <i>Once</i>, too, he
spoke to her. She had left the instrument on the
dancing being over, and he had sat down to try to make
out an air which he wished to give the Misses Musgrove
an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of
the room. He saw her, and instantly rising said, with
studied politeness, ‘I beg your pardon, madam, this is
your seat;’ and though she immediately drew back with
a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down
again.”</p>

<p>“Anne did not wish for more of such looks and
speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace,
were worse than anything.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</span></p>

<p>Captain Wentworth has come to Kellynch as to a
home, to stay as long as he likes. It is soon Uppercross
with him every day. There is one other person besides
Anne whose peace is likely to be disturbed by this
arrangement. Charles Hayter, the eldest of the humble
cousins of the Musgroves, had received a college education
and taken orders. As the heir of his father’s small
property, he is also more on an equality socially with the
Musgroves than his brothers and sisters could hope to
be. He is an agreeable, amiable young man, and there
has been some appearance of an attachment between him
and Henrietta Musgrove. “Her parents have not objected.
It will not be a great match for Henrietta; but if
Henrietta likes him—and Henrietta did like him till
Captain Wentworth came, when cousin Charles has been
very much forgotten.”</p>

<p>It is at this stage of the proceedings that Charles
Hayter returns from a fortnight’s absence to find Captain
Wentworth engrossing the attention of the Misses Musgrove,
with their interest in their cousin’s prospect of
securing a particular curacy eclipsed by more exciting
speculations. Even Henrietta has nothing better to
spare than a hurried “Well, I am very glad indeed, but
I always thought you would have it. In short, you
knew Dr. Shirley must have a curate, and you had his
promise. Is he coming, Louisa?”—to her sister, who
is at a window, looking out for Captain Wentworth.</p>

<p>One morning Captain Wentworth walks into the
drawing-room at the Cottage, when there are only Anne
and the little invalid Charles, who is lying on the sofa.</p>

<p>“The surprise of finding himself almost alone with
Anne Elliot deprived his manners of their usual composure.
He started, and could only say, ‘I thought the
Misses Musgrove had been here; Mrs. Musgrove told me
I should find them here,’ before he walked to the window
to recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave.”</p>

<p>“They are up stairs with my sister; they will be
down in a few moments, I dare say,” had been Anne’s
reply, in all the confusion that was natural, and if the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</span>
child had not called her to come and do something for
him she would have been out of the room the next
moment, and released Captain Wentworth as well as
herself.</p>

<p>“He continued at the window; and after calmly and
politely saying, ‘I hope the little boy is better,’ was
silent.”</p>

<p>“She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa,
and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they
continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction,
she heard some other person crossing the little
vestibule. She hoped on turning her head to see the
master of the house, but it proved to be one much less
calculated for making matters easy—Charles Hayter—probably
not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain
Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the
sight of Anne.”</p>

<p>“She only attempted to say, ‘How do you do? Will
you not sit down? The others will be here presently.’”</p>

<p>“Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window,
apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but
Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by
seating himself near the table and taking up the newspaper,
and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.”</p>

<p>“Another minute brought another addition. The
younger boy, a remarkably stout, forward child of two
years old, having got the door opened for him by some
one without, made his determined appearance among
them, and went straight to the sofa to see what was
going on, and put in his claim to anything good that
might be given away.</p>

<p>“There being nothing to eat, he could only have
some play; and as his aunt would not let him tease
his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon her,
as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about
Charles, she could not shake him off. She spoke to
him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain. Once
she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the
greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</span></p>

<p>“‘Walter,’ said she, ‘get down this moment. You
are extremely troublesome. I am very angry with
you.’</p>

<p>“‘Walter,’ cried Charles Hayter, ‘why do you not
do as you are bid? Do not you hear your aunt speak?
Come to me, Walter; come to cousin Charles.’</p>

<p>“But not a bit did Walter stir.</p>

<p>“In another moment, however, she found herself in
the state of being released from him; some one was
taking him from her, though he had bent down her
head so much, that his little sturdy arms were unfastened
from around her neck, and he was resolutely
borne away before she knew that Captain Wentworth
had done it.”</p>

<p>She cannot even thank him, she can only hang over
little Charles, while the conviction is forced upon her,
from the noise which Captain Wentworth is studiously
making with the other child, that her thanks and her
conversation are the last of his wants, till the entrance
of Mary and the Misses Musgrove enables her to leave
the room.</p>

<p>Anne Elliot has soon been often enough in the company
of Charles Hayter and Captain Wentworth,
Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove, to warrant her in
forming her own conclusions. Louisa may be rather the
favourite with Captain Wentworth, but, as far as Anne
dares to judge from memory and experience, he is not in
love either with Louisa or Henrietta. “They were
more in love with him; yet there, it was not love. It
was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably
must, end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed
aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes
the air of being divided between them.”</p>

<p>After a short struggle, Charles Hayter appears to quit
the field. Three days have passed without his coming to
Uppercross. He has even refused one regular invitation
to dinner, and Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove chancing to see
their nephew with some big books before him, talk with
a grave face of his studying himself to death.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</span></p>

<p>The sisters from the Great House call one day, when
Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth have gone out
shooting together, for the sisters at the Cottage as they
are sitting quietly at work. It is a fine November day,
and the Misses Musgrove have only come in, according to
the inconvenient habit of the two families which makes it
necessary to do everything in common, just as they are
setting out for a long walk, in which, they suppose Mary
will not care to join them.</p>

<p>Mary, who generally gives herself out as half an
invalid, resents the imputation on her walking powers,
and declares she would like to accompany her sisters-in-law;
she is very fond of a long walk.</p>

<p>Anne sees the glances of annoyance which pass
between the girls, and does her best to keep her sister at
home. When she cannot prevail, as the next best thing
she accepts the Misses Musgrove’s invitation to go also,
that she may be useful in turning back with her sister.</p>

<p>At the moment of starting the gentlemen return.
They had taken out a young dog which had spoilt their
sport. They are exactly ready for this walk.</p>

<p>After the walking party have gone some distance,
Anne is tempted to say, “Is not this one of the ways to
Winthrop?” (the Hayters’ place), but nobody hears, or,
at least, nobody answers her, till Winthrop, without
beauty and without dignity, is stretched before them, an
indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the
barns and buildings of a farmyard.</p>

<p>Mary exclaims, “Bless me! here is Winthrop, I
declare; I had no idea!” then announces herself excessively
tired, and proposes turning back. Henrietta,
conscious and ashamed, seeing no cousin Charles walking
along any path, or leaning against any gate, is ready to
do as Mary wishes; but “No!” says Charles Musgrove,
and “No, no!” cries Louisa, still more energetically,
and taking her sister aside, seems to remonstrate with
her warmly. Charles declares his intention of calling on
his aunt when he is so near, and tries to induce his wife
to go too. But the lady is unmanageable. The difficulty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</span>
is settled between the brother and sisters: Charles and
Henrietta are to run down for a few moments to see
their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party wait
for them at the top of the hill.</p>

<p>Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the
step of a stile, is very well satisfied so long as the others
stand about her, but when Louisa draws Captain Wentworth
away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining
hedgerow, and they go by degrees out of sight and
sound, Mary is happy no longer. She is sure Louisa has
got a better seat, and follows without finding her. Anne
sees another nice seat for her sister, on a sunny bank
under the hedgerow, but Mary quarrels with that also,
and leaves Anne in possession. Anne is really tired, and
sits on till she hears Captain Wentworth and Louisa
in the hedgerow behind her, as if making their way back
in the rough, wild sort of channel down the centre.</p>

<p>“Louisa’s first audible words showed that she was
confiding to Captain Wentworth the secret of the walk,
so far as it concerned herself and her sister, with a good
deal more of the family history which explained the
secret. “And so I made her go,” Anne heard Louisa
say. “I could not bear that she should be frightened
from the visit by such nonsense. What! would I be
turned back from doing a thing I had determined to do,
and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference
of such a person, or of any person, I may say?””</p>

<p>“She would have turned back then, but for you!”</p>

<p>“She would; indeed; I am almost ashamed to say
it.”</p>

<p>“Happy for her to have such a mind as yours at
hand,” exclaimed Captain Wentworth, hastily. “Woe
betide him and her, too, when it comes to things of
consequence, when they are placed in circumstances
requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have
not resolution enough to resist idle interference in such
a trifle as this.” He dwells emphatically on the importance
of firmness in all the relations of life, and
winds up with the declaration: “My first wish for all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</span>
whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.
If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in
her November of life, she will cherish all her present
powers of mind.”</p>

<p>“He had done and was unanswered. It would
have surprised Anne if Louisa could have readily
answered such a speech; words of such interest, spoken
with such serious warmth. She could imagine what
Louisa was feeling. For herself, she feared to move
lest she should be seen. While she remained a bush of
low rambling holly protected her, and they were moving
on. Before they were beyond her hearing, Louisa spoke
again.”</p>

<p>“Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,”
said she; “but she does sometimes provoke me excessively
with her nonsense and her pride—the Elliot pride.
She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride. We
do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead. I
suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne?”</p>

<p>After a moment’s pause, Captain Wentworth said,
“Do you mean that she refused him?”</p>

<p>“Oh! yes, certainly.”</p>

<p>“When did that happen?”</p>

<p>“I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were
at school at the time; but I believe about a year before
he married Mary. We should all have liked her a great
deal better; and papa and mamma always think it was
her great friend Lady Russell’s doing that she did not.
They think Charles might not be learned and bookish
enough to please Lady Russell, and that, therefore, she
persuaded Anne to refuse him.”</p>

<p>This was a travesty of the real state of matters
with a vengeance; and there had been just that degree
of feeling and curiosity about her in Captain Wentworth’s
manner which must give Anne extreme agitation
and keep her rooted to the spot, though she heard
no more.</p>

<p>As soon as she could she went after Mary, and it is
a relief when all the party are again collected, with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</span>
addition of Charles Hayter, whom Charles Musgrove
and Henrietta brought back with them as might have
been conjectured. There had been a withdrawing on
the gentleman’s side, a relenting on the lady’s, and they
are very glad to be together again. Henrietta looks a
little ashamed but very well pleased, Charles Hayter
exceedingly happy, and they are devoted to each other
on their way back to Uppercross.</p>

<p>Everything now marks out Louisa for Captain
Wentworth, and they walk side by side nearly as much
as the other two. The party are thus separated into
three divisions, with Anne tired enough to be very glad
of Charles Musgrove’s disengaged arm. “But Charles,
though in very good humour with her, was out of
temper with his wife. Mary had shown herself disobliging
to him, and was now to reap the consequence,
which consequence was his dropping her arm almost
every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in
the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to
complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according
to custom, in being on the hedge-side, while Anne was
never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of
both, to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary
glimpse of, and they could hardly get him along at
all.” This boyish mode of expressing a pet is exquisitely
characteristic of the ordinarily easy-going young fellow.</p>

<p>“The long meadow bordered a lane which their footpath,
at the end of it, was to cross, and when the
party had all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing
in the same direction, which had been some
time heard, was just coming up, and proved to be
Admiral Croft’s gig. He and his wife had taken their
intended drive and were returning home. Upon hearing
how long a walk the young people had engaged in,
they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be
particularly tired; it would save her full a mile, and
they were going through Uppercross. The invitation
was general, and generally declined. The Misses Musgrove
were not all tired, and Mary was either offended<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</span>
by not being asked before any of the others, or what
Louisa called the Elliot pride could not endure to make
a third in a one-horse chaise.</p>

<p>“The walking party had crossed the lane and were
surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was
putting his horse into motion again, when Captain
Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something
to his sister. The something might be guessed
by its effects.</p>

<p>“‘Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired,’ cried Mrs.
Croft; ‘do let us have the pleasure of taking you
home?’</p>

<p>“Anne was still in the lane, and though instinctively
beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed.
The Admiral’s kind urgency came in support of his
wife’s, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word,
turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted
into the carriage.</p>

<p>“Yes, he had done it; she was in the carriage, and
felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his
hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of
her fatigue and his resolution to give her rest. He
could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling.
Though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming
attached to another, still he could not see her suffer
without the desire of giving her relief.”</p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>Captain Wentworth learns that there is an old mess-mate
with his family settled for the winter at Lyme.
He goes to visit them, and comes back with such a glowing
description of the beautiful neighbourhood that the
young people at Uppercross are all eager to see it.
Although it is so late in the season, a party is made up,
consisting of Charles Musgrove, Mary, Anne, Henrietta,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</span>
Louisa, and Captain Wentworth, to drive to Lyme, stay
the night there, and come back for next day’s dinner.
It is in connection with Lyme that we have Jane Austen’s
most finished bit of descriptive landscape-painting. Full
of appreciation as it reads, it is sober and restrained
indeed, contrasted with modern word-painting of sea and
shore and sky. “The remarkable situation of the town,
the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the
walk to the Cobbe skirting round the pleasant little bay,
which in the season is animated with bathing machines
and company; the Cobbe itself, its old wonders and new
improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs
stretching out to the east of the town, are what the
stranger’s eye will seek; and a very strange stranger it
must be who does not see charms in the immediate
environs of Lyme to make him wish to know it better.
The scenes in its neighbourhood,—Charmouth, with its
high grounds and extensive sweeps of country, and still
more its sweet retired bay, backed by dark cliffs, where
fragments of low rock among the sands make it the
happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for
sitting in unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties
of the cheerful village of Up-Lyme; and, above all,
Pinney, with its green chasms between romantic rocks,
where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant
growth declare that many a generation must have passed
away since the first partial falling of the cliff prepared
the ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful
and so lovely is exhibited as may more than equal any
of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of Wight;—these
places must be visited again and again to make
the worth of Lyme understood.”</p>

<p>Not only Captain Harville, Captain Wentworth’s
friend, and his wife are brought by Captain Wentworth
to be introduced to his companions; Captain Benwick,
another old friend, accompanies the others. Captain
Benwick has a sad little history which renders him
especially interesting. He had been engaged to Captain
Harville’s sister, and is still mourning her loss. “They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</span>
had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion.
Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being
great. Promotion, too, came <i>at last</i>; but Fanny did not
live to know it. She had died the preceding summer
when he was at sea.”</p>

<p>“And yet,” said Anne to herself, “he has not,
perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have.”</p>

<p>Captain Harville, who looks sensible and benevolent,
is delicate and lame. Captain Benwick has a pleasing
face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have.
Mrs. Harville shows the same good feeling as her husband,
and nothing can be more pleasant than their desire
to consider the whole party as friends of their own.</p>

<p>Captains Harville and Benwick pay a visit to the inn
in the evening. Captain Benwick’s spirits do not seem
fit for the mirth of the party, and Anne kindly talks to
him of their favourite books.</p>

<p>Anne and Henrietta, the earliest risers next morning,
agree to take a stroll down to the sea before breakfast.
Captain Wentworth and Louisa come after the two
others. As they are all returning to town, at the steps
leading up from the beach, a gentleman about to
descend, politely draws back and waits. As they pass
him Anne’s face catches his eye, and he looks at her with
evident admiration. “She was looking remarkably well;
her very regular, very pretty features having the bloom
and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which
had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation
of eye which it had produced. It was evident that
the gentleman (completely a gentleman in manners)
admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked
round at her instantly in a way which showed his noticing
it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness,
which seemed to say, ‘That man is struck with
you, and even I at this moment see something like
Anne Elliot again.’”</p>

<p>After the party have returned to the inn, Anne, in
passing quickly from her own room to the dining-room,
had nearly run against the same gentleman as he came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</span>
out of an adjoining apartment. “This second meeting,
short as it was, also proved again, by the gentleman’s
looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the
readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a
man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about
thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable
person. Anne felt that she should like to know who
he was.”</p>

<p>“They had nearly done breakfast when the sound
of a carriage, almost the first they had heard since
entering Lyme, drew half the party to the window. It
was a gentleman’s carriage, a curricle, but only coming
round from the stable-yard to the front door. Somebody
must be going away. It was driven by a servant
in mourning.</p>

<p>“The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump
up, that he might compare it with his own; and the
whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner
of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door,
amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and
taking his seat to drive off.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and
with half a glance at Anne, “it is the very man we
passed.”</p>

<p>“The waiter came into the room soon afterwards.</p>

<p>“‘Pray,’ said Captain Wentworth, immediately,
‘can you tell us the name of the gentleman who has
just gone away?’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, sir, a Mr. Elliot, a gentleman of large
fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth, and going
on now for Crewkerne, on his way to Bath and
London.’</p>

<p>“‘Elliot!’ Many had looked at each other, and
many had repeated the name before all this had been
got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter.</p>

<p>“‘Bless me!’ cried Mary; ‘it must be our cousin,
it must be our Mr. Elliot, it must, indeed!—Charles,
Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our
Mr. Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</span>
same inn with us, Anne; must not it be our Mr. Elliot,
my father’s next heir? Pray, sir,’ turning to the waiter,
‘did not you hear—did not his servant say—whether he
belonged to the Kellynch family?’</p>

<p>“‘No, ma’am; he did not mention no particular
family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman,
and would be a baronight, some day.’</p>

<p>“‘There, you see,’ cried Mary, in an ecstacy, ‘just
as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that
would come out, if it was so! Depend upon it, that is
a circumstance which his servants take care to publish,
wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!
I wish I had looked at him more. I
wish we had been aware in time who it was, that he
might have been introduced to us. What a pity that
we should not have been introduced to each other! Do
you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly
looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think
he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder
the arms did not strike me. Oh! the great-coat was
hanging over the panel, and hid the arms—so it did;
otherwise, I am sure I should have observed them, and
the livery, too. If the servant had not been in mourning,
one should have known him by the livery.’</p>

<p>“‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances
together,’ said Captain Wentworth, ‘we must consider
it to be the arrangement of Providence that you should
not be introduced to your cousin.’”</p>

<p>Though Anne tries to quiet Mary by reminding her
of the terms on which her father is with his heir, still it
is a secret gratification to have seen her cousin, and to
know that the future owner of Kellynch is undoubtedly
a gentleman, and has an air of good sense.</p>

<p>Breakfast over, Captain and Mrs. Harville, with
Captain Benwick, arrive to join the visitors in their last
walk about Lyme.</p>

<p>Captain Harville says aside to Anne that she has
done a good deed in making that “poor fellow,” Captain
Benwick, talk so much.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</span></p>

<p>Anne reminds him gently of what time does in
every case of affliction, and remarks that Captain
Benwick’s is still of a recent date, only last summer.</p>

<p>“Ay, true enough,” with a deep sigh, “only June.”</p>

<p>“And not known to him, perhaps, so soon?”</p>

<p>“Not till the first week in August, when he came
home from the Cape, just made into the <i>Grappler</i>. I
was at Plymouth, dreading to hear of him; he sent in
letters, but the <i>Grappler</i> was under orders for Portsmouth.
There the news must follow him, but who was
to tell it? Not I. I would as soon be run up to the
yard-arm. Nobody could do it but that good fellow”
(pointing to Captain Wentworth). “The <i>Laconia</i> had
come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her
being sent to sea again. He stood his chance for the
risk; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting
the return, travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth,
rowed off to the <i>Grappler</i> that instant, and never
left the poor fellow for a week. That’s what he did,
and nobody else could have saved poor James. You may
think, Miss Elliott, whether he is dear to us!”</p>

<p>The pleasure-seekers part with the Harvilles at their
own door, and turn at the special request of Louisa
Musgrove, with only Captain Benwick attending them to
the last, to walk along the Cobbe once more, before setting
out for Uppercross.</p>

<p>“There was too much wind to make the high part of
the new Cobbe pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to
get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented
to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight excepting
Louisa; she must be jumped down them by
Captain Wentworth. In all their walks he had had to
jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful
to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet
made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did
it, however, she was safely down, and instantly to show
her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down
again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too
great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</span>
smiled and said, ‘I am determined I will;’ he put out
his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she
fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobbe, and was taken
up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible
bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her
face was like death. The horror of that moment to all
that stood around!</p>

<p>“Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt
with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid
as her own, in an agony of silence. ‘She is dead!
She is dead!’ screamed Mary, catching hold of her
husband, and contributing with his own horror to make
him immovable; and in another moment Henrietta,
sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and
would have fallen on the steps but for Captain Benwick
and Anne, who caught and supported her between them.”</p>

<p>“‘Is there no one to help me?’ were the first words
which burst from Captain Wentworth in a tone of
despair, and as if all his own strength were gone.</p>

<p>“‘Go to him! go to him!’ cried Anne; ‘for Heaven’s
sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave
me and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples!
here are salts;<a id="FNanchor_74" href="#Footnote_74" class="fnanchor">[74]</a> take them, take them!’”</p>

<p>Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same
moment disengaging himself from his wife, they were
both with him, and Louisa was raised up and supported
more firmly between them, and everything was done that
Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth,
staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed,
in the bitterest agony, “Oh, God! her father
and mother!”</p>

<p>“A surgeon!” said Anne. He caught the word;
it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only, “True,
true, a surgeon this instant,” was darting away, when
Anne eagerly suggested—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</span></p>
<p>“Captain Benwick! would it not be better for
Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be
found.”</p>

<p>“Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of
the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid
moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like
figure entirely to the brother’s care, and was off for
the town with the utmost rapidity.</p>

<p>“As to the wretched party left behind, it could
scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely
rational, was suffering most; Captain Wentworth, Anne,
and Charles who, really a very affectionate brother, hung
over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his
eyes from one sister to see the other in a state as insensible,
or to witness the hysterical agitation of his wife,
calling on him for help which he could not give.</p>

<p>“Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal and
thought which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried
at intervals to suggest comfort to the others, tried to
quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings
of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for
directions.<a id="FNanchor_75" href="#Footnote_75" class="fnanchor">[75]</a></p>

<p>“‘Anne, Anne!’ cried Charles, ‘what is to be done
next? What, in Heaven’s name, is to be done
next?’</p>

<p>“Captain Wentworth’s eyes were also turned towards
her.</p>

<p>“‘Had she not better be carried to the inn? Yes,
I am sure; carry her gently to the inn.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, yes, to the inn,’ repeated Captain Wentworth,
comparatively collected and eager to be doing
something. ‘I will carry her myself.’”</p>

<p>The Harvilles meet the melancholy cavalcade, and
Louisa is carried to their house instead of to the inn.
A surgeon pronounces that her limbs have escaped, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</span>
though there is concussion of the brain, the case is not
by any means hopeless.</p>

<p>In the end, Captain Wentworth, Henrietta Musgrove,
and Anne return to Uppercross to break the news
of the accident to the old Musgroves, while Charles and
Mary remain with the sufferer.</p>

<p>“It was growing quite dusk, however, before the
travellers were in the neighbourhood of Uppercross,
and there had been total silence among them for some
time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl
over her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself
to sleep; when, as they were going up their last
hill, Anne found herself all at once addressed by Captain
Wentworth. In a low, cautious voice, he said, “I
have been considering what we had best do. She must
not appear at first. She could not stand it. I have
been thinking whether you had not better remain in the
carriage with her while I go in and break it to Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove. Do you think this a good plan?”</p>

<p>“She did; he was satisfied and said no more. But
the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to
her, as a proof of friendship and of deference for her
judgment; a great pleasure, and when it became a sort
of parting proof its value did not lessen.</p>

<p>“When the distressing communication at Uppercross
was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite
as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the
better for being with them, he announced his intention
of returning in the same carriage to Lyme, and when
the horses were baited, he was off.”</p>

<p>Anne only remains two days longer at Uppercross
with the Musgroves. The accounts which Charles
Musgrove brings of Louisa are favourable on the whole.
A speedy cure cannot be looked for, but she is going on
as well as can be expected. The Harvilles are kindness
itself.</p>

<p>Anne persuades Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta
to join the others by going into lodgings at Lyme.
They can at least be of use by taking care of the Harville<span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</span>
children. “They were so happy in the decision
that Anne was delighted with what she had done, and
felt that she could not spend her last morning at Uppercross
better, than in assisting their preparations and
sending them off at an early hour, though her being left
to the solitary range of the house was the consequence.</p>

<p>“She was the last, excepting the little boys, at the
Cottage; she was the very last, the only remaining one
of all that had filled and animated both houses, of all
that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A
few days had made a change indeed.</p>

<p>“If Louisa recovered, it would all be the same, more
than former happiness would be restored. There could
not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what
would follow her recovery. A few months hence, and
the rooms now deserted, occupied but by her silent,
pensive self, might be filled again with all that was
happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright in
prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne Elliot.”</p>

<p>I think my readers will endorse the cordial praise
bestowed by Captain Harville on Anne at a later part of
the story: “good soul!” The simple words may be
lightly esteemed, as they are frequently bestowed indiscriminately
and contemptuously—and what a lowered
standard of morality the contempt involves—but how
much they imply. Good, true, courageous, christian
Anne Elliot, true to herself, to Captain Wentworth, to
Louisa Musgrove, to every living creature! Anne
Elliot is worth scores—hundreds—of the outrageous,
reckless, self-indulgent, and idiotic heroines frequently
held up for admiration and imitation.</p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>At Kellynch Lodge, with Lady Russell, Anne has to
fall into a new, or rather an old set of interests, in which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</span>
the house her father has taken in Camden Place, Bath,
and the disagreeable fact that Mrs. Clay, the daughter
of Sir Walter Elliott’s agent, and a humble companion of
Elizabeth, is still on a visit there, figure prominently;
while Anne’s thoughts are still hovering, in spite of
herself, about Lyme and her friends there.</p>

<p>Elizabeth Elliott’s last letter to Kellynch Lodge has
communicated an unexpected piece of news of some
interest. There has been a reconciliation between the
head of the house and his heir. Mr. Elliot is in Bath,
and has called more than once or twice in Camden Place.
If Elizabeth and her father are right, he is now as
anxious to renew and proclaim the connexion as he had
formerly been to treat it with scorn.</p>

<p>A degree of unlooked-for warmth in the welcome
home which Anne receives does her good, but Jane
Austen is careful to mention that Anne’s father and
sister are glad to see her for the sake of showing her
the house and furniture. Besides, they are unwontedly
happy in finding themselves people of consequence in
Bath, and in receiving once more the attentions of
Mr. Elliot. He is now everything and without a fault
in his cousins’ eyes. Even the old offence of his marriage—when
Sir Walter had destined him for Elizabeth,
and Elizabeth had fully acquiesced in the arrangement—has
been partly smoothed away. A friend of Mr.
Elliot’s, a Colonel Wallis, whom Mr. Elliot has introduced
to Sir Walter, mentions in confidence various
particulars which soften the delinquency. The late
Mrs. Elliot had not been a woman of family, but she
had been a very fine woman, with a large fortune, excessively
in love with her husband.</p>

<p>Anne is rendered very uneasy by Mrs. Clay’s protracted
stay in Camden Place, and by the increasing
influence she is gaining over her host as well as over his
eldest daughter. That Mrs. Clay cherishes designs of
becoming Lady Elliot, opposed as the match might seem
to Sir Walter’s vanity and conceit, Anne does not
doubt, and she begins to fear more and more that Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</span>
Clay’s designs may prove successful. How relentlessly
Anne is made to gauge her father’s character is shown
by the impetus given to her fears, in the course of a
conversation with him. He has just complimented Anne
on her greater clearness and freshness of complexion,
and attributed the improvement to Gowland’s Lotion.
On her saying she uses no lotion, he expresses his
surprise. She cannot do better than she is doing,
otherwise he would recommend Gowland—the constant
use of Gowland during the spring. Mrs. Clay has been
using it at his recommendation, and Anne can see what
it has done for her; Anne can see how it has carried
away her freckles.</p>

<p>The most alarming symptom of all is, that it does
not appear to Anne Mrs. Clay’s freckles are lessened.</p>

<p>But there is no use in warning Elizabeth, without
whose countenance Mrs. Clay could not stay on in
Camden Place. Mrs. Clay’s flattery infatuates Elizabeth,
and in any circumstances she would have been
incapable of accepting beforehand a suggestion so
injurious and disagreeable to her, especially if it came
from her sister Anne.</p>

<p>Lady Russell is quite won by Mr. Elliot, whose
steadiness of character and coolness of judgment, in
addition to what she believes to be his high principles
and warmth of heart, unite all the recommendations
which she prizes most highly. She is delighted to
find that his previous marriage—suspected to have been
an unhappy one—has not soured him, or prevented him
from thinking of another wife—not in the person of
Elizabeth, but in that of Anne Elliot, as is soon plain
to Lady Russell. She rejoices to believe that Anne
is at last done justice to, in becoming the object of Mr.
Elliot’s constant presence in Camden Place. Anne, in
her turn, allows herself to be more and more pleased with
her cousin’s good qualities and friendship, although she
still retains doubts of the consistency of his sentiments
and behaviour, and of the motives which actuate him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</span></p>


<h3>V.</h3>

<p>A grand triumph is provided for Sir Walter and his
eldest daughter, which in the meantime may happily
prove a distraction and protection to the former from
the arts of Mrs. Clay. “The Bath paper one morning
announced the arrival of the Dowager Viscountess
Dalrymple and her daughter, the Honourable Miss
Carteret, and all the comfort of No. —, Camden
Place, was swept away for many days; for the Dalrymples
(in Anne’s opinion, most unfortunately) were
cousins of the Elliots, and the agony was how to introduce
themselves properly.”</p>

<p>The feat is accomplished, and the Elliots visit in
Laura Place, where the Dowager Viscountess has established
herself. They have the cards of the Dowager
Viscountess Dalrymple and the Honourable Miss
Carteret to be arranged wherever they may be most
visible, and “our cousins in Laura Place,” “our
cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret,” are
talked of to everybody.</p>

<p>While Sir Walter and Elizabeth Elliot are sedulously
cultivating their noble cousins, Anne, in broad
contrast to her father and sister, is gladly renewing
her acquaintance with an old schoolfellow whom she
discovers in Bath in reduced circumstances: Mrs. Smith,
as Miss Hamilton, had been kind to Anne Elliot, and
now it is Anne’s turn to repay the kindness. Mrs.
Smith is a widow, and poor. She is also for the present
a complete cripple from the effects of rheumatic fever,
though she is not more than thirty-one years of age.
She has come to Bath on account of her lameness, and
is living in a humble way near the hot baths. A
mutual friend makes Anne acquainted with the position
of her former schoolfellow. The first meeting is
awkward and painful. Twelve years have changed
Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen,
to the elegant little woman of eight-and-twenty; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</span>
twelve years have transformed the fine-looking, well-grown
Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and
confidence of prosperity, into a poor, infirm, helpless
widow.</p>

<p>But soon the old interest which the girl-friends had
felt in each other, revives. Anne finds Mrs. Smith sensible
and agreeable, and has reason to admire in her
“that elasticity of spirit, that disposition to be comforted,
that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of
finding employment out of herself, which is the choicest
gift of Heaven.”<a id="FNanchor_76" href="#Footnote_76" class="fnanchor">[76]</a></p>

<p>It is February, a month since Anne had come to
Bath. She is eager for news from Uppercross, when a
thicker letter than usual is delivered to her from Mary,
with Admiral and Mrs. Croft’s compliments. The Crofts
must be in Bath.</p>

<p>Mary begins in her usual strain, with many grievances,
congratulating herself, however, that the holidays
are over. She believes no children ever had such long
holidays as the young Musgroves have. The carriage
has gone that day to bring Louisa and the Harvilles on
the following day. Charles and Mary are not invited to
dine with them, however, till the day after, and so on,
to the close. But Mary has put the letter into an envelope
containing as much more writing, which like the
typical postscript is the cream of the epistle:—“I have
something to communicate that will astonish you not a
little. She (Louisa) and the Harvilles came on Tuesday
very safely, and in the evening we went to ask how she
did; when we were rather surprised not to find Captain
Benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as
the Harvilles; and what do you think was the reason?
Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa,
and not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</span>
an answer from Mr. Musgrove; for it was all settled
between him and her before she came away, and he had
written to her father by Captain Harville. True, upon
my honour! Are you not astonished? I shall be surprised
at least if you ever received a hint of it, for I
never did. Mrs. Musgrove protests solemnly that she
knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well
pleased, however; for though it is not equal to her
marrying Captain Wentworth, it is infinitely better than
Charles Hayter; and Mr. Musgrove has written his
consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs.
Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor
sister’s account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite
with both. Indeed, Mrs. Harville and I quite agree
that we love her the better for having nursed her.
Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but
if you remember I never thought him attached to Louisa;
I never could see anything of it. And this is the end,
you see, of Captain Benwick’s being supposed to be an
admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a thing
into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I
hope he will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a
great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times
better than marrying amongst the Hayters.”</p>

<p>“Mary need not have feared her sister’s being in any
degree prepared for the news. She had never in her life
been more astonished. Captain Benwick and Louisa
Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief, and
it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in
the room, preserve an air of calmness, and endure the
common questions of the moment.”</p>

<p>“In her own room she tried to comprehend it. Well
might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would
feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given
Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not
love her. She could not endure the idea of treachery
or levity, or anything akin to ill-usage between him and
his friend.”</p>

<p>“Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</span>
high-spirited, joyous, talking Louisa Musgrove, and the
dejected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Benwick,
seemed each of them everything that would not suit
the other. Their minds must be dissimilar! Where
could have been the attraction? The answer soon presented
itself: it had been in situation. They had been
thrown together several weeks; they had been living
in the same small family party. Since Henrietta’s
coming away, they must have been depending almost
entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering from
illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain
Benwick was not inconsolable.</p>

<p>“She saw no reason against their being happy.
Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they
would soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness,
and she would have to be an enthusiast for
Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt
already: of course they had fallen in love over poetry.
The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of
literary taste and sentimental reflection was amusing,
but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at
Lyme, the fall from the Cobbe, might influence her
health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end
of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced
her fate.”<a id="FNanchor_77" href="#Footnote_77" class="fnanchor">[77]</a></p>


<h3>VI.</h3>

<p>Captain Wentworth is on his way to Bath, and the
very next time Anne walks out she meets him. “Mr.
Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs. Clay.
They were in Milsom Street. It began to rain, not
much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women,
and quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</span>
Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in
Lady Dalrymple’s carriage, which was seen waiting at a
little distance. She, Anne, and Mrs. Clay, therefore,
turned into Molland’s, while Mr. Elliot stepped to Lady
Dalrymple to request her assistance. He soon joined
them again, successful, of course: Lady Dalrymple
would be most happy to take them home, and would
call for them in a few minutes.</p>

<p>“Her ladyship’s carriage was a barouche, and did
not hold more than four with any comfort. Miss
Carteret was with her mother; consequently it was
not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the
three Camden Place ladies. There could be no doubt
as to Miss Elliot, but it occupied a little time to settle
the point of civility between the other two. The rain
was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring
a walk with Mr. Elliot. But the rain was also
a mere trifle to Mrs. Clay; she would hardly allow it
even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick—much
thicker than Miss Anne’s; in short, her civility
rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with
Mr. Elliot as Anne could be, and it was discussed
between them with a generosity so polite and so determined,
that the others were obliged to settle it for
them, Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs. Clay had a
little cold already, and Mr. Elliot deciding on appeal
that his cousin Anne’s boots were rather the thickest.</p>

<p>“It was fixed, accordingly, that Mrs. Clay should be
of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached
this point when Anne, as she sat near the window,
descried most decidedly and distinctly Captain Wentworth
walking down the street.</p>

<p>“Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she
instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</span>
world, the most unaccountable and absurd. For a few
minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion.
She was lost, and when she had scolded back
her senses, she found the others still waiting, and Mr.
Elliot (always obliging) just setting off for Union
Street on a commission of Mrs. Clay’s.</p>

<p>“She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer
door. Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. She
would see if it rained. She was sent back, however,
in a moment by the entrance of Captain Wentworth
himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies,
evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have
joined a little below Milsom Street. He was more
obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than
she had ever observed before. He looked quite red.
For the first time since their renewed acquaintance she
felt she was betraying the least sensibility of the two.
She had the advantage of him in the preparation of
the last few moments. All the overpowering, blinding,
bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over
with her; still, however, she had enough to feel. It
was agitation, pain, pleasure—a something between delight
and misery.</p>

<p>“He spoke to her, and then turned away. The
character of his manner was embarrassment. She could
not have called it either cold, or friendly, or anything
so certainly as embarrassed.</p>

<p>“After a short interval, however, he came towards
her, and spoke again. Mutual inquiries on common
subjects passed, neither of them much the wiser for
what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of
his being less at ease than formerly. They had, by dint
of being so much together, got to speak to each other
with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and
calmness, but he could not do it now. Time had
changed him, or Louisa had changed him. There was
consciousness of some sort or other. He looked very
well, not as if he had been suffering either in health
or spirits; and he talked of Uppercross, of the Musgroves—nay,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</span>
even of Louisa—and had even a momentary
look of his own arch significance as he named her; but
yet it was Captain Wentworth, not comfortable, not
easy, not able to feign that he was.</p>

<p>“It did not surprise but it grieved Anne to observe
that Elizabeth would not know him. She saw that
he saw Elizabeth; that Elizabeth saw him; that there
was complete internal recognition on each side. She
was convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged
as an acquaintance, expecting it, and she had the pain
of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness.</p>

<p>“Lady Dalrymple’s carriage, for which Miss Elliot
was growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant
came in to announce it. It was beginning to rain
again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle,
and a talking which must make all the little crowd in
the shop understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling
to convey Miss Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and her
friend, unattended but by the servant (for there was
no cousin returned), were walking off, and Captain
Wentworth, watching them, turned again to Anne, and
by manner, rather than words, was offering his services
to her.</p>

<p>“‘I am much obliged to you,’ was her answer,
‘but I am not going with them. The carriage would
not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer walking.’</p>

<p>“‘But it rains.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, very little. Nothing that I regard.’</p>

<p>“After a moment’s pause he said, ‘Although I came
only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for
Bath already, you see’—pointing to a new umbrella.
‘I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined
to walk, though I think it would be more
prudent to let me get you a chair.’</p>

<p>“She was very much obliged to him, but declined it
all, repeating her conviction that the rain would come
to nothing at present, and adding, ‘I am only waiting
for Mr. Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I
am sure.’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</span></p>

<p>“She had hardly spoken the words when Mr. Elliot
walked in. Captain Wentworth recollected him perfectly.
There was no difference between him and the
man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring
Anne as she passed, except in the air, and look, and
manners of the privileged relation and friend. He
came in with eagerness, and appeared to see and think
only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to
have kept her waiting, and anxious to get her away
without further loss of time and before the rain increased;
and in another moment they walked off
together, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed
glance and a ‘Good morning to you’ being all that
she had time for as she passed away.</p>

<p>“As soon as they were out of sight the ladies and
Captain Wentworth’s party began talking of them.</p>

<p>“‘Mr. Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, no! that is clear enough. One can guess what
will happen there. He is always with them; half lives
in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking
man!’</p>

<p>“‘Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him
once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man
she ever was in company with.’</p>

<p>“‘She is pretty, I think, Anne Elliott, very pretty,
when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion
to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her
sister.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, so do I.’</p>

<p>“‘And so do I. No comparison. But the men are
all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for
them.’”</p>

<p>A day or two passes without further encounters.
Anne longs for a concert patronised by Lady Dalrymple.
“Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs. Clay were the
earliest of all their party at the Rooms in the evening,
and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took
their station by one of the fires in the Octagon Room.
But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</span>
again, and Captain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne
was the nearest to him, and making yet a little
advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only
to bow and pass on, but her gentle ‘How do you do?’
brought him out of the straight line, to stand near her
and make inquiries in return, in spite of the formidable
father and sister in the background.</p>

<p>“While they were speaking, a whispering between her
father and Elizabeth caught her ear. She could not
distinguish, but she must guess the subject, and on
Captain Wentworth making a distant bow, she comprehended
that her father had judged so well as to give
him that simple acknowledgment of acquaintance, and
she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight
curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This, though late and
reluctant and ungracious, was yet better than nothing,
and her spirits improved.</p>

<p>“After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath,
and the concert, their conversation began to flag, and
so little was said at last, that she was expecting him to
go every moment; but he did not; he seemed in no
hurry to leave her; and presently, with renewed spirit,
with a little smile, a little glow, he said—</p>

<p>“‘I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme.
I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock,
and the more from its not overpowering you at the
time.’</p>

<p>“She assured him she had not.</p>

<p>“‘It was a frightful hour,’ said he, ‘a frightful
day!’ and he passed his hand across his eyes, as if the
remembrance were still too painful; but in a moment,
half smiling again, added, ‘The day has produced some
effects, however; has had some consequences which must
be considered the reverse of frightful. When you had
the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be
the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have
little idea of his being eventually one of those most
concerned in her recovery.’</p>

<p>“‘Certainly, I could have none. But it appears—I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</span>
should hope it would be—a very happy match. There
are on both sides good principles and good temper.’</p>

<p>“‘Yes,’ said he, looking not exactly forward; ‘but
there I think ends the resemblance. With all my soul
I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance
in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend
with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The
Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourable
and kindly, only anxious with true parental heart
to promote their daughter’s comfort. All this is much,
very much in favour of their happiness; more than
perhaps——’</p>

<p>“He stopped; a sudden recollection seemed to occur,
and to give him some taste of that emotion which was
reddening Anne’s cheeks and fixing her eyes on the
ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded
thus—‘I confess I do think there is a disparity,
too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential
than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very
amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding;
but Benwick is something more. He is a
clever man, a reading man; and I confess that I do
consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise.
Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love
her because he believed her to be preferring him,<a id="FNanchor_78" href="#Footnote_78" class="fnanchor">[78]</a> it
would have been another thing. But I have no reason
to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been
a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side,
and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation,
with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny
Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment
to her was indeed attachment. A man does not
recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a
woman! He ought not; he does not.’</p>

<p>“Either from the consciousness, however, that his
friend had recovered, or from some other consciousness,
he went no farther; and Anne, who—in spite of the
agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</span>
and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the
almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz
of persons walking through—had distinguished every
word, was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to
breathe very quick, and feel a hundred things in a
moment.”</p>

<p>The entrance-door opens again, and “Lady Dalrymple,
Lady Dalrymple!” is the welcome sound. Lady
Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr. Elliot
and Colonel Wallis, advance into the room. Anne is
included in the group and separated from Captain Wentworth.
But she has learnt in the last ten minutes more
of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings,
than she dares to think of.</p>

<p>Upon Lady Russell’s appearance, the whole party
proceed to go into the concert-room, and be of all the
consequence in their power; draw as many eyes, excite
as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they
can.</p>

<p>“Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne
Elliot as they walked in. Elizabeth, arm-in-arm with
Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back of the
Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing
to wish for which did not seem within her reach; and
Anne—but it would be an insult to the nature of Anne’s
felicity to draw any comparison between it and her
sister’s—the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the
other all generous attachment.</p>

<p>“Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy
of the room; the happiness was from within.
Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed, but she
knew nothing about it. His choice of subjects, his
expressions, and still more his manner and look, had
been such as she could see in only one light. His
opinion of Louisa Musgrove’s inferiority—an opinion
which he had seemed solicitous to give—his wonder at
Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a fresh, strong
attachment, sentences begun which he could not finish,
his half-averted eyes, and more than half-expressive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</span>
glances—all, all declared that he had a heart returning
to her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance were
no more, and that they were succeeded, not merely by
friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past;
yes, some share of the tenderness of the past! He must
love her.”</p>

<p>Anne Elliot is from first to last full of delicate self-respect
and retiring womanliness, yet Jane Austen
makes her as incapable of resentful obduracy to Captain
Wentworth’s tardy relenting, as of coquettish trifling
with his revived affection. Anne is eager and willing
to meet his overtures half way, and relieve him of the
awkwardness of making them unsupported. To see her
manner quite in the right light, one must remember
what she owed him, for the wrong which she had done to
both when she gave him up in the past. Her present
free forgiveness of his recent avoidance and neglect
hardly balances her renunciation of him eight years
before.</p>

<p>“The party were divided and disposed of on two
contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the
foremost, and Mr. Elliot had manœuvred so well, with
the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have
a seat by her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins,
and the principal object of Colonel Wallis’s gallantry,
was quite contented.”</p>

<p>Anne has never liked a concert better—at least,
during the first act. Towards the close of it, the necessity
of explaining the words of an Italian song<a id="FNanchor_79" href="#Footnote_79" class="fnanchor">[79]</a> to Mr.
Elliot, brings down upon her rather too many gallant
compliments from the gentleman. In the course of his
praise, he manages to rouse her curiosity by hinting that
he may have had longer acquaintance with her tastes
and pursuits than she is aware of. In answer to her
questions, he assures her that he has known her by
report, long before she came to Bath. He has heard her
described by one who knew her intimately. Her person,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</span>
disposition, accomplishments, manner, were all familiar
to him many years before.</p>

<p>Jane Austen remarks with great truth that no one
can withstand the charm of such a mystery. “To have
been described, long ago, to a recent acquaintance by
nameless people, is irresistible. She wondered and
questioned him eagerly, but in vain. He delighted in
being asked, but he would not tell.”</p>

<p>Anne can only think of Mr. Wentworth, the former
curate of Monksford, in whose company Mr. Elliot may
have been, but she does not mention the name.</p>

<p>“The name of Anne Elliot,” said he, “has long had
an interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed
a charm over my fancy; and if I dared I would breathe
my wishes that the name might never change.”</p>

<p>Before Anne can attempt an answer, she catches the
name of Wentworth mentioned by her father in answer
to an observation of Lady Dalrymple’s: and from the
lady, “A very fine young man, indeed. More air than
one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say?”</p>

<p>“Anne’s eyes had caught the right direction, and
distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a
cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell
upon him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her.</p>

<p>“When she could give another glance, he had
moved away. He could not have come nearer to her
if he would, she was so surrounded and shut in, but she
would rather have caught his eye.</p>

<p>“Mr. Elliot’s speech, too, distressed her. She had
no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished
him not so near her.</p>

<p>“The first act was over. Now she hoped for some
beneficial change; and after a period of nothing-saying
amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in
quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not
choose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did
Lady Russell, but she had the pleasure of getting rid
of Mr. Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she
might feel on Lady Russell’s account, to shrink from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</span>
conversation with Captain Wentworth if he gave her
opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell’s
countenance that she had seen him.</p>

<p>“He did not come, however. The others returned,
the room filled again, benches were re-claimed, and re-possessed.</p>

<p>“In re-settling themselves there were many changes,
the result of which was favourable for her. Colonel
Wallis declined sitting down again, and Mr. Elliot was
invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a manner
not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some
other removals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne
was enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the
bench than she had been before, much more within the
reach of a passer-by. She could not do so without comparing
herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss
Larolles;<a id="FNanchor_80" href="#Footnote_80" class="fnanchor">[80]</a> but still, she did it, and not with much
happier effect, though she found herself at the very end
of the bench before the concert closed.</p>

<p>“Such was her situation, with a vacant space at
hand, when Captain Wentworth was again in sight.
She saw him not far off; he saw her, too, yet he looked
grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow
degrees came at last near enough to speak to her. She
felt that something must be the matter. The difference
between his present air and what it had been in the
Octagon Room was strikingly great. Why was it?
She thought of her father—of Lady Russell. Could
there have been any unpleasant glances? He begun
by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain
Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself disappointed;
had expected better singing; and, in short,
must confess that he should not be sorry when it was
over. Anne replied, and spoke of the performance so
well, yet, in allowance for his feelings, so pleasantly,
that his countenance improved, and he replied again,
with almost a smile. They talked for a few minutes
more; the improvement held: he even looked down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</span>
towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth
occupying; when, at that moment, a touch on her
shoulder obliged her to turn round. It came from Mr.
Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied
to, to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very
anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be
sung. Anne could not refuse, but never had she sacrificed
to politeness with a more suffering spirit.</p>

<p>“A few minutes, though as few as possible, were
inevitably consumed; and when her own mistress again—when
able to turn and look, as she had done before—she
found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth in a
reserved yet hurried sort of farewell. He must wish
her good night; he was going; he should get home as
fast as he could.</p>

<p>“‘Is not the song worth staying for?’ said Anne,
suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more
anxious to be encouraging.</p>

<p>“‘No!’ he replied, impressively; ‘there is nothing
worth my staying for;’ and he was gone directly.</p>

<p>“‘Jealousy of Mr. Elliot.’ It was the only intelligible
motive.”</p>

<p>During a call made on her old friend, Mrs. Smith,
Anne is enlightened beyond the power of doubt with
regard to her cousin, Mr. Elliot’s, unprincipled and
heartless character. He was an old friend of the Smiths,
and had long ago heard a great deal from Mrs. Smith
about Anne Elliot. He helped to ruin Mr. Smith.
He forsook the widow in her desolation. He has come
to Bath for the purpose of preventing Sir Walter
Elliot’s marriage to Mrs. Clay, with the probable loss of
his own succession to the baronetcy. His admiration
for Anne induces Mr. Elliot to propose to give himself
the right of a son-in-law to hinder the consummation
of her father’s folly.</p>

<p>Anne can only shudder at what might have been the
possibility of such a marriage for her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</span></p>


<h3>VII.<a id="FNanchor_81" href="#Footnote_81" class="fnanchor">[81]</a></h3>

<p>Anne is just setting out for Lady Russell’s when a
knock at the door announces visitors, and Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Musgrove are ushered into the room.</p>

<p>Anne is really glad to see them, and the others are
not so sorry that they cannot put on a decent air of welcome,
considerably increased when it is clear that these
their nearest relatives have not arrived with any idea
of accommodation in that house.</p>

<p>The young Musgroves are staying for a few days at
the “White Hart” with old Mrs. Musgrove, Henrietta,
and Captain Harville. The last has business of his own
in Bath. Mrs. Musgrove and Henrietta are already
come to buy wedding clothes. It was not then incumbent
on every bride, in the rank of Henrietta and Louisa
Musgrove, to have her trousseau from London and
Paris. Such a place as Bath was sufficient for the
requirements of all Somersetshire in that respect.</p>

<p>Anne walks off directly with Charles and Mary to
their mother and sister. The enlightenment of Lady
Russell is of necessity left for another day. Mr. Elliot’s
character has a reprieve of twenty-four hours.</p>

<p>Anne finds herself warmly greeted, even affectionately
claimed to be with them during their stay, by Mrs.
Musgrove and Henrietta, and falls naturally into her
wonted ways of attention and assistance. “On Charles
leaving them together, Anne was listening to Mrs.
Musgrove’s history of Louisa, and to Henrietta’s of
herself; giving opinions on business and recommendations
to shops, with intervals of every help which Mary
required; from altering her ribbon to settling her
accounts, from finding her keys and assorting her
trinkets, to trying to convince her she was not ill-used
by anybody; while Mary, well amused as she generally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</span>
was in her station at a window overlooking the entrance
to the Pump-room, could not but have her moments of
imagining.</p>

<p>“A morning of thorough confusion was to be
expected. A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing,
unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a
note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there
half an hour when their dining-room, spacious as it was,
seemed half-filled. A party of steady old friends were
seated round Mrs. Musgrove, and Charles came back
with Captains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance
of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the
moment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to
feel that this arrival of their common friends must be
soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting
had been most important in opening his feelings; she
had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she
feared from his looks that the same unfortunate persuasion,
which had hastened him away from the Concert-room,
still governed. He did not seem to want to be
near enough for conversation.</p>

<p>“‘Anne,’ cried Mary, still at her window, ‘there is
Mrs. Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and
a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from
Bath Street just now. They seem deep in talk. Who
is it? Come and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect.
It is Mr. Elliot himself.’</p>

<p>“‘No,’ cried Anne, quickly; ‘it cannot be. He
was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not
come back till to-morrow.’</p>

<p>“As she spoke she felt that Captain Wentworth was
looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and
embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said
so much, simple as it was.</p>

<p>“Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to
know her own cousin, began talking very warmly about
the family features, and protesting still more positively
that it was Mr. Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come
and look herself; but Anne did not mean to stir, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</span>
tried to be cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned,
however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances
pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they
believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident
that the report concerning her had spread, and a short
pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would
now spread further.</p>

<p>“‘Do come, Anne,’ cried Mary—‘come and look
yourself. You will be too late if you do not make
haste. They are parting—they are shaking hands—he
is turning away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed! You
seem to have forgot all about Lyme.’</p>

<p>“To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment,
Anne did move quietly to the window.
She was just in time to ascertain that it really was
Mr. Elliot before he disappeared on one side, as Mrs.
Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the
surprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance
of friendly conference between two persons of
totally opposite interests, she calmly said, ‘Yes, it is
Mr. Elliot, certainly. He has changed his hour of
going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be mistaken,’ and
walked back to her chair recomposed, and with the
comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well.</p>

<p>“Captain Wentworth left his seat and walked to the
fire-place, probably for the sake of walking away from
it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less barefaced
design, by Anne.</p>

<p>“‘You have not been long enough in Bath,’ said he,
‘to enjoy the evening parties of the place.’</p>

<p>“‘Oh, no, the usual character of them has nothing
for me. I am no card-player.’</p>

<p>“‘You were not formerly, I know. You did not use
to like cards, but time makes many changes.’</p>

<p>“‘I am not yet so much changed,’ cried Anne, and
stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction.
After waiting a few moments, he said, and as if it were
the result of immediate feeling, ‘It is a period, indeed!
Eight years and a half is a period.’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</span></p>

<p>“Whether he would have proceeded farther was left
to Anne’s imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour;
for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she
was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to get
out and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest
somebody else should come in.</p>

<p>“They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being
perfectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that
could Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance
of her heart in quitting the room, she would have found,
in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very
security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.”</p>

<p>Their preparations are stopped short; the door is
thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose
entrance seems to cause a general chill.</p>

<p>Anne is satisfied with regard to one particular:
Captain Wentworth is acknowledged again by each.</p>

<p>Elizabeth is revolving a great measure. She gives
her invitations “To-morrow evening, to meet a few
friends; no formal party;” and puts down her cards
with “Miss Elliot at home,” and a courteous, comprehensive
smile for all, and one smile and one card
decidedly for Captain Wentworth. Elizabeth has been
long enough in Bath to understand the importance in
society of a man of such an air and appearance. The
cards given, Sir Walter and Elizabeth rise and disappear.</p>

<p>Captain Wentworth has received the card with no
more than a polite acknowledgment. Anne cannot
think that he will accept such an offering as an atonement
for the insolence of the past. He holds the card
in his hand as if considering.</p>

<p>“‘Only think of Elizabeth’s including everybody,’
whispers Mary audibly. ‘I do not wonder Captain
Wentworth is delighted. He cannot put the card out
of his hand.’”</p>

<p>Anne catches his eye, sees his cheeks glow and his
mouth form itself into an expression of contempt, and
turns away that she may see no more.</p>

<p>The party separates—Anne going with the ladies.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</span>
She is begged to return and dine, but her spirits have
been too long exerted, she is only fit for home. She
promises to be with her friends the whole of the following
morning, and closes the fatigues of the day by a
toilsome walk to Camden Place.</p>

<p>Anne rouses herself from the never-ending self-questioning,
“Will Captain Wentworth come or not?”
to let Mrs. Clay know she has been seen with Mr. Elliot
three hours after his being supposed to have left Bath.
It seems to Anne there is guilt in Mrs. Clay’s face, but
the expression clears instantly. “Oh, dear! very true,”
exclaims Mrs. Clay. “Only think, Miss Elliot, to my
great surprise I met with Mr. Elliot in Bath Street. I
was never more astonished. He turned back and walked
with me to the Pump Yard. He had been prevented
setting off for Thornbury. He wanted to know how
early he might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of
‘to-morrow.’”</p>


<h3>VIII.</h3>

<p>One day only has passed since Anne’s conversation
with Mrs. Smith, but a keener interest has intervened;
she must still defer her visit to Lady Russell. She
cannot keep her appointment punctually, however; she
is detained by rain. When she reaches the “White
Hart” she finds herself neither quite in time, nor the
first to arrive.</p>

<p>“The party before her were Mrs. Musgrove talking
to Mrs. Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth;
and she immediately heard that Mary and
Henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the
moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,
and that the strictest injunctions had been left with
Mrs. Musgrove to keep her there till they returned.
She had only to submit, and feel herself plunged at once
in all the agitation of which she had merely laid her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</span>
account of tasting a little before the morning closed.
There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep
in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such
happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering
the room, Captain Wentworth said, ‘We will write the
letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will
give me materials.’</p>

<p>“Materials were all at hand on a separate table;
he went to it, and merely turning his back on them all,
was engrossed with writing.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Musgrove was giving Mrs. Croft the history
of her eldest daughter’s engagement, and just in that
inconvenient tone of voice which was perfectly audible,
while it pretended to be in a whisper.” The mother
finishes with the assertion, “At any rate,” said I, “it will
be better than a long engagement.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Croft chimes in heartily. She would rather
have young people settle on a small income at once, and
struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved
in a long engagement.</p>

<p>“Oh, dear, Mrs. Croft,” cried Mrs. Musgrove, unable
to let her finish her speech, “there is nothing I so
abominate as a long engagement. It is what I always
protested against for my children,” with more strong
objections to the same effect from both ladies.</p>

<p>Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt
it in its application to herself—felt it in a nervous
thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her
eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,
Captain Wentworth’s pen ceased to move, his head was
raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next
instant to give a look—one quick, conscious look—at her.</p>

<p>Captain Harville, who has been hearing nothing, invites
Anne to join him. “The window at which he
stood was at the other end of the room from where the
two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain
Wentworth’s table, not very near. ‘Look here,’ said
he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a
small miniature painting; ‘do you know who that is?’</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</span></p>

<p>“‘Certainly: Captain Benwick.’”</p>

<p>He tells her he has been commissioned to get the
miniature, which was painted for his sister, re-set for
Louisa Musgrove. Anne, while entering into his feelings,
so far vindicates Captain Benwick, by asserting the
superior fidelity of women. “Oh!” cried Captain
Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, “if I could but
make you comprehend what a man suffers when he
takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches
the boat that he has sent them off in as long as it is
in sight, and then turns away and says, ‘God knows
whether we shall ever meet again!’ And then, if I
could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does
see them again; when, coming back after a twelve-month’s
absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into
another port, he calculates how soon it may be possible
to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and
saying, ‘They cannot be here till such a day,’ but all
the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and
seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them
wings, by many hours sooner still.</p>

<p>“‘Oh!’ cried Anne, eagerly, ‘I hope I do justice
to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble
you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm
and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I
should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose
that true attachment and constancy were known only
by women. No, I believe you capable of everything
great and good in your married lives. I believe you
equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic
forbearance, so long as—if I may be allowed the expression—so
long as you have an object: I mean while
the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the
privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable
one, you need not covet it), is that of loving
longest, when existence or when hope is gone.’</p>

<p>“She could not immediately have uttered another
sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much
oppressed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</span></p>

<p>“‘You are a good soul!’ cried Captain Harville,
putting his hand on her arm quite affectionately.
‘There is no quarrelling with you. And when I think
of Benwick, my tongue is tied.’</p>

<p>“Their attention was called towards the others.
Mrs. Croft was taking leave.</p>

<p>“‘Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I
believe,’ said she. ‘I am going home, and you have
an engagement with your friend. To-night we may
have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,’
turning to Anne. ‘We had your sister’s card yesterday,
and I understood Frederick had a card, too,
though I did not see it; and you are disengaged,
Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?’</p>

<p>“Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great
haste, and either could not, or would not, answer fully.</p>

<p>“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘very true. Here we separate;
but Harville and I shall soon be after you, that is,
Harville, if you are ready—I am, in half a minute. I
know you will not be sorry to be off.’</p>

<p>“Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth,
having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was, indeed,
ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which
showed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how
to understand it. She had the kindest ‘Good morning!
God bless you!’ from Captain Harville, but from him
not a word nor a look! He had passed out of the room
without a look!</p>

<p>“She had only time, however, to move closer to the
table where he had been writing, when footsteps were
heard entering; the door opened, it was himself. He
begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves;
and instantly crossing the room to the writing-table,
and standing with his back towards Mrs. Musgrove, he
drew out a letter from under the scattered papers, placed
it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on
her, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of
the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of
his being in it; the work of an instant!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</span></p>

<p>“The revolution which one instant had made in
Anne was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a
direction hardly legible, ‘To Miss A. E——’ was evidently
the one which he had been folding so hastily. While
supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick he had
been also addressing her! On the contents of that
letter depended all which this world could do for her!
Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather
than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements
of her own at her own table; to their protection she
must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had
occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had
leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following
words:—</p>

<p>“‘I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to
you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce
my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that
I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for
ever. I offer myself to you again, with a heart even
more your own than when you almost broke it, eight
years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets
sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death!
I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been,
weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.
You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I
think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you
fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited
even these ten days, could I have read your feelings as I
think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly
write. I am every instant hearing something which
overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can
distinguish the tones of that voice when they would
be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature!
You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that
there is true attachment and constancy among men.
Believe it to be most permanent, most undeviating
in F. W.</p>

<p>“‘I must go uncertain of my fate, but I shall return
hither or follow your party as soon as possible. A word,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</span>
a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your
father’s house this evening or never.’”<a id="FNanchor_82" href="#Footnote_82" class="fnanchor">[82]</a></p>

<p>Such a letter is not soon to be recovered from.
Anne has to plead illness, and is forced to accept her
brother-in-law’s escort home.</p>

<p>“They were in Union Street, when a quicker step
behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two
moments’ preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth.
He joined them, but as if irresolute whether
to join or pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne
could command herself enough to receive that look and
not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now
glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were
decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by
a sudden thought, Charles said—</p>

<p>“‘Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?
Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?’</p>

<p>“‘I hardly know,’ replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.</p>

<p>“‘Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you
going near Camden Place? Because if you are, I shall
have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and
give Anne your arm to her father’s door. She is rather
done for this morning, and must not go so far without
help, and I ought to be at that fellow’s in the Market
Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he
is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked
to the last possible moment, that I might see
it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance.
By his description it is a good deal like the second-sized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</span>
double-barrel of mine which you shot with one day
round Winthrop.’<a id="FNanchor_83" href="#Footnote_83" class="fnanchor">[83]</a></p>

<p>“There could be no objection. There could only be
a most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for
public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing
in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at
the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two
proceeding together; and soon words enough had passed
between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively
quiet and retired gravel walk, where the
power of conversation would make the present hour a
blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality
which the happiest recollections of their own future life
could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings
and those promises which had once before seemed
to secure everything, but which had been followed by so
many, many years of division and estrangement. There
they returned again into the past, more exquisitely
happy, perhaps, in their re-union than when it had been
first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in
a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment;
more equal to act, more justified in acting.
And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent,
heedless of every group around them, all the little variations
of the last week were gone through, and of
yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end.</p>

<p>“At last Anne was at home again, happier than any
one in that house could have conceived.</p>

<p>“The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted
up, the company assembled. It was but a card party;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</span>
it was but a mixture of those who had never met
before, and those who had met too often; a commonplace
business, too numerous for intimacy, too small
for variety; but Anne had never found an evening
shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness,
and more generally admired than she thought
about or cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings
for every creature around her; with Captain Wentworth
some moments of communication constantly
occurring and always the hope of more, and always the
knowledge of his being there.</p>

<p>“It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently
occupied in admiring a fine display of green-house
plants, that she told him, with that candour and
fairness to herself and everybody which no passion, and
no submission to his influence could warp:</p>

<p>“‘I have been thinking over the past, and I must
believe that I am right, much as I suffered from it, in
being guided by the friend who to me was in the place
of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not
saying she did not err in her advice. I mean I was
right in submitting to it; and if I mistake not, a strong
sense of duty is no bad part of a woman’s portion.’<a id="FNanchor_84" href="#Footnote_84" class="fnanchor">[84]</a></p>

<p>“He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and
looking again at her, replied as if in cool deliberation,
‘Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in
time. But I, too, have been thinking over the past, and
a question has suggested itself, whether there may not
have been one person more my enemy even than that
lady. My own self. Tell me, if when I returned to
England in the year ’eight, with a few thousand pounds,<a id="FNanchor_85" href="#Footnote_85" class="fnanchor">[85]</a>
and was posted into the <i>Laconia</i>, if I had then written
to you, would you have answered my letter? Would
you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?’</p>

<p>“‘Would I?’ was all her answer; but the accent
was decisive.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</span></p>

<p>“‘Good God!’ he cried, ‘you would! It is not
that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could
alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too
proud to ask again. I did not understand you. Six
years of separation and suffering might have been spared.
I have been used to the gratification of believing myself
to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued
myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like
other great men under reverses,’ he added, with a smile,
‘I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.’”</p>

<p>“Who can doubt what followed?” Jane Austen
begins the last chapter. Sir Walter made no objection,
and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned.
Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty
thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit
and activity could place him, was no longer a nobody.</p>

<p>Among other results of the marriage, Lady Russell
learnt to like the man who made Anne Elliot happy.
Captain Wentworth became the cordial and helpful friend
of Mrs. Smith. Mr. Elliot, who had been playing a
deep game, withdrew from Bath, and caused Mrs. Clay
to withdraw also. She gave up Sir Walter, for the sake
of his heir. It remained doubtful whether her cunning
was not more than a match for his, and whether, in
losing the chance of becoming the wife of Sir Walter,
she might not wheedle the future Sir William into
raising her into the position of Lady Elliot.</p>

<p>It would be impertinent to add a word of praise to
a novel which—while it is often as penetrating and
unerring in discussing the motives, and as richly humorous
in dealing with the absurdities and follies of human
nature as “Pride and Prejudice” and “Northanger
Abbey”—has a gentle grace and a pathetic feeling all
its own, so far as Jane Austen’s novels are concerned.
The last warm words of praise to the gallant profession
to which two of her brothers belonged, is another testimony
to her keen family sympathies, as well as to her
quick, womanly response to all that was patriotic and
heroic.</p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_70" href="#FNanchor_70" class="label">[70]</a> Written in 1816, and published after the Author’s death.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_71" href="#FNanchor_71" class="label">[71]</a> If Jane Austen’s high standing as an artist is granted, what
becomes of the heathen saying that “Art has no moral?” Was she
simply great in spite of her morals? Again, how shall we dispose of
the scornful criticism, which treats the details of domestic life in a
novel as twaddle? Jane Austen and twaddle are as far apart as Jane
Austen and bombast.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_72" href="#FNanchor_72" class="label">[72]</a> A young Musgrove who had been in the navy, and died abroad.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_73" href="#FNanchor_73" class="label">[73]</a> Anne Elliot’s pathetic position is unique, so far as I know, in
the literature of Jane Austen’s day. The contrast of her faded face
and subdued spirit with Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove’s fresh bloom
and unchecked joyousness, would not be attempted in our day, with
the same object in view, by an author who put a supreme value on
material advantages, and extolled the attractions of youth beyond all
other attractions. No such author—above all in a semi-cynical, semi-sensuous
generation—could have anticipated, far less projected, the
end of “Persuasion.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_74" href="#FNanchor_74" class="label">[74]</a> In those days no lady was to be found without her small bottle
of “smelling salts” or her vinaigrette with aromatic vinegar. Have
we fewer headaches now-a-days, or are we more patient in bearing
them?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_75" href="#FNanchor_75" class="label">[75]</a> The manner in which the set-aside, quiet woman, who has yet
so much more strength and power of resource than the others, comes
to the front, whether she will or no, in the moment of trouble, is fine
and true to nature.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_76" href="#FNanchor_76" class="label">[76]</a> The perfect simplicity, unaffectedness, and absence of self-consciousness—including
any consciousness of merit, displayed in
Anne’s kindness to her former companion, is very refreshing, after those
ostentatious representations of doing good, and of making private stock
out of public benevolence, which we are constantly encountering both
in real life and in books.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_77" href="#FNanchor_77" class="label">[77]</a> The sudden bestowal of Louisa Musgrove and Captain Benwick
on each other is one of the most genuine and delightful surprises of
fiction. It is not only a triumphant testimony to how the whole
destiny, not merely of one person, but of a group of persons, may be altered by what seems the simplest accident—the turning of a straw;
it is one of those bits of warm, homely, human inconsistency which
baffle all anticipation, are worth a hundred bloodless, laboured, logical
sequences, but can only be fitly conceived and carried out in a story,
by a great artist.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_78" href="#FNanchor_78" class="label">[78]</a> A hint of defence for what might have been his own case.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_79" href="#FNanchor_79" class="label">[79]</a> A familiarity with Italian used to be considered the graceful
crown of a woman’s accomplishments.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_80" href="#FNanchor_80" class="label">[80]</a> The “rattle” of Madame D’Arblay’s novel of “Cecilia.”</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_81" href="#FNanchor_81" class="label">[81]</a> The two capital chapters, of which the substance is now to be
given, were written by Jane Austen to supersede a cancelled chapter
in “Persuasion,” withdrawn after she had finished the story.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_82" href="#FNanchor_82" class="label">[82]</a> The renewal of the good understanding between Anne and
Captain Wentworth was contrived in the cancelled chapter of the
story, with much less spirit and feeling—as Jane Austen herself judged
rightly—by an accidental interview between the lovers in the Crofts’
lodgings; in the course of which Admiral Croft unsuspiciously imposes
on his brother-in-law the trying task of conveying to Anne,
Admiral and Mrs. Croft’s friendly desire not to stand in the way of
the arrangements of Mr. Elliot and his cousin on their marriage; on
the contrary, the Crofts offer to vacate Kellynch to them if they
wish it.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_83" href="#FNanchor_83" class="label">[83]</a> In the intense sense of reality which all Jane Austen’s stories give
us, we are prompted here to go beyond what the author has chosen to
tell us, and speculate how the Musgroves, great and small, received
the news—not merely of Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot’s engagement,
but what they were sure to hear also, sooner or later, that it
was the end of an old attachment, utterly unsuspected by all their
friends at Uppercross. Would the Musgroves in their good nature
content themselves with thinking the couple had kept their secret
well, or would there be a general, slightly indignant sense of having
been taken in and humbugged, like, in its degree, to that which Emma
Woodhouse experienced when she learnt the long-standing engagement
between Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax?</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_84" href="#FNanchor_84" class="label">[84]</a> No, indeed, it is her chief treasure.</p>

</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_85" href="#FNanchor_85" class="label">[85]</a> These were the very different days of frequent naval engagements
and much prize money.</p>

</div>
</div>


<p class="center p2"><span class="smcap">Cassell, Petter, Galpin &amp; Co., Belle Sauvage Works, London, E.C.</span></p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter transnote">
<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2>


<p>Punctuation errors have been fixed.</p>

<p>Page <a href="#Page_179">179</a>: “not seen to create” changed to “not seem to create”
</p></div>
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