path: root/78656-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78656 ***




Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Formatting and special
characters are indicated as follows:

_italic_




                               DUOLOGUES
                                  FROM
                          JANE AUSTEN’S NOVELS


                              ARRANGED BY
                             ROSINA FILIPPI




(_All Rights Reserved._)




[Illustration]




[Illustration: DUOLOGUES AND SCENES FROM THE NOVELS OF JANE AUSTEN
ARRANGED AND ADAPTED FOR DRAWING-ROOM PERFORMANCE

BY ROSINA FILIPPI (Mrs Dowson)

_With Illustrations by_ Miss FLETCHER]

LONDON: Published by J. M. DENT and COMPANY at ALDINE HOUSE in Great
Eastern Street, E.C. MDCCCXCV




[Illustration]

PREFACE.


IT is an ungrateful task to write a preface, for few people, if any,
ever read one.

“The play’s the thing,” and “a good play needs no epilogue.” So should
a good book need no preface, and for one that can boast of containing
between its two covers seven picked scenes from the pen of one of
the most charming writers in the English language—Jane Austen—no
introduction whatever is needed. But to ruthlessly tear her from the
library shelf and place her in the hands of the amateur actor demands
explanation and even apology.

Jane Austen as a novelist has won and maintained a place in the
first rank, but as a writer of true comedy she has been too long
unrecognised. She is essentially dramatic, and her characters assume
shape, form, and colour; her plots are human, her people are alive. No
individual in any of her novels degenerates into caricature, yet there
is not one but has a touch of the humorous in his or her composition.
Her duologues and scenes are complete in themselves, and in them one
appreciates the maxim of Alexandre Dumas, who declared that the _only_
essentials for a play were “_une passion, deux personages, et un
paravent_.”

Keeping, therefore, to this rule, these scenes should be represented
with no scenery whatever—(by scenery, I mean stage, proscenium,
footlights, and curtain)—but it is essential that the accurate
costume of the day should be worn; for though the plot and sentiments
thoroughly appeal to the modern mind, the language belongs to a past
generation, and an incongruity would arise were it spoken in modern
dress. The period represented is from 1792-1807, and a pen and ink
sketch of the type of character and style of dress, the work of Miss
Margaret Fletcher, accompanies each scene.

In order to make the plots clear and the duologues intelligible to
those of the audience who are unacquainted with the novels themselves,
a few words in monologue form have sometimes been added to the
text—the greatest care being taken, however, to keep as much as
possible to the spirit of the original—while for dramatic effect
and finish, the time or place of action has often been changed from
a garden or street scene to that of an interior, lest the absence of
scenery should be felt by actors or audience.

The idea of compiling this small book arose from the dearth of good
duologues and one-act plays suitable for amateur performance. The
acting rights of the best pieces being reserved, it is difficult
for the uninitiated to obtain them; moreover, it is expensive, and
so the orange-covered book is sought, and a play neither clever nor
interesting selected, simply because it is found to contain the
requisite number of characters, and has no elaborate scenery.

How refreshing, then, must these seven scenes be to both artists
and audience—they play themselves—the language, sentiments, and
personalities are within the reach of every cultivated amateur; and I
am convinced that Jane Austen _as a play-wright_ will fascinate her
audiences as much as she has her readers _as a novelist_.

  ROSINA FILIPPI.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

CONTENTS.


  I. LITERARY TASTES                                            _Page_ 1
    DUOLOGUE BETWEEN CATHERINE MORLAND AND ISABELLA THORPE (in the Pump
    Room, Bath)
      “_Northanger Abbey_”

  II. THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION                                         15
    DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD
      “_Sense and Sensibility_”

  III. THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER                           31
    DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MISS BATES AND EMMA
      “_Emma_”

  IV. A STRAWBERRY PICNIC                                             51
    DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY
      “_Emma_”

  V. THREE LOVES                                                      65
    DUOLOGUES BETWEEN EMMA AND HARRIET, AND EMMA AND MR KNIGHTLEY
      “_Emma_”

  VI. THE PROPOSAL OF MR COLLINS                                     101
    DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS BENNET, ELIZABETH BENNET, AND MR COLLINS
      “_Pride and Prejudice_”

  VII. LADY CATHERINE’S VISIT                                        123
    DUOLOGUE BETWEEN LADY CATHERINE AND ELIZABETH BENNET
      “_Pride and Prejudice_”

  [Illustration]




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


  COSTUMES                                               _Frontispiece_
  ISABELLA THORPE AND CATHERINE MORLAND              _Page_            3
  MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD                                            17
  MISS BATES AND EMMA                                                 33
  MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY                                          53
  EMMA AND HARRIET                                                    67
  ELIZABETH BENNET AND MR COLLINS                                    103
  LADY CATHERINE AND ELIZABETH BENNET                                125




[Illustration]

COSTUMES.


LADIES.

The prevailing materials for the morning dresses of this period were
cambrics, India muslins, clear muslins, usually white, and often
spotted and sprigged with clear colours. The bodices were usually cut
low with short sleeves, the neck being covered with an embroidered
habit shirt or chemisette, often cut with very high collars coming up
to the ears. The arms were covered with sleeves of rucked muslin or
net. The walking dresses were worn to the ankle only, but the more
graceful house dress was worn long. “Spencers,” or short bodices,
with sleeves made of silk or cloth, were often worn over the muslin
dress out of doors; these were sometimes buttoned down the centre,
sometimes double-breasted, sometimes left open. “Spanish vests,” a
sort of Spencer, with long-pointed ends in front, were often seen.
Shawls, and long scarfs with embroidered ends, were almost invariable
accompaniments of out-door dress, and were carried over the arm or worn
draped over one shoulder, or round the neck, with long ends hanging
in front like a boa. The use of muslins, furs, China silks, sarsnets,
satins, etc., indiscriminately, was characteristic of the period.
A dress of India muslin and a fur muff and boa was not considered
incongruous. Small hats and turban-shaped caps were as much worn as
large; ostrich and herons’ feathers, satins, velvets, velvet flowers,
and even jewels were used for these. Gloves were usually of York tan
or French kid, but sometimes were of _net_. Shoes were made of varying
materials—coloured kid, often velvet or silk. The colours most in
vogue were pinks, lilacs, violets, lavender, pale primrose, pale
greens—scarlets often for pelisses—and all clear colours. Browns are
described as “cinamon,” chocolate, nut, “la boue de Paris,” Egyptian
brown, etc. All muslin dresses were worn over “slips” of silk or
cambric. In making the bodices, it should be borne in mind that of the
many ways of cutting them, the least graceful is to have a straight
line round the waist. The line should curve upwards from beneath the
bosom in front and reach the highest point between the shoulder-blades
at the back, as seen in the back view of Emma. A double curve, which
rises slightly in front as well, as seen in one of the distant figures
in the frontispiece, is very becoming.


GENTLEMEN.

The men’s dress of this period had all the variety of a time of
transition—cut-away and swallow-tail coats as well as riding coats and
surtouts were worn, differing mainly from the garments of to-day in the
height of the waist, and often extravagant height of the collar. The
waistcoats were high-waisted, of the gayest colours and most varied
materials, being ornamented with fantastic buttons. Pantaloons, either
buttoned just above the ankle, or tied with a riband, were in almost
universal use; these were supplemented out of doors by top-boots or
gaiters. The pantaloons were usually of cloth, though occasionally
knitted wool was worn. High stocks and frilled shirt-fronts were usual,
but would not have reached an eccentric pitch among Miss Austen’s quiet
country folks. Hats were high-crowned, with curved brims of varying
width, and were made of beaver, felt, or straw. Knee-breeches would
be worn by the old-fashioned folk, and by clergy-men. The colouring
being centred in the waistcoat, the rest of the costume, though perhaps
slightly gayer than that of the present day, would on the whole be
sober in hue.




LITERARY TASTES.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN CATHERINE MORLAND AND ISABELLA THORPE.

_From “Northanger Abbey.”_




_Costumes._


_Isabella_ is wearing a pelisse of lilac-coloured sarsanet, trimmed
with white swansdown; a French cambric frock fastened down the front
with small round pearl buttons, and with a border of gold-coloured
embroidery round the skirt, which is of walking length. The bodice is
cut low, a muslin chemisette with high collar and frill being worn to
cover the neck.

The hat of straw or white beaver is tied under the chin by a
tan-coloured ribbon, which passes over the crown; a tuft of white
ostrich feathers on the left side; tan gloves and tan shoes.

_Catherine_ wears a large natural-coloured straw hat, with jonguille
green ribbon and white feathers. A dress of cambric muslin spotted with
pale yellow flowers, short full sleeves, and a primrose-coloured shawl;
white or tan gloves.

[Illustration: _Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland._]




LITERARY TASTES.


_Characters._

_Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland._

  _N.B._—“The progress of the friendship between Catherine and
  Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm; and they passed
  so rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness, that
  there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends
  or themselves. They called each other by their Christian name, 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.... The following conversation, which took place
  between the two friends in the Pump-room one morning, after an
  acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their
  very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of
  thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that
  attachment.”—_Northanger Abbey_, Chap. V. and VI.


_Scene—Part of the Pump-room at Bath._

_Properties required:—A sofa R.C.; a small table L., with the
visitors’ book upon it. Door L. A window up R.C. Enter Isabella Thorpe.
Having to wait a few moments, she shows every sign of impatience. Enter
Catherine Morland._

_Isabella_ (_rising suddenly_). My dearest creature! what can have made
you so late? (_They embrace._) I have been waiting for you at least
this age.

_Catherine_ (_surprised_). Have you, indeed? I am very sorry for it,
but really I thought I was in very good time (_pointing to her watch or
a time-piece_); it is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?

_Isabella._ Oh! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here
this half-hour; but now, let us sit down and enjoy ourselves. (_They
sit on the sofa._) 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
ribands instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest
Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself this morning? Have
you gone on with “Udolpho”?

_Catherine._ Yes, I have been reading it ever since I awoke, and I am
got to the black veil.

_Isabella._ 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?

_Catherine._ Oh! yes, quite, what can it be? But do not tell me—I
would not be told upon 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.

_Isabella_ (_embracing Catherine impulsively_). 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.

_Catherine._ Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?

_Isabella_ (_rising_). I will read you their names directly; here
they are in my pocket-book—(_takes out a small pocket-book from her
reticule and reads_), “Castle of Wolfenbach,” “Clermont,” “Mysterious
Warnings,” “Necromancer of the Black Forest,” “Midnight Bell,” “Orphan
of the Rhine,” and “Horrid Mysteries”—(_shutting the book_). There!
those will last us some time.

_Catherine._ Yes—pretty well, but are they all horrid? are you sure
that they are all horrid?

_Isabella_ (_leaning on the sofa, R. end_). 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.

_Catherine._ Scold them! Do you _scold_ them for not admiring her?

_Isabella._ Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those
who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves;
it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I
told Captain Hunt, at one of our assemblies this winter, that if he
was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him unless he would
allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us
incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show
them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly
of you (_embrace_) I should fire up in a moment; but that is not at all
likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite
with the men.

_Catherine_ (_hanging her head and turning away_). Oh! dear! how can
you say so?

_Isabella._ Oh! I know you very well, you have so much animation,
which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants; for I must confess there is
something amazingly insipid about her. (_Sitting down again._) Oh! I
must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday I saw a young man
looking at you so earnestly.

_Catherine_ (_turning away still more_).

_Isabella._ I am sure he is in love with you.

_Catherine._ Oh! Isabella!

_Isabella_ (_laughing_). It is very true, upon my honour. But I see
how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration except that
of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. (_Suddenly serious._) Nay,
I cannot blame you, your feelings are easily understood (_rising_);
where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one
can be pleased with the attentions of anybody else (_walking to R._);
everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the
beloved object; I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.

_Catherine._ But you should not persuade me that I think so very much
about Mr Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.

_Isabella._ Not see him again! (_embracing_) my dearest creature, do
not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so.

_Catherine_ (_smiling_). No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend
to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have
“Udolpho” to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh!
the dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be
Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.

_Isabella_ (_taking Catherine’s arm and walking up and down_). It is
so odd to me that you should never have read “Udolpho” before; but I
suppose Mrs Morland objects to novels.

_Catherine._ No, she does not. She very often reads “Sir Charles
Grandison” herself; but new books do not fall in our way.

_Isabella._ “Sir Charles Grandison”! that is an amazing horrid book, is
it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.

_Catherine._ It is not like “Udolpho” at all, but yet I think it is
very entertaining.

_Isabella._ Do you, indeed? You surprise me; I thought it had not
been readable (_stopping short_). But, my dearest Catherine, have you
settled what to wear on your head to-night? I am determined, at all
events, to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_
sometimes, you know.

_Catherine_ (_innocently_). But it does not signify if they do.

_Isabella._ Signify! Oh! Heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what
they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat
them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.

_Catherine._ Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always
behave very well to me.

_Isabella._ 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?

_Catherine._ I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something
between both, I think; brown—not fair and not very dark.

_Isabella._ 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.
But you must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your
acquaintance answering that description.

_Catherine_ (_impulsively_). Betray you! what do you mean?

_Isabella._ Nay, do not distress me—I believe I have said too much
already. Pray, let us drop the subject.

_Catherine._ My dearest Isabella, certainly, if you wish it. (_Aside
as Isabella walks towards the door._) I wonder if it _is_ Laurentina’s
skeleton. Oh! it must be Laurentina’s skeleton.

_Isabella_ (_coming suddenly back to Catherine, but looking over her
shoulder towards the door_). For Heaven’s sake let us move away from
this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young 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 in the visiting
book. They will hardly follow us there. (_They walk to the book. While
Isabella examines the book, Catherine watches the proceedings off L.
door._) 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.

_Catherine_ (_at door, with unaffected pleasure_). You need no longer
be uneasy; the gentlemen have just left the Pump-room.

_Isabella_ (_turning hastily round_). And which way are they gone? One
of them was a very good-looking young man.

_Catherine_ (_going to the window_). They are going towards the
Churchyard.

_Isabella_ (_hastily_). 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.

_Catherine._ With pleasure—only—perhaps we may overtake the two young
men.

_Isabella._ Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by
them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat (_taking Catherine’s
hand and drawing her towards the door._)

_Catherine_ (_holding back_). But if we only wait a few minutes there
will be no danger of our seeing them at all.

_Isabella_ (_with great dignity, still holding Catherine’s hand_). 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.
Come—and see my new hat. (_Exeunt Catherine and Isabella, hurriedly,
by the door._)


_Curtain._

[Illustration]




THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD.

_From “Sense and Sensibility,” Vol. I., chap. II._




Costumes.


_Mrs D._ Black dress with a Spanish vest trimmed with narrow black
velvet; pointed ends in front, finished with black tassels. Skirt
trimmed with black ermine velvet to match white ermine opera tippet.

_Mr D._ In grey and black.

[Illustration: _Mr and Mrs John Dashwood._]




THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION.

(A CONVERSATION.)


_Characters._

_Mr and Mrs John Dashwood_.

_Scene—The morning room at Norlands. It is a comfortably furnished
room._

_Properties required:—Door R. Window C. Tables R. and L. Chairs on
either side. Books and a work basket with household mending in it._

  _N.B._—“He (Mr John Dashwood) was not an ill-disposed young
  man, unless to be rather cold-hearted, and rather selfish is to
  be ill-disposed; but he was, in general, well respected, for he
  conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary
  duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been still
  more respectable than he was; he might even have been made amiable
  himself, for he was very young when he married, and very fond of
  his wife. But Mrs Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more
  narrow-minded and selfish.”—_Sense and Sensibility_, Chap. I.

_Enter Mrs John Dashwood, Door R. She is in mourning._

_Mrs D._ (_going to the window and arranging the curtains._) A
comfortably appointed house—a little shabby, perhaps—but with
judicious alterations here and there, I do not doubt of making it very
fit and habitable for Mr Dashwood and myself. (_Sitting to her work._)
Yet I wish my father-in-law had not died here, and thus put me to the
inconvenience of offering a home to his widow and three daughters
till they have found a suitable house of their own. I think I made
it palpably clear to them that their stay could only be considered
in the light of a visit, by arriving with dear little Harry and our
attendants as soon as the funeral was over. The house was my husband’s
from the moment of his father’s decease, and no one could dispute
my right to come. But such is the indelicacy and selfishness of our
mother-in-law, that unless my husband finds her a home elsewhere, she
and her daughters will consider they may remain here for ever. I hope
Mr Dashwood will see that they are soon settled, and then I can take up
my proper position at Norlands.

_Enter Mr John Dashwood. He, too, is in mourning._

_Mr D._ My dear, if you are at leisure I should like to speak with you
about the promise I made to my late lamented father upon his death-bed
respecting the future of my step-mother and three sisters.

_Mrs D._ The very thing I was thinking of myself.

_Mr D._ I am happy to see we are in such accord. The case is this. My
present income, which is not inconsiderable, will now be increased by
four thousand a-year, and the prospect has determined me to behave with
generosity. I therefore propose to give them three thousand pounds.

_Mrs D._ (_with horror_). Three thousand pounds!

_Mr D._ Yes. It will be liberal and handsome. I can spare so
considerable a sum with little inconvenience, and it would be enough to
make them completely easy.

_Mrs D._ But, my dear Mr Dashwood, pray consider. To take three
thousand pounds from the fortune of our dear little boy would be
impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. I beg you to think again
on the subject. How can you answer it to yourself to rob your child,
your only child too, of so large a sum? and what possible claims can
the Miss Dashwoods, who are related to you only by half blood, which I
consider as no relationship at all, have on your generosity to so large
an amount? It is very well known that no affection is ever supposed to
exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why
are you to ruin yourself and our poor little Harry, by giving away all
your money to your half sisters?

_Mr D._ It was my father’s last request to me, that I should assist his
widow and daughters.

_Mrs D._ He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say. Ten to one
but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses,
he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away
half your fortune from your own child.

_Mr D._ He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he
only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them. But—as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it—at least, I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home.

_Mrs D._ Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_
something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider, that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever,—if, indeed, it could ever be
restored to our poor little boy.

_Mr D._ (_gravely_). Why, to be sure, that would make a difference. The
time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted
with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a
very convenient addition.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it would.

_Mr D._ Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties if the sum
were diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortune.

_Mrs D._ Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do
half so much for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it
is—only half blood! But you have such a generous spirit!

_Mr D._ I would not wish to do anything mean; one had rather, on such
occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I
have not done enough for them. Even themselves, they can hardly expect
more.

_Mrs D._ There is no knowing what _they_ may expect. But we are not to
think of their expectations; the question is, what you can afford to
do.

_Mr D._ Certainly; and I think I can afford to give them five hundred
pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will
each have above three thousand pounds on their mother’s death—a very
comfortable fortune for any young woman.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can
want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided
amongst them. If they marry they will be sure of doing well, and if
they do not, they will live very comfortably together on the interest
of ten thousand pounds.

_Mr D._ That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon
the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their
mother while she lives, rather than for them—something of the annuity
kind I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as
herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.

_Mrs D._ (_hesitating_). To be sure it is better than parting with
fifteen hundred pounds at once; but then, if Mrs Dashwood should live
fifteen years, we shall be completely taken in.

_Mr D._ Fifteen years! my dear Fanny, her life cannot be worth half
that purchase.

_Mrs D._ Certainly not, but if you observe, people always live for
ever when there is any annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout,
and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business;
it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.
You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of
the trouble of annuities, for my mother was clogged with the payment
of three to old superannuated servants by my father’s will, and it is
amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities
were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them:
and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned
out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income
was not her own she said, with such perpetual claims upon it; and it
was the more unkind in my father, because otherwise, the money would
have been entirely at my mother’s disposal without any restriction
whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am
sure _I_ would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the
world.

_Mr D._ It is certainly an unpleasant thing to have those kind of
yearly drains on one’s income. One’s fortune, as your mother justly
says, is _not_ one’s own. To be tied down to the regular payment of
such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable; it takes away
one’s independence.

_Mrs D._ Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no thanks for it, they
think themselves secure; you do no more than what is expected, and it
raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be
done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow
them anything yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty, pounds from our own expenses.

_Mr D._ I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there
should be no annuity in the case. Whatever I may give them occasionally
will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because
they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a
larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end
of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty
pounds now and then will prevent their ever being distressed for money,
and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced
within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any
money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such
as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking
out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their
things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth,
whenever they are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant nothing
further; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.
Do but consider, my dear Mr Dashwood, how excessively comfortable
your step-mother and her daughters may live on the interest of seven
thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the
girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and of course
they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether they
will have five hundred a year amongst them; and what on earth can
four women want for more than that? They will live so cheap! Their
housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no
horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can
have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will
be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend
half of it; and as for your giving them more, it is quite absurd to
think of it. They will be much more able to give _you_ something.

_Mr D._ Upon my word, I believe you are perfectly right. My father
certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what
you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my
engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have
described. When my step-mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little
present of furniture, too, may be acceptable then.

_Mrs D._ Certainly; but, however, _one_ thing must be considered,—that
though the furniture goes with this house, and is therefore our own,
your father left _all_ the china, linen, and plate to your step-mother.
Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she
takes it.

_Mr D._ That is a material consideration, undoubtedly; a valuable
legacy, indeed! And some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here.

_Mrs D._ Yes, and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as
ours; a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place _they_
can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought
only of _them_, and I must say this, that you owe no particular
gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know,
that if he could he would have left almost everything in the world to
them.

_Mr D._ My love, I am convinced of the truth of what you say. It will
not only be absolutely unnecessary, but highly indecorous to do more.
(_Looking at his watch._) Eleven o’clock; the carriage should be here.
My step-mother has not been out of doors since my father’s funeral,
and I ordered the carriage to take her and my sisters for a drive.

_Mrs D._ (_rising and putting away her work_). My dear Mr Dashwood.
No! Here I must be firm. It is quite an unnecessary luxury, which they
must sooner or later relinquish; and if they are indulged in carriage
exercise now, how can they ever be expected to conform to the new mode
of life attendant on their reduced circumstances? It is a cruelty, not
a kindness, on your part to suggest such a thing. However, rather than
that Wilkins should have troubled to harness the horses in vain, I will
take little Harry out with me. The air will do him all the good in the
world, and you can easily explain to your mother and sisters that it is
incumbent upon me to drive round the estate in order to learn a little
of its extent and capacity. You can tell them they shall go out another
day.

_Mr D._ My dear Fanny, you are right, your judgment of such matters
can never be at fault. Perhaps I _was_ over-hospitable.

_Mrs D._ (_emphatically_). My dear Mr Dashwood, of that there is no
doubt.

[_Exeunt Mr and Mrs Dashwood_.

_End of Scene._

[Illustration]




THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MISS BATES AND EMMA.

_From “Emma,” Vol. I., Chap. XIX._




Costumes.


_Emma._ Long curricle coat of jonquil green china silk, lined with
fawn-coloured sarsanet: white cambric dress, the bodice with wrap
fronts, crossing on the bosom and fastening at the middle of the
back. Opera tippet (boa of white swansdown). A cap of “tiara” form of
nut-brown silk, trimmed with pointed green leaves and tied under the
chin with nut-brown ribbons; large muff of white swansdown.

_Miss Bates._ Dress of grey or dark brown silk striped with black;
chemisette of thick white muslin; apron of black satin; broad ribbon of
myrtle green tied round the head in a bow at the top, a black ostrich
tip fastened in the ribbon with an antique pebble brooch; an eye-glass
fastened round the neck by a long black ribbon.

[Illustration: _Miss Bates and Emma._]




THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER.


_Characters._

_Miss Bates, Mrs Bates, Emma Woodhouse._

  _N.B._—“After these came a second set, among the most come-at-able
  of whom were Mrs and Miss Bates ... almost always at the service
  of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried
  home so often that Mr Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either
  James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year it would
  have been a grievance. _Mrs Bates_, the widow of a former Vicar of
  Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past everything but tea and
  quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way,
  and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless
  old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. _Her
  daughter_ enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman
  neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the
  very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public
  favour, and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement
  to herself, or frighten those who might hate her, into outward
  respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth
  had passed without distinction, and her middle life was devoted to
  the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small
  income go as far as possible, and yet she was a happy woman, and a
  woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal
  good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
  everybody, was interested in everybody’s happiness, quick-sighted to
  everybody’s merits, thought herself a most fortunate creature, and
  surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many
  good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
  simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful
  spirit, were a recommendation to everybody, and a mine of felicity
  to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, full of
  trivial communications and harmless gossip.... These were the ladies
  whom _Emma_ found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy
  was she, for her father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she
  herself was concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs Weston
  (her former governess and best friend). The quiet gossipings of such
  women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the
  long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.”—_Emma_, Chap. III.

_Scene—Mrs Bates’ Parlour._

  _Properties required:—One table L.C., with Jane Fairfax’s letter on
  it under reticule; two chairs on either side of the table; another
  table up R., with a cake upon it, and a knife to cut it; another
  table up L.; in front of a cheerful fire, “a grandfather’s chair”
  left of the table, with its back turned to the audience, in which Mrs
  Bates is discovered sitting. In order to bring Mrs Bates on the stage
  without being seen, a screen must be placed before the chair, and
  when Mrs Bates is seated so as to be almost completely hidden from
  the audience during the whole of the scene, Miss Bates must enter,
  draw back the screen, and say in a loud voice to her mother._

_Miss Bates._ So kind of Mrs Cole to call upon us so early in the day,
and so interested in Jane’s letter. She was indeed, ma’am. How pleased
you will be to see dear Jane again. You must not think anything more
of her illness. There is nothing to be alarmed at in the least. She
says so herself in her letter; you remember, I read it to you—_Jane’s_
letter. (_Miss Woodhouse’s voice heard outside._)

_Emma_ (_outside_). Are Mrs and Miss Bates within this morning?

_Miss Bates._ Bless me, here is Miss Woodhouse. (_Runs to door._) Oh!
come up, Miss Woodhouse, pray come up. (_Runs to Mrs Bates._) Ma’am,
ma’am, Miss Woodhouse is so kind as to be calling on us. (_Runs to
door._) Oh, Miss Woodhouse, mind the step—so very treacherous. (_Enter
Emma, who curtseys first at the door, then to Mrs Bates._) And have you
walked? All the way? I trust your shoes are not wet or damp. (_Runs
back to Mrs Bates after offering chair R. of L.C. table, in which Emma
sits._) Miss Woodhouse has walked, ma’am, all the way—so kind. And
how is dear Mr Woodhouse? I trust he is well; my mother so enjoyed her
evening with him when we were all away at Mrs Weston’s, a great deal
of chat and backgammon. Tea was made downstairs—biscuits and baked
apples; and wine before she came away; amazing luck in some of her
throws. Are you seated comfortably? Pray is that chair quite?—yes?
Let me offer you some sweet-cake (_runs to table R. and cuts piece of
cake_). Mrs _Cole_ has just been here; just called in for ten minutes,
and was so good as to sit an hour with us. She is but just gone, and
_she_ took a piece of cake and was so kind as to say she liked it very
much; therefore I hope, Miss Woodhouse, you will do me the favour to
eat a piece, too. (_Emma takes a piece of cake and eats._)

_Miss Bates_ (_raising her voice and going to her mother_). Ma’am, Miss
Woodhouse has taken a piece of sweet-cake—(_to Emma_). Mrs Cole was so
kind as to sit some time with us, talking of my niece Jane; for as soon
as she came in, she began inquiring after her—Jane is so very great a
favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs Cole does not know how
to show her kindness enough, and I must say that Jane deserves it as
much as anybody can. And so she began inquiring after her directly,
saying—“I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is
not her time for writing.” And when I immediately said—“But indeed we
have, we had a letter this very morning,” I do not know that I ever saw
anybody more surprised. “Have you, upon your honour?” said she, “well,
that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.”

_Emma_ (_politely_). Have you heard from Miss Jane Fairfax so lately? I
am extremely happy: I hope she is well?

_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are so kind! (_hunting about for the
letter_). Dear! dear! where can the letter be? I had it but a moment
ago.

_Emma_ (_aside_). How provoking: I thought I had timed my visit so as
to escape a letter from Jane Fairfax.

_Miss Bates._ Ah! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but
I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it
was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost
sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs Cole, and, since
she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a
pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often
enough, so I knew it could not be far off; and here it is, only just
under my huswife. And since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she
says; but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise
for her writing so short a letter, only two pages, you see, hardly
two, and in general she fills the whole paper, and crosses half.

_Emma_ (_aside_). For that at least I am thankful.

_Miss Bates._ My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
She often says, when the letter is first opened, “Well, Hetty, now I
think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work,” and
then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself,
if she had nobody to do it for her, every word of it—I am sure she
would pore over it till she had made out every word. And indeed, though
my mother’s eyes are not good as they were, she can see amazingly well
still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing!
My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is
here, “I am sure, grandmamma, you must have had very strong eyes to see
as you do, and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my
eyes may last me as well.”

_Emma._ Miss Fairfax writes such an excellent hand—it is in itself
like fine embroidery.

_Miss Bates._ You are extremely kind, you who are such a judge, and
write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that
could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does
not hear; she is a little deaf, you know. I must tell her—(_speaking
loudly_)—Ma’am, do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say
about Jane’s handwriting?

_Mrs Bates._ _Eh?_

_Miss Bates._ Miss Woodhouse says Jane’s handwriting is like fine
embroidery.

_Mrs Bates._ _What, my dear?_

_Emma_ (_aside_). This is very trying.

_Miss Bates_ (_louder_). Miss Woodhouse is so very kind as to say that
Jane’s handwriting is like fine embroidery.

_Mrs Bates._ _Oh!_

_Miss Bates_ (_to Emma_). My mother’s deafness is very trifling, you
see, just nothing at all. By only raising my voice and saying anything,
two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to
my voice. But it is remarkable that she should always hear Jane better
than she does me; Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find
her grandmamma at all deafer than she was two years ago, which is
saying a great deal, at my mother’s time of life, and it really is full
two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without
seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs Cole, we shall hardly know
how to make enough of her now.

_Emma._ Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?

_Miss Bates._ Oh, yes! next week!

_Emma._ Indeed! that must be a very great pleasure.

_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Everybody
is so surprised; and everybody says the same obliging things. I am sure
she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury as they can be to
see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So
very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you
know. Oh! yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for,
in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next
Tuesday or Wednesday.

_Emma._ Yes, so I imagined—I was afraid there could be little chance
of my hearing anything of Miss Fairfax to-day.

_Miss Bates._ So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if
it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to
come here so soon. My mother is so delighted! for she is to be three
months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as
I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you
see, the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs Dixon (Colonel and Mrs
Campbell’s daughter, to whom Jane was companion before her marriage),
has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so
impatient to see them again; for till she married, last October, she
was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very
strange to be—in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but, however,
different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her
mother, or her father—I declare I do not know which it was, but we
shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in _Mr_ Dixon’s name as
well as her own, to press their coming over directly; and they would
give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country
seat, Baly-Craig—a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great
deal of its beauty—from Mr Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever
heard about it from anybody else,—but it was very natural, you know,
that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying
his addresses,—and as Jane used to be very often walking out with
them—for Colonel and Mrs Campbell were very particular about their
daughter’s not walking out often with _only_ Mr Dixon, for which I
do not at all blame them: of course she heard everything he might be
telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she
wrote us word that he had shown them some drawings of the place, views
that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I
believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland from his account of
things.

_Emma._ You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be
allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular
friendship between her and Mrs Dixon, you could hardly have expected
her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs Campbell.

_Miss Bates._ Very true, very true indeed. The very thing we have
always been rather afraid of; for we should not like to have her at
such a distance from us, for months together, not able to come if
anything was to happen; but you see everything turns out for the
best. They want her (Mr and Mrs Dixon) excessively to come over with
Colonel and Mrs Campbell, quite depend upon it; nothing can be more
kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will
hear presently. Mr Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any
attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he
rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the
water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other
among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and
actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence
of mind, caught hold of her habit,—I can never think of it without
trembling!—but ever since we had the history of that day, I have been
so fond of Mr Dixon.

_Emma._ But, in spite of all her friends’ urgencies and her own wish
to see Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs
Bates.

_Miss Bates._ Yes, entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and
Colonel and Mrs Campbell think she does quite right—just what they
should recommend; and, indeed, they particularly _wish_ her to try her
native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.

_Emma._ I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely, but
Mrs Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs Dixon, I understand, is
very charming, but has no remarkable degree of personal beauty,—is not
by any means to be compared to Miss Fairfax.

_Miss Bates._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how very kind! how very obliging!
I must tell my mother (_turning towards Mrs Bates, who is asleep_).
Ma’am, did you hear Miss Woodhouse’s amiable compliments (_turning to
Emma_). Ah! she is asleep; never mind, I will tell her when you are
gone—Oh! no—Certainly not—there is no comparison between them—Miss
Campbell always was absolutely plain, but extremely elegant and amiable.

_Emma._ Yes, that of course.

_Miss Bates._ Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the
7th of November (as I am going to read to you), and has never been well
since. A long time, is it not, for a cold to hang upon her? She never
mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her!
So considerate! But, however, she is so far from well that her kind
friends the Campbells think that she had better come home and try an
air that always agrees with her, and they have no doubt that three or
four months at Highbury will entirely cure her; and it is certainly a
great deal better that she should come here than go to Ireland if she
is unwell. Nobody could nurse her as we should do.

_Emma._ It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.

_Miss Bates._ And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and
the Campbells leave town on their way to Holyhead the Monday following,
as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden! you may guess, dear
Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for
the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her
grown thin and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky
thing happened to me as to that. I always make a point of reading
Jane’s letters through to myself first before I read them aloud to my
mother, you know, for fear of there being anything in them to distress
her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do; and so I began to-day
with my usual caution: but no sooner did I come to the mention of her
being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with “Bless me! poor
Jane is ill”—which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly,
and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not
near so bad as I fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to
her, that she does not think much about it: but I cannot imagine how
I could be so off my guard! If Jane does not get well soon, we will
call in Mr Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is
so liberal and so fond of Jane, that I dare say he would not mean to
charge anything for attendance, we would not suffer it to be so, you
know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be _giving_
away his time. Well now, I have just given you a hint of what Jane
writes about. We will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her
own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her (_turning to
the letter_).

_Emma_ (_rising abruptly_). I am afraid I must be running away. My
father will be expecting me. I had no intention, I thought I had no
power, of staying more than five minutes when I first entered the
house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without
enquiring after Mrs Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! And
now I must wish you and Mrs Bates good morning. (_Curtsies and exit._)

_Miss Bates_ (_during Miss Woodhouse’s speech._) Dear Miss Woodhouse,
so soon—must you really go; so kind of you to come. Jane’s letter so
short, only two pages—will not take one minute to read—pray mind the
step outside. Allow me. (_Exeunt Miss Bates and Emma._)

_Mrs Bates coughs and picks up her ball of wool. Re-enter Miss Bates._

_Miss Bates._ Ma’am, Miss Woodhouse assures me it is quite dry under
foot. I am sure you would enjoy a little walk up the road with me
(_helping her mother up and leading her out of the room, talking all
the time_); and I will tell you what Miss Woodhouse was so obliging as
to say about Jane’s beauty as we go—though perhaps it is hardly the
thing to repeat to everybody. She says that Mrs Dixon (_exeunt Mrs and
Miss Bates. Miss Bates’ voice fading away little by little outside_)
has no remarkable degree of beauty, and is not by any means to be
compared with our Jane—so kind of her, is it not? Ma’am, ma’am, mind
that step—no, not by any means to be compared with our Jane.

_End of Scene._




A STRAWBERRY PICNIC.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY.

_From “Emma,” Vol. II., Chap. XLII._




_Costumes._


_Mrs Elton._ A dress of dove-coloured sarsanet with a ruche of the same
round the bottom of skirt; puffings of cream net round the neck; narrow
cherry-coloured ribbon round the bodice and down the front of the
skirt; fancy straw hat with cream feathers and cherry-coloured ribbons;
pale pink shawl to harmonise with ribbons.

_Mr Knightley._ Buff-coloured coat, with dark velvet collar,
high stock; frilled shirt front; short waistcoat of deep blue;
cream-coloured breeches.

[Illustration: _Mrs Elton and Mr Knightley._]




A STRAWBERRY PICNIC.


_Characters._

_Mrs Elton and Mr Knightley._

  _N.B._—“_Mrs Elton_ was first seen in church.... Emma had feelings,
  less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve
  on not being the last to pay her respects.... She (Emma) was almost
  sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too
  much ease.... and a quarter of an hour quite convinced her that
  Mrs Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself
  and thinking much of her own importance.... Emma was not required,
  by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs
  Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct—such as Mrs Elton
  appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever
  they met again—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and
  ill-bred.”—_Emma_, Vol. II., Chap. XXXII. “You might not see one in
  a hundred, with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr Knightley.”
  ... “Mr Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding sort of manner,
  though it suits _him_ very well: his figure, and look and situation
  in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about
  copying him, he would not be sufferable.”—_Emma_, Vol. I., Chap. IV.

_Scene—A parlour in Mrs Weston’s house._

_Properties required:—A small table L.C.; a chair L. of it; a writing
table in front of a window up R.; a door R.; other chairs and sofas; a
general air of comfort and refinement. Enter Mrs Elton—who soon sits
with her back to the door._

_Mrs Elton._ Provoking! Everything contrives for my annoyance; first,
I agree to meet Mr Elton here, and Mrs Weston is out, and I am forced
to wait alone. Then this exploring party that I had set my heart upon
is obliged to be put off through a lame horse, then——(_enter Mr
Knightley_). Ah! you have found me out at last in my seclusion? (_turns
and sees Knightley._) Oh! Knightley, it is _you._ I have been waiting
in this room this age for my lord and master, who promised to meet me
here and pay his respects to Mrs Weston, and as she was out, I was, of
course, forced to wait alone. But now that you are come——

_Knightley_ (_stiffly._) I gathered from Mrs Weston’s excellent
maid that she was from home, and merely came in to write a note of
importance. I did not know you were here, or should not have intruded
myself upon you.

_Mrs Elton._ Why do you speak of intrusion? I am delighted, and
although I cannot approve of a husband keeping his wife waiting at
any time, still I must make allowances for _Mr Elton_; for he really
is engaged from morning to night—there is no end of people’s coming
to him on some pretence or other. The magistrates and overseers and
churchwardens are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to
do anything without him. “Upon my word, Mr E.,” I often say, “rather
you than I. I do not know what would become of my crayons and my
instrument if I had half so many applicants.” Bad enough as it is, for
I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree. But is it not
most vexatious, Knightley? and such weather for exploring.

_Knightley._ Pardon me, I do not quite follow you.

_Mrs Elton._ Oh! have you not heard of our lame carriage-horse?
Everything has been put off,—the exploring party to Box Hill.

_Knightley._ Oh! yes; very annoying, to be sure; but these things will
happen, you know, Mrs Elton.

_Mrs Elton._ I know; but when the _first_ disappointment occurred,
through Mr and Mrs Suckling not being able to visit Highbury until the
autumn, _I_ said, why should we not explore to Box Hill though the
Sucklings did _not_ come? We could go there _again_ in the autumn with
_them._ And so, as you know, my suggestion was immediately taken up;
and everything was so charmingly arranged—why, I had even settled
with Mrs Weston as to pigeon pies and cold lamb, when, all at once,
everything is thrown into uncertainty. It may be weeks before the horse
is usable, and, therefore, no preparations can be ventured upon. What
are we to do? The delays and disappointments are quite odious. The year
will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last
year we had delightful exploring parties from Maple Grove to King’s
Weston, and—

_Knightley_ (_lightly_). You had better explore to Donwell. That may be
done without horses. Come and eat my strawberries. They are ripening
fast.

_Mrs E._ (_impulsively_). Oh! I should like it of all things! Donwell,
I know, is famous for its strawberry beds. You may depend upon me; I
certainly will come; name your day, and I will come; you will allow me
to bring Jane Fairfax.

_Knightley._ I cannot name a day, till I have spoken to some others
whom I would wish to meet you.

_Mrs Elton._ Oh! leave all that to me, only give me _carte blanche_—I
am lady Patroness, you know—It is _my_ party—I will bring friends
with me.

_Knightley._ I hope you will bring Elton, but I will not trouble you to
give any other invitations.

_Mrs Elton._ Oh! now you are looking very sly—but consider—you need
not be afraid of delegating power to me. Married women, you know, may
be safely authorised. It is _my_ party—leave it all to me. _I_ will
invite your guests.

_Knightley._ No, Mrs Elton, no. There is but one married woman in
the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to
Donwell, and that one is—

_Mrs Elton_ (_mortified_). Mrs Weston, I suppose.

_Knightley._ No—Mrs Knightley, and till _she_ is in being, I will
manage such matters myself.

_Mrs Elton_ (_satisfied to have no one preferred to herself_). Ah!
you are an odd creature; you are a humorist, and may say what you
like—quite a humorist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane Fairfax
and her aunt—the rest I leave to you,—I have no objections at all to
meeting the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple—I know you are attached
to them.

_Knightley._ You certainly _will_ meet them if I can prevail; and I
shall call on Miss Bates on my way home.

_Mrs Elton._ That is quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day;—but, as
you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a
simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little
baskets hanging on my arm—here—probably this basket—with pink
ribbons. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such
another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We
are to walk about your gardens and gather the strawberries ourselves,
or sit under the trees; and whatever else you like to provide, it is to
be all out of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Everything
as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?

_Knightley._ Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be
to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and simplicity
of gentlemen and ladies with their servants and furniture, I think,
is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.

_Mrs Elton._ Well, as you please; only don’t have a great
set-out—by-the-bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with
our opinion? Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs
Hodges or to inspect anything—

_Knightley._ I have not the least wish for it, thank you.

_Mrs Elton._ Well!—but if any difficulties should arise; my
housekeeper is extremely clever—

_Knightley._ I will answer for it, mine thinks herself full as clever,
and would spurn anybody’s assistance.

_Mrs Elton._ I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us _all_ to
come on donkeys—Jane, Miss Bates, and me, and my _caro sposo_ walking
by my side. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a
country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman
have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always
shut up at home; and very long walks you know—in summer there is dust,
and in winter there is dirt—

_Knightley._ You will not find either between Donwell and
Highbury.—Donwell lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry.
Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it—you can borrow Mrs Cole’s.
I would wish everything to be as much to your taste as possible.

_Mrs Elton._ That I am sure you would. Indeed, I do you justice, my
good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you
have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr E.—you are a thorough humorist.
Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me
in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please
me.

_Knightley._ Do not mention it, I pray; but, if you will allow me, I
will now write my note to Mrs Weston. It is of importance. (_Bows and
goes to writing table._)

_Mrs Elton._ Oh! don’t mind me. I have a thousand pleasant things to
think of now. Oh! by-the-bye, don’t forget to include Mr and Mrs Weston
in your invitations. Do not leave them out: that would be unpardonably
amiss—and Mrs Weston’s step-son, Frank Churchill, you must invite
_him_ (_aside_). All this is really most charming. Wright shall do my
hair in the simplest fashion. She shall dress it like a shepherdess of
the last century, and my gown shall be all white. I look well in white,
at least that foolish Elton has often told me so; besides, it is so
rural and simple. Nobody can think less of dress than I do; but upon
such an occasion as this, when everybody’s eyes will be upon me, and in
compliment to Knightley, who is giving this picnic party chiefly to do
me honour, I would not wish to be inferior to others.

_Knightley_ (_rising from the writing table_). And now, my letter
written, I will bid you good-day, and shall soon hope to settle the day
for our strawberry feast.

_Mrs Elton._ Must you be going, really? I cannot imagine what is become
of Mr Elton. He should have been here ages ago. He promised to come to
me as soon as he could disengage himself from his appointment at “The
Crown.” They are all shut up with him at a meeting—a regular meeting,
you know—Weston and Cole are there too; but one is apt to speak only
of those who lead, and I fancy Mr E. or yourself have everything your
own way here. By-the-bye, Knightley, how is it you are not at the
meeting?

_Knightley._ For the simple reason that the meeting you speak of is not
until to-morrow.

_Mrs Elton._ Ah! surely you are mistaken—the meeting is certainly
to-day. I do believe this is the most troublesome parish that ever was.
We never heard of such things at Maple Grove. Mr E. was certainly under
the impression the meeting was to-day, and depend upon it, he was so
vexed at finding out his mistake, that he has forgotten entirely his
appointment with me here, and my conjugal obedience is merely time and
patience thrown away. How provoking! Knightley, you must offer me your
arm and escort me some little way; as far as Miss Bates, and there we
can settle the precise day our charming exploring Party to Donwell
shall take place.

_Knightley_ (_offering his arm._) With pleasure. I will ask Miss Bates
if she and Miss Fairfax will be of the party, but the day must be fixed
for the convenience of Mr Woodhouse, whom I am most anxious to receive
at my house.

_Mrs Elton._ Oh! Out of the question. Mr Woodhouse is far too great an
invalid. You will not prevail upon him to come at all.

_Knightley._ I still hope to do so, with his daughter’s assistance.
(_Exeunt Mr Knightley and Mrs Elton._)

_Mrs Elton_ (_outside_). Oh! if Emma Woodhouse wishes it, poor Mr
Woodhouse will _have_ to come.

_End of Scene._

[Illustration]




THREE LOVES.

_From “Emma.”_




_Costumes._


_Emma._ Short dress of muslin, sprigged with a blue flower, trimmed
with sapphire blue velvet, under sleeves of ruched net, sapphire velvet
in the hair.

_Harriet._ Black silk pelerine, with long ends; white cambric dress;
bonnet of white sarsnet, tied with pale rose-coloured ribbons; coral
necklace.

_Mr Knightley._ Buff-coloured coat, with dark velvet collar,
high stock; frilled shirt front; short waistcoat of deep blue;
cream-coloured breeches.

[Illustration: _Emma and Harriet._]




THREE LOVES.


_Characters._

_Emma Woodhouse, Harriet Smith, Mr Knightley._

  _N.B._—“_Emma Woodhouse_, handsome, clever and rich, with a
  comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the
  best blessings of existence, and had lived nearly twenty-one years
  in the world with very little to distress or vex her. She was the
  youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent
  father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s (Isabella) marriage,
  been mistress of his house from a very early period.

  The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having
  rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too
  well of herself.”—_Emma_, Chap. I.

  “_Mr Knightley_, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty,
  was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but
  particularly connected with it as the elder brother of Isabella’s
  husband. He lived about a mile from Hartfield, was a frequent
  visitor, and always welcome.... Mr Knightley had a cheerful manner,
  which always did him (Mr Woodhouse) good.... Mr Knightley, in fact,
  was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and
  the only one who ever told her of them.”—_Emma_, Chap. I.

  “_Harriet Smith_ was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody
  had placed her several years back at Mrs Goddard’s school, and
  somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to
  that of parlour boarder. This was all that was generally known of
  her history.... She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened
  to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired.... She was short,
  plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular
  features, and a look of great sweetness.... She (Emma) was not struck
  by anything remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s conversation, but she
  found her altogether engaging—not inconveniently shy, nor unwilling
  to talk—and yet so far from pushing, showing so proper and becoming
  a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being admitted to
  Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of everything
  in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must
  have good sense and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be
  given.... _She_ would notice her. She would improve her ... and
  introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and
  manners.... As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how
  useful she might find her ... and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one
  whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
  addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw
  more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind
  designs.”—_Emma_, Chaps. III. and IV.


_Scene—The morning-room at Hartfield. It is comfortably furnished. No
special properties are required except a centre table with two chairs
on either side of it; a work frame near one of the chairs, a window at
the back, and a fireplace with a lighted fire. Enter Emma, with an open
letter in her hand._

_Emma._ I can scarcely believe it. Jane Fairfax engaged to Frank
Churchill! Engaged to her all the winter—secretly engaged before
either of them came to Highbury. And I have encouraged my poor friend,
Harriet Smith, to think well of him, so she will be a second time the
dupe of my misconceptions and flattery. It seems like a fatality.
No sooner do I conceive the idea of arranging a suitable marriage
for her, than the man whom I choose deliberately engages himself to
another. I ought to have felt only too thankful to have her forget the
insufferable Mr Elton so soon after his marriage, instead of trying
to rouse her affections for Frank Churchill. But what right had he to
come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
very _disengaged?_ How could he tell that he might not be making _me_
in love with him? I cannot deny, indeed, that there was a time, in the
early period of our acquaintance, when I was very much pleased with his
attentions, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,
was attached—and how it came to cease is perhaps the wonder.

_Harriet_ (_outside_). Miss Woodhouse, are you within, and will you see
me?

_Emma._ Harriet! (_folding the letter hastily and putting it away_).
Yes, yes, pray come in. (_Enter Harriet, who curtseys at the door._)
You know I am always glad to see _you_, Harriet. (_Aside._) I wonder if
she has heard the news. She looks dejected.

_Harriet_ (_with a small parcel in her hand_). Miss Woodhouse, dear
Miss Woodhouse, you are always good to me. A great deal too good—but
if you are at leisure, I have something that I should like to tell
you; a sort of confession to make, and then, you know, it will be over.

_Emma_ (_sighs, aside_). Poor Harriet.

_Harriet._ It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish, to have no
reserves with you on this subject. As I am, happily, quite an altered
creature in _one respect_, it is very fit that you should have
the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary. I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done,
and I daresay you understand me.

_Emma._ I think I do, my poor Harriet—I hope I do; but it is all my
fault—all my fault.

_Harriet._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do not say such a thing! How could I
so long a time be fancying myself—It seems like madness, I can see
nothing at all extraordinary in him now.

_Emma_ (_aside_). To whom is she alluding—Mr Elton or Frank Churchill?
One never can tell.

_Harriet._ I do not care whether I meet him or not, except that of the
two I had rather _not_ see him; and, indeed, I would go any distance
round to avoid him. But I do not envy _Mrs_ Elton in the least.

_Emma_ (_aside_). Ah! it’s Mr _Elton_, not Frank Churchill.

_Harriet._ She is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think
her very ill-tempered and disagreeable. However, I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, I wish her no evil. No; let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment’s pang; and, to convince you that I
have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to
have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept: I know that
very well—However, now I will destroy it all; and it is my particular
wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am
grown (_sighs_). Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?

_Emma._ Not the least in the world. Did he ever give you anything?

_Harriet._ No, I cannot call them _gifts_; but they are things that I
have valued very much (_holding out the parcel to Emma_).

_Emma_ (_taking it and reading_). “Most precious treasures.” Harriet,
are you sure you would wish me to see these treasures?

_Harriet._ Yes, please, dear Miss Woodhouse.

_Emma_ (_undoing the parcel, which is wrapped up in several pieces of
paper and lined with cotton wool_). A piece of court plaister!!!

_Harriet._ Now, you _must_ recollect.

_Emma._ No, indeed, I do not.

_Harriet._ Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could
forget what passed in this very room about court plaister, one of the
very last times we ever met in it. It was a very few days before I had
my sore throat—I think the very evening before. Do not you remember
his cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending
court plaister? But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you
desired me to supply him. So I took mine out and cut him a piece, but
in my agitation I cut it a great deal too large, and he had to make it
smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left before he gave
it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a
treasure of it; so I put it by, never to be used, and looked at it now
and then as a great treat.

_Emma_ (_putting her hands before her face_). My dearest Harriet! you
make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye,
I remember it all now; all except your saving this relic; I knew
nothing of that till this moment; but the cutting the finger, and my
recommending court plaister and saying I had none about me—Oh! my
sins! my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my pocket! One of my
senseless tricks! I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest
of my life.—Well (_sitting down_), go on, what else?

_Harriet._ And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never
suspected it. You did it so naturally.

_Emma._ And so you actually put this piece of court plaister by for
his sake. (_Aside_), Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of
putting by in cotton a piece of court plaister that anybody had been
fingering. I shall never be equal to this.

_Harriet._ There is something still more valuable—I mean that _has
been_ more valuable because it is what did really once belong to him,
which the court plaister never did? It is in the same box wrapped up in
another piece of silver paper.

_Emma_ (_unfolding a very small roll_). I am quite anxious to see this
superior treasure, Harriet. What is it?—The end of an old pencil! the
part without any lead!! What is this, Harriet?

_Harriet._ That was really his. Do not you remember one morning?—No,
I daresay you do not—but one morning—I forget exactly the day, but
perhaps it was the Wednesday or Tuesday before _that evening_, he
wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce
beer. Mr Knightley (_hanging her head_) had been telling him something
about brewing spruce beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he
took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all
away and it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left
upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye upon it, and as
soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that
moment.

_Emma._ I do remember it. I perfectly remember it—talking of spruce
beer. Oh! yes, Mr Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr
Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember
it—Stop; Mr Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an
idea he was standing just here.

_Harriet_ (_confused_). I do not know. I cannot recollect. It is very
odd—but I cannot recollect where Mr Knightley was standing. Mr _Elton_
was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am.

_Emma._ Well, go on.

_Harriet._ Oh! that is all. I have nothing more to show you, or to say,
except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I
wish you to see me do it.

_Emma._ My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?

_Harriet_ (_sighing_). Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed
of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It
was so wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrance after he was
married, and when I had conceived so deep, so reverential a regard for
_another._ I knew it was, but I had not resolution enough to part with
them.

_Emma._ But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court plaister?
I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court
plaister might be useful.

_Harriet._ I shall be happier to burn it. It has a disagreeable look
to me. I must get rid of _everything._ I must not keep it now. It is
not right towards _him_ who is so superior in every way, so infinitely
superior. (_Emma groans._) These are no longer treasures. There they go
(_throwing them into the fire_), and there is an end, thank Heaven! of
Mr Elton. (_Turning cheerfully to Emma._) Ah! I feel happier now—much
happier! But, oh! Miss Woodhouse, is not this the oddest news that ever
was?

_Emma_ (_perplexed_). What news do you mean?

_Harriet._ Why, about Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear anything so
strange? Oh! you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr Weston
has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a
great secret; and therefore I should not think of mentioning it to
anybody but you, but he said you knew it.

_Emma_ (_still perplexed_). What did Mr Weston tell you?

_Harriet._ Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr Frank
Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged
to one another this long while. How very odd.

_Emma_ (_staring_). You know all about it?

_Harriet._ Yes! Had you any idea of his being in love with her?—you
perhaps might (_hanging her head_)—you who can see into everybody’s
heart; but nobody else—

_Emma._ Upon my word, I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not
openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings? I never
had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
sure that, if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.

_Harriet_ (_in astonishment_). Me! why should you caution me? You do
not think I care about Mr Frank Churchill?

_Emma_ (_laughing uneasily_). I am delighted to hear you speak so
stoutly on the subject. But you do not mean to deny that there was
a time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to
understand that you did care about him.

_Harriet._ _Him!_—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so
mistake me? (_turning away distressed._)

_Emma._ Harriet, what do you mean? (_A pause._) Good heaven! what do
you mean? Mistake you! am I to suppose—?

_Harriet_ (_with her back to Emma_). I should not have thought it
possible that _you_ could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed
never to name him—but, considering how infinitely superior he is to
everybody else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be
supposed to mean any other person. Mr Frank Churchill, indeed! I do
not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. And
that _you_ should have been so mistaken is amazing.

_Emma_ (_collecting herself resolutely_). Harriet, let us understand
each other now, without the possibility of further mistake. (_With
great effort._) Are you speaking—of Mr Knightley?

_Harriet._ To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of anybody
else—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as
clear as possible.

_Emma_ (_with forced calmness_). Not quite, for all that you then said
appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert
that you _named_ Mr Frank Churchill.

_Harriet._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, never—never.

_Emma._ Well, I am sure the service Mr Frank Churchill had rendered
you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.

_Harriet._ Miss Woodhouse! how you do forget!

_Emma._ My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what
I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your
attachment; that, considering the service he had rendered you, it was
extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very
warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your
sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue. The
impression of it is strong on my memory.

_Harriet._ Oh! dear! now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking
of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies.—It
was not Mr Frank Churchill that I meant. No—(_with some elevation_)—I
was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr Knightley’s
coming and asking me to dance, when Mr Elton would not stand up with
me, and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind
action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the
service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to any other
being upon earth.

_Emma_ (_with emotion_). Good God! this has been a most
unfortunate—most deplorable mistake! What is to be done?

_Harriet_ (_timidly_). You would not have encouraged me, then, if
you had understood me. At least, however, I cannot be worse off than
I should have been if Mr Churchill had been the person; and now—it
_is_ possible—for you see, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
appear—But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful
things had happened; matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place
than between Mr Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems
as if such a thing even as this may have occurred before; and if I
should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr Knightley
should really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try and put
difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.

_Emma._ Have you any idea of Mr Knightley’s returning your affection?

_Harriet_ (_modestly, but not fearfully_). Yes, I must say I have.

_Emma_ (_aside_). Good God! is it possible—is it possible that I have
been so blind even to the state of my own heart? _I_ see it all now.
Every moment of this day brings a fresh surprise, and every surprise
is a matter of humiliation to me. How improperly have I been acting by
Harriet! How inconsiderate, how irrational, how unfeeling has been my
conduct! What blindness, what madness has led me on?

_Harriet._ Miss Woodhouse, speak to me. Why is it so much worse for me
to be in love with Mr Knightley than with Mr Frank Churchill? Everyone
thought _you_ were in love with Mr Churchill. I thought so too, but did
not like to say it.

_Emma._ My dear Harriet (_rousing herself_), it is the suddenness of
this revelation which has bewildered me. But come, tell me all about
it. What makes you so hopeful in the conviction of Mr Knightley’s
regard for you?

_Harriet._ Oh! it has been so marked. I have been conscious of a
difference in his behaviour ever since that dance. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
how nobly he behaved to me when Mr Elton _refused_ to stand up with me,
and he spoke so beautifully that I was not afraid of him, and when I
spoke to him he listened so attentively, as if he quite enjoyed what I
said.

_Emma_ (_aside_). I remember he told me that on that occasion he had
found her much superior to his expectation. (_Aloud._) Well, Harriet,
go on.

_Harriet._ From that evening, or at least from the time of your
encouraging me to think of him (for though _you_ meant Mr Churchill,
I always meant Mr Knightley, and thought you meant him too), he has
had quite a different manner towards me—a manner of kindness and
sweetness. Latterly I have been more and more aware of it. When we have
been all walking together, he has so often come and walked by me, and
talked so very delightfully! He seemed to want to be acquainted with me.

_Emma._ Yes, Harriet, you are right; he has told me so himself.

_Harriet._ There, you see! And he has praised me so kindly several
times, I would rather not repeat what he said. But the two latest
occurrences, the two of strongest promise to me—you witnessed
yourself. The first was his walking with me apart from the others in
the lime-walk at Donwell when he gave the strawberry party, and he
took pains, I am convinced, to draw me from the rest to himself, and
at first he talked to me in a more particular way than he had ever
done before—in a very particular way indeed (_hanging her head_). He
seemed to be almost asking me whether my affections were engaged. But
as soon as you appeared likely to join us, he changed the subject, and
began talking of farming. The second is his having sat talking with me
here for nearly half an hour on the very last morning of his being at
Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
stay five minutes, and he told me during our conversation that though
he must go to London, it was very much against his inclinations that he
left home at all.

_Emma_ (_aside_). That is more than he acknowledged to me.

_Harriet._ Therefore, dear Miss Woodhouse, do you not think that I have
some reason to hope? I never should have presumed to think of it at
first, but for you—you told me to observe him carefully and let his
behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have.—But now I seem to feel
that I may deserve him; and that if he _does_ choose me, it will not be
anything so very wonderful after all.

_Emma_ (_turning away to hide her bitter feelings_). Harriet, I will
only venture to declare that Mr Knightley is the last man in the world
who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her
more than he really does.

_Harriet_ (_clasping her hands_). Dear, dear Miss Woodhouse, I knew you
would give me hope. You are always so good, so encouraging.

_Emma_ (_bending over her work_). Harriet, look out of the window;—is
not that Mr Knightley walking in the shrubbery with my father?

_Harriet._ It cannot be—for he was not to return for another week.
(_Goes to window._) Oh! Miss Woodhouse, you are right, it _is_ Mr
Knightley, and he and Mr Woodhouse are both entering the house. Oh!
dear, I must go, I am too agitated to encounter him; I could not
compose myself—I had better go.—May I go, Miss Woodhouse?

_Emma._ If you wish it, Harriet—go by all means. Good-bye.

_Harriet_ (_curtseying hurriedly_). Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, a
thousand thousand times. (_Exit._)

_Emma._ Oh! God! that I had never seen her! Mr Knightley in love with
Harriet Smith? Such an elevation on her side! such a debasement on
his! Yet it is far, very far from impossible. Is it a new circumstance
for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior
powers? Is it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of
a girl who would seek him? Is it new for anything in this world to be
unequal, inconsistent, or incongruous. Mr Knightley and Harriet Smith!
Oh! that I had never brought her forward!—that I had left her where I
ought, where he himself had once told me I ought!—Had I not, with a
folly which no tongue can express, prevented her marrying the farmer,
Mr Martin, who would have made her happy and respectable in a line of
life to which she ought to belong—all would be well—all would be safe
(_sitting to her work and bending down over it as Mr Knightley enters_).

_Knightley._ Emma, I have just met Harriet Smith, who told me you were
alone, so I have left Mr Woodhouse comfortably by the fire in the
study, and I have ventured upstairs unannounced.

_Emma_ (_rising and giving her hand_). You are returned sooner than we
hoped,—you bring good news from London?

_Knightley_ (_sighs_). My brother and his wife are well, so are the
children (_pause—he sits_).

_Emma._ You had a pleasant ride, I trust?

_Knightley._ Very——(_pause_).

_Emma_ (_aside_). He neither looks nor speaks cheerfully. Has he
communicated his plans to his brother, and been pained by their
reception?

_Knightley._ Your father is looking well—better than when I left for
London.

_Emma._ Yes (_a pause—she bends over her work, and he looks at her
anxiously. She continues aside_).—Perhaps he wishes to speak to me
of his attachment to Harriet, and is watching for encouragement to
begin—but I am not equal to lead the way to such a subject—he must do
it all himself—yet I cannot bear this silence,—with him, it is most
unnatural. I must say _something._ (_Aloud, with a smile._) You have
some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprise you.

_Knightley_ (_quietly, and looking at her_). Have I? of what nature?

_Emma._ Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.

_Knightley_ (_after waiting a moment as if to be sure she intended to
say no more_). If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have
heard that already.

_Emma._ Why, how is it possible? is every one in this secret?

_Knightley._ I had a few lines on parish business from Mr Weston
this morning, and at the end he gave me a brief account of what had
happened. That news was the cause of my early return.

_Emma._ You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you
had your suspicions, I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me caution. I wish I had attended to it—but (_with a sinking voice
and a heavy sigh_) I seemed to have been doomed to blindness—(_a
pause—Knightley then lays his hand on hers and takes it kindly. Emma
looks at him in surprise_).

_Knightley_ (_speaking low_). Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the
wound. Your own excellent sense; your exertions for your father’s sake;
I know you will not allow yourself—(_presses her hand_). I speak from
feelings of the warmest friendship——indignation (_rising suddenly_).
Abominable scoundrel! (_Returning and bending over the table._) He will
soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_, for
she deserves a better fate.

_Emma._ My dear friend, you are very kind, but you are mistaken, and
I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of compassion.
My blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way
that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted
to say things of her to him which may well lay me open to unpleasant
conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the
secret earlier.

_Knightley_ (_looking eagerly at her_). Emma, are you indeed...?
(_Checking himself._) No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am
pleased that you can say even so much. He is no object of regret,
indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections
were not further entangled! I could never, I confess, from your
manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt. I could only
be certain that there was a preference, and a preference which I never
believed him to deserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he
to be rewarded with that sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a
miserable creature.

_Emma._ Mr Knightley, I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot
let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave
such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing
that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking
of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly
the reverse. But I never have. (_A pause._) I have very little to say
for my own conduct. I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself
to appear pleased—an old story, probably—a common case—and no more
than has happened to hundreds of my sex before. Many circumstances
assisted the temptation. But, let me swell out the causes ever so
ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered
and I allowed his attentions; but, in short, I was somehow or other
safe from him.

_Knightley._ Hm! well, I have never had a high opinion of Frank
Churchill. I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him;
my acquaintance with him has been but trifling, and even if I have
not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well. With such a
woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill, and for
her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and
conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.

_Emma._ I have no doubt of their being happy together. I believe them
to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.

_Knightley_ (_with energy_). He is a most fortunate man. So early in
life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chooses a wife, he
generally chooses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize!
what years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before
him! Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. He meets
with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot
even weary her by negligent treatment, and had he and all his family
sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have
found her superior. His aunt is in the way,—his aunt dies. He has only
to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used
everybody ill, and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a
fortunate man, indeed!

_Emma._ You speak as if you envied him.

_Knightley._ I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my
envy.

_Emma_ (_aside_). He means in the right to choose where he pleases. He
compares Frank Churchill to himself, Jane Fairfax to Harriet.

_Knightley._ You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are
determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise—but _I_ cannot
be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish
it unsaid the next moment.

_Emma_ (_eagerly_). Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it—take a
little time, consider, do not commit yourself.

_Knightley_ (_stiffly_). Thank you.

_Emma_ (_aside_). Oh, I have given him pain! He is wishing to confide
in me, to consult me; perhaps I might assist his resolution, or
reconcile him to it.

_Knightley._ I fear I must be going now; good-bye. (_Puts out his hand
as he rises._)

_Emma_ (_detaining it_). No—do not go—I stopped you ungraciously just
now, Mr Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain. But if you have
any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of
anything that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you
may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly
what I think.

_Knightley._ As a friend! Emma, that I fear is a word—No, I have no
wish. Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far already for
concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I
accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend (_looking earnestly into
her eyes_). Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?

_Emma_ (_overcome_). Good Heaven!

_Knightley._ My dearest Emma, for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma—tell me at once. Say “No” if it is to be said. You are silent
(_with animation_), absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.

(_Emma sinks into a chair, covering up her face with her hands._)

_Knightley._ I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I
might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear
nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you and lectured you, and you
have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear
with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you
have borne with them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.
Look up, Emma, my dearest, look at me—(_she does so_). Say that you
understand me.—Say you understand my feelings—and will return them if
you can. At present I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.

_Emma_ (_faintly_). Mr Knightley, what can I say? How can I say it?
When you first spoke, believe me, I had no idea, no thought of what
you wished to say. How inconsistent must my conduct have appeared in
refusing to hear you one moment, and soliciting your confidence the
next—yet could I have dared to hope that you would speak to me as you
have done, I should through very shame have silenced you for ever.

_Knightley._ My dearest, best beloved Emma! I too had little thought
when first I entered here to try my influence. Jealousy of Frank
Churchill drove me from the country. I went to London to learn to be
indifferent; but I had gone to the wrong place. There was too much
domestic happiness in my brother’s house; but I stayed on, however,
vigorously, day after day, till this very morning’s post conveyed
the history of Jane Fairfax. Then, with the gladness which must be
felt, nay, which I did not scruple to feel, was there so much fond
solicitude, so much keen anxiety for you, that I could stay no longer.
I rode home at once and walked up here to see how this sweetest and
best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the
discovery. I found you agitated and low; Frank Churchill was a villain.
I heard you declare that you had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
character was not so desperate; and now, tell me that you are my own
Emma by hand and word.

_Emma_ (_putting her hands in his_). Mr Knightley, I am your own Emma,
by word and hand.

_Knightley_ (_bending over Emma’s hands_). “Mr Knightley,” you always
called me “Mr Knightley,” and from habit it has not so very formal a
sound, and yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but
I do not know what.

_Emma._ I remember once calling you “George” in one of my amiable fits,
about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it might offend you;
but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.

_Knightley._ And cannot you call me “George” now?

_Emma._ Impossible! I never can call you anything but “Mr Knightley.”
I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs Elton
by calling you Mr K——. But I will promise to call you once by
your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess
where;—in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.

_Knightley_ (_with emotion_). My Emma.

[_Exeunt._

_End of Scene._

[Illustration]




THE PROPOSAL OF MR COLLINS.

MRS BENNET, ELIZABETH BENNET, MR COLLINS.

_From “Pride and Prejudice.”_




Costumes.


_Mr Collins_ in black, with a high choker and cravat tied in front.

_Elizabeth._ Pale primrose dress, the lappels of the bodice and the hem
of the skirt embroidered in gold and white; clear muslin chemisette,
rucked under-sleeves of the same.

[Illustration: _Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Collins._]




THE PROPOSAL OF MR COLLINS.


_Characters._

_Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth Bennet, Mr Collins._

  _N.B._—“_Her_ (_Mrs Bennet_) mind was less difficult to develope.
  She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and
  uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself
  nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married;
  its solace was visiting and news.”—_Pride and Prejudice_, Chap. I.

  “The greatest part of his (_Mr Collins_) life had been spent under
  the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father.... The subjection
  in which his father had brought him up had given him originally
  great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted
  by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and
  the consequential feeling of early and unexpected prosperity....
  Having now a good home and a very sufficient income, he intended to
  marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family
  (_The Bennets_) he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one
  of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they
  were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of
  atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate, and he thought it an
  excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively
  generous and disinterested on his own part.”—_Pride and Prejudice_,
  Chap. XV., Vol. I.

  “The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was
  nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently,
  so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger
  sisters, and occasionally even by your father,—pardon me—it pains
  me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your
  nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of
  them, let it give you consolation to consider, that to have conducted
  yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise
  no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is
  honourable to the sense and disposition of both.”—_Quotation from
  Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth Bennet_, Vol. II., Chapter XXXV.

_Scene.—The morning-room at Longbourne._

_Properties required: There is a good-sized table L. Chairs, sofas,
and other tables about the room. The furniture is good, but a little
shabby and vulgar, and formal. Door R. enter Elizabeth with household
needlework. She walks to the table._

_Elizabeth._ Well! if my father was hopeful of finding our cousin, Mr
Collins, far from sensible, I cannot think he is disappointed, for the
deficiencies of nature have been but little assisted by education, and
though he has belonged to one of the Universities, he evidently merely
kept the necessary terms without forming there any useful acquaintance.

_Enter Mrs Bennet_ (_going to her work_). Well, Lizzie, what do you
think of your cousin, Mr Collins? I am sure he is a very fine young
man, in spite of his being next in the entail—though, to be sure, I
cannot bear to hear that mentioned—and I do think it is the hardest
thing in the world that your father’s estate should be entailed away
from his own children, and I am sure, if I had been him, I should have
tried long ago to do something about it.

_Elizabeth._ My dear ma’am, let me try and explain again the nature of
an entail.

_Mrs Bennet._ Not one word, Eliza. It is trying enough to my nerves to
know that we must submit to such a thing simply because of Mr Bennet’s
indifference to what becomes of us all when he is dead, without having
it all explained to me. However, I don’t suppose Mr Collins can help
it, and as he has seemed, since the very first day we saw him, a week
ago, willing to make amends by one or other of you girls, I am not the
person to discourage him.

_Elizabeth._ Certainly not, my dear ma’am.

_Mrs Bennet._ Not but what at first I thought he wanted your sister
Jane. It was quite right and proper, considering she was the eldest
and by far the best-looking of you all. But when I found that he was
thinking of her, I gave him a hint that she was not to be had for the
asking. I don’t want to spoil Jane’s chance with Bingley, and so I just
put it right, you know.

_Elizabeth._ I have no doubt you acted wisely, ma’am.

_Mrs Bennet._ Well, Lizzie, I did for the best. When he told me his
plans, and that he had come to Longbourne to choose a wife among you, I
said, “Mr Collins, I cannot but be very gratified by your confidence,
and as to my younger daughters, I cannot take upon myself to say—I
could not positively answer,” for I did not want to appear _too_
pleased with his attentions, “and I do not know of any prepossessions,
but my _eldest_ daughter, I must just mention—I feel it incumbent on
me to hint—is likely to be very soon engaged,”—and it is marvellous
how soon he abandoned all idea of Jane. But hush, here he comes.

(_Enter Mr Collins_).

_Mr Collins._ May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair
daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience
with her in the course of the morning.

_Mrs Bennet_ (_starting up_). Oh! dear! yes—certainly. I am sure
Lizzie will be very happy. I am sure she can have no objection.
(_Going._)

_Elizabeth._ Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr Collins
must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not
hear. I am going away myself. (_Also going._)

_Mrs Bennet._ No, no, nonsense, Lizzie. I desire you will stay where
you are (_seeing that Elizabeth is determined to go_). Lizzie, I
_insist_ upon your staying, and hearing Mr Collins. (_Exit._)

_Elizabeth_ (_aside_). Well! if it has to be—I may as well get it over
as soon and as quietly as possible.

_Mr Collins._ Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty,
so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other
perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there
_not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that
I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can
hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy
may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be
mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as
the companion of my future life. But, before I am run away with by my
feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state
my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire
with the design of selecting a wife—as I certainly did.

_Elizabeth (aside)._ The idea of this man being run away with by his
feelings!

_Mr Collins._ My reasons for marrying are—first, that I think it a
right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to
set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, I am convinced
it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps
I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice
and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of
calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion
(unasked, too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night
before I left Hunsford, between our pools at quadrille, that she said,
“Mr Collins, you must marry—a clergyman like you must marry. Choose
properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let
her be an active, useful sort of person not brought up high, but able
to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such
a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit
her.” Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not
reckon the notice and kindness of Lady de Burgh as among the least of
the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe, and your wit and vivacity, I think, must
be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite.

_Elizabeth (aside)._ How am I to stop the man?

_Mr Collins._ This much for my general intention in favour of
matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed to
Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I assure you there
are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I
am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father
(_reverentially_) (who, however, may live many years longer) I could
not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his
daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible when
the melancholy event takes place, which, however, as I have already
said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair
cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And
now, nothing remains for me but to assure you, in the most animated
language, of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly
indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father,
since I am well aware that it could not be complied with, and that one
thousand pounds in the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after
your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On
that head I shall, therefore, be uniformly silent; and you may assure
yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we
are married.

_Elizabeth._ You are too hasty sir; you forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks
for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour
of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than
decline them.

_Collins (waving his hand)._ I am not now to learn that it is usual
with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they
secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and
that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I
am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and
shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.

_Elizabeth._ Upon my word, sir, your hope is rather an extraordinary
one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those
young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to
risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am
perfectly serious in my refusal; you could not make me happy, and I am
convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so.
Nay, were your friend, Lady Catherine, to know me, I am persuaded she
would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.

_Collins (gravely)._ Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think
so—but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of
you. And, you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her
again, I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and
other amiable qualifications.

_Elizabeth._ Indeed, Mr Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary;
you must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say: I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls without any self-reproach (_rising_). This
matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.

_Mr Collins._ When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on
the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you
have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at
present, because I know it to be an established custom of your sex to
reject a man on the _first_ application, and perhaps you have even now
said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true
delicacy of the female character.

_Elizabeth (warmly)._ Really, Mr Collins, you puzzle me exceedingly.
If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of
encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
may convince you of its being one.

_Collins (smiling)._ You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear
cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My
reasons for believing it are briefly these—It does not appear to me
that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I
can offer would be other than highly desirable. My situation in life,
my connections with the family of De Burgh, and my relationship to your
own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into
further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it
is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made
you—your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood
undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I
must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of
me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love
by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.

_Elizabeth._ I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretension whatever
of that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable
man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere.
I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your
proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in
every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as
an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature,
speaking the truth from her heart.

_Collins (with awkward gallantry)._ You are uniformly charming! and I
am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your
excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.

_Elizabeth._ To such perseverance in wilful self-deception I can make
no reply; but if you persist in considering my repeated refusals as
flattering encouragement, I shall apply to my father, whose negative
will no doubt be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and
whose behaviour at least will not be mistaken for the affectation and
coquetry of an “elegant female.” (_Enter Mrs Bennet._)

_Mrs Bennet._ Well, Mr Collins, allow me to congratulate you—and
myself.

_Mr Collins (smiling complacently)._ I trust I have every reason to
be satisfied with the result of our interview, since the refusal with
which my fair cousin has replied to my proposals comes naturally from
her bashful modesty and the delicacy of her character.

_Mrs Bennet._ Her refusal? Why, Lizzie, what is the meaning of this—do
you refuse Mr Collins?

_Elizabeth._ I do indeed, ma’am.

_Mrs Bennet._ Oh! Mr Collins, do not pay any attention to her. Depend
upon it, she shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it
myself privately, She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not
know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it.

_Mr Collins (gravely)._ Pardon me for interrupting you, madam. But if
she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore,
Miss Elizabeth actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were
better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such
defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.

_Elizabeth (interrupting)._ That is very true, Mr Collins.

_Mrs Bennet._ Sir, you quite misunderstand me. Lizzie is only
headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
good-natured a girl as ever lived. Yes, you are, Lizzie, and I insist
on you accepting Mr Collins.

_Elizabeth._ Ma’am, ma’am. I cannot, I do not care for him.

_Mrs Bennet._ Now, I do insist upon it, Lizzie, that you hold your
tongue and let Mr Collins and me have a little conversation together.

_Mr Collins (stiffly)._ My dear madam, let us be for ever silent on
this point. Far be it from me to resent the behaviour of your daughter.
Resignation to inevitable evil is the duty of us all. You will not,
I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family by now
withdrawing all pretensions to your daughter’s favour. My conduct may,
I fear, be objectionable in accepting my dismission from _her_ lips
instead of your own. But we are all liable to error—I have certainly
meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an
amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage
of all your family, and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I
beg here to apologise. (_Exit, with a bow._)

_Mrs Bennet (calling after him)._ Oh! Mr Collins—(_turning angrily to
Elizabeth_), and there you stand, looking as unconcerned as may be, and
caring no more for us all than if you were at York—provided you can
have your own way. But I will tell you what, Miss Lizzie, if you take
it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this
way, you will never get a husband at all; and I am sure I do not know
who is to maintain you when your father is dead—_I_ shall not be able
to keep you, and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very
day—I shall never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as
my word—I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that
I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer
as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for
talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! but it is always so, those who
do not complain are never pitied—and it is all owing to you—to your
wilfulness and bad temper.

_Elizabeth (coaxingly)._ Ah, ma’am, do not be hard on me. Think of my
sister Jane. How lovely she is. How much admired. How willing _she_
will be to listen to Mr Bingley. Let us go and tell her about it all.
She will agree with us both.

_Mrs Bennet (softened)._ Well, Lizzie, I suppose I must be content with
_one_ sensible girl among you all, but I should be thankful to have
_you_ off my hands.

(_Exeunt Mrs Bennet and Elizabeth._)

_End of Scene._

[Illustration]




LADY CATHERINE’S VISIT.

_From “Pride and Prejudice,” Vol. I., Chap. XXIX._


_Costumes._

_Lady Catherine._ Large hat trimmed with white feathers, and violet
silk handkerchief, worn over a ruched cap. Dress of cinnamon brown
satin; the bodice cut V-shaped in front; a high ruche of white muslin
round the neck; open front of bodice being frilled with white lace.
Pelisse of deep violet cloth. Silver-headed black stick; long-handled
eyeglass.

_Elizabeth._ Dress of white Indian muslin—the bodice made high in
front and gathered in the centre of the bosom into a long gold brooch.
A Spencer waist trimmed round back and down the sides with a frill of
the muslin, sleeves tied with pale green ribbon. Pale green ribbon
girdle.

[Illustration: _Lady Catherine and Elizabeth Bennet._]




LADY CATHERINE’S VISIT.


_Characters._

_Lady Catherine de Burgh_, _Elizabeth Bennet._

  _N.B._—“Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing
  of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents
  or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank
  she thought she could witness without trepidation.... Her air was
  not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them ... such
  as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not
  rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in
  so authoritative a tone as marked her self-importance ... delivering
  her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that
  she was not used to have her judgment controverted.”—_Pride and
  Prejudice_, Vol I., Chap. XXIX.

  “There was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her (_Elizabeth’s_)
  manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody, and Darcy
  had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her.”—Vol. I.,
  Chap. X.

  (_Elizabeth._) “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear
  to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with
  every attempt to intimidate me.”—_Pride and Prejudice_, Vol. I.,
  Chap. XXXI.


_Scene—The morning-room at Longbourn. The furniture is comfortable,
but a little shabby; it also wears a faded look of gaudiness, and is
arranged in a stiff and formal manner._

_Properties required:—If possible a long French window at the back for
Lady Catherine to enter. If not practicable a door to the L. with a
screen in front of it, behind which the window must be imagined. Door
R._

_Elizabeth._ So all is settled peaceably and amicably in this turbulent
family of ours. Dear Jane has attained her wish at last, and is engaged
to Mr Bingley, and Lydia is married. Lydia, who caused us so much
unspeakable misery but a few weeks back, by eloping with Mr Wickham, is
married, and the Bennets are now acknowledged to be the luckiest family
in the world, though only a little while before we were generally
proved to be marked out by misfortune.

How quickly and easily all this has been arranged, and by whom? By Mr
Darcy, whose character I once so misjudged, whose proposal of marriage
I treated with such scorn, but whom now my heart tells me I sincerely
love and esteem. To-morrow he is to come to see us with Bingley.
Bingley will have eyes for none but Jane. Will Mr Darcy be satisfied
to spend the time with me, or will he have too keen a remembrance
of my refusal when he was staying with Lady Catherine at Rosings?
Good heaven! were she to know what passed between us, what would her
feelings be.

_Going to the window._ I thought I heard the sound of a carriage. Who
can it be? It is too early for visitors, and, besides, I know neither
the servant nor the livery. The horses are post, too. Good Heaven!
it is Lady Catherine de Burgh. What can she want here? She has seen
me, and evidently means to come in through the window. (_Enter Lady
Catherine de Burgh, C. through the French window or from behind the
screen. She bows stiffly to Elizabeth, who curtseys._)

_Lady C. (sitting)._ I hope you are well, Miss Bennet.

_Elizabeth._ Thank you, very well. Allow me to call my mother.

_Lady C._ No, I thank you. It is you I have come all this way to see.

_Elizabeth (surprised)._ I am greatly honoured.

_Lady C._ You have a very small park here.

_Elizabeth (smiling)._ It is certainly not to compare with Rosings,
but, I assure you, it is quite large enough for our use.

_Lady C. (snifs)._ This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for
the evening in summer; the windows are full west.

_Elizabeth._ We only sit here in the morning. (_Aside._) Heaven! how
could I think her like her nephew.

_Lady C._ 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.

_Elizabeth (with unaffected astonishment)._ Indeed, you are mistaken,
madam, I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing
you here.

_Lady C. (angrily)._ Miss Bennet, you ought to know I am not to be
trifled with. But, however insincere _you_ may choose to be, you
shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been celebrated for its
sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this I shall
certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature
reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your elder sister was
on the point of being most advantageously married, but that _you_, that
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards
united to my nephew—my own nephew—Mr Darcy. Though I _knew_ 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.

_Elizabeth (surprised and angry)._ If you believed it impossible to be
true, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your
ladyship propose by it?

_Lady C._ At once to insist upon having such a report universally
contradicted.

_Elizabeth (coolly)._ Your coming to Longbourn to see me will be rather
a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence.

_Lady C._ _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?

_Elizabeth._ I never heard that it was.

_Lady C._ And can you likewise declare that there is no _foundation_
for it?

_Elizabeth._ I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your
ladyship. _You_ may ask questions, which _I_ shall not choose to answer.

_Lady C._ This is not to be borne! Miss Bennet, I insist on being
satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?

_Elizabeth._ Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.

_Lady C._ It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use
of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of
infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all
his family. You may have drawn him in.

_Elizabeth._ If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.

_Lady C._ Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed
to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in
the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.

_Elizabeth._ But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such
behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit.

_Lady C._ Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have
the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never; Mr Darcy is
engaged to _my daughter._ Now what have you to say?

_Elizabeth (quietly)._ Only this, that if it is so, you can have no
reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.

_Lady C._ The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their
infancy they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite
wish of _his_ mother as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we
planned the union, and now, at the moment when the wishes of both
sisters would be accomplished, is their marriage to be prevented by
a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and
wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of
his friends—to his tacit engagement with Miss de Burgh? Are you lost
to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say
that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?

_Elizabeth._ Yes! and I had heard it before. But what is that to me?
If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall
certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt
wished him to marry Miss de Burgh. You both did as much as you could,
in planning the marriage; its completion depended on others. If Mr
Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why
is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not
I accept him?

_Lady C._ Because honour, decorum, prudence—nay, _interest_, forbid
it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by any
of his family or friends if you wilfully act against the inclinations
of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised by everyone
connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will
never be mentioned by any of us.

_Elizabeth._ These are heavy misfortunes indeed. But the wife of Mr
Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine.

_Lady C._ Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you!—But you
are to understand me, Miss Bennet; I came here with the determined
resolution of carrying my purpose, nor will I be dissuaded from it. I
have not been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in
the habit of brooking disappointment.

_Elizabeth._ _That_ will make your ladyship’s situation at present more
pitiable, but it will have no effect on _me._

_Lady C._ I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My daughter
and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the
maternal side, from the same noble line; and on the father’s, from
respectable, honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their
fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by
the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to
divide them?—the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family,
connections, or fortune! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall
not be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to
quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.

_Elizabeth._ In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as
quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter:
so far we are equal.

_Lady C._ True, you are a gentleman’s daughter; but who was your
mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of
their condition.

_Elizabeth._ Whatever my connections may be, if your nephew does not
object to them, they can be nothing to you.

_Lady C._ Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?

_Elizabeth (after slight deliberation)._ I am not.

_Lady C. (pleased)._ Ah! and will you promise me never to enter into
such an engagement?

_Elizabeth._ I will make no promise of the kind.

_Lady C._ Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find
a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a
belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given
me the assurance I require.

_Elizabeth._ And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be
intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship
wants Mr Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you your
wished-for promise make _their_ marriage at all more probable?
supposing him to be attached to me, would _my_ refusing to accept
his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say,
Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this
extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application
was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character if you think I
can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew
might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs I cannot tell, but
you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no further on the subject.

_Lady C._ Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all
the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I
am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s infamous
elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying her was a
patched-up business—at the expense of your father and uncle. And is
such a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Heaven and earth!—of what are
you thinking?

_Elizabeth (rising angrily)._ You can now have nothing further to say.
You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to be allowed
to leave you. (_Curtseys._)

_Lady C. (rising, highly incensed)._ Stay, Miss Bennet. You have no
regard then for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish
girl! do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him
in the eyes of everybody.

_Elizabeth._ Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say—you know my
sentiments.

_Lady C._ You are then resolved to have him?

_Elizabeth._ I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in
that manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness,
without reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with
me.

_Lady C._ It is well! You refuse then to oblige me. You refuse to obey
the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin
him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the
world.

_Elizabeth._ Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude, has any possible
claim on me in the present instance. No principle of either would
be violated by my marriage with Mr Darcy. And with regard to the
resentment of his family or the indignation of the world, if the former
_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s
concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
the scorn.

_Lady C._ And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve!
Very well, I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet,
that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped
to find you reasonable; but depend upon it, I will carry my point.

_Elizabeth._ Good-day to you, Lady Catherine.

_Lady C. (at the window or screen)._ 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. (_Exit Lady Catherine._)

_Elizabeth._ I could tell her truthfully I am _not_ engaged to Mr
Darcy, but she little guessed the rest. Yet I do not think he can
be quite indifferent to me, or surely she would not have taken the
trouble—If he comes to-morrow with Bingley, as he arranged, I shall
dare to hope (_sighs happily_). Perhaps I, too, may learn to think the
Bennet family lucky in spite of Lady Catherine de Burgh.

[_Exit._

_End of Scene._


PRINTED BY TURNBULL AND SPEARS, EDINBURGH.


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