The Annotated Emma

by Jane Austen

  She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed16 to her instead of his brother.17

  The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day.18 He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma’s vexation.

  The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her,19 he looked at in silence—wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys,20 when it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,

  “I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly.”

  “I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here.21 It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good.”

  “Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”

  “No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”

  Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,

  “That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.22 When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.”

  There was a little blush,23 and then this answer,

  “I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connection,24 and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters.”

  “Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse.”

  “You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friendship.”

  “I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly. “Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”

  “Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.”

  “When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”25

  It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,

  “I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion.26 My dear, did you change your stockings?”

  “Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me.”

  “My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.—I hope your good grandmamma and aunt are well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour.27 You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.”

  The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.

  By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.

  “My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”

  Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.

  “Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority.”

  “My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.—Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again.28 Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again.”

  “Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing again”:—and nodding significantly—“there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning29 (one of our men, I forget his name)30 shall inquire for your’s too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.”31

  “You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can,32 I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”

  “My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master.33 You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out.34 If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.”

  “Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmamma’s.”

  “Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!35—And it is a kindness to employ our men.”

  Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered;36 but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.

  “The post-office is a
wonderful establishment!” said she.—“The regularity and dispatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”

  “It is certainly very well regulated.”

  “So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands,37 and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder!”38

  “The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any further explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served well.”

  The varieties of hand-writing were farther talked of, and the usual observations made.

  “I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same sort of hand-writing often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough.39 But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get.40 Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”

  “Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”41

  “Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”42—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.

  “I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”

  Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentlemen’s hands I ever saw.”43

  “I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”

  This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter,44 had put it away.

  “If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen.45 I have a note of his.—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”

  “He chose to say he was employed”—46

  “Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.”

  “Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr. Knightley drily, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.”

  Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour,47 was saying—

  “Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”48

  Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.49

  She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;50—it was at her tongue’s end—but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper,1 especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects:—The post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated activity.

  “Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here.”

  “But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely looked forward to the summer in general.”

  “But have you really heard of nothing?”

  “I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.”

  “Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”

  “I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?”

  “But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the first2 situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family,3 for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the school-room!4 You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish to see you in.”

  “Col. and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town5 again by midsummer,” said Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”

  “Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible.”6

  “Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble.”

  “But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is not every day occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human flesh—but of human intellect.”

  “Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at7 the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition.”8

  “I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied Jane; “governess-trade,
I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.”9

  “Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life.”

  “You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”

  “I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose,10—and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.”