The Annotated Emma

by Jane Austen

  A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprises be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense6 of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.

  Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for safety,7 had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side,8 it became for a considerable stretch very retired;9 and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward10 by the side, a party of gipsies.11 A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.

  How the trampers12 might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful;13 but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout14 woman and a great15 boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse,16 gave them a shilling,17 and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.

  In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning,18 they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,19 a mile or two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissars the night before of Miss Bates,20 and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door,21 and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.

  This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another minute to lose;22 and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard,23 and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley,24 he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.

  Such an adventure as this,—a fine25 young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?26—How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!27—especially with such a ground-work of anticipation as her mind had already made.

  It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre,28 no alarm of the kind;29—and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting30 consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other.31

  In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her naïveté, her fervor as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and delighted;32 and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.33

  Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low;34 and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news.35 The last night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again.36 It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure37 in a message.

  The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry.38 The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.

  Gypsies of the time.

  [From John Ashton, Social England Under the Regency Vol. II, (London, 1899), p. 371]

  [List of Illustrations]

  Chapter Four

  A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began:

  “Miss Woodhouse—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 was a good deal surprised; but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary.

  “It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued, “to have no reserves1 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 dare say you understand me.”

  “Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”

  “How I could so long a time be fa
ncying myself!…” cried Harriet, warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the two I had rather not see him2—and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that,3 but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall never forget her look the other night!—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 (blushing as she spoke).—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. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?” said she, with a conscious look.

  “Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”

  “No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued very much.”

  She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,4 which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court plaister.5

  “Now,” said Harriet, “you must recollect.”

  “No, indeed I do not.”

  “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 but a very few days before I had my sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new penknife,6 and your recommending court plaister?—But as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut 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.”

  “My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Ay, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relick—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!7—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again) go on—what else?”

  “And had you really some at hand yourself?—I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally.”

  “And so you actually put this piece of court plaister by8 for his sake!” said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about!—I never was equal to this.”

  “Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is something still more valuable, I mean that has been more valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court plaister never did.”

  Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.9

  “This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening,10 he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book;11 it was about spruce beer.12 Mr. Knightley 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,13 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 on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.”

  “I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember it.—Talking about 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.”

  “Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now.”—

  “Well, go on.”

  “Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to show you, or to say—except that I am now going to throw them both behind14 the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.”

  “My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?”

  “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 very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but had not resolution enough to part with them.”

  “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.”

  “I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”

  “And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?”15

  She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had told no fortune,16 might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I shall never marry.”

  Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,

  “Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”

  “It is one that I shall never change, however.”

  After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”

  “Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and Emma could just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”

  She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was decided, and thus spoke—

  “Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation17 to think of you. Is not it so?”

  “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose—Indeed
I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in me especially.”

  “I am not at all surprised at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart.”

  “Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness.”18

  “It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes, honourable, I think, to choose so well and so gratefully.—But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful19 things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured that your raising your thoughts to him, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value.”

  Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. It’s tendency would be to raise and refine her mind20—and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.