EMMA: A Novel in Three Volumes

O casam ento foi igual a m uitos outros, nos quais os convidados nem sem pre tem bom gosto, exibindo refinam ento ou esbanj ando ostentação. Mrs.

Elton, ao ouvir os detalhes contados pelo m arido, achou que o casam ento fora extrem am ente deselegante e m uito inferior ao dela própria... “Pouquíssim o cetim branco, poucos véus de renda, verdadeiram ente digno de pena!... Selina ficaria chocada quando soubesse”. Mas, apesar dessas deficiências, os votos, as esperanças, a confiança, e as previsões do pequeno grupo de verdadeiros am igos que testem unharam a cerim ônia, foram plenam ente recom pensados pela perfeita felicidade da união.

FIM

EMMA: A NOVEL IN THREE VOLUMES

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Em m a Woodhouse, handsom e, clever, and rich, with a com fortable hom e and happy disposition, seem ed to unite som e of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty -one y ears in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

She was the y oungest of the two daughters of a m ost affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s m arriage, been m istress of his house from a very early period. Her m other had died too long ago for her to have m ore than an indistinct rem em brance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent wom an as governess, who had fallen little short of a m other in affection.

Sixteen y ears had Miss Tay lor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s fam ily, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Em m a.

Between them it was m ore the intim acy of sisters. Even before Miss Tay lor had ceased to hold the nom inal office of governess, the m ildness of her tem per had hardly allowed her to im pose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very m utually attached, and Em m a doing j ust what she liked; highly esteem ing Miss Tay lor’s j udgm ent, but directed chiefly by her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Em m a’s situation were the power of having rather too m uch her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her m any enj oy m ents.

The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any m eans rank as m isfortunes with her.

Sorrow cam e – a gentle sorrow – but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness. – Miss Tay lor m arried. It was Miss Tay lor’s loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Em m a first sat in m ournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father com posed him self to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.

The event had every prom ise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a m an of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant m anners; and there was som e satisfaction in considering with what self-deny ing, generous friendship she had alway s wished and prom oted the m atch; but it was a black m orning’s work for her. The want of Miss Tay lor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness – the kindness, the affection of

sixteen y ears – how she had taught and how she had play ed with her from five y ears old – how she had devoted all her powers to attach and am use her in health – and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven y ears, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella’s m arriage, on their being left to each other, was y et a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and com panion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-inform ed, useful, gentle, knowing all the way s of the fam ily, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every schem e of hers –

one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change? – It was true that her friend was going only half a m ile from them ; but Em m a was aware that great m ust be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a m ile from them , and a Miss Tay lor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and dom estic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no com panion for her. He could not m eet her in conversation, rational or play ful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not m arried early ) was m uch increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of m ind or body, he was a m uch older m an in way s than in y ears; and though every where beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his am iable tem per, his talents could not have recom m ended him at any tim e.

Her sister, though com paratively but little rem oved by m atrim ony, being settled in London, only sixteen m iles off, was m uch bey ond her daily reach; and m any a long October and Novem ber evening m ust be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christm as brought the next visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, alm ost am ounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and nam e, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All looked up to them . She had m any acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one am ong them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Tay lor for even half a day. It was a m elancholy change; and Em m a could not but sigh over it, and wish for im possible things, till her father awoke, and m ade it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous m an, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part

with them ; hating change of every kind. Matrim ony, as the origin of change, was alway s disagreeable; and he was by no m eans y et reconciled to his own daughter’s m arry ing, nor could ever speak of her but with com passion, though it had been entirely a m atch of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Tay lor too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from him self, he was very m uch disposed to think Miss Tay lor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them , and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Em m a sm iled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea cam e, it was im possible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,

“Poor Miss Tay lor! – I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”

“I cannot agree with y ou, papa; y ou know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-hum oured, pleasant, excellent m an, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife; – and y ou would not have had Miss Tay lor live with us for ever, and bear all m y odd hum ours, when she m ight have a house of her own?”

“A house of her own! – But where is the advantage of a house of her own? This is three tim es as large. – And y ou have never any odd hum ours, m y dear.”

“How often we shall be going to see them , and they com ing to see us! –

We shall be alway s m eeting! We m ust begin; we m ust go and pay wedding visit very soon.”

“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could not walk half so far.”

“No, papa, nobody thought of y our walking. We m ust go in the carriage, to be sure.”

“The carriage! But Jam es will not like to put the horses to for such a little way ; – and where are the poor horses to be while we are pay ing our visit?”

“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for Jam es, y ou m ay be very sure he will alway s like going to Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housem aid there. I only doubt whether he will ever take us any where else. That was y our doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place.

Nobody thought of Hannah till y ou m entioned her – Jam es is so obliged to y ou!”

“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not

have had poor Jam es think him self slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will m ake a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty -spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she alway s curtsey s and asks m e how I do, in a very pretty m anner; and when y ou have had her here to do needlework, I observe she alway s turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great com fort to poor Miss Tay lor to have som ebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever Jam es goes over to see his daughter, y ou know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are.”

Em m a spared no exertions to m aintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgam m on, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgam m on-table was placed; but a visitor im m ediately afterwards walked in and m ade it unnecessary.

Mr. Knightley, a sensible m an about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intim ate friend of the fam ily, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a m ile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and alway s welcom e, and at this tim e m ore welcom e than usual, as com ing directly from their m utual connexions in London.

He had returned to a late dinner, after som e day s’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circum stance, and anim ated Mr. Woodhouse for som e tim e. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful m anner, which alway s did him good; and his m any inquiries after “poor Isabella” and her children were answered m ost satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of y ou, Mr. Knightley, to com e out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid y ou m ust have had a shocking walk.”

“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful m oonlight night; and so m ild that I m ust draw back from y our great fire.”

“But y ou m ust have found it very dam p and dirty. I wish y ou m ay not catch cold.”

“Dirty, sir! Look at m y shoes. Not a speck on them .”

“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here.

It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”

“By the by e – I have not wished y ou j oy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of j oy y ou m ust both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with m y congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did y ou all behave?

Who cried m ost?”

“Ah! poor Miss Tay lor! ‘Tis a sad business.”

“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if y ou please; but I cannot possibly say

‘poor Miss Tay lor.’ I have a great regard for y ou and Em m a; but when it com es to the question of dependence or independence! – At any rate, it m ust be better to have only one to please than two.”

“Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesom e creature!” said Em m a play fully. “That is what y ou have in y our head, I know –

and what y ou would certainly say if m y father were not by.”

“I believe it is very true, m y dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. “I am afraid I am som etim es very fanciful and troublesom e.”

“My dearest papa! You do not think I could m ean y ou, or suppose Mr.

Knightley to m ean y ou. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I m eant only m y self. Mr.

Knightley loves to find fault with m e, y ou know – in a j oke – it is all a j oke. We alway s say what we like to one another.”

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Em m a Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them : and though this was not particularly agreeable to Em m a herself, she knew it would be so m uch less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circum stance as her not being thought perfect by every body.

“Em m a knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I m eant no reflection on any body. Miss Tay lor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she m ust be a gainer.”

“Well,” said Em m a, willing to let it pass – “y ou want to hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell y ou, for we all behaved charm ingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a m ile apart, and were sure of m eeting every day.”

“Dear Em m a bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, Mr.

Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Tay lor, and I am sure she will m iss her m ore than she thinks for.”

Em m a turned away her head, divided between tears and sm iles. “It is im possible that Em m a should not m iss such a com panion,” said Mr. Knightley.

“We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how m uch the m arriage is to Miss Tay lor’s advantage; she knows how very acceptable it m ust be, at Miss Tay lor’s tim e of life, to be settled in a hom e of her

own, and how im portant to her to be secure of a com fortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so m uch pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Tay lor m ust be glad to have her so happily m arried.”

“And y ou have forgotten one m atter of j oy to m e,” said Em m a, “and a very considerable one – that I m ade the m atch m y self. I m ade the m atch, y ou know, four y ears ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so m any people said Mr. Weston would never m arry again, m ay com fort m e for any thing.”

Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! m y dear, I wish y ou would not m ake m atches and foretell things, for whatever y ou say alway s com es to pass. Pray do not m ake any m ore m atches.”

“I prom ise y ou to m ake none for m y self, papa; but I m ust, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest am usem ent in the world! And after such success, y ou know! – Every body said that Mr. Weston would never m arry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seem ed so perfectly com fortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or am ong his friends here, alway s acceptable wherever he went, alway s cheerful – Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the y ear alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never m arry again. Som e people even talked of a prom ise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him . All m anner of solem n nonsense was talked on the subj ect, but I believed none of it.

“Ever since the day – about four y ears ago – that Miss Tay lor and I m et with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so m uch gallantry, and borrowed two um brellas for us from Farm er Mitchell’s, I m ade up m y m ind on the subj ect. I planned the m atch from that hour; and when such success has blessed m e in this instance, dear papa, y ou cannot think that I shall leave off m atch-m aking.”

“I do not understand what y ou m ean by ‘success,’” said Mr. Knightley.

“Success supposes endeavour. Your tim e has been properly and delicately spent, if y ou have been endeavouring for the last four y ears to bring about this m arriage. A worthy em ploy m ent for a y oung lady ’s m ind! But if, which I rather im agine, y our m aking the m atch, as y ou call it, m eans only y our planning it, y our say ing to y ourself one idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Tay lor if Mr. Weston were to m arry her,’ and say ing it again to y ourself every now and then afterwards, why do y ou talk of success? Where is y our m erit? What are y ou proud of? You m ade a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said.”

“And have y ou never known the pleasure and trium ph of a lucky guess?

– I pity y ou. – I thought y ou cleverer – for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never m erely luck. There is alway s som e talent in it. And as to m y poor word ‘success,’

which y ou quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there m ay be a third – a som ething between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not prom oted Mr.

Weston’s visits here, and given m any little encouragem ents, and sm oothed m any little m atters, it m ight not have com e to any thing after all. I think y ou m ust know Hartfield enough to com prehend that.”

“A straightforward, open-hearted m an like Weston, and a rational, unaffected wom an like Miss Tay lor, m ay be safely left to m anage their own concerns. You are m ore likely to have done harm to y ourself, than good to them , by interference.”

“Em m a never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rej oined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, m y dear, pray do not m ake any m ore m atches; they are silly things, and break up one’s fam ily circle grievously.”

“Only one m ore, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.