Emma (6 page)

“I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort, for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!”

“Oh! You would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well, I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s being pretty.”

“Pretty! Say beautiful rather. Can you imagine anything nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”

“I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend, rather like a brother to her. It matters not at all what I believe of her beauty and person.”

“Such an eye! The true hazel eye—and so brilliant! Regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! Oh! What a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size, such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health’. Now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr Knightley, is not she?”

“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her all you describe and more. I love to look at her, and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain though she has the right to be. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it. Her vanity lies another way. Mrs Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”

“And I, Mr Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no, she has qualities which may be trusted, she will never lead anyone really wrong, she will make no lasting blunder, where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.”

“Very well, I will not plague you anymore. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does, except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me. Surely I’ll obtain their concern for the association between Emma and Harriet that I cannot secure here. There are better endeavours to occupy Emma. The abject adoration of a subordinate creature like Harriet is not one of them and will only lower my estimation of Emma, should they continue as they are.”

“I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind, but excuse me, Mr Knightley, if I take the liberty—I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s mother might have had—the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me, but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprised, Mr Knightley, at this little remains of office.”

“Not at all,” cried he, “I am much obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found, for it shall be attended to.”

“Mrs John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister.”

“Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my ill humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister, has never excited a greater interest, perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!”

“So do I,” said Mrs Weston gently, “very much.”

“She always declares she will never marry, which of course means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for.” Mr Knightley waited for an objection and hearing none, continued. “It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return, it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her, and she goes so seldom from home.”

“There does indeed seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution at present,” said Mrs Weston, with a reserved smile, “as can well be, and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr Woodhouse’s account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you. I merely believe that should such a man come forward—as the type you mention, who claims her love completely and she secures his equally—he could do no better than to find himself attached in matrimony to our Emma.”

Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr Weston’s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected, and the quiet transition which Mr Knightley soon afterwards made to “What does Weston think of the weather, shall we have rain?” convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.

Chapter Six

Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr Elton’s being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners. As she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on Harriet’s side as there could be any occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr Elton’s being in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose anything wanting which a little time would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.

“You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he, “you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature.”

“I am glad you think I have been useful to her, but Harriet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little.”

“If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant Mr Elton—

“I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.”

“Exactly so, that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded decision of character. Skilful has been the hand!”

“Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition more truly amiable.”

“I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s picture.

“Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she. “Did you ever sit for your picture?”

Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopped to say, with a very interesting naivete, “Oh dear, no, never.”

No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed, “What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself. You do not know it, I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture!”

“Let me entreat you,” cried Mr Elton, “it would indeed be a delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers, and has not Mrs Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing room, at Randalls?”

Yes, good man!
thought Emma.
But what has all that to do with taking likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face.
“Well, if you give me such kind encouragement, Mr Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult, and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.”

“Exactly so—the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.”

“But I am afraid, Mr Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering me? How completely it meant, ‘why should my picture be drawn?’”

“Oh! Yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.”

Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made, and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon and watercolours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do everything, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She played and sang, and drew in almost every style, but steadiness had always been wanting, and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.

There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the most, her style was spirited, but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases everybody, and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be capital.

“No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only my own family to study from. There is my father—another of my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth, neither of them very like therefore. Mrs Weston again and again and again, you see. Dear Mrs Weston! Always my kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister, and really quite her own little elegant figure! And the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.

“Then here come all my attempts at three of those four children. There they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse, but there is no making children of three or four years old stand still, you know, nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser-featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That’s very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good.

“Then here is my last”—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length—“my last and my best—my brother, Mr John Knightley. This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being provoked, for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it—Mrs Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it
very
like—only too handsome, too flattering, but that was a fault on the right side—after all this, came poor dear Isabella’s cold approbation of, ‘Yes, it was a little like’—but to be sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of, and altogether it was more than I could bear, and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square.”

“I wonder that you did not take upon yourself to draw Mr Knightley. The number of drawings would recommend him as a subject,” Harriet wondered.

“He would neither sit, nor I make him do so. He makes no effort to flatter my talents, but speaks truthfully regarding my faults.”

“No faults! Surely not, Miss Woodhouse. If I may be so bold as to disagree with a gentleman of his calibre, may it only be said that he lacks the artist’s eye in seeing it!” exclaimed Mr Elton.

“It is well I had not attempted it. I don’t presume that I might have adequately captured his strong jaw or elegant stature to his satisfaction and would forever be in want of his good judgement, and as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing anybody again. But for Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case
at
present
, I will break my resolution now.”