الفصل الفصل 9 · 第9章

Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with

herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual

before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave

looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not

repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more

justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next

few days.

The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.

Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common

sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half

sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s

feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and

steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was

soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered,

than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage

to the latter.

Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of

useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few

first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much

easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination

range and work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge

her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary

pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she

was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing

all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin

quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with

ciphers and trophies.

In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are

not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written

out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint

of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many

more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as

Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of

the first order, in form as well as quantity.

Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the

girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting

in. “So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young—he

wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.”

And it always ended in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”

His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did

not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had

desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,

something, he thought, might come from that quarter.

It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of Highbury

in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one

whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really

good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she

had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his

recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most

earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe

a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their

two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at

last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known

charade,

My first doth affliction denote,

Which my second is destin’d to feel

And my whole is the best antidote

That affliction to soften and heal.—

made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some

pages ago already.

“Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?” said she;

“that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be

easier to you.”

“Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his

life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse”—he

stopt a moment—“or Miss Smith could inspire him.”

The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called

for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table

containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed

to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his

manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.

“I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he. “Being my

friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,

but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.”

The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could

understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it

easier to meet her eye than her friend’s. He was gone the next

moment:—after another moment’s pause,

“Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards

Harriet—“it is for you. Take your own.”

But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never

loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.

To Miss——

CHARADE.

My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,

Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

Another view of man, my second brings,

Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

But ah! united, what reverse we have!

Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;

Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,

And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,

May its approval beam in that soft eye!

She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through

again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then

passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,

while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope

and dulness, “Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse

charades. _Courtship_—a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This

is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly—‘Pray, Miss Smith,

give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my

intentions in the same glance.’

May its approval beam in that soft eye!

Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the

justest that could be given.

Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.

Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in

love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the

benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life

you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade

indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon

now.”

She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,

which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the

eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions.

“What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an idea—I

cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find

it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is

it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was—and who could be the young

lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?

And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Can it be Neptune?

Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one

syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!

Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?”

“Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking

of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a

friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.

For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.

My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,

Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

That is _court_.

Another view of man, my second brings;

Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

That is _ship_;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.

But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!

Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown.

Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,

And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, which I

think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in

comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of

its being written for you and to you.”

Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the

concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not

speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.

Emma spoke for her.

“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,”

said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton’s intentions. You

are his object—and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I

thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now,

it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my

wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet,

just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that

has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and

Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its

eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I

congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an

attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a

connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing

that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix

you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to

me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance

which can never raise a blush in either of us.”

“Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,” was all that Harriet,

with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did

arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear

to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as

she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.

“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and therefore I

suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not

have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,

who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He

is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss ———.’

Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”

“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a

certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the

play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by

matter-of-fact prose.”

“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a

month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take

place!”

“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do indeed—and

really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so

evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of

other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.

You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one

another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying

will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a

something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right

direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.

The course of true love never did run smooth—

A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that

passage.”

“That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people,

who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very

handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,

quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body

says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;

that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so

excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has

ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back

to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and

I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he

was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look

through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look

too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he

looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”

“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be, must

be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we

are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to

see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives

every assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same

country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will

be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the

common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the

respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy

them.”

“Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You

understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the

other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have

made any thing like it.”

“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it

yesterday.”

“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”

“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”

“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”

“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such

things in general cannot be too short.”

Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory

comparisons were rising in her mind.

“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have

very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is

any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you

must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like

this.”

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s

prose.

“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two last!—But how shall I

ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss

Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”

“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare

say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will

pass between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall

chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”

“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful

charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”

“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should

not write it into your book.”

“Oh! but those two lines are”—

—“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for private

enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,

because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its

meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a

very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend

upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better

than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities,

or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can

be no possible reflection on you.”

Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so

as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a

declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree

of publicity.

“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.

“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it

lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you

will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him

so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any

thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of

gallantry towards us all!—You must let me read it to him.”

Harriet looked grave.

“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—You

will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too

quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning

which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little

tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not

have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me

than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has

encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over

this charade.”

“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”

Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the

recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does

your book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”

“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A

piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose,

by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied

it in.”

She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and

distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every

part as she proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had

foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.

“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true.

‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can

easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so

prettily, but you, Emma.”

Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very

tender sigh, he added,

“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother

was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can

remember nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard

me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are

several.

Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,

Kindled a flame I yet deplore,

The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,

Though of his near approach afraid,

So fatal to my suit before.

And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all

the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”

“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the

Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”

“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.

Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.

The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being

christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here

next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what

room there will be for the children?”

“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always

has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you

know. Why should there be any change?”

“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was here!—not since

last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a

lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away

from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss

Taylor here!”

“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”

“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I

first heard she was going to be married.”

“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is

here.”

“Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed tone)—she is

coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”

“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case of

necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we

ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time

they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be

taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim

this Christmas—though you know it is longer since they were with him,

than with us.”

“It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be

anywhere but at Hartfield.”

Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his

brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat

musing a little while, and then said,

“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so

soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to

stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.”

“Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do

not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her

husband.”

This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse

could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected

by the idea of his daughter’s attachment to her husband, she

immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.

“Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my

brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the

children. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder

which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?”

“Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be

to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”

“I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.”

“Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the

eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,

is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that

the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I

thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They

are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will

come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit

of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives

were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with

them very often.”

“He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are so very gentle

yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not

think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they

misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an

affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate

father. The children are all fond of him.”

“And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a

very frightful way!”

“But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such

enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of

their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.”

“Well, I cannot understand it.”

“That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot

understand the pleasures of the other.”

Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in

preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this

inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could

receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in

his the consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and

she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible

reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made

up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest

degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give

way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his

dining with him—had made such a point of it, that he had promised him

conditionally to come.

Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend

on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she

re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the

paper from the table, she returned it—

“Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;

thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have

ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not

take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first

eight lines.”

Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked

rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something about

“honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open

on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the

view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

“You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must

not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman’s

approbation while he writes with such gallantry.”

“I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating

a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in saying—at least if

my friend feels at all as _I_ do—I have not the smallest doubt that,

could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at

the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as

the proudest moment of his life.”

After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think

it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a

sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to

laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and

the sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.