PART 1 : CHAPTER I

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home andrnhappy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings ofrnexistence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with veryrnlittle to distress or vex her.rnrnShe was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,rnindulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage,rnbeen mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother hadrndied too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrancernof her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent womanrnas governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.rnrnSixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as arngoverness than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularlyrnof Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Evenrnbefore Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,rnthe mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose anyrnrestraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, theyrnhad been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,rnand Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’srnjudgment, but directed chiefly by her own.rnrnThe real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of havingrnrather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little toornwell of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy tornher many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present sornunperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes withrnher.rnrnSorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of anyrndisagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor’srnloss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of thisrnbeloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of anyrncontinuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her fatherrnand herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third torncheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep afterrndinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what shernhad lost.rnrnThe event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston wasrna man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, andrnpleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering withrnwhat self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished andrnpromoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The wantrnof Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled herrnpast kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she hadrntaught and how she had played with her from five years old—how she hadrndevoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how nursedrnher through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt ofrngratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,rnthe equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followedrnIsabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet arndearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion suchrnas few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowingrnall the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, andrnpeculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme ofrnhers—one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who hadrnsuch an affection for her as could never find fault.rnrnHow was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was goingrnonly half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be therndifference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and arnMiss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural andrndomestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectualrnsolitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.rnHe could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.rnrnThe evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse hadrnnot married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;rnfor having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mindrnor body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and thoughrneverywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiablerntemper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.rnrnHer sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, beingrnsettled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her dailyrnreach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggledrnthrough at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit fromrnIsabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,rnand give her pleasant society again.rnrnHighbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,rnto which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, andrnname, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses werernfirst in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had manyrnacquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, butrnnot one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor forrneven half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not butrnsigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,rnand made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. Hernwas a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he wasrnused to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.rnMatrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he wasrnby no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor couldrnever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely arnmatch of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylorrntoo; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never ablernto suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, hernwas very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing forrnherself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if shernhad spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled andrnchatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; butrnwhen tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he hadrnsaid at dinner,rnrn“Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is thatrnMr. Weston ever thought of her!”rnrn“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such arngood-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves arngood wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us forrnever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of herrnown?”rnrn“A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her own?rnThis is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours, myrndear.”rnrn“How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!—Wernshall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay weddingrnvisit very soon.”rnrn“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I couldrnnot walk half so far.”rnrn“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,rnto be sure.”rnrn“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such arnlittle way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying ourrnvisit?”rnrn“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we havernsettled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston lastrnnight. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like goingrnto Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I onlyrndoubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,rnpapa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till yournmentioned her—James is so obliged to you!”rnrn“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would notrnhave had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I amrnsure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spokenrngirl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she alwaysrncurtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when yournhave had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lockrnof the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be anrnexcellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylorrnto have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goesrnover to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He willrnbe able to tell her how we all are.”rnrnEmma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, andrnhoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably throughrnthe evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. Thernbackgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwardsrnwalked in and made it unnecessary.rnrnMr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was notrnonly a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularlyrnconnected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He livedrnabout a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,rnand at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from theirrnmutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, afterrnsome days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all werernwell in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr.rnWoodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, whichrnalways did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” andrnher children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.rnWoodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,rnto come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you mustrnhave had a shocking walk.”rnrn“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that Irnmust draw back from your great fire.”rnrn“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may notrncatch cold.”rnrn“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”rnrn“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rainrnhere. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were atrnbreakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”rnrn“By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of whatrnsort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with myrncongratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did yournall behave? Who cried most?”rnrn“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”rnrn“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly sayrn‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when itrncomes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, itrnmust be better to have only one to please than two.”rnrn“Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesomerncreature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your head, Irnknow—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”rnrn“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, withrna sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”rnrn“My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.rnKnightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant onlyrnmyself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in arnjoke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”rnrnMr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faultsrnin Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: andrnthough this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew itrnwould be so much less so to her father, that she would not have himrnreally suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect byrnevery body.rnrn“Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I meant nornreflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two personsrnto please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must berna gainer.”rnrn“Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—“you want to hear about thernwedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behavedrncharmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:rnnot a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt thatrnwe were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meetingrnevery day.”rnrn“Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, Mr.rnKnightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I amrnsure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.”rnrnEmma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. “It isrnimpossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr.rnKnightley. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we couldrnsuppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’srnadvantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’srntime of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important tornher to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allowrnherself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylorrnmust be glad to have her so happily married.”rnrn“And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said Emma, “and arnvery considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made the match,rnyou know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved inrnthe right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,rnmay comfort me for any thing.”rnrnMr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! myrndear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, forrnwhatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any morernmatches.”rnrn“I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, forrnother people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after suchrnsuccess, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marryrnagain. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and whornseemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupiedrneither in his business in town or among his friends here, alwaysrnacceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spendrna single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.rnWeston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of arnpromise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and thernuncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on thernsubject, but I believed none of it.rnrn“Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I metrnwith him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he dartedrnaway with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us fromrnFarmer Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned thernmatch from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in thisrninstance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave offrnmatch-making.”rnrn“I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’” said Mr. Knightley.“Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicatelyrnspent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bringrnabout this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! Butrnif, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it,rnmeans only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, ‘Irnthink it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston werernto marry her,’ and saying it again to yourself every now and thenrnafterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What arernyou proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can bernsaid.”rnrn“And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?—Irnpity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky guess isrnnever merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poorrnword ‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am sornentirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;rnbut I think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing andrnthe do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and givenrnmany little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it mightrnnot have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfieldrnenough to comprehend that.”rnrn“A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,rnunaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage theirrnown concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, thanrngood to them, by interference.”rnrn“Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rejoinedrnMr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do notrnmake any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s familyrncircle grievously.”rnrn“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.rnElton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody inrnHighbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and hasrnfitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to havernhim single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their handsrnto-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the samernkind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this isrnthe only way I have of doing him a service.”rnrn“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very goodrnyoung man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shewrnhim any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.rnThat will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be sornkind as to meet him.”rnrn“With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr. Knightley,rnlaughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much betterrnthing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fishrnand the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, arnman of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”