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Emma
by Jane Austen
VOLUME I
CHAPTER XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination
of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with
him in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided
it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother,
she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was
time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. She certainly had
not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Concession
must be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget
that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist
the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she
had one of the children with her--the youngest, a nice little girl
about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield,
and very happy to be danced about in her aunt's arms. It did assist;
for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was
soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the
child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect
amity. Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she
could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,
"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews
and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very
different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never
disagree."
"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of
men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in
your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned,
we might always think alike."
"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being
in the wrong."
"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good. I was
sixteen years old when you were born."
"A material difference then," she replied--"and
no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of
our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring
our understandings a good deal nearer?"
"Yes--a good deal nearer."
"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right,
if we think differently."
"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience,
and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come,
my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell
your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example
than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong
before, she is now."
"That's true," she cried--"very true. Little Emma,
grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and
not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and
I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right,
and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet
proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very
bitterly disappointed."
"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.
"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
Knightley made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?"
and "John, how are you?" succeeded in the true English
style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference,
the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite,
to do every thing for the good of the other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined
cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella,
and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he
and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects
totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally
joining in one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally
some point of law to consult John about, or, at least,some curious
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm
at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year,
and to give all such local information as could not fail of being
interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest
part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of
a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination
of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into
with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners
rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any
thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of
eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying
a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand,
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one
of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since
you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You
must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to
you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel."
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that
both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as
herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more
discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being
taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an
air of grave reflection,
"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn
at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of
the sea air."
"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we
should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but
particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,-- both sea
air and bathing."
"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing
her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced,
though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very
rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once."
"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe
subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me
envious and miserable;-- I who have never seen it! South End is
prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you
make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you."
"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"
"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious,
and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has
not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always
wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such
practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."
"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children
grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling
soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones."
"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or
two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever
he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."
"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have
hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest
service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation
of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since
August."
"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have
been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation,
I would have spoken to--
"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,"
said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them."
"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you
mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well.
Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my
children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.-- And
that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!-- How are
they, sir?"
"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs.
Bates had a bad cold about a month ago."
"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they
have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known
them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."
"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the
degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general,
but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry
does not call it altogether a sickly season."
"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly
except--
"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is
always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can
be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so
far off!-- and the air so bad!"
"No, indeed--we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London
is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with
London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square
is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy!
I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--
there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children
in: but we are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity
of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."
"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best
of it-- but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all
of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I
cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting
those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never
entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the
children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because
they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and
the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks
to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not
believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I
trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,"
turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John
Knightley very far from looking well."
"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried
Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think
you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued.
I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr.
Wingfield before you left home."
"My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray
do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring
and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse."
"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your
brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's
intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new
estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?"
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when
forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she
had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane
Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in
general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.
"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--
"It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for
a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her
good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit
them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she
cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I
suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with
her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma."
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another
pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not
have a better companion than Harriet."
"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows
to be so very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of
similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening
did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came
and supplied a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--
undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution,
and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never
met with tolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which
the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most
prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired
for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant
by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as
she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get
any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.
"Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing
his eyes on her with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's
ear expressed, "Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences
of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of." And
for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a
silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of
his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however,
he began with,
"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this
autumn, instead of coming here."
"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the
children a great deal of good."
"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not
have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was
surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End."
"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed
it is quite a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well
there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr.
Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy;
and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands
the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been
there repeatedly."
"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--
Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best
of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very
pure air. And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings
there quite away from the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable.
You should have consulted Perry."
"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider
how great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead
of forty."
"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing
else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not
much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move
at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles
to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed
to him a very ill-judged measure."
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had
reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's
breaking out.
"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,
"would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for.
Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--
at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?--I may
be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--
I want his directions no more than his drugs." He paused--
and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness,
"If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children
a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense
or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing
to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself."
"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--
"very true. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to
what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham,
of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the
home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt
it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury
people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the
path. . . . The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn
to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope,
and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion."
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on
his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously,
been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;-- but
the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present
evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections
of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
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