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EMMA — Volume Three
by Jane Austen
CHAPTER XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread1 of being supplanted2, found how inexpressibly important it had been.—Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed4 Isabella. She had herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent5 or perverse6, slighting his advice, or even wilfully7 opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent9 estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment10 and habit, and thorough excellence11 of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?— When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately12 loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality13.— How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and clear–sighted goodwill14.— She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly15 satisfied.—Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse16 of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully8 secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be incompatible17 with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent18 wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain19 what the chances for it were.—She should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.— He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.— It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly20, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential21 discussion of one topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of others—she objected only to a tete–a–tete—they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed22 them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty–four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter–in–law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance23 of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation24 herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer25 this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation26 to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very great had been the evident distress27 and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart–felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter—who proved even too joyous28 to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested29 in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn30 back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment31, as to bring her to converse32 on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude33 she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
"On the misery34 of what she had suffered, during the concealment35 of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. "I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing36 of one tranquil37 hour:"—and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation38 that I felt at my heart."
"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?"
"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. "The consequence," said she, "has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation39. I never can be blameless. I have been acting40 contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.""Do not imagine, madam," she continued, "that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.""
"Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment41."
"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."
"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy."
"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding42 to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her unreasonable43. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious44 and irritable45 to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for him to bear. "I did not make the allowances," said she, "which I ought to have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful46 spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition47, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first." She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself."
"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous48 conscience, she must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers."
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random49, before she could at all recollect50 what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
"Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.
"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible."
Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem3 and compassion51, and her sense of past injustice52 towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious53 feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy54; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable55 suspicions of an improper56 attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy57 of Jane's feelings, by the levity58 or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy59, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs60, which the wind was despoiling61, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected62 Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by exertions63 which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their first forlorn tete–a–tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's wedding–day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas64! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted65 them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect66 before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely67 dispelled— that might not be even partially68 brightened. If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn69; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!— No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!—How was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings70 of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation71 or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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4
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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5
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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6
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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7
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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9
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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10
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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12
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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14
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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15
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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16
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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17
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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18
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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19
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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20
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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24
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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25
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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29
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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30
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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38
attestation
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| n.证词 | |
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39
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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40
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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41
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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42
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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43
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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44
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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45
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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48
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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49
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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50
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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51
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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52
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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53
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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55
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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56
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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57
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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58
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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59
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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60
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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61
despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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64
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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65
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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66
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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67
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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68
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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69
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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70
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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71
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
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