EMMA

BY

JANE AUSTEN




VOLUME I



CHAPTER I


Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and
happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of
existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very
little to distress or vex her.

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,
indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage,
been mistress of his house from a very early period.  Her mother had
died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance
of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman
as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.

Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a
governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly
of Emma.  Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters.  Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,
the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any
restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they
had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,
and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's
judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too
well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to
her many enjoyments.  The danger, however, was at present so
unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with
her.

Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any
disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married.  It was Miss Taylor's
loss which first brought grief.  It was on the wedding-day of this
beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any
continuance.  The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to
cheer a long evening.  Her father composed himself to sleep after
dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she
had lost.

The event had every promise of happiness for her friend.  Mr. Weston
was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and
pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with
what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and
promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.  The
want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.  She
recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen
years--how she had taught and how she had played with her from five
years old--how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her
in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of
childhood.  A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the
intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect
unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being
left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.  She had
been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent,
well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family,
interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself,
in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could speak
every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as
could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going
only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a
Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and
domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual
solitude.  She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for
her.  He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had
not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;
for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind
or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though
everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.

Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being
settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from
Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,
and give her pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,
to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and
name, did really belong, afforded her no equals.  The Woodhouses were
first in consequence there.  All looked up to them.  She had many
acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but
not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for
even half a day.  It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but
sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,
and made it necessary to be cheerful.  His spirits required support.
He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was
used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was
by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could
ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a
match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor
too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able
to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he
was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for
herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she
had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield.  Emma smiled and
chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but
when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had
said at dinner,

"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again.  What a pity it is that
Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"

"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.  Mr. Weston is such
a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a
good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for
ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her
own?"

"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?
This is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my
dear."

"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see
us!--We shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay
wedding visit very soon."

"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance.  I could
not walk half so far."

"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking.  We must go in the carriage,
to be sure."

"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
little way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying
our visit?"

"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa.  You know we have
settled all that already.  We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last
night.  And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like
going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.  I
only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else.  That was your
doing, papa.  You got Hannah that good place.  Nobody thought of Hannah
till you mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"

"I am very glad I did think of her.  It was very lucky, for I would not
have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am
sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken
girl; I have a great opinion of her.  Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you
have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock
of the door the right way and never bangs it.  I am sure she will be an
excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see.  Whenever James
goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us.  He
will be able to tell her how we all are."

Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and
hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through
the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own.  The
backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
walked in and made it unnecessary.

Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not
only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly
connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband.  He
lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always
welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly
from their mutual connexions in London.  He had returned to a late
dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say
that all were well in Brunswick Square.  It was a happy circumstance,
and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.  Mr. Knightley had a cheerful
manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor
Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily.  When
this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of
you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.  I
am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."

"Not at all, sir.  It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that
I must draw back from your great fire."

"But you must have found it very damp and dirty.  I wish you may not
catch cold."

"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes.  Not a speck on them."

"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain
here.  It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at
breakfast.  I wanted them to put off the wedding."

"By the bye--I have not wished you joy.  Being pretty well aware of
what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with
my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well.  How did
you all behave? Who cried most?"

"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."

"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it
comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two."

"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome
creature!" said Emma playfully.  "That is what you have in your head, I
know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."

"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with
a sigh.  "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."

"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.
Knightley to mean _you_.  What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only
myself.  Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a
joke--it is all a joke.  We always say what we like to one another."

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults
in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and
though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it
would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him
really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by
every body.

"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no
reflection on any body.  Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons
to please; she will now have but one.  The chances are that she must be
a gainer."

"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--"you want to hear about the
wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
charmingly.  Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:
not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.  Oh no; we all felt that
we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting
every day."

"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father.  "But, Mr.
Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am
sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for."

Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.  "It is
impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr.
Knightley.  "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's
time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to
her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow
herself to feel so much pain as pleasure.  Every friend of Miss Taylor
must be glad to have her so happily married."

"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a
very considerable one--that I made the match myself.  I made the match,
you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in
the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,
may comfort me for any thing."

Mr. Knightley shook his head at her.  Her father fondly replied, "Ah!
my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for
whatever you say always comes to pass.  Pray do not make any more
matches."

"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
other people.  It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after
such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never
marry again.  Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long,
and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly
occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here,
always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need
not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it.  Oh
no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again.  Some people even
talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son
and the uncle not letting him.  All manner of solemn nonsense was
talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.

"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met
with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from
Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject.  I planned the
match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this
instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off
match-making."

"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour.  Your time has been properly and
delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years
to bring about this marriage.  A worthy employment for a young lady's
mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you
call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle
day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr.
Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now
and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit?
What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that
can be said."

"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--
I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess
is never merely luck.  There is always some talent in it.  And as to my
poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so
entirely without any claim to it.  You have drawn two pretty pictures;
but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing
and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and
given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it
might not have come to any thing after all.  I think you must know
Hartfield enough to comprehend that."

"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,
unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their
own concerns.  You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than
good to them, by interference."

"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined
Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part.  "But, my dear, pray do not
make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family
circle grievously."

"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton.  Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him.  There is nobody in
Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has
fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
him single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands
to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same
kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is
the only way I have of doing him a service."

"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good
young man, and I have a great regard for him.  But if you want to shew
him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.
That will be a much better thing.  I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
kind as to meet him."

"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley,
laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better
thing.  Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the
fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife.  Depend upon
it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."



CHAPTER II


Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,
which for the last two or three generations had been rising into
gentility and property.  He had received a good education, but, on
succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed
for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,
and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by
entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.

Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great
Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was
surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and
who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.

Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the
family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took
place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who
threw her off with due decorum.  It was an unsuitable connexion, and
did not produce much happiness.  Mrs. Weston ought to have found more
in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him
think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being
in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not
the best.  She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of
her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at
that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her
former home.  They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing
in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but
she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill
of Enscombe.

Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,
as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of
the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he
was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved.  The boy
had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his
mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young
creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
of the little Frank soon after her decease.  Some scruples and some
reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they
were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the
care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.

A complete change of life became desirable.  He quitted the militia and
engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in
London, which afforded him a favourable opening.  It was a concern
which brought just employment enough.  He had still a small house in
Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful
occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty
years of his life passed cheerfully away.  He had, by that time,
realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little
estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to
marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according
to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.

It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it
had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could
purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;
but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were
accomplished.  He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained
his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.  He
had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from
that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how
delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must
give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to
choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.

He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his
uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume
the name of Churchill on coming of age.  It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance.  His
father had no apprehension of it.  The aunt was a capricious woman, and
governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to
imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear,
and, as he believed, so deservedly dear.  He saw his son every year in
London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine
young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too.  He was
looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and
prospects a kind of common concern.

Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little
returned that he had never been there in his life.  His coming to visit
his father had been often talked of but never achieved.

Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
most proper attention, that the visit should take place.  There was not
a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea
with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
visit.  Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them;
and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to
his new mother on the occasion.  For a few days, every morning visit in
Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had
received.  "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank
Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very
handsome letter, indeed.  Mr. Woodhouse told me of it.  Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his
life."

It was, indeed, a highly prized letter.  Mrs. Weston had, of course,
formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most
welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation
which her marriage had already secured.  She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate
she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial
separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and
who could ill bear to part with her.

She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without
pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,
from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
privations.  And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance
of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female
walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would
make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the
evenings in the week together.

Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.
Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more
than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,
that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize
at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her
at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away
in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
own.  But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle
sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to
stay."

There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to
pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which
had been a great distress to him, was all eat up.  His own stomach
could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
different from himself.  What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade
them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as
earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it.  He had been at the
pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject.  Mr.
Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were
MANSFIELD PARK

(1814)


by

Jane Austen



CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences
of an handsome house and large income.  All Huntingdon exclaimed on the
greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her
to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to
it.  She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of
their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as
handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with
almost equal advantage.  But there certainly are not so many men of
large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to
be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law,
with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible:  Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an
income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their
career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a
year.  But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her
family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education,
fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly.  She could hardly have
made a more untoward choice.  Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which,
from principle as well as pride--from a general wish of doing right,
and a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations
of respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage
of Lady Bertram's sister; but her husband's profession was such as no
interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method
of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken
place.  It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and
such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces.  To save
herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family
on the subject till actually married.  Lady Bertram, who was a woman of
very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent,
would have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and
thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of
activity, which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and
angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and
threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.  Mrs. Price, in
her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehended each
sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very disrespectful
reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not
possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse between them
for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so
distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
other's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to
make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have
it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry
voice, that Fanny had got another child.  By the end of eleven years,
however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or
resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.  A
large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active
service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very
small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the
friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady
Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,
such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything
else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation.  She was
preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,
and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she
could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being.  Her eldest was a boy of ten
years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;
but what could she do?  Was there any chance of his being hereafter
useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?  No
situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of
Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive.  It re-established peace and kindness.
Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram
dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more
important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it.  Mrs. Norris was
often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister
and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for
her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not
but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from
the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.
"What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest
daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more
attention than her poor mother could possibly give?  The trouble and
expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence
of the action."  Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly.  "I think we
cannot do better," said she; "let us send for the child."

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.
He debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought
up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead
of kindness in taking her from her family.  He thought of his own four
children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner had
he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the
generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a
piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the
main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of
providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
mite upon such an occasion.  Having no children of my own, who should I
look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the
children of my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you
know I am a woman of few words and professions.  Do not let us be
frightened from a good deed by a trifle.  Give a girl an education, and
introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the
means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody.  A niece of
ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up
in this neighbourhood without many advantages.  I don't say she would
be so handsome as her cousins.  I dare say she would not; but she would
be introduced into the society of this country under such very
favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a
creditable establishment.  You are thinking of your sons--but do not
you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to
happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and
sisters?  It is morally impossible.  I never knew an instance of it.
It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion.
Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time
seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief.  The very
idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all
in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear,
sweet-tempered boys in love with her.  But breed her up with them from
this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she
will never be more to either than a sister."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied Sir Thomas,
"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.
I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and
that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to
ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged
to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision
of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so
sanguine in expecting."

"I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything
that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
on this point.  Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never
feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I
should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her.  Is not she a
sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
bread to give her?  My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a
warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries
of life than do an ungenerous thing.  So, if you are not against it, I
will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as
soon as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to
Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it.  My own trouble, you
know, I never regard.  I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she
may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed
to meet her there.  They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by
the coach, under the care of any creditable person that may chance to
be going.  I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife
or other going up."

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any
objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous
being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.  The
division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have
been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.
As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;
but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look
forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon
grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude
which there were no children to supply.  Had there been a family to
provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or
lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they
had never lived up to.  Under this infatuating principle, counteracted
by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim
at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a
charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk
home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of
being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully
explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall
the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?"  Sir Thomas heard
with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power
to take any share in the personal charge of her.  He had been
considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as
a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he
found himself wholly mistaken.  Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the
little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was
quite out of the question.  Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of
health made it an impossibility:  he could no more bear the noise of a
child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his
gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be
glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just
now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very
mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost
composure.  After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes,
let her home be in this house.  We will endeavour to do our duty by
her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her
own age, and of a regular instructress."

"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important
considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she
has three girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference.  I
only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power.  I
am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch
her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor
away for three days.  I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the
little white attic, near the old nurseries.  It will be much the best
place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close
by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you
know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think
it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others.  Indeed,
I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else."

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris,
"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends."

"Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not,
for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is
no reason to expect so great an evil.  We shall probably see much to
wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,
some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous
for her associates.  Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I
should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter
of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to
fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the
association."

"That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris, "and what I was
saying to my husband this morning.  It will be an education for the
child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her
nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."

"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but
just got Julia to leave it alone."

"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir
Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as
they grow up:  how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the
consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of
their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_.  I should wish to see
them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls
the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they
cannot be equals.  Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
always be different.  It is a point of great delicacy, and you must
assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of
conduct."

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed
with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her
sister in vain.  Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should
be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer
most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very
well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have
cause to throw her off.  She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate
and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
for change of air.  Poor woman! she probably thought change of air
might agree with many of her children.



CHAPTER II

The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at
Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of
being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in
to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might
not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,
nothing to disgust her relations.  She was small of her age, with no
glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid
and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was
not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was
pretty.  Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir
Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that
was conciliating:  but he had to work against a most untoward gravity
of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble,
or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a
good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the
two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at
least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall
of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little
cousin.  The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in
greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
rather an injudicious particularity.  But they were too much used to
company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their
confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were
soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy
indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of
their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins
in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would
have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were.  There
were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny.  Julia
Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older.  The little
visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.  Afraid of everybody,
ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not
how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without
crying.  Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from
Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree
of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her
consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its
being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.  The fatigue, too, of so
long a journey, became soon no trifling evil.  In vain were the
well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious
prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl; in vain
did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and
pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving
her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears
interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was
taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

"This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny
had left the room.  "After all that I said to her as we came along, I
thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend
upon her acquitting herself well at first.  I wish there may not be a
little sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we
must make allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being
sorry to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its
faults, it _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much
she has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all
things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to
allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the
separation from everybody she had been used to.  Her feelings were very
acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to.  Nobody
meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to
secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to
afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their
young cousin, produced little union.  They could not but hold her cheap
on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French;
and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were
so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous
present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,
while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport
of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the
drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
to fear in every person and place.  She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome
by Mrs. Norris's admonitions.  Her elder cousins mortified her by
reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness:  Miss
Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her
clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers
and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was
severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her.  The
rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched
she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of
something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left
it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good
fortune, ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.  A week
had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet
passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an
excellent nature, "what can be the matter?"  And sitting down by her,
he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and
persuade her to speak openly.  Was she ill? or was anybody angry with
her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain?  Did she, in short,
want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her?  For a long
while no answer could be obtained beyond a "no, no--not at all--no,
thank you"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to
revert to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where
the grievance lay.  He tried to console her.

"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny," said he, "which
shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are
with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you
happy.  Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about
your brothers and sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and
sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her
thoughts than the rest.  It was William whom she talked of most, and
wanted most to see.  William, the eldest, a year older than herself,
her constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of
whom he was the darling) in every distress.  "William did not like she
should come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed."
"But William will write to you, I dare say."  "Yes, he had promised he
would, but he had told _her_ to write first."  "And when shall you do
it?"  She hung her head and answered hesitatingly, "she did not know;
she had not any paper."

"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and
every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you
choose.  Would it make you happy to write to William?"

"Yes, very."

"Then let it be done now.  Come with me into the breakfast-room, we
shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to
ourselves."

"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

"Yes, depend upon me it shall:  it shall go with the other letters;
and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing."

"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
frank."

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and
they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could
himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness.  He
continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with
his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to
these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother
which delighted her beyond all the rest.  He wrote with his own hand
his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the
seal.  Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed
herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless
words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin
began to find her an interesting object.  He talked to her more, and,
from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate
heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to
be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation,
and great timidity.  He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now
felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view
endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and
gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with
Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.  She felt that she had a
friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else.  The place became less strange, and the people
less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not
cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the
best manner of conforming to them.  The little rusticities and
awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the
tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,
and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor
did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much.  To her cousins
she became occasionally an acceptable companion.  Though unworthy, from
inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their
pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper;
and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults,
or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny
was good-natured enough."

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure
on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of
seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten.  He was just
entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and
enjoyment.  His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his
situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and
laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was
pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she
showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

By Jane Austen



Chapter 1


It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
of some one or other of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? How can it affect them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the
party."

"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five
grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty."

"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."

"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighbourhood."

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to
go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no
newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to
visit him if you do not."

"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though
I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are
all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these last twenty years at least."

"Ah, you do not know what I suffer."

"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."

"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
visit them."

"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all."

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,
she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.



Chapter 2


Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring
his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with:

"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."

"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother
resentfully, "since we are not to visit."

"But you forget, mamma," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him."

"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
of her."

"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do
not depend on her serving you."

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."

"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times
them ill."

"I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is
your next ball to be, Lizzy?"

"To-morrow fortnight."

"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back
till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself."

"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to _her_."

"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
myself; how can you be so teasing?"

"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,
Mrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as
she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
take it on myself."

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense,
nonsense!"

"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do
you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read
great books and make extracts."

Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.

"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr.
Bingley."

"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.

"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If
I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called
on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
cannot escape the acquaintance now."

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while.

"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a
word about it till now."

"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose," said Mr. Bennet; and,
as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

"What an excellent father you have, girls!" said she, when the door was
shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball."

"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I'm the tallest."

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
dinner.



Chapter 3


Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.

"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,"
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for."

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about
ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had
heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and
the report which was in general circulation within five minutes
after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he
was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving
one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his
having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
to join it.

"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
dance."

"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this
it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to
stand up with."

"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Mr. Bingley, "for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in
my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
uncommonly pretty."

"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

"Which do you mean?" and turning round he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no
humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
good deal of curiosity as to the events of an evening which had raised
such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.

"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
her twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her
twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and
asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,
and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,
and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--"

"If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband impatiently,
"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
his partners. O that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown--"

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man."



Chapter 4


When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
much she admired him.

"He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much
ease, with such perfect good breeding!"

"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man ought
likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete."

"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
did not expect such a compliment."

"Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between
us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman
in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
stupider person."

"Dear Lizzy!"

"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable
in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your
life."

"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak
what I think."

"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
others! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it
everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the
good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing
of the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,
too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his."

"Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep
his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
neighbour in her."

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,
and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine
ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and
conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the
first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of
associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect
entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of
a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their
own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
purchase.

His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,
though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
means unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation
to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for
half-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal
rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.
In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means
deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,
reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not
inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley
was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offense.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
