Chapter XVIII.
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs.
Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the
present, he could not be spared, to his “very great mortification and regret;
but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant
period.”
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed,—much more disappointed, in
fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had
been so much more sober; but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting
more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any
proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to
hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprised and sorry: but then
he began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three months later would
be a much better plan, better time of year, better weather; and that he would
be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he
had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more
apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and
delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer,
suffered a great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr.
Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The
acquaintance, at present, had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be
quiet and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should
appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much
interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs.
Weston’s disappointment as might naturally belong to their friendship.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as
much as was necessary (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the
conduct of the Churchills in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a
good deal more than she felt of the advantage of such an addition to their
confined society in Surrey; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the
gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and
ending with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly
involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great
amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question
from her real opinion, and, making use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against
herself.
“The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley, coolly; “but I
dare say he might come if he would.”
“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;
but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”
“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point
of it. It is too unlikely for me to believe it without proof.”
“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you
suppose him such an unnatural creature?”
“I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he
may have learned to be above his connections, and to care very little for any
thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him
the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a
young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish,
should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted
to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and
January. A man at his age,—what is he?—three or four and twenty—cannot
be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.”
“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your
own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the
difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to
manage.”
“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four and twenty should
not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money, he
cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both,
that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We
hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other; a little while ago he
was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills.”
“Yes, sometimes he can.”
“And those times are, whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure.”
“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an intimate
knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a
family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.
We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s
temper, before we pretend to decide with what her nephew can do. He may,
at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others.”
“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chooses,
and that is, his duty; not by manœuvering and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his father. He
knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it
might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and
resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill, ‘Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will
always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see
my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a
mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-
morrow.’ If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming
a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.”
“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to
his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent
to use! Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible: but you
have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your
own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle
and aunt who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!—standing
up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!
How can you imagine such conduct practicable?”
“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He
would feel himself in the right; and the declaration, —made, of course, as a
man of sense would make it, in a proper manner,—would do him more
good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended
on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would
be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the
nephew, who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for
they know, as well as he does,—as well as all the world must know,—that
he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their
power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for
submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If
he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly,
their little minds would bend to his.”
“I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where
little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of
swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can
imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and
placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you would be able to
say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might
have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in
return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long
observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to
burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his
gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what
would be right as you can have, without being so equal, under particular
circumstances, to act up to it.”
“Then, it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal
exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”
“Oh the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to
understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly
opposing those whom, as child and boy, he has been looking up to all his
life.”
“Your amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of
others. It ought to have been a habit with him, by this time, of following his
duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child,
but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself,
and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have
opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he
begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.”
“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is nothing
extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I
feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his
own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild
disposition, than would suit your notions of man’s perfection. I dare say he
has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him
many others.”
“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of
leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert
in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter,
full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit
upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home, and
preventing his father’s having any right to complain. His letters disgust
me.”
“Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.” “I
suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman
of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother’s place, but
without a mother’s affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention
to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she
been a person of consequence herself, he would have come, I dare say; and
it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend
behind-hand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not
often say all this to herself? No, Emma; your amiable young man can be
amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have
very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English
delicacy towards the feelings of other people,—nothing really amiable
about him.”
“You seem determined to think ill of him.” “Me! not at all,” replied Mr.
Knightley, rather displeased; “I do not want to think ill of him. I should be
as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none,
except what are merely personal,—that he is well-grown and good-looking,
with smooth, plausible manners.”
“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at
Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well bred and
agreeable. We must not be nice, and ask for all the virtues into the bargain.
Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will
produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell
and Highbury; but one interest—one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr.
Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else.”
“You will excuse my being so much overpowered. If I find him
conversible, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering
coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”
“My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every
body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable.
To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to
every body, having that general information on all subjects which will
enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may
require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him.”
“And mine,” said Mr. Knightley, warmly, “is, that if he turn out any thing
like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-
and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the practised
politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make every body’s
talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be dispensing his
flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with
himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a
puppy when it came to the point.”
“I will say no more about him,” cried Emma,—“you turn every thing to
evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance
of agreeing till he is really here.”
“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”
“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for
Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”
“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to another,” said
Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately
talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be
angry.
To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a
different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind
which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high
opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never
before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of
another.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Volume the Second.
