Chapter VII: Lady Catherine’s Visit 123 (1)

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN LADY CATHERINE AND ELIZABETH BENNET
“_Pride and Prejudice_”

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

COSTUMES _Frontispiece_
ISABELLA THORPE AND CATHERINE MORLAND _Page_ 3
MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD 17
MISS BATES AND EMMA 33
MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY 53
EMMA AND HARRIET 67
ELIZABETH BENNET AND MR COLLINS 103
LADY CATHERINE AND ELIZABETH BENNET 125

COSTUMES.

LADIES.

The prevailing materials for the morning dresses of this period were cambrics, India muslins, clear muslins, usually white, and often spotted and sprigged with clear colours. The bodices were usually cut low with short sleeves, the neck being covered with an embroidered habit shirt or chemisette, often cut with very high collars coming up to the ears. The arms were covered with sleeves of rucked muslin or net. The walking dresses were worn to the ankle only, but the more graceful house dress was worn long. “Spencers,” or short bodices, with sleeves made of silk or cloth, were often worn over the muslin dress out of doors; these were sometimes buttoned down the centre, sometimes double-breasted, sometimes left open. “Spanish vests,” a sort of Spencer, with long-pointed ends in front, were often seen. Shawls, and long scarfs with embroidered ends, were almost invariable accompaniments of out-door dress, and were carried over the arm or worn draped over one shoulder, or round the neck, with long ends hanging in front like a boa. The use of muslins, furs, China silks, sarsnets, satins, etc., indiscriminately, was characteristic of the period. A dress of India muslin and a fur muff and boa was not considered incongruous. Small hats and turban-shaped caps were as much worn as large; ostrich and herons’ feathers, satins, velvets, velvet flowers, and even jewels were used for these. Gloves were usually of York tan or French kid, but sometimes were of _net_. Shoes were made of varying materials—coloured kid, often velvet or silk. The colours most in vogue were pinks, lilacs, violets, lavender, pale primrose, pale greens—scarlets often for pelisses—and all clear colours. Browns are described as “cinamon,” chocolate, nut, “la boue de Paris,” Egyptian brown, etc. All muslin dresses were worn over “slips” of silk or cambric. In making the bodices, it should be borne in mind that of the many ways of cutting them, the least graceful is to have a straight line round the waist. The line should curve upwards from beneath the bosom in front and reach the highest point between the shoulder-blades at the back, as seen in the back view of Emma. A double curve, which rises slightly in front as well, as seen in one of the distant figures in the frontispiece, is very becoming.

GENTLEMEN.

The men’s dress of this period had all the variety of a time of transition—cut-away and swallow-tail coats as well as riding coats and surtouts were worn, differing mainly from the garments of to-day in the height of the waist, and often extravagant height of the collar. The waistcoats were high-waisted, of the gayest colours and most varied materials, being ornamented with fantastic buttons. Pantaloons, either buttoned just above the ankle, or tied with a riband, were in almost universal use; these were supplemented out of doors by top-boots or gaiters. The pantaloons were usually of cloth, though occasionally knitted wool was worn. High stocks and frilled shirt-fronts were usual, but would not have reached an eccentric pitch among Miss Austen’s quiet country folks. Hats were high-crowned, with curved brims of varying width, and were made of beaver, felt, or straw. Knee-breeches would be worn by the old-fashioned folk, and by clergy-men. The colouring being centred in the waistcoat, the rest of the costume, though perhaps slightly gayer than that of the present day, would on the whole be sober in hue.

LITERARY TASTES.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN CATHERINE MORLAND AND ISABELLA THORPE.

_From “Northanger Abbey.”_

_Costumes._

_Isabella_ is wearing a pelisse of lilac-coloured sarsanet, trimmed with white swansdown; a French cambric frock fastened down the front with small round pearl buttons, and with a border of gold-coloured embroidery round the skirt, which is of walking length. The bodice is cut low, a muslin chemisette with high collar and frill being worn to cover the neck.

The hat of straw or white beaver is tied under the chin by a tan-coloured ribbon, which passes over the crown; a tuft of white ostrich feathers on the left side; tan gloves and tan shoes.

_Catherine_ wears a large natural-coloured straw hat, with jonguille green ribbon and white feathers. A dress of cambric muslin spotted with pale yellow flowers, short full sleeves, and a primrose-coloured shawl; white or tan gloves.

LITERARY TASTES.

_Characters._

_Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland._

_N.B._—“The progress of the friendship between Catherine and
Isabella was quick as its beginning had been warm; and they passed
so rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness, that
there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends
or themselves. They called each other by their Christian name, were
always arm-in-arm when they walked, pinned up each other’s train for
the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and, if a rainy
morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute
in meeting, in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up
to read novels.... The following conversation, which took place
between the two friends in the Pump-room one morning, after an
acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their
very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of
thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that
attachment.”—_Northanger Abbey_, Chap. V. and VI.

_Scene—Part of the Pump-room at Bath._

_Properties required:—A sofa R.C.; a small table L., with the visitors’ book upon it. Door L. A window up R.C. Enter Isabella Thorpe. Having to wait a few moments, she shows every sign of impatience. Enter Catherine Morland._

_Isabella_ (_rising suddenly_). My dearest creature! what can have made you so late? (_They embrace._) I have been waiting for you at least this age.

_Catherine_ (_surprised_). Have you, indeed? I am very sorry for it, but really I thought I was in very good time (_pointing to her watch or a time-piece_); it is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?

_Isabella._ Oh! these ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half-hour; but now, let us sit down and enjoy ourselves. (_They sit on the sofa._) I have a hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine in a shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with coquelicot ribands instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself this morning? Have you gone on with “Udolpho”?

_Catherine._ Yes, I have been reading it ever since I awoke, and I am got to the black veil.

_Isabella._ Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are you not wild to know?

_Catherine._ Oh! yes, quite, what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it, I assure you; if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world.

_Isabella_ (_embracing Catherine impulsively_). Dear creature! how much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished “Udolpho” we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you.

_Catherine._ Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?

_Isabella_ (_rising_). I will read you their names directly; here they are in my pocket-book—(_takes out a small pocket-book from her reticule and reads_), “Castle of Wolfenbach,” “Clermont,” “Mysterious Warnings,” “Necromancer of the Black Forest,” “Midnight Bell,” “Orphan of the Rhine,” and “Horrid Mysteries”—(_shutting the book_). There! those will last us some time.

_Catherine._ Yes—pretty well, but are they all horrid? are you sure that they are all horrid?

_Isabella_ (_leaning on the sofa, R. end_). Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine—a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it.

_Catherine._ Scold them! Do you _scold_ them for not admiring her?

_Isabella._ Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt, at one of our assemblies this winter, that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you (_embrace_) I should fire up in a moment; but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men.

_Catherine_ (_hanging her head and turning away_). Oh! dear! how can you say so?

_Isabella._ Oh! I know you very well, you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants; for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. (_Sitting down again._) Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly.

_Catherine_ (_turning away still more_).

_Isabella._ I am sure he is in love with you.

_Catherine._ Oh! Isabella!

_Isabella_ (_laughing_). It is very true, upon my honour. But I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody’s admiration except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. (_Suddenly serious._) Nay, I cannot blame you, your feelings are easily understood (_rising_); where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attentions of anybody else (_walking to R._); everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object; I can perfectly comprehend your feelings.

_Catherine._ But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again.

_Isabella._ Not see him again! (_embracing_) my dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so.

_Catherine_ (_smiling_). No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have “Udolpho” to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! the dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina’s skeleton behind it.

_Isabella_ (_taking Catherine’s arm and walking up and down_). It is so odd to me that you should never have read “Udolpho” before; but I suppose Mrs Morland objects to novels.

_Catherine._ No, she does not. She very often reads “Sir Charles Grandison” herself; but new books do not fall in our way.

_Isabella._ “Sir Charles Grandison”! that is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume.

_Catherine._ It is not like “Udolpho” at all, but yet I think it is very entertaining.

_Isabella._ Do you, indeed? You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable (_stopping short_). But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head to-night? I am determined, at all events, to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know.

_Catherine_ (_innocently_). But it does not signify if they do.

_Isabella._ Signify! Oh! Heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.

_Catherine._ Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me.

_Isabella._ Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance. By the bye, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?

_Catherine._ I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think; brown—not fair and not very dark.

_Isabella._ Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr Tilney—“A brown skin, with dark eyes and rather dark hair.” Well, my taste is different; I prefer light eyes; and as to complexion—do you know—I like a sallow better than any other. But you must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description.

_Catherine_ (_impulsively_). Betray you! what do you mean?

_Isabella._ Nay, do not distress me—I believe I have said too much already. Pray, let us drop the subject.

_Catherine._ My dearest Isabella, certainly, if you wish it. (_Aside as Isabella walks towards the door._) I wonder if it _is_ Laurentina’s skeleton. Oh! it must be Laurentina’s skeleton.

_Isabella_ (_coming suddenly back to Catherine, but looking over her shoulder towards the door_). For Heaven’s sake let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour? They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals in the visiting book. They will hardly follow us there. (_They walk to the book. While Isabella examines the book, Catherine watches the proceedings off L. door._) They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up.

_Catherine_ (_at door, with unaffected pleasure_). You need no longer be uneasy; the gentlemen have just left the Pump-room.

_Isabella_ (_turning hastily round_). And which way are they gone? One of them was a very good-looking young man.

_Catherine_ (_going to the window_). They are going towards the Churchyard.

_Isabella_ (_hastily_). Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them; and now, what say you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it.

_Catherine._ With pleasure—only—perhaps we may overtake the two young men.

_Isabella._ Oh! never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat (_taking Catherine’s hand and drawing her towards the door._)

_Catherine_ (_holding back_). But if we only wait a few minutes there will be no danger of our seeing them at all.

_Isabella_ (_with great dignity, still holding Catherine’s hand_). I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. _That_ is the way to spoil them. Come—and see my new hat. (_Exeunt Catherine and Isabella, hurriedly, by the door._)

_Curtain._

THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD.

_From “Sense and Sensibility,” Vol. I., chap. II._

Costumes.

_Mrs D._ Black dress with a Spanish vest trimmed with narrow black velvet; pointed ends in front, finished with black tassels. Skirt trimmed with black ermine velvet to match white ermine opera tippet.

_Mr D._ In grey and black.

THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION.

(A CONVERSATION.)

_Characters._

_Mr and Mrs John Dashwood_.

_Scene—The morning room at Norlands. It is a comfortably furnished room._

_Properties required:—Door R. Window C. Tables R. and L. Chairs on either side. Books and a work basket with household mending in it._

_N.B._—“He (Mr John Dashwood) was not an ill-disposed young
man, unless to be rather cold-hearted, and rather selfish is to
be ill-disposed; but he was, in general, well respected, for he
conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary
duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been still
more respectable than he was; he might even have been made amiable
himself, for he was very young when he married, and very fond of
his wife. But Mrs Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more
narrow-minded and selfish.”—_Sense and Sensibility_, Chap. I.

_Enter Mrs John Dashwood, Door R. She is in mourning._

_Mrs D._ (_going to the window and arranging the curtains._) A comfortably appointed house—a little shabby, perhaps—but with judicious alterations here and there, I do not doubt of making it very fit and habitable for Mr Dashwood and myself. (_Sitting to her work._) Yet I wish my father-in-law had not died here, and thus put me to the inconvenience of offering a home to his widow and three daughters till they have found a suitable house of their own. I think I made it palpably clear to them that their stay could only be considered in the light of a visit, by arriving with dear little Harry and our attendants as soon as the funeral was over. The house was my husband’s from the moment of his father’s decease, and no one could dispute my right to come. But such is the indelicacy and selfishness of our mother-in-law, that unless my husband finds her a home elsewhere, she and her daughters will consider they may remain here for ever. I hope Mr Dashwood will see that they are soon settled, and then I can take up my proper position at Norlands.

_Enter Mr John Dashwood. He, too, is in mourning._

_Mr D._ My dear, if you are at leisure I should like to speak with you about the promise I made to my late lamented father upon his death-bed respecting the future of my step-mother and three sisters.

_Mrs D._ The very thing I was thinking of myself.

_Mr D._ I am happy to see we are in such accord. The case is this. My present income, which is not inconsiderable, will now be increased by four thousand a-year, and the prospect has determined me to behave with generosity. I therefore propose to give them three thousand pounds.

_Mrs D._ (_with horror_). Three thousand pounds!

_Mr D._ Yes. It will be liberal and handsome. I can spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience, and it would be enough to make them completely easy.

_Mrs D._ But, my dear Mr Dashwood, pray consider. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of our dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. I beg you to think again on the subject. How can you answer it to yourself to rob your child, your only child too, of so large a sum? and what possible claims can the Miss Dashwoods, who are related to you only by half blood, which I consider as no relationship at all, have on your generosity to so large an amount? It is very well known that no affection is ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why are you to ruin yourself and our poor little Harry, by giving away all your money to your half sisters?

_Mr D._ It was my father’s last request to me, that I should assist his widow and daughters.

_Mrs D._ He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say. Ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child.

_Mr D._ He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But—as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it—at least, I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home.

_Mrs D._ Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider, that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever,—if, indeed, it could ever be restored to our poor little boy.

_Mr D._ (_gravely_). Why, to be sure, that would make a difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it would.

_Mr D._ Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties if the sum were diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortune.

_Mrs D._ Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is—only half blood! But you have such a generous spirit!

_Mr D._ I would not wish to do anything mean; one had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them. Even themselves, they can hardly expect more.

_Mrs D._ There is no knowing what _they_ may expect. But we are not to think of their expectations; the question is, what you can afford to do.

_Mr D._ Certainly; and I think I can afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have above three thousand pounds on their mother’s death—a very comfortable fortune for any young woman.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they will live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds.

_Mr D._ That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them—something of the annuity kind I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.

_Mrs D._ (_hesitating_). To be sure it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once; but then, if Mrs Dashwood should live fifteen years, we shall be completely taken in.

_Mr D._ Fifteen years! my dear Fanny, her life cannot be worth half that purchase.

_Mrs D._ Certainly not, but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is any annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout, and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities, for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father’s will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them: and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own she said, with such perpetual claims upon it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother’s disposal without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure _I_ would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.

_Mr D._ It is certainly an unpleasant thing to have those kind of yearly drains on one’s income. One’s fortune, as your mother justly says, is _not_ one’s own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable; it takes away one’s independence.

_Mrs D._ Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no thanks for it, they think themselves secure; you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them anything yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty, pounds from our own expenses.

_Mr D._ I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case. Whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds now and then will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.

_Mrs D._ To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant nothing further; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your step-mother and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and of course they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether they will have five hundred a year amongst them; and what on earth can four women want for more than that? They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as for your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give _you_ something.

_Mr D._ Upon my word, I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my step-mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture, too, may be acceptable then.

_Mrs D._ Certainly; but, however, _one_ thing must be considered,—that though the furniture goes with this house, and is therefore our own, your father left _all_ the china, linen, and plate to your step-mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.

_Mr D._ That is a material consideration, undoubtedly; a valuable legacy, indeed! And some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here.

_Mrs D._ Yes, and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as ours; a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of _them_, and I must say this, that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know, that if he could he would have left almost everything in the world to them.

_Mr D._ My love, I am convinced of the truth of what you say. It will not only be absolutely unnecessary, but highly indecorous to do more. (_Looking at his watch._) Eleven o’clock; the carriage should be here. My step-mother has not been out of doors since my father’s funeral, and I ordered the carriage to take her and my sisters for a drive.

_Mrs D._ (_rising and putting away her work_). My dear Mr Dashwood. No! Here I must be firm. It is quite an unnecessary luxury, which they must sooner or later relinquish; and if they are indulged in carriage exercise now, how can they ever be expected to conform to the new mode of life attendant on their reduced circumstances? It is a cruelty, not a kindness, on your part to suggest such a thing. However, rather than that Wilkins should have troubled to harness the horses in vain, I will take little Harry out with me. The air will do him all the good in the world, and you can easily explain to your mother and sisters that it is incumbent upon me to drive round the estate in order to learn a little of its extent and capacity. You can tell them they shall go out another day.

_Mr D._ My dear Fanny, you are right, your judgment of such matters can never be at fault. Perhaps I _was_ over-hospitable.

_Mrs D._ (_emphatically_). My dear Mr Dashwood, of that there is no doubt.

[_Exeunt Mr and Mrs Dashwood_.

_End of Scene._

THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MISS BATES AND EMMA.

_From “Emma,” Vol. I., Chap. XIX._

Costumes.

_Emma._ Long curricle coat of jonquil green china silk, lined with fawn-coloured sarsanet: white cambric dress, the bodice with wrap fronts, crossing on the bosom and fastening at the middle of the back. Opera tippet (boa of white swansdown). A cap of “tiara” form of nut-brown silk, trimmed with pointed green leaves and tied under the chin with nut-brown ribbons; large muff of white swansdown.

_Miss Bates._ Dress of grey or dark brown silk striped with black; chemisette of thick white muslin; apron of black satin; broad ribbon of myrtle green tied round the head in a bow at the top, a black ostrich tip fastened in the ribbon with an antique pebble brooch; an eye-glass fastened round the neck by a long black ribbon.

THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER.

_Characters._

_Miss Bates, Mrs Bates, Emma Woodhouse._

_N.B._—“After these came a second set, among the most come-at-able
of whom were Mrs and Miss Bates ... almost always at the service
of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried
home so often that Mr Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either
James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year it would
have been a grievance. _Mrs Bates_, the widow of a former Vicar of
Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past everything but tea and
quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way,
and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless
old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite. _Her
daughter_ enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman
neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the
very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public
favour, and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement
to herself, or frighten those who might hate her, into outward
respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth
had passed without distinction, and her middle life was devoted to
the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small
income go as far as possible, and yet she was a happy woman, and a
woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal
good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
everybody, was interested in everybody’s happiness, quick-sighted to
everybody’s merits, thought herself a most fortunate creature, and
surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many
good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful
spirit, were a recommendation to everybody, and a mine of felicity
to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, full of
trivial communications and harmless gossip.... These were the ladies
whom _Emma_ found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy
was she, for her father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she
herself was concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs Weston
(her former governess and best friend). The quiet gossipings of such
women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the
long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.”—_Emma_, Chap. III.

_Scene—Mrs Bates’ Parlour._

_Properties required:—One table L.C., with Jane Fairfax’s letter on
it under reticule; two chairs on either side of the table; another
table up R., with a cake upon it, and a knife to cut it; another
table up L.; in front of a cheerful fire, “a grandfather’s chair”
left of the table, with its back turned to the audience, in which Mrs
Bates is discovered sitting. In order to bring Mrs Bates on the stage
without being seen, a screen must be placed before the chair, and
when Mrs Bates is seated so as to be almost completely hidden from
the audience during the whole of the scene, Miss Bates must enter,
draw back the screen, and say in a loud voice to her mother._

_Miss Bates._ So kind of Mrs Cole to call upon us so early in the day, and so interested in Jane’s letter. She was indeed, ma’am. How pleased you will be to see dear Jane again. You must not think anything more of her illness. There is nothing to be alarmed at in the least. She says so herself in her letter; you remember, I read it to you—_Jane’s_ letter. (_Miss Woodhouse’s voice heard outside._)

_Emma_ (_outside_). Are Mrs and Miss Bates within this morning?

_Miss Bates._ Bless me, here is Miss Woodhouse. (_Runs to door._) Oh! come up, Miss Woodhouse, pray come up. (_Runs to Mrs Bates._) Ma’am, ma’am, Miss Woodhouse is so kind as to be calling on us. (_Runs to door._) Oh, Miss Woodhouse, mind the step—so very treacherous. (_Enter Emma, who curtseys first at the door, then to Mrs Bates._) And have you walked? All the way? I trust your shoes are not wet or damp. (_Runs back to Mrs Bates after offering chair R. of L.C. table, in which Emma sits._) Miss Woodhouse has walked, ma’am, all the way—so kind. And how is dear Mr Woodhouse? I trust he is well; my mother so enjoyed her evening with him when we were all away at Mrs Weston’s, a great deal of chat and backgammon. Tea was made downstairs—biscuits and baked apples; and wine before she came away; amazing luck in some of her throws. Are you seated comfortably? Pray is that chair quite?—yes? Let me offer you some sweet-cake (_runs to table R. and cuts piece of cake_). Mrs _Cole_ has just been here; just called in for ten minutes, and was so good as to sit an hour with us. She is but just gone, and _she_ took a piece of cake and was so kind as to say she liked it very much; therefore I hope, Miss Woodhouse, you will do me the favour to eat a piece, too. (_Emma takes a piece of cake and eats._)

_Miss Bates_ (_raising her voice and going to her mother_). Ma’am, Miss Woodhouse has taken a piece of sweet-cake—(_to Emma_). Mrs Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of my niece Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her—Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs Cole does not know how to show her kindness enough, and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as anybody can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying—“I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing.” And when I immediately said—“But indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,” I do not know that I ever saw anybody more surprised. “Have you, upon your honour?” said she, “well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.”

_Emma_ (_politely_). Have you heard from Miss Jane Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy: I hope she is well?

_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are so kind! (_hunting about for the letter_). Dear! dear! where can the letter be? I had it but a moment ago.

_Emma_ (_aside_). How provoking: I thought I had timed my visit so as to escape a letter from Jane Fairfax.

_Miss Bates._ Ah! here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs Cole, and, since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often enough, so I knew it could not be far off; and here it is, only just under my huswife. And since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says; but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter, only two pages, you see, hardly two, and in general she fills the whole paper, and crosses half.

_Emma_ (_aside_). For that at least I am thankful.

_Miss Bates._ My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, “Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work,” and then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her, every word of it—I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, “I am sure, grandmamma, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do, and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.”

_Emma._ Miss Fairfax writes such an excellent hand—it is in itself like fine embroidery.

_Miss Bates._ You are extremely kind, you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf, you know. I must tell her—(_speaking loudly_)—Ma’am, do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane’s handwriting?

_Mrs Bates._ _Eh?_

_Miss Bates._ Miss Woodhouse says Jane’s handwriting is like fine embroidery.

_Mrs Bates._ _What, my dear?_

_Emma_ (_aside_). This is very trying.

_Miss Bates_ (_louder_). Miss Woodhouse is so very kind as to say that Jane’s handwriting is like fine embroidery.

_Mrs Bates._ _Oh!_

_Miss Bates_ (_to Emma_). My mother’s deafness is very trifling, you see, just nothing at all. By only raising my voice and saying anything, two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me; Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmamma at all deafer than she was two years ago, which is saying a great deal, at my mother’s time of life, and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now.

_Emma._ Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?

_Miss Bates._ Oh, yes! next week!

_Emma._ Indeed! that must be a very great pleasure.

_Miss Bates._ Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Everybody is so surprised; and everybody says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh! yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday.

_Emma._ Yes, so I imagined—I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing anything of Miss Fairfax to-day.

_Miss Bates._ So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted! for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs Dixon (Colonel and Mrs Campbell’s daughter, to whom Jane was companion before her marriage), has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again; for till she married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be—in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but, however, different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother, or her father—I declare I do not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in _Mr_ Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly; and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Baly-Craig—a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty—from Mr Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever heard about it from anybody else,—but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses,—and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them—for Colonel and Mrs Campbell were very particular about their daughter’s not walking out often with _only_ Mr Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them: of course she heard everything he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had shown them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland from his account of things.

_Emma._ You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs Campbell.

_Miss Bates._ Very true, very true indeed. The very thing we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not like to have her at such a distance from us, for months together, not able to come if anything was to happen; but you see everything turns out for the best. They want her (Mr and Mrs Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs Campbell, quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently. Mr Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit,—I can never think of it without trembling!—but ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr Dixon.

_Emma._ But, in spite of all her friends’ urgencies and her own wish to see Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs Bates.

_Miss Bates._ Yes, entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and Mrs Campbell think she does quite right—just what they should recommend; and, indeed, they particularly _wish_ her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.

_Emma._ I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely, but Mrs Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs Dixon, I understand, is very charming, but has no remarkable degree of personal beauty,—is not by any means to be compared to Miss Fairfax.

_Miss Bates._ Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how very kind! how very obliging! I must tell my mother (_turning towards Mrs Bates, who is asleep_). Ma’am, did you hear Miss Woodhouse’s amiable compliments (_turning to Emma_). Ah! she is asleep; never mind, I will tell her when you are gone—Oh! no—Certainly not—there is no comparison between them—Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain, but extremely elegant and amiable.

_Emma._ Yes, that of course.

_Miss Bates._ Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November (as I am going to read to you), and has never been well since. A long time, is it not, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! So considerate! But, however, she is so far from well that her kind friends the Campbells think that she had better come home and try an air that always agrees with her, and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her; and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here than go to Ireland if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her as we should do.

_Emma._ It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.

_Miss Bates._ And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town on their way to Holyhead the Monday following, as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden! you may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being anything in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do; and so I began to-day with my usual caution: but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with “Bless me! poor Jane is ill”—which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it: but I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard! If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr Perry. The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal and so fond of Jane, that I dare say he would not mean to charge anything for attendance, we would not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be _giving_ away his time. Well now, I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about. We will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her (_turning to the letter_).

_Emma_ (_rising abruptly_). I am afraid I must be running away. My father will be expecting me. I had no intention, I thought I had no power, of staying more than five minutes when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without enquiring after Mrs Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained! And now I must wish you and Mrs Bates good morning. (_Curtsies and exit._)

_Miss Bates_ (_during Miss Woodhouse’s speech._) Dear Miss Woodhouse, so soon—must you really go; so kind of you to come. Jane’s letter so short, only two pages—will not take one minute to read—pray mind the step outside. Allow me. (_Exeunt Miss Bates and Emma._)

_Mrs Bates coughs and picks up her ball of wool. Re-enter Miss Bates._

_Miss Bates._ Ma’am, Miss Woodhouse assures me it is quite dry under foot. I am sure you would enjoy a little walk up the road with me (_helping her mother up and leading her out of the room, talking all the time_); and I will tell you what Miss Woodhouse was so obliging as to say about Jane’s beauty as we go—though perhaps it is hardly the thing to repeat to everybody. She says that Mrs Dixon (_exeunt Mrs and Miss Bates. Miss Bates’ voice fading away little by little outside_) has no remarkable degree of beauty, and is not by any means to be compared with our Jane—so kind of her, is it not? Ma’am, ma’am, mind that step—no, not by any means to be compared with our Jane.

_End of Scene._

A STRAWBERRY PICNIC.

DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY.

_From “Emma,” Vol. II., Chap. XLII._

_Costumes._

_Mrs Elton._ A dress of dove-coloured sarsanet with a ruche of the same round the bottom of skirt; puffings of cream net round the neck; narrow cherry-coloured ribbon round the bodice and down the front of the skirt; fancy straw hat with cream feathers and cherry-coloured ribbons; pale pink shawl to harmonise with ribbons.

_Mr Knightley._ Buff-coloured coat, with dark velvet collar, high stock; frilled shirt front; short waistcoat of deep blue; cream-coloured breeches.

A STRAWBERRY PICNIC.

_Characters._

_Mrs Elton and Mr Knightley._