Sep 21, 2026 · 1 hr 4 min · 9 segments
Certain she knows best, Emma presses on with her matchmaking. Convinced Harriet and Mr Elton are falling in love, she pays little heed to Mr Knightley's warnings. But should Emma have listened to Mr…
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself.
He was so much displeased that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again, and when they did meet, his grave looks showed that she was not forgiven.
She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified, and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half-sentences of admiration just as he ought.
And as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted.
Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her young friend's mind by a great deal of useful reading and conversation had never yet led to more than a few first chapters and the intention of going on tomorrow.
It was much easier to chat than to study, much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune than to be laboring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts.
And the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper made up by her friend and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon.
Miss Nash, head teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least 300, and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped with Miss Woodhouse's help to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory, and taste, and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in.
So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young, he wondered he could not remember them, but he hoped he should in time, and it always ended in Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect anything of the riddle kind, but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something he thought might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition.
Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked.
He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect, and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections, and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex, should pass his lips.
They owed Mr. Elton their two or three politest puzzles, and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade, "My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destined to feel.
And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal," made Emma quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already.
"Why will you not write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she.
"That is the only security for its freshness, and nothing could be easier for you." Oh no, he had never written hardly ever any thing of the kind in his life.
The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse—he stopt a moment—"or Miss Smith could inspire him." The very next day, however, produced some proof of inspiration.
He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself.
He was so much displeased that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again, and when they did meet, his grave looks showed that she was not forgiven.
She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified, and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half-sentences of admiration just as he ought.
And as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted.
Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her young friend's mind by a great deal of useful reading and conversation had never yet led to more than a few first chapters and the intention of going on tomorrow.
It was much easier to chat than to study, much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune than to be laboring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts.
And the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper made up by her friend and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon.
Miss Nash, head teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least 300, and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped with Miss Woodhouse's help to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory, and taste, and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in.
So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young, he wondered he could not remember them, but he hoped he should in time, and it always ended in Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect anything of the riddle kind, but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something he thought might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition.
Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked.
He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect, and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections, and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex, should pass his lips.
They owed Mr. Elton their two or three politest puzzles, and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade, "My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destined to feel.
And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal," made Emma quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already.
"Why will you not write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she.
"That is the only security for its freshness, and nothing could be easier for you." Oh no, he had never written hardly ever any thing of the kind in his life.
The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse—he stopt a moment—"or Miss Smith could inspire him." The very next day, however, produced some proof of inspiration.
He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
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