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1Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the
2best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
3She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her
4sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have
5more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess,
6who had fallen little short of a mother in affection. Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less
7as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the
8intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her
9temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had
10been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming
11Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own. The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of
12having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the
13disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that
14they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her. Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any
15disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the
16wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the
17bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long
18evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she
19had lost. The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character,
20easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying,
21generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want of
22Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of
23sixteen years--how she had taught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had devoted all her
24powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of
25gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had
26soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had
27been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of
28the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of
29hers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find
30fault. How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was
31aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the
32house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual
33solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational
34or playful. The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased
35by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was
36a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
37temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time. Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by
38matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and
39November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her
40husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again. Highbury, the large and
41populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and
42name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All looked up to them.
43She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one among them who could be
44accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it,
45and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required
46support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them;
47hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet
48reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely
49a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness,
50and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he was very much disposed to
51think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had
52spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such
53thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner, "Poor Miss
54Taylor!--I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!" "I cannot agree with you,
55papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good
56wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a
57house of her own?" "A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own? This is three times as
58large.--And you have never any odd humours, my dear." "How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see
59us!--We shall be always meeting! We must begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon." "My dear, how am I to get
60so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could not walk half so far." "No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must
61go in the carriage, to be sure." "The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way;--and
62where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?" "They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You
63know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be
64very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only doubt whether
65he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah
66till you mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"
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