Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Formatting and special characters are indicated as follows:

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DUOLOGUES
FROM
JANE AUSTEN’S NOVELS

ARRANGED BY
ROSINA FILIPPI

(All Rights Reserved.)

DUOLOGUES AND SCENES FROM THE NOVELS OF JANE AUSTEN ARRANGED AND ADAPTED FOR DRAWING-ROOM PERFORMANCE BY ROSINA FILIPPI (Mrs Dowson) With Illustrations by Miss FLETCHER

LONDON: Published by J. M. DENT and COMPANY at ALDINE HOUSE in Great Eastern Street, E.C. MDCCCXCV

PREFACE.

IT is an ungrateful task to write a preface, for few people, if any, ever read one.

“The play’s the thing,” and “a good play needs no epilogue.” So should a good book need no preface, and for one that can boast of containing between its two covers seven picked scenes from the pen of one of the most charming writers in the English language—Jane Austen—no introduction whatever is needed. But to ruthlessly tear her from the library shelf and place her in the hands of the amateur actor demands explanation and even apology.

Jane Austen as a novelist has won and maintained a place in the first rank, but as a writer of true comedy she has been too long unrecognised. She is essentially dramatic, and her characters assume shape, form, and colour; her plots are human, her people are alive. No individual in any of her novels degenerates into caricature, yet there is not one but has a touch of the humorous in his or her composition. Her duologues and scenes are complete in themselves, and in them one appreciates the maxim of Alexandre Dumas, who declared that the only essentials for a play were “une passion, deux personages, et un paravent.”

Keeping, therefore, to this rule, these scenes should be represented with no scenery whatever—(by scenery, I mean stage, proscenium, footlights, and curtain)—but it is essential that the accurate costume of the day should be worn; for though the plot and sentiments thoroughly appeal to the modern mind, the language belongs to a past generation, and an incongruity would arise were it spoken in modern dress. The period represented is from 1792-1807, and a pen and ink sketch of the type of character and style of dress, the work of Miss Margaret Fletcher, accompanies each scene.

In order to make the plots clear and the duologues intelligible to those of the audience who are unacquainted with the novels themselves, a few words in monologue form have sometimes been added to the text—the greatest care being taken, however, to keep as much as possible to the spirit of the original—while for dramatic effect and finish, the time or place of action has often been changed from a garden or street scene to that of an interior, lest the absence of scenery should be felt by actors or audience.

The idea of compiling this small book arose from the dearth of good duologues and one-act plays suitable for amateur performance. The acting rights of the best pieces being reserved, it is difficult for the uninitiated to obtain them; moreover, it is expensive, and so the orange-covered book is sought, and a play neither clever nor interesting selected, simply because it is found to contain the requisite number of characters, and has no elaborate scenery.

How refreshing, then, must these seven scenes be to both artists and audience—they play themselves—the language, sentiments, and personalities are within the reach of every cultivated amateur; and I am convinced that Jane Austen as a play-wright will fascinate her audiences as much as she has her readers as a novelist.

ROSINA FILIPPI.

CONTENTS.

I. LITERARY TASTES Page 1 DUOLOGUE BETWEEN CATHERINE MORLAND AND ISABELLA THORPE (in the Pump Room, Bath) “Northanger Abbey”

II. THE SETTLEMENT QUESTION 15
DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MR AND MRS JOHN DASHWOOD
“Sense and Sensibility”

III. THE READING OF JANE FAIRFAX’S LETTER 31
DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MISS BATES AND EMMA
“Emma”

IV. A STRAWBERRY PICNIC 51
DUOLOGUE BETWEEN MRS ELTON AND MR KNIGHTLEY
“Emma”

V. THREE LOVES 65 DUOLOGUES BETWEEN EMMA AND HARRIET, AND EMMA AND MR KNIGHTLEY “Emma”

VI. THE PROPOSAL OF MR COLLINS 101 DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS BENNET, ELIZABETH BENNET, AND MR COLLINS “Pride and Prejudice”

VII. LADY CATHERINE’S VISIT 123 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.

Isabella Thorpe and Catherine Morland.

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.

Mr and Mrs John Dashwood.

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.

Miss Bates and Emma.

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.

Mrs Elton and Mr Knightley.

A STRAWBERRY PICNIC.

Characters.

Mrs Elton and Mr Knightley.

N.B.—“Mrs Elton was first seen in church.... Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects.... She (Emma) was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease.... and a quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself and thinking much of her own importance.... Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct—such as Mrs Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred.”—Emma, Vol. II., Chap. XXXII. “You might not see one in a hundred, with gentleman so plainly written as in Mr Knightley.” ... “Mr Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits him very well: his figure, and look and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable.”—Emma, Vol. I., Chap. IV.

Scene—A parlour in Mrs Weston’s house.

_Properties required:—A small table L.C.; a chair L. of it; a writing table in front of a window up R.; a door R.; other chairs and sofas; a general air of comfort and refinement. Enter Mrs Elton—who soon sits with her back to the door._

Mrs Elton. Provoking! Everything contrives for my annoyance; first, I agree to meet Mr Elton here, and Mrs Weston is out, and I am forced to wait alone. Then this exploring party that I had set my heart upon is obliged to be put off through a lame horse, then——(enter Mr Knightley). Ah! you have found me out at last in my seclusion? (turns and sees Knightley.) Oh! Knightley, it is you. I have been waiting in this room this age for my lord and master, who promised to meet me here and pay his respects to Mrs Weston, and as she was out, I was, of course, forced to wait alone. But now that you are come——

Knightley (stiffly.) I gathered from Mrs Weston’s excellent maid that she was from home, and merely came in to write a note of importance. I did not know you were here, or should not have intruded myself upon you.

Mrs Elton. Why do you speak of intrusion? I am delighted, and although I cannot approve of a husband keeping his wife waiting at any time, still I must make allowances for Mr Elton; for he really is engaged from morning to night—there is no end of people’s coming to him on some pretence or other. The magistrates and overseers and churchwardens are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do anything without him. “Upon my word, Mr E.,” I often say, “rather you than I. I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument if I had half so many applicants.” Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree. But is it not most vexatious, Knightley? and such weather for exploring.

Knightley. Pardon me, I do not quite follow you.

Mrs Elton. Oh! have you not heard of our lame carriage-horse? Everything has been put off,—the exploring party to Box Hill.

Knightley. Oh! yes; very annoying, to be sure; but these things will happen, you know, Mrs Elton.

Mrs Elton. I know; but when the first disappointment occurred, through Mr and Mrs Suckling not being able to visit Highbury until the autumn, I said, why should we not explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? We could go there again in the autumn with them. And so, as you know, my suggestion was immediately taken up; and everything was so charmingly arranged—why, I had even settled with Mrs Weston as to pigeon pies and cold lamb, when, all at once, everything is thrown into uncertainty. It may be weeks before the horse is usable, and, therefore, no preparations can be ventured upon. What are we to do? The delays and disappointments are quite odious. The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year we had delightful exploring parties from Maple Grove to King’s Weston, and—

Knightley (lightly). You had better explore to Donwell. That may be done without horses. Come and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast.

Mrs E. (impulsively). Oh! I should like it of all things! Donwell, I know, is famous for its strawberry beds. You may depend upon me; I certainly will come; name your day, and I will come; you will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax.

Knightley. I cannot name a day, till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you.