When was emma written

In Emma , she is. To measure the audacity of the book, take a simple sentence that no novelist before her could have written. Our privileged heroine has befriended a sweet, open, deeply naive girl of 17 called Harriet Smith. While cultivating their relationship, Emma knows very well that Harriet is her inferior.

The sentence is in the third person, yet we are not exactly being told something by the author. Even the rhyme in the phrase makes it sound better to herself. In fact, the kindness is all in the mind of the beholder.

Emma has set out to mould Harriet. Harriet will be her project. Her plans are kind, she tells herself, because she will improve this uninstructed and wide-eyed young woman. We should be able to hear, however, that her designs are utterly self-serving. Soon she is persuading Harriet to refuse a marriage proposal from a farmer who loves her, and beguiling her with the wholly illusory prospect of marriage to the smooth young vicar, Mr Elton. Take another little sentence from much later in the novel.

By now Emma is convinced that Harriet, scorned by Mr Elton, can be paired off with the highly eligible Frank Churchill. Emma meets Harriet, who has also heard. Except that this is all twaddle. Harriet does not give a fig for Frank and never has. Emma has elaborately deluded herself again. Yet it is still a third-person narrative; Emma is not telling her own story.

We both share her judgments and watch her making them. Austen was the first novelist to manage this alchemy. She was perfecting a technique that she had begun developing in her first published novel, Sense and Sensibility. It was only in the early 20th century that critics began agreeing on a name for it: free indirect style a translation from the original French: style indirect libre.

It describes the way in which a writer imbues a third-person narration with the habits of thought or expression of a fictional character. Before Austen, novelists chose between first-person narrative letting us into the mind of a character, but limiting us to his or her understanding and third-person narrative allowing us a God-like view of all the characters, but making them pieces in an authorial game.

Austen miraculously combined the internal and the external. Scholars have raked through the fiction of predecessors and contemporaries such as Fanny Burney and Maria Edgeworth , and found a few flickerings of this technique, but nothing more. In our own time, novelists use it almost as second nature, without necessarily giving it a name or thinking that they have learned it from somewhere. Yet, though its pioneer, Austen used it with an assurance that has never been surpassed.

By the time that she began writing Emma , Austen was no longer responding to other novelists, she was in new territory, in dialogue with her own earlier novels. She had been steeped in the fiction of the 18th and early 19th centuries, and in her earliest work she wrote against the novels of sensibility or the gothic fiction that she knew so well.

But in the creative furore that saw her complete her last four novels in five years, she left the conventions of existing fiction behind. She began work on Emma before she had even received the proofs of Mansfield Park. As if in response to her own experiment, she now created a heroine who is assertive, dominant, all too powerful. Her viewpoint is so dominant that it takes several readings before you realise how subtly we are invited to imagine how Emma looks to some of the other characters.

How Jane Fairfax dreads her inquisitiveness and hates her monopolising of Frank Churchill. How the Martin family must regard her as the heartless snob who has torn Harriet away from the man who loves her. It comes at a crucial point, where Frank uncharacteristically blunders by mentioning an item of parochial gossip that he can only know from his secret correspondence with Jane: Mr Perry the apothecary is getting a carriage because he is making so much money from the maladies imaginaries of Highbury.

You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life.

I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists they were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule.

The list she drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma.

She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding.

Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her.

Knightley, to be dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from her , on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.

There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter. I only name possibilities. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.

I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.

Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance.

Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home.

How well she looked last night! Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure? But I am a partial old friend. There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. She is loveliness itself. Knightley, is not she? I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain.

Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.

Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.

Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself.

It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister. I will keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma.

Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her! But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object.

I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you. Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr.

She was quite convinced of Mr. She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add.

She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature.

She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little. So much superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the hand! I never met with a disposition more truly amiable. I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general.

But from one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?

Yes, good man! You know nothing of drawing. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering me? It was not lost on me. But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.

Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others.

Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed.

Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of.

She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved. There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies.

There is my father—another of my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Weston again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure! I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.

Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four children;—there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. I am rather proud of little George.

The corner of the sofa is very good. John Knightley. I could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it— Mrs.

We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again.

Exactly so. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer. She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait.

It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist.

But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere.

It then occurred to her to employ him in reading. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed.

She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable. There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr.

Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again. The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.

Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover. It is the fault of her face that she has them not. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life.

We must allow for the effect of shade, you know. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening. Exactly so indeed! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.

Look at the tree. Any other situation would have been much less in character. I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness. The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few difficulties.

It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December.

But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough.

I come in for a pretty good share as a second. The very day of Mr. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell.

Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr.

Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do. He will connect himself well if he can. Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized.

The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer.

It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman.

No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet returning it, than I had expected. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing.

Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.

My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the purport of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it. What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do. I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.

For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,.

It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you.

But do not imagine that I want to influence you. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet. Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?

The symptoms were favourable. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—. Do you think I am right? While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving.

Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever. That would have been too dreadful!

You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you up. It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.

We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him.

But how shall I do? What shall I say? Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.

This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper.

I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes.

As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves. Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr.

I hope he will not mind it so very much. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name. No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow.

It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are! Harriet slept at Hartfield that night.

For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present.

She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr.

Knightley for that purpose. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.

As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. We invalids think we are privileged people. Emma will be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns—my winter walk. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.

I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat.

He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may.

You do not often overpower me with it. Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,. I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant? Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her. Will that do?

He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered especially since your making so much of her as in a line of society above him.

I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging.

He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had.

This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs.

Martin did not speak yesterday? Was not she the whole day with you? He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was refused. This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said,. What is the foolish girl about?

A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.

She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her.

She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.

The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt nor have I now that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I made sure of.

Martin is nothing more, a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair. They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.

She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up. Themes All Themes. Symbols All Symbols. Theme Wheel. Everything you need for every book you read. The way the content is organized and presented is seamlessly smooth, innovative, and comprehensive. Emma Study Guide Next. A concise biography of Jane Austen plus historical and literary context for Emma. In-depth summary and analysis of every chapter of Emma.

Visual theme-tracking, too. Brief Biography of Jane Austen Jane Austen was the seventh child of the parish rector in the town of Steventon, where she and her family resided until moving to Bath in Though her parents were members of the English gentry, they remained relatively poor.

Modest to a fault about the value of her work, Jane Austen nevertheless produced some of the enduring masterpieces of English literature, including the novels Pride and Prejudice , Sense and Sensibility , Emma , and Persuasion. Her novels were published anonymously until after her death, when her authorship became known.

While it was not unheard of for women to publish under their own names in Austen's lifetime, it was still a rarity.