Posted on Sunday, 15 October 2000

Author's Note: This was inspired by a discussion on the use of portraits in Pride & Prejudice at the Boston JASNA Annual General Meeting.

"Emma, why have you never attempted to take Mr. Knightley's likeness?" Harriet wondered one day, while mulling over his sudden leave of Donwell. How she missed his smiles, Emma was sure. The pain in her own bosom was of course suppressed...assiduously, and she replied with much levity.

"But I have. Well, I began, once, but soon he bored me, and I can't paint boring people."

However, later, when left to her own amusements, or more seriously, thoughts, she retreated to her room to find a portfolio, which she neatly kept behind the bed, on the side of the west window. She opened it carefully, not wanting to somehow damage the delicate drawings that were secured in their folder.

The first, the silhouette of a lady, of high chin, and gentle easy smiles. The second, an unfinished sketch of Mr. George Knightley.

She had been sixteen, and he'd been just home from a trip on the continent, and was soon to follow this small respite at Highbury with a long trip to the North for business matters. Of course she now rejoiced in his presence; Hartfield was almost dreadfully dull without him.

And now, he was back, and so was Isabella; the occasion was quite special, as John, too, had missed his brother.

But of course, John and Isabella were busy being a family, and Mr. Woodhouse was busy making remarks on the preservation of health in general, and so she had George all to herself, which was the way it ought to have been. She now ceaselessly recounted all her musings she'd had in the time since they had last seen each other. He smiled in that easy manner of his, and the threat of Tuesday evening and his imminent departure would do nothing to quell her spirits. No, she had him now, and she was to be a very selfish creature indeed; why, the simple fact that her father and sister and brother-in-law remained in the room was simply for one, propriety's sake, and two, the "general" ambiance of they're all being there. Really, though, Emma knew, what mattered was that he was there, and she was there, and that they had many a matter to discuss.

Emma was now regaling her recent journey into London, and was having great fun, when she was so rudely interrupted by John. Dear John, who had no right to her George; was he not busy mooning over his own wife? She childishly pouted, and John seized on the action. "Ah Emma, you shall not be greatly displeased if I join you for but a moment? Your father has sent my conversation partner away to make sure the baked apples are being prepared correctly, and I would like to speak with my brother..."

Emma was all politeness, and gestured to the vacant seat.

John took and examined the hand that was extended so smoothly, shaped so elegantly. "Your hands are quite lovely, Emma."

"And quite capable. Emma does accomplish things so beautifully," her father interceded.

Emma appropriately blushed.

"Come now, what does she actually accomplish?" George wondered aloud.

"What do you mean?" Isabella rejoined the conversation.

The subject of their conversation was smiling amiably, and certainly enjoying the attentions of the room far too much.

George continued. "Emma's strong point was never really completing anything she began. She dabbles like any dilettante. Even worse, for she always quits when her talent, her vision just emerges."

"And how do you know that your assessment is correct? You have not seen her for months!" John noted.

"I've known her for years," George replied, matter-of-factly.

Emma should have been insulted or hurt, but did not care what he said, so long as he continued to shower his attentions on her. "I suppose it is true. But I'm in such a hurry to do everything that I often forget to finish what I've started. It's simply a mark of my quick mind," she said, triumphantly.

"And what recent addiction has she now?" George sat back, half-amused, half-disgusted.

"Drawing," Emma simply replied.

Isabella elaborated. "Emma is quite the artist. Miss Taylor commends her daily. Me, I never can do anything half so well."

"I'm rather curious. How did the likeness of me ever turn out?" John wondered.

Emma promptly produced the portfolio, revealing a nicely posed, and finished portrait of her longtime friend and brother-in-law.

George examined the work. "I must say, quite well done. What brought on this hobby?"

She somewhat resented that he didn't really appreciate her. But then, brothers rarely do, and George Knightley, by blood or not, was her brother. "I wanted a likeness of everyone I cared for and decided I'd do them myself; as I'm so picky about everything, I'd have driven even the best artist in the country mad if the shade of the dress were not to my liking."

"Oh, Emma! Why don't you take George's likeness now?" Isabella exclaimed excitedly.

Emma teased. "Isabella, I said people I cared for."

The young people laughed, and as they quieted, Emma looked archly at George. "So how about it? You know I've been wanting to depict you exactly as I see you for quite some time..."

George laughed, and refused. "I do not suit to sitting about in idleness. I shall go mad."

"Then we shall occupy you. Read. Or contemplate something beautiful," Isabella persisted.

And so, with much reluctance, George Knightley was prevailed upon, situated at a table with pen and paper in hand, with Emma's easel set up by him within five minutes.

Emma loved portraits. She had the opportunity to scrutinize her subjects without being suspicious. In her portrayal of others, there was always something quite refreshing in what was revealed in her own sentiments toward them.

George proceeded in his very George-like activities.

And she commenced the sketch.

How splendidly handsome George Knightley was! That she always knew. It was so well fixed in her mind as a child that had he grown into a horrid toad she would still believe such.

But he was still as handsome, no, more handsome than when she'd seen him last, she concluded with pride. Every feature had to be admired with such sisterly affection.

She always admired his strong jaw, and she sketched it carefully to accentuate the nobility of that fine chin of his.

The curls that were usually so nicely arranged, but had, under more than once circumstance, managed to disarray themselves. Gentle soft curls she'd run her young hands through when she was younger.

And now the nose. The Patrician nose, always, she smilingly thought, pointed up.

She would do the eyes later, as she always saved those for last.

She drew his mouth next. A gentle smile, often accompanied by a soft reprimand or lesson. Just now she was aware of how beautifully formed his lips were, how....perhaps even... She blushed as she drew the curve of lip.

Blush!

She started on his form next, but her pen halted at drawing his broad shoulders and fashionable dress. No she would not draw them now. She could not; the agitation she felt out of this revelation was extreme. Come, he was just like John, only more fit!

But she abandoned her attempt at his body, and decided with some deliberation to draw his eyes.

She always did eyes in pencil first; her first depiction was often wrong.

"Turn to me," she said brusquely.

He leveled his gaze on her.

She smiled, and the expression in his eyes lightened. Yes, that was the Knightley she knew and loved.

The shape of his eyes, the soft crinkle at their edges, they were easy to handle. But the irises, the pupils...she examined her first attempt and while she found it like him, it was not accurate.

He never looked at her that way.

The way this unfamiliar, yet not unappealing paper George set his eyes on her, intimately caressed her very being, threaded and embroidered thoughts in her mind...thoughts totally unlike herself, and gently ran a rather sharp knife over a swelling bubble, releasing horrible beautiful thoughts...

threatening...

her...

breath...

She dropped the pencil, and immediately gasped in horror as she erased the eyes.

"I have done horribly. Let me attempt again."

Her hands shook as she looked at the canvas again at the figure of a man with no expression, no eyes. And it moved her, because she could still see those eyes.

She shook her head.

It was, after all, how she wanted him to see her.

Shuddering in fear, she dropped the idea. George? In love? Ridiculous!

But alas, she could not finish the portrait! She took up the pencil once more, but cringed, and calmed herself.

Upset, she simply placed her pencil down and turned to her sister and brother-in-law, announcing with a bit of defeat that George was right; she was not a creature inclined to finish things. She turned to the object of her musings, who was unaware of the mental transformation of his character and feelings that had just transpired, by a girl he'd always seen as his sister. He was surprised at her rather quick surrender, for sure, but did not press it.

The painting was laughed at; really, she made his nose tilt to high, and the whole operation was forgotten by everyone, including, most importantly, the lady artist herself.

Of course, later, when the guests had left, as she proceeded to gather her equipment, she found something at the desk George had occupied.

It was a silhouette of a woman.

George, in love? Emma thought facetiously and perhaps a bit unsettled. As if any girl would ever deserve him in the first place. Ha! Let them try. They would all try, and they would all have their chance, but George, Emma concluded very early on in life, would never marry, and therefore would always be hers.

She traced the profile of the woman with the tip of her finger contemplatively, however, and decided that it simply belonged alongside her portrait. She gently tucked them into a folder, hid the folder behind her bed, and proceeded to forget about it. George Knightley in love indeed!

Still, it was odd to think that he would ever look at anyone that intimate secret way...she was sure it was not entirely proper.

And so ended the transient teenage besottlement of Emma Woodhouse on her friend George Knightley, and she would have continued to cycle this minor subtle identity question every decade, had it not been that the very event that she had always feared as a teenager had arrived; George was in love.

With Harriet Smith.

Well, life loved irony.

It was in her twenty-fifth year when Emma tried to finish the portrait of George Knightley.

"My dear Knight," she said to her husband that morning. "I would like to finish your likeness today."

He looked up from the agricultural reports with some surprise, but hesitantly agreed.

And so she situated her husband at the desk of his rather large and extensive library, and withdrew the unfinished sketch.

"You know, the first time I sat down for you I started a sketch myself?"

She did not reply to this.

"It was a woman."

"Yes, I know," she finished one beautiful gleaming eye, but found while the love was there in the eye, it lacked the depth of the joy that sang into her soul when he usually set his eyes on her.

"You know?"

"I took it. The sketch."

"Hm."

"Hm?" she questioned her husband. "Who was she?" she asked, trying to make the question playful, even teasing.

"You mean, what was she?" he corrected.

"What? Aren't you the charmer today," she told her husband.

"I've already courted you; it doesn't matter what I say now...you're trapped," he smiled roguishly.

She laughed, but when she looked back at her husband, she knew that her humor was not in her eyes.

His smile vanished, and he examined his wife. "You're jealous!" he laughed.

Emma was not amused. His nose just got larger in the portrait. At length, she replied. "I'm not jealous. I'm curious. Fine, Mr. Knightley," she said insultingly, "what was she?"

"She was something beautiful."

She tried not to look hurt, and she tried not be hurt. However, Emma Woodhouse nee Knightley was, as she was in youth, a very jealous, possessive, selfish creature. "Beautiful?"

" 'Contemplate something beautiful,' Isabella said. I saw something beautiful..." he got up from the desk, walking around to sit with his wife, who now had set aside the portrait, her heart in drawing now lost.

He looked at her still unfinished portrait of him, and he seemed to understand, because when he turned to her, he gave her a knowing smile, as if he knew that moment when she'd seen the possibilities, at sixteen...as if, perhaps, he might have had that same moment with her?

She held her breath. Every...

Breath...

Suspended...

In Air.

"Are not going to ask me what it was I saw?" he whispered softly, meeting her eyes with honesty, taking her chin, leveling and fusing their gazes.

Her heart welled, as she now knew the answer, even before he uttered it. As a young elegant woman, she should have looked shyly into her hands, and blushed elegantly, but she was in love. (Added to the fact that they were married and alone anyhow)

The unspoken answer resonated in her mind as she wrapped her arms around his form, drawing his lips to hers.

"It was you."