The Befuddled Story of Emma
Introduction: Based both loosely and strictly on Jane Austen's masterpiece, Emma, this is a play-like, notice the stress on like, version of the story with a bit of non-Austenian humor thrown in and splashes of sometimes idiotic modern twists. Okay, maybe most of it is very idiotic, but I did it for fun. Don't you dare judge me! Still, one might find it a good laugh… or perhaps an abomination, an insult to Jane Austen. I mean nothing by it, truly, but only to have a bit of fun in the doing. So, sit back and enjoy…or prepare a bonfire and burn these offensive words! I really don't care which occurs, as long as Jane Austen, one whom I respect and honor beyond any writer, is not currently tossing in her grave.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of this. Only an idiot would think otherwise. I obviously did write this, but how could Jane Austen's Emma be my own Emma as well? I mean, seriously.
Part I:
(It is the beginning of summer. The days have just begun to get warmer and the hours before sunset greater. The spring flowers have presently begun to wilt just a little from the added heat. Still, the country village of Highbury is lush, pristine and green and as beautiful as ever. The villagers walk to Ford's for little trinkets, to friends' houses to call and enjoy simple, pleasant talks. The farmers in the fields tend the livestock and the crops, the heat of the newfound summer increasingly unbearable. Still they sing cheerful ditties of pretty maidens and celebrations of old as sweat rolls down their weathered faces. In the fields among the workers walks Mr. Knightley, owner of the large and prominent estate called Donwell Abbey and a favorite among the townsfolk, farmers, and rich alike. He is in every sense a gentleman and far more sensible than the rich, foolish cocks of men who think themselves real gentlemen because they, too, have good manners and plenty of money. There is something about him that suggests a character far better than most, a refinement of moral fiber that is rare to find. But, he himself is a modest man. Though rich, he walks among the poor without regret and is ever willing to lend a helping hand. And on this insignificant summer day, he finds himself walking to visit some old friends at Hartfield.)
(Emma Woodhouse, that is, the younger daughter of Mr. Woodhouse, master of the Hartfield estate, would often tease him about walking everywhere. In her cheerful way she would say, "Ah, Mr. Knightley! Walking everywhere instead of riding a carriage, like a real gentleman." It never did bother him, though. )
And so came a familiar voice: (lightheartedly) Walking again, Mr. Knightley?
Mr. Knightley (turns to voice): (in slightly serious manner, as usual) How are you, Emma?
Emma: (still lightheartedly) Well, Mr. Knightley, what answer do you seek? The truth or what you would like to hear? I have been quite well. In fact, I have taken to beginning that wonderful list of books you so approved of and have been diligently practicing music.
(And then) Oh, no, no, I have been idle and lazy, indulging myself in unnecessary trinkets and spending my hours doing completely useless activities. Which did you like to hear?
Mr. Knightley: (dryly) The real truth would do.
Emma: Ah, well then! I have been introduced to the strangest music: rap, I think it is called. (She rolls the word 'rap' around her mouth, for she is unused to saying the word, never less hearing it. It sounds strange and unnatural coming from her mouth. It sounds worse, though, when Mr. Knightley repeats it in his well-bred, British accent.)
Mr. Knightley: Rap? What is this rap?
Emma: I confess I do not like it. It hurts one's ears, but it seems dear Papa has taken a peculiar liking to it.
(At this moment, Mr. Woodhouse himself walks in. Aged significantly by the death of his wife, he walks now with a walking stick. And since this death, his mind has slowed. He is at times foolish, silly, and paranoid as only very old men can be, and can be very much like a child, but he is a kind man and never means any harm to anybody.)
Emma: (sweetly) Papa! Mr. Knightley has come.
(Mr. Woodhouse, much engrossed by the sound in his ears, does not hear his daughter. He finds himself using a strange contraption from which he can listen to this new 'rap' music. Though his daughter does not like it, he does. He finds it oddly stimulating: music that would awaken an old man's stiffened bones. To this music that flows into his ears via earphones, he begins to dance a strangely rigid dance with a series of erratic movements. His body jerks strangely to the beat and his head begins to bob. Suddenly, he slams to the floor, attempts to spin, using his arms as a pivot, but fails miserably. If you, my reader, had not noticed, our dear Mr. Woodhouse had tried to break dance.)
Emma (She rushes to him as does Mr. Knightley.): Oh, Papa! Papa!
Mr. Knightley (He helps Mr. Woodhouse to his feet.): Are you alright, sir?
Mr. Woodhouse: (childishly) Oh, Emma! I almost did it. (mutters) If only I were young again! Then I could be one of the gang, ya know, dawg?
(The earphones tangle around him.)
Mr. Woodhouse: Confounded contraption!
Emma: (patiently) Papa, you should be more careful. And please, Papa, stop speaking that way. It frightens me.
Mr. Woodhouse: Yes, yes, I know my dear, I know. Just let your poor Papa alone now, alright?
Emma (She gives her father the iPod, previously known as the 'strange contraption.'): I never liked these…they are so unnecessary. At best, they are…contemporary inventions. (She says the word 'contemporary' with a sad sigh and turns away in distaste.)
Mr. Knightley: (passionately) What has the world come to? So absorbed in making new little gadgets to make what we already have easier, to turn all we love and know into some preposterous, money-making joke…day by day, little beauties disappear and are replaced by monstrous machines. No longer are people satisfied with a simple living. No, no, they wish to replace musicians with these. (He indicates the iPod)
Emma: In ways I must agree, but I find all these new things very modern…in almost a good way. They fascinate me.
Mr. Knightley: They do not belong in this century and neither does the strange culture that comes with them.
Emma: But, Mr. Knightley, they are here. How does one explain their being here if they do not belong in this century?
(The lights dim. All is quiet. Slowly, steadily, a faint music grows louder. Welcome to The Twilight Zone. The theme music plays until there is…nothing. The mystery of these 21st century details, nonsensically imbedded into an early 19th century, Austenian world, still remains to be solved.)
Part 2:
(Emma sits with her newfound friend, Miss Harriet Smith- a pretty, simple, good-tempered girl- reading in the shade of a large oak. In Emma's hands is a book titled The Devil Wears Prada and lain before Miss Smith is an assortment of makeup: eye-liner, mascara, eye shadow, lip gloss, foundation, blush, and the like. She is puzzling over how to utilize them.)
Harriet: (frustrated) Oh, Emma! I cannot figure these items' uses. (she fingers through the make-up) Why is it so difficult?
Emma: (disinterestedly) I do not know, Harriet. I try not to be so very vain as to resort to such a…mound… of this new makeup. Natural beauty is still best, I believe, though a pinch of this here and a pinch of that there never does one harm. This, though (she indicates the pile of makeup) is absurdly and utterly ridiculous. (she returns to her reading)
Harriet (blushes): Oh, oh I believe you're quite right. (she quickly puts the makeup away and out of sight)
(There is silence for a while. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees bright green shoes on the ground before her. She has not seen anything like them. They are Hi-Top Converse, though, of course, she does not know this. She looks up to see the smiling face of Mr. Elton. And no, I am not referring to Mr. Elton John, the musician, but Mr. Elton of Highbury. Do not confuse things that are supposed to be from the past with things that are supposed to be from the present. The telling of this story would, then, be very, very difficult indeed.)
Mr. Elton: Good day, Miss Woodhouse. Good day, Miss Smith. (he inclines his head to each of them in turn, then his eyes return to Emma, fixated upon her)
(A little behind him, comes Mr. Knightley.)
Mr. Knightley: Good day.
Emma: What strange shoes, Mr. Elton. And such strange pants. (she thinks) Oh, Lord, what ghastly clothing. Who knew 'modern' could mean so without taste? I do believe the future, if that is where indeed all this nonsense originates, has no sense of taste whatsoever.
(Mr. Elton is wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans that cling to his body. Who knew both men of the past and men of the future had a fetish for tight clothing?)
Harriet: (sweetly, as usual) I find it very interesting. Where did you get those designs, Mr. Elton?
(She and Mr. Elton become absorbed in talk. Mr. Elton continues to glance at Miss Woodhouse every so often.)
Emma (unable to bear the sight of Mr. Elton's outlandish clothing, turns instead to Mr. Knightley): How are you, Mr. Knightley?
Mr. Knightley: Fine, as always. (amused) Finally, you sit and read a book with patience and the book is about fashion. Are you learning anything from it? Designer names, handbags, shoes, and such nonsense?
Emma: (indignantly) I am reading this for my own amusement! And I do not read half as little as you say I do. I know what you think, Mr. Knightley. Ever since I was a little girl you've thought, 'Ah, what a waste of a clever mind,' for you thought me unnaturally intelligent. And ever since, it has pained you to watch me waste this mind on what you call nonsense.
Mr. Knightley (smiles): I shall give you one comfort, Emma. Your mind is as sharp as ever.
Emma (with a laugh): Can we ever have a conversation without an argument?
Mr. Knightley: This is hardly an argument. And even if it were one, it appears to be a one-sided argument.
Emma: One-sided or not, I am winning, as always.
Mr. Knightley: (jestingly) Of course, of course. As always it is.