Emma, in an occasional but significant way, displays the faults of most of the other main characters.
Frank Churchill amuses himself by adopting false opinions. Emma ‘to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs Weston’s arguments against herself’.
Frank conveniently alters his views when his pleasure’s at stake. ‘[Emma] meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr Elton . . . none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr Cole.’ Emma asks the Westons whether she should accept the Cole’s invitation only because she knows that they’ll tell her to go. This is the only time that Emma asks for ‘advice’ in the novel!
Miss Bates can’t hold her tongue, but it does little harm thanks to her good-nature. But when Emma fails to restrain her acerbic thoughts, the consequences are more serious. Ironically, it’s Miss Bates herself who suffers most severely.
Emma is not at fault for having a lively wit and abundance of imagination, she errs only when she gives vent to her derogatory opinions—or at least, when they’re voiced to inappropriate people.
Emma correctly deduces that the Campbells didn’t give Jane the pianoforte, and since it arrives on Valentine’s Day, naturally suspects a lover. But it was unfair and unjust to tell Frank of her suspicions.
Ironically, the piano came from Frank himself, and when he pointedly teases Jane about his Valentine’s Day gift, Emma suffers needless pangs of conscience:
“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or . . . an order indefinite as to time. . . ?”
. . . but doesn’t read them. She starts numerous portraits . . . but doesn’t complete them. (Though she’s highly inventive in finding excuses for their incompletion.) Above all, she allows her imagination to run away with her and fails to rein in her tongue.
Jane Fairfax lacks openness, and when Emma fails to be transparent, too, it leads to all sorts of problems. Her coy compact with Harriet not to name her friend’s new infatuation, for example, causes Emma intense anguish when it turns out to be her own Mr Knightley.
Similarly, if she’d been less clandestine in her dealings with Mr Elton and approached him about his supposed feelings for Harriet more openly, she’d have avoided a great deal of heartache.
There are times, however, when reticence is a virtue. Emma demonstrates this in her coach ride to the Westons. She’s irritated by John Knightley’s comments but resolutely keeps her views to herself. ‘She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome’ and so wisely determines to be silent.
