“Who said I was to go gadding about the Mediterranean? Or visiting your sister, either? All such ideas have been effectively put to one side, have they not? Even your mother mentions the subject no more than a dozen times a day, which is for her the height of reserve.”
“You nay take in my mother, Papa, and my sisters, even Jane, who always believes what she is told, even if she then has to find excuses for it, but you do not take me in. I have seen you with your face buried in books about the Sublime Porte, and every atlas in the house now falls open at the Ionian Sea. You do not take such trouble for no reason. Why, that is Lady Mary Wortley Montague’s book on your lap even now.”
“What if it is? She writes a good story, all of it true.”
“And all of it about the lands beyond the Adriatic Sea. You have never taken any great interest in those parts before now.”
“May I not be allowed to be interested in the area where my daughter is now living?”
“Indeed you may, but you never showed such an interest in the fauna and flora of the Antipodes, still less in the ways of its inhabitants.”
“Its inhabitants are mere savages, and its plants and animals oddities contrary to all scientific opinion. They can provide nothing of interest to a scholar, or even to the sort of dabbler that I am become in my dotage. Whereas the Mare Nostrum of the Ancients is the source of all true civilization, as all savants concur, even the French. Why should I not wish to refresh my understanding of the current state of affairs in that region?”
“All may be as you say, Papa, but in that case, why is there a copy of the Morning Chronicle on the table in the hall, with lists of all ships due to leave for the Levant underlined in it?”
“Very well, I admit the thought may have crossed my mind. Many thoughts cross my mind these days, I find, but very few of them linger long enough to bear fruit. When questioned on my motives I prefer to be able to answer otherwise than out of pure ignorance. And, who knows, it may prove less of an inconvenience to give way to your mother’s entreaties than to oppose them.”
“I know you, Papa, and I know that if you were truly set against foreign travel you would say so in terms that even my mother would understand. I know why you are thinking of this. You would like to see Lydia one last time before you…. well, before you are no longer capable. It is but natural, after all.”
“You flatter me, my dear, as always. I promise you that if I were to consider an excursion to those parts, your sister would feature only as a convenient person to occupy your mother’s time while I engaged in more useful pursuits.”
“And you malign yourself, as always, Papa. Your children’s welfare means far more to you than you would ever admit. But it is your own welfare that troubles me. You must know that Fitzwilliam and I cannot possibly come with you. Nor can Jane and Bingley. We are far too busy at this time of year, and in any case, who knows how long your stay will be? Mary seems eager, but what Mr Casaubon will have to say to that remains to be seen. Which leaves only Kitty and Mr Golightly. They may extend their honeymoon to accompany you, but I have no notion of their idea of looking after their elders. Who will care for you if you fall victim to some dreadful foreign fever, or if you are shipwrecked, or wounded by brigands or suffer from any one of the myriad dangers with which foreign parts are notoriously replete?”
“My dear Lizzie, you are far too ahead of yourself with your fears. I have not yet decided whether I shall go.”
“But you will. I see all the signs. You were just the same before you went off to Newcastle. You scent some new source of scholarship and cannot wait to explore it. Promise me this at least. Before you go – before you even decide to go, consult a reliable physician. Let him decide whether you are fit for such an undertaking. We will stay on in London a few days for you to consult Fitzwilliam’s doctor if you wish.”
“I thank you for your concern, my dear, but, as I believe I have already mentioned, I have an excellent physician of my own at home, and I promise you he shall do his worst with me before ever I do so much as approach a shipping agent.”
“Whatever he says, take heed of it, father. We none of us want to lose you.”
“How very cheerful you are today, my dear. I promise you I fully intend to outlive your mother, at least, since I have no confidence in any funeral arrangements she might make for me, let alone for herself. But, in all seriousness, I realize that my time for great activity cannot be very long to last now, and I should like to think that I still had it in me to make something at least resembling the Grand Tour that my fathers made.”
Chapter Five :Preparations
Lizzie left me shortly after she had extracted this promise, saying that she expected I had things to occupy my mind in her absence.
She was right, of course. I did have one small task to do before the rest of the family returned from their outing. I had a letter to write, and my brains to cudgel beforehand for an address to which to send it, but I managed to complete both these things satisfactorily while still undisturbed. Then I settled down to wait for enlightenment as to the current fashion for all things French. Modern Art I deplore at the best of times. The painting may be well enough, at least as far as portraiture is concerned: Darcy has a portrait of himself at Pemberley that speaks to the life, and Mrs Morland has a very fine likeness of her younger self that was done by a dear friend of hers who has herself exhibited at the Royal Academy, although under her father’s aegis, females being no longer admitted to membership in this enlightened age. But this obsession with what they call “history paintings” is very much to be deprecated. I sincerely doubt that the ancients regularly wore so little in the way of clothing as artistic licence seems to require, and, in any case, who knows what Cleopatra looked like? Of modern sculpture, the least said the better.
Or so I thought, but both Jane and Georgiana came in full of admiration for a Signor Canova, whose works, they claimed, quite brought the style of Pheidias and Praxiteles into the modern age. I dare say I may have to pay him some attention if that be the case. But not just yet.
“I fancy that Arcadian scene must be very like Corfu,” said Mary.
“Oh, I wish you would not speak of Corfu,” retorted her mother, “
I am quite sick of hearing of it, situated as we are, and never wish even to hear its name again.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” I remarked. “I wish you had told me so before you went out. Then I should not have written to Lydia promising to pay them a visit, if it could possibly be arranged to everyone’s satisfaction.”
The outcry that arose at this innocent comment may be imagined. Jane, to do her justice, was the only one to express concern at the wisdom of such an undertaking, and even she was reassured by the promise I had made to Lizzie.
“That is why I do not say the prospect is definite,” I said. “Everything depends on my being given a clean bill of health by Doctor Morland who is not in the least inclined to tell his patients only what they want to hear.”
“But can you afford it, Papa?” asked Jane, “ Surely it will all cost a deal of money.”
“The expense after we get there will be very little, since we shall be staying with Lydia and Wickham, in their ‘grand palazzo’. I have not looked into the cost of travel in any great detail, but I believe we may manage it. You would be surprised at the savings that may be made when one is not encumbered with five exigent daughters, and the investments I made while we were in the North-East have proved even more profitable than I hoped.”
Mrs Bennet had, up to this point, been speechless. It was too much to hope for, however, that such a favourable state of affairs could long continue. Nor did it.
“Oh Mr Bennet!” she cried, “Oh Mr Bennet! Oh, Mr Bennet! Oh, girls, see what a kind, indulgent father you have, see what care he takes of your mother. We are to see your sister Lydia again, and her children! Has there ever been such a father?”
“I leave that to yourself to determine,” I replied, “but, pray, do not make
too much of this ‘we’. I very much doubt all the company here have any intention of going a-voyaging, and if they did, we should have to charter our own vessel. Lizzie has already told me that she and Darcy cannot come with us, and I expect Jane and Bingley will be similarly placed, while Mary must go back to her husband. I should be glad of Kitty and Golightly’s company, however, should they care to extend their honeymoon.”
As was only to be expected, this set off a discussion (I will not say an argument) among our children as to whether their parents, who had brought them up and so far managed to fend for themselves in the world, could be trusted beyond their own doorstep without supervision. Mary, in particular, was most indignant that Kitty should be invited and not her.
“You are all invited.” I said, “Invited in the sense that I should be very happy to have your company on the voyage, and I am sure Mrs Bennet would be happier still. But you all have responsibilities which cannot be denied. Mr Golightly is on holiday in any case, and need only extend the term of his substitute, should that suit him. But, Mary, you are a married woman. You may not just up and off to foreign parts without even consulting your husband. Go back to Lowick and talk it over with Mr Casaubon. The location may interest him, and, if he wishes to come, I make no doubt he might be useful. If he chooses to stay at home, but gives you leave to go, I should be even more delighted. But we are all far too beforehand with all these speculations. Perhaps the question will not arise. Perhaps Doctor Morland will discover that I am suffering from a mysterious wasting disease and we will be spared all further concern with travel.”
In the event, the doctor was not quite so obliging. We owed the Morlands a dinner, and I warned him beforehand to bring his bag with him, as I wished to consult.
He insisted on the examination taking place before the meal, ‘for I would not wish to have my judgement impaired by your excellent port.”
He did his usual prodding, poking and peering and pronounced me as fit as might be expected ‘for my age’, and that with the usual physician’s ‘seems’ and ‘perhaps’ and ‘apparently’.
“Am I fit to travel to the Levant?” I asked.
“What part of the Levant?” he enquired in return.
It must surely be all over Meryton by now that my youngest daughter and her family were back from Australia, and that they had already left the country again for foreign parts, but perhaps Mrs Bennet’s vagueness about everywhere further than St Alban’s had proved impenetrable even by the likes of Mrs Cole and Mrs Phillips.
“We are hoping to visit my youngest daughter, whose husband is now serving in one of our recently-acquired possessions in the Mediterranean.” I replied.
“I should hardly call Menorca or even Malta the Levant. And in any case Menorca has been returned to the Spaniards, has it not?”
“The island in question is neither of those. It is Corfu.”
“Then I suppose, technically, you are correct. Anything beyond the Adriatic counts as Outrémer, as our ancestors used to call it. But consider, sir, Corfu is not like the rest of Greece, neither the mainland nor the islands. The Turk may have set foot there, as he has in many places around that coast, but he has never been able to make good his footing. It is the only part of the ancient Greece that has never been ruled by the Turks. The French possessed it before us, did they not, and before that the Venetians, since well before the fall of the Christian Empire of the East. For physical purposes it may be considered rather as part of Italy than of the East. I know of no particular reason for avoiding it.”
“My wife will be very glad to hear that. Whether I am quite so glad I have not yet decided.”
“There are, of course, the other perils of foreign travel to be considered. The area is notorious for banditry, and beset with the usual fevers that prevail in that quarter, although in that respect I believe Corfu is held to be singularly healthy. There are also the perils of travelling to consider. As a medical man, I could not advise crossing the Alps until next summer. If you were to start out this minute you might still be caught in the early snows, which would make crossing the high passes a truly desperate business.”
“I had considered that myself. Fortunately, the traveller is now in the enviable position of being able to make his way there by sea, via Gibraltar and Malta, without ever having to set foot on any but British soil.”
“Just so, Mr Bennet. And what could be more salubrious, more likely to set you up at this time of year than a sea voyage? I only wish I could come with you myself. I have always wanted to see that part of the world. I dare say my partner could manage without me for a while. Indeed, I suppose I really ought to give him the opportunity of proving his ability to do so. But Mrs Morland would never hear of it, I fear.”
Mrs Morland, however, waxed quite eloquent on the subject over dinner.
“The isles of Greece! How romantic? Is that not where Byron’s Corsair is set? In fact, I seem to remember my sister Eleanor telling me that Byron was bound for those parts himself, to support the growing agitation among the Greek people for independence from the Turks. Do you not think it quite wrong, Mr Bennet, that Christians should be ruled by heathen Turks?”
“I make it a rule,” I replied, “never to comment on a subject of which I am ignorant, and my ignorance of the politics of the Levant could hardly be exceeded. I may venture to remark, however, firstly that I cannot see how the support of Lord Byron can materially aid any cause, and secondly that Corfu, as your husband just reminded me, has never been ruled by the Turks, and now never shall be. Indeed, the Isle of Corfu is now as British as the Isle of Wight.”
“But the waters around it are still the haunt of corsairs, are they not? Do you know, Mr Bennet, when I was a little girl I was set to make a name for myself as a pirate? What fun it must be to see the real thing! James, why cannot we accompany Mr and Mrs Bennet? We never had a real honeymoon, after all. You could dose us for the fevers and bind up our wounds, and I could paint the exotic landscapes and sights.”
Morland had the grace to lower his gaze to his plate when asked this question, and I was all set to change the subject when Mrs Bennet joined in.
“Would not that be a capital idea, Mr Bennet? I should be so grateful, Doctor. To have such a distinguished medical man in our party would set my mind quite at rest. Mr Bennet, you know, is not quite as young as he was, although he will never admit it, and I sometimes fear for him, for if he should die, you know, I should be quite turned out of my home by that odious Mr Collins, and then what should I do? And I am sure Mrs Morland would oblige us by doing one of her beautiful portraits of our family there. Perhaps a family portrait, with all three generations?”
“If I should die, my dear,” I remarked, “you would now be more than adequately provided for. My investments in Mr Watt’s firm, my shares in the Pemberley Mills and the other investments I made while we were in the North have seen to that. And I dare say the good Doctor has other plans for the immediate future.”
“Oh, but I should so love to go!” retorted Mrs Morland, “and I can hardly wait to start the family portrait. Tell me, Mrs Bennet, how should you like the setting, what do you intend to wear?”
I stopped listening at this point, and glanced across to the Doctor. Our eyes met in a look that must be familiar to most married men.
“We will discuss details later, Morland,” I said, just loud enough to be heard over the ladies’ eager discussion. “Meanwhile I will write to Kitty and Golightly, telling them to expect us. Let me say, however, that my regret at allowing you to be press-ganged like this is exceeded only by my pleasure in the thought of having your company on the voyage.”
Chapter Six :John Company
It is surprising how quickly preparations for a major voyage may be made, when once the decision to set off has been taken. We took surprisingly little in the way of clothing, having very little suitable for the excessive heat we expected to encounter. Mrs Bennet has developed an alarming fondness for London shopping since the family came
up in the world, and was not one to let slip such an opportunity.
Morland concentrated on preparing a vast collection of pills, potions and powders in his medicine chest.
“I know very little of what fevers we may encounter out there,” he said, “and still less of how or where we may be able to replenish our stores, so it is as well to be prepared for anything. General Wickham will no doubt be relying upon army surgeons, on whose competence I have no great faith. Have you made your will, by the way, Mr Bennet?”
Mrs Morland was rather more sanguine in her counsel.
“Fortunately,” she said, “the Hapworths are in town just now. Lady Hapworth is James’s sister Catherine’s husband’s sister, and they are very great friends, too. The Hapworths did the Grand Tour during the Peace, and before that Viscount Hapworth travelled extensively on the continent for the Foreign Office in some mysterious capacity. I believe he may even have got as far as Constantinople, and I know he has connections with the people in London who are supporting the cause of Greek Independence. His advice should be more than valuable.”
It was, indeed, but even more valuable were the letters of introduction he provided to various notables along the way, having invited us all to dinner almost as soon as he heard we were in town.
“Do not hesitate to use my name to any of these,” he said, indicating one packet. “You may trust them with your lives. I can vouch for that personally, and so can your sister Eleanor, Margaret, if you care to ask her. With these I may be less certain. East of the Adriatic one never knows. Ali Pasha I believe to be my friend, but he goes his own way in everything, and I doubt if you will get as far as Joannina in any event.”
“This,” he continued, weighing a small packet in his hands, “may be of some use if you have any dealings with the Turks. It is the chelenk the Sultan awarded me for services which I need not go into here. Show it to any Turkish official and he will be obliged to assist you in any way he can. I must warn you, however, that Turks do not always interpret their obligations as you or I would, and also that the possession of a Turkish decoration might not be looked upon very kindly by the Philiki Hetairia. But if you do not intend to go beyond the Ionian Republic you should be reasonably safe on both grounds.”
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 4