Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  Emma smiled and finding Mr Knightley entering the room, asked him gaily, ‘Mrs Tidmarsh holds the belief that you married me for my “untamed” quality? It makes me sound quite like one of your farmyard beasts!’

  ‘I have always held Mrs Tidmarsh to be a clever woman; I would not dare refute any opinion of hers on my reason for doing anything – least of all on my attitude to you, my dear. I am sure she knows you far better than I ever can.’

  Emma could not quite make out this speech, whether Knightley joked or was vexed; deciding it suited her best to believe the former – for she never wished to be on contrary terms with Mr Knightley, however often it turned out that way – she smiled more and asked him if he stayed in the house long.

  For answer, Mr Knightley sat down and inquired with a meditative look, ‘What else does your friend – because I believe she is your friend once more – write to you?’

  ‘She believes that women are the equal of men if they are allowed to be.’

  ‘I should be afraid lest the sex should lose in softness what they gain in force. Yet Mrs Tidmarsh is correct; in their own sphere, women may surpass men.’

  ‘I am not sure she would agree with that “in their own sphere” – it has an ominous ring.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘My own sphere is a very comfortable one. I would be ungrateful indeed to ask for more.’

  ‘So she writes you turbulent philosophy and you – what do you write to her?’

  ‘You are not jealous, by any chance? I have never known you so interested in my correspondence. But my letters would disappoint you. Mrs Tidmarsh cannot get enough of the hedgerows, the hawthorn, the ducklings, the lambs and, now and again, as if for a change, the people of Highbury.’

  ‘You paint the picture of a perfect Arcadia.’

  ‘She thinks so.’

  ‘Oh, Emma!’ he started, sighed, stopped and stood. ‘I was at Donwell today, the buds are already fat on the lime trees and the primroses seem to go on and on but the garden is becoming neglected – how sadly I miss good old William Larkins! Perhaps when Isabella has gone and you are less constantly occupied—?’

  ‘You forget our invitations,’ said Emma gaily, although why she so put off his suggestion, couched quite like an appeal, she could not fathom. It was some perversity born of these weeks of estrangement which she felt so deeply and he did not seem to recognise – it was that and his comment, ‘I should be afraid lest the sex should lose in softness what they gain in force.’ She did not want to be soft.

  ‘And besides, I may perhaps expect a guest.’

  ‘A guest? I take it you refer to an invitation extended to Mrs Tidmarsh.’

  ‘I have not given any such invitation.’ Indeed, until this moment she had no intention of doing so.

  ‘But you may do so?’

  ‘With your permission.’

  ‘My dear, you do not need my permission. I am not your master,’ he tried to smile. ‘And I do sincerely believe that I appreciate the qualities of Mrs Tidmarsh a vast deal more than you allow. She is an intelligent friend for you to have and if I do not agree with all her opinions, then that is a reason for discussion, and discussion can never be bad.’

  ‘You are so fair, so balanced.’

  ‘I make my apologies for it,’ he bowed gravely.

  ‘I did not mean—’ Emma broke off; she could not lie directly, and she had meant to criticise, for it was in his balanced judgement that she saw a want of emotion, a lack of passion—

  Mr Knightley walked to the door but, as he reached it, turned back to Emma. ‘As for Mrs Tidmarsh, I would suggest to you that her opinions on the position of the fairer sex are not held with the kind of steadfastness that could not bend to circumstances.’

  With such gnomic utterance as her companion, Emma must continue the rest of the day; it was all of a piece, she thought, with any intimate conversation held between them recently: it ended in disagreement either lightly clad in humour or more heavily in politeness. Neither disguised a want of real warmth between them, which only seemed to show itself in the tenderness that still sometimes led him to hold her close in the night hours.

  It was with relief that she turned to her paper and began, in sprightly style, a letter to Mrs Tidmarsh:

  You would not believe how busy I am about to become – Isabella leaves in a week, but Highbury puts on its fine feathers. Dinner with the dear Westons – an invitation extended entirely so that we may admire the clutch of babies including now Frank Churchill’s, a most blooming representation of his father, showing all the evidence of the latter’s unconfin’d spirits—

  Emma found she needed a pause here before continuing the letter which ended, despite many protestations of affection, without an invitation to Hartfield.

  ***

  The dinner at Randalls took place two nights before Isabella’s departure and the Westons’ parlour was, as Emma had foretold, as thickly decorated with babies as the ceiling of an Italian chapel may be decorated with cherubs. Putting forward this idea to Mr Elton as they waited for dinner to be served, Emma could not refrain from adding, The difference being that, whereas the painted article are blessedly silent and immobile, the human variety have the vocal chords of a pack of hounds in full throat and much of their activity also.’

  ‘There is one other difference,’ Mr Elton put his fingertips together as if to make a theological pronouncement – which indeed Emma quite expected since he was more full of pomposity every time they met – ‘the human babies are clothed, whereas the heavenly are naked as God intended.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Elton!’ cried Emma, irresistibly, ‘surely you do not intend to recommend that the human species goes naked – as apes go naked!’

  Mr Elton became a little confused under his companion’s sparkling gaze and had begun an exposition more as Emma had expected, along the lines of the virtue of nakedness as a symbol for spiritual purity which has no need of disguise, although not – to Emma’s thinking – with much clarity of thought, when he was rescued from chasms of misunderstanding and schisms of theological interpretations by the arrival of Mrs Elton.

  Until this moment she had been crouched among the cherubs, uttering cries of admiration which occasionally gave way to an unrepressed sob of bitter frustration and envy. But the splendid train she sported at her back was unfortunately edged with loose, swinging tassels which the babies – in particular, the hearty Frank – could not be restrained from clutching and pulling as if they were attached to bells. Mrs Elton retreated therefore and arrived at her husband’s side in a discomposed and saddened state of mind.

  ‘I have interrupted your conversation, Mr E.!’ she cried and added, with a look at Emma, ‘your very deep and serious conversation, as I saw.’

  As Emma knew pretty well that she was far too busy detaching herself from sticky fingers to see any such thing and therefore only ‘saw’ it in her mind’s eye as the thing she feared (Mrs Knightley of Hartfield and Donwell was always a rival to her for her husband’s admiration), Emma felt quite justified in a little defensive sally:

  ‘Not deep at all, my dear Mrs Elton, I assure you – in fact, you might more accurately call it shallow, since we discoursed on the subject of nakedness!’

  Mrs Elton’s face at this word was all Emma could have wished and inspired Mr Elton to mutter ‘Adam and Eve’ several times in an ascending order of intensity and, when this did not change his wife’s expression of shock, out came the word ‘symbol!’, repeated quite half a dozen times.

  ‘Well, I do declare, Mr Elton may have been talking in symbolic terms,’ contributed Emma with a cheerful smile. ‘Symbols are very much in his line – I have often heard him use the word on Sunday and I remember poor Mrs Goddard once asking me why Mr Elton was so keen to talk of such a very loud and unnatural musical instrument. She talked of course of the “cymbal” for, although running an excell
ent school, even her understanding during sermons can sometimes fall short of Mr Elton’s learning. But I did not talk in symbols just now; I was talking of these babies and how the floor reminded me of a ceiling painted with cherubs; it was then Mr Elton introduced the theme of nakedness – but I am boring you!’

  Mrs Elton, who was not looking bored but cross, gave Emma a sharp look and pronounced, ‘Dear Mrs Knightley, you and I must be paired together as the only married ladies who are not in the state of motherhood.’

  She had chosen her barb well; to be paired with Mrs Elton in such a vulgar way – or in any way at all – depressed all Emma’s levity into a silent contemplation of the scene. Let the Eltons carry the conversation!

  ‘I have often noticed – in my experience at the baptismal font,’ began Mr Elton, ‘that no one baby is any different from any other. I am quite at a loss to put child to parent. Perhaps one of you ladies has a better-schooled eye?’

  Emma owned this (but only to herself) a reasonable comment and wondered whether she could solve his problem. There were four very small babies in the room – Mrs Weston’s, Frank Churchill’s, Harriet Martin’s and Isabella’s – and several others belonging to Isabella and Mrs Weston, only slightly larger. They were all pink-cheeked, round-faced babies, all fair, all blue-eyed or at least without dark eyes. She thought, perhaps, her own nephews and nieces the handsomer, with higher brows and more slender noses, but that could have been merely the result of the partisan role of aunt.

  ‘I must agree with you,’ she said to Mr Elton, ‘they are identical; it makes one long for a strain of somewhere else. Italy or France,’ she added, recalling Mr Tidmarsh’s dark good looks.

  Before Mrs Elton could express the dissension Emma intended to provoke, it became clear that the babies were being removed by their nurses and that they would soon lead off to dinner.

  Mrs Weston, advancing to where they sat, her cheeks flushed, her look radiant – Emma could hardly believe it was the same woman who had seemed old to her fifteen years ago – cried, ‘You are so tolerant! I could not forego the pleasure to see my friends – their children – dear Isabella so soon to depart – but now we will sit down – Can you credit it, we will be sixteen, even though I could not persuade Mr Woodhouse nor Miss Bates to attend and I have only included Henry and John of the children! Our little dining-room will be quite stretched to the limits! Tell me, dear Emma,’ as they stood she took her old pupil to one side, ‘I hope you do not take offence at my inviting the Martins but Mr Knightley encouraged me and they go, of course, to the Coles’ – although old Mrs Martin will never stir outside her kitchen.’

  There was no need for Emma to answer because Mrs Weston was off again, more excited than Emma had ever seen her and in a moment on Mr Knightley’s arm who was to lead her into dinner.

  ‘And may I have the honour of giving you my arm?’ Mr Weston’s friendly face was in front of Emma as, one by one, with all the ceremony due to such a large party, they proceeded, with the very few steps necessary in such a moderate-sized house, from parlour to dining-room.

  Chapter 27

  The sixteen sat round the table, previously considered scarcely large enough for twelve, were: Mr and Mrs Weston, the two Mr and Mrs Knightleys, John and Henry Knightley, Mr and Mrs Elton, Mr and Mrs Cole and four Martins – Mr and Mrs Martin, Miss Elizabeth Martin and her younger sister Miss Louisa Martin. The conviviality was considerable, exceeding that which might have been if they were in less close proximity, and the noise level was extreme; so that although a lady might hear a gentleman’s boom with reasonable clarity, a gentleman must bend even closer than he sat already, if he were to catch a lady’s quieter tones.

  Mr Weston’s placement, done with self-conscious gravity and many quick looks at his wife, who had to shake or nod her head a few times, put Mr Knightley opposite Emma and between Mrs Weston and Harriet Martin. Since Mrs Weston was much occupied by watching for the general good, Mr Knightley could only talk to Harriet who was looking the very picture of health and dressed in a most elegant blue gown that Emma would never have credited her for choosing – her taste, during the time of their friendship, at least, running to over-flowered pinks and shiny rosettes. It was vexing that she, Emma, knew that a blue gown was always Knightley’s favourite and even more vexing to see the way he leant towards his pretty neighbour.

  ‘Mrs Martin must have a very soft voice,’ she commented to Mr Robert Martin who sat at her left side.

  ‘She does,’ he agreed, with every indication of complacency at a quality that a more disinterested observer would have grasped at once that Mrs Knightley was noting down as a fault. ‘She lacks confidence,’ he continued, ‘I tell her so; I tell her to speak up and make her meaning plain, but she says she does not wish to.’

  ‘Perhaps she does not have any meaning she wishes to make plain,’ said Emma, trying to take the savagery out of her voice with a light trill of laughter.

  ‘She looks too much to the importance of others, I tell her so. She cannot disagree. I believe she was born incapable of disagreement.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Emma could think of to comment on this piece of information which rang true enough to her experience of Harriet. What she wanted to ask was how the excellent, sensible Mr Martin could be so very content, as he certainly showed every sign of being, living his life with such a flaccid creature – quite like living with a pretty sea anemone who floats this way and that with the waves – but then she remembered a conversation she had had with Mr Knightley before their marriage in which she had extolled the agreeable qualities of Harriet as just those to please any man in the world, however sensible. Now she saw evidence of the rightness of her judgement not only in the handsome man beside her, quite besotted by his wife, but also by the handsome man opposite her now leaning back a little with a look of insufferable smugness as Mrs Martin positively chortled at some of his wit, showing in the process all her pearly white teeth.

  ‘Ugh!’ groaned Emma, just about grinding her own pearly molars.

  ‘You spoke?’ inquired Mr Martin.

  ‘Nothing of consequence. Tell me, how does your pianoforte do?’ It seemed this instrument was their subject in common.

  ‘Very well. My sister, Miss Elizabeth Martin, has a real talent, so I am told. She plays for us most evenings – with all the runs and extravaganzas anyone could wish. My mother prefers simple songs, however, and since none of us can produce a decent note we invite the shepherd in once the lambing season is over. He does a creditable “Soldier’s Lament”.’ He paused to look at Emma who in her new resolution not to stare across the table was fixing him with an intense regard.

  ‘Although if we have need of “The Yellow-haired Laddie”,’ continued Mr Martin, ‘Mrs Martin’s absolute favourite, we must call on Mr Knightley to perform. But then I need not tell Mrs Knightley about her Mr Knightley’s musical talent.’

  He need. Emma’s hazel eyes flew wide in astonishment. Mr Knightley sing – she would have been as surprised if she had been told that Knightley’s horse stood on its hind legs and produced a rendering of ‘See the Conquering Hero!’. Knightley sing! She had never heard him open his mouth at Hartfield or Donwell in all her years of consciousness. It was true that she knew he had some sort of ear because his voice was firm enough in church but she had never considered he would perform a solo and particularly not ‘The Yellow-haired Laddie.’ If anyone had asked her she would have said conclusively it was not in his nature.

  As Emma writhed under such thoughts and the cause of it all ate his mutton with contented demeanour, Mr Martin asked Mrs Knightley about her friend, Mrs Tidmarsh. ‘Did she plan to visit? Did she sing as well as play the harp?’

  Emma answered, but distractedly, and eventually Mr Martin gave in to the neighbour on his other side, Mrs Elton, who had been trying for the last ten minutes to attract his notice with various little gasps and shrieks. This allowed Emma to indulge all her ta
lents for fancy with such success that by the time the mutton had been cleared from the table and the apple dumplings brought in their stead, she had become convinced that the only reason that Mr Knightley would have lowered himself to the silly sentiment of ‘The Yellow-haired Laddie’ (she had never heard the song but she assumed it to be silly and sentimental) was because he had been inspired by the kind of romantic passion, wild, deep, uncontrollable, that he had never shown to her (nor, perhaps, felt for her) and that could only be expressed in song.

  ‘Oh, that were a deep sigh, indeed!’ Mr Weston beamed on Emma. ‘I hope an expression of satisfaction not of want!’

  The question remaining – Emma turned unseeing eyes on Mr Weston’s complacency, everyone except her seemed complacent tonight – was whether it was Miss Elizabeth Martin, Miss Louisa Martin or Harriet Martin who had inspired such sentiments in Mr Knightley’s bosom? The answer was in front of her – plain for all to see! He loved Harriet Martin!

  ‘The apples are our own, you know. I do believe we have the airiest store chamber in Highbury—’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Emma. Now she understood it all. Against all his sense of dignity, the direction of his marriage vows, his duty, religion and friendship (to Mr Martin) he loved Harriet! He loved her for her gentle charms, her softness, her agreeing nature, her skills in the home – doubtless he was offered warm cakes lightly dusted with her own hand; he loved her because her money had saved his brother’s honour – because she made nothing of it – because she lived near his beloved Donwell and tended the gardens and let the apples hang till winter and walked beside the river – and took his wet clothes and dried them – and was always cheerful and admiring and thought him a god among men, although of course in her eyes all men were gods—