emma by alexander mccall smith

8/10/2019 Emma by Alexander McCall Smith

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Emma

ALEXANDERMcCALL SMITH

Alfred A Knopf Canada


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5

Dearly beloved, began the vicar. We are gathered

together here in the sight of God and in the face of

this congregation . . . Te echoing opening of the

Wedding Service, couched in the Cranmerian prose of the Book

of Common Prayer, could not but move every one of the one

hundred guests attending the wedding of Isabella Woodhouse

to John Knightley. Emma listened to each word, and was

impressed by the sheer solemnity of what she heard: . . . which

is an honourable estate . . . and first miracle he wrought, in

Cana of Galilee . . . and therefore is not by any to be enterprised,

nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly . . . Te

resonant language brought home to her the significance of

the occasion. Tis was her Isabella, her sister, taking such anirrevocable and adult step, leaving the security of her childhood

home and venturing out as a married woman, as Mrs Knightley.

It was hard for her to accept that this was actually happening; it

was all so sudden, and so dramatic almost an elopement, but

not quite.

She looked about her at the congregation almost filling the

small Norman church in Highbury. Te Knightley family was


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led by George, and was well represented by an assortment of

cousins, even if somewhat distant ones; there were fewer

Woodhouses not because various relatives had been passedover, but because they were a smaller family. Ten there were

people from the village: Miss Bates, an unmarried woman in

her fifties who occupied, on a fixed rent, a cottage in the village,

and who lived a narrow life in severely reduced circumstances;

James Weston, a widower whose Georgian house of eight

bedrooms was barely a mile from Hartfield, and who had always

been a good friend to Mr Wodehouse; Mr Perry, an exponent

of alternative medicine, regarded as a charlatan by some (but

not by Mr Woodhouse), and his wife, an illustrator of educa-

tional textbooks; and a number of friends whom Isabella had

known at Greshams: Rosie Slazenger, immy Cottesloe, Kitty

Fairweather. Emma knew them too, although she was a few

years younger; Mr Woodhouse had heard their names before

and had met some of them from time to time, but could never

tell which one was which.

Mr Woodhouse had reconciled himself to Isabellas choice.

His attempt to marry her off had succeeded, of course, but not

in the way he had imagined. He had wanted her to find a

husband in order to protect her, and she had done just that,

with alacrity and determination, although not alighting uponquite the sort of husband he had envisaged for her. Still, it

could have been worse; and the most important consideration,

he knew, was her happiness. John Knightley made her happy.

She adored him, and as far as Mr Woodhouse could make out,

this adoration was fully reciprocated. And he accepted that the

fact that he had a tattoo was far less important than the fact

that they were both happy. His tattoo, moreover, was a relatively


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discreet one, and not something that people would necessarily

notice, although it was a pity, Mr Woodhouse felt, that the best

man should choose to mention it in his speech.Immediately after the wedding she informed him that she

was three months pregnant, and that she was expecting twins.

Emma, who was sixteen at the time, greeted this news with

delight, but proclaimed, quite spontaneously, Not for me! Im

never going to get myself pregnant! Yuck!

She addressed this to Miss aylor, who was surprised by the

vehemence of her reaction. But its a wonderful thing to have

children, she said. You love children Ive seen you with

those little girls in the village shop.

Children, yes, said Emma. But pregnancy, no. All that . . .

She assumed an expression of disgust. All that fumbling.

Miss aylor smiled. You shouldnt worry about that, she

said. Tatll take care of itself. Te important thing is to meet

a young man whom you love. Once that happens, and I hope

it does, then everything else fumbling, and so on will seem

quite natural.

Emma shook her head vigorously. No, Miss aylor did not

understand; how could she at her age? I dont ever want to

get married, she announced. Never. Never. Not in a thousand

years.Miss aylor was tolerant. Millennia come round so quickly,

Emma. She smiled again. Ive already experienced one in my

lifetime. And you may think that of marriage now, you know,

but ones views do change.

Mine wont, said Emma, with conviction. She was certain;

she knew what lay ahead of her: she would continue to be

pretty, clever, and rich. Tat did not include getting married:


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pretty, clever, and rich people did not have to bother with such

things.

Oh well, said Miss aylor. Tere are other lifestyles. Tereis a great deal to be said for being single. And she thought:

Exactly what?Not having to worry about another person; not

having to accommodate a partners wishes; not having to

tolerate the slow, gravitational decline of the flesh into middle

age and beyond, into that territory of sleepless nights and

infirmity; not having to listen to familiar views on the same

things, time after time? Not having to have to, in short. And

yet, she thought, if I had to choose between being a governess

and having a man . . .

Emma, having pronounced, now looked thoughtful. Of

course, I quite see how lots of other people want to get married.

I can see how its fine for them. In fact . . .

Miss aylor waited. Yes?

Its probably rather fun to help other people find the right

person. Yes, I think it must be. An idea had entered her mind.

It was unbidden, but it excited her, and had to be expressed.

You, for example, Miss aylor . . . What about you and James

Weston?

Tis was not an area into which Miss aylor felt they should

stray. She was, after all, Emmas governess, and there wereboundaries to be observed, no matter how easy and familiar

their relationship had been. Leave me out of it, she said

sharply. Cadit quaestio.

Cadit quaestio, muttered Emma, under her breath. Sed

quaestio manet. She had asked her Latin teacher at school for

a suitable rebuttal to cadit quaestio, and she had said that one

might retort: But the question still remains, and that could be


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rendered sed quaestio manet. Tat was to put it simply, she

explained. Simpliciter. Emma loved Latin because it gave her

a sort of power. At school she had tossed a Latin phrase at aboy who had been staring at her in a disconcerting way, and

he had been crushed there was only one word for it: crushed.

Over the next couple of years, Isabella was more or less

constantly pregnant; so much so that Mr Woodhouse found it

embarrassing to have to answer enquiries as to how his elder

daughter was. Te usual answer to this now was simply

pregnant or pregnant again but this began to sound almost

faintly disapproving as if he were somehow censorious

of her single-handed efforts to redress the demographic

imbalance. He disapproved of excessive fecundity on the

grounds that over-population inevitably created conditions in

which microbes flourished. Te more there are of us, he said,

the more we invite the spread of infection. Superfluous human

population leads to environmental degradation, and that leads

to unhealthy water sources. Tat, in turn, encourages the

proliferation of water-borne disease.

He wrote about this in a letter to the local paper, and the

editor obliged by printing his letter prominently under the

heading: A Warning. He had hoped that this would lead toa lively debate in the columns of the newspaper, but it did not.

Tere had been one or two letters on the subject, including

one from a reader who said: But this is natures way, surely,

of putting us in our place. And roll on the day when the next

flu epidemic leads to a major culling of our species. Tat had

drawn more responses than Mr Woodhouses original contri-

bution. Its all very well for you, wrote one correspondent in


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the newspaper. You have access to antibiotics. What about

all those poor people who dont have any antibiotics? What

about them?Mr Woodhouse had shaken his head over this letter. When

would people learn that antibiotics were useless against viruses,

and that penicillin would not have made all that much differ-

ence to the ravages of Spanish Influenza other than helping

with incidental pulmonary infections? He had tried to explain

the matter to Mrs Firhill on numerous occasions, but the

message had never got through, and she continued to say that

the best treatment for a cold was a course of antibiotics.

But that issue, serious though it was, was only incidental

to the main question of overpopulation, to which his very

own daughter was contributing so enthusiastically. Te first

pregnancy brought twins: two boys, and they were followed at

the shortest possible biological interval thereafter by a further

set of twins, this time girls. While this enthusiastic breeding

programme was being pursued in London, back in Norfolk

Emma continued to attend Greshams. At last the time came

for her to leave, and she was driven away from the school one

afternoon, zeugmatically, in floods of tears and the silver

Mercedes.

I feel so silly, crying like this, said Emma.Its not silly at all, said Miss aylor. I cried when I left

school in Edinburgh. I cried when I left St Andrews. It would

be unnatural not to cry in such circumstances. It would

demonstrate, I think, a certain indifference to separation from

place, from friends.

Tis set Emma off with renewed weeping. All my friends,

she sobbed. Betty Slazenger, the name being uttered as if it


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were redolent of painful disaster, as are the names itanic,

Gallipoli, or the Somme.

Rosies sister? asked Miss aylor.Emma nodded miserably. And Pippa. Harry. Ellie.

Youll see them again, said Miss aylor. You neednt lose

touch. Isabella still sees Rosie Slazenger and Kitty, too, I

believe.

Emma wept not just because she was leaving her friends,

she wept because it was the end of a world the brief, tempo-

rary world of school that we never feel is brief or temporary

until it is suddenly over. But her regret did not last for long as

Miss aylor had planned a busy summer for her: they enrolled,

as fellow students, on a three-week course sponsored by the

Victoria and Albert Museum, Te English House through Tree

Centuries. Tey went together on a fortnights trip to Florence

and Siena a trip to which Mr Woodhouse was eventually

persuaded to accept and finance, after a great deal of anxious

hand-wringing and warning about the dangers of travelling in

Italy, where the men, he said, were predatory to a degree that

we in England simply cannot comprehend; where the drivers

were quite without concern for other road users; and where

even the politicians were either certifiably insane or

unashamedly criminal.Tey returned to England unscathed by any of these dangers

although Emma did have her bag snatched in Florence by a

dwarf on a motor scooter (I warned you, my dear; I warned

you, said Mr Woodhouse). It was not this incident, though,

that stuck in Miss aylors memory, but something altogether

different something that showed a side to Emmas character

that people often did not see, but that, in Miss aylors view


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at least, was the real Emma. Within us all, thought the

governess, there is often more than one person, more than

one self.She had even discussed the subject with Emma therewas no point talking to Isabella about such matters, as she was

given to yawning ostentatiously, though genuinely, when

matters of the mind were raised. Emma, though, had listened

as Miss aylor told her about Platos famous chariot.

Te chariot is the soul, she said, shaking her finger gently

into the ether as if to pinpoint the insubstantial. Te chariot,

you see, is driven by a charioteer but is pulled by two horses

one dark and one light. Te dark horse represents all the

brute appetites concupiscence and so on . . . She paused.

Concupiscence is to do with lust.

Emma closed her eyes. Was concupiscence really what they

called lust in Edinburgh?

Anyway, continued Miss aylor, the two horses that pull the

chariot are of opposite inclination. Te light horse is to do with

the finer things: awareness of others, generosity, civilisation the

finer side of our natures, in other words. Te job of the charioteer

is to harness the energy of the dark horse and to make sure that

the light horse is not pulled downwards by its companion.

Emma looked at her governess, imagining her, like Boadicea,

in command of a chariot. And then something had occurredthat distracted them: a telephone rang, and Miss aylor for a

moment or two seemed to be thinking about whether to ignore

it or answer it, her chariot for an instant poised between the

choice of ascending or descending. It ascended and she went

to answer it, but it was the end of the chariot conversation.

And then, in Siena, on their Italian trip, while Miss aylor

sat at a table in the shell-shaped Piazza del Campo, looking


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down on to the bowl of the shell, Emma detached herself from

her governess for a few minutes while they were waiting for

their order of coffee to be fulfilled; and found herself in a smallside street lined with shops selling Sienese ceramics. One shop

window had caught her eye for the sheer beauty of a bowl that

it was displaying. Tis bowl was white and lemon-yellow in its

colouring. Around its sides were glazed figures of young men

in Renaissance costume picking fruit, while a troubadour

plucked at a stringed instrument. A hunting dog, its back

arched, as the backs of such dogs so often are, pranced ready

for the pursuit of some creature not shown. Emma stopped

and stared, and then entered the shop hesitantly.

Fifteen minutes later she was back with Miss aylor, who

remonstrated with her, as the coffee was getting cold.

I began mine. I couldnt wait.

Emma ignored her cup. You have to come with me, she

said. I have to show you something.

Miss aylor shook her head. Im not leaving until I have

finished my coffee. You cant just leave such a beautiful place

and dash off somewhere on a whim.

She waited impatiently until Miss aylor was able to accom-

pany her back to the shop. Te window now had a large space

where the bowl had been.Tese places . . . began Miss aylor, but was silenced by

the effusive greeting of the proprietor.

It is here, he said. Ten I will pack it and send it over for

you. We guarantee its safe arrival.

Safe arrival of what? asked Miss aylor.

Te bowl was produced and placed on the glass surface

of the counter. Eccolo! said the proprietor.


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Miss aylor reached out and touched the rim. You under-

stand, she muttered.

Its for you, said Emma. Its for you, from me.It transpired that she had spent her entire spending allow-

ance on the gift and during the remainder of their trip to Italy

she would be able to buy nothing except essentials.

I dont care, she said. Cadit quaestio.

Tere was no arguing with the finality of cadit quaestio, and

Miss aylor, who had introduced the phrase, of course knew

that. She knew, too, that there was a time to accept gifts, even

the most extravagant ones, and to cherish them. She reached

out and took Emmas hand and knew, at that moment, what

the true nature of her young charge was. But then she thought

of the chariot and the two charioteers, and she lowered her

eyes and hoped.

Once back, there was university to think about, and the

challenges of the decorative arts course at the University of

Bath on which she had been offered a place. Te choice of Bath

had surprised Mr Woodhouse, who said that he had not even

known there was a university there. Miss aylor had been more

encouraging, even if she had her reservations; she would have

preferred St Andrews, which was, she pointed out, a mere six

hundred years older. Not that these things matter all thatmuch, she said, in such a way as to indicate that they mattered

a great deal.

For others, though and this included her teachers at

Greshams Bath somehow seemed a natural place for Emma

to choose, although it would be difficult to say exactly why this

was so. Shes that sort of girl, said the English teacher enig-

matically. Shell fit. And then, as an afterthought, expressed


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as if only to herself, Perhaps she has Bathos. Tis reference

eluded the chemistry teacher, who simply remarked, regretfully,

She never grasped chemistry. I tried, you know, but she nevergrasped it.

Te course was certainly ideal: Emma had long been inter-

ested in patterns, whether in wallpaper, carpets, or in clothing.

For her fourteenth birthday she had been given a book on the

work of Edward Bawden, and had responded immediately and

instinctively to his pictures of the English countryside all

plough horses and wayside pubs with suspended board signs;

all fields of wheat and old-fashioned tractors; all open skies and

wispy clouds. She tried to imitate his style, and that of Ravilious

and the Nashes, succeeding sufficiently to be encouraged by

her art teacher to persist; but what she really liked were

Bawdenesque fabrics and wallpapers. She could gaze at these

for hours, luxuriating in triangles and trompe loeil.

She had not given much thought to the need to work Mr

Woodhouse had never mentioned the subject to his daughters

but Emma was far from lazy and she felt that if she had a

destiny it was in working with designs like these. She could

start off as an interior decorator and progress to designing her

own curtains and wallpaper; she would create fabrics for sofas

and bedspreads. It was ambitious, but clear enough, at least,for her to find a course that would equip her to do just this.

Her friends agreed. Emma Woodhouse Designs, said one.

Brilliant. Te name works, Emma it really does.

Now that Emma was away at university, the question of Miss

aylors continuing employment at Hartfield could hardly be

avoided. Miss aylor herself had tried to raise the subject several


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times even before Emma left, but had been fobbed off by Mr

Woodhouse, who either quickly changed the subject or, when

more deliberately cornered by the governess, put it off untillater that day. Ten, of course, he failed to return to it or

managed to ensure that he was not around at a time when it

could be discussed. It was obvious that he was reluctant for her

to leave, and that he simply wanted the normal routine of the

house to continue as it always had, even if there was nothing

for her to do. Tere was no reason why he should not continue

to pay her he hardly noticed her salary going out of his account

each month, and, anyway, there was not very much for him to

spend his money on, given that he rarely, if ever, left the house.

Disinclination to discuss a subject that needs to be discussed

is never a solution: the topic merely assumes increasing promi-

nence the longer it remains untouched. Every conversation

that is then embarked upon, even if on a totally unrelated

subject, will be conducted in the fear that it might suddenly

be interrupted by the forbidden issue; every pause might be

read as a sign that what has been unsaid so far might now

suddenly be said. Eventually, of course, the strain tells, and

the matter can be put off no more.

My position, blurted out Miss aylor one morning as she

sat at the breakfast table with Mr Woodhouse.On what? he replied. Your position on what? It was a

desperate, last-ditch attempt to evade the issue.

No, she said firmly. You know what Im talking about: my

position here at Hartfield. You may have observed that Emma

is no longer here.

Tere were untapped wells of denial. But she is! he

exclaimed. Shes away at university during the term, and then


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she comes back. How can she be said to be away when she

always comes back? If I go to London for a day or two and

then return, I can hardly be said to be no longer here.It was an improbable example. Mr Woodhouse had not been

to London for eight years, and showed no signs of changing

his views on the undesirability of ever doing so.

She is effectively now in Bath for more weeks of the year

than she is here, said Miss aylor. In my view that means that

she now lives in Bath. And anyway, shes eighteen, and an

eighteen-year-old does not need a governess.

He looked at her with dismay. But eighteen is so young,

he said. Remember what we were like at eighteen? We knew

so little.

Miss aylor shook her head. Tats not the way eighteen-

year-olds look at it. When youre eighteen you imagine you know

everything. An eighteen-year-old will not accept guidance, I

can assure you.

But Emma doesnt have a mother, said Mr Woodhouse.

Youre the closest thing shes had to a mother since my

wife died. If you were to leave . . . He left the sentence

unfinished; even this hypothetical talk of departure made

him feel bereft.

But I cant sit here and pretend to be a governess whenboth my charges have grown up, she said. It just doesnt make

sense.

Its your Presbyterian background, muttered Mr Woodhouse.

She stared at him. What has the Church of Scotland got to

do with it? I frankly do not see the connection.

If you were a Catholic, said Mr Woodhouse, you would

have no difficulty with the idea of sitting around and doing


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nothing. Tat has never been a problem for Catholicism; it is

only the Protestant outlook that makes us feel guilty about not

being busy.Oh, really, she began, this is nothing to do with John Knox,

or Calvin for that matter.

I beg you to stay, he continued, I beg you, Miss aylor. If

you were to leave, then Emma would feel that a vital part of

her home life was lost to her. I know that sounds extreme, but

it really is true. You represent stability to her. You represent

home.

She stared down at the floor, avoiding his anguished gaze.

It would be easier to stay than to leave; she would not have all

the bother of looking for a new job who wanted governesses

these days? and she had to concede that Hartfield was

extremely comfortable. Te salary was generous, too, and since

she did not have to pay for her board or for anything else

for that matter it would enable her to continue to build up

her savings, now standing at a total of eighty-seven thousand

pounds. Reading that figure, recorded on her quarterly state-

ments of account, filled her with pleasure: a governess had to

look after herself and to ensure that she did not find herself,

at sixty, penniless and homeless. And that meant saving, and

not indulging oneself in non-essentials, unless, of course, ahusband should materialise and bring with him financial

security. But husbands, she reflected, did not appear that easily;

there were plenty of women who lived in hope that a husband

might suddenly descend; that they might draw back the curtains

one morning and see, standing outside their window, a

husband; or that they might take a seat on the train to work

and find themselves sitting next to . . . a husband. Tat


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happened, of course, for some, but for others it did not, no

matter how hard they wished, and no matter how much they

deserved a husband.Mr Woodhouse suddenly brightened. Ive had an idea, he

said. Ive always thought I needed a secretary. He looked at

Miss aylor with the air of one about to make an important

announcement. You could be my secretary the pay and

conditions would be exactly the same, but the job description

would be different. You would not have to worry about being

governess to a young woman who was away much of the time.

He made a gesture of supplication. Please say yes, Anne.

She had been about to concede, with a suitable show of

reluctance, that she should continue as governess, but this new

secretarial post which she knew was almost certainly a sine-

cure would do as well.

All right, she said. I accept. She paused. What will the

duties be?

For a few moments he looked blank, but then he smiled and

said, Secretarial.

She nodded. Tere was no need to discuss the matter further,

as everything, she imagined, would be exactly the same as it

always had been. And that, of course, was what Mr Woodhouse

wished for above all else, and what Miss aylor, for want ofanything better, was prepared to accept.


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