emma by alexander mccall smith
TRANSCRIPT
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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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