Mr. Knightley’s Diary

September

Tuesday 22 September

I was very sorry to have to tell Weston that I will miss his wedding, as business calls me to town, but I am looking forward to seeing John and Isabella again. I can hardly believe it is seven years since they married. It seems like only yesterday they were courting, and John was neglecting everything in favour of walking over to Hartfield to see her. It was fortunate for him that he found a wife so near. She could hardly have been nearer! And now they have five children. It is, perhaps, time that I, too, thought of taking a wife.

Wednesday 23 September

I rose early and spent the day looking over my accounts, making sure everything was ready for my trip to London. I gave William Larkins his instructions, and having satisfied myself that he knew what to do in my absence, I walked over to Hartfield to take my leave.

When I was shown into the drawing-room, I found Emma and her father sitting with Miss Taylor. It was an attractive group. Miss Taylor was looking well, as befitted a governess who was about to be married. Mr. Woodhouse was talking to Emma, and she was sitting on a low stool beside him. As soon as she perceived me, she stood up and came forward to greet me.

"Mr. Knightley, I am so pleased to see you. We were just saying, were we not, Papa, that we hoped Mr. Knightley would look in?"

"Yes, my dear, though I hope he has not taken a chill. You did not walk, Mr. Knightley?" he asked me.

"Of course I walked!" I said.

"You would have done better to use your carriage," said Mr. Woodhouse anxiously.

"What! Use the carriage on a fine night like this, a mild evening in September? What could be more pleasant than a walk of a mile to see old friends?"

"I cannot believe it was so very fine. It was misty this morning, was it not, Emma?" he asked querulously.

Emma and I exchanged glances, for he always says this when I arrive at Hartfield.

"Yes, it was, Papa, but the mist soon lifted. You must not concern yourself about Mr. Knightley. He is used to the walk, and it never does him any harm."

"Perry is not in favour of autumn walks. He has known them to lead to very bad colds," said Mr. Woodhouse.

I was about to remark that Perry’s opinion did not interest me when I thought better of it on account of Mr. Woodhouse’s advanced age, and besides, I did not want to distress Emma.

"But Mr. Knightley does not have so much as a cough," said Emma.

"Well, my dear, I am sure I am very thankful of it, but you must not think of coming out to see us again, Mr. Knightley, when the weather is so inclement."

"I was just about to ring for supper," said Emma, distracting his attention. His face lost its anxious look and settled into more harmonious lines. "You will take some with us?" she asked me.

"Yes, thank you," I said, as I sat down next to Miss Taylor.

I cannot help thinking it a pity that Emma has only an old man for company, especially as his habits have always made him appear even older than his years. When Miss Taylor leaves, Emma will be alone with him. Fortunately, she has a cheerful disposition and does not mind. Quite the contrary, she is only too pleased to see to his comfort, and to make sure he is happy.

"Is everything ready for the wedding?" I asked Miss Taylor.

"Yes, thank you," she said.

I hoped that talk of the wedding would cheer Mr. Woodhouse, but it only made him more anxious.

"Poor Miss Taylor," he said with a heavy sigh, as though she was about to be carried off by pneumonia, instead of by a respectable gentleman. "You will miss us all terribly. What a dreadful thing marriage is, to be sure."

"Come, now, you will hardly know she is gone!" I said rousingly. "She will be living no more than half a mile away, and you will see each other every day, either in the morning or in the evening."

"But it is not the same as having Miss Taylor in the house. She will have to leave her house to visit us, or we will have to leave ours to visit her. It will be a dreadful thing for the horses," he said sorrowfully.

"They will like the exercise," I said. Then, thinking there had been enough sighing, I went on: "I am going to London tomorrow. Do you have any commissions for me? Isabella is always eager to hear from her father and her sister."

"Will you take these letters to her?" said Emma, giving them to me. "And pray give her this cap. I made it for the baby."

"This is prettily done. Would you like me to take that one, too?" I asked, seeing another on her work-table.

"No, it is not finished, but no matter. I am making it in the next size. Little Emma will need it by the time Isabella visits us, I dare say."

"Ah, poor Isabella!" sighed Mr. Woodhouse. "It is a long time since we saw her and her children. I wish she would visit us more often. London is such an unhealthy place."

"But not Brunswick Square, Papa. Brunswick Square is a very healthy area. You know that Perry said so."

"Ay, he did, but it cannot be as healthy as Hartfield, my dear. I do not like to think of the children playing in all that smoke."

"There is no smoke in Brunswick Square, Papa. Is there, Mr. Knightley?" she asked, appealing to me.

"Very little," I said. Then, seeing his worried face, I remarked: "When the children play, you know, they go to the park, where there is no smoke at all."

"You see, Papa, there is no need to worry about the children. What message would you like Mr. Knightley to give Isabella?" she asked. "You know she will want to hear from you."

"Tell her that Perry says she must not think of taking the children sea-bathing again," he said. "He says that she must wrap them up warmly. It is very chilly now that autumn is here. And she must not go out in the rain. Perry has known many people to take ill and die from going out in the rain."

As he talked, I watched Emma and wondered what is to become of her. She is of an age to be married, but she spends her time with people who are so much older than she, that she is never likely to meet a husband. And if she does, I do not know if she will wish to marry. She is too comfortable where she is. Her father is easy to please and she can do as she likes with the household. A husband will have his own views, and Emma is not likely to take to that way of living.

But if she does not marry, what then?

Thursday 24 September

I set out for London this afternoon. The autumn day was drawing in and I did not arrive at Brunswick Square until after dark.

The house was as neat as always, a credit to Isabella. John could not have found a better wife if he had searched the length and breadth of England. With her domestic character and her gentle, quiet manners, she must be one of the few women in the country whose amiable and affectionate disposition would allow her to tolerate his short temper.

As I was shown into the drawing-room I was greeted by a perfect domestic scene. Isabella and John were sitting there, surrounded by their five children. The baby was sitting on Isabella’s knee, whilst Bella and George were playing on the hearthrug. Henry and John were more active, as befit their advanced years, and as soon as they saw me they ran up to me with squeals of "Uncle George!" and then they clamoured to be thrown into the air. I obliged, sending them both up to the ceiling, before setting them back on their feet.

"Again! Again!" said Henry.

"You are too heavy! You must be five years old by now..." I teased him.

"Six!" he cried in delight.

"Then it is no wonder you are so big."

He tugged at the tails of my coat and I relented. "Very well, one more time then," I said.

Nothing would do but that I should treat little John in the same way before I could sit down.

"Enough," said my brother John, as they clamoured for more. "Give Uncle George some peace. He has ridden all the way from Surrey."

"Here," said Isabella, giving them some wooden blocks to play with.

The boys sat down on the hearthrug and occupied themselves by building a tower.

"How was your journey?" Isabella asked, as she moved the baby to her other knee.

"Better than usual," I told her. "At least, this time, the weather was dry."

"I wish you would not ride," she said. "It is too far. You should use your carriage."

"Too far?" said John. "It is only sixteen miles. No more than a three-hour journey."

"I should not like to ride so far on horseback," said Isabella.

"Then it is a good thing I was the one who undertook the journey, and not you," I remarked.

She gave the baby to John and took Bella on her knee, for Bella had started to cough.

"How is Bella’s throat?" I asked.

"Better than it was. I am using an embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s devising, and it seems to be strengthening her. But tell me, how is my sister? She is not too lonely, I hope?" asked Isabella.

"No, not yet. Miss Taylor is still at Hartfield. She is not Mrs. Weston yet."

"Poor Emma," said Isabella. "And poor Papa. They will be very lonely without her. She has been with them for such a long time. It is sixteen years since she arrived. A sad business."

"A sad business!" cried John. "Not for Miss Taylor! To go from being a governess companion, to being a wife? It is an excellent business, and a very good match for her. As a companion she was a dependent, no matter how much she was loved, but as Mrs. Weston, she will be a woman with a home of her own. I am very glad to have her marry. A more sensible and respectable match I have yet to see."

"But it is a sad business for Emma," said Isabella.

"It will do her good to have some time to herself," said John.

"It will give her a chance to finish all the things she has been meaning to finish for the last five years," I said.

"For shame!" cried Isabella.

"You have always been hard on Emma," said John.

"And if I am not, who else is there?" I said. Little George came and stood by my knee, his face a picture of concentration as he sucked his thumb. "Her father thinks she can do no wrong. Miss Taylor is hardly any less doting. There is no one in the village who cares to question her, as she is the most important woman in the neighbourhood. Someone has to tell her when she goes wrong."

"And when does Emma ever go wrong?" asked Isabella.

"On many occasions, particularly when she thinks she has nothing to learn. It is not entirely her fault. She has been taught to think well of herself by everyone around her..."

"Would you have her think badly of herself?" asked John,

"I would have her think less of herself altogether. For that is the evil. Emma is the centre of Emma’s world."

"She will think differently when she marries," said Isabella.

"But will she marry? What is there to tempt her?" I asked, as George climbed onto my knee. "She is already the mistress of her father’s house. She has her nephews and nieces to interest her. She even has a little Emma named after her," I said, looking at the baby. "I sometimes wonder what is to become of her."

"Come, George, this is a dim view of things. Emma will fall in love and marry, as we all do. She is only twenty years old, she has plenty of time. She is not averse to matrimony, after all."

"Very true," said Isabella loyally. "She is in favour of it. It was she who arranged the match between Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston."

"That is exactly what I mean! She is full of her own importance, and you do nothing to bring her back to reality. She fancied herself a matchmaker, and instead of telling her she was talking nonsense, you all agreed."

"But it was she who brought them together," protested Isabella.

"Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston did not need anyone to bring them together. Why should they? If two sensible, mature people cannot make a match between themselves without the assistance of a sixteen-year-old girl - for that is what Emma was at the time - then things have come to a pretty pass.

And with no friends of her own age to tease her out of her self-importance, it grows at an alarming rate."

"It is true, that is an evil," said John. "It cannot be pleasant for her to be always mixing with people who are so much older than she is. She has had no other young ladies around her ever since I brought Isabella to London."

"It is a pity she has no friends of her own age," Isabella agreed. "Miss Fairfax is at Highbury so little..."

She broke off as the tower of bricks fell down with a clatter.

"But what of you, George?" asked John. "It is high time you were married. Time does not stand still. You are thirty-seven years old. You should be thinking of taking a wife."

"I have thought of it, but I have seen no one who takes my fancy, and I do not intend to marry for the sake of it," I replied.

"But think of Donwell. You must have an heir."

"I will leave it to Henry," I said.

"Then I hope you are keeping it in good repair!" said John. "I do not want my son inheriting a ruin. I expect him to come into the property without any disadvantages."

I told him of the new works I was undertaking, and of the repairs I had in hand. I told him about the crumbling masonry on the front of the Abbey, and my plan to build a bridge across the stream.

We were still talking of the Abbey after dinner. I told him about the leaking roof in the stables, and he was interested, as always, in everything I had to say. So engrossed were we that I was surprised when the clock chimed eleven and it was time to retire.

I found my room as always, with its familiar decorations, its comfortable bed, its reading-desk and its wing chair. As I closed the door, I thought about John’s happy family, hoped I might have the same one day.

Friday 25 September

I finished my business earlier than I expected, and John and I took the eldest two boys into the park this afternoon.

"And how are they getting on with their riding?" I asked.

"They spend little time in the saddle. It is not as easy here as it is in the country," he said.

"Then bring them to Donwell for the autumn," I said, trying to persuade him.

He thanked me for the invitation, but he declined it, telling me he had made up his mind to take his children to the seaside.

"You will at least come to Surrey for Christmas?" I said. "Come, John, give me your word. Emma and her father are anxious to see the children. If you leave it any longer, they will have grown beyond recognition."

"Very well," he said.

I am looking forward to it. There is nothing I enjoy so much as a family Christmas.

Saturday 26 September

I tended to business this morning, and then I joined John and Isabella for lunch.

"Has John told you I have made him promise to come to Surrey for Christmas?" I asked Isabella.

"He has, and I am very glad of it. I wish we could have been there for Miss Taylor’s wedding as well, but John could not take two holidays so close together, and Mr. Wingfield has entreated me to take the children to the seaside before the winter sets in."

"Never mind. You will be able to visit the new Mrs. Weston when you come to Surrey for Christmas."

"Would you mind very much if we stayed with my father, instead of staying at the Abbey?" said Isabella.

"I thought you would say that," I remarked.

"He is an old man, and finds travelling difficult," said Isabella, pleading her case.

"He worries too much," said John. "If he is not worrying about the carriage overturning, he is worrying about the horses!"

Isabella ignored his short temper.

"It will make it easier if we stay at Hartfield," she said.

"Do you not think the children will be too noisy for your father?" I asked.

"Emma and I will take care they do not disturb him."

"Very well. I have no objection. I would rather you stayed at the Abbey, but I knew how it would be."

I dined with my friend Routledge at my club this evening, and he asked all about Highbury.

"You do not regret leaving Highbury?" I asked him.

"Not at all. I have been in London a year, and I have found it a great help to my business, as well as expanding my circle of friends. But you know how I like to hear about everyone in Surrey, and I rely on you to tell me all the news."

We passed the evening very pleasantly, and I returned to Brunswick Square in time to talk to John for an hour before retiring to bed.

Tuesday 29 September

John invited a number of his friends to dinner this evening, and I was pleased to meet them again. There are some very sensible people amongst them. Talk naturally turned to the war after dinner, once the ladies had withdrawn. I wish the fighting would soon be over. It is not good for anyone.

After we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, two of them sang for us. I tried to view them as possible wives. The first, Miss Larch, was a very pretty girl with a graceful neck who sang very well. The second, Miss Keighley, was not beautiful, and her playing left much to be desired, but she was lively and amusing when I spoke to her afterwards. But neither of them awoke within me the slightest real interest, or any desire to see them again.