Mr. Knightley’s Diary

John and Isabella arrived from London today, and I dined with them at Hartfield. When I went in, Emma was dancing little Emma in her arms in such a delightful way that it was difficult to decide which was prettier, the eight-month-old baby, or Emma herself. They both looked sweet and innocent, and it was a sight to melt away much of my anger. It was further melted by the fact that, as I walked in and Emma’s eyes turned towards me, I detected a look of uncertainty on her face. It told me she was not as happy with her own behaviour as she professed to be, for if she had been confident about it, then she would have greeted me with sauciness.

"You are well?" I asked her civilly, but without my usual warmth, as the memory of Robert Martin’s disappointment was still in my mind.

"Very well. And little Emma is well, too, are you not, my dear?" she asked the infant.

Little Emma gurgled in reply.

As I took the baby from her, she said to me, in a spirit of mischief, but still with some uncertainty:

"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."

She wanted to make friends, that much was clear, and I told her, in friendly fashion, that if she would only let herself be guided by nature when she was esteeming men and women, as she was when she was esteeming the children, we would always think alike.

"To be sure, our discordances must always arise from my being in the wrong," she said, her good humour restored.

"With good reason," I said with a smile. "I was sixteen years old when you were born."

"A material difference then, and no doubt you were much my superior in judgement at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?"

"Yes - a good deal nearer," I said.

"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently," she said saucily.

I smiled.

"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years" experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it." I turned to the baby. "Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."

She agreed, and we shook hands. I liked the feel of it. There is something very agreeable about being with Emma.

John entered, and whilst Mr. Woodhouse played with the children, and Emma and Isabella made sure they did not tire him too much, John and I caught up on the news. He was as eager as ever to hear about Donwell. I told him about the tree that was felled, and the new path I am planning, and one or two interesting cases that have come before me as the local magistrate.

I was just beginning to enjoy the evening when the usual arguments about health began.

"I cannot say that I think you are any of you looking well at present," said Mr. Woodhouse.

"I assure you, Mr. Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case," said Isabella, who cites Mr. Wingfield as a fount of all knowledge, in the same way that Mr. Woodhouse cites Perry. "I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley is looking ill."

I glanced at Emma, and she at me. We both of us knew where this would lead.

"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well."

I tried to talk loud enough to drown out the remark, but John heard it.

"What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?" he cried.

"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not find you looking well," said Isabella.

"Pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose," said John testily.

The arguments about health subsided, but then arguments about the seaside began.

"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere," said Mr. Woodhouse. "Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places."

"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey; only consider how great it would have been. A hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty," said Isabella.

Mr. Woodhouse was equal to the protest.

"Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to choose between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure."

"I have never heard Perry saying anything of the sort!" I said in an aside to Emma, and she smiled.

John, already goaded earlier in the evening, could bear it no longer.