Patrick O'Brian - The Mauritius Command

"Did you, sir, indeed? Well, I declare. In that little wood we see from the window? It is quite well, for Hampshire. But when you know the neighbourhood as well as I know it, you will find that it is nothing in comparison of the woods at Mapes. They stretched into the next county, sir, and they were full of ospreys. Mr. Williams used to shoot any number of "em. I dare say this osprey of yours was a stray from Mapes."

For some time Stephen had been aware of a snuffling behind the door. Now it opened and a little girl with yellow hair and a heavy cold came bursting in. She stared at him with an arch look, then buried her head in her grandmother's lap; to Stephen's relief all Mrs Williams's entreaties that she should stand up, that she should shake the gentleman's hand and give him a kiss, were in vain, and there she reclined, while her grandmother gently stroked her hair.

Mrs Williams had never, to Stephen's knowledge, shown the least kindness to her daughters; her face, voice and manner were unfitted for the expression of kindness; yet here it was, glowing in her whole squat person as she explained that this was little Cecilia, the child of her middle daughter, who was following her husband's regiment and who therefore could not look after her, poor thing.

"I should have known her anywhere," said Stephen. "A fine child."

Sophie returned and the child at once began to shout, "Aunt, Aunt, Cook tried to poison me with toadstools." She kept up this unvaried cry for some time, and over it Stephen said to Sophie, "I am strangely remiss: you must forgive me. I am come to beg you all to dine with me, and I have not yet delivered my invitation."

"You are very good," said Mrs Williams at once, "but I am afraid that would be quite impossible, because " she looked about for some reason why it should be quite impossible, but was obliged to take refuge in hushing the child. Stephen went on, "I am staying at the Crown in Petersfield, and have bespoke a variety of dishes."

Sophie asked how he could be so monstrous; he was staying at the cottage, and dining there too. Again the door opened, and both women eagerly turned to Jack. "How they do talk," reflected Stephen:'this was the first time he had ever seen the slightest possible evidence of a relationship between Sophie and her improbable mother.

"Uncle Aubrey," cried Cecilia, "Cook tried to poison me and the twins with toadstools."

"What stuff," said Jack. "Stephen, you dine and sleep with us. The galley is all ahoo today, but there will be a capital sea-pie."

"Jack," said Stephen, 11 have bespoke dinner at the Crown. These dishes will be on the table at the appointed hour, and if we are not there, they will go to waste entirely."

This remark, he noticed, had a striking effect upon the women. Although they still protested that he should not go, the conviction and the volume of their arguments declined. Stephen said nothing: at times he looked out of the window, at others he watched Sophie and her mother, and their kinship became more apparent. Where did it lie? Certainly not in tone of voice, nor in any particular feature or physical movement. Conceivably it arose from a certain not childish but rather un-adult expression common to both, an expression that a French colleague of his, a physiognomist and a follower of Lavater, had called "the English look', attributing it to frigidity, a well-known characteristic of Englishwomen, and thus to an ignorance of the warming, ripening delights of physical love. "If Dupuytren was right, and if this is indeed the case," he reflected, "then Jack, with his ardent temperament, must be strangely put about." The flood of talk continued. "How well he bears it," thought Stephen, remembering Jack's short way with cackle on the quarterdeck. "I honour his forebearance." Compromises made their appearance: some should go, some should stay. Eventually, after a very long typical family discussion that often began again where it had started, it was agreed that Jack should go, that Stephen should return the next morning for breakfast, and that Mrs Williams, for some reason, should content herself with a little bread and cheese.

"Nonsense, ma'am," cried Jack, goaded beyond civility at last, "there is a perfectly good piece of ham in the larder, and the makings of a monstrous fine great sea-pie."

"But at least, Stephen, you will have time to see the twins before you leave," said Sophie quickly. "For the moment they are quite presentable. Pray show them, my dear. I will be with you in a moment."

Jack led him up the stairs into a little sloping room, upon whose floor sat two bald babies, dressed in fresh frocks. They had pale, globular faces, and in the middle of each face a surprisingly long and pointed nose called the turnip to an impartial observer's mind. They looked at Stephen steadily: they had not yet reached the age of any social contact whatsoever and there was not the least doubt that they found him uninteresting, dull, even repellent; their eyes wandered elsewhere, dismissing him, both pairs at exactly the same moment. They might have been infinitely old, or members of another genus.

"Very fine children," said Stephen. "I should have known them anywhere."

"I cannot tell one from t'other," said Jack. "You would not credit the din they can kick up if things are not quite to their liking. The one on the right is probably Charlotte." He stared at them; they stared at him, unwinking. "What do you think of them, Stephen?" he asked, tapping his forehead significantly.

Stephen resumed his professional role. He had delivered some scores of babies at the Rotunda in his student days, but since then his practice had lain among adults, particularly among seafaring adults, and few men of his professional standing could have been worse qualified for this task; however, he picked them up, listened to their hearts and lungs, opened their mouths and peered within, bent their limbs, and made motions before their eyes.

"How old are they?" he asked.

"Why, they must be quite old by now," said Jack. "They seem to have been here for ever. Sophie will know exactly."

Sophie came in, and to his pleasure Stephen saw both the little creatures lose their eternal, ancient look; they smiled, wriggled and jerked themselves convulsively with joy, mere human larvae.

"You need not be afraid for them," he said, as he and Jack walked over the fields towards their dinner. "They will do very well; they may even turn out a pair of phoenixes, in time. But I do beg you will not countenance that thoughtless way people have of flinging them up into the air. It is liable to do great harm, to confuse their intellects; and a girl, when grown into a woman, has greater need of her intellect than a man. It is a grievous error to fling them to the ceiling."

"God's my life!" cried Jack, pausing in his stride. "You don't tell me so? I thought they liked being tossed up--they laugh and crow and so on, almost human. But I shall never do it again, although they are only girls, poor little swabs."

�t is curious, the way you dwell upon their sex. They are your own children, for all love, your very flesh; and yet I could almost suppose, and not only from your referring to them as swabs, a disobliging term, that you were disappointed in them, merely for being girls. It is, to be sure, a misfortune for them--the orthodox Jew daily thanks his Maker for not having been born a woman, and we might well echo his gratitude--but I cannot for the life of me see how it affects you, your aim being, as I take it, posterity, a vicarious immortality: and for that a girl is if anything a better assurance than a boy."

"Perhaps it is a foolish prejudice," said Jack, "but to tell you the truth, Stephen, I had longed for a boy. And to have not one girl but two--well, I would not have Sophie know it for the world, but it is a disappointment, reason how I may. My heart was set on a boy: I had it all worked out in my mind. I should have taken him to sea at seven or eight, with a good schoolmaster aboard to give him a thorough grounding in mathematics and even perhaps a parson for the frills, Latin and morality and so on. He should have spoken French and Spanish as well as you do, Stephen; and I could have taught him a deal of seamanship. Even if I could get no ship for years and years, I knew just what admirals and captains to place him with; he would not have lacked for friends in the service; and if he had not been knocked on the head first, I should have seen him made post by twenty-one or -two. Maybe I should have seen him hoist his flag at last. I could help a boy along, at sea; and the sea is the only thing I know. What use can I possibly be to a parcel of girls? I cannot even give them portions."