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The lodging is a little shabby, and no larger than is necessary for its inhabitants, but it wears an unexpected and indefinable air of comfort which certainly has nothing to do with the furniture.
It is the twins who greet him first, telling him of their plans in a kind of counterpoint of voices.
“Papa must go to see his man of business, but Mama is taking us to the Royal… well, to see the animals in the tower.”
“The Royal Menagerie”, Sophie says, coming into the room. “Charlotte, you must comb your hair before you can go out.”
“It is just as neat as Fanny’s”, says the twin who Stephen had believed to be Fanny.
“Then you must both comb your hair. And you must not pester Dr Maturin to come with us. He is very busy, and it was kind of him to take the time to come and see us.”
“But he would like to see the animals. You have told us that animals are his greatest interest.”
“And there will be an elephant. Have you ever seen an elephant, doctor?”
He thinks that this time he has pinned down which twin is which – Fanny looking at him with her mother’s serious eyes.
“I have seen several elephants. I have even ridden on an elephant, although I admit I do not much enjoy the experience.”
“But never in England?”
“Never in England”, he says, trying to keep his mind on English soil, and far from memories of the warm scents of another continent.
And there is an elephant, a grey worn resigned beast standing in the narrow enclosure and looking as if it has never seen a jungle, or even an Indian town.
Stephen walks with Sophie’s hand on his arm and drinks in the peace of her presence, while the twins dart ahead and catch themselves, walking demurely in imitation of prim ladyhood before darting off again.
By the time they reach the enclosure the girls are whispering together, and turn to Sophie.
“Mama, I only asked her what she would do if she had such a nose”, says one, cutting over the other’s complaints.
“Mama, why does it have such a nose?”
“Well, because it was made that way, I suppose”, Sophie says in mild perplexity.
“Perhaps the doctor will know.”
“It is called a trunk, or better still a proboscis”, Stephen says. “And the elephant uses it to pull leaves from the trees for its food. Ray tells us of an elephant which could pull a sword from a scabbard with its trunk.”
“Papa has a sword. It was given to him as a present.”
“You mean as a presentation.”
“As both, I think”, Sophie says. “Shall we go to see the tiger?”
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Sophie is rarely in London, so that this time together is both oddly familiar and oddly unfamiliar – when he thinks of her, he pictures her usually in the morning room at Ashgrove Cottage, her own country setting, while London to him, in spite of Diana’s influence, is still scientific meetings and the Admiralty. And he has always been a poor correspondent, sometimes remembering to send messages of his arrival, or other necessary knowledge, but communicating in the larger sense mainly with himself, or at least with the journal he keeps as a kind of record.
And of late years Sophie’s communications to him have come more often in letters to Jack – she is not the correspondent she was before her marriage, with her own house on her hands, and her own children, and still from time to time her sister’s. But the messages come, all the same: ‘Pray tell Stephen that I hope he is wearing the muffler I knitted… that he enjoyed the apple jelly… that he remembers to wear a hat when the sun blazes down as it must in the tropics. Tell Stephen that I am reading Walter Scott’s poem Marmion… that Cecilia’s son had the croup but recovered well… that the plum tree has more blossoms than I have ever seen’ – snatches of life which rarely go deep, but keep its picture always in the back of his mind.
It’s a little unexpected, when he comes to think of it, just how much she has always been there.
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I certainly did not expect to find myself spending the afternoon en famille', he writes that night, 'but it was less unpleasant than I might have expected – pleasant, indeed, in many parts. I know little of children, and less of girls, who I do not even encounter in the role of midshipmen, but her daughters appear to thrive – certainly physically, their complexions and lively movements speak for their health. Sophie is a good mother, I believe – a tepid-sounding compliment, so often given to women of whom there is little more to say, but in this case true, and one that she would value. She wears authority lightly, and gives instead the impression of tending growth as in a garden.
‘I find that I have written often of Jack Aubrey, and rarely of Sophie, a situation not at all in line with her merits, which are in some ways very similar – courage and fortitude, and a deep understanding of her own business which occasionally lets her down on unfamiliar ground; only occasionally, however. A navy of women, if such a thing can be imagined, would soon find Sophie competent, while I fear Jack will never learn to discriminate by land.
She is worried about him, I find, and yet she is trying to let him solve his own problems, or fail on his own abilities - a virtue rarer than she believes it to be. She has reason to be concerned, given his history, and yet I believe in this case he has only been foolish, and will come to no great harm, while he has money enough to cover a small loss, if he will only refrain from throwing good after bad.
I am writing about Jack once more, in spite of my resolution. Captain Aubrey, I value you, but there are others in the world as valuable, and your wife is one. It is at least a virtue in you that you know it. I hope it may be counted a virtue to me that I do.