Our Family Affairs, 1867-1896Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
Our Family Affairs, 1867-1896
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
Benson family
It was this vague fear that was her enemy all her life, and it could
pounce on any quarry. She did not really believe that the corpses of her
children were soon to be brought back to her, any more than she really
believed that when my father had a bad cold, it was speedily to develop
into double pneumonia, but she was prey in imagination to these
disastrous possibilities. Hardly ever did she suffer under them as
regards herself; once only do I remember her conjuring up a personal
spectre. On that occasion she got the idea that she was going to die
before the end of the month, a prognostication which she unfortunately
made public. Thereupon, as the days went by, some one of her children
hurried from the tea-table every evening, and stood spectre-like in the
corner of the room, and in a sepulchral voice said, “Nine days now”: or
“Eight days now,” until the fatal and last evening of her prophetic
intuition arrived. The “To-night” was received with roars of laughter,
and she was in brilliant health and spirits next morning, when she ought
to have been a corpse. She laughed at her fears herself (which is just
the reason why I treat them humorously now) but, for all her laughter,
they were year after year a miserable bugbear to her, mostly and mainly
during the leisurely months at Addington. Oftenest they were quite
vague, but couched to pounce on any excuse for definiteness: if my
father had a cold she would evoke the image of pneumonia, if he was
tired she would conjure up visions of a breakdown. She kept these
groundless imaginings to herself, and no one could ever have guessed how
often she was a victim to them, or how heavily they rode her. They did
not, except quite occasionally, get between her and the sunlight, for
she forced them into the shadow, caught them and shut them in cupboards,
steadily and continually disowned them. And when any real trouble came
they haunted her no more; she rose serene and faithful to any great
occasion, welcoming it almost, as she had done with Martin’s death, as a
direct dealing from God, receiving it sacramentally.
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Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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