 CHAPTER XIII of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of a Lord with a tolerable independence. And Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship—if friendship it might be called—had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates as being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come. And he did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the rather sudden breaking up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting. For it had been a theatrical party, and the play in which he had borne apart was within two days of representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connections of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the right honourable Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, which would, of course, have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelve-month, and being so near to lose it all was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his only consolation. Happily for him a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play had been lover's vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. A trifling part, said he, and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again, but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the Duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford, and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for him that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the Baron, a little man with weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. He must have injured the piece materially, but I was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the Duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted to part himself, whereas he was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the Duke was thought very great by many, and upon the whole it was certainly a gun up wonderfully. It was a hard case, upon my word. And I do think you were very much to be pitied, were the kind responses of listening sympathy. Oh it's not worth complaining about, but to be sure the poor old Dowager could not have died at a worse time, and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days, and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested. I know, but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it. An after-piece instead of a comedy, said Mr. Bertram, lover's vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act my grandmother by themselves. Well the joint sure may comfort him, and perhaps between friends he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the barren, and was not sorry to withdraw, and to make you amends, Yeats. I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager. This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment, for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house, and who, having so much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of lively talents and comic taste as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. Oh, for the Echoesford theatre and scenery to try something with— Each sister could echo the wish, and Henry Crawford, to whom in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. I really believe, said he, I could be full enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything, as if I could rant and storm or sigh or cut capers in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene, what should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure. Looking toward the Miss Bertrams. And for a theatre? What signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice. We must have a curtain. Said Tom Bertram. A few yards of green bays for the curtain, and perhaps that may be enough. Oh, quite enough. Cried Mr. Yates. With only just a side-winger to run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down. Nothing more will be necessary on such a plan as this. For Mary Museman, among ourselves, we should want nothing more. I believe we must be satisfied with less. Said Mariah. There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the performance, not the theatre, our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery. Nay. Said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. Let us do nothing by halves. If we ought to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes and gallery, and let us have a play entire from beginning to end. So as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting after-piece and a figure-dance, and a horn-pipe and a song between the acts, if we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing. Now Edmund, do not be disagreeable. Said Julia. Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one. True to see real acting, good-hardened real acting, but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade, a set of gentlemen and ladies who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through. After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing by the discussion and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest, and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than to find a peace which would please them all, the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation. The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength. Mariah, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard room. From returning from them into the drawing room, where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus began as he entered. Such a horribly vile billiard table as ours is not to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again, but one good thing I have just ascertained. It is the very room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it, and the doors at the father-end communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five minutes by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we could have desired if we had sat down to wish for it, and my father's room will be an excellent green room. It seems to join the billiard room on purpose. You're not serious, Tommen, meaning to act, said Edmund in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire. Not serious? Nevermore so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you in it? I think it would be very wrong. In a general light, private theatricals are open to some objections, but as we are circumcised, I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious, to attempt anything of the kind. It would show great wonder-feeling on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant danger. And it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Mariah, whose situation is a very delicate one, considering everything extremely delicate. You take up a thing so seriously, as if we were going to act three times a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene and exercise our powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be trusted, I think, in choosing some play most perfectly unexceptionable, and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in chattering words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And as to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection that I consider it rather as a motive, for the expectation of his return must be a very anxious period to my mother. And if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so I am sure will he. It is a very anxious period for her. As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram sunk back in one corner of the sofa the picture of health, wealth, ease, and tranquility was just falling into a gentle dose, while Fanny was getting through the few difficulties of her work for her. Edmund smiled and shook his head. By Joe, this won't do! He said Tom, throwing himself into a chair with a hearty laugh. To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety, I was unlucky there. What is the matter? Asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one half roused. I was not asleep. Oh, dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you. Well, Edmund? He continued returning to the former subject, posture, and voice as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again. With this I will maintain that we shall be doing no harm. I cannot agree with you. I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove it. And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people or promotes it more than my father. And for anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us boys. How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to bead or not to bead in this very room for his amusement? And I am sure my name was Norval every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays. It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My father wished us as schoolboys to speak well, but he would never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is strict. I know all that, said Tom displeased. I know my father as well as you do, and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family. If you are resolved on acting, replied the persevering Edmund, I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way, and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's house in his absence which could not be justified. For everything of that nature I will be answerable, said Tom in a decided tone. His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house as you can have, and as to such alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase or unlocking a door or even using the billiard room for the space of a week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose he would object to our sitting more in this room and less in the breakfast room than we did before he went away, or to my sister's piano forte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense. The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an expense. Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious. Suppose it might cost a whole twenty pounds, something of a theater we must have undoubtedly, and it will be on the simplest plan. A green curtain and a little carpenter's work and that's all. And as the carpenter's work may all be done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be too absurd to talk of expense, and as long as Jackson is employed, everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself if you do not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else. No, as to acting myself, said Edmund, that I absolutely protest against. Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation. Fanny who had heard it all, and borne Edmund's company in every feeling throughout the whole, now ventured to say in her anxiety to suggest some comfort. Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit them. Your brother's taste in your sisters seemed very different. I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme they will find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade them, and that is all I can do. I should think my Aunt Norris would be on your side. I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use. And if I cannot convince them myself I shall let things take their course without attempting it through her. Family's squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do anything than be all together by the ears. His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure as Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in what had been done in so many respectable families and by so many women of the first consideration, and it must be scrupulousness run mad that could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends and which would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia did seem inclined to admit that Mariah's situation might require particular caution and delicacy, but that could not extend to her. She was at liberty, and Mariah evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much more above restraint and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the parsonage, calling out, No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram? No want of understrapers? My sister desires her love and hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duena or tame confidant that you may not like to do yourselves. Mariah gave Edmund a glance which meant, What say you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same? And Edmund, silenced, was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry fascination to the mind of genius, and with the ingenuity of love, to dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on anything else. The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain, and as to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, who were all powerful with her, and as the whole arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fencing herself obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs that every hour might be spent in their service, she was in fact exceedingly delighted with the project. CHAPTER XIV Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle, and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations were also in hand. An enormous roll of green bays had arrived from Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris, with a saving by her good management of a full three-quarters of a yard, and was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting, and as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to hope that none might ever be found. There were in fact so many things to be attended to, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters required, and above all such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal could hold out. On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford and Mr. Yates. On the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite alone, as it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined the same way. But his determinateness and his power seemed to make allies unnecessary, and independent of this great irreconcilable difference, they wanted a peace containing very few characters in the whole, but every character first rate, and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Thellow, nor Douglas, nor the Game-ster presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians. And the rivals, the School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Air at Law, and along, etc., were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections. No peace could be proposed that did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was a continual repetition of— Oh, no, that will never do. Let us have no renting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in the play. Nothing but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. That might do, Pops, but for the low part. If I must give my opinion I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. I do not wish to make objections. I shall be happy to be of any use, but I think we could not choose worse. Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but everything of higher consequence was against it. This will never do, said Tom Bertram at last. We are wasting time most abominably. Something must be fixed on, no matter what, so that something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many must not frighten us. We must double them. We must descend a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you choose to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic. I conditioned for nothing more. For about the fifth time he then proposed the air at La, doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberly or Dr. Pangloss for himself, and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatist persona. The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same speaker, who taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed, Lovers vows! And why should not Lovers vows do for us as well as for the Ravenshauls? How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming butler for me. If nobody else wants it. A trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike, and as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best, and as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count Castle and Ann Halt. The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with everybody was that nothing had been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly pleased. He had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshauls, and been forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition, and with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it, for remembering that there was some very good ranting ground in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not choose would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to be considered, and that his, being the tallest, seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was always answered for by Mariah as willing to do anything, when Julia, meaning like her sister to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account. This is not behaving well by the absent, said she. Here are not women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Mariah and me, but here is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford. Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thought of. He was very sure his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it. It falls as naturally as necessarily to her, said he. As Agatha does to one or the other of my sisters, it can be no sacrifice on her side, for it is highly comic. A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious, for each felt the best claim to Agatha and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the best. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play and with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the business. I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram, said he. Not to engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must not, indeed you must not. Turning to her. I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack would be obliged to run away. Pleasantly, courteously it was spoken, but the manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Mariah which confirmed the injury to herself. It was a scheme, a trick. She was slighted. Mariah was preferred. The smile of triumph which Mariah was trying to suppress showed how well it was understood. And before Julia could command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too by saying, Oh yes! Mariah must be Agatha. Mariah will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too quick and speaks too quick and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old country woman. The Cottage's wife. You had indeed, Julia. Cottage's wife is a very pretty part. I assure you. The old lady relieves the high flow and benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You shall be the Cottage's wife. Cottage's wife? cried Mr. Yates. What are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part. The mere is commonplace. Not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that. It's an insult to propose it. At Ecclesford, the governess was to have done it. We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office. If you can't appreciate the talents of your company a little better. Why as to that, my good friend, till I and my company have really acted, there must be some guesswork. But I mean no disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas. And we must have one Cottage's wife. And I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being satisfied with the old butler. If the part is trifling, she will have more credit in making something of it. And if she is so desperately bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottage's speeches instead of Cottage's wives. And so change the parts all through. He is solemn and pathetic enough. I am sure it could make no difference in the play. And as for Cottage or himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, I would undertake him with all my heart. With all your partiality for Cottage's wife, said Henry Crawford, it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister. And we must not suffer her good nature to be imposed on. We must not allow her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complacence. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, great nicety to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity indeed is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling, which they have not. It requires a gentlewoman, a Julia Bertram. You will undertake it, I hope. Turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little. But while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss Crawford's better claim. No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part and I am persuaded will do it admirably. Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his application. You must oblige us, said he. Indeed, you must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses you. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions. You will not refuse to visit me in prison. I think I see you coming in with your basket. The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered. But was he only trying to soothe and pacify her and make her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister. Mariah's countenance was to decide it. If she were vexed and alarmed, but Mariah looked all serenity and satisfaction. And Julia well knew that on this ground Mariah could not be happy but at her expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him, You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of provisions, though one might have supposed. But it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering. She stopped. Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again. Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia. Do not be afraid of my wanting the character, cried Julia with angry quickness. I am not to be Agatha, and I'm sure I will do nothing else. That's to Amelia. It is of all parts in the world the most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I've always protested against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form. And so saying, she walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of jealousy without great pity. A short silence succeeded her leaving them, but her brother soon returned to business and lover's vows, and was eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be necessary, while Mariah and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of— I'm sure I would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded she would do it worse. Was doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for. When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in the room now beginning to be called The Theatre, and Miss Bertram's resolving to go down to the parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford, and Fannie remained alone. The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre. Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home representation, the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in, and long to have them aroused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make. Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily, and soon after Miss Bertram's return from the parsonage Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassell and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to choose, and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him. But upon being made to understand the different style of the characters and which was which, and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the decision for the less he had to learn the better, and though she could not sympathize in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened, besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much dressed and choosing his colors. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though affecting to despise it, and was too much engaged with what his own appearance would be, to think of the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Mariah had been half prepared for. Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning, knew anything of the matter, but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Mariah, and Mr. Yates, and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the agreeable news. We have got a play! said he. It is to be lovers' vows, and I am to be Count Castle, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it. Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be. Lovers' vows! In a tone of the greatest amazement was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned toward his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction. Yes! cried Mr. Yates. After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that was suited altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable as lovers' vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable. For here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford, and it's so useful to have anything of a model. We have cost almost every part. But what do you do for women? said Edmund gravely, and looking at Mariah. Mariah blushed in spite of herself as she answered. I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and— With a bolder eye. Miss Crawford is to be Amelia. I should not have thought of this sort of play to be so easily filled up with us! replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, Aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation. Mr. Rushworth followed him to say— I come in three times, and have two and forty speeches. That something is not it, but I do not like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak. Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter, and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying— I cannot before Mr. Yates speak what I feel as to this play without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford. But I must now, my dear Mariah, tell you that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you will when you have read it carefully over. I need only the first act allowed to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send to your father's judgment, I am convinced. We see things very differently. Cried Mariah, I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you, and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it, and I am not the only young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation. I am sorry for it. But in this matter it is you who are to lead. You must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right and show them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum your conduct must be the law to the rest of the party. The picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Mariah, and with far more good humour she answered, I am much obliged to you, Edmund. You mean very well, I am sure, but I still think you see things too strongly, and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would be the greatest intercorum, I think. Do you imagine that I could have any such an idea in my head? No! Let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it, that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought. Do not act anything improper, my dear, said Lady Bertram. Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell. I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time. I am convinced, madam, said Edmund, preventing Fanny. But Sir Thomas will not like it. There, my dear, do hear what Edmund says. If I were to decline the part, said Mariah, with renewed zeal, Julia would certainly take it. What? cried Edmund. She knew your reasons. Oh, she might think the difference between us, the difference in our situations, that she need not be so scrupulous as I might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No, you must excuse me. I cannot retract my consent. It is too far settled. Everybody would be so disappointed. Tom would be quite angry, and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything. I was just going to say the very same thing. If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure that would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play, but as Mariah says, if there is anything a little too warm, and so it is with most of them, it can easily be left out. We must not be overprecise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was a loss of half the day's work about those side doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to super intend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servant's hall door with two bits of dealboard in his hand. Bring them to father, you may be sure. Mother had a chance to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up the two bits of board, for he could not know how to do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servant's dinner bell was ringing at that very moment over our heads, and as I hate such encroaching people, the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so, just the sort of people to get all they can. I said to the boy directly, a great lovely fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself. I'll take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can. The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp, and I daresay it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness, so good as your father is to the family employing the man all year round." Nobody was at the trouble of an answer. The others soon returned, and Edmund found that to have endeavored to set them right must be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Mariah, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company, and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either. But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two. There was still a great deal to be settled, and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Mariah and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting deep in the subject, when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy. Well, how do you go on? And—what have you settled? And— Oh, we can do nothing without you. followed the first salutations, and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting her. I must really congratulate your ladyship," said she, on the play being chosen, for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all on noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision, and I do sincerely give you joy, madame, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament. Glancing half fearfully, half slyly beyond fanny to Edmund, she was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party round the table, and standing by them seemed to interest herself in their arrangements, till as if struck by a sudden recollection she exclaimed, My good friends, you are most composately at work upon these cottages and ale-houses inside and out, but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be unhalt? What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to? For a moment no one spoke, and then many spoke together to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any unhalt. Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Castle, but no one had yet undertaken unhalt. I had my choice of the parts, said Mr. Rushworth, but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am to have. You chose very wisely, I am sure, replied Miss Crawford with a brightened look. Unhalt is a heavy part. The Count has two and forty speeches. Returned Mr. Rushworth. Which is no trifle. I am not at all surprised, said Miss Crawford after a short pause, at this want of an unhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men. I should be but too happy in taking the part if it were possible, cried Tom. But unluckily the butler and unhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, however. I will try what can be done. I will look it over again. Your brother should take the part, said Mr. Yates in a low voice. Do not you think he would? I shall not ask him. Replied Tom in a cold, determined manner. Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire. They do not want me at all, said she, seating herself. I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested advisor, and therefore I apply to you. What shall we do for an unhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice? My advice, said he calmly. Is that you change the play? I should have no objection, she replied. For though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be in inconvenience, but as they do not choose to hear your advice at that table, looking round, it suddenly will not be taken. Edmund said no more. If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be unhalt. Observed the lady archly after a short pause. For he is a clergyman, you know. That circumstance would by no means tempt me, he replied. For I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep an hold from appearing a formal solemn lecturer, and the man who chooses the profession itself is perhaps one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage. Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there. Fanny cried Tom Bertram from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant. We want your services. Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand, for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do. Oh! We do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your present services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife. Me? Cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. Indeed, you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed I cannot act. Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you. It is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above a half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say. So you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at. If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches— Cried Mr. Rushworth. What would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn. It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart. Said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her. But I really cannot act. Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and, as I shall be cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well. I'll answer for it. No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you. Foo-foo! Don't be so shame-faced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles and a little of the crow's foot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper little old woman. You must excuse me, indeed, you must excuse me. Cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her, but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom. He only said again what he had said before, and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Mariah and Mr. Crawford and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny, and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible. What a piece of work here is about nothing! I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort, so kind as they are to you. Take the part with good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter I entreat. Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see, she does not like to act. Let her choose for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more. I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply. But I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her, very ungrateful indeed, considering who and what she is. Edmund was too angry to speak, but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to show themselves, immediately said with some keenness, I do not like my situation. This place is too hot for me. And moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her in a kind low whisper as she placed herself. Never mind my dear Miss Price. This is a cross evening. Everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them. And with pointed attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour. Fanny did not love Miss Crawford, but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness. And when, from taking notice of her work, and wishing she could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her appearance, as of course she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to see again. She could not help admitting it to be a very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended. The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertrams telling her, with infinite regret, that he founded absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler. He had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do. He must give it up. But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it, he added. We have but to speak the word. We may pick and choose. I could name at this moment at least six young men within six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us. We would not be afraid to trust either of the Oliver's or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentleman like a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early tomorrow morning and ride over to Stoke and settle with one of them. While he spoke, Mariah was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this, so contrary to all their first protestations, but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought Miss Crawford calmly replied, As far as I am concerned I can have no objection to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day. Did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let him be applied too, if you please, for it would be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger. Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going to him early on the morrow, and though Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed in a sarcastic manner and with a glance first at Mariah and then at Edmund that— The man's field theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly. Edmund still held his peace, and showed his feelings only by a determined gravity. I am not very sanguine as to our play, said Miss Crawford in an under-voice to Fanny after some consideration, and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his speeches and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected. End of CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI of Mansfield Park, by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to bed full of it. Her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called into such notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act, and then to have the charge of obstinacy and in gratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the super-added dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time, and if she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Mariah were capable of and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse as soon as she was dressed to another apartment more spacious and more meat for walking about in and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room, so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written and talked and laughed, till within the last three years when she had quitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants or wanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above. But gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions and spent more of her time there, and having nothing to oppose her had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it that it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East Room, as it had been called ever since Mariah Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the White Attic, the smallness of the one making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it. And Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house. The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's, and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books, of which she had been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling, her writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach. Or, if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend, and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to her, though her motives had often been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued, though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory. Her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging. Or, what was yet more frequent and more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend. He had supported her cause or explained her meaning. He had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful. And the whole was now so blended together, so harmonized by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain had suffered of the ill uses of children, and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill-done for the drawing-room. Three transparencies made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland. A collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else over the mantle-piece, and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with HMS Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the main mast. To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geranium she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her own perseverance to remove. She had begun to feel undecided as to what she ought to do, and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for, what might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complacence had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples. And as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom, and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door aroused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle, come in, was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were won't to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund. Can I speak with you, Vanny, for a few minutes? Said he. Yes, certainly. I want to consult. I want your opinion. My opinion? She cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her. Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox, but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable. The more than intimacy, the familiarity I cannot think of it with any patience. And it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, if possible, be prevented. Do you not see it in the same light? Yes, but what can be done? Your brother is so determined. There is but one thing to be done, Vanny. I must take Anne Holt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom. Vanny could not answer him. It is not at all what I like. He continued. No man can like being driven into the appearance of such inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning there is absurdity in the face of my joining them now, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect, but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Vanny? No. Not immediately, but— But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that may, of the unpleasantness that must arise from a young man's being received in this manner. Domesticated among us, authorized to come at all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To think only of the license which every rehearsal must tend to create, she is all very bad. Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Vanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger, and as she probably engaged in the part with different expectations, perhaps without considering the subject enough to know what it was likely to be, it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Vanny? You hesitate. I am sorry for Miss Crawford, but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others. They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamous they are act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence. I can do nothing. I have offended them, and they will not hear me. But when I have put them in good humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth in the grants. Will not this be worth gaining? Yes, it will be a great point. But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good? No, I cannot think of anything else. Give me your approbation then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it. Oh, cousin! If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet... but it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, writing about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act, no matter whom. The look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings. No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner. She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my good will. She was very kind indeed, and I am glad to have her spared. She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopped her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied. I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, and I am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over. And when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. You in the meanwhile will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord McCartney go on? Opening a volume on the table, and then taking up some others. And here are Crabb's tables in the idler at hand to relieve you if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly, and as soon as I am gone you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold. He went. But there was no reading, no china, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news, and she could think of nothing else. To be acting. After all his objections, objections so just and so public, after all that she had heard him say and seen him look and known him to be feeling, could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent. Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course. She cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach. And if it last obliged to yield, no matter. It was all misery now. CHAPTER XVII. It was indeed a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Mariah. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their daring project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular. Their point was gained. He was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved very well, however, to him on the occasion, portraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort. And when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complacence of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good humor and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress. Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. Said Tom. Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade her. No, she's quite determined. She certainly will not act. Oh, very well. And not another word was said. But Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the parsonage than at the park on this change in Edmund. Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. He was certainly right in respecting such feelings. He was glad he had determined on it. And the morning wore away in satisfaction's very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny. At the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good humor, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted. And this was all that occurred to gladden her heart during the day. And even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged. It was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe, but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had never been further from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision. She could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions toward herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important. Each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates. All were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant. She had no share in anything. She might go or stay. She might be in the midst of their noise or retreat from it to the solitude of the East Room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence. Her good nature had honourable mention. Her taste and her time were considered. Her presence was wanted. She was sought for and attended and praised. And Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the characters she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and showed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to her. And that had she received even the greatest, she could never be easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether. Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly. Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings. But she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions, with the jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure. And now that the conviction of his preference for Mariah had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Mariah's situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquility for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapped in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse, or, allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to him alone and ridiculing the acting of the others. For day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had endeavored to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses, and, becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded. But as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her with the most persuasive smile that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquility by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her share at anything that brought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her. A rather one to Julia is not in love with Henry. Was her observation to Mary? I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. I imagine both sisters are. Both? No, no. That must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth. You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may do her some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and independence, and wish them in other hands. But I never think of him. A man might represent the county with such an estate, a man might escape a profession and represent the county. I dare say he will be in Parliament soon, when Sir Thomas comes. I dare say he will be in for some borough. But there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing anything yet. Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said Mary after a pause. Do you remember Hawkins Brown's address to tobacco and imitation of pope? Blessed leaf, whose aromatic gales dispense to Templar's modesty to Parsons' scents. I will parody them. Blessed knight, whose dictatorial looks dispense to children affluence to Rushworth's scents. We'll not that do, Mrs. Grant. Everything seems to depend upon Sir Thomas's return. You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him in his family. I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him. He has a fine, dignified manner which suits the head of such a house and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a siphon now than when he is at home, and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But Mary, do not fancy that Mariah Bertram cares for Henry? I am sure Julia does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates. And though he and Mariah are very good friends, I think she looks other than too well to be in constant. I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stepped in before the articles were signed. If you have such a suspicion, something must be done, and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know his own mind. And if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry, for a time. Julia did suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment of a dear, though a rational hope, with a strong sense of ill usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms now became her greatest enemy. They were alienated from each other, and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to Mariah for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth. With no material fault of temper or difference of opinion, to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the same, the sisters under such a trial as this had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honor or compassion. Mariah felt her triumph and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia, and Julia could never see Mariah distinguished by Henry Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy and bring a public disturbance at last. Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia, but there was no outward fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's consciousness. The inattention of the two brothers and the odd to Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his theater and saw nothing that did not immediately relate to it. Edmund between his theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency, was equally unobservant, and Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company, superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her, and saving with delighted integrity half a crown here and there to the absence or Thomas, to have leisure for watching the behavior or guarding the happiness of his daughters. CHAPTER XVIII. Everything was now in a regular train. Theater, actors, actresses, and dresses were all getting forward, but though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were passed, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his judgment a scene-painter arrived from town and was at work, much to the increase of the expenses, and what was worse, of the écla of their proceedings, and his brother instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow progress and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his part, all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united with the butler, and began to be impatient to be acting, and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance of all his parts together and make him more ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen. Fanny, always being a very courteous listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully, that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford, that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible, that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing, that Edmund was behind hand with his part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew also that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him. His complaint came before her as well as the rest, and so decided to her eye with her cousin Mariah's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from him. So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody had a part either too long or too short. Nobody would attend as they ought. Nobody would remember on which side they were to come in. Nobody but the complainer would observe any directions. Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the play as any of them. Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to her to creep into the theatre and attend the rehearsal of the first act. In spite of the feelings, it excited in some speeches for Mariah. Mariah, she also thought, acted well. Too well. And after the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience, and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all. He had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and insipidity, and the day came at last when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look and said, Do you think there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of me I cannot admire him, and between ourselves to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man set up for a fine actor is very ridiculous in my opinion. From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Mariah, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove, and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his two and forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything tolerable of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother. She, indeed, regretted that his part was not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes. But the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catch word and the first line of his speech and being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny in her pity and kind-heartedness was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him and learning every word of his part herself but without his being much the forwarder. Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had, but with all these and other claims on her she was as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them as without a companion in uneasiness, quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all. She was perhaps as much at peace as any. There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover in which her help was wanted, and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest was evident by the manner in which she claimed it. Come, Fanny! She cried. These are fine times for you, but you must not be always walking from one room to the other and doing the lookings on at your ease in this way. I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more satin. And now I think you may give me your help in putting it together. There are but three seams you may do them in a trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. You are best off, I can tell you, but if no one did more you would not get on very fast. Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence, but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf. One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be delighted. It is all new to her, you know. You and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still. And as soon as I am a little more at leisure I mean to look in at the rehearsals, too. What is the play about Fanny? You have never told me. Oh, sister, pray do not ask her now, for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time. It is about lovers' vows. I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram. There will be three acts rehearsed tomorrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once. You had better stay till the curtain is hung. Interposed, Mrs. Norris. The curtain will be hung in a day or two. There is very little sense in a play without a curtain, and I am much mistaken if you did not find it draws up into a very handsome first dunes. Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her aunt's composure. She thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the first three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time. The third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love. A marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love to be made by the lady. She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind, and about noon she made her escape with her work to the east room. That she might have no concern in another, and as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing. Desirous at once of having her time to herself and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse as she passed through the hall of the two ladies walking up from the parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the east room, undisturbed for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford. Am I right? Yes, this is the east room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help. Fanny, quite surprised, endeavored to show herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern. Thank you! I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me I should be so obliged. I came here today intending to rehearse it with Edmund, by ourselves, against the evening, but he is not in the way, and if he were I do not think I could go through it with him, till I have hardened myself a little, for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good, won't you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them in a very steady voice. "'Have you ever happened to look at the part, I mean?' continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. Here it is. I did not think much of it at first, but upon my word. There look at that speech, and that, and that! How am I ever to look him in the face, and say such things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy you, him, and get on by degrees. You have a look of his sometimes." "'Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness, but I must read the part, for I can say very little of it.'" "'None of it, I suppose. You were to have the book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the front of the stage. There, very good schoolroom chairs, not made for a theatre, I dare say, much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess and your uncles say to see them used for such a purpose? Could so Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre was engaged, of course, by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If they are not perfect, I shall be surprised." By the by I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the times when they were trying not to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could by whispering to him, We shall have an excellent Agatha. There is something so maternal in her manner, so completely maternal in her voice and countenance. It was not that well done of me. He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy. She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire, but with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such an anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough, and they had got through half the scene when a tap at the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund the next moment suspended it all. Surprise, consciousness and pleasure appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting, and as Edmund was common the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary in them. He, too, had his book, and was seeking Fanny to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare for the evening without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house, and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together of comparing schemes and sympathizing in praise of Fanny's kind offices. She could not equal them in their warmth. Her spirit sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, and treated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested indeed with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults, but from doing so every feeling within her shrank, she could not, would not, dared not, attempt it. Had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her, that it was sometimes more than enough, for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot herself, and agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied, but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other, and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day. The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening. Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner, and every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end. Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexation seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient. The ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour, and having lighted it up as well as its unfurnished state admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition for which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife. Dr. Grant is ill, said she with mock solemnity. He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant to-day. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since. Here was disappointment. Mrs. Grant's nonattendence was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them, but now she was absolutely necessary. They could not act. They could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, If Miss Price would be so good as to read the part She was immediately surrounded by supplications. Everybody asked it. Even Edmund said, Do, Fanny, if it is not very disagreeable to you. But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her. She had known it was her duty to keep away. She was properly punished. You have only to read the part. Said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. And I do believe she can say every word of it. Added Mariah. For she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part. Fanny could not say she did not. And as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied, and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart while the others prepared to begin. They did begin, and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had preceded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, My father is come. He's in the hall at this moment. End of chapter eighteen