Mansfield Park
“The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
expense.”
“Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps
it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must
have undoubtedly, but 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 be all 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 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 and your sisters’ seem 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 squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better
do anything than be altogether 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 Maria’s situation might require particular caution and
delicacy—but that could not extend to _her_—she was at liberty; and
Maria 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 understrappers: my sister desires her love, and
hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the
part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may not like to do
yourselves.”
Maria 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 fancying 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 baize had arrived from
Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good
management of 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, because 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 piece 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
Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece 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 ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s
part in the play. Anything 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,
perhaps, but for the low parts. 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 chuse 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
chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition
for nothing more.”
For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting
only whether to prefer Lord Duberley 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 Dramatis
Personæ.
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 Ravenshaws?
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 Cassel and Anhalt.”
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 Ravenshaw’s, 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 chuse 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 Maria 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 Maria 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 other of my sisters. It can be no
sacrifice on their 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
rest. 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 Maria which confirmed