Mansfield Park
the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to
suppress shewed 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! Maria must be Agatha. Maria 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 countrywoman: the Cottager’s wife; you had,
indeed, Julia. Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The
old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good
deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”
“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates. “What are you talking of? The most
trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is 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 cannot 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 Cottager’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 Cottager’s speeches
instead of Cottager’s wife’s, 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 Cottager himself, when he has got his wife’s
speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart.”
“With all your partiality for Cottager’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
complaisance. 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 supplication.
“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 chuses _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; Maria’s countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed
and alarmed—but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia
well knew that on this ground Maria 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 am sure I will do
nothing else; and as 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 have 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 Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the
play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would be
necessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am 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 Fanny 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 longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.
CHAPTER XV
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 Cassel and
Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, 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 sympathise 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 chusing his colours. 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
Maria 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, Maria, 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 Cassel, 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 towards 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 will suit us 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 is so useful to
have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part.”
“But what do you do for women?” said Edmund gravely, and looking at
Maria.
Maria 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 it the 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’s something, is not it? But I do not much
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 Maria,
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. Read only the
first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can
approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father’s_
judgment, I am convinced.”
“We see things very differently,” cried Maria. “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,” was his answer; “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 shew them what true delicacy