Mansfield Park
is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of
the party.”
This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved
better to lead than Maria; 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 indecorum, I think.”
“Do you imagine that I could have 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, “that Sir
Thomas would not like it.”
“There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?”
“If I were to decline the part,” said Maria, with renewed zeal, “Julia
would certainly take it.”
“What!” cried Edmund, “if 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,” said Mrs. Norris. “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
Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with
most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise,
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 the loss of half a 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 superintend 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 servants’ hall-door with
two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be
sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then
father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no
how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants’
dinner-bell was ringing at the 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 lubberly 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 dare say 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 the year round!”
Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and
Edmund found that to have endeavoured 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. Maria, 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, Maria, 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 our 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, madam, 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 composedly
at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? 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 Anhalt. “Mr.
Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken
Anhalt.”
“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; “Anhalt 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 Anhalt. 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 Anhalt 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 adviser; and,
therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? 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 an inconvenience; but as
they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_” (looking
round), “it certainly will not be taken.”
Edmund said no more.
“If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,”
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 Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn
lecturer; and the man who chuses 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 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.”
“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. 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 crowsfoot 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