Mansfield Park
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister
so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the
conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she
submitted to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any
endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in
gloomy silence, wrapt 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 a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured 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 a 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
tranquillity by too much admiration there, and then gladly take her
share in 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.
“I rather wonder 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 Browne’s ‘Address to
Tobacco,’ in imitation of Pope?—
Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.
I will parody them—
Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
Will 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
cipher now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs.
Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria 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 Maria are very good
friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant.”
“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s chance if Henry stept 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 irrational 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 was now become 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 Maria 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 honour or
compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless
of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria 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 aunt 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 theatre, 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 absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for
watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.
CHAPTER XVIII
Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and
dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great
impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, 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 eclat 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, being always 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 behindhand 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 was her cousin Maria’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
Maria. Maria, 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
Maria, 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 catchword,
and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, 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 time and attention, 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