by Lona Manning
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?”
Fanny thought privately that Mary Crawford had audacity enough to say and do anything, but lacking the courage to disagree or refuse the request, nodded in assent to both.
“You are 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—what would your governess and your uncle say to see the school-room chairs used for such a purpose? Could Sir 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 is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If they are not perfect, I shall be surprised. By the bye, 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.' Was not that well done of me? He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”
She began, 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 for Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford. 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 spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she knew she was on the point of enduring yet another unendurable circumstance; watching the bewitching Miss Crawford recite those lines which constituted very nearly a declaration of love, while Edmund played the part of a man who loved passionately but could not declare himself, owing to the disparity in rank between himself and his beloved Amelia. To add to her pain, if it were possible, Anhalt was Amelia’s tutor in the play, the person who educated her and shaped her mind, and thereby won her respect and love—in just such a fashion had Fanny come to love her cousin.
When the stage lovers were done exclaiming over the similarity of impulse, the conformity of thought, and the delicacy of the motive, which had prompted both of them to seek Fanny’s help, Edmund proposed that they rehearse together, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. With exquisite self-consciousness then, on the part of all the parties, they rehearsed the dialogue:
Amelia. I will not marry.
Anhalt. You mean to say, you will not fall in love.
Amelia. Oh no! [ashamed] I am in love.
Anhalt. Are in love! [starting] And with the Count?
Amelia. I wish I was.
Anhalt. Why so?
Amelia. Because he would, perhaps, love me again.
Anhalt. [warmly]. Who is there that would not?
Amelia. Would you?
Anhalt. I—I—me—I—I am out of the question.
Amelia. No; you are the very person to whom I have put the question.
Anhalt. What do you mean?
Amelia. I am glad you don't understand me. I was afraid I had spoken too plain. [in confusion].
Fanny quite correctly imputed the warmth of Anhalt’s responses to Amelia as more than play-acting, and while she could not answer for the sincerity of Miss Crawford’s affection for Edmund, she was in no doubt that Miss Crawford did not object to Edmund’s being in love with her.
At last, she was left to herself again, and Fanny found herself retrieving the letter from Mrs. Smallridge and perused it once again with swimming eyes: If Miss Price is able to Arrange her own conveyance to the Raleigh Inn, Oxford, on the 22nd inst., she will be Encountered by one Mrs. Butters, viz, Aunt to the Undersigned, who will conduct an Interview and, should Miss Price’s answers and Appearance prove all that is Satisfactory, the said Aunt will Convey her from thence by private carriage thither to Keynsham Hill.
Although the language of the letter hinted at an aspiration, on Mrs. Smallridge’s part, to greater elegance of epistolary style than she might actually possess, this insight into her future employer’s capabilities gave Fanny no alarm. The letter gave directions for writing to Mrs. Butters to confirm the arrangement, a rendezvous in Oxford now only two days hence. Fanny’s despair made her reckless, and in the most daring act of her short life, she determined to be in Oxford at the appointed time.
She had received, over the years, gifts of pocket money from her aunt and uncle for birthdays and holidays, but unlike Maria and Julia, who made a habit of exceeding their allowances, Fanny always saved more than she spent. Apart from small acts of charity and the purchase of some books, Fanny was building a nest egg against the day she and William could at last settle in their own cottage. She possessed sufficient funds to travel to Oxford by mail coach and a little further besides.
Even as she told herself that her proposed course was rash, dangerous, and worst of all to a temperament so sensitive as hers, ridiculous, she found herself already calculating in her mind what, if anything, among her few possessions she might be able to carry away from the household without detection. She would take several of her plainest gowns, and perhaps a second pair of shoes—but alas! —she would leave her beloved little library behind, as she had not the strength to carry all her books with her to the village. As she looked about the East Room at the pictures and gifts she had received over the years, she felt a fresh sensation of guilt and humility. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes, all gifts from her cousins at different times, principally by Tom. All must remain, and as she contemplated these kind remembrances from her family, her Aunt Norris’s accusations of ingratitude struck her as forcibly as they had ever done.
Her alternative was to continue as a silent witness while Edmund courted Mary Crawford, and if, as Fanny devoutly hoped, Miss Crawford ultimately rejected him, it was after all only a matter of time before he fixed upon another woman as his wife. Fanny knew that the woman Edmund Bertram married could style herself, in all rationality, as the happiest and most fortunate of creatures. Fanny did not condition for happiness. At eighteen years of age, she sought only peace of mind as the best that life could offer her. Despair had given her the courage to do what once had been truly unfathomable.
Her little stock of sealing wax was exhausted, and Fanny descended to the main floor and slipped into her uncle’s study to obtain some more for her letter of reply. She tiptoed through the billiard room, where the scene painter was putting the finishing touches on the painted stone walls of Frederick’s prison cell, while a young housemaid watched in admiration as she pretended to be dusting the woodwork. The room smelt pleasantly of fresh-sawn lumber and oil paint and turpentine. Fanny had just reached the door of the hallway when her Aunt Norris, looking into the theatre, called for her.
“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 nobody did more than y
ou, we should not get on very fast.”
Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defense.
Presently, her aunt Norris exclaimed “Bother! I came away this morning without the green thread for the curtains. Fanny, go to my house and ask Betty for the green thread—stay, come back, take this bit of pink satin with you, I can use this little leftover piece to repair a cushion on my sofa.”
Thus, Fanny was able to run upstairs, and seal her reply to Mrs. Jos. Butters, care of the Raleigh Inn, which assured that lady of her attendance in two days’ time. Fanny hurried to the village, the letter was posted and the green thread retrieved. She debated whether she should reserve her seat on the mail coach, but to do so she would need to give her name, which might cost her the absolute secrecy she required. It would never have occurred to Fanny Price, as she then was, to give a false one.
Chapter Three
A dress rehearsal of the first three acts of Lovers' Vows was to take place in the following evening: The players were all assembled in the billiard room and were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. With great bustle and satisfaction Mrs. Norris entered, followed, as a sovereign by her attendants, or a peacock by his tail, by two housemaids carrying the green baize curtains over which she had bestowed so much care.
“All the rings are sewn on, and we may hang the curtains now. Now you shall have a proper theatre!” She glanced up at the ceiling and her look of triumph disappeared, to be replaced with a mortified expression.
“Tom! Tom! How were we supposed to hang the curtains?”
“The ceiling, Aunt? I—I don’t know, the thought had never occurred to me. Send for Christopher Jackson, what has he been about? I told him I required a proper theatre.”
As everyone waited, some exclaiming about the absolute necessity of having curtains, while two of the party privately sighed over the needless additional expense, the housemaids began to sink under their burden and Mrs. Norris, growing increasingly vexed, ordered them to fold the curtains in a neat pile on a corner of the stage.
Jackson swiftly arrived from the servants’ hall. “Your pardon, Mr. Bertram sir, but you told me you wished me to build a stage, but constructed so as not to mar the paneling or the floors. No one as told me you wished to hang curtains.”
“You should have known, you tiresome fellow,” interposed Mrs. Norris. “Every stage has one of those—one of those….” she gestured overhead.
“A proscenium arch, ma’am?” asked Jackson.
“Whatever you may call it! A means to hang the curtains!”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am, sir, for this blunder, but I did build as I was asked to build and no one—”
“Never mind that now,” interposed Tom Bertram. “Tomorrow morning, at first light, I want you to fetch more lumber and build a proscenium arch.”
“Very well, sir. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two, sir. And a fair quantity of lumber, sir.”
“See to it.”
Mrs. Norris was extremely put out that the rehearsal would take place on a bare stage with no curtains, and many a reflection on Christopher Jackson and his sly, lazy, cunning ways was needed to dispel the worst of her vexation. She was still expostulating when Henry and Mary Crawford arrived, but without their sister Mrs. Grant, who 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 today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since.”
Here was disappointment! What was to be done? After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned toward 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.”
“And I do believe she can say every word of it,” added Maria, “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.
Their audience was composed of Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris. Julia stayed pointedly away. Mr. Rushworth, resplendent in his pink satin cape, watched glumly through the first act as his fiancée Maria explained to her son, as portrayed by Henry Crawford, how she had come to be seduced by the Baron Wildenhaim; Frederick knelt before the anguished Agatha, took her hand, and pressed it against his heart as she declaimed:
Oh! oh! my son! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium till it was too late.
Fanny, watching from the wings, thought Rushworth would exclaim aloud, but his scowl merely darkened.
The second and third acts brought Fanny’s time of suffering, as she watched Miss Crawford—in her guise as the impudent, bewitching Amelia—make love to the noble-minded Anhalt. The words of love spoken to each other, while powerfully painful for Fanny to hear, were yet not so troubling as they had been in the quiet and intimacy of the East Room—not with the distraction of the feathers on Lady Bertram’s headdress bobbing about as she dozed and awakened, and Mrs. Norris’s constant fidgeting—but they were tormenting enough.
For her own stage debut she could barely speak above a whisper, but she cared not. This was to be her last night among them, the last night she would stand close enough to Edmund to brush against his sleeve, to hear his voice, to see the way his hair curled gently just over his collar, to feel the kindness of his affection as bestowed a sympathetic smile on her when she spoke her lines.
What with the fits and starts, and the patient coaxing of Mr. Rushworth through his two-and-forty speeches, and the impassioned bellowing by the Baron, the final curtain, had there been one, would not have been rung down until after nine o’clock. Lady Bertram had been gently snoring since the beginning of Act III, but Mrs. Norris was all enthusiasm and full of the warmest praise for the players. Mr. Yates declared himself tolerably satisfied (in truth, he was being polite, for the efforts of the others were far from the mark of excellence he himself had set). Tom proposed a bowl of punch and supper in the dining-room, and Mary and Henry Crawford were earnestly desired to stay the night. The servants, some of whom had been listening to the play by lingering in the hallway without, scattered like a flock of pigeons to bring victuals, candles, and hot punch, and to prepare enough beds for all the guests.
The young people, still with the exception of Julia, retreated to the dining-room to drink, eat and be merry, and Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris retired for the evening, soon followed by Fanny, under plea of a slight headache.
Fanny encountered Julia on the staircase. “I see that you have given in at last, Fanny,” her cousin said scornfully.
“It was only for a rehearsal, Julia. I don’t wish to act, as you know.”
“Ah, even when you do wrong by your own admission, you do no wrong. Have you never succumbed and done what you knew to be wrong? No? I will tell you why. It is not because you are more virtuous than the rest of us—though I know you think you are. It is because nothing tempts you. You are too frightened of everything to attempt anything. Whatever is not tame and insipid is disgusting to you. Wherefore then, can you hold yourself out as better than the rest of us?”
“Julia, I never—”
But Julia brushed past her carelessly and went up to her own room.
And so, farewell, cousin! Fanny saluted her silently, and retired to her bedroom, but not to sleep. She sat instead, at the rickety little table that could barely support her washbasin, to compose a final letter to Edmund. But how much of her true feelings could she, ought she, reveal to him?
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try
to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
Only when her final letters were composed and sealed did she blow out her candle, climb into bed and attempt in vain to fall asleep.
* * * * * *
Downstairs in the dining-room, Mary Crawford laughingly congratulated her brother on his artistry. “Undoubtedly, Henry, you are the best actor amongst us. Your Frederick was truly affecting! However, I maintain that comedy is more difficult to portray than tragedy. Did I acquit myself creditably?”
“Yes, you were of course excellent—and I won’t bother to deny that I was too, but, Mary…” her brother looked around before continuing in a lower voice. “I think this will be my final performance. It is time to put some distance between myself and the fair Maria. Our little game has become too serious. I fear I may have become somewhat entangled, and should she lose her head and renounce Rushworth, I shall be at some difficulty to extricate myself.”
“Would marriage to Maria Bertram be so terrible? You know our sister wants us to marry into this family. Think of the general joy it would bring! I, myself, would be very happy to see you settled. She is a handsome girl—why do you resist?”