by Jane Austen
“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 any thing 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.”9
“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.10 That’s something, is not it?—But I do not much like the idea of being so fine.11—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 delicacy12 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 any thing improper, my dear,” said Lady Bertram. “Sir Thomas would not like it.—Fanny, ring the bell;13 I must have my dinner.—To be sure Julia is dressed by this time.”14
“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; every body would be so disappointed. Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act any thing.”
A woman in evening dress.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. VIII (1812), p. 174]
“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 any thing a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out.15—We must not be over precise16 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.17—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 up18 to the servants’ hall door with two bits of deal board in his hand,19 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.20 I knew what all this meant, for the servants’ dinner bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads,21 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.22—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!”23
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.24 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.25 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,26 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 dirty27 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 by-standers must be infinitely more thankful
for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and every body else who is in the same predicament,” glancing half fearfully, half slily, beyond Fanny to Edmund.
She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being only a by-stander 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 ale-houses, inside and out28—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?”29
A grand drawing room of the period.
[From John Swarbrick, Robert Adam and his Brothers (New York, 1915), p. 99]
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 forward30 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 puzzle31 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 every thing went well—I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience—but as they do not choose to hear your advice at that table—(looking round)—it certainly will not be taken.”
Contemporary tea tables.
[From Esther Singleton, The Furniture of our Forefathers (New York, 1916), p. 232]
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;32 and the man who chooses 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,33 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 any thing 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 creepmouse34 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.”
A poor woman (a match girl).
[From William Alexander, Picturesque Representations of the Dress and Manners of the English (London, 1813), Plate 19]
“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,35 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,36 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,37 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 before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his, but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole, by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible: “What a piece of work here is about nothing,—I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort,—So kind as they are to you!—Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat.”
“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair to urge her in this manner.—You see she does not like to act.—Let her choose for herself as well as the rest of us.—Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted.—Do not urge her any more.”
“I am not going to urge her,”—replied Mrs. Norris sharply, “but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her—very ungrateful indeed, considering who and what she is.”38
A woman in a mobcap.
[From Elisabeth McClellan, Historic Dress in America, 1800–1870 (Philadelphia, 1910), p. 59]
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris,39 and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to show themselves, immediately said with some keenness, “I do not like my situation;40 this place is too hot for me”—and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table close to Fanny,41 saying to her in a kind low whisper as she placed herself, “Never mind, my dear Miss Price—this is a cross evening,—every body is cross and teasing42—but do not let us mind them;” and with pointed attention continued to talk to her a
nd endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself.—By a look at her brother, she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed, were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund’s favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when from taking notice of her work and wishing she could work as well, and begging for the pattern,43 and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her appearance as of course she would come out when her cousin was married,44 Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea again45—She could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery,46 or help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.
The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford’s attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram’s telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler;—he had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible,—but it would not do,—he must give it up.—“But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it,” he added.—“We have but to speak the word; we may pick and choose.—I could name at this moment at least six young men within six miles of us,47 who are wild48 to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us.—I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox.—Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see any where, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning, and ride over to Stoke,49 and settle with one of them.”