by Jane Austen
While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this—so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.—After a moment’s thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, “As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to any thing that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen?—Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister’s one day, did not he Henry?—A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let him be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger.”
Charles Maddox was to be the man.—Tom repeated his resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance, first at Maria, and then at Edmund, that “the Mansfield Theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly”50—Edmund still held his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
“I am not very sanguine as to our play”—said Miss Crawford in an under voice, to Fanny, after some consideration; “and I can tell Mr. Maddox, that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together.—It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected.”51
Two miniatures of the general period (the first is from the late eighteenth century).
[From Alice Morse Earle, Two Centuries of Costume in America (New York, 1903), pp. 483 and 736]
Chapter Sixteen
It was not in Miss Crawford’s power to talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had passed.—When the evening was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking under her aunt’s unkind reflection and reproach. To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced1 with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time, to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so,—especially with the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of; and Edmund perhaps away—what should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping room ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another apartment,2 more spacious and more meet3 for walking about in, and thinking, and of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It had been their school-room;4 so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later period.5 There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had quitted them.6—The room had then become useless, and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the deficiency of space and accommodation7 in her little chamber above;—but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now generally admitted to be her’s. The East room as it had been called, ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered Fanny’s, almost as decidedly as the white attic;—the smallness of the one making the use of the other so evidently reasonable, that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments, which their own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it;—and Mrs. Norris having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence, seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.
A mantelpiece of the period; people often put decorative items on top or above.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Series Two, Vol. I (1816), p. 542]
The aspect8 was so favourable, that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring, and late autumn morning, to such a willing mind as Fanny’s, and while there was a gleam of sunshine, she hoped not to be driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after any thing unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of thought at hand.—Her plants, her books9—of which she had been a collector, from the first hour of her commanding a shilling10—her writing desk,11 and her works of charity and ingenuity,12 were all within her reach;—or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.—Every thing was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to her—though her motives had been often misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory; her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or what was yet more frequent or more dear—Edmund had been her champion and her friend;—he had supported her cause, or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful—and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonized by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture13 for the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain, had suffered all the ill-usage of children—and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia’s work, too ill done for the drawing-room,14 three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window,15 where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy, and a moonlight lake in Cumberland;16 a collection of family profiles thought unworthy of being anywhere else,17 over the mantlepiece, and by their side and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H. M. S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.18
To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit—to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her own perseverance to remove; she had begun to feel undecided as to what she ought to do; and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for? What might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance,19 had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature—selfishness—and a fear of exposing herself?20 And would Edmund’s judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act, that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples,21 and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged, were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes,22 which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gen
tle “come in,” was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
Silhouettes of Jane Austen’s parents.
[From Emma Austen-Leigh, Jane Austen and Bath (London, 1939), pp. 30 and 36]
“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?” said he.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I want to consult. I want your opinion.”
“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.
“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could; and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner, is highly objectionable, the more than intimacy—the familiarity.23 I cannot think of it with any patience—and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, if possible, be prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?”
“Yes, but what can be done? Your brother is so determined?”
A picturesque view on the river Wye.
[From James Merigot, The Amateur’s Portfolio, or the New Drawing Magazine, Vol. I (London, 1815–1816), No. 6, Plate 3]
“There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.”
Fanny could not answer him.
“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being driven into the appearance of such inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of my joining them now, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?”
“No,” said Fanny, slowly, “not immediately—but——”
“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am, of the mischief that may, of the unpleasantness that must, arise from a young man’s being received in this manner—domesticated among us—authorized to come at all hours—and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To think only of the license which every rehearsal must tend to create.24 It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night, to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps, without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be, it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected. Does not it strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate.”
“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!”
“They will not have much cause of triumph, when they see how infamously I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity25 of the business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing; I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in good humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?”
Derwent Water, one of the leading sites in the Lake District.
[From John Britton, The Beauties of England and Wales, Vol. VIII (London, 1813), p. 38]
“Yes, it will be a great point.”
“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?”
“No, I cannot think of any thing else.”
“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it.”
“Oh! cousin.”
“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself—and yet—But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of any body who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom; the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”
“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,” said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my good will.”
“She was very kind indeed, and I am glad to have her spared.”…
She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.
“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil—but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over; and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. You in the meanwhile will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?26—(opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others). And here are Crabbe’s Tales,27 and the Idler,28 at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great29 book. I admire your little establishment30 exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent. Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.
A young woman distracted while reading.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. XIII (1815), p. 119]
Chapter Seventeen
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer any thing to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.1 Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained; he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well, however, to him on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth,
and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort,” and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise any thing. It was all good humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him, that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis,2 and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.
“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade her.”
“No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.”
“Oh! very well.” And not another word was said: but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already.
There were not fewer smiles at the parsonage than at the park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in her’s, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair, as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.” And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny; at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had with her usual good humour agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted—and this was all that occurred to gladden her heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged, it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund’s decision; she could not acquit his unsteadiness; and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Every body around her was gay and busy, prosperous3 and important, each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates, all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant; she had no share in any thing; she might go or stay, she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think any thing would have been preferable to this.4 Mrs. Grant was of consequence; her good nature had honourable mention—her taste and her time were considered—her presence was wanted—she was sought for and attended,5 and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to her, and that had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.