by Jane Austen
A woman in morning dress.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. VIII (1812), p. 230]
Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge herself.—Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.
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.6—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,7 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 any thing 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.”
The House of Commons, the most important of the two houses of the British Parliament. The House of Lords, though its members had a higher social status, exercised less political power.
[From Fiona St. Aubyn, Ackermann’s Illustrated London, illustrations by Augustus Pugin and Thomas Rowlandson (Ware, 1985), p. 37]
“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.”8
“I dare say he will be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough,9 but there has been nobody to put him in the way of10 doing any thing yet.”
“Sir Thomas is to achieve 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.’11
I will parody them:
Blest Knight!12 whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Every thing 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 every body 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.”13
“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.”14
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 to15 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.16 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.17 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 fulness of their own minds. They were totally pre-occupied. 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,18 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,19 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.20
The Speaker of the House of Commons.
[From William Pyne, The Costume of Great Britain (London, 1804; 1989 reprint), Plate XXXVI]
Chapter Eighteen
Every thing was now in a regular train;1 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. Every body began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his judgment, a scene painter arrived from town, and was at work,2 much to the increase of the expenses, and what was worse, of the eclat3 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 distresses of m
ost 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 spoilt every thing by laughing, that Edmund was behind-hand4 with his part, and that it was misery to have any thing to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get any body 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,5 that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from him.—So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found every body requiring something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others.—Every body 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.6
Daytime dress.
[From Andrew Tuer, The Follies and Fashions of our Grandfathers (London, 1887), p. 232]
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.7—Maria she also thought acted well—too well;8—and after the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience—sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator—and 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.9 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 any thing 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, mean10-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion.”11
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 any thing 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 forward12 enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes, but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,13 and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kind-heartedness, 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.14
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 needle-work 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 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 part15 to do.—You are best off, I can tell you; but if nobody did more than you, we should not get on very fast.”
Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf,
“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be delighted; it is all new to her, you know,—you and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves—and so am I still;—and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, I mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny, you have never told me?”
“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time.16—It is about Lovers’ Vows.”
“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once.”
“You had better stay17 till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris—“the curtain will be hung in a day or two,—there is very little sense in a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons.”18
The eighteenth-century Bath theater, with curtains festooned at the top and painted scenery at the back.
[From Mowbray Aston Green, The Eighteenth Century Architecture of Bath (Bath, 1904), p. 214]
Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting.—Fanny did not share her aunt’s composure; she thought of the morrow a great deal,—for if the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the first time;—the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was love—a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,19 and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.
She had read, and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private.
The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,20 anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies walking up from the parsonage, made no change in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.
“Am I right?—Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to show herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern.21
“Thank you—I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be so obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by ourselves—against22 the evening, but he is not in the way;23 and if he were, I do not think I could go through it with him, till I have hardened myself a little, for really there is a speech or two—You will be so good, won’t you?”
A woman doing needlework.
[From Mary Augusta Austen-Leigh, Personal Aspects of Jane Austen (New York, 1920), p. 167]