by Jane Austen
Grounds with plantations in the distance.
[From C. L. Stieglitz and K. A. Siegel, Descriptions pittoresques de jardins du goût le plus moderns (Leipzig, 1802), Plate IIA]
A contemporary drawing of a chaise with the driver on the horse.
[From John Ashton, Social England under the Regency (London, 1899), p. 350]
“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth’s manners,21 but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one subject—his decided preference of a quiet family-party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish.”
“Yes, indeed,—and the more you know of him, the better you will like him. He is not a shining22 character, but he has a thousand good qualities! and is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for every body considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,’ said Mrs. Grant, the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.’ ”
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.
It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life, to see his steward and his bailiff—to examine and compute23—and, in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations;24 but active and methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard room, and given the scene painter his dismissal, long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.25 The scene painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman’s sponges,26 and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;27 and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of “Lovers’ Vows” in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye.28
Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father’s particularity,29 what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend and his friend’s youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the Baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class, so unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas.30 He was not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.31
The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony.32 Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself,33 and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning—and all the evening too was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton;34 and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate eclaircissement as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage—not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other.35 It was a sad anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house; he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas,36 and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast room,37 where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an under voice, whether there were any plan for resuming the play after the present happy interruption, (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield, at any time required by the party; he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay,38 but if there were any prospect of a renewal of “Lovers’ Vows,” he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through39 every other claim, he should absolutely condition40 with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by his absence.
“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York—wherever I may be,”41 said he, “I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”
It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going—but as to our play, that is all over—entirely at an end (looking significantly at his father). The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow.—I knew how that would be from the first.—It is early for Bath.—You will find nobody there.”
“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”42
“When do you think of going?”
“I may perhaps get as far as Banbury to-day.”43
“Whose stables do you use at Bath?”44 was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness.45
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air?—He was going—and if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.—He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence.46—The hand which had so pressed her’s to his heart!—The hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe.—She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language, which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one.—He was gone—he had touched her hand for the last time,47 he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly48 all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone—gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.49
Julia could rejoice that he was gone.—His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained hi
m not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge.—She did not want exposure to be added to desertion.50—Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.51—She heard it at dinner and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret, and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling, from the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even her activity52 to keep pace with her wishes?
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In his departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest; wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive53 it was every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive.54 Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying—but his good wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the hall door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal of every thing appertaining to the play; he left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might have distressed him. The curtain over which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want55 of green baize.
Milsom Street, one of the leading shopping and residential streets in Bath.
[From J. Alfred Gotch, The English Home from Charles I to George IV (New York, 1918), p. 297]
A pianoforte of the period.
[From Esther Singleton, The Furniture of our Forefathers (New York, 1916), p. 585]
Chapter Three
Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,1 independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their society sent away and the spirits of many others saddened, it was all sameness and gloom, compared with the past; a sombre family-party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas drawing back from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.
Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor could he regret any thing but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,” he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us—they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves, for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves; my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”
“Do you think so?” said Fanny. “In my opinion, my uncle would not like any addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family-circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be; I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more I think than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness. But I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town.2 No young people’s are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home.”
A wedding dress of the period.
[From Elisabeth McClellan, Historic Dress in America, 1800–1870 (Philadelphia, 1910), p. 79]
“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively.—Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”3
“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains me more than many other things have done—but then I am unlike other people I dare say.”
“Why should you dare say that? (smiling)—Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you or any body ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough; and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and the short of the matter. Any body but myself would have made something more of it, and any body but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!4—and your figure5—Nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle’s admiration what is to become of you?6 You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at.—You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”
“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously, “Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more.—You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle.”
“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”7
“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”
“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel.”8
“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day—that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes characters better.—For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands you better than you are understood by the greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define many as accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a fine looking man, with most gentleman-like, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive.9 Could they be much together I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness—and she has talents to value his powers.10 I wish they met more frequently!—I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on his side.”
“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,” said Fanny with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family is so very natural, that she can argue11 nothing from that. After a little while I dare say we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year.”
“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her infancy.12 I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country;13 and November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources,14 her accomplishments, her spirits,15 her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk of something else.
“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”