The Annotated Mansfield Park

by Jane Austen

  They were then to set forward for the dock-yard at once, and the walk would have been conducted (according to Mr. Crawford’s opinion) in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up with them, or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk away from them; and, at any crossing, or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out, “Come, girls—come, Fan—come, Sue20—take care of yourselves—keep a sharp look out,” he would give them his particular attendance.

  British ships of the line, or men-of-war. The one on the left is a two-decker; the one on the right, a three-decker.

  [From A. T. Mahon, The Life of Nelson (Boston, 1897), p. 180]

  Once fairly in the dock-yard, he began to reckon upon some happy intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother lounger21 of Mr. Price’s, who was come to take his daily survey of how things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied in going about together and discussing matters of equal and never-failing interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to look at.22 Fanny was most conveniently in want23 of rest. Crawford could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could have wished her sister away. A quick looking girl of Susan’s age was the very worst third in the world—totally different from Lady Bertram—all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her. He must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better informed and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of; there he had been some time, and every thing there was rising in importance from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given.24 It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large and (he believed) industrious family was at stake.25 He had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing—of meaning to bias him against the deserving26—and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel, that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind.27 He had introduced himself to some tenants, whom he had never seen before;28 he had begun making acquaintance29 with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him.30 This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here, he had been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her, and she was on the point of giving him an approving look when it was all frightened off, by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham,31 a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it, a dearer object than it had ever been yet.

  She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her, and ought not to think of her.

  He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from every body who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

  He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked forward with the hope of spending much, very much of his time there—always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very happy summer and autumn there this year;32 he felt that it would be so; he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last. As animated, as diversified, as social—but with circumstances of superiority undescribable.33

  A cottage.

  [From George Williamson, George Morland: His Life and Works (London, 1907), p. 14]

  “Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,”34 he continued, “what a society will be comprised in those houses!35 And at Michaelmas,36 perhaps, a fourth may be added, some small hunting-box37 in the vicinity of every thing so dear—for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed,38 I hope I foresee two objections, two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.”39

  Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed, could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be quite unpardonable.

  When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her, that he was come down for a couple of days on her account and hers only, and because he could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and yet, in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people’s feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable—so near being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could not offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day—but it was not so very bad as she would have expected; the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!

  Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should have the honour, however, of waiting on40 them again on the morrow, &c. and so they parted—Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an evil!

  To have had him join their family dinner-party and see all their deficiencies would have been dreadful! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s waiting, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint, and pulling every thing about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to, for her often to make a tolerable meal. She was nice41 only from natural delicacy, but he had been brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.42

  A contemporary illustration of a gentleman giving money to the poor.

  [From Joseph Grego, Rowlandson the Caricaturist, Vol. I (London, 1880), p. 316]

  A wealthy lady giving money to
the poor. (The clothing is from a slightly earlier period.)

  [From Malcolm Salaman, Old English Colour Prints (New York, 1909), Plate XI]

  Chapter Eleven

  The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr. Crawford appeared again. He came—not to stop—but to join them; he was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel,1 which was exactly what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.

  The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram’s sister as she was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart—to think of the contrast between them—to think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad2 with a fine family of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.3

  In chapel they were obliged to divide,4 but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

  Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place; there she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.5

  Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long—somehow or other—there was no saying how—Fanny could not have believed it—but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a time—but yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be felt.

  The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March;6 but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute; and every thing looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other, on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with so fine a sound,7 produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours’ saunter of this kind, coming as it generally did upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual, regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth, and but for Mr. Crawford and the beauty of the weather, would soon have been knocked up8 now.

  The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of, to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be.—She said she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortable, and, therefore, could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so much greater.

  “You have been here a month, I think?” said he.

  “No. Not quite a month.—It is only four weeks tomorrow since I left Mansfield.”

  “You are a most accurate9 and honest reckoner. I should call that a month.”

  “I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”

  “And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not it?”

  “Yes.—My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.”

  “And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?”

  “I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to10 stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months’ end.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle every thing for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance, I should think six weeks quite enough.—I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing himself to Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air, and liberty of the country.—If, therefore, (turning again to Fanny) you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield—without waiting for the two months to be ended—that must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong, or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield.11 You know the ease, and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion.”

  A poor man in a cottage.

  [From Sir Walter Gilbey and E. D. Cuming, George Morland: His Life and Works (London, 1907), p. 288]

  Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

  “I am perfectly serious,”—he replied,—“as you perfectly know.—And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.—Indeed, you shall not, it shall not be in your power, for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well.’—and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood,—so long only shall you be considered as well.”

  Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say.—This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.

  “I wish you were not so tired,”—said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house; “I wish I left you in stronger health.—Is there any thing I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison.12—I am sure he still means to impose on13 me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill,14 which I design for somebody else.—I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north, that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.—The mischief15 such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit16 of his employer, and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put every thing at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from.—Maddison is a clever fellow; I do
not wish to displace him—provided he does not try to displace me;17—but it would be simple18 to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me—and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping19 fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already.—Would not it be worse than simple? Shall I go?—Do you advise it?”

  “I advise!—you know very well what is right.”

  “Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right.”

  “Oh, no!—do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.20 Good bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow.”

  “Is there nothing I can do for you in town?”

  “Nothing, I am much obliged to you.”

  “Have you no message for anybody?”

  “My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin—my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that—I suppose I shall soon hear from him.”

  “Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself—”

  He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. He went to while away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that a capital inn afforded,21 was ready for their enjoyment, and she turned in to her more simple one immediately.

  Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father’s house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca’s puddings, and Rebecca’s hashes,22 brought to table as they all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal, till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns.23 After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being24 starved, both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford’s good company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.