by Jane Austen
It astonished her that Tom’s sisters could be satisfied with remaining in London at such a time—through an illness, which had now, under different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks.17 They might return to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to them, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.18 If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was certainly able to quit London whenever she chose.—It appeared from one of her aunt’s letters, that Julia had offered to return if wanted—but this was all.—It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.
Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well as in her cousins; her attachment to Edmund had been respectable, the most respectable part of her character, her friendship for herself, had at least been blameless.19 Where was either sentiment now? It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on.—It was weeks since she had heard any thing of Miss Crawford or of her other connections in town, except through Mansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not, till they met, and might never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received to revive old, and create some new sensations.
“Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly.20 This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve—and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the distress they are in—and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with,21 and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore intreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but the report is so prevalent, that I confess I cannot help trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days, is most melancholy.22 Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile, and look cunning, but upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life.23 Poor young man!—If he is to die, there will be two poor young men less in the world;24 and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of them.25 It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas,26 but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains.27 It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name.28 With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by return of post,29 judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountain head. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.30 Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the Bertram property, than any other possible ‘Sir.’31 Had the Grants been at home, I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham32 (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins, who live near Bedford Square; but I forgot their name and street.33 Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, because it strikes me, that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up,34 as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose, Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her.35 The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house?36 Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?—Yours ever, Mary.”
Queen Square, in Bloomsbury, near Bedford Square (see this page).
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. VIII (1812), p. 150]
“I had actually began folding my letter, when Henry walked in; but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning, she returns to Wimpole Street today, the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies, because he has been spending a few days at Richmond.37 He does it every spring. Be assured, he cares for nobody but you. At this very moment, he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth, about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good.38 He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to them; and, as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you cannot in conscience (conscientious as you are), keep away, when you have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry’s messages; be satisfied, that the spirit of each and every one is unalterable affection.”39
Fanny’s disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together, would have made her (as she felt), incapable of judging impartially whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself, individually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps, within three days, transported to Mansfield,40 was an image of the greatest felicity—but it would have been a material drawback, to be owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn; the sister’s feelings—the brother’s conduct—her cold-hearted ambition—his thoughtless vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt, perhaps, of Mrs. Rushworth!—She was mortified.41 She had thought better of him. Happily, however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to determine, whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, which settled every thing. Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to her, what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return, was a presumption which hardly any thing would have seemed to justify. She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative.42—“Her uncle, she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin’s illness had continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary, she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she should be felt an incumbrance.”
Her representation of her cousin’s state at this time, was exactly according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent, the hope of every thing she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this she suspected, was all the conquest of prejudice, which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.
Chiswick House, a grand villa near Richmond and Lond
on.
[From J. Alfred Gotch, The English Home from Charles I to George IV (New York, 1918), p. 217]
Chapter Fifteen
As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford’s temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.
On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste and business.1 Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to start2 the probability of its being merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford’s having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission, was giving her ease.3 This was the letter.
“A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it spread into the country.4 Depend upon it there is some mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up—at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment’s etourderie5 thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it—hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing, till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth’s folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them.6 But why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may not repent it.7
“Yours, &c.”
Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford’s apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that any thing unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any impression.
As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.
It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common—and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one.
Very uncomfortable she was and must continue till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth, she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.
The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the morning; but when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel, that the subject was for a moment out of her head.
She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun’s rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy; for sun-shine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town and in the country.8 Here, its power was only a glare, a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sun-shine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust; and her eyes could only wander from the walls marked by her father’s head, to the table cut and knotched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue,9 and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca’s hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation—and wished Rebecca would mend it;10 and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph—“What’s the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?”
A woman with a letter.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. IX (1813), p. 303]
A moment’s recollection enabled her to say, “Rushworth, Sir.”
“And don’t they live in Wimpole Street?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then, there’s the devil to pay among them, that’s all. There, (holding out the paper to her)—much good may such fine11 relations do you. I don’t know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less.12 But by G—— if she belonged to me, I’d give her the rope’s end as long as I could stand over her.13 A little flogging for man and woman too, would be the best way of preventing such things.”14
Fanny read to herself that “it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world, a matrimonial fracas15 in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R. whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of hymen,16 and who had promised to become so brilliant17 a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband’s roof in company with the well known and captivating Mr. C. the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R. and it was not known,18 even to the editor of the newspaper, whither they were gone.”
“It is a mistake, Sir,” said Fanny instantly; “it must be a mistake—it cannot be true—it must mean some other people.”
She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame, she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed—was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.
Mr. Price cared too little about the report, to make her much answer. “It might be all a lie,” he acknowledged; “but so many fine ladies were going to the devil now-a-days that way, that there was no answering for anybody.”19
“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price plaintively, “it would be so very shocking!—If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey?—And it would not be ten minutes work.”
The horror of a mind like Fanny’s, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupifaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil.20 She could not doubt; she dared not indulge a hope of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford’s letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being hushed up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,21 who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who could try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to who were gone—or said to be gone
. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth, it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.
Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed, without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible—when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago, a man professing himself devoted, even engaged, to another—that other her near relation—the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie, all friends, all intimate together!—it was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism,22 to be capable of!—yet her judgment told her it was so. His unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, Maria’s decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either’s side, gave it possibility—Miss Crawford’s letter stampt it a fact.
What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views23 might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford herself—Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself to the simple, indubitable family-misery which must envelope all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother’s sufferings, the father’s—there, she paused. Julia’s, Tom’s, Edmund’s—there, a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas’s parental solicitude, and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund’s upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling,24 made her think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her, that as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.25