Frederick. Dear mother, compose yourself: [leans her against his breast] now, then, be comforted. How she trembles! She is fainting.
I could not think of Maria embracing Crawford, or he leaning her against his breast, without fearing for my sister’s reputation; to say nothing of her future, for her eagerness to play such a part left me with the disquieting belief that her feelings for Rushworth were far from fixed. My only consolation was that the performance was to be a private one, and that no one beyond our family circle would ever know of it.
I put the book down and returned to Mama, who had been joined by Fanny.
‘This is a bad business, Fanny,’ I said.
She shared my feelings, and it was a relief to me to be able to talk of them with someone who felt the same.
We were soon joined by the Crawfords, who had walked over from the Parsonage. Miss Crawford, ever solicitous for the feelings of others, spoke at once to Mama.
‘I must real y congratulate your ladyship,’ said she, ‘on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of al our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as wel as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament,’ she said, glancing towards Fanny and me.
‘I am glad it is settled on at last,’ said Mama.
Miss Crawford joined the others, but I could tel she had no real taste for the endeavor, and who could blame her, being asked to play the part of such a pert, forward young woman as Amelia?
I could tel there was something on her mind and at last it came out when she asked, ‘Who is to play Anhalt?’
‘I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,’ cried Tom; ‘but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I wil not entirely give it up, however; I wil try what can be done — I wil look it over again.’
Yates suggested I do it, but I could not in al conscience take the part, for that would be to condone the fol y. My father left his daughters and his estate in my care, and I have no intention of handing them back to him ruined when he returns in two months’ time. Miss Crawford soon left the others and joined Fanny and me.
‘They do not want me at al ,’ said she, seating herself. ‘Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you wil be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to you. What shal we do for an Anhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?’
‘My advice is that you change the play,’ I said.
‘I should have no objection, for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if wel supported, that is, if everything went wel , I shal be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not choose to hear your advice at that table, it certainly wil not be taken.’ She fel silent for a moment and then said, ‘If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt, for he is a clergyman, you know.’
‘That circumstance would by no means tempt me,’ I said ungraciously, remembering how she had ridiculed my cal ing. ‘It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chooses the profession itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.’
She fel silent and then moved her chair away.
I was instantly sorry for my il -humor, and feared I had not been polite. Besides, I could not help wondering if her words had been meant as an olive branch. By asking me to play Anhalt, was she not tel ing me that she no longer found the clergy objectionable?
I was about to speak to her when Tom began to urge Fanny to take the part of Cottager’s wife.
‘Me!’ cried Fanny, with a most frightened look. ‘Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act.’
This provoked such an unkind torrent of words from my aunt, saying that Fanny was ungrateful and other such nonsense, that I would have spoken, except that I was for the moment too angry to do so. But I found there was no need, for Miss Crawford glanced at her brother to prevent any further urging from the actors and then pul ed her chair close to Fanny’s so that she could comfort her in the most charming way.
‘You work very neatly,’ she said, looking at Fanny’s needlework. ‘I wish I could work as wel . And it is an excel ent pattern. You would oblige me very much if you would lend it to me.’
Fanny’s tears were blinked back from her eyes and soon turned to smiles when Miss Crawford asked about Wil iam.
‘You are lucky to have such a brother, but I am sure you deserve him. I have quite a curiosity to see him. I imagine him a very fine young man. If you wil take my advice, Miss Price, you wil get his picture drawn before he goes to sea again, it wil be something good for you to keep by you.’
Such kindness could not help but provoke affectionate feelings from me, and, Miss Crawford happening to look up at that moment, her eyes met mine. We smiled. And then Tom cal ed out, ‘I have just been looking at my part again, and can see no way of taking Anhalt as wel as the Butler. I had thought, if I left out a few words here and there, I could make it do, but it is impossible. But there wil not be the smal est difficulty in fil ing it. I could name at this moment at least six young men within six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us. I should not be afraid to trust Charles Maddox. I wil take my horse early tomorrow morning and ride over to Stoke and settle with him.’
Miss Crawford was too wel -mannered to make a complaint but she looked perturbed, and remarked to Fanny, ‘I am not very sanguine as to our play, and I can tel Mr. Maddox that I shal shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together.’
I felt al the wrongness of it, that a lovely young woman like Miss Crawford should be obliged to act such a part, and, even worse, to act it with a stranger. I began to feel that anything would be better than to leave her to such a fate, and to wonder whether I should agree to play the part of Anhalt, after al .
Tuesday 4 October
I could not sleep, and turned the idea of the play over and over in my mind as I lay awake in my bed. Was it best to resist every effort to persuade me to take part in the play and expose Miss Crawford to the indignity of acting with a man she did not know; especial y in such a part, where the scenes were so warm; or should I save her from such a fate by taking the part myself? I was faced with a choice of two evils; and whilst it was the act of a responsible son to do the former, it was the act of a gentleman to do the latter.
I rose early, too restless to lie abed, and went out for a ride, but I was no nearer deciding what to do when I returned, and so I repaired to Fanny’s sitting-room at the top of the house. A tap on the door, a gentle ‘Come in,’ and I was inside the room, feeling better the moment I stepped over the threshold. The geraniums were stil in bloom, their red heads looking bright and cheerful against the white windows, and the transparencies were glowing as the autumn sun shone through them, casting colored light on to the floor. And there was Fanny herself, the best sight of al , looking up from her book with her welcoming smile.
‘Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?’ I asked.
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘I want to consult. I want your opinion.’
‘My opinion?’ she asked in surprise.
‘I do not know what to do.’
I sat down and then stood up again, walking about the room as I laid the matter before her.
‘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. 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. ’<
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‘There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am wel aware that nothing else wil quiet Tom.’
Fanny did not answer me. I knew exactly what she was feeling, for I was feeling it myself.
‘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,’ I said, ‘but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I am sorry for Miss Crawford. But I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against.’
I did not like it myself, but I felt it must be.
‘As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing,’ I said. ‘I have offended them, and they wil not hear me; but when I have put them in good-humor by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smal er circle than they are now in the high road for.’
I could tel she did not like it.
‘Give me your approbation, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it. If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself — and yet — but it is impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings. She never appeared more amiable than in her behavior to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwil .’
‘She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared,’ said Fanny.
‘I knew you would think so,’ I said, much relieved to find she thought as I did. ‘And now, dear Fanny, I wil not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy til I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been ful of this matter al night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shal go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shal be al in high goodhumor at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity.’
I left her to her books and went down to breakfast, where I had the unpleasant task of tel ing Tom and Maria that I would take the part of Anhalt after al . They did not crow too loud, and, as I had hoped, were so pleased at my actions, that they agreed to limit the audience to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants.
After breakfast I walked down to the Parsonage and gave the news there as wel . Miss Crawford’s smiles rewarded me for my troubles and I felt that, after al , I had done the best I could in a difficult situation.
There was one other consolation. Miss Crawford, in the goodness of her heart, persuaded her sister to take the part of Cottager’s Wife, so that Fanny would not be entreated to perform again. My joy was short-lived, for when I returned to the Park I found Maria and Crawford rehearsing their parts so avidly I thought they could not forget their lines if they lived to be ninety. Every time I came upon them, Maria was either embracing Crawford or laying her head on his breast, so that I began to think I should have forbidden the play, sent Yates about his business, and locked Maria in her room until my father returned.
Wednesday 5 October
The house was in chaos this morning. I could not move without fal ing over someone. If it was not Tom, prancing around and saying:
‘There lived a lady in this land,
Whose charms the heart made tingle;
At church she had not given her hand,
And therefore stil was single.’
it was Yates, tel ing Julia she should not have been al owed to sit out, but should have been persuaded to take the part of Amelia, which would have suited her talents admirably; or my aunt, tel ing us she had managed to save half a crown here and half a crown there; or Rushworth, attempting to learn his forty-two speeches and failing miserably to learn even one. Fanny was dragooned by my aunt, who, seeing her with a moment to herself between prompting Rushworth and condoling with Tom over the shortcomings of the scene painter, said,
‘Come, Fanny, 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 til 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 part to do. You are best off, I can tel you: but if nobody did more than you, we should not get on very fast.’
I was about to speak up for Fanny when Mama pleased me greatly by saying, ‘One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be delighted: it is al new to her, you know.’
I blessed her silently and went into the bil iard room to find my script, for I had a great deal to learn.
As soon as I entered I heard Maria and Crawford rehearsing their lines. Maria said, in languishing tones: ‘He talked of love, and promised me marriage. He was the first man who ever spoke to me on such a subject. His flat ery made me vain, and his repeated vows
— Oh! oh! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium til it was too late.’
I was horrified. Fervent caresses! Delirium! And Tom was standing there, listening to them from the side of the room, and encouraging them!
‘Tom, I thought those lines had been cut,’ I said.
‘Why should they be cut?’ he asked, whilst singing: under his breath al the while.
‘Count Cassel wooed this maid so rare,
And in her eye found grace;
And if his purpose was not fair,
It probably was base.’
‘They are far too warm,’ I said.
‘Too warm? Nonsense.’
Maria, meanwhile, was declaiming: ‘His leave of absence expired, he returned to his regiment, depending on my promise, and wel assured of my esteem. As soon as my situation became known—’
‘Her situation!’ I exploded.
‘—I was questioned, and received many severe reproaches: But I refused to confess who was my undoer; and for that obstinacy was turned from the castle.’
‘Be quick with your narrative, or you’l break my heart,’ said Crawford, pressing her hand to his lips in a way I was sure was not in the script.
‘I wil say something if you wil not,’ I said to Tom.
‘Oh, very wel , I suppose those lines could be cut. Maria!’ he cal ed. ‘There is no need to say that about fervent caresses.’
‘But it is one of the most touching lines in the play!’ protested Crawford.
‘It shal not be said in this house,’ I replied, and carried my way.
‘Ah! Count!’ said Tom, as Rushworth entered the room. ‘Just the fel ow I was looking for. Give me my line.’
‘Line? What line?’ said Rushworth.
‘The line that leads into my verses:
‘For ah! the very night before,
No prudent guard upon her,
The Count he gave her oaths a score,
And took in change her honor.’
‘You are out there, Bertram,’ said Rushworth. ‘That comes before the Count enters, and not afterwards.’
‘No, no, before the Count enters I say:
‘Then you, who now lead single lives,
From this sad tale beware;
And do not act as you were wives,
Before you real y are.’
I found my script and left them to their arguing, glad to escape to the garden. It was refreshing to be outside, where I was not surrounded by fal en women, seducers and libertines. I got my part by heart, and though it was not perfectly learnt, at least it was learnt after a fashion.
I returned to the house, where I found my aunt stil at work on the curtains.
‘And when you have finished there, you wil oblige me by running across to my house and fetching my scissors,’ said my aunt to Fanny, as I entered the drawing-room.
‘Send som
eone else,’ I said. ‘I need Fanny.’
And so saying, I rescued her from her needlework and took her into the library, where we had a sensible conversation until dinner-time.
Even our meal could not be eaten in peace, for hardly had we al entered the dining-room than the others began reciting their parts.
‘I’l not keep you in doubt a moment,’ boomed Yates, as we al sat down. ‘You are accused, young man, of being engaged to another woman while you of er marriage to my child.’
‘To only one other woman ? ’ Rushworth replied.
‘What do you mean? ’ Yates declaimed.
‘My meaning is, that when a man is young and rich, has travel ed, and is no personal object of disapprobation, to have made vows but to one woman is an absolute slight upon the rest of the sex.’
I was astonished at his remembering such a long speech, until I noticed he had a copy of the script hidden under the table.
‘Please, let us have no more until we have eaten our dinner, ’ I begged, as the soup was brought in, but I was talking to myself.
‘He talked of love, and promised me marriage,’ said Maria in sepulchral tones.
‘Why should I tremble thus?’ asked Crawford.
It was a very Bedlam.
Mary caught my eye and gave me an understanding smile. Then she said, ‘But we must forgive them, you know, the performance is now so very near. You and I must practice our scenes together tomorrow. We must have them right before we perform.’
I agreed, but only with a nod; for when I thought of the words I must say to her, and she to me, I found I could not speak.
Thursday 13 October
I rose early and went downstairs, where I found Christopher Jackson put ing the finishing touches to the stage. It stretched from one end of the room to the other, and was set to rival the stage at Drury Lane.
‘Master Thomas’s orders,’ said Jackson, when I protested. ‘When I’ve finished with the stage, I’m to see about building the wings.’
I countermanded Tom’s orders and then, over breakfast, I finished learning my lines. I found I was dreading saying them to Mary, and so I repaired to Fanny’s sitting-room, there to gain courage by reading them through with her first. But when I tapped on the door and went in I found, to my surprise, that Mary was already there, bent on the same task. There was surprise; a little awkwardness; then I said, ‘As we are both here, we must rehearse together,’ for it seemed easier to think of reciting our parts if there was a third person present. She was at first reluctant but soon gave way to my entreaties. I handed my script to Fanny, begging her to help us, and to tel us when we went wrong.
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 10