Mansfield Park - Jane Austen (read book TXT) 📗

door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

 

“Suppose we turn down here for the present,” said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. “Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.”

 

“Query,” said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, “whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great promise.

Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?”

 

“James,” said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, “I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet.”

 

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance.

All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence.

Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.

It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on.

The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it.

 

“This is insufferably hot,” said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. “Shall any of us object to being comfortable?

Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.

What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is; for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where they like.”

 

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, “So you are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.”

 

“Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor.”

 

“Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.

And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son.”

 

“A very praiseworthy practice,” said Edmund, “but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and being one, must do something for myself.”

 

“But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that

was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him.”

 

“Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?”

 

“Never is a black word. But yes, in the never

of conversation, which means not very often, I do think it. For what is to be done in the church?

Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.

A clergyman is nothing.”

 

“The nothing of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the office nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not to appear.”

 

“You assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend.

One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week?

One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.”

 

“You are speaking of London, I am speaking of the nation at large.”

 

“The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest.”

 

“Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for our best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good; and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case.

The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.

They are known to the largest part only as preachers.

And with regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The manners I speak of might rather be called conduct, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation.”

 

“Certainly,” said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

 

“There,” cried Miss Crawford, “you have quite convinced Miss Price already.”

 

“I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.”

 

“I do not think you ever will,” said she, with an arch smile; “I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind.

It is not too late. Go into the law.”

 

“Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness.”

 

“Now you are going to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have forestalled you.”

 

“You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out.”

 

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful.

Fanny made the first interruption by saying, “I wonder that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while.”

 

“My dear Fanny,” cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his, “how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps,” turning to Miss Crawford, “my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm.”

 

“Thank you, but I am not at all tired.” She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny. “You scarcely touch me,” said he. “You do not make me of any use.

What a difference in the weight of a woman’s arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison.”

 

“I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood.

Do not you think we have?”

 

“Not half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

 

“Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.

We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path.”

 

“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length.”

 

“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak within compass.”

 

“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,”

said Edmund, taking out his watch. “Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?”

 

“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”

 

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of