Mansfield Park - Jane Austen (read book TXT) 📗

poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants’ hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants’ dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), ‘I’ll take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.’

The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness—

so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!”

 

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction.

 

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund’s disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford’s animating support, thought the subject better avoided.

Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

 

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy.

 

“Well, how do you go on?” and “What have you settled?”

and “Oh! we can do nothing without you,” followed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting her. “I must really 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 all 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 well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament,” glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund.

 

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed, “My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt?

What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?”

 

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. “Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt.”

 

“I had my choice of the parts,” said Mr. Rushworth; “but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am to have.”

 

“You chose very wisely, I am sure,” replied Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; “Anhalt is a heavy part.”

 

“The Count has two-and-forty speeches,”

returned Mr. Rushworth, “which is no trifle.”

 

“I am not at all surprised,” said Miss Crawford, after a short pause, “at this want of an Anhalt.

Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men.”

 

“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 will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done—I will look it over again.”

 

“Your brother should take the part,” said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. “Do not you think he would?”

 

“I shall not ask him,” replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.

 

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.

 

“They do not want me at all,” said she, seating herself.

“I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches.

Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to you. What shall we do for an Anhalt?

Is it practicable for any of the others to double it?

What is your advice?”

 

“My advice,” said he calmly, “is that you change the play.”

 

“I should have no objection,” she replied; “for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not chuse to hear your advice at that table”

(looking round), “it certainly will not be taken.”

 

Edmund said no more.

 

“If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,” observed the lady archly, after a short pause; “for he is a clergyman, you know.”

 

“That circumstance would by no means tempt me,”

he replied, “for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage.”

 

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

 

“Fanny,” cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, “we want your services”

 

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do.

 

“Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat.

We do not want your present services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager’s wife.”

 

“Me!” cried Fanny, sitting down again 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.”

 

“Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you.

It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at.”

 

“If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,” cried Mr. Rushworth, “what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn.”

 

“It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,”

said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; “but I really cannot act.”

 

“Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us.

Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest.

You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I’ll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I’ll answer for it.”

 

“No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me.

If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you.”

 

“Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You’ll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you.

We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman.”

 

“You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,” cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile.

Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible—“What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort—so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat.”

 

“Do not urge her, madam,” said Edmund. “It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act.

Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us.

Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more.”

 

“I am not going to urge her,” replied Mrs. Norris sharply; “but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her—

very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is.”

 

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, “I do not like my situation: this place is too hot for me,”

and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, “Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them”; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her