Edmund Bertram's Diary

OCTOBER

Monday 3 October

A play has been decided on at last, the worst play imaginable. If I had been there I would have spoken against it, but I was out for the day, and knew nothing about it until I returned just before dinner, when Rushworth told me the news.

‘It is to be Lovers’ Vows. I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak,’ he said. ‘And afterwards I am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it. Bertram is to be Butler, a trifling part, but a comic one, and it is comedy he wants to play. And Crawford is to be Frederick.’

I was dumbstruck. Lovers’ Vows! With all its embracing and clasping to bosoms! The last play my father would want in his house!

‘But what do you do for women?’ I asked, knowing that my sisters could not play the parts, for Agatha was a fallen woman and Amelia was a shameless one.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, ‘I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and...’ she lifted her eyes to mine instead of letting them drop to the floor. ‘Miss Crawford is to be Amelia.’

I could not believe it. To condemn Miss Crawford to such a part! It was not worthy of her. And for Maria to play Agatha!

‘I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches,’ said Rushworth. ‘That’s something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak.’

I could not think how Tom had allowed it. I could say nothing in front of Yates, as his friends had been about to perform it at Ecclesford, but later I remonstrated with Maria.

‘My dear Maria, Lovers’ Vows is exceedingly unfit for private representation, and I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you will when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. Agatha is a fallen woman. She is seduced by her lover and left with child. You cannot play such a part. You cannot pretend to have been seduced, you cannot speak of fervent caresses, or embrace the man who plays your son, pressing him to your breast. You would not want to do such a thing, especially not now you are engaged. Only read the play, and it will not be necessary to send you to your father’s judgment, I am convinced.’

‘We see things very differently,’ said Maria uncomfortably. ‘I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation.’

‘You are Miss Bertram. It is you who are to lead. You must set the example.’

I thought her pride would sway her, for she looked as though she was about to give way, but then her face closed and she said, ‘I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would be the greatest indecorum, I think.’

‘Do not act anything improper, my dear,’ said Mama, overhearing a part of our conversation, and rousing herself momentarily. ‘Sir Thomas would not like it.’ But her concern was short-lived, for a moment later she was saying, ‘Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.’

‘I am convinced, madam,’ I said to my mother, pressing what small advantage I had gained from her contribution to the conversation, ‘that Sir Thomas would not like it.’

‘There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?’ said Mama to Maria.

‘If I were to decline the part,’ said Maria, ‘Julia would certainly take it.’

‘Not if she knew your reasons!’ I said.

‘Oh! she might think the difference between us — the difference in our situations — that she need not be so scrupulous as I might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything.’

‘I was just going to say the very same thing,’ said my aunt. ‘If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure that would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day’s work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things.’

And off she went, delighted at having saved the estate half a crown by her careful use of curtain rings, when she had cost it pounds by her excessive use of baize. Dinner passed heavily. The only thing that heartened me was the discovery that Julia had refused to act.

As soon as we returned to the drawing-room, discussion of the play began again. Whilst the others were engaged, I took the opportunity of drawing Tom to one side.

‘I cannot believe you mean to perform Lovers’ Vows,’ I said to him.

‘Why ever not?’ he said. ‘There is nothing wrong with it.’

‘Nothing wrong with having Maria act out the part of a woman who is seduced and left with an illegitimate child? Especially situated as she is, in a long engagement with Rushworth—’

‘And you think it will give him ideas? You need not have any fear that he will seduce her. I doubt if he has it in him,’ said Tom.

‘I wish you would be serious, Tom.’

‘I am perfectly serious.’

‘Very well then, what will Rushworth think of seeing his fiancée perform the speeches and acquire the mannerisms of such a woman?’

‘He will not pull back, if that is what you are worried about. Listen to him! He is too busy thinking about his pink satin cloak to notice what Maria does. I verily believe it has taken the place of his dogs in his affections, for I have not heard him mention the animals once all day.’

‘If Julia knows it is wrong, and has refused to act—’

Tom laughed. ‘The only reason she refused to act is that she wanted the part of Agatha, and once it went to Maria she refused to take any other. It was ill-humor, and not scruples, that prevented her taking part.’

I was dismayed. I felt I had let my father down. He had entrusted his daughters to my care, and what had become of them? Had they turned into the young women he would like them to be?

No, they had turned into creatures who fought over the dubious pleasure of portraying a fallen woman.

‘Besides, Miss Crawford has agreed to it, so how can it be wrong?’ continued Tom.

‘She is a very obliging woman who would agree to anything if it would increase the pleasure of others,’ I said.

But he only laughed and went off to join the others, saying, ‘We must have three scene changes. No, four....’

I retired to the side of the room, where I sat beside Mama and listened to her tales of Pug. By and by, I walked over to the table, where I saw a copy of Lovers’ Vows lying open. I picked it up, hoping I might have misremembered it, but my fears increased as soon as I opened it and read what was written there.

Agatha. I cannot speak, dear son! [Rising and embracing him ] My dear Frederick! The joy is too great... I was not prepared...

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

Yates suggested I do it, but I could not in all conscience take the part, for that would be to condone the folly. 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 all,’ said she, seating herself. ‘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 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 well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not choose to hear your advice at that table, it certainly will not be taken.’ She fell 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 calling. ‘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 fell silent and then moved her chair away.

I was instantly sorry for my ill-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 telling 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 pulled 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 well. And it is an excellent 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 William.

‘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 will take my advice, Miss Price, you will get his picture drawn before he goes to sea again, it will 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 called out, ‘I have just been looking at my part again, and can see no way of taking Anhalt as well 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 will not be the smallest difficulty in filling 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 will take my horse early tomorrow morning and ride over to Stoke and settle with him.’

Miss Crawford was too well-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 tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together.’

I felt all 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 all.

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; especially 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 still 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 all, 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. ’

‘There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will 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 will 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 smaller circle than they are now in the high road for.’

I could tell 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 goodwill.’

‘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 will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good humor 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 telling Tom and Maria that I would take the part of Anhalt after all. 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 well. Miss Crawford’s smiles rewarded me for my troubles and I felt that, after all, 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 falling 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 still was single.’

it was Yates, telling Julia she should not have been allowed to sit out, but should have been persuaded to take the part of Amelia, which would have suited her talents admirably; or my aunt, telling 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 till 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 tell 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 all new to her, you know.’

I blessed her silently and went into the billiard 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 flattery 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 till 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 all 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 well 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’ll break my heart,’ said Crawford, pressing her hand to his lips in a way I was sure was not in the script.

‘I will say something if you will not,’ I said to Tom.

‘Oh, very well, I suppose those lines could be cut. Maria!’ he called. ‘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 shall not be said in this house,’ I replied, and carried my way.

‘Ah! Count!’ said Tom, as Rushworth entered the room. ‘Just the fellow 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 really 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 fallen 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 still at work on the curtains.

‘And when you have finished there, you will oblige me by running across to my house and fetching my scissors,’ said my aunt to Fanny, as I entered the drawing-room.

‘Send someone 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 all entered the dining-room than the others began reciting their parts.

‘I’ll not keep you in doubt a moment,’ boomed Yates, as we all sat down. ‘You are accused, young man, of being engaged to another woman while you offer 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 travelled, 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 putting 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 tell us when we went wrong.

Mary began nervously, for the part of Amelia was not an easy one for her: to pretend to be a young girl who was being persuaded into marrying a man she did not love by her father, when all the time her heart belonged to my character, a lowly clergyman.

‘Ah! good morning, my dear Sir; Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say; I beg pardon,’ said Mary to me.

‘Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim; I don’t dislike to hear you call me as you did,’ I said, rather stiffly.

‘In earnest?’ she asked, looking up at me.

‘Really,’ I said, more tenderly. ‘You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, still?’

‘No,’ she said, with a heartrending sigh. ‘I have left of crying for her.’

‘I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour; but I wait upon you by the commands of your father.’

‘You are welcome at all hours,’ she said. ‘My father has more than once told me that he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest benefactor.’ She looked down shyly.

‘And my heart tells me the same.’

Was there more to her words than a performance of the play? Did she think I was the man who could form her mind? And did she want me to be that man? Did her heart tell her that it was so?

‘I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me,’ I said, and to my surprise, I found myself wanting to take her hand.

‘When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be too grateful,’ she said, with a speaking look.

I thought of the trouble she had given me, and thought how well our lives matched the play; and how strange it was that Tom should have chosen it; and that it was perhaps not such a bad thing that he had.

‘Oh! Heavens!’ I said.

Fanny said gently, ‘That bit is to yourself.’

‘Oh? Is it? Thank you, Fanny.’ I turned aside, and said the words as she directed.

‘I — I come from your father with a commission,’ I said. ‘If you please, we will sit down.’ I looked about me for a chair. I found one and Mary found another. We both sat down, I nervously, and Mary very elegantly, arranging her skirts gracefully about her. ‘Count Cassel is arrived.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

‘And do you know for what reason?’

She looked at me with liquid eyes; eyes that were as transparent as the sunlight.

‘He wishes to marry me,’ she said.

I could not blame him. At that moment, I believe any man alive would have wished to marry her.

‘Does he?’ Fanny prompted me, when I did not speak.

‘Does he?’ I asked hastily. ‘But believe me, your father... the Baron will not persuade you. No, I am sure he will not.’

‘I know that,’ she said, with downcast eyes.

‘He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination—’

‘For the Count, or for matrimony do you mean?’

‘For matrimony,’ I said, finding myself growing hot, and, glancing at the grate, being surprised to see that there was no fire.

‘All things...’ whispered Fanny.

‘Thank you, Fanny,’ said Mary, then continued with her lines. ‘All things that I don’t know, and don’t understand, are quite indifferent to me.’

‘For that very reason I am sent to you to explain the good and the bad of which matrimony is composed.’

As I said it, I found my eyes meeting hers, and something passed between us.

‘Then... then I beg first to be acquainted with the good,’ she said.

‘When two sympathetic hearts...’ I swallowed. ‘When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life. When such a wedded pair find thorns in their path, each will be eager, for the sake of the other, to tear them from the root. Where they have to mount hills, or wind a labyrinth, the most experienced will lead the way, and be a guide to his companion. Patience and love will accompany them in their journey, while melancholy and discord they leave far behind. Hand in hand they pass on from morning till evening, through their summer’s day, till the night of age draws on, and the sleep of death overtakes the one. The other, weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he shall meet his still surviving partner, among trees and flowers which themselves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure.’

She looked deep into my eyes and said, ‘You may tell my father — I’ll marry.’

She rose from her chair and I wondered if her look, her tone and her meaning could be for me. Would she marry me?

I wished there was no more to be said, but Fanny, faithful prompter that she was, reminded me of my next line.

‘This picture is pleasing,’ I said, ‘but I must beg you not to forget that there is another on the same subject. When convenience, and fair appearance joined to folly and ill-humor, forge the fetters of matrimony, they gall with their weight the married pair.’

‘Discontented...’ said Fanny.

‘Discontented with each other,’ I went on, ‘at variance in opinions — their mutual aversion increases with the years they live together. They contend most, where they should most unite; torment, where they should most soothe. In this rugged way, choked with the weeds of suspicion, jealousy, anger, and hatred, they take their daily journey, till one of these also sleep in death. The other then lifts up his dejected head, and calls out in acclamations of joy — Oh, liberty! dear liberty!’

Mary’s face had fallen, and there seemed something more in her look than could be explained by the play. There was something in her eye that reminded me of a caged bird.

‘I will not marry,’ she said.

‘You mean to say, you will not fall in love,’ I said, moving closer to her.

‘Oh no!’ She looked abashed, then said with great sweetness and simplicity, ‘I am in love.’

‘Are in love!’ How I wished it could be so.

‘And with...’ Fanny said.

‘And with the Count? ’ I asked.

‘I wish I was.’

‘Why so? ’ I asked her tenderly.

‘Because he would, perhaps, love me again.’

‘Who is there that would not? ’ I asked, bending closer.

She leaned in towards me and said, ‘Would you? ’

I forgot my lines, and fell silent.

‘Ay, I see how it is,’ she went on. ‘You have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony”: I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”; with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “O liberty, dear liberty.” ’

‘Why do you force from me, what it is villainous to own?’ I cried. ‘I love you more than life. Oh, Amelia! had we lived in those golden times, which the poet’s picture, no one but you.’

No one but you. That is what I thought as I looked at her, with her eyes so bright. No one but you.

She seemed to feel it, too, for she could not go on until Fanny prompted her, and then made but an indifferent effort at the rest of the scene. My own efforts were no better, for I could think only, No one but you.

Fanny was kind. She said that, although we had missed some lines, our performance did us credit, and I found myself looking forward to a repetition of it when we should rehearse with the others in the evening.

The evening, however, brought a blow. Dr Grant was ill. It was not serious, but Mrs. Grant had to remain at home, which left us without a Cottager’s Wife. Everyone looked to Fanny, for we could not rehearse without Cottager’s Wife.

‘If Miss Price would read the part?’ said Yates.

‘Certainly, you would only have to read it, Fanny,’ said Crawford. ‘You would not need to act at all.’

‘And I do believe she can say every word of it,’ added Maria encouragingly, ‘for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part.’

Fanny was sweet and obliging, and although she did not like to act, she took the part so that the rehearsal might go ahead. I knew what it had cost her, and I thanked her for it warmly, and then it was time to begin.

Maria had got her lines by heart and needed no prompting. Crawford, too, knew his part well, and imbued it with a great deal of feeling, his voice carrying around the room. We had just got to the part where he seized Maria’s hand when the door was thrown open and we all turned towards it in surprise.

Julia stood there, with a face all aghast, exclaiming, ‘My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment.’

We looked at each other in stunned amazement! Our father? But he was not due back for another month! Then Tom, Maria, Julia and I, recovering ourselves, went to pay our respects to him in the drawing-room. And there he was, looking thinner, and burned by the sun, and tired after his journey, but pleased to be home.

We had hardly all greeted each other when he said, ‘But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?’ in such a kindly way that I loved him all the more. His stateliness had sometimes frightened her in the past, but his mood was so affectionate that I knew his notice would delight her.

Fanny stepped forward, and he embraced her, saying how much she had grown, and taking her over to the light so that he might see her better.

‘I have no need to ask after your health, for I have never seen you more blooming,’ he said.

‘And how are your family?’

‘Well, sir, I thank you.’

‘And how is William?’

‘He is well, sir.’

‘Has he been made Captain?’ he asked her with a smile.

‘No, sir,’ she said, adding, ‘not yet.’

He laughed, glad to see her so bold, for she did not have the courage to say two words to him before he went away.

He bade us all sit by the fire and then told us of his adventures: his perils on the voyage, with storms and calms, and his business in Antigua, which had at last prospered. He broke off now and then to say how lucky he was to find us all at home.

‘You must have something to eat, Sir Thomas,’ said my aunt. ‘I will ring for some dinner at once.’

‘No, no, I do not want to eat. I will wait for the tea to be brought in.’

‘And how was your passage to England, sir?’ asked Tom.

‘Ah, now that was not such plain sailing,’ he said. ‘We had any number of storms, but worse was to come. We saw a sail on the horizon, and suddenly the ship sprang into action, for she was a French privateer. As she drew closer... ’

‘Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea,’ broke in my aunt. ‘Do have a basin of soup.’

‘Still the same anxiety for everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,’ said my father indulgently.

‘But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.’

Mama rang for tea directly, and my father continued with his tale.

‘We could see her colors, and it looked for a moment as though we might not outrun her, but then the wind filled our sails and off we sped, leaving her behind us.’

‘But how are you with us so soon?’ Mama asked.

‘I came directly from Liverpool. I had an opportunity of sailing in a private vessel, rather than waiting for the packet, for I saw one of my old friends in Liverpool who offered me passage on his yacht — and what a remarkable piece of good fortune it was to find you all there!’ he said again, smiling at us all.

‘It could not be too soon for me,’ said Mama, watching him with love. He looked around. ‘How glad I am to find you all here, for I have come among you unexpectedly, and much sooner than looked for. And how lucky to find you here, too, Rushworth, ’ he said, for he did not forget Maria’s fiancé.

‘How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas?’ said Mama. ‘They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.’

‘Indeed! and what have you been acting?’

‘Oh! They will tell you all about it.’

‘The all will soon be told,’ cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; ‘but it is not worthwhile to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it tomorrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the third. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting anything since.’

Tea was brought in, but afterwards, my father would not be still, and said he would just go on a tour of the house. As soon as he left the room I knew something must be done. Tom went after Yates and I imagined my father’s face when he found his own room was no longer recognizable, with an air of confusion in the furniture, the removal of the bookcase, and the door leading through to the theatre. And what a theatre! Not the discreet affair I had hoped to encourage, but, under Tom’s fresh orders, an extravagant construction of timber, with stage and wings and scenery, complete with festooned curtains in yards of green baize. It was not long before my father, Tom and Yates returned to the drawing-room. My father’s good breeding prevented him from saying anything very much, though I could tell he was put out. Yates, entirely misjudging my father’s silence, would not let the matter go, however, and rattled on about the play in a most ill-conceived manner. As he spelt out the history of the affair, I felt my father’s eyes on me, as if to say, ‘On your good sense, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?’

I felt anew all the impropriety of having spent his money and used his house in such a way in his absence.

The conversation turned to the Crawfords and Tom pronounced Henry to be a most pleasant, gentlemanlike man, with Mary being a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl.

‘I do not say he is not gentlemanlike, considering,’ burst out Rushworth, surprising us all; ‘but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man. If I must say what I think, in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing.’

It seemed he had noticed Maria and Crawford’s behavior after all, though why he had not said something at the time I could not imagine.

‘I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same,’ said my father. After which, mercifully, the evening came to an end.

I was glad to return to my room, my mind in a whirl with the events of the day. Mary — what did her looks, her smiles, mean, as she spoke to me of love and marriage?

My father — what must he think of me for using his house so ill in his absence?

I could not sleep — I still cannot. First thing in the morning I must go to my father and explain the whole, for until I have apologized I will not be easy.

Friday 14 October

I am relieved that it is over, and that I have told my father how sorry I am for letting things get so out of hand. He was forbearing and shook hands with me, and I thought how lucky I was to have such a father. He gave instructions for Christopher Jackson to dismantle the theatre this morning, and he dismissed the scene painter. When the latter had gone we discovered how careless he had been, for he had spilt quantities of paint and had spoilt the floor. My father looked grave, but said only that he would see to its restoration, and that, all in all, he was lucky it was no worse.

This afternoon proved happier than the morning. Having seen his steward and his bailiff, and having walked in the gardens and nearest plantations, my father called me to him and congratulated me on what I had done. ‘It has all been well cared for. I could not have wished the estate in better hands,’ he said.

Rushworth returned to Sotherton first thing, leaving Maria restless, and at last the house is beginning to return to normal.

Wednesday 19 October

The Crawfords were once more with us today, and I could not help thinking how different our meeting was from the last one. Maria blanched when Crawford announced his intention of leaving the neighborhood, but I thought it no bad thing as, perhaps, he and Maria had become rather too friendly of late.

Thursday 20 October

Yates left this morning. My father walked him to the door and wished him a pleasant journey. I believe he was glad to see him go, for Yates is just the trifling, silly sort of fellow my father does not like. Indeed, I believe Julia is the only one of our party who will miss him, for she spent a great deal of time with him when he was here; perhaps more than was wise, considering that my father would never welcome him as a suitor. But she is young, and she will soon forget him. My aunt soon followed Yates out of the door, carrying a parcel.

‘I will not inconvenience you by making you dispose of the green baize curtains,’ she said to my father. ‘I will dispose of them somehow; indeed I believe I could use a pair of green baize curtains in my own home.’

Friday 21 October

The house seemed quiet today, for with Yates and Crawford gone, and the Grants excluded — my father not wishing to meet new people just at the moment — we were reduced only to ourselves. I did not regret Yates, but I regretted the Grants, and with them the Crawfords. I said as much to Fanny as we went outside for our stargazing.

‘The Grants have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves.’

‘It does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be — I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same.’

‘I believe you are right, Fanny. The novelty was in our being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.’

‘Do you not think the house is better for being quieter?’ asked Fanny. I brought my thoughts back from their pleasant paths.

‘It is certainly a relief to have Yates and Rushworth gone. Miss Crawford we must always miss. She has been so kind to you, Fanny, that it grieves me to be without her company, but I am sure my father will want more society once he has accustomed himself to being at home.’

Fanny looked dismayed, and I asked her if she were warm enough, for the night was cold, and once I was assured she was comfortable we turned our attention to the night sky. The peace and tranquility of it were balm to my spirit, and Fanny’s spirit blossomed, too. Together we traced the constellations and did not leave off until a cold wind sprang up and drove us indoors. Once back in my room, my thoughts returned again to Mary. When I think of her, and all the light and liveliness she has brought me, I feel admiration swelling up inside me, for she has shown me a side of life I never knew existed.

I am serious, too serious, I know it. My responsibilities have made me that way. But when I listen to her... watch her... talk to her... my responsibilities melt away and I feel young, as I ought to.

Monday 24 October

I happened to go past the Parsonage today and encountered Miss Crawford and Mrs. Grant just setting out for a walk. I begged leave to accompany them and before long the three of us were walking along together.

‘What a pity the play came to nothing, after you had all worked so hard on it,’ said Mrs. Grant.

‘We must not be surprised that Sir Thomas wanted his house to himself,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘It was not to be supposed that he would welcome intrusion after his return from such a long absence.’

‘No, indeed. But it is a pity, all the same. I found myself enjoying it and I was looking forward to playing the role of Cottager’s Wife. She was a woman of good sense if not many lines.’ She turned to me. ‘And was your father pleased to be home? It must be a very big change to him, after his year in the Indies.’

‘Yes, indeed, but he is very glad to be back with us, particularly as his business was successfully concluded, for he missed Mansfield and his family.’

‘He found you all in health and looks, which was a blessing, ’ said Miss Crawford.

‘Yes. He commented particularly on Fanny’s improved appearance. He was very glad to find her looking so well.’

‘She is at an age when improvements are generally to be found. I hope she did not mind him telling her so, for she seems almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women are of neglect.’

I smiled at this, for it was true, and when I spoke to Fanny later, I noticed that she blushed again when I referred to my father’s remarks.

‘You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman,’ I told her.

She looked at the floor in confusion, for she seems to have no idea of it, and yet Fanny is one of the prettiest young women of my acquaintance. Were it not for Miss Crawford, indeed, I believe she would be the prettiest.

Tuesday 25 October

We dined at Sotherton today, and a dull time we had of it. Rushworth talked of his dogs and his sport, Maria seemed out of sorts, and spoke barely two words to anyone. She took no notice of Rushworth and I wondered again if she should be marrying him.

I cannot make her out. Sometimes she seems pleased with him, or to miss him, but sometimes she seems as though she wishes herself far removed from him.

My aunt and Mrs. Rushworth were the only people who seemed to enjoy the evening, and I was glad when it was over.

Wednesday 26 October

I could contain myself no longer. I spoke to my father about Maria’s engagement this morning, telling him of my concerns, but he reassured me by saying he had already spoken to her about it.

‘She assures me that she has no desire of breaking the engagement, that she has the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and she has no doubt of her happiness with him,’ he said.

I looked my doubts.

‘Love is not the only reason for marriage, Edmund,’ he said to me seriously, ‘in fact it is sometimes better if a woman is not blinded by love for then she goes into the marriage with a clear mind, and has no unpleasant surprises. Rushworth will never be a leading character, but he has no vices. Besides, a young woman who does not marry for love is in general more attached to her own home, and Mansfield Park being such an easy distance from Sotherton, it means only that we will see more of Maria here than we would otherwise.’

I was not comforted by this interview as much as I had expected to be, but if my father is satisfied that Maria will be happy, and if she herself is still in favor of the match, then I believe the marriage will go ahead.

Monday 31 October

Mrs. Rushworth has moved out of Sotherton, in preparation for Maria’s wedding, and has gone, with her maid and her footman, to Bath.