Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to hope that none might ever be found.
There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal could hold out.
On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was a continual repetition of, "Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do, perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I think we could not chuse worse."
Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but everything of higher consequence was against it.
"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "We are wasting time most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing more."
For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the Dramatis Person.
The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed-"Lovers' Vows! And why should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."
The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.
"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she. "Here are not women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford."
Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it. "It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her," said he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."
A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the business.
"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must not, indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack would be obliged to run away."
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying, "Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager's wife."
"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."
"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart."
"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry Crawford, "it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_ her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a gentlewoman-a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss Crawford's better claim.
"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably."
Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he, "indeed you must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket."
The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed-but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of provisions-though one might have supposed-but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped-Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again-
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.
A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be necessary-while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.
The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home representation-the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. Finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and the carpenter had taken his measurements, and, with an enlargement of plan, was already at work, while a play was still to seek.
Other preparations were in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton, and had been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was being made into a curtain, and still the play was wanting. Edmund began almost to hope that none might ever be found.
There were, in fact, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there did seem little chance of a decision.
On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite alone, because Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined the same way. They wanted a piece containing very few characters, but every character first-rate, and three principal women.
All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal, and a long et cetera, were dismissed. No piece could be proposed that did not supply a difficulty. "Oh no, that will never do! Let us have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in the play. Anything but that, my dear Tom."
Fanny looked on, amused, and wondering how it would end. She could have wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen a play, but everything of higher consequence was against it.
"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "We are wasting time abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that something is chosen. A few characters too many must not frighten us. We must double them. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you choose to give me, so as it be comic. I condition for nothing more."
For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, trying unsuccessfully to persuade the others that there were some fine tragic parts in it.
The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended when Tom, taking up a volume from the table, suddenly exclaimed-"Lovers' Vows! Why should not Lovers' Vows do for us as well as for the Ravenshaws? What say you? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else wants it. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."
The suggestion was welcome. Everybody was growing weary of indecision. Mr. Yates was particularly pleased: he had been longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant it all in his own room. With the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he now offered his services for the part. Then, remembering that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness for that.
Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Miss Bertram, feeling the interest of an Agatha in the question, decided it by observing to Mr. Yates that his height seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.
"Here are not women enough," said she. "Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford."
Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thought of: his sister wished only to be useful. But Tom Bertram asserted the part of Amelia to be the property of Miss Crawford. "It falls as naturally to her," said he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."
A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, settled the business.
"I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. Indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe. The many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick would be obliged to run away."
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injury to herself: it was a trick; she was slighted, Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress showed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command herself enough to speak, her brother said, "Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia."
"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry part. Your sister do that! It is an insult to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please."
"Why, I mean no disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's wife. If the part is trifling she will have credit in making something of it."
"We must not let her good-nature be imposed on," said Henry Crawford. "We must not allow her to accept the part. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more difficult to act well than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. It requires a gentlewoman-a Julia Bertram. You will undertake it, I hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but while she hesitated, her brother again interposed.
"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only."
Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he. "When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it will suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses you. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket."
Julia wavered; but was he only trying to pacify her, and make her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. He was, perhaps, at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria's face was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed-but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction. With hasty indignation, therefore, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of provisions-though one might have supposed-but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped-Henry Crawford looked rather foolish. Tom Bertram began again-
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of my wanting the character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am not to be Agatha, and I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural girl. I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form." So saying, she walked hastily out of the room, exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who pitied her jealousy.
A short silence followed; but her brother soon returned to business, and was eagerly looking over the play to ascertain what scenery would be necessary-while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice. "I would give up the part to Julia most willingly," said Maria, "but though I shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded she would do it worse."
Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walked off to consult in the room now beginning to be called the Theatre; Miss Bertram resolved to go down to the Parsonage with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.
She took up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to read the play. Her curiosity was awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by astonishment that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to be so totally improper-the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit for any modest woman, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in. She longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.


Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.
Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say, "Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of Fanny."
William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.
Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power of engaging their respect.
Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income.
Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense of such feelings.
Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home, or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed without her.
Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.
Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to herself.
Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them _here_.
The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.
In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.

Could Sir Thomas have seen his niece's feelings, he would not have despaired; for despite a good night's rest, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, home still held many drawbacks. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have been delighted with his own sagacity.
Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, and sailed within four days; and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a hurried way. There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, nothing of all that they had planned. Everything failed, except William's affection. His last words on leaving home were: "Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us."
William was gone: and her home was the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. Her father was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not lack abilities, but he had no curiosity; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.
Her disappointment in her mother was greater: there she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the day of her arrival. Her heart and her time were already full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her sons, especially William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; she was busy without getting on; and dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, or any power of engaging their respect.
Mrs. Price resembled Lady Bertram more than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it. She was naturally indolent, like Lady Bertram; and Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income.
Fanny could not but feel this. She might scruple to use the words, but she must feel that her mother was an ill-judging parent, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself; and no curiosity to know her better.
Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home, and therefore set about working for Sam immediately; and by sewing early and late, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last with more than half his linen ready.
Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in errands; and though spurning the ill-timed though reasonable remonstrances of Susan, he was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's gentle persuasions. She despaired of making the smallest impression on Tom or Charles; they were quite untameable. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house; and she learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.
Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left with the servants, and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Susan's continual disagreements with her mother, her squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were so distressing to Fanny that she feared Susan's disposition must be far from amiable.
Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. The elegance, propriety, harmony, and above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them here.
The incessant noise was, to a delicate temper like Fanny's, the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no raised voice, no tread of violence, was ever heard; everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little irritations of aunt Norris, they were trifling, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present home. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.
At the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to say, that though Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.


Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the agreeable news.
"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.
"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."
"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."
"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. 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."
Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that 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. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced."
"We see things very differently," cried Maria. "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."
"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."
This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "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 you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.-Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.-To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"
"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."
"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"
"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 Mrs. Norris. "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. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the 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 and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea again-she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.
The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do; he must give it up. "But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he added. "We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. 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 either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them."
While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger."
Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance first at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; "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. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."

Miss Crawford accepted the part readily; and when Mr. Rushworth arrived, another character was cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to choose, but recollecting that he had once seen the play, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he decided on the Count.
Miss Bertram approved, for the less he had to learn the better. Though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being finely dressed. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though pretending to despise it; and was too engaged with his own appearance to feel any of the displeasure which Maria had been prepared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who was out all morning, knew anything of it; but when he entered the drawing-room, the buzz of discussion was high, and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with alacrity to tell him the agreeable news.
"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she felt what his sensations must be.
"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his reply, and he turned towards his brother and sisters.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "We find there is nothing that will suit us so well. We have cast almost every part."
"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."
"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with us," replied Edmund, turning away with a look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him. "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a pink satin cloak."
Edmund could not answer. Mr. Bertram was called out of the room by the carpenter, and was accompanied by Mr. Yates and Mr. Rushworth. Edmund then said, "My dear Maria, I must tell you that I think this play exceedingly unfit for private performance. I hope you will give it up. Read the first act aloud to your mother, and see how you can approve it."
"I am perfectly acquainted with the play;" cried Maria, "and with a very few omissions, I see nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman who thinks it fit for private performance."
"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter you must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and show them what true delicacy is."
This picture of her consequence had some effect; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am obliged to you, Edmund; you mean well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon the subject."
"Do you imagine that I meant that? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it. All will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.-Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"
"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it. She might think that she need not be so scrupulous as me. I cannot retract my consent; it is too settled, everybody would be so disappointed; and if we are so fastidious, we shall never act anything."
"I was just going to say the same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "The preparations will be so much money thrown away. I do not know the play; but if there is anything a little too warm it can be easily left out. 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. I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me today. Who should I see but Dick Jackson making off with two bits of deal board in his hand, pilfered you may be sure; I hate such encroaching people as the Jacksons, who get all they can. I said to the boy directly, 'I'll take the boards, Dick, so get you home again.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without a word; and I dare say it will cure him of marauding about the house for a while. I hate such greediness!"
Nobody troubled to answer.
Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother. Maria thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom was less on other topics; 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 after an hour or two, the spirits of the evening gave fresh courage. Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates were seated at the table with the play open before them, when Mr. and Miss Crawford entered and were received with grateful joy.
Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, by the fire.
"I congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for I am sure you must be sick of all our difficulties. The bystanders must be infinitely thankful for a decision; and I give you joy, madam, as well as everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing at Edmund.
Edmund said nothing. After chatting a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party round the table; and seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, pray let me know my fate. 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 melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt.
"I thought I should like the Count best," said Mr Rushworth, "though I do not much relish the finery I am to have."
"You chose 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 surprised," said Miss Crawford, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men."
"I should take the part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. However; I will try what can be done."
"Your brother should take the part," said Mr. Yates.
"I shall not ask him," replied Tom coldly.
Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.
"They do not want me," said she. "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? What is your advice?"
"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."
"I should have no objection," she replied; "though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia; but as they do not choose to hear your advice, 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 would not tempt me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting."
Miss Crawford was silenced. Moving her chair nearer the tea-table, she gave her attention to Mrs. Norris.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, "we want your services."
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand.
"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife."
"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I cannot act."
"But you must. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, not half a dozen speeches, and it will not signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like."
"Why, I have forty-two speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth.
"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find that every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."
"You can act well enough for us. You have only two scenes."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. It would be absolutely impossible for me. I should only disappoint you."
"Phoo! 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 you will be a very proper little old woman."
"Indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, in agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: and it was not merely Tom. His request was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, and Mrs. Norris addressed her in an angry whisper-"What a piece of work about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in such a trifle-so kind as they are to you!"
"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "You see she does not like to act."
"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-very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to show, immediately said, "I do not like my situation: this place is too hot for me." She moved her chair close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them"; and continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. The really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her in Edmund's favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very grateful for her kindness; and when, after talking about her needlework, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she was curious to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man-she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, and answering with more animation than she had intended.
Miss Crawford's attention was called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her, with regret, that he found it impossible to take the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler. "But there will no difficulty in filling it," he added. "We may pick and choose. I could name six young men who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us: Tom Oliver is a clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is a gentlemanlike man, so I will ride over tomorrow, and settle with one of them."
Maria looked apprehensively at Edmund, expecting that he must oppose this enlargement of the plan: but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "I can have no objection to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. Let him be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than a perfect stranger."
Tom repeated his resolution of going to Charles Maddox on the morrow; and though Julia observed sarcastically that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held his peace, and showed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
Miss Crawford said quietly to Fanny, "I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."