Jane Austen (Sarah Fanny Malden 1889)/Chapter 7
When Pride and Prejudice came out in 1813, it completed the series of Jane Austen's earlier writings, excepting only Northanger Abbey, which was not then in her hands for publication. The two novels that had already appeared were finished before she was four-and-twenty; those that followed were not begun till she was well over thirty, and I think that, even without the authority of dates, no one could doubt that Mansfield Park, Emma, and Persuasion belong to a later stage of authorship than Sense and Sensibility, or Pride and Prejudice. They are no less brilliant, but they are more matured; the motives and actions of the dramatis personæ are more complex; there is less rapidity in the working out (rapidity is usually a sure sign of youth), and the satire is a little softened; the feelings expressed, too, are more womanly and less girlish. In both the earlier novels the really predominant passion is the love of the sisters for each other; the love-making is gracefully worked out and properly adjusted, but on the lady's side it is left very much to our imagination, and it is scrupulously kept under till the gentleman has revealed his devotion. In each of her three last and greatest novels, Jane Austen has painted for us a woman loving sincerely, and with good cause, but uncertain if her love is returned; in Anne Elliot, the most beautiful of all her creations, it is an old love which has never died out, in the other two it is the first attachment of their youth, worthily bestowed, ripening in the intimacy of years, and moulding their whole natures. Both Fanny Price and Emma Woodhouse are, for a long while, unconscious of their own feelings, the former from shrinking modesty, the latter from her joyous self-confidence; to each the truth is revealed by believing that the man she loves prefers someone else, and both with them and Anne Elliot the anguish of apparently hopeless love is carried to its height by knowing that their rivals are wholly unworthy of the places they seem to have won. At the same time the circumstances are so skilfully arranged that the unfortunate complication is a perfectly natural one, and each of the three heroines suffers in silence till equally natural but unforeseen events bring matters right in the end. In Anne Elliot's case the suffering is increased by her having been induced, long before the story opens, to refuse the man she loved; and she feels, therefore, that she cannot repine if he has, in the course of years, transferred his affections elsewhere; while Emma Woodhouse has the pang of realising that it is through her alone that Mr. Knightley ever met Harriet Smith.
Another difference between these novels and the earlier ones is the complete absence of anything like coquetry of any kind in the three heroines, and also their womanly reticence upon their own love affairs. Elinor and Marianne Dashwood speak freely to one another as such young sisters might do, and Jane and Elizabeth Bennet do the same. Elizabeth, we feel, might have been quite capable of amusing herself in moderation with some of her admirers, but the heroines of Mansfield Park, Emma, and Persuasion are allowed no confidantes, and indulge in no "mere pastime." Emma might be quoted as an exception to this rule; but the exception is only apparent, not real. Anne Elliot and Fanny Price are assailed by unwelcome suitors after they have learnt the state of their own feelings, and it is a subtle touch of nature that the matter is one of unmixed pain to them. All this is unmistakably the finished work of the ripened matured woman writing of what she knows and has seen, not that of the brilliant girl, whose genius enables her to guess with marvellous accuracy at the feelings she knows little of. Another sure mark of maturity is the importance given to the older personages in these stories. There is, indeed, no incompleteness in the delicate touches which portray Mr. Bennet or Mrs. John Dashwood, but they are intended as subordinate to the chief characters; whereas Lady Bertram, Sir Walter Elliot, and Mr. Woodhouse are quite as important to us as their sons and daughters, if not more so, for Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram are more necessary to our enjoyment than Tom or Julia, and we doubt if anyone could make up to us for losing Mrs. Norris or Miss Bates.
Mansfield Park is the ancestral home of the Bertram family, and Sir Thomas Bertram is the worthy, aristocratic, and high-bred, albeit somewhat pompous and formal, owner of the property, which is a very good one. He has two sons, Tom and Edmund, and two daughters, Maria and Julia. Lady Bertram is "a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent." She has two married sisters, Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Price. Mrs. Norris has married a clergyman, to whom Sir Thomas has given the family living of Mansfield, and, as she has a decided "spirit of activity," no children, and nothing particular to do, she finds ample occupation in presiding over other people's affairs, especially in the Bertram family. Mrs. Price's marriage has been unfortunate; she "married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and, by fixing on a lieutenant of marines without education, fortune, or connections, did it very thoroughly." A breach takes place between her and her sisters in consequence; her home is many miles distant from theirs, and no intercourse is kept up, until, after struggling on for eleven years in poverty and difficulty, with a fast-increasing family, and an unemployed husband, she is compelled to apply to her sisters for help.
"The letter was not unproductive; it re-established peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions; Lady Bertram despatched money and baby linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters. Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her, she seemed to be wanting to do more." Upon this she brings forward the proposition on which the story hinges.
"'What if they were among them to undertake the care of the eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing compared with the benevolence of the action.'
"Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly. 'I think we cannot do better,' said she; 'let us send for the child.'
"Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent; he debated and hesitated: it was a serious charge; a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own four children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, &c.; but no sooner had he deliberately begun to state his objections than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.
"'My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, which, indeed, are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing for a child one had, in a manner, taken into one's own hands; and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow but the children of my sisters? and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just—but you know I am a woman of few words and professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give a girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well without further expense to anybody. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of yours, would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into the society of this county under such very favourable circumstances as in all human probability would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons; but do you not know that of all things upon earth that is the least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connection. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I daresay there would be mischief. . . But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister.'
"'There is a great deal of truth in what you say,' replied Sir Thomas; 'and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and that, to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting.'
"'I thoroughly understand you,' cried Mrs. Norris; 'you are everything that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and though I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of bread to give her? My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing. So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister to-morrow, and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, I will engage to get the child to Mansfield; you shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble, you know, I never regard.'"
It is easy to guess after this what Mrs. Norris's share of the undertaking will amount to; but Sir Thomas has not yet learnt to see through his sister-in-law, and the arrangement is carried out as she has planned it, and in the full belief that she will take her fair share in it.
"When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully explained, and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of, 'Where shall the child come to first, sister; to you or to us?' Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was out of the question. Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could fly. If, indeed, he should ever get well of his gouty complaints it would be a different matter; she should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just now poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.
"'Then she had better come to us,' said Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure.
"After a short pause, Sir Thomas added with dignity, 'Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour to do our duty by her; and she will at least have the advantage of companions of her own age and of a regular instructress.'"
Fanny Price is accordingly sent for; and Miss Austen has painted nothing more truly than the sufferings of a sensitive, timid child suddenly removed from home, and plunged into a thoroughly uncongenial atmosphere. No one is unkind to her, but no one understands or shares her feelings; she has no companion among her cousins, and the elders, seeing her quiet and obedient, have no idea of all that she silently suffers. Tom and Edmund Bertram, at sixteen and seventeen, are quite out of their little cousin's reach, and Maria and Julia Bertram, having always been well taught, and accustomed to think much of their own attainments, are full of contempt for a cousin only two years younger than themselves, but far less well-informed. "'Dear mamma, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together—or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia—or she never heard of Asia Minor—or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons. How strange! Did you ever hear anything so stupid?'
"'My dear,' their aunt would reply, 'it is very bad, but you must not expect everyone to be as quick at learning as yourself.'
"'But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant . . . I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long ago is it, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns?'
"'Yes,' added the other, 'and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals, semimetals planets, and distinguished philosophers.'
"'Very true, indeed, my dears; but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all. There is a vast deal of difference in memories as well as in everything else, and, therefore, you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency. And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn.'
"'Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you know she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing?'
"'To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so; for though you know (owing to me) your papa and mamma are so good as to bring her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a difference.'"
Edmund Bertram is the only one of his family in whom Fanny finds a really kind friend. He has all his father's sterling qualities, with much more gentleness and tenderness than Sir Thomas ever shows, and, having surprised Fanny in tears one day, he finds out by degrees how readily she responds to any kindness, and how easily she can be made happy by it. He devotes his leisure time to comforting her under the painful sense of her own deficiencies, and bringing her forward as much as possible, for he has discovered that she is very timid and retiring, but has plenty of ability, and is far more really intellectual in her tastes than his accomplished sisters. He interests himself in her pursuits, devises little pleasures for her, directs her taste in readings and, as a reward for the affection and care he bestows upon her through the next five or six years, he makes her by degrees a very lovable and charming compaion—far more like a sister to him than the highly accomplished Maria or Julia ever can be.
Edmund Bertram himself is an excellent specimen of a cultivated, thoughtful, right-minded young Englishman, not brilliant, but with plenty of sense, thoroughly good and trustworthy. Jane Austen once said of him that he was very far from being what she knew an English gentleman often was; but it is difficult for us to take this view of him, and, indeed, the only weak point in him is his clerical position, which, we must remember, was looked upon very differently then from now.
When Fanny is fifteen, Mr. Norris dies; and Sir Thomas naturally supposes that Mrs. Norris will now take the opportunity of installing Fanny in her home.
But "Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. . . . To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a certainty by carelessly observing, to Mrs. Norris, 'I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer when Fanny goes to live with you.'
"Mrs. Norris almost started. 'Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! What do you mean?'
"'Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir Thomas.'
"'Me? Never! I never spoke a word about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good Heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything, my spirits quite broken down; what could I do with a girl at her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test. Sure, Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing. Sir Thomas is too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it? '
"'Indeed, I do not know, I suppose he thought it best.'
"'But what did he say? He could not say he wished me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.'
"'No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is no incumbrance here.'
"'Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with barely enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed; what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? . . .'
"'Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?'
"'Dear Lady Bertram, what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then I shall hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always have a bed for a friend), but the most part of my future days will be spent in utter seclusion. If I can but make both ends meet, that 's all I ask for.'
"'I hope, sister, things are not so very bad with you neither, considering Sir Thomas says you will have six hundred a year.'
"'Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed to practise economy now. A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris as clergyman of the parish that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House matters must be better looked after. I must live within my income, or I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.'
"'I daresay you will. You always do, don't you?'
"'My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me. It is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody else to care for; but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little trifle among them worth their having.'
"'You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them; they are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.'
"'Why, you know Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.'
"'Oh, that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it, I know.'
"'Well, Lady Bertram,' said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, 'I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to your family; and so if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question; besides that I really should not have a spare room to give her, for I must keep a spare room for a friend.'"
Fanny is therefore left at Mansfield Park, much to her own thankfulness, as well as Mrs. Norris's; and her position there as constant companion to her aunt becomes pretty well defined. Lady Bertram cannot do without someone at hand to help and advise her continually. The Miss Bertrams do not care for the society of their mother, who has never interested herself in any of their pursuits; and, therefore, while they enter into all the society of the county under Mrs. Norris's chaperonage, Fanny spends her hours quietly at home, delighted to be unnoticed and of use.
Just as his children are alt grown up, Sir Thomas Bertram is obliged to go to the West Indies to see about some of his property there; a voyage which, of course, entails an absence of several months, and he is sincerely grieved at having to go, but, unfortunately, his absence is rather a relief than otherwise to his children. With all his warm affection for them, he has never been able to win any of their hearts, except, perhaps, Edmund's. The others feel real relief at his departure, all the more as some new acquaintances have lately appeared, with whom they can now be on terms of unrestrained intimacy.
Henry and Mary Crawford are excellent pictures of the brilliant, worldly, amusing, and quasi clever young people, who are such well-known features of London society, but to the Bertrams they are a novelty; and, as Mary Crawford has twenty thousand pounds, and is quite ready to be fallen in love with by Sir Thomas's eldest son, and Julia Bertram is equally ready to make a conquest of Henry Crawford, matters seem likely to go on very comfortably. Unluckily everything does not quite fit in as it should. Maria Bertram, the eldest daughter, is already engaged to Mr. Rushworth, wealthy, well-born, and very dull, for whom she does not care in the least; and, as she is the handsomer of the two sisters, it amuses Henry Crawford to carry on a flirtation with both, so that neither can say which is preferred; and Mr. Rushworth is kept in a continual state of irritation, while nothing is said or done that could give tangible grounds for jealousy.
Meanwhile Tom Bertram, who is a mere man of pleasure, does not seem specially bewitched by Mary Crawford, and she, on her side, is unaccountably attracted by Edmund Bertram. She has done her best to get rid of whatever heart she had to start with, but she has not wholly succeeded, and now, in spite of his being a younger son, and destined for Holy Orders, and of his not being nearly so polished or complimentary as the men she is accustomed to, his straightforwardness, high principle, and simple admiration for her, fascinate the hardened coquette, and she is on the verge of caring for him as much as she is capable of caring for anyone. The attraction is quite as great on Edmund's side, and this is less wonderful, as Mary Crawford is beautiful, clever, and amusing; his taste cannot always approve of her, but he sets down much that pains him to the account of the society in which she has lived, and the sincere affection between her and her brother makes him believe her capable of real feeling. He makes Fanny his confidante in this—as in everything else—and talks to her constantly about the Crawfords; while Fanny, at first agreeing entirely in his estimate of them, by degrees begins to differ from him, and slowly wakes up to the pain—not yet of suspecting her own feelings for Edmund, but of seeing that she is no longer his first object, and of being unable to agree in his estimate of the Crawfords. She sees more heartlessness in Miss Crawford than Edmund suspects; she perceives more or less of the double game which Edmund is too honourable to dream of, but which Mr. Crawford is playing between the Bertram sisters, and, with increased sufferings she begins to fear that Edmund's hitherto high unswerving standard of right and wrong, is becoming lowered by his admiration for Mary Crawford. It is not the least wonderful that he should be fascinated, for there is an amount of good feeling at times in Mary Crawford that is irresistibly attractive. It has been said that Miss Austen has always more affection for her female characters than her male ones, and I think this is true of the Crawfords; both are worldly, selfish, and untrustworthy, but Henry Crawford has no redeeming points, except his affection for his sister, while we are allowed to feel that Mary has more depth of feeling and that, if earlier in life she had fallen into better hands, she might have been a good and noble woman; Edmund, indeed, believes that she might still become so; Fanny's clearer sight sees that the attempt would be hopeless. The complications thicken when some private theatricals are started at Mansfield Park, ostensibly to while away the time till Sir Thomas returns, but really to amuse Tom Bertram and his friends; and the description of them from first to last is excellent, but too long to quote at length, though the opening difficulties will appeal to all who have ever belonged to an amateur theatrical company.
"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 cœtera 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 choose worse.'"
A play is, however, found at last, and matters would go smoothly, but that the opportunities for lovemaking in the rehearsals are so many, Henry Crawford and Maria Bertram are so unguarded, and Mr. Rushworth and Julia Bertram both so jealous from their different stand-points, that Fanny, who sees it all, is much grieved. "Fanny being always a very courteous listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram spoke so quickly that he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behind-hand with his part; and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: his complaint came before her as well as the rest, and so decided, to her eye, was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from him." The climax of Fanny's distress is attained by seeing Edmund, who, knowing how greatly his father would disapprove of them, had hitherto opposed the theatricals, drawn in to take a part. The reason, he alleges to Fanny and to his own conscience, is that, unless he does so, Tom will invite a complete stranger in to fill the part, which would be highly undesirable; but everyone sees that it is Mary Crawford's influence which has induced him to act contrary to his principles, and everyone, except Fanny, triumphs in secret.
The play, Lover's Vows, is in itself objectionable for such a party as theirs, but everyone seems blind to this; and only Fanny, and, perhaps, Mr. Rushworth, of all the Mansfield Park party is rejoiced when Sir Thomas's unexpected return puts a stop to the theatricals, and makes Tom Bertram and his friends seek amusement elsewhere. Henry Crawford, having amused himself sufficiently with the Bertram sisters, departs also on some visits; and preparations go on for Maria's wedding, though Sir Thomas, who has not met Mr. Rushworth before, is much disappointed in him. . . . He had expected a very different son-in-law, and, beginning to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand her feelings. Little observation was necessary to tell him that indifference was the most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless and cold. She could not—did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her. . . . Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she was repenting. With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her; told her hid fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connection entirely given up if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it; he would act for her, and release her.
"'Maria had a moment's struggle as she listened, and only a moment's; when her father ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness; but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with him. . . .
"'Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give. Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for him, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, for his sake. . . . To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind she was complete, being prepared for matrimony by a hatred of home, restraint and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play."
With the departure of Maria, and Julia, who accompanies her sister, Fanny becomes more than ever the daughter of the house, and, treated with real kindness by everyone but Mrs. Norris, who never can bear to see her established there as an equal. She is very happy in her present life, and when her favourite brother, William, returns from sea, and is invited to stay at the Park, her happiness would be absolutely perfect, but for two circumstances. One is the terms of increasing attachment on which Edmund and Miss Crawford stand; the other is that Mr. Crawford, having returned to the Grants for a fortnight's visit, has, to everyone's amazement, his own included, remained on there as Fanny's declared suitor; he is, in fact, caught in his own trap. To while away dull hours in the country, he had begun what he merely intended as a flirtation with her, but, quite unintentionally, his heartless sport has turned into earnest, and he is now seriously bent upon marrying her. Neither he nor his sister have any doubt of his success, and when, through private influence, he procures William Price's promotion, he feels sure enough of his ground to venture on a proposal which fills Fanny with horror and dismay. Her refusal, though decided, is useless. He applies to Sir Thomas, who, knowing only that he is well-born, rich, clever, and very much in love, warmly takes his side, and a long siege sets in, in which the lover has everyone's influence exerted for him, and Fanny stands alone in her determined rejection. Edmund, Miss Crawford, Sir Thomas, all believe that her refusal is merely from timidity; they are not conscious of the objections to his character, and Fanny keeps her secret so well, though with difficulty, that no one suspects her of having already given her heart elsewhere. Crawford's pursuit is resolute; he even follows her to Portsmouth, where she has gone for a visit to her own family, and puts up with vulgarity and discomfort there for the sake of showing her how much he is in earnest; but after that he is obliged to go to London for a time, and his visit there effects Fanny's deliverance from a most unwelcome suitor.
It is easy to see from what has been already quoted that any intercourse between Maria Rushworth and Henry Crawford would be very dangerous for both, and it is almost impossible for them not to come across each other in London society. When they first meet, Mrs. Rushworth treats her former admirer with repellent coldness, and this instantly wakens his vanity. He determines to soften her into greater kindness, and succeeds only too well, for he has never had any idea how strong her feeling for him had been; and when once it is roused again, she is quite incapable of controlling it. Matters are so evident, that an old friend writes to warn Sir Thomas, who sets off at once for London, but arrives too late; Maria has already left her husband's house with Mr. Crawford, and Julia puts the climax to her father's distress by eloping at the same time with an acquaintance of Tom Bertram, the Mr. Yates who figured so conspicuously in the theatricals.
The first impulse of the whole Bertram family is to turn to Fanny, who is still at Portsmouth, for comfort and sympathy; and she hurries back to Mansfield Park to help and support them through all the days of misery that follow, while Sir Thomas and Edmund are vainly endeavouring to trace and bring back Maria. Tom Bertram is dangerously ill, and there is much anxiety for him; but, deeply as Fanny feels for the whole family, her thoughts turn most constantly to Edmund, with intense longing to know how all this will affect his prospects with Mary Crawford. Sir Thomas is equally anxious on his younger son's account, with the difference that he, seeing Edmund's attachment, and knowing of no objections to Miss Crawford herself, is earnestly desirous for Edmund's success. Fanny's feelings are more mixed.
The relations between Edmund Bertram and Mary Crawford are among the best passages in Mansfield Park, but they are given by such a multiplicity of fine touches that no extracts could do them justice. On her side there is as much attachment as worldliness and vanity have left her capacity for, held in check by a resolution never to become a clergyman's wife, but tempered by a secret conviction that her influence can prevent him from taking orders. This state of feeling produces a cat-and-mouse kind of conduct, to which Edmund submits; first, because he is in love; secondly, because he cannot understand that the sentiments she sometimes expresses are really earnest; and, finally, because he hopes in the power of her better nature to conquer the hardness and levity which he believes are only skin deep.
Miss Crawford, who is in London at the time of the elopement, has lately seemed far more encouraging than before, and asks him now to call upon her. He goes, his thoughts divided between his own hopes and his sympathy for what she must be feeling about her brother; and when he returns to Mansfield Park after the interview, Fanny hears it all. "She had met him, he said, with a serious—certainly a serious—even an agitated air; but, before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him.
"'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?'
"'I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then added,
"'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.'
"So she began. . . . I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the folly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. . . . I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of common discretion, of caution; his going down to Richmond for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a servant; it was the detection, in short—oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her. . . . She went on to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can. . . . 'We must persuade Henry to marry her,' said she, 'and, what with honour and the certainty of having shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp, and, therefore, I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, which is not small, shall all go that way; and, properly supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles we know she would never be admitted, but, with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points now than formerly. What I advise is that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by any officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but, if he gets his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold.'"
The answer that Edmund makes to all this may be imagined, but cannot be given at length; suffice it that his eyes are at length opened, and he bids Mary Crawford farewell in a harangue, which is, perhaps, a shade too sententious, but so genuine in its pain and disgust that all intercourse between the Bertram and Crawford families is ended for ever. He returns to Mansfield Park to recover slowly from the wound he has received, with the help of Fanny's affectionate sympathy; nor is he wholly unavenged, for though Mary Crawford laughed at his "sermon," her heart had been touched by his devotion, and "she was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heirs-apparent, who were at the command of her beauty and her twenty thousand pounds, anyone who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head."
Henry Crawford will not marry Maria Rushworth; and, as Sir Thomas refuses to let her live again at Mansfield Park, Mrs. Norris, to everyone's extreme relief, departs to make a home for Maria elsewhere, which is as unhappy as might be expected. In every other respect matters, by degrees, brighten for the Bertrams. Julia's marriage turns out better than it had any right to do; Tom Bertram recovers and reforms, and Edmund's marriage to Fanny, some years later, completes everyone's happiness.
"With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune or friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort; and, to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been married long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience. On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there, which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long been."
Mansfield Park is lengthy, but this can hardly be considered a blemish, as it was the deliberate intention of the author, and, after all, it is "readable from cover to cover." The only part that could appear to anyone unnecessary is Fanny's visit to her relations at Portsmouth, and no one would wish to lose so good a picture of the home mismanaged by the incapable wife and mother. Henry Crawford's love-making to Fanny is longer than I suspect that gentleman would ever have endured, but it is necessary to allow time for the renewal of his intimacy with Mrs. Rushworth; and it may be intended as a marked proof of Fanny's power over him that he submits to so long a suspense. From first to last Fanny Price is charming, and, seeing how admirably her character is worked out, Mansfield Park cannot be considered too long for art, as it certainly is not too long for enjoyment.