The Annotated Mansfield Park

by Jane Austen

  A ballroom.

  [From John Swarbrick, Robert Adam and his Brothers (New York, 1915), p. 251]

  Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he stood, and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her,14 a general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the subject, than his lady did, soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.

  “Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placid reply. “Chapman helped her dress. I sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out of her head.

  Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying her by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered.—“Ah! ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!” and Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself, in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.15

  Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself, in her intentions to please.16 She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still thought she must be doing so—when she went to her after the two first dances and said, with a significant look, “perhaps you can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow. He says, he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later.17 Now, I must apply to you for information. Pray what is Henry going for?”

  Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

  “Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford laughing, “I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother and talking of you by the way.”

  Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her any thing rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening—but Henry’s attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper-hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening.18 But it was not to be avoided; he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner—and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not un-agreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired, and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after,19 that her indefinite engagement with him was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose. “I am worn out with civility,” said he. “I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.” Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on, that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

  A lady with a fan.

  [From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. X (1813), p. 369]

  The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good; it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards—for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked—and they had been silent—he had reasoned—she had ridiculed—and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise, from the very conviction, that he did suffer.20

  When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas having seen her rather walk than dance down the shortening set,21 breathless and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time, Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

  “Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her and working away his partner’s fan as if for life:22—“how soon she is knocked up!23 Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?”

  “So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution—“it is three o’clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours.”24

  “Well then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can and never mind me.”

  “Oh! William.”

  “What! Did she think of being up before you set off?”

  “Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle, “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time you know, the last morning.”

  A fan of the time.

  [From Alice Morse Earle, Two Centuries of Costume in America (New York, 1903), p. 496]

  “You had better not.—He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half past nine.—Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half past nine?”25

  Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious, “Well, well,” which was permission.

  “Yes, half past nine,” said Crawford to William, as the latter was leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for me.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow.”26

  After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone; he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted, convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself, the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown there was no spirit of murmuring27 within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have any thing take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

  Shortly afterwards, Sir Thomas w
as again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise and, with Mr. Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one moment and no more,”28 to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple, who were still hard at work—and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance,29 feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,30 sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of every thing, that a ball was indeed delightful.

  In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him, that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing her persuadableness.31

  Ball dress.

  [From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. VII (1812), p. 120]

  “The Lady of Branxholm soliciting Deloraine to go for the Magic Book.”

  [From James Merigot, The Amateur’s Portfolio, or the New Drawing Magazine, Vol. II (London, 1815–1816), No. 2, Plate 3]

  Chapter Eleven

  The ball was over—and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

  After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back into the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving perhaps that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William’s plate, might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s.1 She sat and cried con amore2 as her uncle intended, but it was con amore fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

  Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought every thing by William, that was due to him for a whole fortnight.

  It was a heavy,3 melancholy day.—Soon after the second breakfast,4 Edmund bad them good bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,5 and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram—she must talk to somebody of the ball,6 but her aunt had seen so little of what passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of any body’s dress, or any body’s place at supper, but her own. “She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny;7 she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William,8 when he said he was the finest young man in the room; somebody had whispered something to her, she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.” And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications; the rest was only a languid “Yes—yes—very well—did you? did he?—I did not see that—I should not know one from the other.” This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid,9 there was peace and good humour in their little party, though it could not boast much beside.

  The evening was heavy like the day—“I cannot think what is the matter with me!” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed.10 “I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards,—I feel so very stupid.”11

  The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bed-time;12 and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game—“And that makes thirty-one;—four in hand and eight in crib.—You are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal for you?”13 Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy14 in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and every where. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

  A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully, and as the morning afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.

  They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family-meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;15 and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

  “We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming16 eyes, nothing more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for. “And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done.” “Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away I think. I wish they would stay at home.”

  This wish was levelled17 principally at Julia, who had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria;18 and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own good nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Every thing that a considerate parent ought to feel was advanced for her use;19 and every thing that an affectionate mother must feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment, was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”—and at the end of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration, spontaneously observed, “Sir Thomas, I have been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away, we feel the good of it.”

  Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face—she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to her, she is now quite as necessary to us.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently—“and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have her.”

  A cup and saucer.

  [From MacIver Percival, Old English Furniture and its Surroundings (New York, 1920), Plate XIV, no. 4]

  Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here.”

  “And that is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking her to live there—and I am sure she is better off
here—and besides I cannot do without her.”

  The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield,20 had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady at least in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit—one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind, Edmund’s absence was really in its cause and its tendency a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour; and was too much in want of it to derive any thing but irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised any thing more likely to raise his consequence than this week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio,21 confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong—some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred22—it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.