Julia and Maria agreed eagerly, whilst Miss Crawford turned a dazzling countenance on him and told him it was an excel ent idea. I was in favor of it, too. Fanny had never been to a bal , and I was pleased that her first experience of such an entertainment would take place at Mansfield, where her shyness would be no handicap and where she would be sure of partners. I secured her hand for the first two dances and made sure Tom would ask her later on. I knew I could rely on Crawford to act the gentleman and ask her as wel , and so he did. Miss Crawford and I danced together, and though we danced ’til late, I would have been happy for the bal to have gone on ’til dawn.
Thursday 22 September
‘By Jove! we are a happy party,’ said Yates at breakfast. ‘Even happier than the party in Cornwal , or at least happier than we were before Ravenshaw suggested we al perform a play. Ecclesford is one of the best houses in England for doing such a thing. What a time we had of it!
The rehearsals were going along splendidly . . .’ he said, with a sigh and a shake of the head.
‘It was a hard case, upon my word,’ said Tom.
‘I do think you are very much to be pitied,’ said Maria.
‘The play we were to have performed was Lovers’ Vows, and I was to have been Count Cassel. A trifling part, and not at al to my taste, and such a one as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderful y. It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and al happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it.’
‘An afterpiece instead of a comedy,’ said Tom. ‘Lovers’ Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. To make you amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager.’
The idea seized the party.
‘Let us be doing something,’ said Crawford. ‘Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us? And for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shal be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice.’
‘We must have a curtain,’ said Tom. ‘A few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough.’
‘Oh, quite enough,’ cried Yates, ‘with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more.’
I was startled, for such an undertaking would involve a great deal of expense at a time when the estate could little afford it, besides taking the carpenter from his regular duties at a time when he could not be spared. But Tom waved my doubts aside and was soon pressing the merits of a comedy, whilst my sisters and Crawford preferred a tragedy.
There was so much argument I began to breathe easily again, for I thought they would argue so much over the play that nothing would come of it after al . But in this I was mistaken, for when we were in the bil iard room this evening, Tom declared it to be the very size and shape for a theatre.
‘If we move the bookcase away from the door in my father’s room, it can be made to open, and as it wil then communicate with our theatre in the bil iard room we can use it as a greenroom.’
‘You are not serious?’ I asked him.
‘Not serious! Never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you in it?’
‘We cannot make free with my father’s room,’ I objected.
‘Why not? What does it matter, when he is not here to see it?’
My thoughts ran to wine stains on the carpet, white rings on the desk — for I believed Yates to be capable of putting a hot cup down on the polished wood — and al the attendant evils of carelessness, but Tom would not listen.
I spoke to him of our reputation and our father’s absence but he only said, ‘Pooh! You take everything too seriously, Edmund. Anyone would think we were going to act three times a week til my father’s return, and invite al the country! And as to my father’s being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shal think our time very wel spent, and so, I am sure, wil he. It is a very anxious period for her.’
As he said this, we looked towards our mother who, sunk back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, ease, and tranquility, was just fal ing into a gentle doze. I could not help giving a wry smile, and Tom had the grace to laugh.
‘By Jove! this won’t do,’ he cried, throwing himself into a chair. ‘To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety — I was unlucky there.’
‘What is the matter?’ she asked, half-roused. ‘I was not asleep.’
‘Oh dear, no, ma’am, nobody suspected you! Wel , Edmund, ’ he continued, ‘but this I wil maintain, that we shal be doing no harm.’
Nothing I could say would sway him; no concern for Maria and Julia’s reputations, for if word of it got out they would be regarded as fast; nor considerations of our father’s wishes, for he would surely not wish us to take such liberties with his house whilst he was away; nor thoughts of the upheaval and expense.
‘I know my father as wel as you do; and I’l take care that his daughters do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I’l take care of the rest of the family,’ he said.
‘Don’t imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself. Don’t act yourself, if you do not like it, but don’t expect to govern everybody else.’
He walked out of the room and I sat down by the fire, feeling exceedingly low, for I was sure one thing would lead to another and I feared that, before long, we would find ourselves embroiled in a major undertaking. And I was responsible, for I had promised my father I would look after affairs in his absence. What would he feel if he returned to find the profits of the estate spent on something so frivolous, when he had just spent two years in Antigua in an effort to mend the family fortunes?
Fanny fol owed me and sat down beside me.
‘Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit them. Your brother’s taste and your sisters’ seem very different, ’ she said.
‘I have no hope there, Fanny,’ I said with a sigh. ‘If they persist in the scheme, they wil find something. I shal speak to my sisters and try to dissuade them, and that is al I can do.’
She agreed that this would be my best choice of conduct. Tomorrow, then, I must try to dissuade my sisters from acting, and hope it puts an end to the scheme. Friday 23 September
I did my best to dissuade Maria and Julia from putting on a play this morning, but they would not listen to me.
‘Of course the estate can bear the expense,’ said Maria.
‘I am persuaded Rushworth would not like you to act,’ I said, trying to sway her.
‘He must learn I have a mind of my own,’ she returned.
Julia was no easier to persuade, for although she thought Maria had better not act, as for herself, there could be no objection to it.
At that very moment Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, cal ing out,
‘No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted into the company, and wil be happy to take the part of any old duenna or tame
confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves.’
Maria looked at me as much as to say, ‘Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford sees no harm in it?’
I was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might wel carry fascination to the mind of genius; and to think that Miss Crawford, as ever, was the most obliging young woman. She, at least, was blameless, for she did not know how my father’s affairs stood, and could not be expected to know that any additional expense, coming at such a time, was very undesirable. My aunt expressed a few reservations when Tom told her of the scheme and I hoped, briefly, that this would dampen his enthusiasm, but he and Maria joined forces and soon talked Aunt Norris out of her objections, and the play became a settled thing. I must now make it my concern to limit the scope of the production so that it does as little harm as possible.
Saturday 24 September
Tom lost no time in cal ing the estate carpenter to the house, despite the fact that Jackson was needed to finish mending the fences blown down in last week’s strong winds. Tom told him to take measurements for a stage.
‘And when you have done, there is a bookcase in my father’s room that needs moving,’ he said. I reminded Jackson about the fence, and bid him see to it as soon as he was free, but if Tom is to continue as he has begun, he is going to make my life very difficult over the weeks to come.
‘And now for the baize. Where are we to get it, Aunt?’ asked Tom.
‘Had you better not wait until you have decided on a play?’ I asked him.
‘Details,’ he said, with a wave of his hand.
‘You must send to Northampton,’ said Aunt Norris. ‘They have quite the finest baize in the county; I saw it there the last time I went. It was of a superior quality, and they had just the shade we are looking for.’
Friday 30 September
The green baize has arrived, my aunt has cut out the curtains and the housemaids are busy sewing them, but no play has as yet been decided upon. At least I have had the fences repaired, for I forbade Christopher Jackson the house until the work was done.
OCTOBER
Monday 3 October
A play has been decided on at last, the worst play imaginable. If I had been there I would have spoken against it, but I was out for the day, and knew nothing about it until I returned just before dinner, when Rushworth told me the news.
‘It is to be Lovers’ Vows. I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak,’ he said. ‘And afterwards I am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shal like it. Bertram is to be Butler, a trifling part, but a comic one, and it is comedy he wants to play. And Crawford is to be Frederick.’
I was dumbstruck. Lovers’ Vows! With al its embracing and clasping to bosoms! The last play my father would want in his house!
‘But what do you do for women?’ I asked, knowing that my sisters could not play the parts, for Agatha was a fal en woman and Amelia was a shameless one.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, ‘I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and . . .’ she lifted her eyes to mine instead of letting them drop to the floor. ‘Miss Crawford is to be Amelia.’
I could not believe it. To condemn Miss Crawford to such a part! It was not worthy of her. And for Maria to play Agatha!
‘I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches,’ said Rushworth. ‘That’s something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shal hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak.’
I could not think how Tom had al owed it. I could say nothing in front of Yates, as his friends had been about to perform it at Ecclesford, but later I remonstrated with Maria.
‘My dear Maria, Lovers’ Vows is exceedingly unfit for private representation, and I hope you wil give it up. I cannot but suppose you wil when you have read it careful y over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. Agatha is a fal en woman. She is seduced by her lover and left with child. You cannot play such a part. You cannot pretend to have been seduced, you cannot speak of fervent caresses, or embrace the man who plays your son, pressing him to your breast. You would not want to do such a thing, especial y not now you are engaged. Only read the play, and it wil not be necessary to send you to your father’s judgment, I am convinced.’
‘We see things very differently,’ said Maria uncomfortably. ‘I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which wil be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation.’
‘You are Miss Bertram. It is you who are to lead. You must set the example.’
I thought her pride would sway her, for she looked as though she was about to give way, but then her face closed and she said, ‘I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very wel , I am sure: but I stil think you see things too strongly; and I real y cannot undertake to harangue al the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would be the greatest indecorum, I think.’
‘Do not act anything improper, my dear,’ said Mama, overhearing a part of our conversation, and rousing herself momentarily. ‘Sir Thomas would not like it.’ But her concern was short-lived, for a moment later she was saying, ‘Fanny, ring the bel ; I must have my dinner.’
‘I am convinced, madam,’ I said to my mother, pressing what smal advantage I had gained from her contribution to the conversation, ‘that Sir Thomas would not like it.’
‘There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?’ said Mama to Maria.
‘If I were to decline the part,’ said Maria, ‘Julia would certainly take it.’
‘Not if she knew your reasons!’ I said.
‘Oh! she might think the difference between us — the difference in our situations — that she need not be so scrupulous as I might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shal never act anything.’
‘I was just going to say the very same thing,’ said my aunt. ‘If every play is to be objected to, you wil act nothing, and the preparations wil be al so much money thrown away, and I am sure that would be a discredit to us al . 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 wil be a good job, however. The maids do their work very wel , and I think we shal be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things.’
And off she went, delighted at having saved the estate half a crown by her careful use of curtain rings, when she had cost it pounds by her excessive use of baize. Dinner passed heavily. The only thing that heartened me was the discovery that Julia had refused to act.
As soon as we returned to the drawing-room, discussion of the play began again. Whilst the others were engaged, I took the opportunity of drawing Tom to one side.
‘I cannot believe you mean to perform Lovers’ Vows,’ I said to him.
‘Why ever not?’ he said. ‘There is nothing wrong with it.’
‘Nothing wrong with having Maria act out the part of a woman who is seduced and left with an il egitimate child? Especial y situated as she is, in a long engagement with Rushworth—’
‘And you think it wil give him ideas? You need not have any fear that he wil seduce her. I doubt if he has it in him,’ said Tom.
‘I wish you would be serious, Tom.’
‘I am perfectly serious.’
‘Very wel then, what wil Rush
worth think of seeing his fiancée perform the speeches and acquire the mannerisms of such a woman?’
‘He wil not pul back, if that is what you are worried about. Listen to him! He is too busy thinking about his pink satin cloak to notice what Maria does. I verily believe it has taken the place of his dogs in his affections, for I have not heard him mention the animals once al day.’
‘If Julia knows it is wrong, and has refused to act—’
Tom laughed. ‘The only reason she refused to act is that she wanted the part of Agatha, and once it went to Maria she refused to take any other. It was il -humor, and not scruples, that prevented her taking part.’
I was dismayed. I felt I had let my father down. He had entrusted his daughters to my care, and what had become of them? Had they turned into the young women he would like them to be?
No, they had turned into creatures who fought over the dubious pleasure of portraying a fal en woman.
‘Besides, Miss Crawford has agreed to it, so how can it be wrong?’ continued Tom.
‘She is a very obliging woman who would agree to anything if it would increase the pleasure of others,’ I said.
But he only laughed and went off to join the others, saying, ‘We must have three scene changes. No, four. . . .’
I retired to the side of the room, where I sat beside Mama and listened to her tales of Pug. By and by, I walked over to the table, where I saw a copy of Lovers’ Vows lying open. I picked it up, hoping I might have misremembered it, but my fears increased as soon as I opened it and read what was written there.
Agatha. I cannot speak, dear son! [Rising and embracing him ] My dear Frederick! The joy is too great . . . I was not prepared . . .
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 9
