‘It does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be — I mean before my uncle went abroad. As wel as I can recol ect, it was always much the same.’
‘I believe you are right, Fanny. The novelty was in our being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks wil give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.’
‘Do you not think the house is better for being quieter?’ asked Fanny. I brought my thoughts back from their pleasant paths.
‘It is certainly a relief to have Yates and Rushworth gone. Miss Crawford we must always miss. She has been so kind to you, Fanny, that it grieves me to be without her company, but I am sure my father wil want more society once he has accustomed himself to being at home.’
Fanny looked dismayed, and I asked her if she were warm enough, for the night was cold, and once I was assured she was comfortable we turned our attention to the night sky. The peace and tranquility of it were balm to my spirit, and Fanny’s spirit blossomed, too. Together we traced the constel ations and did not leave off until a cold wind sprang up and drove us indoors. Once back in my room, my thoughts returned again to Mary. When I think of her, and al the light and liveliness she has brought me, I feel admiration swel ing up inside me, for she has shown me a side of life I never knew existed.
I am serious, too serious, I know it. My responsibilities have made me that way. But when I listen to her . . . watch her . . . talk to her . . . my responsibilities melt away and I feel young, as I ought to.
Monday 24 October
I happened to go past the Parsonage today and encountered Miss Crawford and Mrs. Grant just setting out for a walk. I begged leave to accompany them and before long the three of us were walking along together.
‘What a pity the play came to nothing, after you had al worked so hard on it,’ said Mrs. Grant.
‘We must not be surprised that Sir Thomas wanted his house to himself,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘It was not to be supposed that he would welcome intrusion after his return from such a long absence.’
‘No, indeed. But it is a pity, al the same. I found myself enjoying it and I was looking forward to playing the role of Cottager’s Wife. She was a woman of good sense if not many lines.’ She turned to me. ‘And was your father pleased to be home? It must be a very big change to him, after his year in the Indies.’
‘Yes, indeed, but he is very glad to be back with us, particularly as his business was successful y concluded, for he missed Mansfield and his family.’
‘He found you al in health and looks, which was a blessing, ’ said Miss Crawford.
‘Yes. He commented particularly on Fanny’s improved appearance. He was very glad to find her looking so wel .’
‘She is at an age when improvements are general y to be found. I hope she did not mind him tel ing her so, for she seems almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women are of neglect.’
I smiled at this, for it was true, and when I spoke to Fanny later, I noticed that she blushed again when I referred to my father’s remarks.
‘You must real y begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman,’ I told her.
She looked at the floor in confusion, for she seems to have no idea of it, and yet Fanny is one of the prettiest young women of my acquaintance. Were it not for Miss Crawford, indeed, I believe she would be the prettiest.
Tuesday 25 October
We dined at Sotherton today, and a dul time we had of it. Rushworth talked of his dogs and his sport, Maria seemed out of sorts, and spoke barely two words to anyone. She took no notice of Rushworth and I wondered again if she should be marrying him.
I cannot make her out. Sometimes she seems pleased with him, or to miss him, but sometimes she seems as though she wishes herself far removed from him.
My aunt and Mrs. Rushworth were the only people who seemed to enjoy the evening, and I was glad when it was over.
Wednesday 26 October
I could contain myself no longer. I spoke to my father about Maria’s engagement this morning, tel ing him of my concerns, but he reassured me by saying he had already spoken to her about it.
‘She assures me that she has no desire of breaking the engagement, that she has the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and she has no doubt of her happiness with him,’ he said.
I looked my doubts.
‘Love is not the only reason for marriage, Edmund,’ he said to me seriously, ‘in fact it is sometimes better if a woman is not blinded by love for then she goes into the marriage with a clear mind, and has no unpleasant surprises. Rushworth wil never be a leading character, but he has no vices. Besides, a young woman who does not marry for love is in general more attached to her own home, and Mansfield Park being such an easy distance from Sotherton, it means only that we wil see more of Maria here than we would otherwise.’
I was not comforted by this interview as much as I had expected to be, but if my father is satisfied that Maria wil be happy, and if she herself is stil in favor of the match, then I believe the marriage wil go ahead.
Monday 31 October
Mrs. Rushworth has moved out of Sotherton, in preparation for Maria’s wedding, and has gone, with her maid and her footman, to Bath.
NOVEMBER
Friday 11 November
And so it has happened at last. This morning Maria was married. The wedding went wel , with Maria being in good looks and elegantly dressed, attended by Fanny and Julia. Mama stood with her salts in her hand al the time, whilst my father looked dignified. Dr Grant performed the ceremony with feeling and then it was done.
‘I knew how it would be as soon as I saw her with him for the first time last year,’ said Aunt Norris this evening. ‘ “What a thing it would be for our Maria to marry Mr. Rushworth”, I said, and now, you see, with a little contriving, it has come to pass. How happy Maria looked this morning!
And no wonder. The mistress of Sotherton, with a house in London, and the added felicity of a few weeks in Brighton to enjoy. How lucky she is, to be going to Brighton! And it is just as lovely at this time of year as it is in the summer.’
‘Just so,’ said my father.
‘And how lucky Julia is, to be going with her, for she is sure to enjoy the amusements as much as Maria. And when they have exhausted the novelty of Brighton, they wil have London to look forward to.’
She continued in similar vein until at last she had talked herself to a standstil . A silence fel . There was no Maria at the pianoforte or Julia wandering around the room; no Tom, for he has gone to town, and no Crawford, for he has returned to his estate.
‘How quiet we are without them,’ Mama observed sadly after dinner. She turned to Fanny, who was sewing quietly, her needle flashing as her smal white fingers did their work. ‘Fanny, my dear, put your work aside and come and sit next to me on the sofa.’
Fanny did as she was bid and was soon sitting with Mama, who gave her Pug to hold as a mark of the highest approbation.
Monday 21 November
If my sisters’ departure has done one thing, it has given Fanny more chance of coming forward, and for this I am very glad.
She went into the vil age this morning on an errand and as it happened to come on to rain when she passed the Parsonage she was asked inside. Miss Crawford provided her with dry clothes and then entertained her until the rain ceased. It was just like Mary to be so considerate and I am sure Fanny enjoyed herself immensely.
I have seen little of Mary since the play. Perhaps it is a good thing, as the rehearsal brought forth feelings that should have been left buried, for I have nothing to offer an heiress and it would be fol y for me to think of her except as a dear friend. And yet . . . and yet . . . once I am ordained I wil have a house and an income, and I cannot help remembering her face as she said to me, ‘I’l marry.’
‘I am very glad the rain stopped before too long,’ said Fanny, ‘for Dr Grant thr
eatened to send me home in the carriage otherwise.’
I smiled at her use of the word threatened. Anyone else would have said promised.
‘And why should he not, Fanny? It is only what any gentleman would do for a neighbor. You must learn to think more of yourself, for I assure you, we al think very highly of you. And so Miss Crawford played the harp for you, did she?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘And did you not think her a most superior performer?’ I asked. At which Fanny agreed that Miss Crawford was indeed a superior performer, and before very long we had agreed that she was a superior young woman in every way. Monday 28 November
Fanny’s intimacy at the Parsonage continues and this afternoon, my mother wanting her, I walked to the Parsonage to find her. Mrs. Grant took me out into the shrubbery, where Fanny and Mary were sitting. Their being together was exactly what I wished to see, for they wil do each other good, Fanny by losing some of her shyness, and Miss Crawford by having a friend of sense and intel igence.
‘Wel ,’ said Miss Crawford brightly when she saw me, ‘and do you not scold us for our imprudence in sitting out of doors so late in the year?’
‘I have been too busy with the housekeeping to be alarmed by anything else,’ said Mrs. Grant with a sigh.
Miss Crawford laughed, declaring she would never have any such grievances.
‘There is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may,’ said her sister. ‘And when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shal find you with your vexations, just as I have them in the country.’
‘I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort,’ said Mary. ‘A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.’
‘You intend to be very rich?’ I asked.
‘To be sure. Do not you? Do not we al ?’ she asked.
‘I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may choose her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming,’ I said, my spirits sinking, for she could win the heart of any man she had a mind to, I was sure. ‘My intentions are only not to be poor.’
‘By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and al that,’ she said lightly. ‘I understand you — and a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connexions. What can you want but a decent maintenance?
You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence,’ she went on satirical y. ‘Be honest and poor, by al means, but I shal not envy you; I do not much think I shal even respect you.’ She gave an arch smile. ‘I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich.’
‘Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with,’ I said, answering her in a similarly lighthearted tone. ‘I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is al that I am anxious for your not looking down on.’
‘But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction.’
‘But how may it rise?’ I asked her. ‘How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?’
She thought. ‘You ought to be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.’
‘That is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I believe I must wait til there is an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford,’ I went on more seriously, for she was looking very pretty and I thought that any man who could win her would be fortunate indeed, ‘there are distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance — absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining — but they are of a different character.’
She laughed at me, but it was a laugh of friendship and not derision, so that, despite her words, I felt there was hope. Satisfied, I recol ected that I had come to col ect Fanny, and we made our adieus.
On the way out we were met by Dr Grant, who invited us to dinner tomorrow, and, being grateful to the Grants for taking notice of Fanny, I accepted for both of us. Then Fanny and I walked home together.
Wednesday 30 November
‘I am very glad the Grants thought of inviting you,’ I said to Fanny, when, at twenty past four this afternoon, we went down to the Parsonage in the carriage. ‘I knew how it would be. Now that my sisters are away, our neighbors are starting to realize that you are not a girl any longer, but a young woman, and I am sure more invitations wil fol ow this one. I must look at you, Fanny, and tel you how I like you. As wel as I can tel by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?’ I asked her, for indeed the winter twilight was so dim I could scarcely tel .
‘The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin’s marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity al winter.’
‘A woman can never be too fine while she is al in white. Besides, it is your first dinner invitation, and so it is a special occasion.’
As we passed the stable yard I saw a carriage.
‘Who have they got to meet us?’ I said. I let down the side-glass to have a better look. ‘It is Crawford’s barouche. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shal be very glad to see him.’
Fanny was distinguished as we went in, and she was fussed over in a way that, whilst it confounded her, delighted me. I wil be happy indeed when she can take these little attentions as a matter of course, for then my little Fanny wil have truly grown up and taken her natural place in the world.
Conversation flowed easily, and Crawford entertained us al with tales of his stay in Bath.
‘I am glad to have you back, Henry, my boy,’ said Dr Grant, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes after one of Crawford’s anecdotes. ‘You must stay awhile.’
‘But I have to return to my own estate,’ said Crawford.
‘Nonsense! It can manage without you a little longer. What do you say, Mary?’
‘Yes, Henry, do stay,’ Mary urged, with the most pleasing sisterly affection.
‘I have nothing here . . .’ said Crawford.
‘What does that signify?’ said Dr Grant. ‘You can send for your hunters.’
‘Nothing would be easier,’ I said, thinking how lucky we would be to have another gentleman for company over the winter, especial y one as wel informed, and agreeable to the ladies, as Crawford.
‘And what say you, Miss Price?’ asked Crawford, turning to Fanny. I blessed him for bringing her forward, for she was inclined to be silent, overawed by so much company.
She flushed and said nothing.
‘Do you think this weather wil last?’ he persevered.
‘I cannot say,’ she returned in confusion.
‘Should I send for my hunters?’
‘I real y do not think I can give an opinion,’ she said.
‘Wel , then,’ said Crawford, continuing with the breeding and kindness of a true gentleman, ‘do you think I should stay?’
‘It is not for me to say.’
‘But you would not dislike it?’
‘No,’ she said, when pressed. ‘I should not dislike it.’
‘Then it is settled.’
He smiled at her, and Fanny managed a smal smile in return, and though it was no more than civility demanded I was glad she had managed so much.
My sisters were, of course, mentioned. After dinner, Crawford spoke of Maria’s marriage, saying, ‘Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand?’
Mary drew Fanny into the conversation with quite as much kindness as her bro
ther, saying,
‘Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them.’
‘How we miss them. You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend,’ he said to Fanny. ‘Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part. He might not have sense enough to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honor from al the rest of the party.’
I smiled to see her so wel entertained, and by such an agreeable man. I was about to speak to Mary when Dr Grant claimed my attention.
‘About your living, Edmund,’ he said. ‘You wil be ordained at Christmas, I believe?’
‘Yes, that is so. I wil be going to stay with my friend Owen and we wil be ordained together.’
‘And you wil then come into the living. Wel , it is not a bad living, the one at Thornton Lacey . . .
?’
‘Seven hundred pounds a year.’
‘Just so. Not a bad living. But it could be improved.’
He gave me the benefit of his advice, and once we had finished our discussion, Crawford said, ‘I shal make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shal come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, wil not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Wil not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time — as I shal do — not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We wil provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When wil it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know,’ he said to me, ‘that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.’
‘I shal keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,’ I said with a wry smile, for he would be sure to disconcert me.
The party broke up, and I am persuaded Fanny enjoyed her evening in company, and wil have many more such evenings to come.
Edmund Bertram's Diary Page 12
