Jane Austen's Mansfield Park: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

The little girl made her long journey in safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris.

  Fanny Price was just ten years old, and though there might not be much in her appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small for her age, with no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty.

  Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas tried to be conciliating: but he had to work against his gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, by the mere aid of a good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the two.

  The young people were all at home, and received Fanny with much good humour, at least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father. But, their confidence increasing from their cousin's want of it, they were soon able to take a survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference.

  They were a remarkably fine family, the sons well-looking, the daughters handsome, and all of them well-grown for their age, which produced a striking difference between the cousins; no one would have supposed the girls so close in age as they really were. There were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was twelve, and Maria a year older.

  The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude which it ought to produce, and her misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, was not trifling. She could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls of gooseberry tart before tears interrupted her, and she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

  "This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the room. "After all that I said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better. I hope there may not be a little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its faults, it was her home."

  It required a long time, however, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park. Her feelings were very acute, and not properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure her comfort.

  The Miss Bertrams were allowed a holiday the next day, to give them leisure for getting acquainted with their young cousin. However, having found that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French, they made her a generous present of some of their least valued toys, and left her to herself.

  Fanny, whether in the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's scoldings. Her elder cousins abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes. When to these sorrows was added the memory of the brothers and sisters among whom she had been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.

  The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large: whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror, often retreating to her own chamber to cry; and ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.

  A week had passed in this way, with no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

  "My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?" And sitting down by her, he was at great pains to persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he could explain?

  For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a "no, no—not at all"; but he persevered; and no sooner had he mentioned her own home, than her sobs explained where the grievance lay. He tried to console her.

  "You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny," said he, "which shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me about your brothers and sisters."

  On doing this, he found that there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most, and wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her constant friend. "William did not like she should come away; he had told her he should miss her very much." "But William will write to you, I dare say." "Yes, but he had told her to write first." "And when shall you do it?" She hung her head and answered hesitatingly, "she had not any paper."

  "If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper, and you may write your letter whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?"

  "Yes, very."

  "Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall find everything there."

  "But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

  "Yes, it shall go with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing."

  "My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

  "Yes, I will take it to my father to frank."

  Fanny offered no further resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could have felt, and probably with more exactness. He stayed to assist her; and showed a kindness to her brother which delighted her. He wrote with his own hand his love to cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's countenance and artless words fully conveyed all her gratitude, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a desire of doing right; and perceiving her great timidity, he gave her much good advice as to playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible.

  From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the people less formidable. She was no longer afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice startle her so much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Their pleasures were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging temper; and they owned that "Fanny was good-natured enough."

  Edmund was uniformly kind; and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberality of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her.

  As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was soon decided that, though far from clever, she was tractable, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A poor opinion of Fanny’s abilities was not confined to them. As her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously s
tupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it.

  "Dear mama, only think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together—or tell the principal rivers in Russia—she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!—Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

  "My dear," their considerate aunt Norris would reply, "it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as quick at learning as yourself."

  "But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!—Do you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She calls it the Island, as if there were no other island in the world. I cannot remember the time when I did not know much more than her. How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the order of the kings of England, with their dates!"

  "Yes," added the other; "and the Roman emperors, and all the metals, semi-metals, 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. You must pity her deficiency. And remember that you should always be modest; for 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 stupid. Do you know, she does not want to learn either music or drawing."

  "To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed. But, all things considered, it is well that it should be so, for it is not necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are; it is much more desirable that there should be a difference."

  Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris formed her nieces' minds; and it is no wonder that, with all their promising talents, they should be entirely deficient in self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting because, though a truly anxious father, the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

  To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug dog than her children, but indulgent to them when it did not cause her inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Her girls were under the care of a governess, and could need nothing more. As for Fanny's being stupid at learning, "it was very unlucky, but some people were stupid, and she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and found her very handy in carrying messages, and fetching things."

  Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and grew up there not unhappily among her cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.

  From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram gave up the house in London, and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament without her. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to grow tall and womanly; and their father saw them becoming in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that he could wish. His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised nothing but good. His daughters, he trusted, would make respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness. He was to be a clergyman.

  Sir Thomas did what he could for the children of Mrs. Price. He assisted her liberally in the education and careers of her sons; and Fanny had true satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them. Only once, in those years, had she the happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her visiting them; but William, determining to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister before he went to sea.

  Their eager affection in meeting, their delight in being together, their hours of mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as her misery when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she could look for comfort to her cousin Edmund. Edmund's friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kindness. He was always considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities understood, and giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

  Kept back as she was by everybody else, his support alone could not bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance in improving her mind. He knew her to be clever, and to have a fondness for reading. Miss Lee taught her French, and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment. In return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except William: her heart was divided between the two.

  CHAPTER 3