MANSFIELD PARK
by Jane Austen
by Jane Austen
CHAPTER
I
About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it. She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr.Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse. Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.
Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which,
from principle as well as pride--from a general wish of doing right, and a
desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of
respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady
Bertram's sister; but her husband's profession was such as no interest could
reach; and before he had time to devise any other method of assisting them, an
absolute breach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural result
of the conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost
always produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never
wrote to her family on the subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was
a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent,
would have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no
more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which could not
be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point
out the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill
consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very
disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not
possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse between them for a
considerable period.
Their homes were so distant, and the
circles in which they moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means of
ever hearing of each other's existence during the eleven following years, or,
at least, to make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever
have it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry voice,
that Fanny had got another child. By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs.
Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one
connexion that might possibly assist her.
A large and still increasing family, an
husband disabled for active service, but not the less equal to company and good
liquor, and a very small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain
the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in
a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a superfluity of
children, and such a want of almost everything else, as could not but dispose
them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth lying-in; and
after bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance as sponsors
to the expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt they might
be to the future maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a
boy of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the
world; but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter
useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No situation
would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a
boy be sent out to the East?
The letter was not unproductive. It
re-established peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and
professions, Lady Bertram dispatched 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; and at length she could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among them to undertake the care of her 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."
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; and at length she could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among them to undertake the care of her 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, etc.;--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 farther 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 country under
such very favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her
a creditable establishment. You are thinking of your sons-- but do not you 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 connexion. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom
or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be
mischief.
The very idea of her having been suffered
to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would be enough to
make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. 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 tomorrow,
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 reg ard.
I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may have a bed at her cousin
the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her there. They may easily
get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach,
under the care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say
there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up."
Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin,
Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though less
economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered
as settled, and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.
The division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have
been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent
patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of
being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking,
and contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better
how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of money was equal to her
love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend
that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply. Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.
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 quite 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."
"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris,
"which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the
same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two--there can
be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in
my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall
fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor
away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little
white attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so
near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who
could either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes,
for I suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as
well as the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her
anywhere else."
Lady Bertram made no opposition.
"I hope she will prove a
well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her
uncommon good fortune in having such friends."
"Should her disposition be really
bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake,
continue her in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil.
We shall probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves
for gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity
of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be
dangerous for her associates. Had my daughters been younger than herself, I
should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very
serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for them,
and everything to hope for her, from the association."
"That is exactly what I think,"
cried Mrs. Norris, "and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It
will be an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if
Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from
them."
"I hope she will not tease my poor
pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone."
"There will be some difficulty in our
way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper
to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of
my daughters the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too
lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
her remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I
should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise
in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still
they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
always be different. It is a point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in
our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of conduct."
Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and
though she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing,
encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed.
It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children.
It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree with many of her children.
CHAPTER
II
The little girl performed her long journey in
safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs.
Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in
the importance of leading her in to the others, and recommending her to their
kindness.
Fanny
Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might not be much
in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust
her relations. She was small of 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, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be
all that was conciliating: but he had to work against a most untoward gravity
of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble, or
speaking one word where he spoke ten, 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 sustained their share in the introduction
very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at least on the part of
the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age, 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, who addressed
them on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity. But they were
too much used to company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and
their confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were soon
able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference.
They
were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the daughters
decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of their age, which
produced as striking a difference between the cousins in person, as education
had given to their address; and no one would have supposed the girls so nearly
of an age as they really were. There were in fact but two years between the
youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but 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 and good behaviour which it
ought to produce, and her consciousness of 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, became soon no trifling evil. In vain were the well-meant
condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs.
Norris that she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make
her sit on the sofa with herself and pug, and vain was even the sight of a
gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two
mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest
friend, 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 told her how much might depend upon her acquitting
herself well at first. I wish 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, and she cannot as yet
understand how much she has changed for the better; but then there is
moderation in all things."
It
required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to allow, to
reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the separation from
everybody she had been used to. Her feelings were very acute, and too little
understood to be properly attended to. Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody
put themselves out of their way to secure her comfort.
The
holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next
day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining
their young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on
finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when
they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so good as to
play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of their
least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever
might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers
or wasting gold paper.
Fanny,
whether near or from her cousins, 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 admonitions. Her
elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed her by
noticing her shyness: Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants
sneered at her clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the
brothers and sisters among whom she had always 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 for her to move in with ease:
whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant
terror of something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at
night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended
every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way,
and 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 overcome her shame in being so surprised, and 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? Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her, or
do for her? For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a "no,
no--not at all--no, thank you"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had
he begun to revert to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him
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 all about your brothers and sisters."
On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear
as all these brothers and sisters generally were, 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 companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he was the
darling) in every distress. "William did not like she should come away; he
had told her he should miss her very much indeed." "But William will
write to you, I dare say." "Yes, he had promised he would, but he had
told her to write first." "And when shall you do it?" She hung
her head and answered hesitatingly, "she did not know; she had not any
paper."
"If that be all your difficulty, I will
furnish you with paper and every other material, and you may write your letter
whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?"
"Yes, very."
"Yes, very."
"Then
let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast-room, we shall find
everything there, and be sure of having the room to ourselves."
"But,
cousin, will it go to the post?"
"Yes, depend upon me it shall: 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,
when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to Frank."
Fanny
thought it a bold measure, but 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 himself have felt, and
probably with somewhat more exactness. He continued with her the whole time of
her writing, to assist her with his penknife or his orthography, as either were
wanted; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to
her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest. He wrote with his own hand
his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the seal.
Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of
expressing; but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all
their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting
object.
He
talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an
affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive
her to be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation,
and great timidity. He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
she required more positive kindness; and with that view endeavoured, in the
first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially a great
deal of 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; and if there were
some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know
their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. The little
rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the
tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she
was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt
Norris's voice make her start very much. To her cousins she became occasionally
an acceptable companion.
Though
unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate,
their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and
they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their
brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was
good-natured enough."
Edmund was uniformly kind himself; 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 liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment.
His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights:
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 pretty soon decided
between them that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition,
and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean opinion of her abilities
was not confined to them. Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been
taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with
which they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and
for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of
it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, 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 considerate aunt would reply, "it is very bad, but you
must not expect everybody to be as forward and 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 thinks of nothing but the Isle
of Wight, and she calls it the Island, as if there were no other island in the
world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known
better long before I was so old as she is. 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 it is, 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, 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. 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."
"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 mama 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."
"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 mama 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."
Such
were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her nieces' minds; and
it is not very wonderful that, with all their promising talents and early
information, they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements
of 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, he was not outwardly affectionate, and 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 than her children, but very indulgent
to the latter when it did not put herself to inconvenience, guided in
everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister. Had
she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably
have supposed it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with
proper masters, and could want nothing more.
As for Fanny's being stupid at learning,
"she could only say it was very unlucky, but some people were stupid, and
Fanny must take more pains: she did not know what else was to be done; and,
except her being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor little
thing, and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages, and
fetching what she wanted."
Fanny,
with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour
much of her attachment to her former home, 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, in consequence of a
little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town,
which she had been used to occupy every spring, and remained wholly in the
country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever
increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country,
therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise
their duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their father saw them becoming in
person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his anxiety.
His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already given him much
uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing but good.
His
daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be giving it
new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would extend its respectable
alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong good sense and uprightness
of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all
his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.
Amid
the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested, Sir Thomas did
not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs. Price: he assisted her
liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough
for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny, though almost totally separated from her
family, was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness
towards them, or of anything at all promising in their situation or conduct.
Once, and once only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of
being with William. Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of her
ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want
her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to be a sailor, was
invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire before he went to
sea.
Their
eager affection in meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their
hours of happy mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as
well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and the
misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily the visit happened in the
Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin
Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was to do, and be
hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her gradually admit that
the separation might have some use. Edmund's friendship never failed her: his
leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions, and only afforded
more frequent opportunities of proving them.
Without any display of doing more than the
rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and
considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities understood, and
to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being more apparent; giving her
advice, consolation, and encouragement.
Kept
back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not bring her
forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance in
assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its pleasures. He knew her
to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense, and a
fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be an education in itself.
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: he made reading useful by talking to her of
what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise. In return for
such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except William:
her heart was divided between the two.
CHAPTER
III
The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and,
had his uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some
friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had,
previous to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the
next presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the
pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for
Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier
to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice,
and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in
the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to
say or do.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he,
in his most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven
on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have
robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years,
perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may
hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better
preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would
have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an
equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through
the urgency of your debts."
Tom listened with some shame and some
sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful
selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some
of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of
work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be,
would, in all probability, die very soon.
On Mr. Norris's death the presentation
became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield;
and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint
Mr. Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic
sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off."
He had a wife about fifteen years his
junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair
report of being very respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas
expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in
Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely
to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it
the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West
India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became
not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and
the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such
a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time
of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present,
she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and
live with my sister. How shall you like it?"
Fanny was too much surprised to do more
than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?"
"Yes, my dear; why should you be
astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to
take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all
the same."
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.
"I shall be very sorry to go
away," said she, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will; that's
natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into
this house as any creature in the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful,
aunt," said Fanny modestly.
"No, my dear; I hope not. I have
always found you a very good girl."
"And am I never to live here
again?"
"Never, my dear; but you are sure of
a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are
in one house or the other."
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful
heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of
living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with
Edmund she told him her distress.
"Cousin," said she,
"something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you
have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at
first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my
aunt Norris."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there."
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there."
"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?"
"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."
"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you must be important to her."
"I can never be important to any one."
"What is to prevent you?"
"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."
"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion."
"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."
"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for yourself."
"Oh! I do not say so."
"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers."
Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well."
"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even your constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride."
"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well."
"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."
So ended their discourse, which, for any
very appropriate service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared,
for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never
occurred to her, on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully
avoided. 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 syllable 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 broke 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 encumbrance 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 hardly 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? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can."
"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"
"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. My situation is as much altered as my income. 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 dare say 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 bed to give her, for I must keep a spare room for a friend."
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself.
Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been
her fears of a removal; and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the
discovery, conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what
he had expected to be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took
possession of the White House, the Grants arrived
at the Parsonage, and these events over, everything at Mansfield
went on for some time as usual.
The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character in her time, but this was a way of going on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. Her store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character in her time, but this was a way of going on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. Her store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.
These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.
The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility.
" He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and would he only have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny," while he said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.
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