Chapter Chapter 2 · 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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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.