Bab Bab 14 · Chapter XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business

of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and

the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had

suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having

made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,

was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations

were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from

Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good

management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming

into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and

as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to

hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people

to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a

need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that

there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by

youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.

Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was

evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes, though politely kept back,

inclined the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to

make allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable

difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the

whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All

the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor

Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could

satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,

Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively

dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that

did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other

it was a continual repetition of, “Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us

have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman’s

part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be

impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a

part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,

perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have

always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do

not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I

think we could not chuse worse.”

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness

which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering

how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that

something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but

everything of higher consequence was against it.

“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We are wasting time

most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that

something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many

must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.

If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything

of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you

chuse to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition

for nothing more.”

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting

only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and

very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others

that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the Dramatis

Personæ.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same

speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on

the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed—“Lovers’ Vows! And

why should not Lovers’ Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws?

How came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would

do exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for

Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody

else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not

dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do

my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is

only Count Cassel and Anhalt.”

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of

indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had

been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was

particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron

at Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw’s, and been

forced to re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron

Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition; and with the

advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with

the greatest alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him

justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering

that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed

an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either.

Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a

short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the

interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by

observing to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure

ought to be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit

him peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right,

and the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the

proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr.

Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do

anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to

be scrupulous on Miss Crawford’s account.

“This is not behaving well by the absent,” said she. “Here are not

women enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is

nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.”

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure

his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that

she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But

this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of

Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she

would accept it. “It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,” said

he, “as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no

sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic.”

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the

best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the

rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with

seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the

business.

“I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,” said he, “not to engage in the

part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must

not, indeed you must not” (turning to her). “I could not stand your

countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had

together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his

knapsack would be obliged to run away.”

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the

matter to Julia’s feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed

the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,

Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to

suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could

command herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against

her too, by saying, “Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the

best Agatha. Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not

trust her in it. There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the

look of it. Her features are not tragic features, and she walks too

quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She

had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager’s wife; you had,

indeed, Julia. Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The

old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good

deal of spirit. You shall be Cottager’s wife.”

“Cottager’s wife!” cried Mr. Yates. “What are you talking of? The most

trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a

tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult to

propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We all

agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more

justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if

you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better.”

“Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really

acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to

Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager’s

wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being

satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have

more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately

bent against everything humorous, let her take Cottager’s speeches

instead of Cottager’s wife’s, and so change the parts all through; _he_

is solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference

in the play, and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife’s

speeches, _I_ would undertake him with all my heart.”

“With all your partiality for Cottager’s wife,” said Henry Crawford,

“it will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and

we must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not

_allow_ her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own

complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a

character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I

consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It

requires great powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and

simplicity without extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the

part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress

by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.

It requires a gentlewoman—a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I

hope?” turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened

her a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again

interposed with Miss Crawford’s better claim.

“No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.

She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and

robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It

is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part,

and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.

“You must oblige us,” said he, “indeed you must. When you have studied

the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your

choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will

be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not

refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your

basket.”

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only

trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous

affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He

was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously

at her sister; Maria’s countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed

and alarmed—but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia

well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her

expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she

said to him, “You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance

when I come in with a basket of provisions—though one might have

supposed—but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!”

She stopped—Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not

know what to say. Tom Bertram began again—

“Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia.”

“Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,” cried Julia, with

angry quickness: “I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do

nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the

most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,

unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and

this is comedy in its worst form.” And so saying, she walked hastily

out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but

exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet

auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the

agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon

returned to business and Lovers’ Vows, and was eagerly looking over the

play, with Mr. Yates’s help, to ascertain what scenery would be

necessary—while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an

under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, “I am sure I

would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall

probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,” was

doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed

by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in

the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram’s

resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia

to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which

had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play

of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she

ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals

of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that

it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and

Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for

home representation—the situation of one, and the language of the

other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could

hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging

in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the

remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.