第 十八 章 · Chapter XVIII

Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and

dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great

impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was

not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she

had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had

been almost too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their

vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a

scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase

of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their

proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by him as

to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every

family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the

scene-painter’s slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He

had learned his part—all his parts, for he took every trifling one that

could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be

acting; and every day thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense

of the insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more

ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only

listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of most

of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant

dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom

Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant

spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his

part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,

who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that

poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_

complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her

eye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often

the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she

had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from

being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring

something they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the

others. Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody would

attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to

come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the

play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure

to _her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the

first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for

Maria. Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the

first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and

sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful.

As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor

of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,

more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man,

but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there

were not many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed

against his tameness and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr.

Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, “Do you think

there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of

me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves, to see such an

undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very

ridiculous in my opinion.”

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which

Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to

remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the

knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his

ever making anything _tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea

of that except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was

not more considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they

were forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes;

but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,

and the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter

through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great

pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and

directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for him,

and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much

the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;

but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was

as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,

as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no

demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first

anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally

useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her

help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as

the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it—“Come,

Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be

always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at

your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself

till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak without

sending for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help

in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a

trice. It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part

to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than

_you_, we should not get on very fast.”

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but

her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf—

“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is all

new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play

ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at

leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play

about, Fanny? you have never told me.”

“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who

can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers’ Vows.”

“I believe,” said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, “there will be three acts

rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of

seeing all the actors at once.”

“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris;

“the curtain will be hung in a day or two—there is very little sense in

a play without a curtain—and I am much mistaken if you do not find it

draw up into very handsome festoons.”

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her

aunt’s composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the

three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be

acting together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene

between them which interested her most particularly, and which she was

longing and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject

of it was love—a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,

and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering

emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a

circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet

rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s

consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very

diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her

silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made

her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no

concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal

of the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at

once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.

Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies

walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,

and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a

quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the

entrance of Miss Crawford.

“Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your

pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help.”

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the

room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty

grate with concern.

“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little

while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought

my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_

obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund—by

ourselves—against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he

_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have

hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will

be so good, won’t you?”

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them

in a very steady voice.

“Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?” continued Miss

Crawford, opening her book. “Here it is. I did not think much of it at

first—but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and

_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?

Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the

difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him,

and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes.”

“Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must

_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it.”

“_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for

it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the

front of the stage. There—very good school-room chairs, not made for a

theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick

their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your

governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could

Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are

rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the

dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged

of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If

_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in

upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the

times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was

with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off

as well as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellent

Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely

_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.’ Was not that well done of me?

He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy.”

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the

idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but

with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of

a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;

and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought

a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on

this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same

business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure

were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,

and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to

prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the

house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown

together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny’s

kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under

the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to

both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now

rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,

not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was

wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with

the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it

and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within

her shrank—she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been

otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained

her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too

much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To

prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than

enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching

them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of

Edmund’s manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he

wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was

thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped

they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced

herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other;

and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to

believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling

in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering

exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must

stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to

take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to

return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every

one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a

general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying

such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the

morning’s rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed

away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the

gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram,

Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;

and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were

waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.

She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which

he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his

wife.

“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock solemnity. “He has been ill

ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it

tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since”.

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed.

Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable

amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not

act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The

comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom,

as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes

began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, “If Miss

Price would be so good as to _read_ the part.” She was immediately

surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, “Do,

Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you.”

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was

not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather

gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of

attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and

distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly

punished.

“You have only to _read_ the part,” said Henry Crawford, with renewed

entreaty.

“And I do believe she can say every word of it,” added Maria, “for she

could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am

sure you know the part.”

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as

Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on

her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was

satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,

while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be

struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had

proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and

Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father

is come! He is in the hall at this moment.”