CHAPTER XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend

him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of

a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably

have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.

Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had

spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if

friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.

Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,

and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had

been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party

assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left

Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his

head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play

in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,

when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family

had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near

happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the

private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord

Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the

whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose

it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of

nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and

dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to

boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting

so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest

of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it

was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a

party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play

had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A

trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one

as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no

difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two

characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord

Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you

know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,

for he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man with a weak voice,

always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the

piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir

Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because

Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best

hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily

the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was

inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the

whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully."

"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you were very much

to be pitied," were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager

could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help

wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days

we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all

happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great

harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is

one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it."

"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows

were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother

by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,

between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the

Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I

think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our

manager."

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for

the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in

him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as

to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of

lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty

of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the Ecclesford

theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the

wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications

it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. "I really

believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake

any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to

the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel

as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm,

or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.

Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what

should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards

the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We

shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice."

"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize

for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough."

"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two

run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing

more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among

ourselves we should want nothing more."

"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria. "There would

not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt

Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our

object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."

"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing

by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted

up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from

beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good

tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a

song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing."

"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play

better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one."

"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly

walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who

have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have

all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through."

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was

discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing

by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and

though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,

and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the

world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,

the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to

make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if

possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which

passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.

Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.

Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was

standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at

a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus

began as he entered--"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not

to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I

think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one

good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre,

precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther

end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five

minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very

thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and

my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the

billiard-room on purpose."

"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a low

voice, as his brother approached the fire.

"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you

in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private

theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,

I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious

to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling

on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant

danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose

situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely

delicate."

"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three

times a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But

it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little

amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our

powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be

trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;

and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing

in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in

chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And

as to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I

consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must

be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of

amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks,

I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It

is a _very_ anxious period for her."

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk

back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,

and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was

getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with

a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky

there."

"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one

half-roused; "I was not asleep."

"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued,

returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady

Bertram began to nod again, "but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall

be doing no harm."

"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally

disapprove it."

"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise

of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for

anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a

decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time

have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and

not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,

_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one

Christmas holidays."

"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My

father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never

wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is

strict."

"I know all that," said Tom, displeased. "I know my father as well as

you do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress

him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of

the family."

"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I must

hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre

ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's

house in his absence which could not be justified."

"For everything of that nature I will be answerable," said Tom, in a

decided tone. "His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an

interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such

alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or

unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a

week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose

he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the

breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's

pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute

nonsense!"

"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an

expense."

"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps

it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have

undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a

little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work

may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be

too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,

everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in

this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do

not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else."

"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "_that_ I absolutely protest

against."

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit

down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling

throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest

some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit

them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."

"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will

find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,

and that is all I can do."

"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."

"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my

sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,

I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through

her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do

anything than be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,

were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his

representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.

Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the

least afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in

what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women

of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that

could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only

brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be

heard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that

Maria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but

that could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and Maria evidently

considered her engagement as only raising her so much more above

restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either

father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the

subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage,

calling out, "No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want

of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted

into the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna

or tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves."

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now? Can we

be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?" And Edmund, silenced,

was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry

fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to

dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on

anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he

was mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no

difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest

nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole

arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all

to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,

and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself

obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at

her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be

spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the

project.