Edmund Bertram's Diary (13 page)

‘Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?’ I asked.

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘I want to consult. I want your opinion.’

‘My opinion?’ she asked in surprise.

‘I do not know what to do.’

I sat down and then stood up again, walking about the room as I laid the matter before her.

‘I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable, the more than intimacy — the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, if possible , be prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?’

‘Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined. ’

‘There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am wel aware that nothing else wil quiet Tom.’

Fanny did not answer me. I knew exactly what she was feeling, for I was feeling it myself.

‘After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of my joining them now, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect,’ I said, ‘but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I am sorry for Miss Crawford. But I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against.’

I did not like it myself, but I felt it must be.

‘As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing,’ I said. ‘I have offended them, and they wil not hear me; but when I have put them in good-humor by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smal er circle than they are now in the high road for.’

I could tel she did not like it.

‘Give me your approbation, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it. If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself — and yet — but it is impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings. She never appeared more amiable than in her behavior to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwil .’

‘She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared,’ said Fanny.

‘I knew you would think so,’ I said, much relieved to find she thought as I did. ‘And now, dear Fanny, I wil not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy til I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been ful of this matter al night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shal go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shal be al in high goodhumor at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity.’

I left her to her books and went down to breakfast, where I had the unpleasant task of tel ing Tom and Maria that I would take the part of Anhalt after al . They did not crow too loud, and, as I had hoped, were so pleased at my actions, that they agreed to limit the audience to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants.

After breakfast I walked down to the Parsonage and gave the news there as wel . Miss Crawford’s smiles rewarded me for my troubles and I felt that, after al , I had done the best I could in a difficult situation.

There was one other consolation. Miss Crawford, in the goodness of her heart, persuaded her sister to take the part of Cottager’s Wife, so that Fanny would not be entreated to perform again. My joy was short-lived, for when I returned to the Park I found Maria and Crawford rehearsing their parts so avidly I thought they could not forget their lines if they lived to be ninety. Every time I came upon them, Maria was either embracing Crawford or laying her head on his breast, so that I began to think I should have forbidden the play, sent Yates about his business, and locked Maria in her room until my father returned.

Wednesday 5 October

The house was in chaos this morning. I could not move without fal ing over someone. If it was not Tom, prancing around and saying:

‘There lived a lady in this land,

Whose charms the heart made tingle;

At church she had not given her hand,

And therefore stil was single.’

it was Yates, tel ing Julia she should not have been al owed to sit out, but should have been persuaded to take the part of Amelia, which would have suited her talents admirably; or my aunt, tel ing us she had managed to save half a crown here and half a crown there; or Rushworth, attempting to learn his forty-two speeches and failing miserably to learn even one. Fanny was dragooned by my aunt, who, seeing her with a moment to herself between prompting Rushworth and condoling with Tom over the shortcomings of the scene painter, said,

‘Come, Fanny, 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 til 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 tel you: but if nobody did more than you, we should not get on very fast.’

I was about to speak up for Fanny when Mama pleased me greatly by saying, ‘One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny should be delighted: it is al new to her, you know.’

I blessed her silently and went into the bil iard room to find my script, for I had a great deal to learn.

As soon as I entered I heard Maria and Crawford rehearsing their lines. Maria said, in languishing tones: ‘He talked of love, and promised me marriage. He was the first man who ever spoke to me on such a subject. His flat ery made me vain, and his repeated vows

— Oh! oh! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium til it was too late.’

I was horrified. Fervent caresses! Delirium! And Tom was standing there, listening to them from the side of the room, and encouraging them!

‘Tom, I thought those lines had been cut,’ I said.

‘Why should they be cut?’ he asked, whilst singing: under his breath al the while.

‘Count Cassel wooed this maid so rare,

And in her eye found grace;

And if his purpose was not fair,

It probably was base.’

‘They are far too warm,’ I said.

‘Too warm? Nonsense.’

Maria, meanwhile, was declaiming: ‘His leave of absence expired, he returned to his regiment, depending on my promise, and wel assured of my esteem. As soon as my situation became known—’

‘Her situation!’ I exploded.

‘—I was questioned, and received many severe reproaches: But I refused to confess who was my undoer; and for that obstinacy was turned from the castle.’

‘Be quick with your narrative, or you’l break my heart,’ said Crawford, pressing her hand to his lips in a way I was sure was not in the script.

‘I wil say something if you wil not,’ I said to Tom.

‘Oh, very wel , I suppose those lines could be cut. Maria!’ he cal ed. ‘There is no need to say that about fervent caresses.’

‘But it is one of the most touching lines in the play!’ protested Crawford.

‘It shal not be said in this house,’ I replied, and carried my way.

‘Ah! Count!’ said Tom, as Rushworth entered the room. ‘Just the fel ow I was looking for. Give me my line.’

‘Line? What line?’ said Rushworth.

‘The line that leads into my verses:

‘For ah! the very night before,

No prudent guard upon her,

The Count he gave her oaths a score,

And took in change her honor.’

‘You are out there, Bertram,’ said Rushworth. ‘That comes before the Count enters, and not afterwards.’

‘No, no, before the Count enters I say:

‘Then you, who now lead single lives,

From this sad tale beware;

And do not act as you were wives,

Before you real y are.’

I found my script and left them to their arguing, glad to escape to the garden. It was refreshing to be outside, where I was not surrounded by fal en women, seducers and libertines. I got my part by heart, and though it was not perfectly learnt, at least it was learnt after a fashion.

I returned to the house, where I found my aunt stil at work on the curtains.

‘And when you have finished there, you wil oblige me by running across to my house and fetching my scissors,’ said my aunt to Fanny, as I entered the drawing-room.

‘Send someone else,’ I said. ‘I need Fanny.’

And so saying, I rescued her from her needlework and took her into the library, where we had a sensible conversation until dinner-time.

Even our meal could not be eaten in peace, for hardly had we al entered the dining-room than the others began reciting their parts.

‘I’l not keep you in doubt a moment,’ boomed Yates, as we al sat down. ‘You are accused, young man, of being engaged to another woman while you of er marriage to my child.’

‘To only one other woman ? ’ Rushworth replied.

‘What do you mean? ’ Yates declaimed.

‘My meaning is, that when a man is young and rich, has travel ed, and is no personal object of disapprobation, to have made vows but to one woman is an absolute slight upon the rest of the sex.’

I was astonished at his remembering such a long speech, until I noticed he had a copy of the script hidden under the table.

‘Please, let us have no more until we have eaten our dinner, ’ I begged, as the soup was brought in, but I was talking to myself.

‘He talked of love, and promised me marriage,’ said Maria in sepulchral tones.

‘Why should I tremble thus?’ asked Crawford.

It was a very Bedlam.

Mary caught my eye and gave me an understanding smile. Then she said, ‘But we must forgive them, you know, the performance is now so very near. You and I must practice our scenes together tomorrow. We must have them right before we perform.’

I agreed, but only with a nod; for when I thought of the words I must say to her, and she to me, I found I could not speak.

Thursday 13 October

I rose early and went downstairs, where I found Christopher Jackson put ing the finishing touches to the stage. It stretched from one end of the room to the other, and was set to rival the stage at Drury Lane.

‘Master Thomas’s orders,’ said Jackson, when I protested. ‘When I’ve finished with the stage, I’m to see about building the wings.’

I countermanded Tom’s orders and then, over breakfast, I finished learning my lines. I found I was dreading saying them to Mary, and so I repaired to Fanny’s sitting-room, there to gain courage by reading them through with her first. But when I tapped on the door and went in I found, to my surprise, that Mary was already there, bent on the same task. There was surprise; a little awkwardness; then I said, ‘As we are both here, we must rehearse together,’ for it seemed easier to think of reciting our parts if there was a third person present. She was at first reluctant but soon gave way to my entreaties. I handed my script to Fanny, begging her to help us, and to tel us when we went wrong.

Mary began nervously, for the part of Agatha was not an easy one for her: to pretend to be a young girl who was being persuaded into marrying a man she did not love by her father, when al the time her heart belonged to my character, a lowly clergyman.

‘Ah! good morning, my dear Sir; Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say; I beg pardon,’ said Mary to me.

‘Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim; I don’t dislike to hear you cal me as you did,’ I said, rather stiffly.

‘In earnest?’ she asked, looking up at me.

‘Real y,’ I said, more tenderly. ‘You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, stil ?’

‘No,’ she said, with a heartrending sigh. ‘I have left of crying for her.’

‘I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour; but I wait upon you by the commands of your father.’

‘You are welcome at al hours,’ she said. ‘My father has more than once told me that he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest benefactor.’ She looked down shyly.

‘And my heart tel s me the same.’

Was there more to her words than a performance of the play? Did she think I was the man who could form her mind? And did she want me to be that man? Did her heart tel her that it was so?

‘I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me,’ I said, and to my surprise, I found myself wanting to take her hand.

‘When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be too grateful,’ she said, with a speaking look.

I thought of the trouble she had given me, and thought how wel our lives matched the play; and how strange it was that Tom should have chosen it; and that it was perhaps not such a bad thing that he had.

‘Oh! Heavens!’ I said.

Fanny said gently, ‘That bit is to yourself.’

‘Oh? Is it? Thank you, Fanny.’ I turned aside, and said the words as she directed.

‘I — I come from your father with a commission,’ I said. ‘If you please, we wil sit down.’ I looked about me for a chair. I found one and Mary found another. We both sat down, I nervously, and Mary very elegantly, arranging her skirts graceful y about her. ‘Count Cassel is arrived.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

‘And do you know for what reason?’

She looked at me with liquid eyes; eyes that were as transparent as the sunlight.

‘He wishes to marry me,’ she said.

I could not blame him. At that moment, I believe any man alive would have wished to marry her.

‘Does he?’ Fanny prompted me, when I did not speak.

‘Does he?’ I asked hastily. ‘But believe me, your father . . . the Baron wil not persuade you. No, I am sure he wil not.’

‘I know that,’ she said, with downcast eyes.

‘He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination—’

‘For the Count, or for matrimony do you mean?’

‘For matrimony,’ I said, finding myself growing hot, and, glancing at the grate, being surprised to see that there was no fire.