The Honourable John Yates, this new friend of Tom’s, had not much to recommend him beyond being the younger son of a lord; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield undesirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days in the same society. Mr. Yates was invited to visit Mansfield, and came rather earlier than expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party at the house of another friend.
He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; the sudden death of a connexion of the family had dispersed the performers two days before the performance. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of Lord Ravenshaw, which would have immortalised the whole party for a twelvemonth! to lose it all, was an injury keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, its dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject.
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. It was all bewitching. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel.
"A trifling part," said he, "and not to my taste; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had taken the only two characters worth playing. I was sorry that Lord Ravenshaw should have so mistaken his powers, for he was not equal to the Baron—a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after ten minutes. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. It would certainly have gone off wonderfully."
"I do think you were very much to be pitied," was the kind response.
"To be sure, the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and I wish the news could have been suppressed for just three days. I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw would not hear of it."
"To make you amends, Yates," said Mr Bertram, "I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager."
The desire to act was awakened in Tom, who was now master of the house; and who had such lively talents and comic taste as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. Each sister echoed the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea.
"I really believe," said he, "I could at this moment undertake any character that ever was written. I feel as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any play in the English language. Let us be doing something. As for a theatre, any room in this house might suffice."
"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain 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. We should want nothing more."
"I believe we must be satisfied with less," said Maria. "We must make the performance, not the theatre, our object."
"Nay," said Edmund, listening 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, with a good tricking, 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 farther to see one."
"True, to see 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."
However, the subject continued to be discussed with eagerness; and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, their resolution to act seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother did not show the least disapprobation.
The same evening gave 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, found Edmund standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram and Fanny were on the sofa. Tom began as he entered—"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be met with. I can stand it no longer, but I have just ascertained one good thing: the room is precisely the shape for a theatre; and with the doors at the end communicating with each other, as they may be made to do by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we could have desired."
"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund.
"Never more so, I assure you."
"I think it would be very wrong. It would be highly injudicious. It would show great lack of feeling on my father's account, absent as he is, and in constant danger; and it would be imprudent with regard to Maria, whose situation is a very delicate one."
"You take it so seriously! as if we were going to act three times a week, and invite all the country. But we mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves. We want no audience, no publicity. As to my father's absence, I consider it a motive; for this must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can keep up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shall think our time well spent."
Each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk in one corner of the sofa, the picture of ease and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, with a laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother—I was unlucky there."
"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, half-roused; "I was not asleep."
"No, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued, as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "I maintain that we shall be doing no harm."
"I cannot agree; 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 than my father, and I think he has a decided taste for acting. He encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Caesar, and to be'd and not to be'd, for his amusement?"
"It was a very different thing. 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 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 hope it will be in a very quiet way; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's house."
"I will be answerable," said Tom. "His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an interest in his house as you; and as to such alterations as moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or using the billiard-room for the space of a week, you might as well suppose he would object to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"
"The innovation will be wrong as an expense."
"Yes, the expense would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds. It will be a green curtain and a little carpenter's work, that's all; and as the carpenter's work may be done by Christopher Jackson, it will be absurd to talk of expense. 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."
br /> Tom walked out of the room, and Edmund was left to stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
Fanny said, anxious to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may not find any play to suit them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."
"I have no hope there, Fanny. They will find something. I shall try to dissuade my sisters, 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; and if I cannot convince them myself, I shall let things take their course. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all."
His sisters, to whom he spoke the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice as Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in what had been done in so many respectable families. Julia did admit that Maria's situation might require particular caution—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.
Edmund was still urging them when Henry Crawford entered the room, calling out, "No lack of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. My sister hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna that you may not like 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, acknowledged that the charm of acting might well carry fascination to the mind of genius.
As to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish to oppose the scheme. She was talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her. The arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all to herself. She foresaw in it all the comforts of bustle and importance, and fancied herself obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living at her own cost, and stay in theirs, so that every hour might be spent in their service. She was, in fact, delighted with the project.
CHAPTER 14