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Jane Austen "Mansfield
Park"
Chapter 3
The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.
Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of
Sir Thomas’s in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her
husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for
her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years
sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he
were old enough for orders. But Tom’s extravagance had, previous to that
event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next
presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the
pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held
for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas’s conscience, he could not but feel it to
be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son
with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect
than anything he had yet been able to say or do.
“I blush for you, Tom,” said he, in his most dignified manner; “I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten,
twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income
which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I
hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the
urgency of your debts.”
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as
possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, first, that he
had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that
his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly,
that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all
probability, die very soon.
On Mr. Norris’s death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a
hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram’s
calculations. But “no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,
and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off.”
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they
entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very
respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to
claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris’s situation,
and the improvement in Fanny’s age, seeming not merely to do away any
former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most
decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in
addition to his eldest son’s extravagance, it became not undesirable to
himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the
obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that
such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the
first time of the subject’s occurring to her again happening to be when
Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, “So, Fanny, you are going
to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?”
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt’s words,
“Going to leave you?”
“Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years
with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same.”
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had
never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.
“I shall be very sorry to go away,” said she, with a faltering voice
“Yes, I dare say you will; that’s natural enough. I suppose you have had
as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in
the world.”
“I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt,” said Fanny modestly.
“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl.”
“And am I never to live here again?”
“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make
very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other.”
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the
difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told
him her distress.
“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like at
all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am
going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to
leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as
she is removed there.”
“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
it an excellent one.”
“Oh, cousin!”
“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible
woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly
where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You
will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you
very much, Fanny?”
“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in
it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with
her.”
“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same
with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children.
But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving
better already; and when you are her only companion, you must be
important to her.”
“I can never be important to any one.”
“What is to prevent you?”
“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.”
“As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you
never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.
There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where
you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure
you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without
wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a
friend and companion.”
“You are too kind,” said Fanny, colouring at such praise; “how shall I
ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I
am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my
life.”
“Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance
as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off
instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as
much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year.
The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will
necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here, there are too
many whom you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak
for yourself.”
“Oh! I do not say so.”
“I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better
fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a
temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself
about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers.”
Fanny sighed, and said, “I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to
believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged
to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my
aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
consequence to anybody! - Here, I know I am of none, and yet I love the
place so well.”
“The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house.
You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even
your constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal
change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to
choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride.”
“Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how
much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked
of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle’s
opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you
proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well.”
“And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as
good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for
your ultimate happiness too.”
So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it
could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had
not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her,
on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To
prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the
White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her
servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very
particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been
wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now
never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from
being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of
the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose
it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a
certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris—
“I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes
to live with you.”
Mrs. Norris almost started. “Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do
you mean?”
“Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir
Thomas.”
“Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to
me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of,
or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what
could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for
anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at
her time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need
most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test!
Sure Sir Thomas could not
seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my friend. Nobody
that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came Sir Thomas to
speak to you about it?”
“Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best.”
“But what did he say? He could not say he wished me to take Fanny. I am
sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it.”
“No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We
both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it,
there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.”
“Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any
comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of
husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still
worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to
support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not
to disgrace the memory of the dear departed— what possible comfort could
I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for
my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is
in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my
sorrows and difficulties as I can.”
“Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?”
“Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done,
but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I
have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed to
practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income. A
great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the
parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was
consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House,
matters must be better looked after. I must live within my income, or I
shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be
able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year.”
“I dare say you will. You always do, don’t you?”
“My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.
It is for your children’s good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody
else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a
little trifle among them worth their having.”
“You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are
sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that.”
“Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means will be rather straitened if the
Antigua estate is to make such poor returns.”
“Oh! that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it, I
know.”
“Well, Lady Bertram,” said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, “I can only say
that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir
Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able
to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must
keep a spare room for a friend.”
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to
convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law’s views; and she
was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the
slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her
refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to
adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram,
understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family, he
soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it
was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to
provide for Fanny himself.
Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and
her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some
consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to
be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the
White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,
everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.
The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great
satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their
faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of
eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead
of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high
wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her
offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances,
nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in
the house. “Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;
nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never
been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character in
her time, but this was a way of going on that she could not understand.
A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. Her store-
room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go
into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant
had ever had more than five thousand pounds.”
Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.
She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all
the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant’s being so well settled in life
without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point
almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the
other.
These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event
arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place
in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it
expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his
affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching
him from some bad connections at home. They left England with the
probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its
utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the
rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of
others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not
think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather,
to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris’s watchful
attention, and in Edmund’s judgment, he had sufficient confidence to
make him go without fears for their conduct.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she
was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his
comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,
or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.
The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their
sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to
them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence
was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint;
and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been
forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own
disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny’s
relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins’;
but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,
and she really grieved because she could not grieve. “Sir Thomas, who
had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps
never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a
shameful insensibility.” He had said to her, moreover, on the very last
morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the
ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield
as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in
England. “This was so thoughtful and kind!” and would he only have
smiled upon her, and called her “my dear Fanny,” while he said it, every
former frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended
his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, “If
William does come to Mansfield, I hopeyou may be able to convince him
that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been
spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must
find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at
ten.” She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone;
and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a
hypocrite.
