‘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 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.’
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 all new to her, you know.’
I blessed her silently and went into the billiard 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 flattery 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 till 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 all 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 well 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’ll break my heart,’ said Crawford, pressing her hand to his lips in a way I was sure was not in the script.
‘I will say something if you will not,’ I said to Tom.
‘Oh, very well, I suppose those lines could be cut. Maria!’ he called. ‘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 shall not be said in this house,’ I replied, and carried my way.
‘Ah! Count!’ said Tom, as Rushworth entered the room. ‘Just the fellow 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 really 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 fallen 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 still at work on the curtains.
‘And when you have finished there, you will 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 all entered the dining-room than the others began reciting their parts.
‘I’ll not keep you in doubt a moment,’ boomed Yates, as we all sat down. ‘You are accused, young man, of being engaged to another woman while you offer 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 travelled, 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 putting 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 tell us when we went wrong.
Mary began nervously, for the part of Amelia 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 all 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 call me as you did,’ I said, rather stiffly.
‘In earnest?’ she asked, looking up at me.
‘Really,’ I said, more tenderly. ‘You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, still?’
‘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 all 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 tells 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 tell her that it was so?