Edmund Bertram's Diary

‘And when you have done, there is a bookcase in my father’s room that needs moving,’ he said. I reminded Jackson about the fence, and bid him see to it as soon as he was free, but if Tom is to continue as he has begun, he is going to make my life very difficult over the weeks to come.

‘And now for the baize. Where are we to get it, Aunt?’ asked Tom.

‘Had you better not wait until you have decided on a play?’ I asked him.

‘Details,’ he said, with a wave of his hand.

‘You must send to Northampton,’ said Aunt Norris. ‘They have quite the finest baize in the county; I saw it there the last time I went. It was of a superior quality, and they had just the shade we are looking for.’

Friday 30 September

The green baize has arrived, my aunt has cut out the curtains and the housemaids are busy sewing them, but no play has as yet been decided upon. At least I have had the fences repaired, for I forbade Christopher Jackson the house until the work was done.

OCTOBER

Monday 3 October

A play has been decided on at last, the worst play imaginable. If I had been there I would have spoken against it, but I was out for the day, and knew nothing about it until I returned just before dinner, when Rushworth told me the news.

‘It is to be Lovers’ Vows. I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak,’ he said. ‘And afterwards I am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it. Bertram is to be Butler, a trifling part, but a comic one, and it is comedy he wants to play. And Crawford is to be Frederick.’

I was dumbstruck. Lovers’ Vows! With all Its embracing and clasping to bosoms! The last play my father would want in his house!

‘But what do you do for women?’ I asked, knowing that my sisters could not play the parts, for Agatha was a fall en woman and Amelia was a shameless one.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, ‘I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and...’ she lifted her eyes to mine instead of letting them drop to the floor. ‘Miss Crawford is to be Amelia.’

I could not believe it. To condemn Miss Crawford to such a part! It was not worthy of her. And for Maria to play Agatha!

‘I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches,’ said Rushworth. ‘That’s something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak.’

I could not think how Tom had allowed it. I could say nothing in front of Yates, as his friends had been about to perform it at Ecclesford, but later I remonstrated with Maria.

‘My dear Maria, Lovers’ Vows is exceedingly unfit for private representation, and I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you will when you have read it careful y over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. Agatha is a fall en woman. She is seduced by her lover and left with child. You cannot play such a part. You cannot pretend to have been seduced, you cannot speak of fervent caresses, or embrace the man who plays your son, pressing him to your breast. You would not want to do such a thing, especial y not now you are engaged. Only read the play, and it will not be necessary to send you to your father’s judgment, I am convinced.’

‘We see things very differently,’ said Maria uncomfortably. ‘I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation.’

‘You are Miss Bertram. It is you who are to lead. You must set the example.’

I thought her pride would sway her, for she looked as though she was about to give way, but then her face closed and she said, ‘I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I real y cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would be the greatest indecorum, I think.’

‘Do not act anything improper, my dear,’ said Mama, overhearing a part of our conversation, and rousing herself momentarily. ‘Sir Thomas would not like it.’ But her concern was short-lived, for a moment later she was saying, ‘Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.’

‘I am convinced, madam,’ I said to my mother, pressing what small advantage I had gained from her contribution to the conversation, ‘that Sir Thomas would not like it.’

‘There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?’ said Mama to Maria.

‘If I were to decline the part,’ said Maria, ‘Julia would certainly take it.’

‘Not if she knew your reasons!’ I said.