Mansfield Park, ch. 16: A Room of One's Own

Credit to Natasa Ilincic for this awesome illustration of Fanny's sanctuary. She dutifully included
the drawing of the ship, the plants, and the screens ... perfectly situated to prompt a nice daydream. Sigh.

Read along! Today's chapter is available here. Or if your tastes run more to audio than visual, please check out this free LibriVox recording. Karen Savage's narration is amazingly professional.

After the onslaught from Tom—excuse me, “Mr. Bertram”—Fanny is still reeling. Retreating to her room, she relives the episode in excruciating detail:

To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so[.]

What strikes me most (other than the reinforcement of the theme of gratitude) is Fanny’s focus on Mrs. Norris’s sledgehammer-sized “hint at the dependence of [Fanny’s] situation.” This will not be the last time that the Bertrams will remind her of her vulnerability. They never understand that Fanny has received this message loud and clear: she does not, in fact, consider herself part of the family (as evidenced by her referring to her eldest cousin as “Mr. Bertram,” and no, I am not over that). She feels close to Edmund and is faithful to Lady Bertram to a fault, but this is not her family.

Happily, she does have an alternative to the little white attic where she sleeps: the East room, the Miss Bertrams’ old classroom that nobody but Fanny uses now. Mrs. Norris’s influence within Mansfield looms even here, though, due to her “stipula[tion] for there never being a fire in it on Fanny’s account.” (Quick aside: Why the heck are the Mansfield servants taking orders from a gentlewoman who doesn’t live there? Are they that scared of her?) Nonetheless, Fanny is granted the space and has slowly turned it into a greenhouse/personal library, and holy crap that is the cutest thing ever. “Everything [in the room] was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend,” the narrator tells us, and thus the cuteness factor morphs into something more bittersweet. The circumstances of her “dependence” has caused her silent thoughts and feelings to be her only consistent comforts.

We also get some insight into who she considers to be on Team Fanny: “[A]unt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend.” Interesting that the previously maligned Miss Lee is now remembered fondly. I wonder if she was only “encouraging” when Maria and Julia weren’t around.

A modern view of the Lake District

Austen goes on at length to describe some of the items in the room: an ugly design for a footstool provided by Julia, see-through paintings of Tintern Abbey and the Lake District, and a sketch of the ship her brother William sails on. I mention these items because this is a one-of-a-kind passage in an Austen novel. Austen doesn’t go into detail about the things that character possess, which is doubly interesting because Fanny hasn’t been shown to be materialistic. “Everything is her friend” because she has so few actual friends. Additionally, these things reinforce her core traits: her love for her brother, her respect for her Bertram family, and her romanticism. (The inclusion of Julia’s cover is a nice bit of foreshadowing, as is the mention of Tom’s gifts in the next paragraph. Notice that Maria is the only Bertram cousin not mentioned here.)

Just as Fanny is questioning her actions of the previous night, weighing the reasons for and against joining in the acting, Edmund shows up. In asking to “consult” with Fanny, he is doing more than making her feel “gratified”; this is also building on a dynamic that began in Chapter 7. And by the way, isn’t it so interesting that Edmund goes to Fanny when he wants to talk about Mary Crawford? Because, apart from the compromise he’s about to propose, it’s really all about Mary.

Edmund’s anxiety about the “familiarity” factor of the Charles Maddox problem is about propriety. Since Mr. Maddox is taking on the role of Sir Not Appearing In This Novel, this point is easily glossed over by modern readers. Edmund thinks the best way to not invite strangers into Mansfield Park is by agreeing to play the Anhalt role (by “stranger,” he means “someone who has not been officially introduced to the head of the household,” which also means that Yates counts as a stranger). The “appearance of such inconsistency” rubs Edmund the wrong way because in this situation, the right thing and the proper thing do not dovetail together perfectly. He wants to convince himself that his proposed action will benefit Sir Thomas as well as Mary.

Yes, Mary worms her way into the conversation. When Fanny hesitates, Edmund swiftly turns his request for advice into an argument on behalf of Mary’s oh-so-delicate sensibilities. Turns out he actually overheard her talking to Fanny the night before (I’ve missed that on previous re-readings, but maybe I subconsciously absorbed it). Fanny refuses to give him the answer he expects/hopes to hear and reminds him to think of Sir Thomas. Her avoidance of the subtext is both realistic and frustrating: she is biased against Mary, but doesn’t want to admit it for reasons both practical and selfish (I’d say self-preserving, but you can read it either way). Her respect for Sir Thomas’s authority makes sense, but she’s also hiding behind it.

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself,” Edmund frets. This is where Austen most explicitly depicts the two cousins’ paths diverging. So many things are happening here! First, Edmund is offering Fanny incredible praise by implying that she is his moral guide (coming from a clergyman-in-training, too). Secondly, he goes on to implore Fanny to put herself “in Miss Crawford’s place,” appearing to conflate the two women and assign Mary’s anxieties about acting with a stranger to Fanny. Fanny would certainly have such anxieties, but Mary? I suspect she’s more anxious over what she can get Edmund to do next. (Not to mention that Fanny wishes she was in Miss Crawford's place if it meant having Edmund's love.) In any case, Edmund is having trouble coming to terms with Fanny as an individual. Instead of respecting Fanny’s position, he acts as though she ought to think of Mary’s position. The two are far from the same. Edmund is so wrapped up in his feelings for Mary that he assumes Fanny will agree with him. Mary may have “a very strong claim on [Edmund’s] goodwill,” but Fanny owes Sir Thomas a lot more deference than she does to Mary.

Despite his hesitation, Edmund’s mind is made up. He lingers a bit in the East room, not looking forward to what he must do. His wistfulness at Fanny’s collection of books is a touching beat—maybe he’s envious that she can lose herself in stories whereas he cannot. But this is nothing compared to Fanny’s disappointment in his lack of “consistency,” which in this novel is tied closely to integrity. She sees that he’s doing this just as much for Mary as he is for the sake of propriety, which depresses Fanny all the more.

Soon to come: When a compromise is not a compromise, Julia admits defeat, and the clueless Mrs. Grant is clued in for once.