Mansfield Park, ch. 19: Homecoming (part 1)

An ambiguous portrait of Sir Thomas
by Fernando Vicente.

Austen opens Volume II with a really good, juicy question: “How is the consternation of the party to be described?” And, oh, the answer she gives feeds my cold, black heart. “Absolute horror”! “Every other heart” experiencing “self-condemnation or undefined self-alarm”! As if Sir Thomas showing up unexpectedly after a long, harrowing journey halfway across the world might as well be a death knell. The only person who knows what to do is Julia, who accurately remarks, “I need not be afraid of appearing before him” (ignoring that, had she snagged her favorite part, she would indeed have had something to fear). She’s spurred by the sight of Henry-as-Frederick tenderly holding onto Maria-as-Agatha, as the two sneaky lovebirds are taking advantage of this last moment of freedom.

To Maria, Henry’s “retaining her hand at such a moment … was worth ages of doubt and anxiety.” She believes he loves her, and it’s that belief which gives her “the sweetest support” as the Bertram sibs hustle to meet their father. Henry and Mary peace out, “judging more clearly” than the annoyed Mr. Yates that Sir Thomas’s presence will be “[t]he ruin of the play.” Fanny, meanwhile, is in dire need of a paper bag to breathe into. “[A]ll her former habitual dread of her uncle” is flooding her senses. Mr. Yates stays where he is, driven partly by his selfless feeling that “it would [not] be fair by the others to have every body run away.” Nice gesture.

Fanny steels herself “to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.” But hark, a vagrant what’s this? He spots her amidst his offspring and calls her “his dear Fanny,” kisses her hello, and treats her almost like she’s his third daughter. This is just as shocking to the reader as it is to Fanny, who feels she must “reproach herself for loving him so little.” Way back in Chapter 3, if you’ll recall, Sir Thomas left her with a cruelly casual remark that sixteen-year-old Fanny was the same as the scared and timid ten-year-old girl he’d first met. Not exactly a cheerful parting. But now, seeing how he has “grown thinner and [has] the burnt, fagged, worn look of fatigue and a hot climate,” she’s able to put his gentle welcome into better perspective. (Just as Sir Thomas, “worn” down by his travels and unspecified tribulations, is perhaps able to do the same with Fanny.)

Sir Thomas’s happiness at being home is touching. Lady Bertram is moved to see her husband at home while Mrs. Norris, miffed that she missed the chance to announce his arrival herself, keeps trying to interrupt his awesome stories about escaping French pirates on the high seas so she can assert her (dwindling) authority. Finally, Lady Bertram breaks the news to Sir Thomas: “We have been all alive with acting.”

Here, Tom attempts to steer the conversation: this bit of acting has been “a mere trifle” to give them something to do on rainy days. He launches into a boring litany of going hunting (boring to me, anyway). The indomitable Deidre Shauna Lynch informs us that by doing so, “Tom stresses his responsible stewardship of the game on the estate.” So Tom is deliberately trying to showcase his completion of typical elder son duties while downplaying the scope of their misadventures in acting. This is the same Tom, by the way, who argued back in Chapter 13 that “[n]obody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for any thing of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a decided taste.” Just a little reminder.

Sir Thomas, unsuspecting, leaves to see his study. Fanny lets them know that the Crawfords have left, but as this means Mr. Yates is still around, Tom jumps up to intervene. What follows is one of the funniest scenes Austen has ever put together: Sir Thomas, after noting “a general air of confusion in the furniture,” overhears Yates’s “hallooing” and steps onto the professionally-crafted stage. Yates, turning, sees Sir Thomas and “[gives] perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals.” Tom arrives just in time to see “the gradual metamorphosis” of Yates, amateur dramatic actor, into Mr. Yates, the “well-bred” esquire. Sir Thomas is not impressed, and it only gets worse as the young men offer an explanation. He is “bewildered in his own house,” “in the midst of theatrical nonsense,” and angry that he must “admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,” a young man who on top of it all, is acting as though he is “the most at home of the two.”

Tom admits that “there might be some ground of offence” as he sees his father chart the specifics of the “general air of confusion.” This is the same Tom, by the way, who earlier snarled at Edmund, “Don’t imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself.” Now, though, he “heartily [wishes] he might be always as well disposed to give [Sir Thomas’s thoughts] but partial expression.” He sees how his actions have, essentially, done him in: had he not gone overboard with the production of the play, Sir Thomas’s “remonstrance” would be much less severe—maybe even nonexistent. But with the head of authority removed, Tom didn’t think to check himself or his actions, thus demonstrating his unworthiness of inheriting Sir Thomas’s mantle.

The three rejoin the group in the living room and at first, Sir Thomas is willing to move onto another topic. You have to feel for this guy: he comes home after a long journey, showing signs of not being in the best of health, and he finds that his kids have been rearranging the furniture and building a stage in his billiard room. And if it wasn’t for Yates’s prattling, Sir Thomas might never have found out the extent of the acting—the involvement of his daughters, the final casting of Anhalt, and the number of rehearsals. All of this is a big no-no. Tom and his siblings have crossed a line. Sir Thomas turns to Edmund with a look described as: “On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?”

Even after Yates prods Sir Thomas into letting them continue with their rehearsals, Sir Thomas does the gentlemanly thing and successfully changes the subject. I think this shows a fortitude in his character that’s often confused with sternness. In the book he’s often described as being more stern than he means to be, or more stern than the situation reasonably calls for, but this trait is a double-edged sword. This strictness also allows him to observe good etiquette and breeding even when he’s being tested by a loudmouth he’s never met before and his own bratty son. Sir Thomas inquires after the Crawfords (he has yet to meet them) and then must find a gracious answer to Rushworth’s little anti-Henry/anti-acting outburst. Which he does. Because the true gentleman neither bad-mouths his rival nor uses his father’s house as his own playground; the true gentleman is guided by his inner qualities and sense of what is right.

As second introductions go, Austen gives us a meaty one with Sir Thomas. We will soon see how he struggles with himself, especially when it comes to his kids. Like Fanny, Sir Thomas doesn’t always display the best parts of himself. He has his own duties to attend to—a role to play, as it were.

(Part 2 of the Homecoming miniseries is going to come along later in the novel.)

Next chapter: a remarkable conversation, Mrs. Norris gives a performance of her own, and Maria is at last forced to face one cold(-blooded) fact.