Mary Crawford’s Harvest by Diana Birchall

The only mention of the word harvest in Jane Austen’s major novels, as far as I can discover, takes place in Mansfield Park.  Not surprisingly, her “harvest scene” provides us with another opportunity to observe the cleverness and deliberation with which Jane Austen reveals her characters through subtle details. Each of the two paragraphs in which the harvest is mentioned, focuses on one of the two heroines (or heroine and anti-heroine) of the book, Fanny Price and Mary Crawford. Placed side by side as they are in this scene, with their contrasting opinions, provides a delicious display of Austen’s brilliant characterization methods at work.

The scene is in Chapter VI, when the Bertram family, and Mary and Henry Crawford, visit the Rushworths at Sotherton. Through Edmund’s kindness, it is arranged that Fanny shall go along with the rest of the family, on what is her first expedition of this sort, owing to the way Mrs. Norris tries to prevent all indulgences for her. Here are Fanny’s artless impressions, as she enjoys the carriage ride itself, no novelty to her cousins, but everything is fresh and new to her.  Fanny’s unhackneyed feelings and love of nature are compared with Miss Crawford’s citified sophistication:

“Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fanny’s delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and women, her talents for the light and lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united, and a ‘there he is’ broke at the same moment from them both, more than once.”

Later in the scene, we are treated to some of Mary Crawford’s sprightly, teasing, worldly dialogue, so different from Fanny’s modest quietude. Fanny later says of herself, “I was quiet, but I was not blind,” for in fact she really does observe everything. Miss Crawford, for all her delight in conversation, banter and raillery, observes nothing. She has never even thought about a harvest before, and now that it is brought before her, it seems only an inconvenience.

“’Mr. Bertram,’ said she, “I have tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received to the contrary.’ Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise. ‘The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant, we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but this morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher’s son–in–law left word at the shop.’

‘I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope there will be no further delay.’

‘I am to have it to–morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow.’

‘You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?’

‘I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing–closet without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers, all the hay in the parish! As for Dr. Grant’s bailiff, I believe I had better keep out of his way; and my brother–in–law himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me when he found what I had been at.’

‘You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but when you do think of it, you must see the importance of getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse.’

‘I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to–morrow. Henry, who is good–nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not be honourably conveyed?’

Rowlandson, Harvest Home, 1823

And there we have Fanny and Mary, artfully delineated through their tastes, their habits, their varying experience. Now let us move forward in time, and consider the real harvest that Mary reaps. Fanny we know finds the true happiness she has long wished for with her cousin Edmund.  We are told, “The happiness of the married cousins might appear as secure as earthly happiness can be,” and one of Jane Austen’s most moving descriptions is of Fanny’s feelings on the occasion: “There was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurances of that affection on which she had scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.”

Fanny’s and Edmund’s happiness, however, completes the disappointment of Henry Crawford who loved Fanny, and Mary Crawford, who was well on her way to loving Edmund. This is not through the fault of either Fanny and Edmund, of course, but solely due to Henry’s own behavior: he has nobody but himself to blame, and Jane Austen makes sure we know that both he and Mary are not happy with the result. “We may fairly consider a man of sense like Henry Crawford, to be providing himself no small portion of vexation and regret – vexation that must rise sometimes to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness – in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most estimable and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had rationally, as well as passionately loved.”

As for Mary, we are told that she, “though perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir apparents, who were at the command of her beauty, and her 20,000l. any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorize a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learnt to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.”

So here we are with Henry and Mary, when first they fully realize their harvest.

“Ha! That is Henry’s step,” said Mary, with a brightening eye. “My dear sister, he has come earlier than expected, and we do not go to Mrs. Fraser’s ball till later. Do you not think we might call for an early tea?”

“Yes, I will see to it,” agreed Mrs. Grant, “we have some nice apple tarts and muffins. I wonder why he comes from the Admiral, perhaps there is some good news.”

“I do not know what good we might expect,” said Mary disconsolately, but she went to the door to greet her brother. When she saw his face, she started. His features were ashy and anxious, and did not signal anything of promising import.

“Henry! Is anything wrong? You do not look like yourself. Come, sit down, Mrs. Grant is getting tea. Are you well?”

Henry seemed to have lost his voice for a moment, but running his hand through his hair agitatedly, he spoke. “I am well, quite well, Mary, only I have just now heard something that has disturbed me greatly, and even more, I fear, it will disturb you.”

“Oh, great Heaven! Do not come upon me in such a way, but tell, tell what must be told at once.”

“Are you sure you want to hear?”

“How can I say, when I do know what it is yet? But if it does not pertain to you, or myself, or our sister – it cannot be of as much moment as you seem to fear.”

“It is this,” and Henry held out a news sheet in a hand that Mary saw to her shock, trembled a little.

“What is it?”

“I saw it at the Admiral’s. You have not seen or heard any news report yet today?”

“I have heard nothing.”

“Well, then I am the unhappy bearer of the tidings that – that Edmund Bertram marries his cousin.”

“What!” Mary exclaimed. “Edmund marries – Fanny? That cannot be!”

“But it is,” he said hoarsely.  Mary stepped back and sank onto the sofa with shaking knees. He instantly went to her side, as Mrs. Grant entered the room.

“Mrs. Grant, Mary has had a shock – perhaps a cordial would be of more use than tea.”

“No, no,” Mary said faintly, “I am perfectly well. I was only surprised for a moment, that is all. Edmund!”

Her brother and sister watched her closely, with pitying eyes.

After a moment she spoke again. “Do not think,” she said more collectedly, “that I regret him in the way you are supposing. This proves him the pious parson I always suspected he was; and he and Fanny Price will be pictures of moral perfection whom we will never see the like of again. For one thing, neither would set foot in wicked London. Edmund will have his church, and Fanny her countryside,” she finished, twisting her mouth into a sort of smile.

“I am glad you did not really care for him,” Mrs. Grant soothed. “It is for the best. He is a handsome man, to be sure, and good natured enough; but you would have tired of him very quickly, and then where would you be?”

“Nowhere,” said Mary a bit hollowly, then nodded. “You are right, sister, and I had a narrow escape. You are the only person I ever saw who was able to fill the station of a clergyman’s wife with grace and aplomb; Mr. Edmund Bertram’s narrow minded ways and confined living would not have suited me.”

The sisters remembered Henry, and looking at him they saw with concern that his face was still grey, and his look shocked and saddened, with an image of despair never before seen on his usually cheerful countenance.

“Oh, Henry,” cried Mary with compassion, “here I am, not thinking of you, who loved so much more than I ever did. You have lost your Fanny.”

“I knew that I must, whenever she married,” he said, striving for composure, “and I knew I deserved no less; but I never thought that Edmund cared for his cousin, that way. He seemed so very much in love with you – “ He recollected himself, and was silent.

Mary touched his hand. “I believe he did think of me, at one time,” she said with difficulty, “but his morals – his rigid morals – were revolted. He saw a connection with your sister, as impossible, as it would connect him with you. He thought you his sister’s seducer, and as a sister myself, I must despise him for that.”

“Nay, in the first place, she seduced me,” said Henry coolly, “and in the second, Edmund always was a fellow to be tripping himself up with the constraints of a parson. A plague on him. My Fanny deserves better.”

“You think so, do you?” said Mary ironically. “Has it not occurred to you that she is the one who loosened his tight threads, who persuaded him that light eyes are more attractive than dark ones? Fanny has got what she wanted all along, I vow.”

“I should not have thought she was a schemer,” ventured Mrs. Grant.

“No. She is as pure and selfless as any creature that ever lived,” Henry asserted.

“Do you think so? Then why did she not accept the proposals of one of the most charming and eligible men in London, a man fifty times above her deserts? Because her heart was pre-engaged by her cousin, that is why. It is the only possible reason.”

Henry’s eyes met his sister’s. “Do you really think so? Fanny, cunning and devious, guilty of a love that ought to have been purely sisterly, or cousinly?”

“I do,” said Mary firmly.

“Then,” he said, color returning to his countenance, “I will soon cease to regret her. It is as I always thought. Fanny was never the angel I made of her; such a woman does not exist. She was, is, only another woman, like her cousins, only more timid and – and sweeter,” he was irresolute for a moment. “No: she is no better and no worse, and I wish she may be happy with her cousin Edmund,” he finished contemptuously. “I am in no hurry to marry, and am more confirmed in that belief than ever before in my life.”

“But you, Mary, would like to marry,” suggested Mrs. Grant.

Mary had returned to her usual confident carelessness. “Oh – I daresay I will, sooner or later,” she shrugged. “Here is the tea. Have some of these little muffins, Henry, and some cheese. I will dress for Flora Fraser’s ball, and you will attend us thither, will you not?”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “I have nothing else to do.”

Harvesters, Breughel