“I do not know what you mean by prudery,” answered Amelia. “I shall never be ashamed of the strictest regard to decency, to reputation, and to that honour in which the dearest of all human creatures hath his share. But, pray, give me the letter, there is an expression in it which alarmed me when I read it. Pray, what doth he mean by his two short minutes, and by purchasing the reality of such another blessing?”
“Indeed, I know not what he means by two minutes,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “unless he calls two hours so; for we were not together much less. And as for any blessing he had, I am a stranger to it. Sure, I hope you have a better opinion of me than to think I granted him the last favour.”
“I don’t know what favours you granted him, madam,” answered Amelia peevishly, “but I am sorry you granted him any in my name.”
“Upon my word,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “you use me unkindly, and it is an usage I did not expect at your hands, nor do I know that I have deserved it. I am sure I went to the masquerade with no other view than to oblige you, nor did I say or do anything there which any woman who is not the most confounded prude upon earth would have started at on a much less occasion than what induced me. Well, I declare upon my soul then, that, if I was a man, rather than be married to a woman who makes such a fuss with her virtue, I would wish my wife was without such a troublesome companion.”
“Very possibly, madam, these may be your sentiments,” cries Amelia, “and I hope they are the sentiments of your husband.”
“I desire, madam,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “you would not reflect on my husband. He is a worthy man and as brave a man as yours; yes, madam, and he is now as much a captain.”
She spoke those words with so loud a voice, that Atkinson, who was accidentally going up-stairs, heard them; and, being surprized at the angry tone of his wife’s voice, he entered the room, and, with a look of much astonishment, begged to know what was the matter.
“The matter, my dear,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “is that I have got a commission for you, and your good old friend here is angry with me for getting it.”
“I have not spirits enow,” cries Amelia, “to answer you as you deserve; and, if I had, you are below my anger.”
“I do not know, Mrs. Booth,” answered the other, “whence this great superiority over me is derived; but, if your virtue gives it you, I would have you to know, madam, that I despise a prude as much as you can do a —— .”
“Though you have several times,” cries Amelia, “insulted me with that word, I scorn to give you any ill language in return. If you deserve any bad appellation, you know it, without my telling it you.”
Poor Atkinson, who was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, did all he could to procure peace. He fell upon his knees to his wife, and begged her to compose herself; for indeed she seemed to be in a most furious rage.
While he was in this posture Booth, who had knocked so gently at the door, for fear of disturbing his wife, that he had not been heard in the tempest, came into the room. The moment Amelia saw him, the tears which had been gathering for some time, burst in a torrent from her eyes, which, however, she endeavoured to conceal with her handkerchief. The entry of Booth turned all in an instant into a silent picture, in which the first figure which struck the eyes of the captain was the serjeant on his knees to his wife.
Booth immediately cried, “What’s the meaning of this?” but received no answer. He then cast his eyes towards Amelia, and, plainly discerning her condition, he ran to her, and in a very tender phrase begged to know what was the matter. To which she answered, “Nothing, my dear, nothing of any consequence.” He replied that he would know, and then turned to Atkinson, and asked the same question.
Atkinson answered, “Upon my honour, sir, I know nothing of it. Something hath passed between madam and my wife; but what it is I know no more than your honour.”
“Your wife,” said Mrs. Atkinson, “hath used me cruelly ill, Mr. Booth.
If you must be satisfied, that is the whole matter.”
Booth rapt out a great oath, and cried, “It is impossible; my wife is not capable of using any one ill.”
Amelia then cast herself upon her knees to her husband, and cried, “For Heaven’s sake do not throw yourself into a passion — some few words have past — perhaps I may be in the wrong.”
“Damnation seize me if I think so!” cries Booth. “And I wish whoever hath drawn these tears from your eyes may pay it with as many drops of their heart’s blood.”
“You see, madam,” cries Mrs. Atkinson, “you have your bully to take your part; so I suppose you will use your triumph.”
Amelia made no answer, but still kept hold of Booth, who, in a violent rage, cried out, “My Amelia triumph over such a wretch as thee! — What can lead thy insolence to such presumption! Serjeant, I desire you’ll take that monster out of the room, or I cannot answer for myself.”
The serjeant was beginning to beg his wife to retire (for he perceived very plainly that she had, as the phrase is, taken a sip too much that evening) when, with a rage little short of madness, she cried out, “And do you tamely see me insulted in such a manner, now that you are a gentleman, and upon a footing with him?”
“It is lucky for us all, perhaps,” answered Booth, “that he is not my equal.”
“You lie, sirrah,” said Mrs. Atkinson; “he is every way your equal; he is as good a gentleman as yourself, and as much an officer. No, I retract what I say; he hath not the spirit of a gentleman, nor of a man neither, or he would not bear to see his wife insulted.”
“Let me beg of you, my dear,” cries the serjeant, “to go with me and compose yourself.”
“Go with thee, thou wretch!” cries she, looking with the utmost disdain upon him; “no, nor ever speak to thee more.” At which words she burst out of the room, and the serjeant, without saying a word, followed her.
A very tender and pathetic scene now passed between Booth and his wife, in which, when she was a little composed, she related to him the whole story. For, besides that it was not possible for her otherwise to account for the quarrel which he had seen, Booth was now possessed of the letter that lay on the floor.
Amelia, having emptied her mind to her husband, and obtained his faithful promise that he would not resent the affair to my lord, was pretty well composed, and began to relent a little towards Mrs. Atkinson; but Booth was so highly incensed with her, that he declared he would leave her house the next morning; which they both accordingly did, and immediately accommodated themselves with convenient apartments within a few doors of their friend the doctor.
CHAPTER IX.
Containing some things worthy observation.
Notwithstanding the exchange of his lodgings, Booth did not forget to send an excuse to Mr. Trent, of whose conversation he had taken a full surfeit the preceding evening.
That day in his walks Booth met with an old brother-officer, who had served with him at Gibraltar, and was on half-pay as well as himself. He had not, indeed, had the fortune of being broke with his regiment, as was Booth, but had gone out, as they call it, on half-pay as a lieutenant, a rank to which he had risen in five-and-thirty years.
This honest gentleman, after some discourse with Booth, desired him to lend him half-a-crown, which he assured him he would faithfully pay the next day, when he was to receive some money for his sister. The sister was the widow of an officer that had been killed in the sea- service; and she and her brother lived together, on their joint stock, out of which they maintained likewise an old mother and two of the sister’s children, the eldest of which was about nine years old. “You must know,” said the old lieutenant, “I have been disappointed this morning by an old scoundrel, who wanted fifteen per cent, for advancing my sister’s pension; but I have now got an honest fellow who hath promised it me to-morrow at ten per cent.”
“And enough too, of all conscience,” cries Booth.
“Why, indeed, I think so too,” answered the other; “considering it is sure to be paid one time or ot
her. To say the truth, it is a little hard the government doth not pay those pensions better; for my sister’s hath been due almost these two years; that is my way of thinking.”
Booth answered he was ashamed to refuse him such a sum; but, “Upon my soul,” said he, “I have not a single halfpenny in my pocket; for I am in a worse condition, if possible, than yourself; for I have lost all my money, and, what is worse, I owe Mr. Trent, whom you remember at Gibraltar, fifty pounds.”
“Remember him! yes, d — n him! I remember him very well,” cries the old gentleman, “though he will not remember me. He is grown so great now that he will not speak to his old acquaintance; and yet I should be ashamed of myself to be great in such a manner.”
“What manner do you mean?” cries Booth, a little eagerly.
“Why, by pimping,” answered the other; “he is pimp in ordinary to my Lord —— , who keeps his family; or how the devil he lives else I don’t know, for his place is not worth three hundred pounds a year, and he and his wife spend a thousand at least. But she keeps an assembly, which, I believe, if you was to call a bawdy-house, you would not misname it. But d — n me if I had not rather be an honest man, and walk on foot, with holes in my shoes, as I do now, or go without a dinner, as I and all my family will today, than ride in a chariot and feast by such means. I am honest Bob Bound, and always will be; that’s my way of thinking; and there’s no man shall call me otherwise; for if he doth, I will knock him down for a lying rascal; that is my way of thinking.”
“And a very good way of thinking too,” cries Booth. “However, you shall not want a dinner to-day; for if you will go home with me, I will lend you a crown with all my heart.”
“Lookee,” said the old man, “if it be anywise inconvenient to you I will not have it; for I will never rob another man of his dinner to eat myself — that is my way of thinking.”
“Pooh!” said Booth; “never mention such a trifle twice between you and me. Besides, you say you can pay it me to-morrow; and I promise you that will be the same thing.”
They then walked together to Booth’s lodgings, where Booth, from Amelia’s pocket, gave his friend double the little sum he had asked. Upon which the old gentleman shook him heartily by the hand, and, repeating his intention of paying him the next day, made the best of his way to a butcher’s, whence he carried off a leg of mutton to a family that had lately kept Lent without any religious merit.
When he was gone Amelia asked her husband who that old gentleman was? Booth answered he was one of the scandals of his country; that the Duke of Marlborough had about thirty years before made him an ensign from a private man for very particular merit; and that he had not long since gone out of the army with a broken heart, upon having several boys put over his head. He then gave her an account of his family, which he had heard from the old gentleman in their way to his house, and with which we have already in a concise manner acquainted the reader.
“Good Heavens!” cries Amelia; “what are our great men made of? are they in reality a distinct species from the rest of mankind? are they born without hearts?”
“One would, indeed, sometimes,” cries Booth, “be inclined to think so. In truth, they have no perfect idea of those common distresses of mankind which are far removed from their own sphere. Compassion, if thoroughly examined, will, I believe, appear to be the fellow-feeling only of men of the same rank and degree of life for one another, on account of the evils to which they themselves are liable. Our sensations are, I am afraid, very cold towards those who are at a great distance from us, and whose calamities can consequently never reach us.”
“I remember,” cries Amelia, “a sentiment of Dr Harrison’s, which he told me was in some Latin book; I am a man myself, and my heart is interested in whatever can befal the rest of mankind. That is the sentiment of a good man, and whoever thinks otherwise is a bad one.”
“I have often told you, my dear Emily,” cries Booth, “that all men, as well the best as the worst, act alike from the principle of self-love. Where benevolence therefore is the uppermost passion, self-love directs you to gratify it by doing good, and by relieving the distresses of others; for they are then in reality your own. But where ambition, avarice, pride, or any other passion, governs the man and keeps his benevolence down, the miseries of all other men affect him no more than they would a stock or a stone. And thus the man and his statue have often the same degree of feeling or compassion.”
“I have often wished, my dear,” cries Amelia, “to hear you converse with Dr Harrison on this subject; for I am sure he would convince you, though I can’t, that there are really such things as religion and virtue.”
This was not the first hint of this kind which Amelia had given; for she sometimes apprehended from his discourse that he was little better than an atheist: a consideration which did not diminish her affection for him, but gave her great uneasiness. On all such occasions Booth immediately turned the discourse to some other subject; for, though he had in other points a great opinion of his wife’s capacity, yet as a divine or a philosopher he did not hold her in a very respectable light, nor did he lay any great stress on her sentiments in such matters. He now, therefore, gave a speedy turn to the conversation, and began to talk of affairs below the dignity of this history.
BOOK XL
CHAPTER I.
Containing a very polite scene.
We will now look back to some personages who, though not the principal characters in this history, have yet made too considerable a figure in it to be abruptly dropt: and these are Colonel James and his lady.
This fond couple never met till dinner the day after the masquerade, when they happened to be alone together in an antechamber before the arrival of the rest of the company.
The conversation began with the colonel’s saying, “I hope, madam, you got no cold last night at the masquerade.” To which the lady answered by much the same kind of question.
They then sat together near five minutes without opening their mouths to each other. At last Mrs. James said, “Pray, sir, who was that masque with you in the dress of a shepherdess? How could you expose yourself by walking with such a trollop in public; for certainly no woman of any figure would appear there in such a dress? You know, Mr. James, I never interfere with your affairs; but I would, methinks, for my own sake, if I was you, preserve a little decency in the face of the world.”
“Upon my word,” said James, “I do not know whom you mean. A woman in such a dress might speak to me for aught I know. A thousand people speak to me at a masquerade. But, I promise you, I spoke to no woman acquaintance there that I know of. Indeed, I now recollect there was a woman in a dress of a shepherdess; and there was another aukward thing in a blue domino that plagued me a little, but I soon got rid of them.”
“And I suppose you do not know the lady in the blue domino neither?”
“Not I, I assure you,” said James. “But pray, why do you ask me these questions? it looks so like jealousy.”
“Jealousy!” cries she; “I jealous! no, Mr. James, I shall never be jealous, I promise you, especially of the lady in the blue domino; for, to my knowledge, she despises you of all human race.”
“I am heartily glad of it,” said James; “for I never saw such a tall aukward monster in my life.”
“That is a very cruel way of telling me you knew me.”
“You, madam!” said James; “you was in a black domino.”
“It is not so unusual a thing, I believe, you yourself know, to change dresses. I own I did it to discover some of your tricks. I did not think you could have distinguished the tall aukward monster so well.”
“Upon my soul,” said James, “if it was you I did not even suspect it; so you ought not to be offended at what I have said ignorantly.”
“Indeed, sir,” cries she, “you cannot offend me by anything you can say to my face; no, by my soul, I despise you too much. But I wish, Mr. James, you would not make me the subject of your conversation amongst your wenches. I desir
e I may not be afraid of meeting them for fear of their insults; that I may not be told by a dirty trollop you make me the subject of your wit amongst them, of which, it seems, I am the favourite topic. Though you have married a tall aukward monster, Mr. James, I think she hath a right to be treated, as your wife, with respect at least: indeed, I shall never require any more; indeed, Mr. James, I never shall. I think a wife hath a title to that.”
“Who told you this, madam?” said James.
“Your slut,” said she; “your wench, your shepherdess.”
“By all that’s sacred!” cries James, “I do not know who the shepherdess was.”
“By all that’s sacred then,” says she, “she told me so, and I am convinced she told me truth. But I do not wonder at you denying it; for that is equally consistent with honour as to behave in such a manner to a wife who is a gentlewoman. I hope you will allow me that, sir. Because I had not quite so great a fortune I hope you do not think me beneath you, or that you did me any honour in marrying me. I am come of as good a family as yourself, Mr. James; and if my brother knew how you treated me he would not bear it.”
“Do you threaten me with your brother, madam?” said James.
“I will not be ill-treated, sir,” answered she.
“Nor I neither, madam,” cries he; “and therefore I desire you will prepare to go into the country to-morrow morning.”
“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I shall not.”
“By heavens! madam, but you shall,” answered he: “I will have my coach at the door to-morrow morning by seven; and you shall either go into it or be carried.”
“I hope, sir, you are not in earnest,” said she.
“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “but I am in earnest, and resolved; and into the country you go to-morrow.”
“But why into the country,” said she, “Mr. James? Why will you be so barbarous to deny me the pleasures of the town?”
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 220
