by John Fowles
Q. What made you of this?
A 'Twas said lightly, sir, as if he mocked me for my ignorance. Which, albeit in the same light spirit, I taxed him with. He assured me not, he meant no railing, there was truth in what he said. For we mortals are locked as at Newgate, he said within the chains and bars of our senses and our brief allotted span, and as such are blind; that for God all time is as one eternally now, whereas we must see it as past, present, future as in a history. Then he gestured about us, at the stones, and said, Do you not admire that, perhaps before Rome, before Christ Himself, these savages who set these stones knew something even our Newtons and Leibnizes cannot reach Then he likened mankind to an audience in a playhouse, who knew not of actors, and had no notion that they acted to fixed and written lines, and even less that behind the actors lay an author and a manager,. To which I demurred, sir, for I said we most certainly knew there was an Author behind all, and likewise His sacred text. At which he smiled again and said he did not deny the existence of such an Author, yet must beg leave to doubt our present notions of him; for he said it Would be juster to say we were like the personages in a tale or novel, that had no knowledge they were such; and thought ourselves most real, not seeing we were made of imperfect words and ideas, and to serve other ends, far different from what we supposed. We might imagine this great Author of all as such and such, in our own image, sometimes cruel, sometimes merciful, as we do our kings. Notwithstanding in truth we knew no more of him and his ends than of what lay in the moon, or the next world. Well, Mr Ayscough, I would argue upon this, for it seemed he spoke in contempt of established religion now. Then of a sudden, as if he would talk on such matters no more, he beckoned to his servant who waited nearby; and told me he must make some measurements, upon Mr Stukeley's request. That they would be tedious, and he would not presume upon my patience to wait while they were taken.
Q. You were given your conge?
A. So I took it to be, sir. As a man might say to himself, I talk overmuch, it is better I find an excuse to be silent now.
Q. What took you him to mean by this great secret we cannot reach?
A. I must leap ahead, sir, to answer that.
Q. Then leap.
A. I must tell you I saw not Mr B. further that day. The morrow I seized my opportunity as we rode past the monument on our way west and would have him speak further of his views concerning the ancients and in what their secret lay; to which he answered, They knew they knew nothing. Then he said, I answer you in riddles, is it not so? To which I agreed, sir, to make him expatiate the further. And he said, We moderns are corrupted by our past, our learning, our historians; and the more we know of what happened, the less we know of what will happen; for as I say, we are like the personages of a tale,
fixed it must seem by another intention, to be good or evil, happy or unhappy, as it falls. Yet they who set and dressed those stones lived before the tale began, Lacy, in a present that had no past, such as we may hardly imagine to ourselves. And next he spake of Mr Stukeley's belief, that it was they called the Druids who had built this monument and that they came hence first from the Holy Land, bearing within them the first seed of Christianity; that for himself, however, he believed they had pierced some part of the mystery of time. For the Roman historians, tho' their enemies, had said as much, that is that they could see into the future by reading the flight of birds and the form of livers, yet he believed them far more subtle than that, as their monument showed, if one could contrive to read it right, in mathematick terms. Which is why he took his measurements. And he said, I believe they knew the book and story of this world, to the very last page, as you may know your Milton- for I carried his great work in my pocket, Mr Ayscough, and Mr B. had inquired of what I read.
Q. What said you to that?
A. I did admire, if they could read the future, that they had been conquered by the Romans, and disappeared from this world. To which he said, They were a nation of seers and innocent philosophers, no match for the Romans in war; and then he said, Was Christ Himself not crucified?
Q. Did he not say earlier to you that man is able to choose and so change his course - now the very opposite, that his history is predestined, if it may be read in days to come, and we are no more free than the fixed characters of a play or book already written?
A. Mr Ayscough, your observation occurred to me also, and I remarked upon it. To which he answered, that we may choose in many small things as I may choose how I play a part, how dress for it, how gesture, and the rest; but yet must at the end, in greater matters, obey that part and portray its greater fate, as its author creates. And he said although he might believe in a general providence, he might not in a particular one, that God was in each; for he would not believe that God was in the most vicious and depraved as He was in the good and worthy, nor that He would allow those He inspired, who were innocent, to suffer the pain and misery that they most often did, such as we must see all around us.
Q. All this is most dangerous doctrine.
A. I must agree, sir. I tell you as it was put to me.
Q. Very well. We left you riding back to Amesbury.
A. I there came upon Jones, who was fishing for roach in the stream, and sat with him an hour or more, the evening being fine. When we returned to where we lodged, I found a note from Mr B. in my room, to ask me to excuse his presence at supper, as he felt greatly fatigued, and would straight to bed.
Q. What made you of that?
A. Nothing at that time, sir. I have not finished. I was tired myself and was to bed early, and slept deep. Which I should not have had I known Jones shall come to me early that next morning, with a most strange tale. He had slept in the same place as Dick. Just before midnight, for he said the bells sounded not a quarter after, he was awake and heard Dick quit the chamber. He thought, to answer nature. But no, just as the bells strike, he hears sounds below in the yard. Whereat he goes to the window, and makes out three figures; there was no moon, yet light enough for this. One is Dick, who leads two horses with stifled hooves upon the cobbles. Another is his master. The third, the maid. He was sure, these only. I questioned him closely.
Q. They rode out?
A. They did, sir. He thought to rouse me, but saw they took no baggage, and resolved to watch for their return. He was waking for an hour, then Morpheus conquered him. At cockcrow he wakes, and finds Dick asleep, as if nothing had passed.
Q. Did he not dream it?
A. I think not, sir. In company he will boast and tell tales enough; I am certain not to me, on such an occasion. Besides, he was alarmed for us both, for a suspicion had come upon him. I must tell you, Mr Ayscough, that I had watched the maid more close during that previous day, as we rode. Now I did not believe Jones's story of seeing her at the bagnio. We perforce come to know such women only too well in the theatre. She had none of their airs and impudence. Yet I found something knowing in her, for all her modesty of manner. I perceived also Jones was right concerning Dick: there was that in his eyes would have devoured her alive, had he dared. Now I found it strange she was not offended, no, seemed even kind to this attention, would smile at him on occasion. It seemed against nature to me, sir, as if she played a part, to mislead us.
Q. And Jones's suspicion?
A. Now supposing, Mr Lacy, he said, all is true about Mr Bartholomew and the young lady except this: that she and her uncle are in the West. Supposing that until a day or two ago she was indeed kept his prisoner, yet not where we think; but in London, where Mr Bartholomew told you he first met her. And therefore - you take his drift, sir.
Q. You were assisting an elopement post facto?
A. I was shocked, Mr Ayscough. The more I reflected on what I had observed of her myself, the more I saw colour in it-were it not for her kindness in Dick's regard, yet I saw that might have been to deceive us. Jones proposed that the going out in the night had been to solemnize a clandestine wedding; which did explain why we should have delayed at Amesbury, upon so trifling an outward rea
son. The only good I could discern in it was that had Mr Bartholomew accomplished such an end, he should not need our service further; and that we must soon know. I will not repeat all we conjectured, sir. I had almost feared to find Mr Bartholomew already decamped with his bride when I came down.
Q. But he was not?
A. He was not, sir; nor indeed seemed changed in any way. So we must set out, and myself to feel gravely at a loss to know how to broach the matter with him. However, before with Jones I agreed he should find opportunity to speak aside with the girl, to hint playfully he had wind of her night adventure; in short to see what might be teased out of her.
Q. Did he succeed?
A. No, sir, though he found an opportunity to charge her. He said she seemed at first in some confusion, when he pressed his hints; would not admit them and grew angry when he persisted, till she would not answer at all.
Q. She denied she had left the inn?
A. She did, sir.
Q. Tell me this now. Subsequent to that day were you informed what purpose this nocturnal adventure had?
A. No, sir, I was not. It is a mystery, like so much else, alas.
Q. Very well. I can no more today, Lacy, I have other business. You will attend here tomorrow morning, eight o'clock prompt. Is it understood? Without fail, sir. You are not clear yet.
A. My own conscience shall bring me, Mr Ayscough. You need not fear.
* * *
The Examination and Deposition of
Hannah Claiborne
the which doth attest upon her sworn
oath, this four and twentieth day
of August in the tenth year of the
reign of our sovereign Lord George the
second, by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.
* * *
My nameis Hannah Claiborne. I am forty-eight years of age, and widow. I am keeper of the St James house, that is in German Street.
* * *
Q. Now, woman, we will not beat about the bush. You know him I search after.
A. To my cost.
Q. And even more to your cost, if you do not speak truth.
A. I know which side the butter lies.
Q. I would hear first of this creature of yours. Know you her true name?
A. Rebecca Hocknell. But we called her Fanny.
Q. You never heard her called by a French name, to wit Louise?
A. No.
Q. And whence hailed she?
A. Bristol, or so she said.
Q. Has she family there?
A. For all I know.
Q. Meaning you do not?
A. She never spake of them.
Q. When came she first to your house?
A. Three years past.
Q. How old was she then?
A. Near twenty.
Q. How came she in your claws?
A. By one I know.
Q. Claiborne, thou art one of this town's most notorious whoremongers. None of thy laconic insolence with me.
A. By a woman I sent out.
Q. To spy out the innocent and corrupt 'em?
A. She was already corrupted.
Q. Already a whore?
A. She lost her honour where she was maid, to a son of the house, at Bristol where she came from. And was dismissed. Or so she said.
Q. She was by child?
A. No, she is barren naturally.
Q. Unnaturally. Now, was she sought after at your stews?
A. More for her tricks than her flesh.
Q. What tricks?
A. That she knew to tame men to her fancy. She had as well been actress as whore.
Q. How encompassed she this taming?
A. That she was no ordinary piece of flesh, but pure as Hampstead water, and must be treated so. 'Twas miracle her custom stood for it, and came back for more.
Q. She played the lady?
A. She played innocence, when she was not one jot, as cold wanton a trollop as ever I knew.
Q. What innocence?
A. Prude, modest sister, Miss Fresh-from-the-country, Miss Timid Don't-tempt-me, Miss Simple - would you have more? A novel of her tricks would make a book. She was
innocent as a nest of vipers, the cunning hussy. None better at whipping, when she wanted. Old Mr Justice P......n, doubtless you know him well, sir, that cannot spend till first he be well thrashed and striped. With him she'd be disdainful as an infanta and cruel as a tartar, all in the same bout. Which he craved, beside. But no matter.
Q. Where learnt she these powers of simulation?
A. Not from me, from the Devil. 'Twas born in her nature.
Q. Was she not famed for her lewd skill in one part?
A. What is that?
Q. I would have thee look at this printed paper, Claiborne. I am told it went out at thy expense.
A. I deny it.
Q. Have you seen it?
A. I may -have seen it.
Q. I will read you a choice passage. For an amorous Encounter with the Quaker Maid, Reader, thou had'st best count thy Gold first. This is no silver Quean, despite her modest Appellation, nor no modest One, neither, despite her first Appearance. Thou must know nothing pleases your true Debauchee better than to be obliged to force, and such is this cunning Nymph's Device - to blush, to flee, to cry for Shame, until at last she's brought to Bay. But thereafter 'tis a most curious and commodious Hind, who neither fights for Life nor swoons of Fear; but sweetly bares her pretty Heart to the fortunate Huntsman's Dagger; though 'tis whispered she requires such Stabbing there as more often leaves Sir Nimrod dead than she.' Well, madam?
A. Well, sir?
Q. Is it she?
A. Yes, I suppose. What if it is? I did not write nor publish it.
Q. That shall bring thee no mercy on Judgement Day. He whose name I forbid you to utter, when came he first into this?
A. At the beginning of April last.
Q. You had seen him before?
A. No, and would I had not seen him then. He came with a gentleman I know well, my lord B-, who presented him to me and said he would meet Fanny, whom his Lordship had
commended. But of this I knew before.
Q. How?
A. Lord B..... had already taken her, by note of hand, a four days before; though he said not for who it was, 'cept one of his friends.
Q. This is frequent, that your wenches are taken, ahead of their vile employment?
A. If they are prize pieces.
Q. And this one was one such?
A. Yes, curse her.
Q. Lord B..... introduced his friend under his true name?
A. No name was said. But Lord B...... told me in private afterward.
Q. And what passed?
A. He went with Fanny. And two or three times more, in the week that followed.
Q. Seemed he to know houses like yours?
A. A gosling.
Q. What are they?
A. That are over-lavish in their gifts, that will have one wench or one pleasure and no other, that would hide their names and be secret in their coming and going. They are our goslings.
Q. And your geese the hardened rakes?
A. Yes.
Q. And he we speak of was in down?
A. He would have none but Fanny, and hid his name, or would hide it from me. He made presents above what was due.
Q. To you or the girl?
A. To both.
Q. Presents of money?
A. Yes.
Q. And what led to her going from you?
A. He came to me one day and said he had matter to discuss that he hoped would be to both our advantages.
Q. When was this?
A. Toward the middle of the month. He said he was invited to a party of pleasure in Oxfordshire, at a friend's estate, where there was to be other rakes, and a prize given him who had brought the finest whore, when all had tasted all. That with that and other entertainments, 'twas to be a fortnight's folly. Which with the travelling
there and back, must mean three weeks. In the end that he would hire Fanny from me for this time, if I would allow and name a price for my discommodation by loss of her.
Q. He said where this estate was?
A. He would not. They would cause no scandal, all was secret.
Q. How answered you?
A. I said I had never done such a thing. He said he had been told I did. I said I might now and then send out upon terms to gentlemen I well knew, to suppers and the like in town. That I did not know him well, not even his true name.
Q. There was a false one he bore?
A. He called himself Mr Smith. Tho' now he said me his true one that I knew already of Lord B . Then that he had spoken of the diversion with Fanny, who was on her mettle and willing to the sport; howsoever she told him all lay with me. I said I would think on it, I could not decide on such a proposal at so short notice.
Q. How took he that?
A. He said that I knew now he lacked neither rank nor wealth, and I must give that consideration. On which he went away.
Q. You came not to mention of terms?
A. Not then. He came again to Fanny a day or two later, and after to me, by which time I had spoke to Lord B- and asked if he knew of this party of pleasure. Which he said he did, he was himself invited to it, tho' prevented by other business he could not put off. That he was surprised I had no wind of it. That I should be foolish to offend someone so great as a duke's son. That there was butter in it for me, for I might name what price I liked for the favour. And other matters.
Q. What other matters, woman?
A. That once done, gossip would spread news of the folly, and fame attach to all who had a part in it. That Mistress Wishbourne had promised two of her girls to it, and should steal a march upon me.
Q. Who is Wishbourne?
A. An upstart keeper of the new Covent Garden house.
