Генри Филдинг
Amelia – Complete
BOOK XII
Chapter i. – The book begins with polite history
Before we return to the miserable couple, whom we left at the end of the last book, we will give our reader the more chearful view of the gay and happy family of Colonel James.
Mrs. James, when she could not, as we have seen, prevail with Amelia to accept that invitation which, at the desire of the colonel, she had so kindly and obediently carried her, returned to her husband and acquainted him with the ill success of her embassy; at which, to say the truth, she was almost as much disappointed as the colonel himself; for he had not taken a much stronger liking to Amelia than she herself had conceived for Booth. This will account for some passages which may have a little surprized the reader in the former chapters of this history, as we were not then at leisure to communicate to them a hint of this kind; it was, indeed, on Mr. Booth’s account that she had been at the trouble of changing her dress at the masquerade.
But her passions of this sort, happily for her, were not extremely strong; she was therefore easily baulked; and, as she met with no encouragement from Booth, she soon gave way to the impetuosity of Miss Matthews, and from that time scarce thought more of the affair till her husband’s design against the wife revived her’s likewise; insomuch that her passion was at this time certainly strong enough for Booth, to produce a good hearty hatred for Amelia, whom she now abused to the colonel in very gross terms, both on the account of her poverty and her insolence, for so she termed the refusal of all her offers.
The colonel, seeing no hopes of soon possessing his new mistress, began, like a prudent and wise man, to turn his thoughts towards the securing his old one. From what his wife had mentioned concerning the behaviour of the shepherdess, and particularly her preference of Booth, he had little doubt but that this was the identical Miss Matthews. He resolved therefore to watch her closely, in hopes of discovering Booth’s intrigue with her. In this, besides the remainder of affection which he yet preserved for that lady, he had another view, as it would give him a fair pretence to quarrel with Booth; who, by carrying on this intrigue, would have broke his word and honour given to him. And he began now to hate poor Booth heartily, from the same reason from which Mrs. James had contracted her aversion to Amelia.
The colonel therefore employed an inferior kind of pimp to watch the lodgings of Miss Matthews, and to acquaint him if Booth, whose person was known to the pimp, made any visit there.
The pimp faithfully performed his office, and, having last night made the wished-for discovery, immediately acquainted his master with it.
Upon this news the colonel presently despatched to Booth the short note which we have before seen. He sent it to his own house instead of Miss Matthews’s, with hopes of that very accident which actually did happen. Not that he had any ingredient of the bully in him, and desired to be prevented from fighting, but with a prospect of injuring Booth in the affection and esteem of Amelia, and of recommending himself somewhat to her by appearing in the light of her champion; for which purpose he added that compliment to Amelia in his letter. He concluded upon the whole that, if Booth himself opened the letter, he would certainly meet him the next morning; but if his wife should open it before he came home it might have the effects before mentioned; and, for his future expostulation with Booth, it would not be in Amelia’s power to prevent it.
Now it happened that this pimp had more masters than one. Amongst these was the worthy Mr. Trent, for whom he had often done business of the pimping vocation. He had been employed indeed in the service of the great peer himself, under the direction of the said Trent, and was the very person who had assisted the said Trent in dogging Booth and his wife to the opera-house on the masquerade night.
This subaltern pimp was with his superior Trent yesterday morning, when he found a bailiff with him in order to receive his instructions for the arresting Booth, when the bailiff said it would be a very difficult matter to take him, for that to his knowledge he was as shy a cock as any in England. The subaltern immediately acquainted Trent with the business in which he was employed by the colonel; upon which Trent enjoined him the moment he had set him to give immediate notice to the bailiff, which he agreed to, and performed accordingly.
The bailiff, on receiving the notice, immediately set out for his stand at an alehouse within three doors of Miss Matthews’s lodgings; at which, unfortunately for poor Booth, he arrived a very few minutes before Booth left that lady in order to return to Amelia.
These were several matters of which we thought necessary our reader should be informed; for, besides that it conduces greatly to a perfect understanding of all history, there is no exercise of the mind of a sensible reader more pleasant than the tracing the several small and almost imperceptible links in every chain of events by which all the great actions of the world are produced. We will now in the next chapter proceed with our history.
Chapter ii. – In which Amelia visits her husband
Amelia, after much anxious thinking, in which she sometimes flattered herself that her husband was less guilty than she had at first imagined him, and that he had some good excuse to make for himself (for, indeed, she was not so able as willing to make one for him), at length resolved to set out for the bailiff’s castle. Having therefore strictly recommended the care of her children to her good landlady, she sent for a hackney coach, and ordered the coachman to drive to Gray’s-inn-lane.
When she came to the house, and asked for the captain, the bailiff’s wife, who came to the door, guessing, by the greatness of her beauty and the disorder of her dress, that she was a young lady of pleasure, answered surlily, “Captain! I do not know of any captain that is here, not I!” For this good woman was, as well as dame Purgante in Prior, a bitter enemy to all whores, especially to those of the handsome kind; for some such she suspected to go shares with her in a certain property to which the law gave her the sole right.
Amelia replied she was certain that Captain Booth was there. “Well, if he is so,” cries the bailiff’s wife, “you may come into the kitchen if you will, and he shall be called down to you if you have any business with him.” At the same time she muttered something to herself, and concluded a little more intelligibly, though still in a muttering voice, that she kept no such house.
Amelia, whose innocence gave her no suspicion of the true cause of this good woman’s sullenness, was frightened, and began to fear she knew not what. At last she made a shift to totter into the kitchen, when the mistress of the house asked her, “Well, madam, who shall I tell the captain wants to speak with him?”
“I ask your pardon, madam,” cries Amelia; “in my confusion I really forgot you did not know me – tell him, if you please, that I am his wife.”
“And you are indeed his wife, madam?” cries Mrs. Bailiff, a little softened.
“Yes, indeed, and upon my honour,” answers Amelia.
“If this be the case,” cries the other, “you may walk up-stairs if you please. Heaven forbid I should part man and wife! Indeed, I think they can never be too much together. But I never will suffer any bad doings in my house, nor any of the town ladies to come to gentlemen here.”
Amelia answered that she liked her the better: for, indeed, in her present disposition, Amelia was as much exasperated against wicked women as the virtuous mistress of the house, or any other virtuous woman could be.
The bailiff’s wife then ushered Amelia up-stairs, and, having unlocked the prisoner’s doors, cried, “Captain, here is your lady, sir, come to see you.” At which words Booth started up from his chair, and caught Amelia in his arms, embracing her for a considerable time with so much rapture, that the bailiff’s wife, who was an eyewitness of this violent fondness, began to suspect whether Amelia had really told her truth. However, she had some little awe of the captain; and for fear of being in the wrong did not interfere, but shut the door and turned the key.
When Booth found himself alone with his wife, and had vented the first violence of his rapture in kisses and embraces, he looked tenderly at her and cried, “Is it possible, Amelia, is it possible you can have this goodness to follow such a wretch as me to such a place as this – or do you come to upbraid me with my guilt, and to sink me down to that perdition I so justly deserve?”
“Am I so given to upbraiding then?” says she, in a gentle voice; “have I ever given you occasion to think I would sink you to perdition?”
“Far be it from me, my love, to think so,” answered he. “And yet you may forgive the utmost fears of an offending, penitent sinner. I know, indeed, the extent of your goodness, and yet I know my guilt so great – ”
“Alas! Mr. Booth,” said she, “what guilt is this which you mention, and which you writ to me of last night? – Sure, by your mentioning to me so much, you intend to tell me more – nay, indeed, to tell me all; and not leave my mind open to suspicions perhaps ten times worse than the truth.”
“Will you give me a patient hearing?” said he.
“I will indeed,” answered she, “nay, I am prepared to hear the worst you can unfold; nay, perhaps, the worst is short of my apprehensions.”
Booth then, after a little further apology, began and related to her the whole that had passed between him and Miss Matthews, from their first meeting in the prison to their separation the preceding evening. All which, as the reader knows it already, it would be tedious and unpardonable to transcribe from his mouth. He told her likewise all that he had done and suffered to conceal his transgression from her knowledge. This he assured her was the business of his visit last night, the consequence of which was, he declared in the most solemn manner, no other than an absolute quarrel with Miss Matthews, of whom he had taken a final leave.
When he had ended his narration, Amelia, after a short silence, answered, “Indeed, I firmly believe every word you have said, but I cannot now forgive you the fault you have confessed; and my reason is – because I have forgiven it long ago. Here, my dear,” said she, “is an instance that I am likewise capable of keeping a secret.” – She then delivered her husband a letter which she had some time ago received from Miss Matthews, and which was the same which that lady had mentioned, and supposed, as Booth had never heard of it, that it had miscarried; for she sent it by the penny post. In this letter, which was signed by a feigned name, she had acquainted Amelia with the infidelity of her husband, and had besides very greatly abused him; taxing him with many falsehoods, and, among the rest, with having spoken very slightingly and disrespectfully of his wife.
Amelia never shined forth to Booth in so amiable and great a light; nor did his own unworthiness ever appear to him so mean and contemptible as at this instant. However, when he had read the letter, he uttered many violent protestations to her, that all which related to herself was absolutely false.
“I am convinced it is,” said she. “I would not have a suspicion of the contrary for the world. I assure you I had, till last night revived it in my memory, almost forgot the letter; for, as I well knew from whom it came, by her mentioning obligations which she had conferred on you, and which you had more than once spoken to me of, I made large allowances for the situation you was then in; and I was the more satisfied, as the letter itself, as well as many other circumstances, convinced me the affair was at an end.”
Booth now uttered the most extravagant expressions of admiration and fondness that his heart could dictate, and accompanied them with the warmest embraces. All which warmth and tenderness she returned; and tears of love and joy gushed from both their eyes. So ravished indeed were their hearts, that for some time they both forgot the dreadful situation of their affairs.
This, however, was but a short reverie. It soon recurred to Amelia, that, though she had the liberty of leaving that house when she pleased, she could not take her beloved husband with her. This thought stung her tender bosom to the quick, and she could not so far command herself as to refrain from many sorrowful exclamations against the hardship of their destiny; but when she saw the effect they had upon Booth she stifled her rising grief, forced a little chearfulness into her countenance, and, exerting all the spirits she could raise within herself, expressed her hopes of seeing a speedy end to their sufferings. She then asked her husband what she should do for him, and to whom she should apply for his deliverance?
“You know, my dear,” cries Booth, “that the doctor is to be in town some time to-day. My hopes of immediate redemption are only in him; and, if that can be obtained, I make no doubt but of the success of that affair which is in the hands of a gentleman who hath faithfully promised, and in whose power I am so well assured it is to serve me.”
Thus did this poor man support his hopes by a dependence on that ticket which he had so dearly purchased of one who pretended to manage the wheels in the great state lottery of preferment. A lottery, indeed, which hath this to recommend it – that many poor wretches feed their imaginations with the prospect of a prize during their whole lives, and never discover they have drawn a blank.
Amelia, who was of a pretty sanguine temper, and was entirely ignorant of these matters, was full as easy to be deceived into hopes as her husband; but in reality at present she turned her eyes to no distant prospect, the desire of regaining her husband’s liberty having engrossed her whole mind.
While they were discoursing on these matters they heard a violent noise in the house, and immediately after several persons passed by their door up-stairs to the apartment over their head. This greatly terrified the gentle spirit of Amelia, and she cried – “Good Heavens, my dear, must I leave you in this horrid place? I am terrified with a thousand fears concerning you.”
Booth endeavoured to comfort her, saying that he was in no manner of danger, and that he doubted not but that the doctor would soon be with him – “And stay, my dear,” cries he; “now I recollect, suppose you should apply to my old friend James; for I believe you are pretty well satisfied that your apprehensions of him were groundless. I have no reason to think but that he would be as ready to serve me as formerly.”
Amelia turned pale as ashes at the name of James, and, instead of making a direct answer to her husband, she laid hold of him, and cried, “My dear, I have one favour to beg of you, and I insist on your granting it me.”
Booth readily swore he would deny her nothing.
“It is only this, my dear,” said she, “that, if that detested colonel comes, you will not see him. Let the people of the house tell him you are not here.”
“He knows nothing of my being here,” answered Booth; “but why should I refuse to see him if he should be kind enough to come hither to me? Indeed, my Amelia, you have taken a dislike to that man without sufficient reason.”
“I speak not upon that account,” cries Amelia; “but I have had dreams last night about you two. Perhaps you will laugh at my folly, but pray indulge it. Nay, I insist on your promise of not denying me.”
“Dreams! my dear creature,” answered he. “What dream can you have had of us?”
“One too horrible to be mentioned,” replied she. – “I cannot think of it without horrour; and, unless you will promise me not to see the colonel till I return, I positively will never leave you.”
“Indeed, my Amelia,” said Booth, “I never knew you unreasonable before. How can a woman of your sense talk of dreams?”
“Suffer me to be once at least unreasonable,” said Amelia, “as you are so good-natured to say I am not often so. Consider what I have lately suffered, and how weak my spirits must be at this time.”
As Booth was going to speak, the bailiff, without any ceremony, entered the room, and cried, “No offence, I hope, madam; my wife, it seems, did not know you. She thought the captain had a mind for a bit of flesh by the bye. But I have quieted all matters; for I know you very well: I have seen that handsome face many a time when I have been waiting upon the captain formerly. No offence, I hope, madam; but if my wife was as handsome as you are I should not look for worse goods abroad.”
Booth conceived some displeasure at this speech, but he did not think proper to express more than a pish; and then asked the bailiff what was the meaning of the noise they heard just now?
“I know of no noise,” answered the bailiff. “Some of my men have been carrying a piece of bad luggage up-stairs; a poor rascal that resisted the law and justice; so I gave him a cut or two with a hanger. If they should prove mortal, he must thank himself for it. If a man will not behave like a gentleman to an officer, he must take the consequence; but I must say that for you, captain, you behave yourself like a gentleman, and therefore I shall always use you as such; and I hope you will find bail soon with all my heart. This is but a paultry sum to what the last was; and I do assure you there is nothing else against you in the office.”
The latter part of the bailiff’s speech somewhat comforted Amelia, who had been a little frightened by the former; and she soon after took leave of her husband to go in quest of the doctor, who, as Amelia had heard that morning, was expected in town that very day, which was somewhat sooner than he had intended at his departure.
Before she went, however, she left a strict charge with the bailiff, who ushered her very civilly downstairs, that if one Colonel James came there to enquire for her husband he should deny that he was there.
She then departed; and the bailiff immediately gave a very strict charge to his wife, his maid, and his followers, that if one Colonel James, or any one from him, should enquire after the captain, that they should let him know he had the captain above-stairs; for he doubted not but that the colonel was one of Booth’s creditors, and he hoped for a second bail-bond by his means.
Chapter iii. – Containing matter pertinent to the history
Amelia, in her way to the doctor’s, determined just to stop at her own lodgings, which lay a little out of the road, and to pay a momentary visit to her children.
This was fortunate enough; for, had she called at the doctor’s house, she would have heard nothing of him, which would have caused in her some alarm and disappointment; for the doctor was set down at Mrs. Atkinson’s, where he was directed to Amelia’s lodgings, to which he went before he called at his own; and here Amelia now found him playing with her two children.
The doctor had been a little surprized at not finding Amelia at home, or any one that could give an account of her. He was now more surprized to see her come in such a dress, and at the disorder which he very plainly perceived in her pale and melancholy countenance. He addressed her first (for indeed she was in no great haste to speak), and cried, “My dear child, what is the matter? where is your husband? some mischief I am afraid hath happened to him in my absence.”
“O my dear doctor!” answered Amelia, “sure some good angel hath sent you hither. My poor Will is arrested again. I left him in the most miserable condition in the very house whence your goodness formerly redeemed him.”
“Arrested!” cries the doctor. “Then it must be for some very inconsiderable trifle.”
“I wish it was,” said Amelia; “but it is for no less than fifty pound.”
“Then,” cries the doctor, “he hath been disingenuous with me. He told me he did not owe ten pounds in the world for which he was liable to be sued.”
“I know not what to say,” cries Amelia. “Indeed, I am afraid to tell you the truth.”
“How, child?” said the doctor – “I hope you will never disguise it to any one, especially to me. Any prevarication, I promise you, will forfeit my friendship for ever.”
“I will tell you the whole,” cries Amelia, “and rely entirely on your goodness.” She then related the gaming story, not forgetting to set in the fullest light, and to lay the strongest emphasis on, his promise never to play again.
The doctor fetched a deep sigh when he had heard Amelia’s relation, and cried, “I am sorry, child, for the share you are to partake in your husband’s sufferings; but as for him, I really think he deserves no compassion. You say he hath promised never to play again, but I must tell you he hath broke his promise to me already; for I had heard he was formerly addicted to this vice, and had given him sufficient caution against it. You will consider, child, I am already pretty largely engaged for him, every farthing of which I am sensible I must pay. You know I would go to the utmost verge of prudence to serve you; but I must not exceed my ability, which is not very great; and I have several families on my hands who are by misfortune alone brought to want. I do assure you I cannot at present answer for such a sum as this without distressing my own circumstances.”
“Then Heaven have mercy upon us all!” cries Amelia, “for we have no other friend on earth: my husband is undone, and these poor little wretches must be starved.”
The doctor cast his eyes on the children, and then cried, “I hope not so. I told you I must distress my circumstances, and I will distress them this once on your account, and on the account of these poor little babes. But things must not go on any longer in this way. You must take an heroic resolution. I will hire a coach for you to-morrow morning which shall carry you all down to my parsonage-house. There you shall have my protection till something can be done for your husband; of which, to be plain with you, I at present see no likelihood.”
Amelia fell upon her knees in an ecstasy of thanksgiving to the doctor, who immediately raised her up, and placed her in her chair. She then recollected herself, and said, “O my worthy friend, I have still another matter to mention to you, in which I must have both your advice and assistance. My soul blushes to give you all this trouble; but what other friend have I? – indeed, what other friend could I apply to so properly on such an occasion?”
The doctor, with a very kind voice and countenance, desired her to speak. She then said, “O sir! that wicked colonel whom I have mentioned to you formerly hath picked some quarrel with my husband (for she did not think proper to mention the cause), and hath sent him a challenge. It came to my hand last night after he was arrested: I opened and read it.”
“Give it me, child,” said the doctor.
She answered she had burnt it, as was indeed true. “But I remember it was an appointment to meet with sword and pistol this morning at Hyde-park.”
“Make yourself easy, my dear child,” cries the doctor; “I will take care to prevent any mischief.”
“But consider, my dear sir,” said she, “this is a tender matter. My husband’s honour is to be preserved as well as his life.”
“And so is his soul, which ought to be the dearest of all things,” cries the doctor. “Honour! nonsense! Can honour dictate to him to disobey the express commands of his Maker, in compliance with a custom established by a set of blockheads, founded on false principles of virtue, in direct opposition to the plain and positive precepts of religion, and tending manifestly to give a sanction to ruffians, and to protect them in all the ways of impudence and villany?”
“All this, I believe, is very true,” cries Amelia; “but yet you know, doctor, the opinion of the world.”
“You talk simply, child,” cries the doctor. “What is the opinion of the world opposed to religion and virtue? but you are in the wrong. It is not the opinion of the world; it is the opinion of the idle, ignorant, and profligate. It is impossible it should be the opinion of one man of sense, who is in earnest in his belief of our religion. Chiefly, indeed, it hath been upheld by the nonsense of women, who, either from their extreme cowardice and desire of protection, or, as Mr. Bayle thinks, from their excessive vanity, have been always forward to countenance a set of hectors and bravoes, and to despise all men of modesty and sobriety; though these are often, at the bottom, not only the better but the braver men.”
“You know, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I have never presumed to argue with you; your opinion is to me always instruction, and your word a law.”
“Indeed, child,” cries the doctor, “I know you are a good woman; and yet I must observe to you, that this very desire of feeding the passion of female vanity with the heroism of her man, old Homer seems to make the characteristic of a bad and loose woman. He introduces Helen upbraiding her gallant with having quitted the fight, and left the victory to Menelaus, and seeming to be sorry that she had left her husband only because he was the better duellist of the two: but in how different a light doth he represent the tender and chaste love of Andromache to her worthy Hector! she dissuades him from exposing himself to danger, even in a just cause. This is indeed a weakness, but it is an amiable one, and becoming the true feminine character; but a woman who, out of heroic vanity (for so it is), would hazard not only the life but the soul too of her husband in a duel, is a monster, and ought to be painted in no other character but that of a Fury.”
“I assure you, doctor,” cries Amelia, “I never saw this matter in the odious light in which you have truly represented it, before. I am ashamed to recollect what I have formerly said on this subject. And yet, whilst the opinion of the world is as it is, one would wish to comply as far as possible, especially as my husband is an officer of the army. If it can be done, therefore, with safety to his honour – ”
“Again honour!” cries the doctor; “indeed I will not suffer that noble word to be so basely and barbarously prostituted. I have known some of these men of honour, as they call themselves, to be the most arrant rascals in the universe.”
“Well, I ask your pardon,” said she; “reputation then, if you please, or any other word you like better; you know my meaning very well.”
“I do know your meaning,” cries the doctor, “and Virgil knew it a great while ago. The next time you see your friend Mrs. Atkinson, ask her what it was made Dido fall in love with AEneas?”
“Nay, dear sir,” said Amelia, “do not rally me so unmercifully; think where my poor husband is now.”
“He is,” answered the doctor, “where I will presently be with him. In the mean time, do you pack up everything in order for your journey to-morrow; for if you are wise, you will not trust your husband a day longer in this town – therefore to packing.”
Amelia promised she would, though indeed she wanted not any warning for her journey on this account; for when she packed up herself in the coach, she packed up her all. However, she did not think proper to mention this to the doctor; for, as he was now in pretty good humour, she did not care to venture again discomposing his temper.
The doctor then set out for Gray’s-inn-lane, and, as soon as he was gone, Amelia began to consider of her incapacity to take a journey in her present situation without even a clean shift. At last she resolved, as she was possessed of seven guineas and a half, to go to her friend and redeem some of her own and her husband’s linen out of captivity; indeed just so much as would render it barely possible for them to go out of town with any kind of decency. And this resolution she immediately executed.
As soon as she had finished her business with the pawnbroker (if a man who lends under thirty per cent. deserves that name), he said to her, “Pray, madam, did you know that man who was here yesterday when you brought the picture?” Amelia answered in the negative. “Indeed, madam,” said the broker, “he knows you, though he did not recollect you while you was here, as your hood was drawn over your face; but the moment you was gone he begged to look at the picture, which I, thinking no harm, permitted. He had scarce looked upon it when he cried out, ‘By heaven and earth it is her picture!’ He then asked me if I knew you.” “Indeed,” says I, “I never saw the lady before.”
In this last particular, however, the pawnbroker a little savoured of his profession, and made a small deviation from the truth, for, when the man had asked him if he knew the lady, he answered she was some poor undone woman who had pawned all her cloathes to him the day before; and I suppose, says he, this picture is the last of her goods and chattels. This hint we thought proper to give the reader, as it may chance to be material.
Amelia answered coldly that she had taken so very little notice of the man that she scarce remembered he was there.
“I assure you, madam,” says the pawnbroker, “he hath taken very great notice of you; for the man changed countenance upon what I said, and presently after begged me to give him a dram. Oho! thinks I to myself, are you thereabouts? I would not be so much in love with some folks as some people are for more interest than I shall ever make of a thousand pound.”
Amelia blushed, and said, with some peevishness, “That she knew nothing of the man, but supposed he was some impertinent fellow or other.”
“Nay, madam,” answered the pawnbroker, “I assure you he is not worthy your regard. He is a poor wretch, and I believe I am possessed of most of his moveables. However, I hope you are not offended, for indeed he said no harm; but he was very strangely disordered, that is the truth of it.”
Amelia was very desirous of putting an end to this conversation, and altogether as eager to return to her children; she therefore bundled up her things as fast as she could, and, calling for a hackney-coach, directed the coachman to her lodgings, and bid him drive her home with all the haste he could.
