by John Fowles
Q. He had not spoken to you during that day?
A. No, not one word, though before then all was under the guise of my doing him a favour. He was courteous enough, and grateful I assisted in his designs. Now he spake so a lord to a slattern servant, as in my sins I truly was. Then he said I might lie upon his bed, and sleep till he woke me. Which I did, though I slept little at first, I was too frightened; yet slept in the end till I was woken.
Q. What did his Lordship the while?
A. He had his box of papers beside him, and read before the fire.
Q. And Dick?
A. He went away, I know not where; and was returned, 'twas he who woke me.
Q. When was that?
A. In the midst of the night. The inn was silent, all slept.
Q. Next?
* * *
Rebecca Lee is silent, and does something she has not hitherto done, looks down. The lawyer repeats his question.
'Next, mistress?'
'I would prithee drink a little water. My voice fails.'
Ayscough watches her a long moment, then without looking away speaks to the clerk at the end of the table. 'Fetch water.'
'The clerk puts down his pencil - for unusually he writes with that, and not a quill - and silently goes, leaving the diminutive lawyer still staring in his speculative, robin-like way at Rebecca. He sits with his back to the room's imposing battery of Jacobean windows; and she faces the light. She looks up at him, into his eyes.
'I thank thee.'
Ayscough says nothing, he does not even nod. All of him seems concentrated in his stare; clearly he would embarrass her, express his doubt of this suspiciously untimely request. He surveys her with all his education and knowledge, his judgement of human affairs, his position in the world. It is true he does it partly from policy, as one of his tricks or practices before difficult witnesses, and long acquired, like his bursts of bullying contempt, to compensate for his puny stature; yet strangely she holds his look, as she has since the interrogatory started. In all else of her appearance she seems modesty itself; her primly sober dress, her cap, her hands folded on her lap. But not once as she answers has she bowed her head or looked aside from his eyes. A modern lawyer might have found a sneaking admiration for such directness; Ayscough does not. She merely strengthens a long-held opinion in him: that the world grows worse, and especially in the insolence of its lower orders. Again we meet that unspoken idee recue of his age. Change means not progress, but (as a child born the following year was one day to put it) decline and fall.
Without warning he stands and walks to the inn windows behind. There he looks out. Rebecca gazes at that back, but then drops her eyes to her lap again, and waits for the water. At last the clerk brings it and sets it before her. Ayscough does not turn to watch her sip it, and indeed now seems lost in what he watches outside: a square with many shops and central stalls, and busy with people, whose noise and cries have been constant background to what has gone on inside the room. Already he has noted a group of three men, that stand at the corner of a street entering the square, directly below where he stands, and stare up towards him, oblivious to the jostlings of the throng that passes by. He knows what they are by their plain clothes and their hats, and ignores them, once seen.
What he watches are a lady and her daughter. They are evidently of some rank and distinction, for they are fashionably dressed in town clothes, and preceded by a tall liveried footman, who carries a basket with their purchases and officiously gestures with his free hand at any who are slow to get out of the way of the ladies behind him; most, as if by instinct, stand aside. Some even touch their hats or bow their heads, though the ladies do not acknowledge them. Yet Ayscough, despite his watching, thinks less of them than of a recent literary memory they evoke, and especially the affected and self-assured younger of the two ladies. It had appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine for August, under the initials R.N., a satirist and evidently a misogynist, a seeming abbe mondain of the English church. Here it is, set in exactly the same form that Rebecca has just broken; it may serve also to remind of the reality of her world for the more fortunate of her sex; and how different from them she has chosen, or has been chosen, to be. The piece might have been entitled Eternal Women of a Certain Kind, but Mr R.N. was not so prescient.
PRETTY MISS'S CATECHISM
Q. WHO are you?
A. A Lady fair of nineteen.
Q. 'Tis pretty difficult to understand what that is; therefore explain yourself a little.
A. No very keeping Ware, I promise you; Stale Maids and stinking Fish is, you know, a Saying never a whit the less true, because of its Antiquity.
Q. Is this the View you proceed upon?
A. Yes, truely; at 16 we commence thinking, at 17 love, at 18 whine and at I9, if we can get the Man in the Mood (which, by the by, is a difficult Task) we e'en cry, Adieu, Daddy, and go off with our Spark. For were we once to pass our Prime, we should run a very great Risque of taking up with some paltry, antique, undeserving Wretch of a most forbidding Physiognomy.
Q. Let me hear the Articles of thy Creed.
A. First then, I do believe, I came into the World by Mamma's Means, but not that I am one Jot obliged to her for that. In the next Place, I do hereby acknowledge myself bound (not in Duty, tho') to mind whatsoever she bids me, as also to obey that old Hunks, Jack-pay for-all, my suppos'd Father; but for this very Reason only, that should I say nay, they'd force me to wear these scurvey two-months-out-of-fashion Silks for half a Year longer, to my very great Mortification. And lastly, as for my Husband, that I shall hereafter condescend to bubble, I do verily believe he ought not to have the least Superiority over me; therefore am determined, that tho' Quadrille be my Religion, and Cuckoldom ev'ry Sabbath's Meditation; tho' I ruin him in Plays, Masquerades, Fashions, Housekeeping, &c, tho' I should even accept of my very Butler as a Coadjutor to him, he shall be mum. These are the chief Articles of my Creed, which I love and will adhere to, to my dying Day.
Q. Have you any other Principles to steer by?
A. I act just as I've a Fancy, right or wrong, upon the Strength of my Beauty; follow all the new Fashions, be they never so ridiculous; devote myself entirely to Pride, Pleasure, and Extravagance; pray as often as a Lord pays his Debts; frequent the Theatre, &c, more than the Church; and laugh at every Body that go thither for their Devotions, believing it to be all Hypocrisy. 'Tis as natural for me to do all this, as for a Peacock to spread its Tail.
Q. Very right, but however, you know there is a World to come, should you not often consider of it?
A. No, not at all; because such Reflections are apt to give the Vapours; and Ladies ought never to molest themselves with any Thing serious, but only build their Faith on what an humourous Fancy suggests.
Q. But are Ladies then of no particular Religion?
A. No, indeed; for, at that Rate, we should be the most unfashionable Creatures breathing. Variety makes every Thing agreeable; and so for one half Hour, it may be, we assume the Christian, at other times are Pagans, Jews, Mahometans, or whatever best suits with our Conveniency.
Q. But what are those Principles, which, if adher'd to, will make a Lady's Life agreeable?
A. To pamper herself, her Monkey, or Lap-dog; to rail at and ridicule her Neighbours; to regard no Body; but to cozen and defraud the Poor, and to quit Scores with the Rich at the Expence of a neglected Husband's Reputation. To lie in Bed till Noon, and to chase away the Night at dear Quadrille.
Q. Hold, Hold - if you read the Form of Matrimony you'll see 'tis the Duty of Ladies to Honour and Obey, at least to respect and oblige their Husbands.
A. Marriage Form and Duty! A pretty Story! That Form's all of the Parson's contriving, and therefore not minded. Ladies regard only the Articles drawn up by the Lawyers, Covenants for Pin Money, or Allowance for separate Maintenance, and how to get an Addition to them with a good Grace. 'Tis quite out of Fashion to stand obliging an easy Fool of an Husband; but perfectly right and according to the M
ode, instead of mending on their Kindness, to insult them the more.
Q. But is there any Reason for this Mode?
A. Yes sure, and a very good One. We claim our Wills while we live, because we make none when we die.
This piece had shocked Mr Ayscough when he read it. .He knew it fairly described a spirit alive in many women of titled family and from the richer gentry, indeed was becoming only too prevalent lower down the social scale, in his own class. What had shocked him was not this; but that it should be said nakedly in public. His initial disgust for Lacy's calling sprang from precisely the same cause (although there, had he known, relief was at hand - in the form, only a few months ahead, of that abominable censor the Lord Chamberlain, about to begin his 23o-year tyranny over the theatre). Both religion and matrimony were revealed in the catechism as mocked, as was respect for man's superior status vis-a-vis womankind. What he saw in Rebecca's eyes, as indeed in some of her answers, was a reflection of this; that is, the effect of published laxity on high among the lower orders. It could lead one day only to the most abhorrent of human governments: democracy, that is synonymous with anarchy. The lawyer was possessed of one of the most unwelcome human sentiments: he was old, and glad he was old.
He glanced round and saw the tall clerk was back at his seat; that Rebecca had drunk, and now waited. She seemed a monument to patience, and humble submission. Yet he did not return to his chair. He continued the interrogatory from where he stood. It was only after he had asked several questions that he returned to his chair opposite her, and once more had to bear that undeviating directness of look; so direct indeed he knew he could not, and would never, believe it.
* * *
Q. Very well, mistress. Next?
A. We crept down and Dick led out the two horses, and we mounted outside, and were away. We rode a mile or more at a trot, and not a word was said, until we came to the standing pillars, or to a post some hundred paces short of them, where they tied the horses. 'Twas overcast, no stars nor moon, yet I saw them there in the darkness, like great gravestones. And I was near out of my wits with fear, not knowing why we should be in such a place at such a time. I knew hardly how to walk, yet must, for they made me. I saw some way off a light, a fire, as of shepherds, and thought to cry out, yet doubted they would hear, it was too far distant. Then, so, we came to the stones and entered within their circle, to the middle part.
Q. You would say, all three of you?
A. Yes.
Q. You told Jones, not Dick.
A. I tell now what truly passed. There his Lordship stopped, where there was a stone flat upon the ground, and he said, Fanny, kneel now upon that stone. And then I could no more, for I believed they must mean some great evil, sorcery, calling upon dark powers, I knew not what, and felt far more than natural cold, like I was bound in ice, and about to meet my death. So I did not kneel, nor could I speak, I was so chill and afeared. And his Lordship said again, Kneel, Fanny. And then I found my tongue, and said, We do evil, my lord, I was not hired for this. And he said, Kneel, it is not for thee to speak of doing evil. And still I would not, so they took me each an arm, and forced me to my knees upon the stone, that was hard, and most hurtful to kneel upon.
Q. You told Jones they made you lie upon it.
A. No, but to kneel. And next they also knelt, beside me upon the sward on each side.
Q. How is this?
A. 'Twas so.
Q. With their hands set, as in prayer?
A. No, their hands not so, but with their heads bowed.
Q. Wore they their hats still?
A. His Lordship wore his. Dick wore none.
Q. What direction did you face?
A. North, I must believe. For we rode the way west, and entered upon our right hand.
Q. Proceed.
A. For myself I prayed, and swore I should never more whore, should God forgive me and let me come safe away. I thought I was fallen into the Devil's hands, a far worse than the worst I had met at Claiborne's, and one who would not scruple to abuse my soul as much as my body and -
Q. Yes, yes, I'll imagine thee that. Now, how long knelt you all so?
A. Five, it may be more minutes, I do not know. But then there came a great rush in the sky above, as of wings, or a great roaring wind, and I looked up in terror, but saw nothing, no, nor was there wind that night, it was still.
Q. His Lordship and Dick - looked they up as well?
A. I was not fit to notice.
Q. How long did this rush, this roaring wind, sound?
A A few moments. Not more than it takes to count ten.
Q. Did it grow louder in that time?
A. As it fell from the heavens straight upon us.
Q. Not then as a flock of passing birds would, from one side to the other?
A No, from above.
Q. You are most certain of this?
A. Certain as Christ.
Q. What next?
A. Of a sudden it stopped, and there was silence, and in this pause there crept upon the air such a smell I cannot say, as of new-mown meadows and summer flowers, that was most sweet, most strange that it came not in their season, yet should spring from this cold and barren place_ Then again of a great sudden there was a light upon us from above, a light more large than any human making, as of a sun, I know not, so bright I no sooner looked to it than I must look down bedazzled, why, near blind of it; and there I saw, who stood not fifteen paces from where we knelt, among the stones, a young man and an old, that gazed upon us.
Q. I will not believe this. I warn thee, I am not to be imposed upon.
A. I speak truth.
Q. No. Thou hast cunningly prepared this, to confound me. Thou and thy prophesying man, I'll warrant he put thee to this tale.
A. No, he did not. I have never yet told him.
Q. Yea or nay to that, still thou liest.
A. No. I tell thee I saw them, they stood little further than this room is long. Tho' I saw them not well, for my eyes were made blind by the light, as I say.
Q. In what posture were they?
A. They stood, and looked on us. The younger man a little nearer, the older behind. And the younger stood with his finger pointed up, as if towards the light, yet methought his eyes did rest upon me.
Q. With what expression?
A. I could not truly tell, for the light went out before I recovered my eyes.
Q. And the older?
A I saw not, save that he had a white beard.
Q. What clothes wore they?
A. The older I saw not. The younger an apron, as masons and carpenters.
Q. You would say, he was ghost of the heathens who built the temple?
A. He was dressed as a working-man today; as might my own husband and father.
Q. Were they not painted figures?
A. No. They lived. They were no dream nor vision.
Q. Were they not most broad and tall?
A. No. Of ordinary figure.
Q. How long did this light last?
A. Very little. 'Twas nearer a lightning's flash than light proper. Enough to glimpse, no more.
Q. To glimpse, when you are already blinded, yet you may be so certain?
A. Yes.
Q. Were they not two of the standing stones?
A. No.
Q. Was there no thunder, no voice of Beelzebub?
A. No, not none. But as a gust of warmth, that was sweetscented, as of summer fields, as I say, and more than sweet to the nose, sweet to the spirit. When all else was vanished, it remained. And I no more had fear, I knew this came not evilly, yea, the rather to comfort and solace me. Yea, it came like another light upon me, that what I feared, I feared no more. I felt more a sadness it had come yet gone so fast that I could not embrace it, nor look longer, with all my eyes. Yet must I cling to it in hope. For I tell thee it meant no evil, nor those I was with, evil. Thee must understand that.
Q. I understand one thing alone, I cannot believe thee.
A. The
e shalt, when I have done. Thee shalt, I promise thee.
Q, When I shall call spent mutton fresh lamb, mistress, not before. Now I'll put thee closer to thy stinking meat. Whence came this light thou hadst this vision by?
A. The sky above.
Q. Did it light all about? Turn night into day, as the true sun does?
A. No, the night stayed dark beyond.
Q. Saw you candles and tapers in this great floating lantern?
A No, 'twas white as the summer sun, shaped as a rose, a circle.
Q. And hung in the sky above the temple?
A. Yes.
Q. And moved not?
A. No.
Q. How high above?
A. I cannot tell.
Q. As high as the sun and moon?
A. No, less. Not so high as those clouds above. As upon St Paul's round roof.
Q. A hundred paces?
A. I tell thee I cannot tell.
Q. And how was this light so hung above, do you suppose?
A. I know not, unless borne by some great bird.
Q. Or some great liar. This sound you speak of before it shone out, you say first a rush of wings, next a roaring wind. They are not the same.
A. I do not know to say it. Most of a passing wing.
Q. Or a whip on thy back? Thou shalt hear that too, if I catch thee out. This pointing workman and his grandsire, carried they aught?
A. No.
Q. His Lordship addressed them?
A. No, but did remove his hat.
Q. What is this? Removed his hat to a carpenter and an old dotard?
A. 'Twas as I say.
Q. Made they no sign back? Showed they no mark of respect to this courtesy he offered?
A. Not that I saw.
Q. And heard you, when the light went out, no movement?
A. No.
Q. Nor could see them still standing there?
A. No, for I was still dazzled blind.
Q. Was there no sound above?
A. All was silent.
Q. And what made you of all this?
A. That his Lordship was other than I had come to believe, as I say. For very soon after that he stood and helped me to my feet; and took my hands and pressed them, as one who is grateful, and looked me in the eyes, tho' it was darkness, and said, You are she I have sought. On which he turned to Dick, who was stood also, and they embraced, not as master and man, but as brothers might upon some happy outcome to their affairs.