Даниэль Дефо - Roxana

My new Spouse and I, liv’d a very regular contemplative Life, and in itself certainly a Life fill’d with all humane Felicity: But if I look’d upon my present Situation with Satisfaction, as I certainly did, so in Proportion I on all Occasions look’d back on former things with Detestation, and with the utmost Affliction; and now indeed, and not till now, those Reflections began to prey upon my Comforts, and lessen the Sweets of my other Enjoyments: They might be said to have gnaw’d a Hole in my Heart before; but now they made a Hole quite thro’ it; now they eat into all my pleasant things; made bitter every Sweet, and mix’d my Sighs with every Smile.

Not all the Affluence of a plentiful Fortune; not a hundred Thousand Pounds Estate; (for between us we had little less) not Honour and Titles, Attendants and Equipages; in a word , not all the things we call Pleasure, cou’d give me any relish, or sweeten the Taste of things to me; at least , not so much, but I grew sad, heavy, pensive, and melancholly; [318] melancholly : often used in a much stronger sense in Defoe’s day, suggesting severe depression or even mental derangement. slept little, and eat little; dream’d continually of the most frightful and terrible things imaginable: Nothing but Apparitions of Devils and Monsters; falling into Gulphs, and off from steep and high Precipices, and the like ; so that in the Morning, when I shou’d rise, and be refresh’d with the Blessing of Rest, I was Hagridden with Frights, and terrible things, form’d meerly in the Imagination; and was either tir’d, and wanted Sleep, or over-run with Vapours, [319] Vapours : see the Introduction, pp. 18–19. and not fit for conversing with my Family or any-one else.

My Husband, the tenderest Creature in the World, and particularly so to me, was in great Concern for me, and did every-thing that lay in his Power, to comfort and restore me; strove to reason me out of it; then tried all the Ways possible to divert me; but it was all to no purpose, or to but very little.

My only Relief was, sometimes to unbosom myself to poor Amy , when she and I was alone; and she did all she cou’d to comfort me, but all was to little Effect there; for tho’ Amy was the better Penitent before, when we had been in the Storm; Amy was just where she us’d to be, now , a wild, gay, loose Wretch, and not much the graver for her Age; for Amy was between forty and fifty by this time too.

But to go on with my own Story; as I had no Comforter, so I had no Counsellor; it was well, as I often thought , that I was not a Roman-Catholick ; for what a piece of Work shou’d I have made, to have gone to a Priest with such a History as I had to tell him? and what Pennance wou’d any Father-Confessor have oblig’d me to perform? especially if he had been honest and true to his Office.

However, as I had none of the recourse, so I had none of the Absolution, by which the Criminal confessing, goes away comforted; but I went about with a Heart loaded with Crime, and altogether in the dark, as to what I was to do; and in this Condition I languish’d near two Years; I may well call it languishing, for if Providence had not reliev’d me, I shou’d have died in little time: But of that hereafter .

I must now go back to another Scene, and join it to this End of my Story, which will compleat all my Concern with England, at least , all that I shall bring into this Account. I have hinted at large, what I had done for my two Sons, one at Messina , and the other in the Indies .

But I have not gone thorow the Story of my two Daughters: I was so in danger of being known by one of them, that I durst not see her, so as to let her know who I was; and for the other, I cou’d not well know how to see her, and own her, and let her see me, because she must then know that I wou’d not let her Sister know me, which wou’d look strange; so that upon the whole, I resolv’d to see neither of them at-all, but Amy manag’d all that for me; and when she had made Gentlewomen of them both, by giving them a good tho’ late Education, she had like to have blown up the whole Case, and herself and me too, by an unhappy Discovery of herself to the last of them, that is , to her who was our Cookmaid, and who, as I said before, Amy had been oblig’d to turn away, for fear of the very Discovery which now happen’d: I have observ’d already in what Manner Amy manag’d her by a third Person; and how the Girl, when she was set up for a Lady, as above , came and visited Amy at my Lodgings; after which, Amy going, as was her Custom, to see the Girl’s Brother, (my Son) at the honest Man’s House in Spittle-Fields ; both the Girls were there, meerly by accident, at the same time, and the other Girl unawares discover’d the Secret; namely , that this was the Lady that had done all this for them.

Amy was greatly surpriz’d at it, but as she saw there was no Remedy, she made a Jest of it; and so after that, convers’d openly, being still satisfied that neither of them cou’d make much of it, as long as they knew nothing of me: So she took them together one time, and told them the History, as she call’d it, of their Mother , beginning at the miserable carrying them to their Aunt’s; she own’d she was not their Mother, herself, but describ’d her to them: However, when she said she was not their Mother , one of them express’d herself very much surpriz’d, for the Girl had taken up a strong Fancy that Amy was really her Mother; and that she had for some particular Reasons, conceal’d it from her; and therefore when she told her frankly that she was not her Mother, the Girl fell a-crying, and Amy had much ado to keep Life in her: This was the Girl who was at first my Cook-maid in the Pall-mall ; when Amy had brought her to again a little, and she had recover’d her first Disorder, Amy ask’d what ail’d her? the poor Girl hung about her, and kiss’d her, and was in such a Passion still, tho’ she was a great Wench of Nineteen or Twenty Years old, that she cou’d not be brought to speak a great-while; at last, having recover’d her Speech, she said still, But O do not say you a’n’t my Mother! I’m sure you are my Mother , and then the Girl cry’d again like to kill herself: Amy cou’d not tell what to do with her a good-while; she was loth to say again, she was not her Mother , because she wou’d not throw her into a Fit of crying again; but she went round about a little with her: Why Child, says she , why wou’d you have me be your Mother? If it be because I am so kind to you, be easie, my Dear, says Amy , I’ll be as kind to you still, as if I was your Mother.

Ay but, says the Girl , I am sure you are my Mother too; and what have I done that you won’t own me, and that you will not be call’d my Mother? tho’ I am poor, you have made me a Gentlewoman, says she , and I won’t do any-thing to disgrace you; besides, adds she , I can keep a Secret too, especially for my own Mother, sure; then she calls Amy her Dear Mother , and hung about her Neck again, crying still vehemently.

This last Part of the Girl’s Words alarm’d Amy , and, as she told me , frighted her terribly; nay, she was so confounded with it, that she was not able to govern herself, or to conceal her Disorder from the Girl herself, as you shall hear: Amy was at a full Stop, and confus’d to the last Degree; and the Girl, a sharp Jade, turn’d it upon her: My dear Mother, says she , do not be uneasie about it; I know it all; but do not be uneasie, I won’t let my Sister know a word of it, or my Brother either, without you give me leave; but don’t disown me now you have found me; don’t hide yourself from me any longer; I can’t bear that, says she , it will break my Heart.