The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and his Friend, Mr. Abraham Abrams/Book II, Chapter XII
CHAPTER XII.
_A very delightful adventure, as well to the persons concerned as to the
good-natured reader._
Adams, Fanny, and the guide, set out together about one in the morning,
the moon being then just risen. They had not gone above a mile before a
most violent storm of rain obliged them to take shelter in an inn, or
rather alehouse, where Adams immediately procured himself a good fire, a
toast and ale, and a pipe, and began to smoke with great content,
utterly forgetting everything that had happened.
Fanny sat likewise down by the fire; but was much more impatient at the
storm. She presently engaged the eyes of the host, his wife, the maid of
the house, and the young fellow who was their guide; they all conceived
they had never seen anything half so handsome; and indeed, reader, if
thou art of an amorous hue, I advise thee to skip over the next
paragraph; which, to render our history perfect, we are obliged to set
down, humbly hoping that we may escape the fate of Pygmalion; for if it
should happen to us, or to thee, to be struck with this picture, we
should be perhaps in as helpless a condition as Narcissus, and might say
to ourselves, _Quod petis est nusquam_. Or, if the finest features in it
should set Lady ----'s image before our eyes, we should be still in as
bad a situation, and might say to our desires, _Coelum ipsum petimus
stultitia_.
Fanny was now in the nineteenth year of her age; she was tall and
delicately shaped; but not one of those slender young women who seem
rather intended to hang up in the hall of an anatomist than for any
other purpose. On the contrary, she was so plump that she seemed
bursting through her tight stays, especially in the part which confined
her swelling breasts. Nor did her hips want the assistance of a hoop to
extend them. The exact shape of her arms denoted the form of those limbs
which she concealed; and though they were a little reddened by her
labour, yet, if her sleeve slipped above her elbow, or her handkerchief
discovered any part of her neck, a whiteness appeared which the finest
Italian paint would be unable to reach. Her hair was of a chesnut brown,
and nature had been extremely lavish to her of it, which she had cut,
and on Sundays used to curl down her neck, in the modern fashion. Her
forehead was high, her eyebrows arched, and rather full than otherwise.
Her eyes black and sparkling; her nose just inclining to the Roman; her
lips red and moist, and her underlip, according to the opinion of the
ladies, too pouting. Her teeth were white, but not exactly even. The
small-pox had left one only mark on her chin, which was so large, it
might have been mistaken for a dimple, had not her left cheek produced
one so near a neighbour to it, that the former served only for a foil to
the latter. Her complexion was fair, a little injured by the sun, but
overspread with such a bloom that the finest ladies would have exchanged
all their white for it: add to these a countenance in which, though she
was extremely bashful, a sensibility appeared almost incredible; and a
sweetness, whenever she smiled, beyond either imitation or description.
To conclude all, she had a natural gentility, superior to the
acquisition of art, and which surprized all who beheld her.
This lovely creature was sitting by the fire with Adams, when her
attention was suddenly engaged by a voice from an inner room, which sung
the following song:--
THE SONG.
Say, Chloe, where must the swain stray
Who is by thy beauties undone?
To wash their remembrance away,
To what distant Lethe must run?
The wretch who is sentenced to die
May escape, and leave justice behind;
From his country perhaps he may fly,
But oh! can he fly from his mind?
O rapture! unthought of before,
To be thus of Chloe possess'd;
Nor she, nor no tyrant's hard power,
Her image can tear from my breast.
But felt not Narcissus more joy,
With his eyes he beheld his loved charms?
Yet what he beheld the fond boy
More eagerly wish'd in his arms.
How can it thy dear image be
Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
Can aught bear resemblance to thee
Which grief and not joy can bestow?
This counterfeit snatch from my heart,
Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave,
Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart:
I then shall find rest in my grave.
Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain
Come smiling and tripping along!
A thousand Loves dance in her train,
The Graces around her all throng.
To meet her soft Zephyrus flies,
And wafts all the sweets from the flowers,
Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes,
More sweets from her breath he devours.
My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire:
But her looks were so tender and kind,
My hope almost reach'd my desire,
And left lame despair far behind.
Transported with madness, I flew,
And eagerly seized on my bliss;
Her bosom but half she withdrew,
But half she refused my fond kiss.
Advances like these made me bold;
I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.--
The rest let immortals unfold;
No language can tell but their own.
Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried,
How long I thy cruelty bore!
Ah, Strephon, she blushing replied,
You ne'er was so pressing before.
Adams had been ruminating all this time on a passage in Aeschylus,
without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most
melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on Fanny, he cried
out, "Bless us, you look extremely pale!"--"Pale! Mr Adams," says she;
"O Jesus!" and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his
Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house
for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster
among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other
than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved Fanny in the situation we
have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If
thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when,
clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her
cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the
softest accent whisper, "Are you Joseph Andrews?"--"Art thou my Fanny?"
he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted
numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.
If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may
take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the
room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he
was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed
the blessings which were exulting in the breasts of both the other two,
together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too
deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which
they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our
part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not
only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as
the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards
the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the
poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which
was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion
for upwards of thirty years.
Fanny had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to
restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she
had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately
covered with confusion; and, pushing Joseph gently from her, she begged
him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her;
but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes
another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she
went, she wondered who the creature was.