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.