Fake away
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| Cuckfield Park (formerly Cuckfield Place), Ainsworth's model for Rookwood Place |
What to make of William Harrison Ainsworth's Rookwood (1834)? It's an outrageous farrago, a historical romance without serious intent, as the author confessed. Ainsworth had an admirable lack of care for what he was writing. He based little of it on experience and most of it on his incredibly miscellaneous reading. It was a great popular success but in a way it's more fruitful to compare it with experimental texts, or with genre fiction, than with mainstream novels. It is emphatically not "marvellously about life", in Leavisian phrase.
Most of this post consists of extracts that try to suggest the variety of registers in Rookwood. But first let's delve into the geology.
Ainsworth said he adopted Ann Radcliffe's form of gothic romance but relocated the setting from southern Europe to northern England. The Radcliffe influence is quite apparent, for instance in the chapter epigraphs, the copious inset poems, and the general topgraphy of underground vaults, secret chambers and passages, with ghostly knockings and appearances. And on appropriate occasions Ainsworth gives us Radcliffe phrases like "I will not pain you with the recital..." and "Farewell, perhaps forever..." (this is in Book I Chapter X, which with its Garonne setting is a kind of Radcliffe pastiche/tribute).
But Rookwood as a whole is very unlike the novels of Radcliffe, who writes penetratingly from a woman's point of view and has a lot of insight into psychology and into a woman's experience within a patriarchal society. Ainsworth takes no interest in character except as picturesque, none in character development. Men predominate, though he needs women for the operatic sextets that crown his actions. They are proud, madly beautiful or hideous creations, without sensibility or reflection, only the annotations of passion and will.
Ainsworth had a lot of fun with chapter epigraphs, drawing on his reading of dark Jacobean drama (he likes Webster), but without the thematic enlargement that we sometimes find in Scott's epigraphs. The inset poems are his own (as Radcliffe's were) but they are ballad-like rather than lyrical, mostly in triple-time. A reader is tempted to skip them, but they do add -- not depth, but -- lively ramification to the furious progress of Rookwood .
Scott's novels, inevitably, are an influence too -- notably the excitement about highwaymen in the early chapters of Rob Roy -- , but they aren't a very deep one. Rookwood is firmly set in 1737
-- Ainsworth's Dick Turpin might have run into Scott's Jeanie Deans on the Great North Road! --
but it isn't particularly interested in history, certainly not as regards politics or society or manners. The ways of the Rookwoods are defined by the uniquely gothic nature of the noble family in question; nor do Ainsworth's gypsies and rogues add up to any kind of social picture of 1737. He gives us a flood of often barely comprehensible thieves' cant (all taken from books) but we enjoy it not as an evocation of a specific period but as a strangely timeless image of the possibilities of deviant language on the edges of civilization and its conventions, just as vigorous today as in Shakespeare's time. (Among his rogues of 1737, Ainsworth sunnily incorporates the Knight of Malta, a bizarro of the 1830s.)
Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris (English translation, 1833) must surely have been an influence too. (Ainsworth quotes from other Hugo works.) Like Rookwood, it was to some extent a book inspired by architecture. The extreme compulsions of Hugo's characters are surely plundered to build the not quite comprehensible turns of Rookwood's action.
Finally there's the influence of the fiction of roguery (from Gay or even earlier, via Smollett*, to the recent specimens of what came to be called the "Newgate novel", to which category Rookwood to some extent belongs, particularly in regard to the character of Dick Turpin, who divides our interest with the gothic plot of the Rookwood family (and, as many readers considered, seizes most of it to himself). [Ainsworth's own Jack Sheppard (1839) would bring the Newgate novel controversy to its head.]
[*Smollett seems to have originated the jocular expression to "discuss" a side of beef, bottle of claret, etc. Scott used it too. Ainsworth uses it, like everything else, to excess.]
The plot of Rookwood is so complicated and incredible that few readers will trouble to keep track of it. It involves multiple generations of family history, phantoms, prophecies, omens, secrets, disguises, assumed names, documents that must only be opened after someone's death, curses and oaths of vengeance; but it all comes down to the initially likeable Luke Rookwood's descent into deadly hatred of his rival and half-brother Ranulph. The how and why scarcely matter.
*
"And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you were there, as you boasted a short time ago?" asked Coates.
"So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have delivered him to the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined."
"Zounds!" cried Coates; "If I had a similar opportunity, it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the scragging-post first. I'd take him, dead or alive."
"You take Turpin?" cried Jack, with a sneer.
"I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. "I'll bet you a hundred guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance."
"Done!" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so that the glasses danced upon it.
"That's right," cried Titus. "I'll go you halves."
"What's the matter—what's the matter?" exclaimed Small, awakened from his doze.
"Only a trifling bet about a highwayman," replied Titus.
"A highwayman!" echoed Small. "Eh! what? there are none in the house, I hope."
"I hope not," answered Coates. "But this gentleman has taken up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a manner, that——"
"Quod factu fœdum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe," returned Small. "The less said about that rascal the better."
"So I think," replied Jack. "The fact is as you say, sir—were Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide 'em."
Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the company were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every countenance—the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer—Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapor.
"Young Sir Ranulph!" ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope would permit him.
"Sir Ranulph here?" echoed Palmer, rising.
"Angels and ministers!" exclaimed Small.
"Odsbodikins!" cried Titus, with a theatrical start; "this is more than I expected."
"Gentlemen," said Ranulph, "do not let my unexpected arrival here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father's medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel."
"I had that honor," replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly—"I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service."
"When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?" inquired Ranulph.
"Poor Sir Piers," answered Titus, again bowing, "departed this life on Thursday last."
"The hour?—the precise minute?" asked Ranulph, eagerly.
"Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few minutes before midnight."
"The very hour!" exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing intently at the apparel. "The very dress, too!" muttered he; then turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with surprise; "Doctor," said he, addressing Small, "I have something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes...."
(Book I, Chapter IX)
*
If I can suggest, not a theme, but a modus operandi, Rookwood is characterized by incessantness. It is there in the big images of a family that cannot escape dark fatality (all the Rookwood wives are murdered), or of Turpin's barely motivated insistence on riding from London to York in a single night. But it's also there throughout the book in the never-refused rehashing of stage clichés (The reader is slyly told that Jack Palmer is Dick Turpin about a dozen times in the chapter I quoted from), and in a breakneck action that allows no time for taking stock. Luke, from the opening pages, is always off-balance. Having been thrown the revelation that he is the true heir of Rookwood Place, he can't even venture into the park for a moment of reflection before he gets dragged into a fight and flight for his life. We can't fully conceive how he ends up where he does, but we can see that he's on a rocket's trajectory that can only end explosively.
That for the men love is apt to turn into killing is, I suppose, an underlying trope. Luke causes or attempts to cause the death of both the women he loves, and by a strange but similar illogic Dick Turpin, in the book's most famous episode, decides to ride his beloved Black Bess to death.
*
"They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me," she added in a whisper, "of him."
"Luke Bradley?"
"Ay."
"Give them to me."
"They are yours freely on those terms."
"You hear that, Luke," cried he, aloud; "you hear it, Titus; this is no robbery. Mr. Coates—'Know all men by these presents'—I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty things."
"I do," returned she; adding, in a whisper, "on the terms which I proposed."
"Must it be done at once?"
"Without an instant's delay."
"Before your own eyes?"
"I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence."
"And you?"
"For the same cause."
"Yet he came here to aid you?"
"What of that?"
"He would have risked his life for yours?"
"I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die!"
"The document?"
"Will be useless then."
"Will not that suffice; why aim at life?"
"You trifle with me. You fear to do it."
"Fear!"
"About it, then; you shall have more gold."
"I will about it," cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood's hands. "I am no Italian bravo, madam—no assassin—no remorseless cut-throat. What are you—devil or woman—who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I say."
"Would you betray me?" cried Lady Rookwood.
"You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon your ladyship."
"I will suffer no injury to be done to her," said Luke; "release her."
"Your ladyship hears him," said Jack. "And you, Luke, shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your assassination."
"How?" exclaimed Luke, recoiling.
"A lie, as black as hell," cried Lady Rookwood.
"A truth, as clear as heaven," retained Jack. "I will speedily convince you of the fact." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, "Shall I give him the marriage document?"
"Beware!" said Lady Rookwood.
"Do I avouch the truth, then?"
She was silent.
"I am answered," said Luke.
"Then leave her to her fate," cried Jack.
"No," replied Luke; "she is still a woman, and I will not abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free."
"You are a fool," said Jack.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the window. "Rescue, rescue! they are returning from the church; I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved!"
"Hell and the devil!" cried Jack; "not an instant is to be lost. Alive, lads; bring off all the plunder you can; be handy!"
"Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell," said Luke, in a tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. "We shall meet again."
"We have not parted yet," returned she; "will you let this man pass? A thousand pounds for his life."
"Upon the nail?" asked Rust.
"By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe," cried Jack. "Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from me."
"Lady Rookwood," said Luke, as he departed, "I shall not forget this night."
(Book II, Chapter VI)
*
Jerry Juniper was what the classical Captain Grose would designate a "gentleman with three outs," and, although he was not entirely without wit, nor, his associates avouched, without money, nor, certainly, in his own opinion, had that been asked, without manners; yet was he assuredly without shoes, without stockings, without shirt. This latter deficiency was made up by a voluminous cravat, tied with proportionately large bows. A jaunty pair of yellow breeches, somewhat faded; a waistcoat of silver brocade, richly embroidered, somewhat tarnished and lack-lustre; a murrey-colored velvet coat, somewhat chafed, completed the costume of this beggar Brummell, this mendicant macaroni!
Jerry Juniper was a character well known at the time, as a constant frequenter of all races, fairs, regattas, ship-launches, bull-baits, and prize-fights, all of which he attended, and to which he transported himself with an expedition little less remarkable than that of Turpin. You met him at Epsom, at Ascot, at Newmarket, at Doncaster, at the Roodee of Chester, at the Curragh of Kildare. The most remote as well as the most adjacent meeting attracted him. The cock-pit was his constant haunt, and in more senses than one was he a leg. No opera-dancer could be more agile, more nimble; scarcely, indeed, more graceful, than was Jerry, with his shoeless and stockingless feet; and the manner in which he executed a pirouette, or a pas, before a line of carriages, seldom failed to procure him "golden opinions from all sorts of dames." With the ladies, it must be owned, Jerry was rather upon too easy terms; but then, perhaps, the ladies were upon too easy terms with Jerry; and if a bright-eyed fair one condescended to jest with him, what marvel if he should sometimes slightly transgress the laws of decorum. These aberrations, however, were trifling; altogether he was so well known, and knew everybody else so well, that he seldom committed himself; and, singular to say, could on occasions even be serious. In addition to his other faculties, no one cut a sly joke, or trolled a merry ditty, better than Jerry. ....
JERRY JUNIPER'S CHANT
In a box of the stone jug I was born,
Of a hempen widow the kid forlorn.
Fake away,
And my father, as I've heard say,
Fake away,
Was a merchant of capers gay,
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
To the tune of a "hearty choke with caper sauce."
Fake away,
The knucks in quod did my schoolmen play,
Fake away,
And put me up to the time of day;
Until at last there was none so knowing,
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
....
(Book III, Chapter V)
*
"Ha, ha! Are you there, my old death's-head on a mop-stick?" said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah—make yourself comfortable, Methusalem."
"What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in your life, old cove?" said Zoroaster.
"I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, "provided you will all pledge my toast."
"That I will, were it old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin.
"Here's to the three-legged mare," cried Peter. "To the tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?"
"Not I," answered Dick; "I owe the gallows no grudge. If, as Jerry's song says, I must have a 'hearty choke and caper sauce' for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast: 'The scragging post—the three-legged mare,' with three times three."
Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts soon died away.
"They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to Peter. "More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, pshaw! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he, turning to Peter. "I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the meantime, tip me a gage of fogus, Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt you are brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta, "you may send me a jorum at your convenience."
(Book III, Chapter V)
*
Ascetic to the severest point to which nature's endurance could be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He sought not sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His couch was the flinty rock; and long afterwards, when the zealous resorted to the sainted prior's cell, and were shown those sharp and jagged stones, they marvelled how one like unto themselves could rest, or even recline upon their points without anguish, until it was explained to them that, doubtless, He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a garb of horsehair of the coarsest fabric; his drink was the dank drops that oozed from the porous walls of his cell; and his sustenance, such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor—the only strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where perpetual winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly vigils; none witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans heard to issue from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-stained thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what manner those long lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl; but he meekly declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odors as if wafted from Paradise.
(Book III, Chapter X)
*
"I will not stir. I will kneel here forever. Stab me as I kneel—as I pray to you. You cannot kill me while I cling to you thus—while I kiss your hands—while I bedew them with my tears. Those tears will not sully them like my blood."
"Maiden," said Sybil, endeavoring to withdraw her hand, "let go your hold—your sand is run."
"Mercy!"
"It is in vain. Close your eyes."
"No, I will fix them on you thus—you cannot strike then. I will cling to you—embrace you. Your nature is not cruel—your soul is full of pity. It melts—those tears—you will be merciful. You cannot deliberately kill me."
"I cannot—I cannot!" said Sybil, with a passionate outburst of grief. "Take your life on one condition."
"Name it."
"That you wed Sir Luke Rookwood."
"Ah!" exclaimed Eleanor, "all rushes back upon me at that name; the whole of that fearful scene passes in review before me."
"Do you reject my proposal?"
"I dare not."
"I must have your oath. Swear by every hope of eternity that you will wed none other than him."
"By every hope, I swear it."
"Handassah, you will bear this maiden's oath in mind, and witness its fulfilment."
"I will," replied the gipsy girl, stepping forward from a recess, in which she had hitherto remained unnoticed.
"Enough. I am satisfied. Tarry with me. Stir not—scream not, whatever you may see or hear. Your life depends upon your firmness. When I am no more——"
"No more?" echoed Eleanor, in horror.
"Be calm," said Sybil. "When I am dead, clap your hands together. They will come to seek you—they will find me in your stead. Then rush to him—to Sir Luke Rookwood. He will protect you. Say to him hereafter that I died for the wrong I did him—that I died, and blessed him."
"Can you not live, and save me?" sobbed Eleanor.
"Ask it not. While I live, your life is in danger. When I am gone, none will seek to harm you. Fare you well! Remember your oath, and you, too, remember it, Handassah. Remember also—ha! that groan!"
All started, as a deep groan knelled in their ears.
"Whence comes that sound?" cried Sybil. "Hist!—a voice?"
"It is that of the priest," cried Eleanor. "Hark! he groans. They have murdered him! Kind Heaven, receive his soul!"
"Pray for me," cried Sybil: "pray fervently; avert your face; down on your knees—down—down! Farewell, Handassah!" And breaking from them, she rushed into the darkest recesses of the vault.
(Book III, Chapter XII)
*
This troop of horsemen, for such it was, might probably amount in the aggregate to twenty men, and presented an appearance like that of a strong muster at a rustic fox-chase, due allowance being made for the various weapons of offence; to-wit: naked sabers, firelocks, and a world of huge horse-pistols, which the present field carried along with them. This resemblance was heightened by the presence of an old huntsman and a gamekeeper or two, in scarlet and green jackets, and a few yelping hounds that had followed after them. The majority of the crew consisted of sturdy yeomen; some of whom, mounted upon wild, unbroken colts, had pretty lives of it to maintain their seats, and curvetted about in "most admired disorder;" others were seated upon more docile, but quite as provoking specimens of the cart-horse breed, whose sluggish sides, reckless alike of hobnailed heel or ash sapling, refused to obey their riders' intimations to move; while others again, brought stiff, wrong-headed ponies to the charge—obstinate, impracticable little brutes, who seemed to prefer revolving on their own axis, and describing absurd rotatory motions, to proceeding in the direct and proper course pointed out to them.
(Book III, Chapter XIV)
*
The place of refreshment for the ruralizing cockney of 1737 was a substantial-looking tenement of the good old stamp, with great bay windows, and a balcony in front, bearing as its ensign the jovial visage of the lusty knight, Jack Falstaff. Shaded by a spreading elm, a circular bench embraced the aged trunk of the tree, sufficiently tempting, no doubt, to incline the wanderer on those dusty ways to "rest and be thankful," and to cry encore to a frothing tankard of the best ale to be obtained within the chimes of Bow bells.
Upon a table, green as the privet and holly that formed the walls of the bower in which it was placed, stood a great china bowl, one of those leviathan memorials of bygone wassailry which we may sometimes espy—reversed in token of its desuetude—perched on the top of an old japanned closet, but seldom, if ever, encountered in its proper position at the genial board. All the appliances of festivity were at hand. Pipes and rummers strewed the board. Perfume, subtle, yet mellow, as of pine and lime, exhaled from out the bowl, and, mingling with the scent of a neighboring bed of mignonette and the subdued odor of the Indian weed, formed altogether as delectable an atmosphere of sweets as one could wish to inhale on a melting August afternoon.
(Book IV, Chapter I)
*
Complete text of Rookwood:
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/23564/23564-h/23564-h.htm#BOOK_II
Labels: Ann Radcliffe, Sir Walter Scott, Victor Hugo, William Harrison Ainsworth
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