Moll Flanders

“Now all this while my good old nurse, Mrs Mayoress, and all the rest of them did not understand me at all, for they meant one sort of thing by the word gentlewoman, and I meant quite another; for, alas! all I understood by being a gentlewoman was to be able to work for myself, and get enough to keep me without that terrible bugbear going to service, whereas they meant to live great, rich and high, and I know not what.”

Moll’s definition of what it means to be a gentlewoman is an emerging social position. Rather than signifying a wealthy and powerful woman of the upper classes, Moll’s idea of the gentlewoman indicates a self-sufficient wage-earner who has individual agency. Going into service, in contrast, would limit Moll’s self-determination and autonomy.

“I was now in a dreadful condition indeed, and now I repented heartily my easiness with the eldest brother; not from any reflection of my conscience, but from a view of the happiness I might have enjoyed, and had now made impossible; for though I had no great scruples of conscience, as I have said, to struggle with, yet I could not think of being a whore to one brother and a wife to the other.”

Moll admits that her moral compass is short-sighted: she engages in the affair with Robert without guilt or remorse until his brother, Robin, wants to marry her. Moll does not regret engaging in sexual relations with a man outside of the institution of marriage; she only regrets that it impedes her ability to make a better contract with the other brother. Still, her qualms only confound her for but a moment.

“‘And now, dear child,’ says he, ‘consider what it will be to marry a gentleman of a good family, in good circumstances, and with the consent of the whole house, and to enjoy all that the world can give you; and what, on the other hand, to be sunk into dark circumstances of a woman who has lost her reputation; and that though I shall be a private friend to you while I live, yet I shall be suspected always, so you will be afraid to see me, and I shall be afraid to own you.’”

Even Robert himself agrees that Moll must make her peace with marrying his brother. Whether Robert’s explanations for his refusal to marry Moll are genuine—he says he cannot marry until he has inherited the family estate—or not, Robert sees that Moll has little choice. If she does not want her reputation ruined, it would be best to keep the secret of the illicit affair within the family circle.

“I was not wicked enough for fellows such as these yet.”

When Moll leaves the central part of London for the Mint, a southern district that offers some protection for debtors, she notes the drunkenness and debauchery to which men of the area are prone. She has not yet embarked upon her life of crime and still fashions herself a gentlewoman.

“On the contrary, the women have ten thousand times the more reason to be wary and backward, by how much the hazard of being betrayed is greater; and would the ladies consider this, and act the wary part, they would discover every cheat that offered; for, in short, the lives of very few men nowadays will bear a character; and if the ladies do but make a little inquiry, they will soon be able to distinguish the men and deliver themselves.”

This is one of several educational lectures Moll delivers to her audience of female readers. On the one hand, her experiences lend the words leverage; on the other hand, her experiences expose her often misguided forays into relationships. In addition, while her words may ring true—women’s reputations are to be more carefully guarded in a patriarchal society—they do reveal some hypocrisy. Moll’s character would not flourish under too close of an investigation.

“However, it was plain there was no bringing my husband to anything; he would neither go with me nor let me go without him, and it was quite out of my power to stir without his consent, as any one that knows the constitution of the country I was in, knows very well.”

Moll is not free to leave Virginia until her husband gives her explicit consent. This is the one moment in the novel, besides her time in Newgate prison when Moll cannot move freely. Her reference to “the constitution of the country” does not indicate the document that will eventually stand as the law of the freed colonies (that is more than 50 years away); rather, she refers to the fact that the British colonies did not sanction divorce.

“But as poverty brought me into it, so fear of poverty kept me in it, and I frequently resolved to leave it quite off, if I could but come to lay up money enough to maintain me.”

Moll initiates an affair with a married man after years of an unconsummated relationship between them. She stays with him for six years, until he decides to end it in a fit of remorse because it was a financially beneficial arrangement for her. Moll judges all of her relationships, be they marriages or affairs, by the sum of financial stability they can bring to her.

“This was evidently my case, for I was now a loose, unguided creature, and had no help, no assistance, no guide for my conduct; I knew what I aimed at and what I wanted, but knew nothing how to pursue the end by direct means.”

This passage illustrates Moll’s desperate situation after the affair ends and is intended to justify the mistakes she subsequently makes. She has no guidance—implying that she has no religious or moral beliefs or mentors—and thus must make her way in the world as best she can. Her singular persistence and resilience carry her through difficult times.

“However, I ventured that, for all that the people there or thereabout knew of me, was to my advantage; and all the character he had of me, after he had inquired, was that I was a woman of fortune, and that I was a very modest, sober body; which, whether true or not in the main, yet you may see how necessary it is for all women who expect anything in the world, to preserve the character of their virtue, even when perhaps they may have sacrificed the thing itself.”

As Moll embarks on her scheme to marry the banker, she notes that the advantages, in this case, are in her favor. Even if she is no longer a virtuous woman—in the sense of sexual chastity, which is what virtue most often meant for women in the 18th century—she maintains the appearance and reputation of one. Reputation, Moll argues, is more important than truth. This is perhaps the most important disguise she dons in the book.

“I was not willing to be without money, whatever might happen. This bill I concealed, and that made me the freer of the rest, in consideration of his circumstances, for I really pitied him heartily.”

She does not tell her Lancashire husband of the small fortune that she has put away with the banker that she will eventually also marry. She must always have her own stockpile of money or goods so that she will not be touched again by poverty. In this way, Moll portrays a kind of necessary ruthless resourcefulness. Safety lies in lies; she risks her livelihood by being honest.

“But it touched my heart so forcibly to think of parting entirely with the child, and, for aught I knew, of having it murdered, or starved by neglect and ill-usage (which was much the same), that I could not think of it without horror.”

After she delivers her Lancashire husband’s baby, she laments its fate—though this is the sole time in the book that she shows any emotion for a child she loses. The fate of many of her children is left unknown to the reader, though Moll is reunited with the son she had with her husband-brother. While this scene portrays Moll’s tenderness toward her child, it ironically highlights her very loose relationship with motherhood: she raises not one of her 12 children.

“Oh had this particular scene of life lasted, or had I learned from that time I enjoyed it, to have tasted the true sweetness of it, and had I not fallen into poverty which is the sure bane of virtue, how happy had I been, not only here, but perhaps for ever! for while I lived thus, I was really a penitent for all my life past.”

Her time with her wealthy banker husband would have kept her from vice completely, should it have lasted, she claims. Moll admits here that she practices penitence only when she is not impoverished. It is only money that grants the luxury of remorse and reform. By the same token, this suggests that it is the exigencies of poverty, not innate immorality, which lead people to commit crimes like theft.

“At length she put me to practice. She had shown me her art, and I had several times unhooked a watch from her own side with great dexterity.”

Moll describes the governess as a kindly older woman who is full of encouragement and sweet words. And yet, the governess sells babies and trains thieves. She also feels little, if any, remorse when some of those she trains end up hanged or imprisoned. It is only after Moll, her most exceptional protégé, is sent to Newgate that the governess experiences a fit of penitence.

“Some of them almost sacred me out of my wits; but at last she sent me the joyful news that he was hanged which was the best news to me that I had heard a great while.”

Just as the governess hardens her heart against the misfortunes of many in her band of thieves, so too does Moll learn that self-interest is the only durable kind of interest. The governess sends Moll letters that reveal the fate of her one-time partner, who has been sent to Newgate. Once he is dead, Moll knows she is again free. Her joy in his execution is chilling; it serves to highlight the erosion of empathy that accompanies her criminal activity.

“From hence ‘tis evidence to me, that when once we are hardened in crime no fear can affect us, not example give us any warning.”

Moll reflects on how her conscience is worn away by her time supporting herself through criminal behavior. The fact that she has been uncannily lucky in her exploits compounds her lack of remorse. She does not believe, as her infamy grows into legend, that she can be caught. Without the threat of consequences for her actions, she ceases to see them as wrong.

“As I said above, they value not the pleasure, they are raised by no inclination to the man, the passive jade thinks of no pleasure but the money; and when he is, as it were, drunk in the ecstasies of his wicked pleasure, her hands are in his pockets searching for what she can find there, and of which he can no more be sensible in the moment of his folly than he can forethink of it when he goes about.”

Moll distances herself from sex workers who rob men after (or during) sex. She speaks of their activities as if she does not engage in the same kind of crimes. Moll’s experiences as a sex worker—as opposed to her experiences as a married woman or an official mistress—are always kept at arm’s length, distanced from her self-image. She also deflects the blame onto the man: if he is so lascivious, then he deserves to be made a mark.

“Thus, you see, having committed a crime once is a sad handle to the committing of it again; whereas all the regret and reflections wear off when the temptation renews itself.”

Criminal activity is a slippery slope, Moll argues. Once a moral boundary has been crossed, it is easier to cross it again, and even to go further. Without immediate, material repercussions, Moll observes that the abstract immorality of an action loses its persuasiveness. Moralizing aside, Defoe illustrates a truth about human psychology through Moll’s reflections: people often respond less strongly to abstract moral principles than to concrete consequences.

“The moral, indeed, of all my history is left to be gathered by the senses and indulgence of the reader; I am not qualified to preach to them.”

As in the previous quotation, the implication is that Moll’s story is a cautionary tale to prevent others from following her path. Moll, and by extension, the author, relies on the audience’s understanding of moral correctness to interpret the purpose of the story, even with all its rollicking exploits and daring escapes. Moll may not be “qualified to preach,” but she is equipped to entertain.

“I had but a sad foundation to build upon, as I said before, for all my repentance appeared to me to be only the effect of my fear of death, not a sincere regret for the life I had lived, and which had brought this misery upon me, or for the offending of my Creator, who was suddenly to be my judge.”

Moll enters into a state of suspended agony, repenting not of her actions but of the consequences they have wrought. She cannot be truly saved if she is not honestly repentant, but the fear of poverty that led her into thievery is here echoed by the fear of death which leads her into spurious, rather than genuine, repentance. Through Moll, Defoe casts doubt on religious conversions that are motivated by self-interest or -preservation rather than genuine self-reflection.

“All that hellish, hardened state and temper of soul, which I have said so much of before, is but a deprivation of thought; he that is restored to his power of thinking, is restored to himself.”

Moll has a spiritual breakthrough when she witnesses her Lancashire husband being brought into Newgate. She still laments her fate without a full grasp of genuine repentance, but she begins also to think of what might happen to him. Thus, she is jolted out of the stupor induced by the environs of Newgate and begins to behave like herself: she cajoles and cries; swoons and schemes. Eventually, she is granted a reprieve.

“[T]his where we should look back on all our past disasters with infinite satisfaction, when we should consider that our enemies should entirely forget us, and that we should live as new people in a new world, nobody having to say for us, or we to them.”

Moll tries to convince her Lancashire husband to allow himself to be transported to the colonies with her. They can take on a new identity, without fear of reprisal for past mistakes. The new world is a blank slate upon which they can write their stories anew—just like all of the enterprising and ideal representatives of the expanding imperial mission. The colonies represent the possibility of renewal for people like Moll, but the fact that she can escape culpability for her crimes through the anonymity of the colonies suggests that their promise of renewal may be fundamentally suspect.

“And this is the cause why many times men as well as women, and men of the greatest and best qualities other ways, yet have found themselves weak in this part, and have not been able to bear the weight of a secret joy or of a secret sorrow, but have been obliged to disclose it, even for the mere giving vent to themselves, and to unbend the mind oppressed with the load and weights which attend it.”

Moll fully understands the value of keeping a secret. She never once reveals to any of her husbands the full extent of her assets, nor is she ever fully honest about her marital status or her past deeds. This is yet another way in which Moll is exceptional; secrets are as much a part of her fortune as is money itself. Moll considers the need to confess a weakness.

“However, that wish was not hearty neither, for I loved my Lancashire husband entirely, as indeed I had ever done from the beginning; and he merited from me as much as it was possible for a man to do, but that by the way.”

She briefly wishes she had not brought her husband with her to the colonies after she reunites with her son and discovers her brother-husband is still alive. She is obliged to keep each of them secret from one another until the time of the brother-husband’s death. This again reveals Moll’s seemingly special attachment to her fourth husband; their similar characters—and careers—form a bond between them.