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53 pages 1 hour read

Daniel Defoe

Moll Flanders

Fiction | Novel | Adult | Published in 1722

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Themes

Marriage as a Capitalist Imperative

Moll approaches marriage like the budding capitalist that she is: it is a fluid arrangement between two interested parties in which she can acquire some measure of financial security. During this period of English history, among the middle and upper classes, marriage was a contractual agreement between two families; a good match was one in which both families gained something in return. A good match could unite property and land, solidify business interests, or bestow prestige upon one or the other family. The state itself did not oversee marriages until 1753; thus, Moll is able to marry and remarry with ease even when the previous arrangement was not legally dissolved. Marriage, too, is of particular importance to women, especially those of the middle and upper classes. The social mores of the time barred these women from participating in the workplace, and their education consisted of training in the genteel arts, such as singing and dancing, which would make them marriageable material. Marriage was one of the few ways in which women could ensure their safety.

Moll never marries for love, though sometimes she makes overtures to romance. Her first marriage, to her first lover’s brother, is financially lucrative though morally suspect, at least for Moll. She has allowed Robert, the older brother, “to use [her] as a wife” (68), and she considers nobody else for the role of husband. Robert has to cajole her into marrying his brother, Robin: “do not stand in the way of your own safety and prosperity” (73). These sensible words alert Moll to the realities of the institution. Marriage is for economic benefit and personal security. As she embarks on her next marriages, she learns to be cautious, wily, and guarded; a woman does not reveal her assets to her potential husband, nor should she share such assets with him. She must protect herself against his habits (the spendthrift husband) or unforeseen disaster (the husband-brother). By the time she embarks upon the arrangement with the banker, she understands the rules of the game: “I played with this lover as an angler does with a trout” (145). She insists that he legally divorce his wife—she cannot have a rival to his fortune—even though she never divorces her second, third, or fourth husbands. As she admits, she “had to play the hypocrite” to negotiate the best contract (145).

The capitalist impulse that supports these arrangements is both familiar and novel. Marriage arrangements during the feudal period were almost always about political or economic advantage. But the emerging middle class of the 18th century disrupted the ancient model in that individuals had more agency in the contract. It is no longer about merging ancient and powerful family interests, but rather about creating a mutually beneficial bond between the two parties involved in the marriage. In addition, business concerns begin to supplant land and property as one of the primary reasons to establish a marriage. As Moll notes of her time in the country, “marriages were here the consequences of politic schemes for forming interests, and carrying on business, and that Love had no share, or but very little, in the matter” (83). This is the result of multiple and potent forces of history: the emerging British empire, which created more wealth and opportunity for those in the metropolitan centers; the drift away from strict religious hierarchy and into the Age of Enlightenment; and the development of new industries which also generated more wealth. When Moll leaves her brother-husband in Virginia, she notes that “I might have married again there, very much to my advantage” but she decides to return to England instead (115). She could have made more money via a match in the colonies—which she later proves—but she would rather return home. Marriage becomes a central part of the capitalist, imperialist engine that drives the developing middle class.

Finally, marriage—and by extension, its counterpart, sex work—are uniquely female concerns. Without access to an adequate education or to the marketplace itself, women had little recourse beyond securing a marriage to survive. Of course, Moll becomes quite the talented thief, but this is a dangerous profession, one hardly to be recommended for the long term. By the time Moll is of marriageable age, women must also recommend themselves to marriage via their own assets. As Robin’s sister puts it, “the market is against our sex right now; and if a young woman have beauty, birth, breeding, wit, sense, manners, modesty, and all these to an extreme, yet if she have not money, she’s nobody” (44). This new, more capitalist and secular marriage market has both men and women alike counting each other’s advantages. Further, the distinctions between marriage and sex work are often blurred: when Robert encourages Moll to marry his brother, he offers her a small fortune of £500 for the time they spent together. She called herself his wife during this time, but he never consents to marry her formally; by the conclusion of the relationship, she is paid for their time together. Marriage and sex work in Moll Flanders are presented as equal defenses against poverty, starvation, and ruin. Moll need not berate herself for her actions; after all, she is merely a savvy businesswoman.

The Role of Providence Versus Luck

Many critics have called Moll Flanders a “spiritual autobiography,” while others argue that it is a critique of socioeconomic inequality. Certainly, the author makes it clear in his preface that the book is to be taken as an instrument of religious instruction. The narrator, too, frequently makes references to the moral of her story—namely, that readers should avoid her fate by attending to the well-being of their souls. Still, Moll’s religious beliefs are as fluid as her marriages—her Lancashire husband is a Catholic, for example—and the influence of the church is seen only in a few pages. Whether Moll’s fortunes and misfortunes rise and fall through luck or divine providence remains a topic of debate among experts, as does the question of whether her penitence is sincere or cynical.

Moll’s fortunes are accompanied by vanity, pride, and lots of luck. The first two are sins, of which she rarely repents, and the last is the secular version of providence. When she is taken in by the wealthy family near the beginning of the book, Moll feels confident that “I had the advantage of my ladies” (42), the daughters of the house. She believes not only that she is prettier but also that she has a better body and is a better singer. All of these attributes, she confirms for her reader, were not merely her opinion but that “of all that knew the family” (42). While she briefly acknowledges that her vanity led her into her disastrous relationship with Robert, she does not become less vain. She is also prideful of her later exploits, whether they be legitimate or criminal. Her very name eventually strikes awe in the hearts of her fellow criminals: “Fortune had smiled on me to that degree [. . .] and the success I had made my name as famous as any thief of my sort ever had been” (249). Fortune, in this case, implies both luck—she is the one criminal who seems always to evade the law—and financial gain. She has grown rich through her thievery and prostitution, not to mention famous, and she expresses these accomplishments with pleasure.

Moll’s misfortunes, on the other hand, provoke her into thinking about sin and retribution. However, the question that Moll’s experience begs is whether desperation is a sin. The poverty that threatens her constantly drives her to engage in criminal acts. She speaks often of the “devil” leading her into the temptation of thievery or lust, yet her experience of religion, based on her own narrative, would lead the reader to believe that she has only the most basic understanding of theology. She never talks of attending church or of confessing sins. In this way, Moll represents the change in social values during the Age of Enlightenment, during which the church no longer dominates the development of the individual. Her one encounter with religion recounted in the book is when she meets with the minister that her governess has sent to prison. He explains to her the concept of “divine mercy, which according to him consists of nothing more, or more difficult, than that of being sincerely desirous of it, and willing to accept it” (271). Her reaction to such counsel suggests that this is a concept of which she has never heard. That she “repents” under his guidance could mean she sincerely adopts religious beliefs, or it could mean that she cynically uses religion as a way to escape the noose. It is not entirely clear which is the case.

There are signs that Moll’s penitence is both genuine and suspect. At first, she only laments her situation in Newgate because of its result: “I seemed not to mourn that I had committed such crimes [. . .] but I mourned that I was to be punished for it. I was a penitent, as I thought, not that I had sinned, but that I was to suffer” (259). Her “fear of death” is more powerful than her “sincere regret for the wicked life that I had lived” (261). This way of thinking only changes when she catches sight of her Lancashire husband being led into Newgate. She begins to think of all of the people she may have harmed over the years. She also blames herself for her Lancashire husband’s fate, though he is as much a criminal as she. Moll experiences a moment of true penitence when she thinks of others rather than herself. Nevertheless, once she receives her reprieve from hanging, Moll reverts to her old ways: she plans and schemes to achieve what she wants. She arranges all of the events leading to her and her Lancashire husband’s transportation to the colonies; she is able to buy their freedom with the money she amassed from her wicked adventures; and she lies to everyone, including her husband and new-found son, when it suits her to do so. There is evidence, therefore, that Moll’s reversals of fortune are the result of the intervention of providence in her sinful life; but there is also evidence that Moll simply continues to leverage the opportunities that are presented to her to her advantage. As her husband tells her, “I think I have married a fortune, and a very good fortune too” (315). One could do worse than to bet on Moll Flanders.

The Interplay of Circumstance, Opportunity, and Morality

The novel grapples throughout with a core tension between the morality of Moll’s actions and the circumstances that prompt her choices. Moll herself vacillates between incompatible explanations. She will often berate herself for her weak moral fiber, blaming the devil for putting her in temptation’s way. But she will just as often explain that her circumstances—from her birth in Newgate to her ruin as a result of the banker’s bad investments—are what drive her to crime to support herself. Her fear of poverty is both deep-seated and wholly legitimate; without her wits, beauty, and resourcefulness, Moll would certainly not have lived a very long or happy life. Thus, Moll does not become a serial wife, a thief, and a sex worker because she is wicked, but because of circumstances beyond her control and opportunities of which she takes advantage.

Moll does not begin life in auspicious circumstances: born to a mother imprisoned in Newgate, she is essentially orphaned as a baby. Raised in a “nursery” where babies are bought and sold as well as cared for, Moll has little opportunity for education or betterment. Her destiny seems to be a life of service and relative impoverishment. However, her determination and ingenuity, not to mention a healthy dose of arrogance, propel her along a different path. Still, that path is not a straight one, and she must engage in immoral acts that are engendered by desperation. She defends her choices: “vice came in always at the door of necessity, not at the door of inclination,” she says of her years-long affair with a married man (136). Later, after her banker husband loses most of his fortune and then dies, Moll must make difficult decisions to preserve herself. On her first foray as a thief, she laments the act, but then, again, justifies it: “But my own distress silenced all these reflections, and the prospect of my own starving, which grew every day more frightful to me, hardened my heart by degrees” (190). Moll survives the circumstances that provide her with little if any, lawful recourse to earn her keep.

Still, Moll determines not merely to survive but to become rich. She admits that she could have renounced her larcenous ways, but that the prospect of more wealth was too enticing. This fact suggests that Moll acts not merely from necessity, but from greed. Perhaps she deserves, finally, to be caught. However, one could look from another angle: her fear of impoverishment drives her to overstuff her larder, as it were. She has lost everything before; the more money she has, the more secure she feels. Moll’s success is the direct result of her ability to seize upon whatever opportunities arise. For example, her first theft is of a bundle left unwatched in an apothecary’s shop; it is a quick crime of unforeseen opportunity. Later, when the drunken gentleman invites her into his coach, she immediately accepts and thinks, “my business was his money, and what I could make of him” (219). Moll never passes up an opportunity to get more money. That fact could be chalked up to the trauma of poverty, but it also points to an insatiable profit motive. The fact that Moll places financial gains above any other consideration is one reason that some critics consider her an avatar of early capitalism.  

Eventually, Moll Flanders becomes legendary. Her name describes not only a picaresque character but also a symbol of agency, success, and extraordinary good fortune. It also becomes both a liability and an asset, another juxtaposition in a novel full of them. On the one hand, as Moll herself well knows, “[o]ne of the greatest dangers I was now in, was that I was well known among the trade” (208). Envy could lead to sabotage or betrayal by a fellow criminal; the possibility of being arrested grows greater as her fame spreads. On the other hand, the name provides her with protection: Moll Flanders “was no more of affinity with my real name, or with any of the names I have ever gone by, than black is of kin to white” (208). She is famous and anonymous all at once, like many of the legendarily lawless characters in history and fiction. She overcomes her circumstances to reap the rewards of opportunities she both creates and capitalizes on.

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