CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1720 – PUBLISHING
Defoe met with Ferguson at the pub for a sandwich and pint on a Friday. Classes were over and he was on the way back from the publisher’s office. The good news was that ‘Robinson Crusoe’ was now in its fourth printing and was clearly a success. Defoe felt very pleased with himself. The title was a bit long, true; The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner; Who lived Eight and Twenty years, all alone in an Uninhabited Island on the Coast of America, near the mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque, having been Cast on Shore by shipwreck, wherein all men perished but Himself.
He just wanted people to know what the book was about before they read it. Apparently the title did work. However; he was burdened and wanted to share with his friend Ferguson.
“Something is troubling you, my good friend,” Ferguson lit his pipe and stared at Defoe. They were leaning back in the plush pub chairs. Defoe had his pipe out too.
“Tis true, tis true. I am confounded.”
“What is it, man?” Ferguson demanded.
“It is Mary,” Defoe replied.
“Mary? Mary? Be she ill, is she sickly?” Concern wrinkled Ferguson’s brow.
“No, no, nothing like that. Mary is fine. In body that is, in body. It is not the body that concerns me but the mind.”
Ferguson’s brows shot up in puzzlement. “You two should have no troubles. Your book is a success, you are the talk, you have got to be making money. I canna see any problem.”
“Aye, tis true. The book is a success, no doubt. That is the problem.”
Ferguson looked doubtful.
“It is the success itself. The more money I make, it seems the more we need. There are more invitations to parties, and teas, and balls and on and on. Mary, like myself, is from a basic country background.”
Ferguson waved his hand dismissively.
“All this requires more dresses, hats, shoes, etc. Also, now there is talk of all the boys going to University when they are done with their academies. No matter how much I earn, it just never seems to be enough. The whole thing just seems to have gone to her head.” Defoe held his hands up in a questioning manner.
“Ah,” replied Ferguson.
“I don’t know what to do, Ferguson. I love her.” Defoe stopped and sucked on his pipe.
“Ah,” Ferguson finally said. “Women, yah.”
They both sucked on their pipes and stared out into space.
“I really don’t know, my friend. Maybe only God knows about this one,” Ferguson tapped his pipe.
Defoe shrugged his shoulders.
“I feel like I have done my duty and written that which I should have done to spread his word more to other souls.”
Ferguson nodded and blew out smoke. “Aye, methinks it is true.”
They both sank into a brown study. Later, they got up and made their way back to Defoe’s place.
“Will yea be going back to London soon my friend?”
“Fairly soon yea, I regret to say. It has been good this time here in Scotland.”
“Yah,” said Ferguson, “I will be missing you when you are gone.”
Defoe nodded and shook his friend’s hand. “You know you are always welcome in London town.”
“Ya,” Ferguson replied with a smile. “We’ll see about that.”
They shook again and the light was falling. Ferguson walked off and Defoe entered his home, still without a single answer to his problem.
‘Perhaps, back in London,’ he thought to himself, ‘with her family close by; there would be a change in Mary and all these parties and socializing wouldn’t be so important.’ He just didn’t know.