Tag: History of Tom Jones a Foundling Page 3 of 5

We’ve spent some time with Sophia, her cousin and her father, as they left that Inn and traveled toward London. Now it’s time to get back to Tom Jones, the man this History is about to see what he does when he leaves the same Inn after that eventful night. I really liked the way this week’s chapters started. Fielding being Fielding:

At length we are once more come to our Heroe; and, to say Truth, we have been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the Condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our Readers have concluded we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in that Situation in which prudent People usually desist from enquiring any farther after their Friends, lest they should be shocked by hearing such Friends had hanged themselves.

But, in reality, if we have not all the Virtues, I will boldly say, neither have we all the Vices of a prudent Character; and tho’ it is not easy to conceive Circumstances much more miserable than those of poor Jones at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him with the same Diligence as if he was wantoning in the brightest Beams of Fortune.

It’s good to be back with Tom, even if he doesn’t seem much like the man destined for a hanging right now—he’s heartbroken and lost. He actually loses it on poor Partridge shortly after they leave in pursuit of Sophia. They eventually patch it up and Tom figures since everything else in life has gone wrong, he might as well pursue glory and join the army.

Partridge tries to dissuade him, in part with flowery religious talk. Which is almost immediately shown to be empty when a poor beggar crosses their path, seeking aid. Partridge has no patience for him, but Tom chastises him and gives the man some money. The man offers to sell him a notebook, that Tom soon discovers belongs to Sophia—and contains the missing hundred pounds! Tom takes the beggar’s name so he can arrange some award money to be sent to him once he delivers this book to Sophia.

I did enjoy the beggar grumbling to himself as he left about his parents never having sent him to school to read. If only they had, he wouldn’t be in this state.

Tom and Partridge carry on for a while and eventually stop in an in ann which is also playing host to a puppet show. The puppeteer has removed Punch and Joan from his shows so that they’ll teach morality. Tom suggests that the removal makes them dull, and the two argue a bit before the landlady interrupts to complain that no one does Bible stories anymore in those shows.

I’m not sure what Fielding is going to do with this stuff, but I think I’ll find out next week. In the meantime, Partridge convinces him to get a room for the night (wouldn’t want to travel at night) and get some overdue sleep. And we’ll leave it there for now.

It was good to be back traveling with Tom, but I wish I knew where things were going.

Those Members of Society who are born to furnish the Blessings of Life now began to light their Candles, in order to pursue their daily Labours for the Use of those who are born to enjoy these Blessings. The sturdy Hind now attends the Levee of his Fellow Labourer the Ox; the cunning Artificer, the diligent Mechanic, spring from their hard Mattress; and now the bonny House-Maid begins to repair the disordered Drum-Room, while the riotous Authors of that Disorder, in broken interrupted Slumbers, tumble and toss, as if the Hardness of Down disquieted their Repose.

Fielding calls this chapter, “The Morning introduced in some pretty Writing. A Stage Coach. The Civility of Chambermaids. The heroic Temper of Sophia. Her Generosity. The Return to it. The Departure of the Company, and their Arrival at London; with some Remarks for the Use of Travellers.” The utter lack of humility aside, he’s not usually given to such, shall we say, thorough, chapter titles but that does a good job of summarizing things. Sophia and her cousin take off for London after giving the Landlord a gift (Fielding leave it up to our imagination), but fails to give one to his wife (she discovers that she lost a hundred pounds somewhere). They arrive in London, and Sophia makes a hasty (but polite) departure from her cousin to head off to the house she hoped to stay in.

Sophia’s not so sure that Mrs. Fitzgerald is really as virtuous as she claims and even doubts some of the story we got in the last few chapters. Fielding gives a little morality lesson to go with this about suspicion. It’s an odd little digression at this point in the narrative, but setting aside the awkwardness, it was a nice little bit of writing.

That’s the end of Book XI, so XII starts off with the typical Chapter 1 discourse. This time, it’s an apology for his use of classical quotations, allusions, and references, and how often he doesn’t attribute them well. It’s not my favorite Chapter 1, but I appreciated his defense, ancient authors are fair game, but he wouldn’t do that to a contemporary and rob them of their due.*

* Okay, it sounds dumb when I summarize it. But Fielding pulls it off with aplomb and style.

We get back to the story, and see what Squire Western’s up to on his pursuit of Sophia. The Squire is all out of sorts, bemoaning his state, and carrying on (as he’s pretty want to do). Parson Supple’s traveling with him, and tries to console him about missing his daughter. Western clarifies things for him, he’s lamenting missing hunting season. They come across a hunting party and ends up spending the day and dining with a fellow squire. He has such a good time that he totally abandons the chase for his daughter and goes home.

Such a devoted father…really, he’s an example to us all.

Back to Tom next week, so we can see how he does on his journey (probably not as well as Sophia, but better than her father, is my guess).

Allrighty, folks…buckle in. We’ve got to get through 30 pages here to get back on schedule.

We start with Mrs. Fitzpatrick telling Sophia what has her on the road, essentially recapping her entire life from the time she married Mr. Fitzpatrick. It takes three long (by Fielding’s standards) to get through. In short, she was taken in by his (fleeting) charms—a personality that disappeared soon after their wedding, and looks that went the way of all things. He, on the other hand, seemed primarily interested in her “Ready Money” (in the words of one of his impatient creditors). Even as she becomes aware of the latter, he’s able to talk her into returning to Ireland with him and to take up residence in an increasingly gloomy house. From this point, we get a tale of repeated arguments, infidelity (on his part), imprisonment in her quarters, and attempts to force her to sell part of her landholdings.

What a great guy, eh?

They’re interrupted briefly by the landlady with news that the French have arrived to throw in with the rebellion against the Queen. It’s distressing news to Sophia, but she’s so worried about her father’s arrival and what Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s been telling her that her reaction isn’t quite right.

Then Sophia tells her tale—Fielding tells us that he won’t recap what she says, because we’ve already read it. But, there’s a catch:

she made no more mention of Jones, from the Beginning to the End, than if there had been no such Person alive. This I will neither endeavour to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called a Kind of Dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent Openness and explicit Sincerity of the other Lady.—But so it was.

A Gentleman arrives at the Inn and, after a lot of fuss and bother, is revealed to be the gentleman and neighbor of Mrs. Fitzpatrick who helped her escape from her home and get to England. He agrees to help the ladies get to London safely.

I’ve got to say, this was hard to get through. It was exactly the kind of info dump that most authors try to avoid today, and just wasn’t that interesting. I hope, hope, that learning all this pays off eventually and is something more than just Mrs. Fitzpaterick’s backstory just to be told it.

Still, that little nugget about Sophia leaving Tom out of the tale of her last few months is interesting…

Partridge tries to talk Tom in to returning home, rather than getting further inolved with the military. That doesn’t go well at all, and the two start to bicker, when Tom finds the Muff, recognizes it and suddenly can only care aonly about it. He tries to set out to track Sophia down.

And, yeah, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was, after all, probably at the Inn—just not the woman that Tom was found with, and is already on the road. The coach that had likely brought Mrs. Fitzpatrick to the end is described:

The Coach which had brought the young Lady and her Maid, and which, perhaps, the Reader may have hitherto concluded was her own, was, indeed, a returned Coach belonging to Mr King, of Bath, one of the worthiest and honestest Men that ever dealt in Horse-flesh, and whose Coaches we heartily recommend to all our Readers who travel that Road. By which Means they may, perhaps, have the Pleasure of riding in the very Coach, and being driven by the very Coachman, that is recorded in this History.

According the footnotes in my edition, this was an actual business, making this appear to be one of the earliest examples of product placement?

Chapter vi ends with:

Here, Reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some Matters, which, if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to be. And this Information thou shalt receive in the next Chapter.

This is one of my all-time favorite chapter endings. I love it when Fielding narrates his narration like this. It’s the simple things in life, right?

The next chapter is such the comedy of errors, mistaken identities, mistaken motives, wild accusations, and general running about that I can’t summarize it well—I’d really have to just reprint the whole chapter. Suffice it to say that Squire Western is a couple of hours behind Sophia, and is still no friend of Tom’s. Oh, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick is the cousin of Sophia.

We then get flashback chapters, detailing how Sophia ran away from her home, and how her father reacted (hint: poorly) upon discovering it—oddly, her aunt defended her actions. Naturally, Fielding uses the chance to indulge his weakness for the young lady,

It is now Time to look after Sophia; whom the Reader, if he lovers half as well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the Clutches of her passionate Father, and from those of her dispassionate Lover.

We get a beginning of a Book digression—this one into a harangue against literary critics, who are nothing more than slanderers, attacking an author when they attack a book—

for, as no one can call another Bastard, without calling the Mother a Whore, so neither can any one give the Names of sad Stuff, horrid Nonsense, &c., to a Book, without calling the Author a Blockhead; which, though in a moral Sense it is a preferable Appellation to that of Villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly Interest.

(as much as I quibble with his argument, I enjoyed it)

Then we resume with Sophia’s journey after her close miss with Tom, she, her maid, and their guide rush toward London, and soon discover they’re being followed (unintentionally). It turns out that they’re being followed by none other than Sophia’s cousin, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. They had been very close not that long ago and decide to travel together. But are both so tired after their last couple of days that they don’t talk much, and resolve to keep their stories until they’ve had a chance to sleep. They get to an inn, and collapse almost immediately, so we’ll get to see them catch up with each other next week.

Some of this was just a bit too busy for my taste. I prefer Fielding a bit more streamlined, but overall, this was eventful, fun and should prove to make life interesting in the chapters to come.

We start off with the 18th case of mistaken identity and 47th fistfight of the book.

Some Irishman has come to the Inn late at night, looking for his wife. The maid assumes that he’s talking about Mrs. Waters, leads him to her room. He bursts in, sees clothing from two people scattered all over, a female in the bed and Tom jumping out of it to see who burst in. The stranger starts attacking Tom. Another Irishman is staying in the next room (I’m not going to bother trying to introduce them), a friend, and he comes charging in—only to help him realize that Mrs. Waters isn’t his wife. The two leave and Tom goes back to bed.

The maid and landlady discuss the events of the evening, only to be interrupted by a lady’s maid and her lady coming to take a room. After getting them settled, the maid comes down, looking for food and gets to talking things over with the inn’s made and Partridge. One thing leads to another and Patridge reveals to Mrs. Honour (naturally, that’s who the lady’s maid is) that Tom’s here with Mrs. Waters.

Partridge does a little more damage that I really don’t care enough to recap. Mrs. Honour tells Sophia about it, she’s highly offended (not realizing it was Partridge telling tales out of school, not Tom) and arranges to leave the fabled muff (which, of course, she has on her) and a note in Tom’s room.

There are a couple of stylistic moments that seem different from the rest of the book—as I’m currently at page 546, that’s no mean feat. They were nice touches, but I’m glad they’re just touches. Even without that, Fielding’s voice was as strong as ever, and I chuckled as much as I rolled my eyes at these silly circumstances.

Looking forward to seeing Tom dig himself out of this hole.

We start with a meal between Mrs. Waters, our poor victim of assault from last week’s chapters. She does her best to seduce Tom—and it works pretty well.

While that’s going on the serjeant and Partridge are, well, gossiping about Tom and Mrs. Waters—who really isn’t a Mrs. She’s just someone who spends a lot of time with Waters (and the implication is that she spends a good deal of time with people who aren’t Waters—like say, Northerton. But that little relationship went off the rails, as we saw). Partridge gets into Tom’s relationship with Allworthy (and implies a bit more about Tom’s status than is really true).

We close this week with the beginning of the next book, a digression about the morality of characters—he’s clear that he wants to avoid wholly good or completely depraved characters, but instead:

In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the admiration and affection of a well-disposed mind, though there should appear some of those little blemishes quas humana parum cavit natura, they will raise our compassion rather than our abhorrence. Indeed, nothing can be of more moral use than the imperfections which are seen in examples of this kind; since such form a kind of surprize, more apt to affect and dwell upon our minds than the faults of very vicious and wicked persons. The foibles and vices of men, in whom there is great mixture of good, become more glaring objects from the virtues which contrast them and shew their deformity; and when we find such vices attended with their evil consequence to our favourite characters, we are not only taught to shun them for our own sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they have already brought on those we love.

This seems like a highly appropriate thing to think about at the moment.

I was ready to have this up hours earlier than I’ve been doing lately. And then my computer decided to do the thing that computers do when you’re cocky…3+ hours later, I got back on track and this is now late. Ahh hubris….

We’re in a new Book, so we get a chapter of digression. This time, the focus is on fiction writing—novels and romances, in particular. This seems to be a special interest of people who read this blog (and who write it, too), so let’s take a beat to look at some of this. Worried about the success of some recent novels, Fielding warns:

Thus a swarm of foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many worthy and honest people.

Yeah, he seems to hold a dim view of his own profession, and goes on to say:

To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject whatever… [A]ll the arts and sciences (even criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed there be any such.

From there he goes on to talk about contemporary fiction, qualifications for writing, characteristics of various types of writers…it’s good stuff.

Back to the story, Tom and the Man of the Hill are out for a casual stroll the next morning and chatting—it sounds like a really nice, drama-free, time. Which, of course, cannot stand. They hear a woman screaming, Tom leaves The Man behind and rushes to her aid.

The screamer is partially dressed and is being dragged by a belt around her neck by some man. Tom falls upon the man, beating him with his staff. The woman stops him from killing the man, so he ties him up and prepares to take him to a Justice of the Peace. It’s then he discovers that this man is our old friend, Northerton.

As Tom gets directions from the Man of the Hill, Northerton sneaks off (Fielding notes, his hands may have been tied, but his feet were free)—the woman was too busy focusing on her rescuer to notice. Instead of seeking justice, Tom takes her to an Inn to clean up while he procures some clothes. After depositing her in a room, Tom goes to talk to the landlady about that.

The landlady doesn’t give him a chance to ask—she does not run the kind of place where a man can bring a partially dressed woman that he’s probably not married to (and even if he was)—and starts beating him with a broom before he can explain. Tom starts to defend himself, but the Landlord joins in. By the sheer happenstance that this novel thrives on, Partridge wanders by, sees Tom in trouble and joins in. Then one of the Inn’s maids also joins the fray (and does more damage than anyone else). Then the poor woman—still in need of clothing—gets involved.

What stops this fight? New customers. So, obviously, the Landlord and Landlady have to go see to them. Again, by happenstance, these are soldiers who recognize the attacked woman as being their captain’s wife, and not some harlot or whatever. Obviously now, everyone falls all over themselves apologizing to her and to Tom—who brushes that all off and everyone drinks to seal the peace.

I’m not sure where Fielding’s going, but this was a fun few chapters. This was the digression chapter, followed by three chapters of narrative. In those three, we have 2 fistfights. If you stop and think about it, there’s a lot of fighting in this book. I’ve read Jack Reacher novels with fewer episodes of fisticuffs—and I’m only a little over half-finished! I’m not trying to say anything profound or anything—I just find that funny.

I’m still unsure why we spent so much time on the Man of the Hill’s backstory, but we’ll get around to learning it. In the meantime, this was fun.

So, we left Partridge and Tom seeking shelter in a stranger’s home—The Man on the Hill (I kept mentally substituting “The Fool on the Hill” from Magical Mystery Tour, which made this difficult). We’re told he has an interesting life (the fact that he’s known by a title and not a name is a tip-off).

So, for reasons I’m hoping I’ll understand eventually, Fielding treats us to five chapters of this guy telling his life story. It’s an interesting tale, frequently interrupted by Partridge being amusing (and a little annoying). Tom draws some parallels between TMotH’s life and his own, which may lead to some introspection and maturity.

But, let’s be serious, it probably won’t.

So our friendly and fairly educated barber, Benjamin, comes back to chat with Tom—he’s heard some gossip about him and would like to confirm it. Tom tells his side of the events, and sure, he reflexively tells the story in a way to make him look better—as people do—but isn’t really dishonest about any of it (although he instinctively withholds Sophia’s name for a bit). The two get a little more chummy, ad Benjamin offers to loan Tom some books during his convalescence (proving that he’s a gentleman of great value, even of the discussion of books goes nowhere).

Tom calls him back the next day, because he needs a little blood-letting, after the firing of the surgeon. While he comes back, Benjamin reveals to Tom that he’s the man who was suspected to be his father. He swears he wasn’t, but as followed the news about Tom and is quite impressed with him. Tom wants to make things up to him for all the trouble his hack of parentage has caused Benjamin. The barber says that’s not necessary, he’d just like to be a traveling companion for Tom and his adventures.

We’re told by the narrator, that Benjamin has an ulterior motive—he wants to patch things up between Tom and Allworthy, and to do so in a way that Allworthy is so overcome with gratitude that he reintroduces him to society.

The two begin their travels and eventually come across the home of someone they learn is called The Man of the Hill, one night while in need of a warm place to say. Tom saves him from a mugging and the two are given some shelter for the night.

This section is filled with interesting characters, odd conversations, and Tom getting the wool pulled over his eyes (even if it’s sort of for his benefit). It’s not the best this book has given, but it’s an interesting read, so I’m not going to complain. We seem to have more of the same in the wings, so that should be good reading for the foreseeable future.

I sat my laptop down after I’d started this post, and Windows decided that when I said I wanted to install updates later, I didn’t mean a half-hour later after I stopped working for a couple of minutes. I lost a couple of paragraphs of this—my reconstruction might be a little rough. We’ll see.

We start Book VIII with the typical digression from the story. This time, we get “A wonderful long Chapter concerning the Marvellous; being much the longest of all our introductory Chapters.” He really believes in truth in advertising, it’s a long chapter. A long discussion about the “marvelous,” or supernatural in fiction. It’s pretty interesting but has as little to do with the novel as any of the other first chapters. I’d love to take the time and work through the allusions and footnotes (added by the editor of my edition), because that’d be a fascinating study.

We return to Tom’s room as he continues to recover—the Landlady shows up and introduces herself to Tom. Thanks to some intelligence from the Lieutenant, she pretends to know Sophia. Which gets Tom to open up to her about his life—she quickly learns that he’s no gentleman at all, but a broke castout. Which pretty much means that she’s done with him. As Fielding notes:

for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of respect; and though they are contented to give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those of their own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains.

(that’s horribly cynical, but…probably holds more than a kernel of truth)

The doctor comes back and argues with Tom about his treatment (getting a little more lampooning). Afterward, he talks to the landlady and discovers that Tom can’t pay him, either. Which (not surprisingly) gets him very angry. He argues with Tom some more and gets shooed off.

Which brings us to the barber—Fielding puts him on the same level as barber from Don Quixote and The Arabian Nights. He’s a jolly sort, given to quoting philosophers. He tells Tom it’s crazy to join the army with head injury he’s sporting. The Table of Contents tells me we’re going to get more of him soon.

Not a lot happens again, but (like last week) it’s all about the way that things are told. It’s fun and I’m looking forward to seeing what the barber’s really about.