The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics)

by Henry Fielding

  The length of this Narrative gave Lady Bellaston an Opportunity of rallying her Spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as the Behaviour of Sophia gave her Hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an Air of Good-Humour, and said, ‘I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had Company.’

  Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these Words. To which that poor young Lady, having her Face overspread with Blushes and Confusion, answered, in a stammering Voice, ‘I am sure, Madam, I shall always think the Honour of your Ladyship’s Company——’ ‘I hope, at least,’ cries Lady Bellaston, ‘I interrupt no Business.’—‘No, Madam,’ answered Sophia, ‘our Business was at an End. Your Ladyship may be pleased to remember, I have often mentioned the Loss of my Pocket-book, which this Gentleman having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the Bill in it.’

  Jones, ever since the Arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with Fear. He sat kicking his Heels, playing with his Fingers, and looking more like a Fool, if it be possible, than a young booby Squire, when he is first introduced into a polite Assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a Hint from the Behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who, he saw, did not intend to claim any Acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the Stranger on his Part. He said, ‘Ever since he had the Pocket-Book in his Possession, he had used great Dilligence in enquiring out the Lady whose Name was writ in it; but never till that Day could be so fortunate to discover her.’

  Sophia had, indeed, mentioned the Loss of her Pocket-Book to Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some Reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was in his Possession, she believed not one Syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the extreme Quickness of the young Lady, in inventing such an Excuse. The Reason of Sophia’s leaving the Playhouse met with no better Credit; and though she could not account for the Meeting between these two Lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.

  With an affected Smile, therefore, she said—‘Indeed, Miss Western, you have had very good Luck in recovering your Money. Not only as it fell into the Hands of a Gentleman of Honour, but as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it advertised.—It was great good Fortune, Sir, that you found out to whom the Note belonged.’

  ‘O Madam,’ cries Jones, ‘it was inclosed in a Pocket-Book, in which the young Lady’s Name was written.’

  ‘That was very fortunate indeed,’ cries the Lady;—‘And it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my House; for she is very little known.’

  Jones had at length perfectly recovered his Spirits; and as he conceived he had now an Opportunity of satisfying Sophia, as to the Question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus: ‘Why, Madam,’ answered he, ‘it was by the luckiest Chance imaginable I made this Discovery. I was mentioning what I had found, and the Name of the Owner, the other Night, to a Lady at the Masquerade, who told me, she believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to her House the next Morning, she would inform me. I went according to her Appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I ever meet with her till this Morning, when she directed me to your Ladyship’s House. I came accordingly, and did myself the Honour to ask for your Ladyship; and upon my saying that I had very particular Business, a Servant shewed me into this Room; where I had not been long before the young Lady returned from the Play.’

  Upon his mentioning the Masquerade, he look’d very slyly at Lady Bellaston, without any Fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much confounded to make any Observations. This Hint a little alarmed the Lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the Agitations of Sophia’s Mind, resolved to take the only Method of relieving her, which was by retiring: But before he did this, he said, ‘I believe, Madam, it is customary to give some Reward on these Occasions;—I must insist on a very high one for my Honesty;—It is, Madam, no less than the Honour of being permitted to pay another Visit here.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied the Lady, ‘I make no Doubt that you are a Gentleman, and my Doors are never shut to People of Fashion.’

  Jones then, after proper Ceremonials, departed, highly to his own Satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.

  Upon the Stairs Jones met his old Acquaintance Mrs. Honour, who, notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well-bred to behave with great Civility. This Meeting proved indeed a lucky Circumstance, as he communicated to her the House where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted.

  CHAPTER XII.

  In which the Thirteenth Book is concluded.

  The elegant Lord Shaftsbury somewhere objects to telling too much Truth:1 By which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some Cases, to lie, is not only excusable but commendable.

  And surely there are no Persons who may so properly challenge a Right to this commendable Deviation from Truth, as young Women in the Affair of Love; for which they may plead Precept, Education, and above all, the Sanction, nay, I may say, the Necessity of Custom, by which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest Impulses of Nature (for that would be a foolish Prohibition) but from owning them.

  We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our Heroine now pursued the Dictates of the abovementioned Right Honourable Philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the Person of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that Ignorance, though at the Expence of a little Fibbing.

  Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cry’d, ‘Upon my Word, a good pretty young Fellow; I wonder who he is: For I don’t remember ever to have seen his Face before.’

  ‘Nor I neither, Madam,’ cries Sophia, ‘I must say he behaved very handsomely in relation to my Note.’

  ‘Yes; and he is a very handsome Fellow,’ said the Lady; ‘don’t you think so?’

  ‘I did not take much Notice of him,’ answered Sophia; ‘but I thought he seemed rather aukward and ungenteel than otherwise.’

  ‘You are extremely right,’ cries Lady Bellaston: ‘You may see, by his Manner, that he hath not kept good Company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning your Note, and refusing the Reward, I almost question whether he is a Gentleman.——I have always observed there is a Something in Persons well-born, which others can never acquire.——I think I will give Orders not to be at Home to him.’

  ‘Nay sure, Madam,’ answered Sophia, ‘one can’t suspect after what he hath done:——Besides, if your Ladyship observed him, there was an Elegance in his Discourse, a Delicacy, a Prettiness of Expression that, that —’

  ‘I confess,’ said Lady Bellaston, ‘the Fellow hath Words——And indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.’

  ‘I forgive your Ladyship!’ said Sophia.

  ‘Yes indeed you must,’ answered she laughing; ‘for I had a horrible Suspicion when I first came into the Room——I vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr. Jones himself.’

  ‘Did your Ladyship indeed?’ cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a Laugh.

  ‘Yes, I vow I did,’ answered she, ‘I can’t imagine what put it into my Head: For, give the Fellow his due, he was genteelly drest; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the Case with your Friend.’

  ‘This Raillery,’ cries Sophia, ‘is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my Promise to your Ladyship.’

  ‘Not at all, Child,’ said the Lady;—‘It would have been cruel before; but after you have promised me never to marry without your Father’s Consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little Raillery on a Passion which was pardonable enough in a young Girl in the Country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little Ridicule even on his Dress? I shall begin
to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have dealt ingenuously with me.’

  ‘Indeed, Madam,’ cries Sophia, ‘your Ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I had any Concern on his Account.’

  ‘On his Account?’ answered the Lady: ‘You must have mistaken me; I went no farther than his Dress;——for I would not injure your Taste by any other Comparison—I don’t imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr. Jones had been such a Fellow as this——’

  ‘I thought,’ says Sophia, ‘your Ladyship had allowed him to be handsome.’—

  ‘Whom, pray?’ cried the Lady, hastily.

  ‘Mr. Jones,’ answered Sophia; — and immediately recollecting herself, ‘Mr. Jones!——no, no; I ask your Pardon;—I mean the Gentleman who was just now here.’

  ‘O Sophy! Sophy!’ cries the Lady; ‘this Mr. Jones, I am afraid, still runs in your Head.’

  ‘Then upon my Honour, Madam,’ said Sophia, ‘Mr. Jones is as entirely indifferent to me, as the Gentleman who just now left us.’

  ‘Upon my Honour,’ said Lady Bellaston, ‘I believe it. Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent Raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his Name any more.’

  And now the two Ladies separated, infinitely more to the Delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her Rival a little longer, had not Business of more Importance called her away. As for Sophia, her Mind was not perfectly easy under this first Practice of Deceit: upon which, when she retired to her Chamber, she reflected with the highest Uneasiness and conscious Shame. Nor could the peculiar Hardship of her Situation, and the Necessity of the Case, at all reconcile her Mind to her Conduct; for the Frame of her Mind was too delicate to bear the Thought of having been guilty of a Falshood, however qualified by Circumstances. Nor did this Thought once suffer her to close her Eyes during the whole succeeding Night.

  BOOK XIV.

  Containing two Days.

  CHAPTER I.

  An Essay to prove that an Author will write the better, for having some Knowledge of the Subject on which he writes.

  As several Gentlemen in these Times, by the wonderful Force of Genius only, without the least Assistance of Learning, perhaps, without being well able to read, have made a considerable Figure in the Republic of Letters; the modern Critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that all kind of Learning is entirely useless to a Writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of Fetters on the natural Spriteliness and Activity of the Imagination, which is thus weighed down, and prevented from soaring to those high Flights which otherwise it would be able to reach.1

  This Doctrine, I am afraid, is, at present, carried much too far: For why should Writing differ so much from all other Arts? the Nimbleness of a Dancing Master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth any Mechanic, I believe, exercise his Tools the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own Part, I cannot conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more Fire, if, instead of being Masters of all the Learning of their Times, they had been as ignorant as most of the Authors of the present Age. Nor do I believe that all the Imagination, Fire, and Judgment of Pitt2 could have produced those Orations that have made the Senate of England in these our Times a Rival in Eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had not been so well read in the Writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to have transferred their whole Spirit into his Speeches, and with their Spirit, their Knowledge too.

  I would not here be understood to insist on the same Fund of Learning in any of my Brethren, as Cicero persuades us3 is necessary to the Composition of an Orator. On the contrary, very little Reading is, I conceive, necessary to the Poet, less to the Critic, and the least of all to the Politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe’s Art of Poetry,4 and a few of our modern Poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate Heap of Plays; and for the last, an indifferent Collection of political Journals.

  To say the Truth, I require no more than that a Man should have some little Knowledge of the Subject on which he treats, according to the old Maxim of Law, Quam quisque norit artem in eâ se exerceat. With this alone a Writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and indeed without this, all the other Learning in the World will stand him in little stead.

  For Instance let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero, Thucydides and Livy could have met all together, and have clubbed their several Talents to have composed a Treatise on the Art of Dancing; I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have equalled the excellent Treatise which Mr. Essex hath given us on that Subject, entitled, The Rudiments of genteel Education.5 And, indeed, should the excellent Mr. Broughton6 be prevailed on to set Fist to Paper, and to complete the abovesaid Rudiments, by delivering down the true Principles of Athletics, I question whether the World will have any Cause to lament, that none of the great Writers, either antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful Art.

  To avoid a Multiplicity of Examples in so plain a Case, and to come at once to my Point, I am apt to conceive, that one Reason why many English Writers have totally failed in describing the Manners of upper Life, may possibly be, that in Reality they know nothing of it.7

  This is a Knowledge unhappily not in the Power of many Authors to arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect Idea of it; nor will the Stage a much better: The fine Gentleman formed upon reading the former will almost always turn out a Pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a Coxcomb.

  Nor are the Characters drawn from these Models better supported. Vanbrugh and Congreve copied Nature; but they who copy them draw as unlike the present Age, as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a Rout or a Drum in the Dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, Imitation here will not do the Business. The Picture must be after Nature herself. A true Knowledge of the World is gained only by Conversation, and the Manners of every Rank must be seen in order to be known.

  Now it happens that this higher Order of Mortals is not to be seen, like all the rest of the Human Species, for nothing, in the Streets, Shops, and Coffee-houses: Nor are they shewn like the upper Rank of Animals, for so much a Piece. In short, this is a Sight to which no Persons are admitted, without one or other of these Qualifications, viz. either Birth or Fortune, or what is equivalent to both, the honourable Profession of a Gamester. And, very unluckily for the World, Persons so qualified very seldom care to take upon themselves the bad Trade of Writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower and poorer Sort, as it is a Trade which many think requires no Kind of Stock to set up with.

  Hence those strange Monsters in Lace and Embroidery, in Silks and Brocades, with vast Wigs and Hoops; which, under the Name of Lords and Ladies, strut the Stage, to the great Delight of Attornies and their Clerks in the Pit, and of the Citizens and their Apprentices in the Galleries; and which are no more to be found in real Life, than the Centaur, the Chimera, or any other Creature of mere Fiction. But to let my Reader into a Secret, this Knowledge of upper Life, though very necessary for preventing Mistakes, is no very great Resource to a Writer whose Province is Comedy, or that Kind of Novels, which, like this I am writing, is of the comic Class.

  What Mr. Pope says of Women is very applicable to most in this Station, who are indeed so entirely made up of Form and Affectation, that they have no Character at all, at least, none which appears.8 I will venture to say the highest Life is much the dullest, and affords very little Humour or Entertainment. The various Callings in lower Spheres produce the great Variety of humorous Characters; whereas here, except among the few who are engaged in the Pursuit of Ambition, and the fewer still who have a Relish for Pleasure, all is Vanity and servile Imitation. Dressing and Cards, eating and drinking, bowing and courtesying, make up the Business of their Lives.

  Some there are however of this Rank, upon whom Passion exercises its Tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the Bounds which Decorum prescribes; of these, the Ladies are as much distinguished by their noble Intrepidity, and a certain superior Contempt of Reputation, from the f
rail ones of meaner Degree, as a virtuous Woman of Quality is by the Elegance and Delicacy of her Sentiments from the honest Wife of a Yeoman or Shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid Character; but let not my Country Readers conclude from her, that this is the general Conduct of Women of Fashion, or that we mean to represent them as such. They might as well suppose, that every Clergyman was represented by Thwackum, or every Soldier by Ensign Northerton.

  There is not indeed a greater Error than that which universally prevails among the Vulgar, who borrowing their Opinion from some ignorant Satirists, have affixed the Character of Lewdness to these Times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of Love Intrigue carried on among Persons of Condition, than now. Our present Women have been taught by their Mothers to fix their Thoughts only on Ambition and Vanity, and to despise the Pleasures of Love as unworthy their Regard; and being afterwards, by the Care of such Mothers, married without having Husbands, they seem pretty well confirmed in the Justness of those Sentiments; whence they content themselves, for the dull Remainder of Life, with the Pursuit of more innocent, but I am afraid more childish Amusements, the bare Mention of which would ill suit with the Dignity of this History. In my humble Opinion, the true Characteristic of the present Beau Monde, is rather Folly than Vice, and the only Epithet which it deserves is that of Frivolous.