Tom Jones: why you should read this tale of “bastardism, fornication, and adultery”

1/ I can see why Coleridge thinks Tom Jones has one of the most perfect plots in literature, alongside Oedipus Tyrannus by Sophocles and The Alchemist by Ben Jonson. Exciting plot, cleverly constructed, brilliantly told. 

As I wrote in an earlier blog post, the novel is sharply divided into three parts: 

• Fielding introduces the story of Tom Jones as a foundling on Mr Allworthy’s estate in Somersetshire and the conflict between him and Mr Allworthy’s nephew, Master Blifil; Jones and Sophia Western grow up together as neighbours and fall in love (in the background: Jones shags some trollop)
• Tom Jones is turned out of doors and soon accompanied by Partridge; Sophia, forced to marry Master Blifil, runs away from home; this part is about all the adventures and encounters on the way to London (in the background: Jones shags another trollop) 
• The characters are now all in London (in the background: Jones shags yet another trollop)

(I know, there’s a lot of shagging). 

Whereas Joseph Andrews feels episodic and nothing quite holds it together, Tom Jones has two things that hold our interest for the entire book: the mystery of Jones’s parentage and the love story between him and Sophia. And even if you generally care more about characters or writing style or metaphors, I think anyone would still be in awe of how well Fielding constructs the plot. 

I saw some blogger remark (but not in a derogatory way) that, like Dickens, Fielding stays on the surface and doesn’t dig deep into the characters’ minds but, like Dickens, creates many vivid and memorable characters—an endless examination of every character’s thoughts and motivations would have robbed the novel of its vitality. I would go further. It actually serves the plot that Fielding, for example, doesn’t enter Master Blifil’s mind—he withholds information from the reader and surprises us later. 

2/ Fielding is one of the writers with the pleasantest and most lovable authorial personae, though he’s more visible on the page than Cervantes or Chekhov. 

“Mrs Waters had, in truth, not only a good opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him. To speak out boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions, appetites, and senses, and is understood to be that preference which we give to one kind of food rather than to another.

But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and the same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be different; for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent surloin of beef, or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor endeavour by any other arts or tricks to gain the affection of the said beef, &c. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is generally in the absence, not in the presence, of the beloved object.” (B.9, ch.5) 

How could anyone not like him? 

“We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble.” (B.12, ch.3) 

He is witty and good-humoured and tolerant—his moral compass is firmly established, he has no naïveté or delusion about human nature, and we can see his abhorrence for tyranny, hypocrisy, and cruelty—but he never comes across as harsh or judgemental as we sometimes notice in George Eliot or Tolstoy. I also like that Tom Jones is divided into 18 books and each one begins with the author talking about the very novel we’re reading and his techniques. Meta?  

If you like Jane Austen, you would also like Fielding, because he also deals with appearance vs reality, hypocrisy, prudence, self-perception, and growth. 

If you like Dickens, you would also like Fielding, for his energy and vitality, and Fielding also deals with poverty, hardship, and charity. 

Fielding creates Mr Allworthy to be the moral centre of the novel, and wisely keeps him in the background for most of it. Throughout the book, Fielding often argues for mercy, forgiveness, and generosity, but he is not naïve—I like that towards the end, Mr Allworthy gives this speech when Jones is soft on people who have wronged him:  

““… Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to be; […] but when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then become faults…”” (B.18, ch.11) 

3/ The best female characters in the book, as written in my previous blog post, are Mrs Western (Sophia’s aunt) and Lady Bellaston (a manipulative but enthralling woman who fancies Tom Jones and would fit right in Dangerous Liaisons). 

Sophia Western as a character is hard to do right—how do you write a character who is pure and basically perfect? People complain about Fanny Price from Mansfield Park. People complain about Esther Summerson from Bleak House. Do they criticise the depiction of Sophia? Not sure. I do like Sophia (though I also like Fanny and Esther): she is not quick-witted and assertive like Elizabeth Bennet, but she knows her mind and has the strength of Fanny Price—I especially like that she’s firm with Jones and doesn’t accept him easily after what he has done—she’s no doormat.  

4/ I struggled a bit with the second third of the book, though I’m not sure if it’s because it’s in the mould of Joseph Andrews and I didn’t particularly care for the character of Partridge, or because I was visiting Edinburgh and then fell ill and half of my skull was in pain. 

Could very well be the latter. 

But the first and the last part I thoroughly, utterly enjoyed. 

What a wonderful novel. I think Tom Jones may now be my favourite 18th century novel, beating Hong lou meng and Dangerous Liaisons. 

The headline of this blog post comes from some contemporary detractor of the novel. 

Tom Jones: “English women […] are no slaves”

1/ One of the readers of this blog, who prefers Richardson to Fielding, once said he thought Tom Jones was… cute. I don’t agree. Tom Jones is a comic novel, but there is nothing affected or superficial or naïve about it. Fielding doesn’t shy away from evil or misery. 

He begins the novel as a world of warmth and kindness but very quickly lets us see that humanity is not all Mr Allworthys: we see Dr Blifil scheme his brother’s way into Mr Allworthy’s family and fortunes, and we see Captain Blifil turn into a despot once he’s married to Mr Allworthy’s sister. And throughout the novel, Fielding depicts brutal husbands and tyrannical fathers.

“… He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex, as ever knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.” (B.11, ch.8)

The novel also depicts hypocrites and liars and mercenaries and trollops and thieves and rakes and manipulators and so on. Not at all a rosy view of life. Fielding may present himself as a warm and witty man, a large-hearted man, a man forgiving and tolerant of people’s moral failings, but he makes a clear distinction between foibles and callousness or cruelty. For example, Tom Jones, despite his love for Sophia, sleeps with lots of women and cannot say no to those who throw themselves at him—that’s a foible—but Fielding makes a clear distinction between him and the men who play with women’s feelings, who deliberately use women for pleasure then discard them once done. 

2/ Let me quote my friend Himadri (Argumentative Old Git) on Fielding and Richardson’s Pamela: 

“… However, for all the rumbustiousness, Fielding’s moral compass is very firmly established. His principal argument with Richardson is not, after all, that Richardson was too serious in his morals, but that he wasn’t serious enough – that allowing Pamela to be “rewarded” for her virtue with marriage with her former tormentor made virtue itself but a commodity.” 

3/ Fielding is progressive—the word is now rather tainted but I mean it in the good sense—he’s strongly in favour of marrying for love and against forced marriages or mercenary marriages.

I also like the range of female characters in Tom Jones. 

Mrs Western for example is a great character. Sophie’s aunt, she’s much more severe and cruel than Lady Russell from Persuasion, but the similarity is that she wants to persuade Sophia into a marriage with Master Blifil out of prudence—or what she perceives as prudence—not out of cruelty or a tyrannical will. There is a great contrast between her and her hot-headed brother. Fielding also gives her some great lines: 

““… While I have been endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of prudence, you have been provoking her to reject them. English women, brother, I thank heaven, are no slaves. We are not to be locked up like the Spanish and Italian wives. We have as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We are to be convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by force…”” (B.6, ch.14) 

She’s much more intelligent than Squire Western—contrast their reactions upon finding out that Sophia’s hiding at Lady Bellaston’s: 

““… Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of the peace? […] Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation?” (B.15, ch.16) 

Lady Bellaston is also a great character, a lascivious and manipulative and enthralling woman, one who would fit right in Dangerous Liaisons. 

““Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly, “that it would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and acquaint him where my cousin is?”

The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered—“Why, no, madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to be such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power who hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to his own wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the cause of my sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under their power…”” (B.13, ch.3) 

She is scheming and deceitful, but Fielding gives her charming qualities—the only pity is that she doesn’t have a lot of room to develop, being one of the supporting characters—I wonder if Thackeray later borrowed a bit of Lady Bellaston for Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair. Lady Bellaston is more sophisticated than Lady Booby in Joseph Andrews, though that’s also a brilliant character. 

Molly Seagrim (Tom’s first lover?) is not a badly written character either. She’s vividly drawn, a rugged and sexual and feisty woman, very different from the equally lustful Lady Bellaston. 

I’m gonna have to read and think some more before writing about Sophia, the heroine of the book. 

Tom Jones is more and more engrossing. The last third is exciting! 

Tom Jones: “Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and Partridge on the bank-bill”

1/ Once I came across a review of Tom Jones that complained of Henry Fielding’s “relentless flow of words”. But I love that about Fielding! 

“Now the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous enemies, and chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal, man, had confined all the day to her lurking-place, sports wantonly o’er the lawns; now on some hollow tree the owl, shrill chorister of the night, hoots forth notes which might charm the ears of some modern connoisseurs in music; now, in the imagination of the half-drunk clown, as he staggers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard, to his home, fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and ruffians are awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it was now midnight; and the company at the inn, as well those who have been already mentioned in this history, as some others who arrived in the evening, were all in bed.” (B.10, ch.2) 

He does the same thing later on: 

“Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous bell-metal, summoning the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly round.——In plainer language, it was twelve o’clock, and all the family, as we have said, lay buried in drink and sleep, except only Mrs Western, who was deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet, and except our heroine, who now softly stole down-stairs, and, having unbarred and unlocked one of the house-doors, sallied forth, and hastened to the place of appointment.” (B.10, ch.9) 

2/ I love that Fielding has absorbed Shakespeare into his bloodstream and constantly references him: Othello, “green-eyed monster”, Desdemona and Cassio, “much ado about nothing”, “dogs of war”, “bloody Banquo”, Macduff, and so on and so forth (unless I’m mistaken, Othello is referenced the most). 

There are also lots of allusions to Don Quixote. 

“Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer’s heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world could have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition which must give both me and my reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been concerned.” (B.4, ch.8) 

Fielding directly mentions Cervantes (and Shakespeare and other writers he likes): 

“Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility to grieve at their own.” (B.13, ch.1) 

Tom Jones may be divided into three parts: Tom Jones on Mr Allworthy’s estate in Somersetshire, on the way to London, and in London. The second part, when Jones is travelling and accompanied by Partridge, is essentially like a picaresque novel in the mould of Joseph Andrews (and Don Quixote). They also stop at one inn after another, they also have adventures and meet different sets of characters along the way, and they sometimes get these characters to tell their own stories. The difference between Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews or Don Quixote is that Tom Jones has three different groups of people on the roads: Jones and Partridge going on their way to join the army and then hearing about Sophia Western and looking for her; Sophia running away from home and heading to London, accompanied by her maid Mrs Honour; and her father Squire Western chasing her. 

Another influence of Don Quixote is in the character of Partridge. Fielding has learnt from Joseph Andrews—its main flaw is that he concentrates all his energy on Parson Adams and gives Joseph no personality—in the later novel, Jones and Partridge are both vividly drawn characters and they do interact and bounce off each other, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. 

“They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might be called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several times without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge, whose head was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began to tremble […]. 

The poor fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, began a little to disturb his brain. There was no article of his creed in which he had a stronger faith than he had in witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive a figure more adapted to inspire this idea, than the old woman who now stood before him. She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway in his Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of James the First, her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost without any evidence.” (B.8, ch.10) 

Later on, Partridge is terrified hearing the noise of a drum, thinking that’s the rebel army. 

“… And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir, here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them already.”  

Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which Partridge had thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I fancy you will be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the colours I guess what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats up for recruits to a puppet-show.” (B.12, ch.5) 

Fielding gives Partridge the superstition, cowardice, and loquaciousness of Sancho Panza. But if Sancho is illiterate and ignorant and constantly pumping out proverbs in his talks, Partridge scatters around Latin sayings (possibly all non sequitur, I have no idea what he’s saying). Fielding also gives Partridge a fertile imagination, but it’s the imagination of a superstitious coward, not of a lunatic (as in the case of Don Quixote).  

3/ Here’s another Don Quixote allusion: 

“Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To say truth, it was by his assistance that she had been enabled to escape from her husband; for this nobleman had the same gallant disposition with those renowned knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised by husbands and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex, as ever knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected that those very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in reality no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be confined.” (B.11, ch.8) 

One can tell, reading Tom Jones, that Fielding hates more than anything else the hypocrite and the tyrant. The hypocrite: Master Blifil, Thwackum, Square… The tyrant: Captain Blifil, Squire Western, Mr Fitzpatrick… 

The characterisation of Squire Western is especially good. At the beginning, he appears a merry, easy-going man who loves Tom Jones with a generosity of spirit and whose only weakness seems to be his love for hunting above anything else. But gradually Fielding removes the layers and reveals that this is not a warm, open man; Squire Western is thoughtless, hot-headed, and cruel, a monster to his late wife, a tyrant to his daughter. This is an excellent creation. 

Tom Jones: “an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet”

1/ I like the sexual frankness of Tom Jones. 

“… Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had [Molly] of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion.” (B.4, ch.6) 

Henry Fielding is so likeable because he values goodness and virtue but he is tolerant and forgiving of human frailty—next to him, George Eliot and Edith Wharton and even Jane Austen may occasionally come across as rather harsh. 

“… Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cried out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of the grove.” (B.5, ch.10)

Hahahahaha. You can probably see why I love Tom Jones. No wonder some contemporary critic called it a tale of “bastardism, fornication, and adultery” (if that doesn’t make you want to pick up the novel, I don’t know what can). But it’s fascinating to see sexual frankness and an embrace of horniness in the 17th century (like Shakespeare) or the 18th century (Tom Jones, Dangerous Liaisons) after being used for years to the reticence and prudishness of the 19th century. 

(Did Tolstoy ever read Fielding? My quick googling told me nothing. I’m rather amused imagining his shock and outrage upon reading Tom Jones). 

I like the warm, good-humoured persona of the author: 

“… I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals.” (B.5, ch.5)

The novel has a comic tone, but Fielding has no illusions about humanity. He depicts the greed and misogyny of Captain Blifil, the hypocrisy of Thwackum, the artful and dishonest behaviour of Master Blifil, the wantonness of Molly Seagrim, the carefree egotism and thoughtless cruelty of Squire Western, the deceit of Black George… but, like Tolstoy or Chekhov, he depicts all these characters with compassion. 

2/ It is good to read Fielding’s masterpiece after Joseph Andrews. Both are full of warmth, wit, and good humour, but one can see the improvements. 

First of all is the main character. Like Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones is handsome, “one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.” But if in his first novel, Fielding concentrated most of his energy on Parson Adams (and some on Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop) and didn’t give Joseph a personality, he now does a good job with the characterisation of Tom Jones, who is impulsive and has a wild streak but who is nevertheless good-natured, loyal, generous, and lovable.  

Another difference is the plotting. I have written that Joseph Andrews, as a picaresque novel, is episodic and doesn’t have anything that holds it together—it is loose and drags on sometimes—Tom Jones in contrast is tightly plotted and I can see why Coleridge said it’s one of “the three most perfect plots ever planned.” 

I probably won’t say much about the plot and the characters till I’m close to finishing the book though. 

What a romp! 

PS: I’ve just read that Samuel Johnson said about Tom Jones: “I am shocked to hear you quote from so vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession which no modest lady should ever make. I scarcely know a more corrupt work.” 

Hahaha.

Tom Jones: “we have […] adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook”

I’ve noted that some bloggers complain about the narrator of Tom Jones—why?—this is one of the great charms of the novel.   

“The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.” (B.1, ch.1) 

I used to think I disliked the intrusive narrator, until I discovered Thackeray and Fielding (turns out I just didn’t get along with George Eliot). 

“… As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.” (B.1, ch.5) 

Fielding’s authorial persona is a delight—his influence on Thackeray is obvious. 

Tom Jones is divided into 18 books and each book begins with the author talking about his own writing—meta? I’ve come across readers who say that these chapters contribute nothing to the plot and that they are skippable, but they’re a carefully constructed part of the novel—like the essays in War and Peace or Life and Fate—in Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding has created a warm, witty, large-hearted narrator as an essential part of the novel; in Tom Jones, he goes further, talking about the art of the very book we are reading. 

“… I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.” (B.5, ch.1)

I guess the advantage of the novel being such a new thing in the 18th century was that writers could do whatever they wanted (I know, I will read Tristram Shandy). Some features and techniques people commonly associate with postmodernism were there from the very beginning (including Don Quixote). 

“Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them.

[…] Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.” (ibid.) 

Take that, critics! 

The funny part is that now and then, the narrator pretends not to know everything. 

“Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very particular business, though I know not what it was…” (B.1, ch.3) 

Who knows if you don’t, Mr Fielding? 

“… it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress.” (B.2, ch.3) 

This is even funnier: 

“As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world.” (B.4, ch.3) 

Isn’t that against what novels are about? 

“… As to the name of Jones, [Blifil] thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.” (B.5, ch.10)

What would Tolstoy think? (I’m thinking of his criticism of Shakespeare for not only concealing but sometimes also removing characters’ motives). 

Let’s see if next time I find anything interesting to blog about. I’m enjoying Tom Jones, especially the references to Shakespeare and Don Quixote. 

The Female Quixote: “silently cursed his ill Fate, to make him in love with a Woman so ridiculous”

1/ I’m taking back my comment earlier that Arabella’s ridiculous but lovable. 

“… You are a foolish Wench! replied Arabella, smiling at [Lucy’s] Simplicity. Do you think I have any Cause to accuse myself, though five thousand Men were to die for me! It is very certain my Beauty has produced very deplorable Effects: the unhappy Hervey has expiated, by his Death, the Violence his too-desperate Passion forced him to meditate against me: the no less guilty, the noble unknown Edward, is wandering about the World, in a tormenting Despair; and stands exposed to the Vengeance of my Cousin, who has vowed his Death. My Charms have made another Person, whose Character ought to be sacred to me, forget all the Ties of Consanguinity; and become the Rival of his Son, whose Interest he once endeavoured to support: and lastly, the unfortunate Bellmour consumes away in an hopeless Passion; and, conscious of his Crime, dooms himself, haply, with more Severity than I desire, to a voluntary Death; in Hopes, thereby, of procuring my Pardon and Compassion when he is no more…” (B.4, ch.9) 

Delusional and narcissistic. At the beginning, Arabella seems rather sweet and compassionate and non-judgemental, just odd and foolish. But she becomes increasingly narcissistic as the story goes on. 

“Will your Ladyship, then, let poor Sir George die? said Lucy, who had listened very attentively to this fine Harangue without understanding what it meant.

Questionless, he must die, replied Arabella, if he persists in his Design of loving me.” (ibid.) 

Mental. We know Sir George’s not gonna die from his love for her, but she doesn’t know that—does she not come across as callous about death? She also expects men to risk their lives and kill for her. Why does Mr Glanville love Arabella? It’s madness. 

There are, I think, three problems in Charlotte Lennox’s characterisation of Arabella. 

First of all is, as written above, her narcissism. One of the reasons Don Quixote is such an enduring and lovable character is because Cervantes combines in him ridiculousness and goodness, or nobility—the same goes for Fielding’s Parson Adams, another character modelled after Don Quixote. Or if we compare Charlotte Lennox and Jane Austen, Emma Woodhouse misperceives everything; she is foolish, snobbish, meddlesome; but she is lovable because her meddling comes from a desire to do good for others and she is capable of self-reflection.

Arabella is irritating and extremely frustrating—not only does she misread everything, but she also makes it impossible for others to speak and clear things up. 

“Reasons! said Sir Charles: there is no making her hear Reason, or expecting Reason from her. I never knew so strange a Woman in my Life: she would not allow me to speak what I intended concerning you; but interrupted me every Moment, with some high-flown Stuff or other.” (B.5, ch.5) 

Another problem is that Lennox tells us that Arabella is an accomplished woman, that Mr Glanville is charmed by “the agreeable Sallies of her Wit, and her fine Reasoning upon every Subject he proposed” except romances or the subject of love, but Lennox doesn’t show us. Again, look at Don Quixote: we do hear him talk about a wide range of subjects; we can see that he’s highly intelligent and knowledgeable; we do get the impression that he’s a good and sensible and understanding man, as long as the subject of chivalry doesn’t come up. We never hear Arabella talk about anything else. 

“I shall not trouble myself to deny any thing about them, Madam, said Miss Glanville; for I never heard of them before; and really I do not choose to be always talking of Queens and Princesses, as if I thought none but such great People were worthy my Notice: it looks so affected, I should imagine every one laughed at me that heard me.” (B.5, ch.1) 

This leads to the third problem: The Female Quixote is one-note. Lots of things happen in Don Quixote. Lots of things happen in Joseph Andrews. Lots of things happen in Northanger Abbey. Lots of things happen in Emma. Everything in The Female Quixote is more or less variation of the same joke—how many times are we going to watch Arabella misperceive things as resembling those silly romances? how many times are we going to watch others laugh at her, or get speechlessly confused about her?

The first one is not necessarily a fault—we don’t have to like the protagonist to recognise the quality of a book—after all my favourite novels include Madame Bovary, Wuthering Heights, Lolita. But the other two points explain why the book is now little known. The Female Quixote still keeps me reading just because Charlotte Lennox is funny, very funny. 

2/ After the set-up, the plot of The Female Quixote is driven by the pursuit of Arabella by two men: Mr Glanville, a good man who loves her (for some reason) and can’t stand silly romances; and Sir George, a mercenary man who eyes her fortune and courts her in the style of those romances he has also read. 

Charlotte Lennox interrupts the central joke of The Female Quixote with Sir George’s narration of his own life, completely made up and in the style of romances: 

“… I love you, divine Philonice; and not being able either to repent, or cease to be guilty of loving you, I am resolved to die, and spare you the Trouble of pronouncing my Sentence. I beseech you therefore to believe, that I would have died in Silence, but for your Command to declare myself; and you should never have known the Excess of my Love and Despair, had not my Obedience to your Will obliged me to confess it.” (B.6, ch.9)

He does know these books very well—he’s clearly determined to catch Arabella (even if it makes him look like a bellend before everyone else). 

“The Silence of Philonice, continued Sir George, pierced me to the Heart; and when I saw her rise from her Seat, and prepare to go away without speaking, Grief took such Possession of my Spirits, that, uttering a Cry, I fell into a Swoon, which, as I afterwards was informed, greatly alarmed the beautiful Philonice; who, resuming her Seat, had the Goodness to assist her Women in bringing me to myself; and, when I opened my Eyes, I had the Satisfaction to behold her still by me, and all the Signs of Compassion in her Face…” (B.6, ch.10) 

It is very funny—but just in small doses—Charlotte Lennox drags this on for 10 chapters, 10 tedious chapters—it would probably be more enjoyable if one knew those French romances and hated them with the same passion. The conclusion of this episode however is hilarious, in its unexpectedness—Lennox probably has to take a while to build it up for that hysterical conclusion. 

I’m curious about how the novel’s gonna end. 

Evelina: “can your Ladyship be serious in proposing to introduce her to the gaieties of a London life?”

1/ Evelina, her mother dead and her father not acknowledging her, has been raised by Rev. Arthur Villars in the country. She is now 17 and Lady Howard invites Evelina to spend some time with her, her daughter Mrs Mirvan, and her granddaughter Miss Maria Mirvan at Howard Grove. The plot is kicked into action when Evelina joins Mrs and Miss Mirvan to London, despite Rev. Villars’s misgivings, to meet Captain Mirvan (Mrs Mirvan’s husband) after a seven-year separation. Then in London, she runs into her grandmother Madame Duval, an immoral woman who broke relations with her daughter and only recently learnt about Evelina’s existence. 

The full title of the book is Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World, so it’s about all the misassumptions, misunderstandings, and mishaps as Evelina figures her way through the fashionable world of London. 

You can see why such a plot is great material for a comedy of manners. 

Then what are the similarities between Evelina and the novels of Jane Austen—in other words, the things that Jane Austen appears to have learnt or taken from Frances Burney? The genre comedy of manners; a lovable female protagonist, a romantic interest, some obstacles, a few “odious creatures” (such as Mr Loval and Sir Clement Willoughby in Evelina or Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice), vulgar characters, embarrassing relatives; a gift for capturing different voices and manners of speaking; a bright, light, and sparkling quality. 

Here, when I say the novels of Jane Austen, I mostly mean Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice; Mansfield Park is sombre and not a comedy of manners; Emma and Persuasion, despite having some of these features, are also very different in tone. 

As I have seen Jane Austen’s development as a writer, I’m curious about Frances Burney’s later novels. 

2/ Some of the humour in Evelina is in the spats between Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval, Evelina’s ridiculous grandmother, who pretends to be French. 

“This entertainment concluded with a concert of mechanical music: I cannot explain how it was produced, but the effect was pleasing. Madame Duval was in ecstasies; […] and, in the midst of the performance of the Coronation Anthem, while Madame Duval was affecting to beat time, and uttering many expressions of delight, [Captain Mirvan] called suddenly for salts, which a lady, apprehending some distress, politely handed to him, and which, instantly applying to the nostrils of poor Madame Duval, she involuntarily snuffed up such a quantity, that the pain and surprise made her scream aloud. When she recovered, she reproached him with her usual vehemence; but he protested he had taken that measure out of pure friendship, as he concluded, from her raptures, that she was going into hysterics.” (Vol.1, Letter 19) 

They constantly argue, constantly provoke each other. Madame Duval also provides lots of laughs for Captain Mirvan when she and her French companion, Monsieur DuBois, fall over and get completely soaked in the mud. Frances Burney is very, very funny. 

Later: 

“… we had hardly turned out of Queen Ann Street, when a man, running full speed, stopt the coach. He came up to the window, and I saw he was the Captain’s servant. He had a broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duval demanded his business: “Madam,” answered he, “my master desires his compliments to you, and-and-and he says he wishes it well over with you. He! he! he!-”

Madame Duval instantly darted forward, and gave him a violent blow on the face; “Take that back for your answer, sirrah,” cried she, “and learn not to grin at your betters another time. Coachman, drive on!”

The servant was in a violent passion, and swore terribly; but we were soon out of hearing.” (Vol.1, Letter 21) 

Is it just me, or is this kind of broad humour—crude and violent—more like Henry Fielding than Jane Austen? There seems to have been a shift in sensibilities.

The prank that Captain Mirvan later plays on Madame Duval especially feels like something in the vein of Joseph Andrews, which traces back to Don Quixote—you obviously don’t get that in Jane Austen but I don’t think you find it in Victorian novels either.  

3/ Generally speaking, the characters in Evelina may be more memorable than those in Joseph Andrews, partly because we spend more time with them and partly because Frances Burney gives each character a distinct voice. Hear the Captain, for example: 

““Now, do you see,” said he, “as to Lady Howard, I sha’n’t pretend for to enlist her into my service, and so I shall e’en leave her to make it out as well as she can; but as to all you, I expect obedience and submission to orders; I am now upon a hazardous expedition, having undertaken to convoy a crazy vessel to the shore of Mortification; so, d’ye see, if any of you have anything to propose that will forward the enterprise,-why speak and welcome; but if any of you, that are of my chosen crew, capitulate, or enter into any treaty with the enemy,-I shall look upon you as mutinying, and turn you adrift.”” (Vol.1, Letter 33) 

His way of talking is defined by slang and naval terms. 

In the previous blog post, I wrote that Evelina “is indeed full of scenes, dialogue, characters, the novelistic stuff—I would probably say that Evelina is like a bridge between epistolary novels and Jane Austen’s comedies of manners.” 

For a large part of the novel—when Evelina takes over and becomes the narrator, so to speak—the book is more like a comedy of manners in the vein of Jane Austen. But once in a while, such as near the end of Volume 1, Frances Burney does make use of the epistolary form—we see communication and clashing perspectives. 

4/ Certain things in Evelina find echoes in Jane Austen: the men who can’t take no for an answer remind me of Mr Collins; Evelina’s embarrassing relatives make me think of the Bennets; the scene of her and Sir Clement in the chariot find parallels in the scene of Emma and Mr Elton in his carriage; and so on and so forth. 

The most unrealistic part of Evelina and also Richardson’s Pamela is that because of the epistolary form, these girls tell their (real or adoptive) parents everything—have these authors not met teenagers? Jane Austen’s novels don’t have this problem.

Reading Evelina is interesting for various reasons. On the one hand, Frances Burney is very funny and has some of Jane Austen’s qualities—wouldn’t it make more sense for Janeites to read Burney than contemporary writers’ spin-offs? But on the other hand, we can see that Burney laid the ground but Austen went much further—it is no wonder that Jane Austen is considered one of the greatest writers of all time whereas Burney doesn’t get anywhere near the same attention. The characters in Evelina do have a distinct voice but they are largely defined by a single trait, and more importantly, things are as they appear, whereas in Jane Austen, things are often not what they seem—from the very beginning, in Northanger Abbey and Sense and Sensibility (I’m excluding the juvenilia), she has explored the question of appearance vs reality. That gives her novels a depth and complexity that one doesn’t quite see in Evelina.

Perhaps I’m being hasty as usual—I’m on Volume 2 out of 3—but Lord Orville is a romantic interest from the start, he and Evelina are attracted to each other right away, the “odious creatures” are odious and I don’t think they are different from what they appear. The question is whether they are capable of surprise, like Shakespeare’s Sir Andrew Aguecheek or Dickens’s Sir Leicester. 

So let’s see. 

Evelina: “this species of writing […] saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity”

1/ Now that I have got acquainted with the fathers of the English novel (Richardson and Fielding), it’s natural that I get to know the mother (Frances Burney, or Fanny Burney). She’s of particular interest to me also because of her influence on Jane Austen. 

Let’s look at the timeline: 

1740: Richardson’s Pamela 

1741: Fielding’s Shamela (parody of Pamela, published under a pseudonym) 

1742: Fielding’s Joseph Andrews 

1748: Richardson’s Clarissa (I know it’s important and will have to read it at some point, but 970,000 words? War and Peace is not even 600,000 words in English) 

1749: Fielding’s Tom Jones (his masterpiece and one of the greatest novels of the 18th century—I will definitely read it) 

1759-1767: Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (I tried this once—will try again when I’m more used to 18th century’s English) 

1778: Burney’s Evelina (first published anonymously but soon acknowledged)

1782: Choderlos de Laclos’s Dangerous Liaisons 

1791: Cao Xueqin’s Hong lou meng (Dream of the Red Chamber or The Story of the Stone) 

1811: Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility (the first draft, titled Elinor and Marianne, was written around 1795 and in the epistolary form)

1813: Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (originally titled First Impressions, written around 1796-1797) 

2/ The quote in the headline comes from Frances Burney’s Preface: 

“In the republic of letters, there is no member of such inferior rank, or who is so much disdained by his brethren of the quill, as the humble Novelist; nor is his fate less hard in the world at large, since, among the whole class of writers, perhaps not one can be named of which the votaries are more numerous but less respectable.

Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors, to whom this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson, Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, no man need blush at starting from the same post, though many, nay, most men, may sigh at finding themselves distanced.”

She also wrote: 

“… however I may feel myself enlightened by the knowledge of Johnson, charmed with the eloquence of Rousseau, softened by the pathetic powers of Richardson, and exhilarated by the wit of Fielding, and humour of Smollett, I yet presume not to attempt pursuing the same ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared the weeds, they have also culled the flowers; and, though they have rendered the path plain, they have left it barren.”

I will return to these lines when I have finished reading Evelina. But I will say that the innocent, inexperienced, rather sheltered and awkward Evelina is much livelier and more likeable than Richardson’s virtuous Pamela and Fielding’s beautiful Fanny Goodwill. Fanny Goodwill is no more than a cardboard cutout, from the beginning to the end a damsel in distress. Pamela is exceedingly irritating, a Mary Sue who constantly faints. I know you’re going to mumble that Richardson’s and Fielding’s masterpieces are something else, but all these three novels I’m comparing are first novels—Frances Burney was 26 when she got Evelina published. 

3/ Frances Burney’s influence on Jane Austen is quite obvious. Look at this passage, for example: 

“His conversation was sensible and spirited; his air, and address were open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen.” (Vol.1, Letter 11) 

Does that not sound like something one might come across in Jane Austen? I didn’t think “That sounds like Jane Austen” when I was reading Fielding or Richardson, but now with Burney, I sometimes do. 

Evelina is lively and spirited, highly adept at capturing people’s voices and conversations. 

““I am gone, Madam, I am gone!” with a most tragical air; and he marched away at a quick pace, out of sight in a moment; but before I had time to congratulate myself, he was again at my elbow.” (Vol.1, Letter 13) 

Like Austen, Frances Burney is wickedly funny. 

When Tom (Wuthering Expectations) was reading Evelina a few years ago, he noted: 

“For its first few pages, Evelina looks like an epistolary novel, like a Samuel Richardson novel.  “I am, dear Sir, with great regard” (Letter I) etc. 

[…] Evelina herself finally takes over in Letter VIII (only twelve pages into my Norton edition – now there’s a difference from Richardson – shorter letters) and the rhetorical mode changes, quickly, until the letters do not sound much like letters at all.  They are full of scenes, dialogue, characters, jokes, the usual novelistic stuff.  Maybe like a journal, but not really.  More like, you know, a novel. 

[…] One of Burney’s innovations is to merely gesture toward the conventions of the epistolary novel, keeping the interiority and moral reflection but dumping most of the rest of the epistolarity, unless she wants it for plotty reasons.” 

As an epistolary novel, Pamela is quite awkward—it starts as a correspondence and then becomes a journal because Pamela is detained by her lustful employer and cannot send letters—compared to Dangerous Liaisons, it doesn’t quite have the perfect construction (after all, Richardson was trying something new) and the realism (where does Pamela find the time to write all this stuff? and in secret?). But Tom is right that Evelina is even less of an epistolary novel than Pamela—it is indeed full of scenes, dialogue, characters, the novelistic stuff—I would probably say that Evelina is like a bridge between epistolary novels and Jane Austen’s comedies of manners. 

Joseph Andrews: “one Gentleman had thought proper to produce some Poetry upon me”

(Drawing of Parson Adams, by Thomas Rowlandson) 

1/ In an earlier blog post, I wrote that Joseph Andrews, like Vanity Fair over a century later, wasn’t rich in metaphor—Fielding is no Dickens. 

“No sooner had Joseph grasped his Cudgel in his Hands than Lightning darted from his Eyes; and the heroick Youth, swift of Foot, ran with the utmost speed to his Friend’s Assistance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of the Skirt of his Cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a Simile on this occasion, but for two Reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the Description, which should be rapid in0 this Part; but that doth not weigh much, many Precedents occurring for such an Interruption: the second and much the greater Reason is, that we could find no Simile adequate to our Purpose: for indeed, what Instance could we bring to set before our Reader’s Eyes at once the Idea of Friendship, Courage, Youth, Beauty, Strength, and Swiftness? all which blazed in the Person of Joseph Andrews. Let those, therefore, that describe Lions and Tigers, and Heroes fiercer than both, raise their Poems or Plays with the Simile of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the reach of any Simile.” (Vol.3, ch.6) 

Good, that. A simile would interrupt the description, but the intrusive narration does not? One can’t help liking Fielding. He has a charming authorial persona. 

“Thus far the Muse hath with her usual Dignity related this prodigious Battle, a Battle we apprehend never equalled by any Poet, Romance or Life-writer whatever, and, having brought it to a Conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary Style with the Continuation of this History.” 

This is a good scene, in which Parson Adams is chased by hounds and by someone who is “a great Hunter of Men” (for sport, not for meat). The following scene, at the Squire’s, is amusing—the Squire’s friends all play pranks on him, turning him into the butt of their jokes, “which the inoffensive Disposition of his own Heart made him slow in discovering”—it is clearly modelled after one scene in Don Quixote. There’s also a bit where Parson Adams, like Don Quixote, makes a fool of himself by dancing, “to the infinite Joy of the Beholders, who declared he was the best Dancer in the Universe.” 

(The quote in the headline comes from the same scene). 

One of the central differences between Parson Adams and Don Quixote is that we know Fielding’s character is unaware at first, because of his naïveté, then he realises and feels the insult, whereas with Cervantes, things are uncertain—is Don Quixote truly mad, or does he play mad? Is he a victim of cruel pranks, or does he know it but play along? Does he genuinely think he’s a knight, or does he know he’s not but choose to be one anyway? Does he live in delusion, seeing everything through a distorted lens, or does he fight against reality and against his own reason, wanting to mould his own fate? 

We don’t have such uncertainties about Parson Adams. We may have different opinions about him, but I don’t think he invites or allows for multiple interpretations. That is not to denigrate Fielding’s achievement. There are some characters so rich, so elusive, so full of meaning—like Don Quixote and Hamlet (shall I also say Moby Dick?)—that critics and readers ponder over them and argue about interpretation for centuries. That’s not the case for most great characters—even Tolstoy’s greatest characters such as Pierre, Andrei, Natasha, Anna, Levin… don’t invite contradictory interpretations—but they’re still great, in a different way. Parson Adams is a brilliant creation. Isn’t it difficult to create a kind, morally good character? To make them not only believable and rounded but also lovable? Think of all the morally good characters who feel too flat, too unrealistic, too insufferable, too priggish, etc. and you’ll realise how brilliant Parson Adams is. 

2/ After Parson Adams, I think the most delightful characters in Joseph Andrews are Lady Booby and her upper servant Mrs Slipslop, both of whom are older women who are horny for the youthful and handsome Joseph. 

As Joseph Andrews is a picaresque novel, it is episodic and the characters come and go. Some minor characters are very amusing—such as parson-farmer Trulliber, with the farcical scene in the pigsty, or Betty the kind chambermaid who gets fired for being horny—but Fielding generally moves quickly from them, brings the travellers to a different location, and introduces a new set of characters. Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop have a more vivid existence because we stay with them for a while at the beginning of the novel, before Lady Booby kicks Joseph out of the house for rejecting her; we come across Mrs Slipslop again later during Joseph’s travel; and in the last volume, the travellers return to Booby Hall and we again meet them. 

Fielding depicts very well Lady Booby, who “loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised the same Person by Fits, which changed in a very short Interval”. She is very much like the lady in The Dog in the Manger by Lope de Vega. 

Mrs Slipslop is also very well-delineated—the kind of servant who looks down on other servants and always acts as though educated, not realising that she regularly uses the wrong word. Fielding gives her malapropism and a sexual appetite (“she was arrived at an Age when she thought she might indulge herself in any Liberties with a Man, without the Danger of bringing a third Person into the World to betray them”), thus giving the character more life. 

These two characters are delightful on their own—put together, they’re hilarious. 

 

3/ Earlier, Fielding wrote that he didn’t pick a simile because “it would interrupt the Description”. Let’s now look at another fighting scene, in which Joseph comes to save his damsel in distress: 

“… He no sooner came within Sight, and perceived her struggling with a Man, than, like a Cannon-ball, or like Lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her…” (Vol.4, ch.7) 

What would Flaubert say? 

But this works—Fielding gets away with it because he is funny. 

In the end, there’s still not much to say about Joseph and Fanny: Fanny spends most of her time getting chased by lustful men and Joseph spends most of his time getting chased by horny women, and defending Fanny. “[For] all my Pleasure is centred in Fanny”, he says. 

Don Quixote and Joseph Andrews are both episodic, which is the nature of the form. Don Quixote holds our interest with the friendship between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; in addition, Part 1 is held together by Don Quixote’s promise to Sancho about an ínsula; Part 2 is held together by Don Quixote’s goal to disenchant Dulcinea, not to mention the other characters’ knowledge of Part 1 and Don Quixote’s awareness of Avellaneda’s book.

Fielding’s picaresque novel doesn’t have anything to hold it together as such. One may argue that it’s the love story between Joseph and Fanny and all the obstacles thrown their way, but I think everyone would agree that they both are flat characters who are neither interesting by themselves nor interesting together. 

And yet, Fielding does get me to care—he gets me to want them happily married—possibly because Lady Booby is so unreasonable but so powerful, and because Parson Adams risks his livelihood to do the right thing and defend them. 

4/ The Rosinante of Parson Adams, here unnamed, has a funny moment: 

“Mr Adams, greatly exulting on this Occasion (for such Ceremonies were Matters of no small Moment with him), accidentally gave Spurs to his Horse, which the generous Beast disdaining—for he was of high Mettle, and had been used to more expert Riders than the Gentleman who at Present bestrode him, for whose Horsemanship he had perhaps some Contempt—immediately ran away full Speed, and played so many antic Tricks that he tumbled the Parson from his Back; which Joseph perceiving, came to his Relief.

[…] 

The Horse having freed himself from his unworthy Rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of his Way…” (Vol.4, ch.16) 

5/ The Penguin English library edition of Joseph Andrews includes, at the end, an essay by Mark Spilka about the comic resolution of the novel. 

He makes a good point that the bedroom scenes at Booby Hall “neither increase nor heighten the dramatic intensity of the incest plot; rather, they lessen its seriousness”. The next day, the characters are all merry, even Joseph and Fanny and more cheerful; “it becomes obvious that some sort of emotional purgation has occurred and that the resolution of the main plot will be anticlimactic.” 

I did have a blast with those scenes. 

Spilka writes: 

“… if passions never stop working, they are sometimes resolved, and that it is the business of a good comic writer to resolve them. In the night adventures at Booby Hall, Fielding has done just that; with the aid of condensed, violent action, he has stood his book on its head, shaken out of all the themes and passions, and resolved them through warmhearted laughter.” 

I have now finished reading Joseph Andrews. 

Joseph Andrews: “Knowledge of Men is only to be learnt from Books”

As I wrote in the earlier blog post about Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding takes from Don Quixote the picaresque form: two—and later three—characters travel together and meet other characters along the way and sometimes the strangers may tell stories, creating some interpolated tales. Fielding also gets the inspiration to create a quixotic figure: Parson Adams is a good man, an idealistic man, a man who wants to do good and doesn’t mind using force to save the innocent, but he is absent-minded and naïve and “never saw farther into people than they desired to let him” (Vol.1, ch.10).

Like Don Quixote, he’s a reader. Parson Adams says to Joseph:  

“Knowledge of Men is only to be learnt from Books, Plato and Seneca for that; and those are Authors, I am afraid, Child, you never read.” (Vol.2, ch.16)

Of course, I myself have always said that we will never know a person in real life as well as we know Tolstoy’s characters, but we see over and over again that this man of learning is not particularly good at reading people. 

He also says to his host:  

“I will inform thee; the travelling I mean is in Books, the only way of travelling by which any Knowledge is to be acquired.” (Vol.2, ch.17)

This starts a heated discussion, in which he says “Trade, as Aristotle proves in his first Chapter of Politics, is below a Philosopher”, unaware of his own condescending and insulting tone, and gets refuted by the host: 

“Of what use would Learning be in a Country without Trade? What would all you Parsons do to clothe your Backs and feed your Bellies? Who fetches you your Silks, and your Linens, and your Wines, and all the other Necessaries of Life? I speak chiefly with regard to the Sailors.” (ibid.) 

In the character of Parson Adams, Fielding combines goodness and ridiculousness. Abraham Adams may not be a madman like Don Quixote, but he too is delusional—his delusion is that knowledge of life and people can be learnt from books alone, that he understands people better than someone without learning.

Fielding also pokes fun at him. When Mr Wilson relates the story of his life, for example, Parson Adams mentions his sermon against vanity and says “I am confident you would admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater Enemy to any Passion than that silly one of Vanity.” (Vol.3, ch.3) 

Mr Wilson smiles, and goes on with his story. 

Parson Abraham Adams is a very good creation. Likeable, believable. 

The chief flaw of Joseph Andrews though is that the travelling companions are not interesting together, that the novel lacks balance. In Parson Adams, Fielding creates a likeable and rounded character, but what is Joseph Andrews like? What is his personality? He’s barely there. We’re following them on a trip—later joined by Joseph’s girl Fanny Goodwill—but why should I care where they are going and what they are doing and whom they are meeting if I do not care about them both? Look at Don Quixote. Cervantes may be a bit careless about Sancho Panza at the beginning, focusing on Don Quixote, but he soon adds flesh to Sancho. Next to Don Quixote, Sancho too is full of life, Sancho too is interesting and individual. The two of them act as foil to each other, holding our interest—they go on adventures, they banter, they bicker, they bond, they gradually change each other. 

Even if you argue that Joseph Andrews is its own thing and we shouldn’t judge other books against Don Quixote (a contender for the title of greatest novel of all time), my point stands that Fielding’s travelling companions lack interaction and Joseph Andrews—the eponymous character!—doesn’t have much of a personality. 

Some readers would however say that Fielding makes up for it by his own presence: the narrator is warm and good-humoured and generous; he values goodness and depicts people’s hypocrisy and selfishness but still comes across as humane and tolerant of human failings. 

I’m currently on Volume 3. The book has 4 volumes. Let’s see if Joseph and Fanny become more interesting. 

Joseph Andrews and other books, or The development of the novel

Hello friends, fans, and foes, I have just returned from Berlin. Joseph Andrews and Parson Adams were my companions on the work trip. Let’s jot down some thoughts. 

1/ The English novel is said to have two founders in the 18th century: Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding. As my friend Tom (Wuthering Expectations) explained, there were two major tracks: Richardson – Fanny Burney – Jane Austen – etc. and Fielding – Smollett – Dickens – etc. This divide seems to fit Himadri’s brushstroke metaphor: the Richardson novelists paint with small brushstrokes and focus on subtle things; the Fielding writers use broad brushstrokes and vivid colours, and have great vigour. 

As I’m interested in tradition and influence, I read Joseph Andrews and think of 19th century literature and find that the novelist closest to Fielding seems to be Thackeray. Just compare. Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, George Eliot… don’t particularly sound like Fielding. But if you look at Fielding and Thackeray, both Joseph Andrews and Vanity Fair are not very visual; both novels are not rich in metaphor; both novels have a warm, good-humoured narrator who constantly addresses the reader. Even Dickens feels further apart: he is visual (who doesn’t remember the fog in Bleak House?), and his novels abound in metaphors. 

I love Vanity Fair, I’m enjoying Joseph Andrews. Both have vitality.

Then if you look back chronologically, Joseph Andrews owes its existence to two novels: Pamela and Don Quixote. Its starting point is to parody Richardson’s novel, as Fielding himself has done in Shamela: Joseph Andrews is a brother of Pamela and, like her, has to defend his chastity from an older employer. Joseph Andrews rejects Lady Booby and thus loses his job, because he only loves Fanny. 

But that’s only the starting point. Joseph Andrews grows into something else, and even without the acknowledgement on the title page (“written in imitation of the manner of Cervantes, author of Don Quixote”), the influence would still be obvious. I’m gonna have to revisit the Fielding section in Fighting Windmills, the book about the greatness and influence of Don Quixote (how annoying to borrow books from the library and not have them right at hand for a quick check). Fielding takes from Don Quixote not only the form of the picaresque novel, he also includes interpolated tales, has a comic vision of life, and creates a quixotic character—Parson Adams is not a madman like Don Quixote, but he is naïve and absent-minded and idealistic, and he too is a combination of goodness and ridiculousness. 

(Isn’t it cool that many 18th century writers loved and took something from Don Quixote? I’m gonna have to read The Female Quixote, Tristram Shandy, and Humphry Clinker). 

Unlike Cervantes, Fielding doesn’t play with multiple narrators and unreliable narrators, but he expands the role of the narrator—like another character—something Thackeray later also does in Vanity Fair. 

2/ Pamela came out in 1740. Joseph Andrews, 1742. 

If we compare them to the works of 19th century novelists such as Dickens, Flaubert, Tolstoy, George Eliot, and so on, they appear a bit primitive, in both character development and the novel form. I’m not denigrating Richardson and Fielding—their masterpieces are said to be Clarissa and Tom Jones—I’m saying that at this point they were developing the novel and trying new stuff so there were a few things they didn’t quite figure out till presumably later on. Pamela for example uses the epistolary form in a very clumsy, awkward way. Dangerous Liaisons by Choderlos de Laclos, perhaps the most well-constructed of epistolary novels, was published in 1782. 

As for Joseph Andrews, I will quote my friend Himadri (Argumentative Old Git): 

“… despite many fine things, Joseph Andrews does, it must be admitted, have its longueurs. In the later Tom Jones, the better qualities of Joseph Andrews are consistently in view, and the flaws entirely absent. For one thing, Fielding, when he came to writing Tom Jones, realised that the kind of novel he was attempting required an interesting plot: otherwise, the final chapters would merely provide resolution for a plot that the reader has long lost interest in, and become merely tedious; and the rest of the novel would become merely a sequence of more or less unrelated set pieces.” 

(The piece as a whole, I should say, is positive about Joseph Andrews—I just picked out the negative bit, as journalists do).

The thing I find strange and fascinating is that Don Quixote (Part 1: 1605; Part 2: 1615) does not at all appear primitive in comparison. Of course, the descriptions are a bit basic. Of course, writers didn’t quite see colours in the 17th century. Of course, the supporting characters aren’t very complex. But if you consider its form and techniques, Don Quixote is spectacularly innovative and ingenious, especially in Part 2—look at the multiple narrators and the concept of the unreliable narrator, look at the dazzling layers of lies and fantasy, look at the meta aspect. Next to Don Quixote, even masterpieces such as Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary come across as conventional. 

3/ Yesterday I came across The Daily Telegraph’s 1899 list of “100 Best Novels in the World”. 

I’m sure you all would have lots of opinions about the list. See for yourself. I’m just gonna make some brief comments. 

First of all, “the world” naturally means the West. This is to be expected—the list is from 1899—even the majority of “greatest novels of all time” lists today ignore non-Western novels, especially those written before the 20th century. On this particular list of 100 best novels, only 10 are in a language other than English (I know). 

Tolstoy’s on the list—only Anna Karenina, not War and Peace—Dostoyevsky isn’t. But we shouldn’t be so harsh on it. At this point, Crime and Punishment was available, but The Brothers Karamazov wasn’t translated until 1912. 

The list has Dumas, Hugo, Balzac, and Eugène Sue (who’s this?) but not Flaubert or Zola. Madame Bovary was available in 2 English translations at this point.  

The most shocking part is the exclusion of Don Quixote—what’s wrong with these people?

If we ignore all the stuff about “foreign languages” and translations, it is in many ways still a curious list. The Dickens novels on the list are Martin Chuzzlewit, Nicholas Nickleby, The Old Curiosity Shop, Dombey and Son, and Oliver Twist—not Bleak House, not Little Dorrit, not Great Expectations. I’m not surprised that they name Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility for Jane Austen, rather than Emma or Mansfield Park, but to name Scenes of Clerical Life rather than Middlemarch as the George Eliot novel is absurd. The same about the three Thackeray novels not including Vanity Fair. Richardson isn’t on the list (I guess even in the 19th century, people didn’t read the over 950,000-word-long Clarissa), but Fielding is: Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews. Melville isn’t included, which does not surprise me, but even Henry James is absent. Charlotte Bronte is on the list with two novels—Jane Eyre and Shirley—but Emily, the genius of the family, isn’t. 

A rather odd list. See for yourself. But now we see that Joseph Andrews had a very good reputation in 1899. I don’t think most people now, even those who read classic literature, know about Joseph Andrews—those who know about classic literature would mostly be familiar with Tom Jones. 

Recent reads: Primo Levi, Flannery, Pamela, Shamela

In September, I read Moments of Reprieve, my third Primo Levi book after If This Is a Man (aka Survival in Auschwitz) and The Truce (aka The Reawakening). Wonderful writer. Primo Levi writes about the people he knew at Auschwitz—the moments of reprieve—he’s got a gift for portraiture and for images. Certain images get imprinted on one’s mind: a man playing the violin in the camp (at which point the listeners, for a brief moment, have a vision of a better world), the guided tour for Hitlerjugend, the “revenge” of the inmates through “bacteriological warfare”, etc. 

The last chapter, about Rumkowski, is thought-provoking.

The most moving chapter in the book is the one about Lorenzo, which is reminiscent of Vasily Grossman’s idea in Life and Fate about “senseless kindness”. Among my favourite writers, I especially like the temperament of Vasily Grossman and Primo Levi, men who have seen some of the worst horrors of the 20th century and yet still believe in salvation and goodness.  

(Today marks one year since the Simchat Torah Massacre, or the October 7 atrocities). 

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Is Flannery O’Connor the best writer of bigotry? She must at least be one of the best at depicting and dissecting it. 

In October, I read “Everything that Rises Must Converge” and “Greenleaf” from her second short story collection, but I’m also thinking of “The Artificial Nigger” and “The Displaced Person” from A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories. There’s something cold, uncompromising, even harsh about Flannery O’Connor, but she is so good, so striking—she hits you right in the face. Some writers (Tolstoy, Chekhov, Cao Xueqin, Carson McCullers…) depict their characters with love and compassion; some others (Flannery O’Connor, Flaubert, Ibsen…) dissect them. 

Over the past 2 years or so, I’ve discovered a few short story writers: Isaac Bashevis Singer, Isaac Babel, Alice Munro, etc. and Flannery O’Connor is the most striking one, much more interesting than Alice Munro. She’s got a distinct voice, she picks strong images, and her stories are “the axe for the frozen see within us.” 

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Speaking of “the axe, etc.”, I went to the Kafka exhibition in Oxford. Finally got to see the original manuscripts and drawings! 

Last year, on my work trip to Prague, I visited the Kafka Museum and realised, in disappointment, that most of the originals were in Oxford or in Germany. 

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I read and gave up, nearly halfway through, on Pamela. How many times is the wench going to faint? And she goes on and on and on about her virtue.

Is there a Richardson vs Fielding split (like Tolstoy vs Dostoyevsky)? I seem to be Team Fielding. I know I cannot say till I’ve read Tom Jones and Clarissa, but Shamela is a hoot, and I’m now having a blast with Joseph Andrews.

Funnily enough, I’ve noted that both of these works are spin-offs from Pamela, but Joseph Andrews accompanies Pamela rather than Shamela.