The History of Tom Jones (Penguin Classics)

by Henry Fielding

  The Firmness and Constancy of a true Friend is a Circumstance so extremely delightful to Persons in any Kind of Distress, that the Distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of Relief, is more than compensated by bringing this Comfort with it. Nor are Instances of this Kind so rare, as some superficial and inaccurate Observers have reported. To say the Truth, Want of Compassion is not to be numbered among our general Faults. The black Ingredient which fouls our Disposition is Envy. Hence our Eye is seldom, I am afraid, turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier than ourselves, without some Degree of Malignity; while we commonly look downwards on the Mean and Miserable, with sufficient Benevolence and Pity. In Fact, I have remarked, that most of the Defects which have discovered themselves in the Friendships within my Observation, have arisen from Envy only; a hellish Vice; and yet one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough of a Subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.

  Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under the Weight of his Adversity, and that she might thus lose any future Opportunity of tormenting him; or whether she really abated somewhat of her Severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her Persecution, by sending him the Company of two such faithful Friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful Servant. For Partridge, though he had many Imperfections, wanted not Fidelity; and though Fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his Master, yet the World, I believe, could not have bribed him to desert his Cause.

  While Jones was expressing great Satisfaction in the Presence of his Friends, Partridge brought an Account, that Mr. Fitzpatrick was still alive, though the Surgeon declared that he had very little Hopes. Upon which Jones fetching a deep Sigh, Nightingale said to him; ‘My dear Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an Accident, which, whatever be the Consequence, can be attended with no Danger to you, and in which your Conscience cannot accuse you of having been in the least to blame. If the Fellow should die, what have you done more than taken away the Life of a Ruffian in your own Defence? So will the Coroner’s Inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily admitted to Bail: And though you must undergo the Form of a Trial, yet it is a Trial which many Men would stand for you for a Shilling.’ ‘Come, come, Mr. Jones,’ says Mrs. Miller, ‘cheer yourself up. I knew you could not be the Aggressor, and so I told Mr. Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too before I have done with him.’

  Jones gravely answered, ‘That whatever might be his Fate, he should always lament the having shed the Blood of one of his Fellow-creatures, as one of the highest Misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have another Misfortune of the tenderest Kind.—O! Mrs. Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon Earth.’ ‘That must be a Mistress,’ said Mrs. Miller, ‘But come, come; I know more than you imagine;’ (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all) ‘and I have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you think; and I would not give Blifil Sixpence for all the Chance which he hath of the Lady.’

  ‘Indeed, my dear Friend, indeed,’ answered Jones, ‘you are an entire Stranger to the Cause of my Grief. If you was acquainted with the Story, you would allow my Case admitted of no Comfort. I apprehend no Danger from Blifil. I have undone myself.’ ‘Don’t despair,’ replied Mrs. Miller; ‘you know not what a Woman can do, and if any Thing be in my Power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my Duty. My Son, my dear Mr. Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath Obligations to you on the same Account, knows it is my Duty. Shall I go to the Lady myself? I will say any Thing to her you would have me say.’

  ‘Thou best of Women,’ cries Jones, taking her by the Hand, ‘talk not of Obligations to me;—but, as you have been so kind to mention it, there is a Favour which, perhaps, may be in your Power. I see you are acquainted with the Lady (how you came by your Information I know not) who sits indeed very near my Heart. If you could contrive to deliver this, (giving her a Paper from his Pocket) I shall for ever acknowledge your Goodness.’

  ‘Give it me,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘If I see it not in her own Possession before I sleep, may my next Sleep be my last. Comfort yourself, my good young Man; be wise enough to take Warning from past Follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy with the most charming young Lady in the World; for so I hear from every one she is.’

  ‘Believe me, Madam,’ said he, ‘I do not speak the common Cant of one in my unhappy Situation. Before this dreadful Accident happened, I had resolved to quit a Life of which I was become sensible of the Wickedness as well as Folly. I do assure you notwithstanding the Disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your House, for which I heartily ask your Pardon, I am not an abandoned Profligate. Though I have been hurried into Vices, I do not approve a vicious Character; nor will I ever, from this Moment, deserve it.’

  Mrs. Miller expressed great Satisfaction in these Declarations, in the Sincerity of which she averred she had an entire Faith: And now, the Remainder of the Conversation past in the joint Attempts of that good Woman and Mr. Nightingale, to cheer the dejected Spirits of Mr. Jones, in which they so far succeeded, as to leave him much better comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy Alteration nothing so much contributed as the kind Undertaking of Mrs. Miller, to deliver his Letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any Means to accomplish: For when Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed Partridge, that she had strictly charged him, on Pain of having it communicated to her Father, not to bring her any Answer. He was moreover not a little pleased, to find he had so warm an Advocate to Mr. Allworthy himself in this good Woman, who was in Reality, one of the worthiest Creatures in the World.

  After about an Hour’s Visit from the Lady, (for Nightingale had been with him much longer) they both took their Leave, promising to return to him soon; during which Mrs. Miller said, she hoped to bring him some good News from his Mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised to enquire into the State of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s Wound, and likewise to find out some of the Persons who were present at the Rencounter.

  The former of these went directly in Quest of Sophia, whither we likewise shall now attend her.

  CHAPTER VI.

  In which Mrs. Miller pays a Visit to Sophia.

  Access to the young Lady was by no Means difficult; for as she lived now on a perfect friendly Footing with her Aunt, she was at full Liberty to receive what Visitants she pleased.

  Sophia was dressing, when she was acquainted that there was a Gentlewoman below to wait on her: As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her own Sex, Mrs. Miller was immediately admitted.

  Curt’sies, and the usual Ceremonials between Women who are Strangers to each other, being past, Sophia said, ‘I have not the Pleasure to know you, Madam.’ ‘No, Madam,’ answered Mrs. Miller, ‘and I must beg Pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me to give you this Trouble, I hope’— ‘Pray, what is your Business, Madam?’ said Sophia, with a little Emotion. ‘Madam, we are not alone,’ replied Mrs. Miller, in a low Voice. ‘Go out, Betty,’ said Sophia.

  When Betty was departed, Mrs. Miller said, ‘I was desired, Madam, by a very unhappy young Gentleman, to deliver you this Letter.’ Sophia changed Colour when she saw the Direction, well knowing the Hand, and after some Hesitation, said, —‘I could not conceive, Madam, from your Appearance, that your Business had been of such a Nature.—Whomever you brought this Letter from I shall not open it. I should be sorry to entertain an unjust Suspicion of any one; but you are an utter Stranger to me.’

  ‘If you will have Patience, Madam,’ answered Mrs. Miller, ‘I will acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that Letter.’ ‘I have no Curiosity, Madam, to know any Thing,’ cries Sophia, ‘but I must insist on your delivering that Letter back to the Person who gave it you.’

  Mrs. Miller then fell upon her Knees, and in the most passionate Terms, implored her Compassion; to which Sophia answered: ‘Sure, Madam, it is s
urprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the Behalf of this Person. I would not think, Madam,’—‘No, Madam,’ says Mrs. Miller, ‘you shall not think any thing but the Truth. I will tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the best natured Creature that ever was born.’—She then began and related the Story of Mr. Henderson. —After this she cried, ‘This, Madam, this is his Goodness; but I have much more tender Obligations to him. He hath preserved my Child.’—Here, after shedding some Tears, she related every Thing concerning that Fact, suppressing only those Circumstances which would have most reflected on her Daughter, and concluded with saying, ‘Now, Madam, you shall judge whether I can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young Man; and sure he is the best and worthiest of all human Beings.’

  The Alterations in the Countenance of Sophia, had hitherto been chiefly to her Disadvantage, and had inclined her Complexion to too great Paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than Vermilion, and cried, ‘I know not what to say; certainly what arises from Gratitude cannot be blamed.——But what Service can my reading this Letter do your Friend, since I am resolved never’— Mrs. Miller fell again to her Entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said, carry it back. ‘Well, Madam,’ says Sophia, ‘I cannot help it, if you will force it upon me.—Certainly you may leave it whether I will or no.’ What Sophia meant, or whether she meant any Thing, I will not presume to determine; but Mrs. Miller actually understood this as a Hint, and presently laying the Letter down on the Table, took her Leave, having first begged Permission to wait again on Sophia; which Request had neither Assent nor Denial.

  The Letter lay upon the Table no longer than till Mrs. Miller was out of Sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.

  This Letter did very little Service to his Cause; for it consisted of little more than Confessions of his own Unworthiness, and bitter Lamentations of Despair, together with the most solemn Protestations of his unalterable Fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the Honour of being admitted to her Presence; and that he could account for the Letter to Lady Bellaston, in such a Manner, that though it would not entitle him to her Forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her Mercy. And concluded with vowing, that nothing was ever less in his Thoughts than to marry Lady Bellaston.

  Though Sophia read the Letter twice over with great Attention, his Meaning still remained a Riddle to her; nor could her Invention suggest to her any Means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her Resentment, that her gentle Mind had but little left to bestow on any other Person.

  That Lady was most unluckily to dine this very Day with her Aunt Western, and in the Afternoon, they were all three by Appointment, to go together to the Opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet’s Drum. Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but she would not disoblige her Aunt; and as to the Arts of counterfeiting Illness, she was so entirely a Stranger to them, that it never once entered into her Head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went, resolved to encounter all the Horrors of the Day, and a most disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every Opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her Dejection of Spirits disabled her from making any Return; and indeed, to confess the Truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent Mistress of Repartee.

  Another Misfortune which befel poor Sophia, was the Company of Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the Opera, and who attended her to the Drum. And though both Places were too publick to admit of any Particularities, and she was farther relieved by the Musick at the one Place, and by the Cards at the other, she could not however enjoy herself in his Company: For there is something of Delicacy in Women, which will not suffer them to be ever easy in the Presence of a Man whom they know to have Pretensions to them, which they are disinclined to favour.

  Having in this Chapter twice mentioned a Drum, a Word which our Posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the Sense it is here applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present Haste, stop a Moment to describe the Entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a Moment describe it.

  A Drum then, is an Assembly of well dressed Persons of both Sexes, most of whom play at Cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the Mistress of the House performs the Part of the Landlady at an Inn, and like the Landlady of an Inn prides herself in the Number of her Guests, though she doth not always, like her, get any Thing by it.

  No wonder then as so much Spirits must be required to support any Vivacity in these Scenes of Dulness, that we hear Persons of Fashion eternally complaining of the Want of them; a Complaint confined entirely to upper Life. How insupportable must we imagine this Round of Impertinence to have been to Sophia, at this Time; how difficult must she have found it to force the Appearance of Gaiety into her Looks, when her Mind dictated nothing but the tenderest Sorrow, and when every Thought was charged with tormenting Ideas.

  Night however, at last, restored her to her Pillow, where we will leave her to soothe her Melancholy at least, though incapable we fear of Rest, and shall pursue our History, which something whispers us, is now arrived at the Eve of some great Event.

  CHAPTER VII.

  A pathetic Scene between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller.

  Mrs. Miller had a long Discourse with Mr. Allworthy, at his Return from Dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones’s having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their Separation; and with the Distresses to which that Loss had subjected him; of all which she had received a full Account from the faithful Retailer Partridge. She then explained the Obligations she had to Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with Regard to her Daughter: For though she had the utmost Confidence in Mr. Allworthy, and though there could be no Hopes of keeping an Affair secret, which was unhappily known to more than half a Dozen; yet she could not prevail with herself to mention those Circumstances which reflected most on the Chastity of poor Nancy; but smothered that Part of her Evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a Judge, and the Girl was now on her Trial for the Murder of a Bastard.

  Allworthy said, there were few Characters so absolutely vicious as not to have the least Mixture of Good in them. ‘However,’ says he, ‘I cannot deny but that you had some Obligations to the Fellow, bad as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but must insist you never mention his Name to me more; for I promise you, it was upon the fullest and plainest Evidence that I resolved to take the Measures I have taken.’ ‘Well, Sir,’ says she, ‘I make not the least Doubt, but Time will shew all Matters in their true and natural Colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young Man deserves better of you than some other Folks that shall be nameless.’

  ‘Madam,’ cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, ‘I will not hear any Reflections on my Nephew; and if you ever say a Word more of that Kind, I will depart from your House that Instant. He is the worthiest and best of Men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his Friendship to this Man to a blameable Length, by too long concealing Facts of the blackest Die. The Ingratitude of the Wretch to this good young Man is what I most resent: for, Madam, I have the greatest Reason to imagine he had laid a Plot to supplant my Nephew in my Favour, and to have disinherited him.’

  ‘I am sure, Sir,’ answered Mrs. Miller, a little frightned, (for though Mr. Allworthy had the utmost Sweetness and Benevolence in his Smiles, he had great Terror in his Frowns) ‘I shall never speak against any Gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure, Sir, such Behaviour would very little become me, especially when the Gentleman is your nearest Relation; but, Sir, you must not be angry with me, you must not indeed, for my good Wishes to this poor Wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with me, if I had spoke of him with the least Disrespect. How often have I heard you call him your Son? How often have you prattled to me of him, with all the Fondness of a Parent?
Nay, Sir, I cannot forget the many tender Expressions, the many good Things you have told me of his Beauty, and his Parts, and his Virtues; of his Good-nature and Generosity.—I am sure, Sir, I cannot forget them: For I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own Cause. They have preserved my Family. You must pardon my Tears, Sir, indeed you must, when I consider the cruel Reverse of Fortune which this poor Youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered: When I consider the Loss of your Favour, which I know he valued more than his Life, I must, I must lament him. If you had a Dagger in your Hand, ready to plunge into my Heart, I must lament the Misery of one whom you have loved, and I shall ever love.’

  Allworthy was pretty much moved with this Speech, but it seemed not to be with Anger: For after a short Silence, taking Mrs. Miller by the Hand, he said very affectionately to her: ‘Come, Madam, let us consider a little about your Daughter. I cannot blame you, for rejoicing in a Match which promises to be advantageous to her; but you know this Advantage, in a great Measure, depends on the Father’s Reconciliation. I know Mr. Nightingale very well, and have formerly had Concerns with him; I will make him a Visit, and endeavour to serve you in this Matter. I believe he is a worldly Man; but as this is an only Son, and the Thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in Time be brought to Reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you.’