TOM
JONES
PART 11
Chapter v. — A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
But though
this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies from the heart of
Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the garrison which he himself had
placed there. To lay aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of
poor Molly greatly disturbed and perplexed the mind of the worthy youth. The
superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished, all the
beauties of the poor girl; but compassion instead of contempt succeeded to
love. He was convinced the girl had placed all her affections, and all her
prospect of future happiness, in him only. For this he had, he knew, given
sufficient occasion, by the utmost profusion of tenderness towards her: a
tenderness which he had taken every means to persuade her he would always maintain.
She, on her side, had assured him of her firm belief in his promise, and had
with the most solemn vows declared, that on his fulfilling or breaking these
promises, it depended, whether she should be the happiest or most miserable of
womankind. And to be the author of this highest degree of misery to a human
being, was a thought on which he could not bear to ruminate a single moment. He
considered this poor girl as having sacrificed to him everything in her little
power; as having been at her own expense the object of his pleasure; as sighing
and languishing for him even at that very instant. Shall then, says he, my
recovery, for which she hath so ardently wished; shall my presence, which she
hath so eagerly expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath
flattered herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such
a villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the love of
Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious, rushed upon his mind,
and bore away every obstacle before it.
At length
it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make Molly amends another
way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This, nevertheless, he almost
despaired of her accepting, when he recollected the frequent and vehement
assurances he had received from her, that the world put in balance with him
would make her no amends for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, and
chiefly her egregious vanity (somewhat of which hath been already hinted to the
reader), gave him some little hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed
tenderness, she might in time be brought to content herself with a fortune
superior to her expectation, and which might indulge her vanity, by setting her
above all her equals. He resolved therefore to take the first opportunity of
making a proposal of this kind.
One day,
accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could walk easily with
it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when the squire was engaged in
his field exercises, and visited his fair one. Her mother and sisters, whom he
found taking their tea, informed him first that Molly was not at home; but
afterwards the eldest sister acquainted him, with a malicious smile, that she
was above stairs a-bed. Tom had no objection to this situation of his mistress,
and immediately ascended the ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but when
he came to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door fast; nor could
he for some time obtain any answer from within; for Molly, as she herself
afterwards informed him, was fast asleep.
The
extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very similar effects;
and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it is apt to create such a
total perturbation and confusion, that we are often thereby deprived of the use
of all our faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the unexpected
sight of Mr Jones should so strongly operate on the mind of Molly, and should
overwhelm her with such confusion, that for some minutes she was unable to
express the great raptures, with which the reader will suppose she was affected
on this occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed, and as it were
enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that he for a while forgot
Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose of his visit.
This,
however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first transports of their
meeting were over, he found means by degrees to introduce a discourse on the
fatal consequences which must attend their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had
strictly forbidden him ever seeing her more, should discover that he still
carried on this commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies gave him reason
to think would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his ruin, and consequently
in hers. Since therefore their hard fates had determined that they must
separate, he advised her to bear it with resolution, and swore he would never
omit any opportunity, through the course of his life, of showing her the
sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a manner beyond her utmost
expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if ever that should be in his power;
concluding at last, that she might soon find some man who would marry her, and
who would make her much happier than she could be by leading a disreputable
life with him.
Molly
remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a flood of tears, she
began to upbraid him in the following words: “And this is your love for me, to
forsake me in this manner, now you have ruined me! How often, when I have told
you that all men are false and perjury alike, and grow tired of us as soon as
ever they have had their wicked wills of us, how often have you sworn you would
never forsake me! And can you be such a perjury man after all? What signifies
all the riches in the world to me without you, now you have gained my heart, so
you have—you have—? Why do you mention another man to me? I can never love any
other man as long as I live. All other men are nothing to me. If the greatest
squire in all the country would come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would not
give my company to him. No, I shall always hate and despise the whole sex for
your sake.”—
She was
proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue, before it had run
out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in which Molly lay, being up
one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the top of the house, was of a sloping
figure, resembling the great Delta of the Greeks. The English reader may
perhaps form a better idea of it, by being told that it was impossible to stand
upright anywhere but in the middle. Now, as this room wanted the conveniency of
a closet, Molly had, to supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the
rafters of the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best apparel, such
as the remains of that sack which we have formerly mentioned, some caps, and
other things with which she had lately provided herself, were hung up and
secured from the dust.
This
enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which, indeed, the rug
hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the want of curtains. Now,
whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage, pushed this rug with her feet; or
Jones might touch it; or whether the pin or nail gave way of its own accord, I
am not certain; but as Molly pronounced those last words, which are recorded
above, the wicked rug got loose from its fastening, and discovered everything
hid behind it; where among other female utensils appeared—(with shame I write it,
and with sorrow will it be read)—the philosopher Square, in a posture (for the
place would not near admit his standing upright) as ridiculous as can possibly
be conceived.
The
posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of a soldier who
is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the attitude in which we often see
fellows in the public streets of London, who are not suffering but deserving
punishment by so standing. He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head,
and his two large eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; so
that when the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now discovered, it
would have been very difficult for any spectator to have refrained from
immoderate laughter.
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. It is, indeed, in
theory only, and not in practice, as we have before hinted, that consists the
difference: for though such great beings think much better and more wisely,
they always act exactly like other men. They know very well how to subdue all
appetites and passions, and to despise both pain and pleasure; and this
knowledge affords much delightful contemplation, and is easily acquired; but
the practice would be vexatious and troublesome; and, therefore, the same
wisdom which teaches them to know this, teaches them to avoid carrying it into
execution.
Mr Square
happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader may be pleased to
remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had caused all that disturbance.
Here he first observed her, and was so pleased with her beauty, that he
prevailed with the young gentlemen to change their intended ride that evening,
that he might pass by the habitation of Molly, and by that means might obtain a
second chance of seeing her. This reason, however, as he did not at that time
mention to any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to the
reader.
Among
other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in Mr Square’s
opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty therefore which he
apprehended there might be in corrupting this young wench, and the danger which
would accrue to his character on the discovery, were such strong dissuasives,
that it is probable he at first intended to have contented himself with the
pleasing ideas which the sight of beauty furnishes us with. These the gravest
men, after a full meal of serious meditation, often allow themselves by way of
dessert: for which purpose, certain books and pictures find their way into the
most private recesses of their study, and a certain liquorish part of natural
philosophy is often the principal subject of their conversation.
But when
the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the fortress of virtue had
already been subdued, he began to give a larger scope to his desires. His
appetite was not of that squeamish kind which cannot feed on a dainty because
another hath tasted it. In short, he liked the girl the better for the want of
that chastity, which, if she had possessed it, must have been a bar to his
pleasures; he pursued and obtained her.
The reader
will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the preference to her younger
lover: on the contrary, had she been confined to the choice of one only, Tom
Jones would undoubtedly have been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor was
it solely the consideration that two are better than one (though this had its
proper weight) to which Mr Square owed his success: the absence of Jones during
his confinement was an unlucky circumstance; and in that interval some
well-chosen presents from the philosopher so softened and unguarded the girl’s
heart, that a favourable opportunity became irresistible, and Square triumphed
over the poor remains of virtue which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.
It was now
about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the above-mentioned
visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square were in bed together. This
was the true reason why the mother denied her as we have seen; for as the old
woman shared in the profits arising from the iniquity of her daughter, she
encouraged and protected her in it to the utmost of her power; but such was the
envy and hatred which the elder sister bore towards Molly, that,
notwithstanding she had some part of the booty, she would willingly have parted
with this to ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence she had acquainted
Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes that he might have caught
her in Square’s arms. This, however, Molly found means to prevent, as the door
was fastened; which gave her an opportunity of conveying her lover behind that
rug or blanket where he now was unhappily discovered.
Square no
sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in her bed, cried out
she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair. This poor girl, who was yet
but a novice in her business, had not arrived to that perfection of assurance
which helps off a town lady in any extremity; and either prompts her with an
excuse, or else inspires her to brazen out the matter with her husband, who,
from love of quiet, or out of fear of his reputation—and sometimes, perhaps,
from fear of the gallant, who, like Mr Constant in the play, wears a sword—is
glad to shut his eyes, and content to put his horns in his pocket. Molly, on
the contrary, was silenced by this evidence, and very fairly gave up a cause
which she had hitherto maintained with so many tears, and with such solemn and
vehement protestations of the purest love and constancy.
As to the
gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less consternation. He stood for
a while motionless, and seemed equally at a loss what to say, or whither to
direct his eyes. Jones, though perhaps the most astonished of the three, first
found his tongue; and being immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations
which Molly by her upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter,
and then saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to relieve
him from his place of confinement.
Square
being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only he could stand
upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance, and said to him, “Well,
sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery, and, I dare swear, take great
delight in the thoughts of exposing me; but if you will consider the matter
fairly, you will find you are yourself only to blame. I am not guilty of
corrupting innocence. I have done nothing for which that part of the world
which judges of matters by the rule of right, will condemn me. Fitness is
governed by the nature of things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws.
Nothing is indeed unfit which is not unnatural.”—“Well reasoned, old boy,”
answered Jones; “but why dost thou think that I should desire to expose thee? I
promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in my life; and unless thou
hast a mind to discover it thyself, this affair may remain a profound secret
for me.”—“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied Square, “I would not be thought to undervalue
reputation. Good fame is a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting
to neglect it. Besides, to murder one’s own reputation is a kind of suicide, a
detestable and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal any
infirmity of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly perfect), I
promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be fitting to be done, which
are not fitting to be boasted of; for by the perverse judgment of the world,
that often becomes the subject of censure, which is, in truth, not only innocent
but laudable.”—“Right!” cries Jones: “what can be more innocent than the
indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than the propagation of
our species?”—“To be serious with you,” answered Square, “I profess they always
appeared so to me.”—“And yet,” said Jones, “you was of a different opinion when
my affair with this girl was first discovered.”—“Why, I must confess,” says
Square, “as the matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I
might condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was that—and
that—: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of fitness, very
minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances cause great
alteration.”—“Well,” cries Jones, “be that as it will, it shall be your own
fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any more of this adventure.
Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never open my lips concerning the matter
to any one. And, Molly, do you be faithful to your friend, and I will not only
forgive your infidelity to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So
saying, he took a hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much
expedition.
Square was
rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse conclusion; and as
for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she began at first to upbraid
Square with having been the occasion of her loss of Jones; but that gentleman
soon found the means of mitigating her anger, partly by caresses, and partly by
a small nostrum from his purse, of wonderful and approved efficacy in purging
off the ill humours of the mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.
She then
poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new lover; turned all
she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into ridicule; and vowed, though he
once had the possession of her person, that none but Square had ever been
master of her heart.
Chapter vi. — By comparing which with the former, the reader may possibly correct some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the application of the word love.
The
infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would, perhaps, have
vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he expressed on the
occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from that moment, very few, I
believe, would have blamed him.
Certain,
however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion; and though his love
to her was not of that kind which could give him any great uneasiness at her
inconstancy, yet was he not a little shocked on reflecting that he had himself
originally corrupted her innocence; for to this corruption he imputed all the
vice into which she appeared now so likely to plunge herself.
This
consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the elder sister, was
so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him by a hint, that one Will
Barnes, and not himself, had been the first seducer of Molly; and that the
little child, which he had hitherto so certainly concluded to be his own, might
very probably have an equal title, at least, to claim Barnes for its father.
Jones
eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in a very short
time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him truth, not only by the
confession of the fellow, but at last by that of Molly herself.
This Will
Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many trophies of this kind as
any ensign or attorney’s clerk in the kingdom. He had, indeed, reduced several
women to a state of utter profligacy, had broke the hearts of some, and had the
honour of occasioning the violent death of one poor girl, who had either
drowned herself, or, what was rather more probable, had been drowned by him.
Among
other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart of Betty
Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown to be a fit object
of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her, and applied to her sister,
with whom he had almost immediate success. Now Will had, in reality, the sole
possession of Molly’s affection, while Jones and Square were almost equally
sacrifices to her interest and to her pride.
Hence had
grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen raging in the mind of
Betty; though we did not think it necessary to assign this cause sooner, as
envy itself alone was adequate to all the effects we have mentioned.
Jones was
become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with regard to Molly; but as
to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of tranquillity; nay, indeed, he
was under the most violent perturbation; his heart was now, if I may use the
metaphor, entirely evacuated, and Sophia took absolute possession of it. He loved
her with an unbounded passion, and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had
for him; yet could not this assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the
consent of her father, nor the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by any
base or treacherous method.
The injury
which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which would accrue to Mr
Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him all day, and haunted him on
his pillow at night. His life was a constant struggle between honour and
inclination, which alternately triumphed over each other in his mind. He often
resolved, in the absence of Sophia, to leave her father’s house, and to see her
no more; and as often, in her presence, forgot all those resolutions, and
determined to pursue her at the hazard of his life, and at the forfeiture of
what was much dearer to him.
This
conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects: for he lost all
his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and became not only melancholy
when alone, but dejected and absent in company; nay, if ever he put on a forced
mirth, to comply with Mr Western’s humour, the constraint appeared so plain,
that he seemed to have been giving the strongest evidence of what he
endeavoured to conceal by such ostentation.
It may,
perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to conceal his passion,
or the means which honest nature employed to reveal it, betrayed him most: for
while art made him more than ever reserved to Sophia, and forbad him to address
any of his discourse to her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost
caution; nature was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach
of the young lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes
accidentally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his countenance
became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged him to speak to her,
as to drink her health at table, his tongue was sure to falter. If he touched
her, his hand, nay his whole frame, trembled. And if any discourse tended,
however remotely, to raise the idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed
to steal from his bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully
industrious to throw daily in his way.
All these
symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of Sophia. She soon
perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was at no loss to discover the
cause; for indeed she recognized it in her own breast. And this recognition is,
I suppose, that sympathy which hath been so often noted in lovers, and which
will sufficiently account for her being so much quicker-sighted than her
father.
But, to
say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of accounting for that
prodigious superiority of penetration which we must observe in some men over
the rest of the human species, and one which will serve not only in the case of
lovers, but of all others. From whence is it that the knave is generally so
quick-sighted to those symptoms and operations of knavery, which often dupe an
honest man of a much better understanding? There surely is no general sympathy
among knaves; nor have they, like freemasons, any common sign of communication.
In reality, it is only because they have the same thing in their heads, and
their thoughts are turned the same way. Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western
did not see, the plain symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we
consider that the idea of love never entered into the head of the father,
whereas the daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
When Sophia
was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented poor Jones, and no
less certain that she herself was its object, she had not the least difficulty
in discovering the true cause of his present behaviour. This highly endeared
him to her, and raised in her mind two of the best affections which any lover
can wish to raise in a mistress—these were, esteem and pity—for sure the most
outrageously rigid among her sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw
miserable on her own account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one who
visibly, from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother a flame in
his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, was preying upon and
consuming his very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his shunning her, his
coldness, and his silence, were the forwardest, the most diligent, the warmest,
and most eloquent advocates; and wrought so violently on her sensible and
tender heart, that she soon felt for him all those gentle sensations which are
consistent with a virtuous and elevated female mind. In short, all which
esteem, gratitude, and pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable
man—indeed, all which the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love
with him to distraction.
One day
this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end of the two walks
which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones had formerly risqued
drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia had there lost.
This place
had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used to ruminate, with a
mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident which, however trifling in itself,
had possibly sown the first seeds of that affection which was now arrived to
such maturity in her heart.
Here then
this young couple met. They were almost close together before either of them
knew anything of the other’s approach. A bystander would have discovered
sufficient marks of confusion in the countenance of each; but they felt too
much themselves to make any observation. As soon as Jones had a little
recovered his first surprize, he accosted the young lady with some of the
ordinary forms of salutation, which she in the same manner returned; and their
conversation began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning. Hence
they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched forth very high
encomiums. When they came to the tree whence he had formerly tumbled into the
canal, Sophia could not help reminding him of that accident, and said, “I
fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little shuddering when you see that water.”—“I
assure you, madam,” answered Jones, “the concern you felt at the loss of your
little bird will always appear to me the highest circumstance in that
adventure. Poor little Tommy! there is the branch he stood upon. How could the
little wretch have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in which
I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment for his
ingratitude.”—“Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your gallantry very narrowly
escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance must affect you.”—“Indeed,
madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason to reflect with sorrow on it, it is,
perhaps, that the water had not been a little deeper, by which I might have
escaped many bitter heart-aches that Fortune seems to have in store for
me.”—“Fie, Mr Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now.
This affected contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me. You
would endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured it for my
sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words with a smile, and a
softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a sigh, “He feared it was already
too late for caution:” and then looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he
cried, “Oh, Miss Western! can you desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?”
Sophia, looking down on the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr
Jones, I do not wish you ill.”—“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,”
cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond every other charm.”—“Nay,
now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can stay no longer.”—“I—I would
not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can’t be understood. I know not what I
say. Meeting you here so unexpectedly, I have been unguarded: for Heaven’s sake
pardon me, if I have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I
would rather have died—nay, the very thought would kill me.”—“You surprize me,”
answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended me?”—“Fear, madam,”
says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is no degree of fear like that
which I feel of offending you. How can I speak then? Nay, don’t look angrily at
me: one frown will destroy me. I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those
beauties. What am I saying? Pardon me if I have said too much. My heart
overflowed. I have struggled with my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured
to conceal a fever which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it
impossible for me ever to offend you more.”
Mr Jones
now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of an ague. Sophia,
who was in a situation not very different from his, answered in these words:
“Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand you; indeed, I understand you too
well; but, for Heaven’s sake, if you have any affection for me, let me make the
best of my way into the house. I wish I may be able to support myself thither.”
Jones, who
was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm, which she condescended
to accept, but begged he would not mention a word more to her of this nature at
present. He promised he would not; insisting only on her forgiveness of what
love, without the leave of his will, had forced from him: this, she told him,
he knew how to obtain by his future behaviour; and thus this young pair
tottered and trembled along, the lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of
his mistress, though it was locked in his.
Sophia
immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the hartshorn were
summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only relief to his
distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which, as it opens a scene of
different nature from those in which the reader hath lately been conversant,
will be communicated to him in the next chapter.
To be continued
