Review by Edward Tanguay March 16, 1996

Half way through this bulk, pages falling out of my Signet Classic edition, I can already tell that this is going to be one of those books that I am going to miss when I have finished it. It creates an atmosphere long ago and far away, which is nice, but this is not the nicest part of the book. The nicest part of the book is Fielding's use of the English language. He is unmatched among authors whom I have read (second place Cleland, third place Hardy) for being able to set up situations and then use the language to describe feelings which you have had but have never had described. Many a smile has broken out on my face as I have been impressed with this descriptive ability of Fielding's in this book. He adds to this command of the language a personal narrator who asks you to come along with him so that both you and he can experience the story together:

Reader, take care; I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a hill as Mr. Allorthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking my neck I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down together, for Miss Bridget rings her bell and Mr. Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and if you please, shall be glad of your company.

In this way, from the beginng of the book on I have felt as though I had stepped into a chivalrous gentleman's house of the 18th century in England and am sitting by the fire as he tells me a story.

Fielding rarely just tells you what happens but paints each little scene and movement and emotion in detail so that it is as if you had gone up to a Rembrandt painting and examined every brush stroke. I agree with Lael that this story can get wordy, especially if you are reading this book for a class and have to get it finished before the test. But this book, I believe, is best to be enjoyed as a fireside, snowy-evening, winter book and should not be digested quickly anymore than one should gobble up a lavish, ten-course French meal with fine wine. Each morsel should be enjoyed, such as the following in which Mrs. Partridge attacks her husband on suspicion of sleeping with his student Jenny Jones:

Not with less fury did Mrs. Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her tongue, teeth, and hands fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face descended five streams of blood denoting the number of claws with which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.

Fielding has a way with comparisons so as to indicate a scene or incident without really describing it, such as the red on Sophia's face:

Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion.

Fielding builds a relationship between the story, the narrator and the reader which enables him to describe events which would otherwise be impossible:

To describe every particular and to relate the whole conversation of the ensuing scene is not within my power, unless I had forty pens and could at once write them all together as the company now spoke.

And in some situations he executes his skill at description so well that you not only feel as though you are there, but you have addition information about the characters which gives your experience of the text another dimension. For example, how would one fully capture the following on film:

And whether it was this word or the contempt expressed for her politics which most affected Mrs. Western I will not determine, but she flew into the most violent rage, uttered phrases improper to be here related, and instantly burst out of the house. Nor did her brother or her niece think proper either to stop or to follow her; for the one was so much possessed by concern and the other by anger that they were rendered almost motionless.

. . . or this:

She then departed to search of her brother with a countenance so full of rage that she resembled one of the Furies rather than a human creature.

Square being found in closet while Molly and Tom were in the room was also nice:

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 night-cap 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.

But no where in the book so far does Fielding's mastery of the English language show itself but in the description of the coed Inn-brawl! The best part is his description of the chambermaid, Susan, as she joins in the scuffle to help the Landlady defend herself from Mr. Partridge and the naked Mrs. Waters:

Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself or any of her subject Amazons, for her form was robust and manlike, and every way made for such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being already flat to her face; her lips were so large that no swelling could be perceived in them, and, moreover, they were so hard that a fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek-bones stood out as if nature had intended htem for two bastions to defend her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.

The next best part about this book are the characters. First of all, Mr. Western is a real ass and Mrs. Western is not far behind him. I found very interesting what Lael said about these characters, that they "became too familiar too fast." I felt the same way. These characters seemed a bit flat to me (just domineering and mean) but I think they are used as a foil to show Sophia's sweetness and goodness. She respects them as father and aunt, is even nice to Blifil just to please them. This makes her decision not to marry him even more revealing of her character and her love for Jones. Here, she shows her feeling for Blifil to her aunt:

"If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself," returend Mrs. Western, "you would overcome my patience. What objection can you have to the young gentleman?" "A very solid objection, in my opinion," says Sophia, "I hate him."

I find that the Westerns fit into this story very well because this story is more entertainment and enjoyment than the description of anything realistic--flat characters just bring out the heros.

Speaking of heros, I like and respect and admire Tom Jones, as do almost all readers who read this book, I'm sure. He's one of us:

His life was a constant struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately triumphed over each other in his mind.

Who can't identify with that? Following Tom on his adventures, you know that he could just as easily ruin himself on some hedonistic binge as heroically lead a nation to victory. He seems capable of anything. One of the best scenes was when he was eating with Mrs. Waters as she was using all her seductive powers to hook him. The mixture of hunger, food, seduction, and sexual desires being given and satisfied one after another was a well-described carnal scene. After that the reader is ready to watch Jones swing over fully to the virtuous side.

I like Fielding's first chapters as well in which he gives reflections and the deeper philosophy at the beginning of each book before he launched back into the story. It's a nice rhythm.

And finally, his advice for writers is worth repeating:

In reality, no man can paint a distress well which he doth not feel while he is painting it, nor do I doubt but that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him . . .

I'm ready to laugh at some more bawdy scenes and continue this entertaining and beautifully written account of Tom and Sophia and the rest . . .

*** Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding
*** Notes on the SECOND half
*** by Edward Tanguay
*** March 31, 1996

This was one of the most highly-complex and entertaining plots I have ever read! The language in this book kept me reading it, and the roller coaster ride at the end in respect to the multi-layered, tightly knit plot, made it worth reading the 800-odd pages of this masterpiece! By the way, if you haven't read Tom Jones yet, I advise you not to read this message nor any other commentary before you read Tom Jones for yourself, as you want to save all the secrets to discover along the way--it's one of the best rides you will have in literature!

Throughout the book, I felt well-serviced by Fielding. He gives you a good product and treats you right. Just as someone who you hire to paint your house should know their trade well, be prompt, polite, and professional, so it Fielding to his readers. I don't know of any other authors who treat you so well. He seems to have made his own "rules of the game" in this book. The relationship between the author, the narrator, the reader, and the story (or "history" as it is called throughout) is interesting and would be worth researching.

Is this a realistic novel? Yes. At the end of the book, you feel as though you are standing before a grandiose portrait of life in the 18th century--the life in the Inns, gentleman and gentlewomen, courting, hunting, religious wars with the French, kings and queens, and the beginning of the enlightenment--it's all there. But then again, especially because of the constant stream of unbelievable coincidences (which were indeed needed for Fielding to make the plot so tremendously tight), you feel like you were in a playland constructed by Fielding himself as he sits grinning at his hyperly weaved accomplishment. After awhile, you get use to the coincidences and seem to expect them, as they seem to fit to the whole atmosphere of Tom Jones.

Some notes on the characters:

Allworthy was strangely awkward. Although he seemed to be representing virtuousness itself, he was constantly being duped and even overreacted at the end towards Blifil where Jones had to calm him down and show him the most virtuous way to act. There was more than meets the eye to this character than just representing virtuousness.

I liked Mrs. Waters. What guy wouldn't actually--she was wild, fun, loose, seductive, intelligent, had a good heart, cared for people, and had a sense of what was right in terms of basic human values (kind of an embodiment of Tom Jones in female form). Life had dumped on her (she was a "no very comely girl") and she had been disowned by society for something she didn't do, yet she kept her energy for life high and actively led a decent and respectable Tom-Jones-like moral life.

Partridge played the part of comic relief and was hence sort of an empty moral character to make you smile and laugh and to give Fielding a voice for describing Tom Jones. He was such a kid and you know people like him for example when he kept interrupting the-man-on-the-

hill (what did that episode have to do with this story anyway?) when he was trying to tell Jones his story.

I also liked the downwardly spiralling characters of Mrs. Honour and Harriet's Fitzgerald. Mrs. Honour was halfway respectable but the reader's respect falls when you see how loose her allegiance is to Sophia and how strong it is to whomever will give her an advantage. And Harriet's character is introduced to you as someone to have pity on and respect for her courage (an abused wife who lost her fortune by marrying a squanderer of money). Yet her virtues melt away as you find out how pragmatic she has become in the world with her close extramaritial male friend and her betrayal of Sophia.

The best triangle relationship in this story was that of Mr. Western, Mrs. Western and Sophia! Each of them were dead set in their views and none would budge: Mr. Western INSISTED that Sophia marry Blifil and wanted to use brute force, Mrs. Western INSISTED Sophia marry Blifil and wanted to use psychological force, both adult Westerns hated each other and were diametrically opposed in their beliefs, and Sophia, of course, INSISTED that she NOT marry Blifil. I enjoyed the confrontations between the two adult Westerns. Both went all out in every encounter which usually ended in Mrs. Western maniacally blasting out of the room. The only thing they all had in common was that they were all pig-headed to the extreme!

And what can one say about Tom Jones? He was a hero. I had to think of Lord Chesterfield's son, actually. Lord Chesterfield lived about the time of Fielding and had sent his son on a Grand Tour of the continent in order to educate him. Through this time he sent his son (who was illegitimate as well) voluminous letters mainly coaching him on worldly virtues. If you like the language of Fielding and the "men of letters" atmosphere of the 18th century, check out this book: _Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son_.

But Tom's moral character is one of the main points of this book and you feel like you know an earthly guy with his heart and head in the right place when you have finished the novel. I enjoyed the way Fielding kept whittling away at Tom's moral character until at the end we had a precise picture of him. You see what he does and you see how he feels about it and in the end, in spite of his faults, you really respect the guy:

In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for, perhaps, thy heart may be better than thy head), not to condemn a character as a bad one because it is not perfectly a good one.

"Lookee, Mr. Nightingale," said Jones, "I am no canting hypocrite, nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity more than my neghbours. I have been guilty with women, I own it, but am not conscious that I have ever injured any; nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself be knowingly the cause of misery to any human being.

Although Tom's moral register wavers throughout the novel, he is never villianous, as is Blifil. Fielding warns us of villainy:

. . . but villainy, my boy, when once discovered is irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The

censures of mankind will prusue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in public, and if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child who is afraid of hobglobins retreats from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt him.

The language of Fielding was amazing. It makes me feel as if I'm not even fluent in my own language--his power of description tightly captures emotions and specific feelings and thoughts that I only fleeting conceive and would not know how to describe. I've noticed that language from the 18th century has this learned background that just floors you when you read it, and levels you when you read 800- pages of it. Here are some examples from Fielding: Here, when Tom and Sophia finally see each other after such a long time:

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless. In this glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the said statue, when, instantly turning about, she perceived the reality of the vision; upon which she gave a violent scream and scarce preserved herself from fainting till Jones was able to move to her and support her in his arms.

And Lady Bellaston coming out from behind the curtain after Tom and Mrs. Honour talked:

Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance, but streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her heart was all in a flame. And now as soon as her voice found way, instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her own servants, she began to attach poor Jones.

. . . a precise description of a certain level of drunkeness:

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk, or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use of their reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.

. . . and the length of time that it took Tom to read one of Sophia's love letters:

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it.

. . . and Mrs. Western on women:

Women are of a nice contexture, and our spirits when disordered are not to be recomposed in a moment.

On exterior beauty over internal beauty:

To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irrestistible object than it is generally thought, for notwithstanding some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside and to value more solid charms, yet I have always observed at the approach of consummate beauty that these more solid charms only shine with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of the sun.

And could a filming of this book approach the quality of the writing itself? How, for instance, could a film describe the kind of tears Blifil had while lying on the bed. I found this a fantastically insightful scene. It just flattens out Blifils character and enables you to neatly pigeonhole him:

. . . not in such tears as flow from contrition and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprised into it unawares against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart and are, indeed, the effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling themselves.

And Fielding's tight plot in this story enables him to drop bombshells such as Allworthy's on Blifil:

Allworthy made not answer to this neither till he was just getting into his chair, and then, turning about, he said: "Harkee, sir, do you find out before my return the letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed." Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged.

The funniest situation in this whole book was when Western bangs into the room in full hunter-like style upon the first sign of reconciliation between Sophia and Tom:

At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the room, and with his hunting voice and phrase cried out, "To her, boy, to her, go to her. That's it, little honeys, oh, that's it. Well! What, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What shall it be, tomorrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute longer than next day, I am resolved.

That's hilarious!

It is in this scene that one finally understands why Sophia loves her father so deeply. He's the kind of energetic, spontaneous father that keeps the house in laughter and which one loves in spite of all his faults. It's hard not to adore him, he's such a kid stuck in his id- stage and is the simple life-of-the-party.

I could write for a long time on my reaction to this book, as it was full in every way. What could you say it lacked but brevity? Fielding was an awesome author, and I think he knew it, too, as he indicated in an uncanny prediction in Book XVIII, Chapter 1 in which he mentions

that he had, indeed, written a timeless piece of literature which we would be reading years after he had been long gone:

All these works, however, I am well convinced will be dead long before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short the period may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their own infirm author and the weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries.

Edward Tanguay

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