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The History of Tom Jones, a foundling

H >> Henry Fielding >> The History of Tom Jones, a foundling




Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper
to make her an answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr
Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as she could, for on that
condition only she obtained a promise from her aunt to keep secret the
liking which her ill fortune, rather than any scheme of Mrs Western,
had unhappily drawn from her.



Chapter vi.

Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour, which may a
little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing scene may
have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.


Mrs Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we have
seen in the last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived Mrs
Honour. She was at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been
summoned to the keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding
dialogue, where she had continued during the remaining part of it. At
her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing motionless, with
the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she immediately ordered
a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, and then began, "O
Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?"--"Nothing," cries Sophia.
"Nothing! O dear Madam!" answers Honour, "you must not tell me that,
when your ladyship is in this taking, and when there hath been such a
preamble between your ladyship and Madam Western."--"Don't teaze me,"
cries Sophia; "I tell you nothing is the matter. Good heavens! why was
I born?"--"Nay, madam," says Mrs Honour, "you shall never persuade me
that your la'ship can lament yourself so for nothing. To be sure I am
but a servant; but to be sure I have been always faithful to your
la'ship, and to be sure I would serve your la'ship with my life."--"My
dear Honour," says Sophia, "'tis not in thy power to be of any service
to me. I am irretrievably undone."--"Heaven forbid!" answered the
waiting-woman; "but if I can't be of any service to you, pray tell me,
madam--it will be some comfort to me to know--pray, dear ma'am, tell
me what's the matter."--"My father," cries Sophia, "is going to marry
me to a man I both despise and hate."--"O dear, ma'am," answered the
other, "who is this wicked man? for to be sure he is very bad, or your
la'ship would not despise him."--"His name is poison to my tongue,"
replied Sophia: "thou wilt know it too soon." Indeed, to confess the
truth, she knew it already, and therefore was not very inquisitive as
to that point. She then proceeded thus: "I don't pretend to give your
la'ship advice, whereof your la'ship knows much better than I can
pretend to, being but a servant; but, i-fackins! no father in England
should marry me against my consent. And, to be sure, the 'squire is so
good, that if he did but know your la'ship despises and hates the
young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. And if
your la'ship would but give me leave to tell my master so. To be sure,
it would be more properer to come from your own mouth; but as your
la'ship doth not care to foul your tongue with his nasty name--"--"You
are mistaken, Honour," says Sophia; "my father was determined before
he ever thought fit to mention it to me."--"More shame for him," cries
Honour: "you are to go to bed to him, and not master: and thof a man
may be a very proper man, yet every woman mayn't think him handsome
alike. I am sure my master would never act in this manner of his own
head. I wish some people would trouble themselves only with what
belongs to them; they would not, I believe, like to be served so, if
it was their own case; for though I am a maid, I can easily believe as
how all men are not equally agreeable. And what signifies your la'ship
having so great a fortune, if you can't please yourself with the man
you think most handsomest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a
pity some folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I
should not mind it myself; but then there is not so much money; and
what of that? your la'ship hath money enough for both; and where can
your la'ship bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must
allow that he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest,
properest man in the world."--"What do you mean by running on in this
manner to me?" cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance. "Have I
ever given any encouragement for these liberties?"--"Nay, ma'am, I ask
pardon; I meant no harm," answered she; "but to be sure the poor
gentleman hath run in my head ever since I saw him this morning. To be
sure, if your la'ship had but seen him just now, you must have pitied
him. Poor gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to
him; for he hath been walking about with his arms across, and looking
so melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me almost
cry to see him."--"To see whom?" says Sophia. "Poor Mr Jones,"
answered Honour. "See him! why, where did you see him?" cries Sophia.
"By the canal, ma'am," says Honour. "There he hath been walking all
this morning, and at last there he laid himself down: I believe he
lies there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my modesty, being
a maid, as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma'am, let
me go and see, only for a fancy, whether he is there still."--"Pugh!"
says Sophia. "There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone
before this time, to be sure. Besides, why--what--why should you go to
see? besides, I want you for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and
gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner." Honour
did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on; when,
looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her hat was
tied did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon
of a different colour; and then giving Mrs Honour repeated charges not
to leave her work on any account, as she said it was in violent haste,
and must be finished that very day, she muttered something more about
going to the grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and walked,
as fast as her tender trembling limbs could carry her, directly
towards the canal.

Jones had been there as Mrs Honour had told her; he had indeed spent
two hours there that morning in melancholy contemplation on his
Sophia, and had gone out from the garden at one door the moment she
entered it at another. So that those unlucky minutes which had been
spent in changing the ribbons, had prevented the lovers from meeting
at this time;--a most unfortunate accident, from which my fair readers
will not fail to draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I strictly
forbid all male critics to intermeddle with a circumstance which I
have recounted only for the sake of the ladies, and upon which they
only are at liberty to comment.



Chapter vii.

A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it always ought to be
drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full length.


It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that misfortunes do
not come single. This wise maxim was now verified by Sophia, who was
not only disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but had the
vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, in order to receive a
visit from the man she hated.

That afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted his daughter
with his intention; telling her, he knew very well that she had heard
it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this, nor could
she prevent a few pearls from stealing into her eyes. "Come, come,"
says Western, "none of your maidenish airs; I know all; I assure you
sister hath told me all."

"Is it possible," says Sophia, "that my aunt can have betrayed me
already?"--"Ay, ay," says Western; "betrayed you! ay. Why, you
betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You showed your fancy very
plainly, I think. But you young girls never know what you would be at.
So you cry because I am going to marry you to the man you are in love
with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the same
manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we were
married: Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put an end to
your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un every
minute."

Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to her:
and she determined to go through that disagreeable afternoon with as
much resolution as possible, and without giving the least suspicion in
the world to her father.

Mr Blifil soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after withdrawing, left
the young couple together.

Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the
gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the unbecoming
modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often attempted to speak,
and as often suppressed his words just at the very point of utterance.
At last out they broke in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained
compliments, which were answered on her side by downcast looks, half
bows, and civil monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the
ways of women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour
for a modest assent to his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene
which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the room,
he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself
that he should soon have enough of her company.

He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success;
for as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart of his
mistress which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it never
entered his head. Her fortune and her person were the sole objects of
his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to obtain the absolute
property; as Mr Western's mind was so earnestly bent on the match; and
as he well knew the strict obedience which Sophia was always ready to
pay to her father's will, and the greater still which her father would
exact, if there was occasion. This authority, therefore, together with
the charms which he fancied in his own person and conversation, could
not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a young lady, whose
inclinations were, he doubted not, entirely disengaged.

Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have
often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the
character which Jones bore all over the country (how justly, let the
reader determine), of being one of the wildest fellows in England,
might render him odious to a lady of the most exemplary modesty.
Perhaps his suspicions might be laid asleep by the behaviour of
Sophia, and of Jones himself, when they were all in company together.
Lastly, and indeed principally, he was well assured there was not
another self in the case. He fancied that he knew Jones to the bottom,
and had in reality a great contempt for his understanding, for not
being more attached to his own interest. He had no apprehension that
Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for any lucrative motives, he
imagined they would sway very little with so silly a fellow. Blifil,
moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still went on, and
indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones really loved him
from his childhood, and had kept no secret from him, till his
behaviour on the sickness of Mr Allworthy had entirely alienated his
heart; and it was by means of the quarrel which had ensued on this
occasion, and which was not yet reconciled, that Mr Blifil knew
nothing of the alteration which had happened in the affection which
Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.

From these reasons, therefore, Mr Blifil saw no bar to his success
with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that of all other
young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and it had indeed entirely
answered his expectations.

Mr Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his
mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so enamoured with
his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception of him, that the old
gentleman began to caper and dance about his hall, and by many other
antic actions to express the extravagance of his joy; for he had not
the least command over any of his passions; and that which had at any
time the ascendant in his mind hurried him to the wildest excesses.

As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty
kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went
instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no sooner found than he
poured forth the most extravagant raptures, bidding her chuse what
clothes and jewels she pleased; and declaring that he had no other use
for fortune but to make her happy. He then caressed her again and
again with the utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the most
endearing names, and protested she was his only joy on earth.

Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did
not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not
unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than ordinary),
thought she should never have a better opportunity of disclosing
herself than at present, as far at least as regarded Mr Blifil; and
she too well foresaw the necessity which she should soon be under of
coming to a full explanation. After having thanked the squire,
therefore, for all his professions of kindness, she added, with a look
full of inexpressible softness, "And is it possible my papa can be so
good to place all his joy in his Sophy's happiness?" which Western
having confirmed by a great oath, and a kiss; she then laid hold of
his hand, and, falling on her knees, after many warm and passionate
declarations of affection and duty, she begged him "not to make her
the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to marry a man
whom she detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir," said she, "for
your sake, as well as my own, since you are so very kind to tell me
your happiness depends on mine."--"How! what!" says Western, staring
wildly. "Oh! sir," continued she, "not only your poor Sophy's
happiness; her very life, her being, depends upon your granting her
request. I cannot live with Mr Blifil. To force me into this marriage
would be killing me."--"You can't live with Mr Blifil?" says Western.
"No, upon my soul I can't," answered Sophia. "Then die and be d--d,"
cries he, spurning her from him. "Oh! sir," cries Sophia, catching
hold of the skirt of his coat, "take pity on me, I beseech you. Don't
look and say such cruel--Can you be unmoved while you see your Sophy
in this dreadful condition? Can the best of fathers break my heart?
Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, lingering death?"--"Pooh!
pooh!" cries the squire; "all stuff and nonsense; all maidenish
tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill you?"--"Oh! sir,"
answered Sophia, "such a marriage is worse than death. He is not even
indifferent; I hate and detest him."--"If you detest un never so
much," cries Western, "you shall ha'un." This he bound by an oath too
shocking to repeat; and after many violent asseverations, concluded in
these words: "I am resolved upon the match, and unless you consent to
it I will not give you a groat, not a single farthing; no, though I
saw you expiring with famine in the street, I would not relieve you
with a morsel of bread. This is my fixed resolution, and so I leave
you to consider on it." He then broke from her with such violence,
that her face dashed against the floor; and he burst directly out of
the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the ground.

When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing his
friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not forbear
enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appearances. Upon which
the squire immediately acquainted him with the whole matter,
concluding with bitter denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic
lamentations of the misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate to
have daughters.

Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of
Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead with this
relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, as he
afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr Western, which
seemed to require more impudence than a human forehead was ever gifted
with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might endeavour to
obtain her concurrence with her father's inclinations.

If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for the
contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded him. He
thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and said, "Go, go,
prithee, try what canst do;" and then swore many execrable oaths that
he would turn her out of doors unless she consented to the match.



Chapter viii.

The meeting between Jones and Sophia.


Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just risen
from the ground, where her father had left her, with the tears
trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from her lips. He
presently ran to her, and with a voice full at once of tenderness and
terrour, cried, "O my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?" She
looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and then said, "Mr
Jones, for Heaven's sake how came you here?--Leave me, I beseech you,
this moment."--"Do not," says he, "impose so harsh a command upon
me--my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily could
I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood."--"I have
too many obligations to you already," answered she, "for sure you
meant them such." Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and
then bursting into an agony, cried, "Oh, Mr Jones, why did you save my
life? my death would have been happier for us both."--"Happier for us
both!" cried he. "Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as
Sophia's--I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?"
Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he
spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her
hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she
hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in
silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on
Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground: at last she recovered
strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain
ruin would be the consequence of their being found together; adding,
"Oh, Mr Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel
afternoon."--"I know all, my Sophia," answered he; "your cruel father
hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you."--"My
father sent you to me!" replied she: "sure you dream."--"Would to
Heaven," cries he, "it was but a dream! Oh, Sophia, your father hath
sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to solicit you
in his favour. I took any means to get access to you. O speak to me,
Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever doated
like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle
hand--one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me--nothing less
than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered the
respect and awe with which you have inspired me." She stood a moment
silent, and covered with confusion; then lifting up her eyes gently
towards him, she cried, "What would Mr Jones have me say?"--"O do but
promise," cries he, "that you never will give yourself to
Blifil."--"Name not," answered she, "the detested sound. Be assured I
never will give him what is in my power to withhold from him."--"Now
then," cries he, "while you are so perfectly kind, go a little
farther, and add that I may hope."--"Alas!" says she, "Mr Jones,
whither will you drive me? What hope have I to bestow? You know my
father's intentions."--"But I know," answered he, "your compliance
with them cannot be compelled."--"What," says she, "must be the
dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My own ruin is my least
concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of being the cause of my father's
misery."--"He is himself the cause," cries Jones, "by exacting a power
over you which Nature hath not given him. Think on the misery which I
am to suffer if I am to lose you, and see on which side pity will turn
the balance."--"Think of it!" replied she: "can you imagine I do not
feel the ruin which I must bring on you, should I comply with your
desire? It is that thought which gives me resolution to bid you fly
from me for ever, and avoid your own destruction."--"I fear no
destruction," cries he, "but the loss of Sophia. If you would save me
from the most bitter agonies, recall that cruel sentence. Indeed, I
can never part with you, indeed I cannot."

The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being unable to
withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to hold it; when
the scene, which I believe some of my readers will think had lasted
long enough, was interrupted by one of so different a nature, that we
shall reserve the relation of it for a different chapter.



Chapter ix.

Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.


Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be
proper to recount what had past in the hall during their tender
interview.

Soon after Jones had left Mr Western in the manner above mentioned,
his sister came to him, and was presently informed of all that had
passed between her brother and Sophia relating to Blifil.

This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an absolute
breach of the condition on which she had engaged to keep her love for
Mr Jones a secret. She considered herself, therefore, at full liberty
to reveal all she knew to the squire, which she immediately did in the
most explicit terms, and without any ceremony or preface.

The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never once
entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest minutes of his
affection towards that young man, or from suspicion, or on any other
occasion. He did indeed consider a parity of fortune and circumstances
to be physically as necessary an ingredient in marriage, as difference
of sexes, or any other essential; and had no more apprehension of his
daughter's falling in love with a poor man, than with any animal of a
different species.

He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister's relation.
He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, having been almost
deprived of his breath by the violence of the surprize. This, however,
soon returned, and, as is usual in other cases after an intermission,
with redoubled force and fury.

The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery from
the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a round
volley of oaths and imprecations. After which he proceeded hastily to
the apartment where he expected to find the lovers, and murmured, or
rather indeed roared forth, intentions of revenge every step he went.

As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and
Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into some
pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation of Love,
that bashful boy, who cannot speak in public, and is never a good
companion to more than two at a time; here, while every object is
serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly through the shattered
clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, the frightened maid starts
from the mossy bank or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds
the red regimentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear
shakes her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling
tottering limbs.

Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the place,
are cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at Salisbury, if
the great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as well as some of his
setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his chains, and dreadfully
hum forth the grumbling catch along the gallery; the frighted
strangers stand aghast; scared at the horrid sound, they seek some
place of shelter from the approaching danger; and if the well-barred
windows did admit their exit, would venture their necks to escape the
threatening fury now coming upon them.

So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her
father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing,
cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I
believe the youth himself would, from some prudent considerations,
have preferred another place of abode at this time, had his terror on
Sophia's account given him liberty to reflect a moment on what any
otherways concerned himself, than as his love made him partake
whatever affected her.

And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object which
instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the ghastly
appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover's arms. This
tragical sight Mr Western no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook
him; he roared for help with his utmost violence; ran first to his
daughter, then back to the door calling for water, and then back again
to Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then was, nor perhaps
once recollecting that there was such a person in the world as Jones;
for indeed I believe the present circumstances of his daughter were
now the sole consideration which employed his thoughts.

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