THE GOOD FELLOW’S CODE
You will note in this bourgeois world two attitudes toward money; one
might be described as the attitude of the first generation, and the
other of the third. The first generation has had to make the money, and
knows what money costs. The third generation wants the money just as
much, but its knowledge is confined to what money will buy. There is war
between these two generations, and you find it reflected in the arts;
the young and saucy artists make propaganda for one side, while the
mature and sober artists make it for the other.
There was in England at this time a gentleman whose ancestors had had
money for a long time, and who took toward it the attitude of jolly good
heartedness. He read this story of “Pamela,” and it filled him with
fury; what a loathsome world, in which, men and women spent their time
poring over cash-books and calling it virtue! What would be left in life
if a fashionable young gentleman could not have fun with a lower class
girl without tying himself to her for life! So Henry Fielding,
gentleman, barrister, and man of pleasure in London, sat himself down to
turn “Pamela” into screaming farce. He took Pamela’s brother, a young
footman, and pictured him in the household of a great lady who
endeavored to lure him from the path of virtue. The agonies of
temptation of Joseph Andrews reproduced those of his sister; but as
young men were not supposed to have any virtue, the tragedy was turned
upside down.
This story is usually cited by the critics as an illustration of how a
man of genius began a piece of propaganda, and then got interested in
his story, and turned it into a real work of art. I should alter the
formula by saying that he changed from a negative to a positive kind of
propaganda. Joseph Andrews runs away from his wicked mistress, taking a
girl he truly loves, and the narrative turns from a satire on
Richardson’s pseudo-virtues into a portrayal of what Fielding considers
real virtue. Joseph and his girl fall into trouble, and their creator,
in pleading their cause, defends the poor and friendless all over
England, who do not get justice in the courts. Fielding knew, because
he had ridden the circuits; being a warm-hearted man, he created a model
English magistrate by the name of Squire Allworthy--an obvious enough
name--to show how the law ought to be administered.
Fielding next took to writing plays. But he ventured to make satiric
allusions to “persons of quality”; therefore he ran afoul of the Lord
Chamberlain, and one of his plays was banned. He was disgusted, and
rather than conform, he gave up play-writing. There was no government
big-wig overseeing fiction; and so this new art form was destined to
become the vehicle of social criticism.
In his next book this gentleman-novelist went on to write a deadly piece
of satire. Looking out over Europe, he saw Frederick, king of Prussia,
called “the great,” making a raid upon Silesia and seizing it; he saw
other royal and imperial conquerors tormenting mankind with war. He took
a notorious criminal, who had recently been hanged in London, and made
him the hero of a novel, which parodied in detail the glory-career of a
king. “Jonathan Wild the Great,” like all works of revolutionary
tendency, has received from the critics small part of its due praise.
There are few scenes more grim than the conclusion of the book, the
satire upon the “consolations of religion” when the arch-criminal dies.
Then came “Tom Jones,” one of the greatest of English novels. Fielding’s
purpose in this story, as he declared it, was “to recommend Goodness and
Innocence.” In his hero he set out to show the truth about a man; not a
snuffling saint for a church-window, but a real, hearty good fellow,
according to Fielding’s notion. What may such a young fellow do, and
what may he not do? May he drink? Of course. May he spend money freely?
Fielding knew about that, having married a rich wife and run through her
fortune. May he take money from his friends? Yes, even ask for it. May
he take money from his mistresses? And here suddenly you see the
gentleman-author start up in anger. He may not! Here is an iron-clad
rule, which English gentlemen enforce without compromise. But then, may
he cohabit with girls of classes below his own? Yes, says Fielding,
certainly he may, and he will; let’s be honest, and not fool ourselves
with shams. Thackeray, who was loud in admiration of “Tom Jones,”
lamented that no novelist since then had dared to tell the truth about a
man. In our day, for better or worse, the novelists have dared, and
reticence as a literary virtue is dead.
In conclusion, we note the fact that Fielding died at the age of
forty-three, “of dropsy, jaundice, and asthma.” So it appears that you
may take your choice; you may exercise self-restraint, and be accused of
hypocrisy, and of spoiling your friends’ pleasure; or you may throw the
reins upon the neck of desire, and go through life at a gallop--and have
your body give out just when your brain is ready for its best work.