"O Vanity!"

In reading Joseph Andrews, I was most intrigued by Fielding's representation of the character of Parson Adams. In his introduction to the text, Thomas Keymer refers to the "ludicrous yet good-hearted Adams" (xxvii). Examples of the humorously ludicrous in Adams include his forgetfulness, his tendency towards being drawn against his nature into physical altercations, and his sometimes being the brunt of others' jokes (82; 103; 218). Fielding seems to approach something more serious, however, in his representation of other aspects of Adams' character. In the preface to Joseph Andrews, the narrator states the following:
"The only Source of the true Ridiculous (as it appears to me) is Affectation. . . . Now Affectation proceeds from one of these two Causes, Vanity, or Hypocrisy: for as Vanity puts us on affecting false characters, in order to purchase Applause; so Hypocrisy sets us on an Endeavor to avoid Censure by concealing our Vices under an Appearance of their opposite Virtues." (6) While Adams proves, throughout the novel, to be a loving and giving individual, he does not seem, as the narrator claims, to be "a Character of perfect Simplicity" (8). Rather, there are many moments in which he seems guilty of the vanity of which the narrator so disapproves. Adams, for instance, considers himself quite learned, and is resentful when others seem to question his intellectual or moral authority. While the first of the many debates in which he engages throughout the novel, this with Joseph Andrew's doctor regarding their respective knowledge of surgery, ends with Adams "very contendly suffer[ing[ the Doctor to enjoy his Victory," later discussions find the parson less willing to relent. For example, In a debate with with one of his many hosts concerning whether one's countenance may provide an accurate reflection of one's disposition, the other man speaks "with so little regard to the Parson's Observation, that it a good deal nettled him" (158). Injured, Adams boasts of the knowledge of the world he has obtained through reading: "I can go farther in an Afternoon, than you in a Twelve-Month" (159). Similarly, when Peter Bounce later refers to Adams as one who is ignorant of the world, the parson interrupts: "'You will pardon me, Sir,' returned Adams; 'I have read of the Gymnosophists" (238).

Adams is further characterized as one who is not terribly receptive of the wisdom of others. His and Parson Barnabas's discussion of tithes, for instance, "continued a full Hour, without the Doctor or the Exciseman's having one opportunity to offer a Word" (65). Later, in a rare moment in which Andrews shares his philosophical musings, the narrator remarks that "the Reader hath not been a little surprized at the long Silence of Parson Adams, especially as so many Occasions offer'd themselves to exert his Curiosity and Observation. The truth is, he was fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding Narrative" (204). It is evident, then, that Adams gives greater weight to his own reflections than he does those of others. Didacticism is the nature of his profession, of course, but the aforementioned moments suggest that there is something of vanity in the eagerness with which Adams endeavors to share his wisdom with the world.

This is most succinctly, and humorously, related in Adams' conversation with Mr. Wilson concerning the latter's personal history. Here, Mr. WIlson expresses his scorn for vanity, and proves that he does so in both thought and deed by very honestly sharing with Adams the extent of his youthful transgressions (175-195). This leads to the parson searching "after a Sermon, which he thought his Masterpiece, against Vanity," and explaining that he has "never been a greater Enemy to any Passion than that silly one of Vanity" (186). That, in response, the humble Mr. Wilson simply "smiled, and proceeded" calls special attention to the irony, and hypocricy, of boasting of one's ability to speak against vanity (186).

These moments of Adams' hypocricy are brief but, given that they exist at all, significant. Late in the novel, at the supposed death of Adams' son, Andrews tries to comfort the parson with his own past sermons, in which he "preached nothing more than the Conquest of [passion] to Reason and Grace" (272). Adams dissolves, instead, into an emotional tumult, but shortly thereafter advises Andrews to bear his own suffering with composure. The fact that the parson is deeply offended when an impatient Andrews rejoins with "it is easier to give Advice than take it," suggests that Adams is here trying to avoid the censure of which the narrator earlier speaks by advocating a virtue he does not himself hold (272).

I woud not be interested in this characterization of Adams did I consider it a straightforward condemnation of vanity and hypocricy. Rather, I am intrigued by the fact that these traits exist in a character who is otherwise represented as so thoroughly good, and I wonder what Fielding means to communicate through this. In the preface, the narrator states, "O Vanity! How little is thy Force acknowledged, or thy Operations discerned  How wantonly dost thou deceive Mankind under different Disguises?" and follows with a thorough discussion of the trait as a great force of evil in the world (60). Following this diatribe, however, the narrator, in a self-conscioius moment, continues to address vanity thus: "I know thou wilt think, that while I abuse thee, I court thee; . . . but thou art deceived, i value thee not of a farthing; . . . for know to thy Confusion, that I have introduced thee for no other Purpose than to lengthen out a short Chapter" (60). The narrator's rather desperate insistence that vanity is of little consequence to him, coupled with the dubious assertion that he mentions it only to avoid brevity, communicates that it is an attribute with which he himself struggles. Perhaps the character of Parson Adams is meant to remind Fielding's audience that even the best of humans are subject to vanity and to encourage all to guard against it.

"Ruin'd": A Cautionary Tale

In Richardson’s Pamela, there is so much talk of the title character’s being “ruined” should she submit to the sexual advances of Mr. B., that I was immediately struck by a far different, though equally pejorative, use of the word early on in Haywood’s Anti-Pamela.  Rendered uneasy by the idea that her daughter, Syrena, could feel genuine emotion for a man with whom she engages romantically or sexually, Mrs. Tricksey warns, “I hope you do not stand in need of any Caution against indulging a secret inclination for him; for if it once comes to that you are ruin’d!—No Woman ever made her Fortune by the Man she had a sincere value for” (66).  Indeed, as Syrena’s various failed exploits seem to imply, women are in danger whenever inclination plays a role in their strategic approach to “love,” for as Catherine Ingrassia asserts in Anti-Pamela’s introduction, every time “Syrena approaches ‘success’—e.g. marriage or a financial settlement—her own sexual desires undermine her” (38).  Syrena is not, then, “ruined” when she compromises, according to the customs of her time, her virtue by engaging in pre- or extramarital affairs, for here she is using her sexuality to exert power over the various men in her life.  Rather, it is in those situations in which her own desire controls her, such as when she hazards her comfortable arrangement with the Mercer in order to aid the Gallant by whom she is taken, or risks her potential marriage to Mr. W. for the sexual gratification of a brief affair with his son, in which she meets her demise (38-39).  This notion of control seems of great import to Haywood, as the narrator takes pains to point out the disastrous potential of a loss of such control: “And here, methinks, it is worth remarking, how the indulging one Vice, destroy’d all the Success she might have expected from the other; for had she been less leud, her Hypocrisy, in all Probability, had obtain’d end” (198).  It is not, then, Syrena’s lack of virtue, but her lack of self-discipline that aborts her best-laid plans. 

Ingrassia posits Anti-Pamela as “a complex novel that offers an alternative didacticism that teaches cunning, duplicity and, ultimately, self-sufficiency within the treacherous financial and sexual economies women confront” (37).  Necessary to “self-sufficiency,” it seems, is the idea that no woman can allow herself to be manipulated by affection or sexual desire, or any motivation other than the strictly pragmatic, when navigating these economies.  Were not Syrena’s experiences sufficient, then certainly the sad circumstances of the myriad virtuous female characters of Anti-Pamela validate this idea.  If Haywood urges, as Ingrassia asserts, that female readers of Anti-Pamela recognize “the dangers and desires of the men who court them, employ them, or, potentially, marry them,” then the tragic end of the loving Maria and the jealous misery of Mrs. E. and Mrs. C indicate that even when marriage is pursued honorably, women often proceed at their own peril when not attending strictly to the practical aspects of the union (43).  The only female character ultimately rewarded with a happy, mutually loving relationship is, in fact, the Mercer’s wife, and her prize is an adulterous husband who, one may note, is reformed only after he learns of his mistress’s own infidelity and nearly brings his family to financial ruin. 

All of this recalls, of course, Haywood’s Love in Excess, in which female desire manifests itself in a variety of ways but generally to the misfortune of those women who experience it.  Ingrassia claims that, in Anti-Pamela, “Haywood seems to be offering a cautionary tale to the women—and men—who misread not only Pamela but her earlier fiction as well” (36).  If this is true, then perhaps Love in Excess’s heroine, Melliora, is meant to serve as an example of proper conduct not only for her maintaining her virtue in the face of D’ Elmont’s advances, but also for maintaining self-control in the midst of strong emotion.  Her self-exile after Alovisa’s death, for instance, indicates that, despite her love for D’Elmont, she retains the self-sufficiency Haywood advocates in Anti-Pamela.  This idea also sheds new light on an aspect of Love in Excess that troubled me well after I had completed the novel, that of the meaning of Violetta's death.  Certainly this minor character’s love for D’Elmont, given its utterly selfless nature, could be said to be even more virtuous than that of Melliora.  It surprised me, then, that such an affection, that which incited Violetta to follow her beloved to another country with the intention only of advancing his happiness, would be rewarded, by Haywood, with death.  Perhaps, however, Haywood offers, in Violetta, that which she later echoes in Anti-Pamela, a warning to women of the dangers of loving without at least some element of pragmatic self-interest. 

"But whatever you do, Pamela . . ."

In an article titled “Richard’s characterization of Mr. B. and Double Purpose in Pamela,” Gwendolyn B. Needham contends that the average reader of Samuel Richardson’s first novel fails to recognize the complex character the author renders in its hero-villain, Mr. B.: “Convinced of Mr. B.’s wickedness, outraged by a seeming switch from black dye to whitewash, the reader doubts the ‘miraculous conversion’ and deplores Richardson’s ineptitude” (437).  Needham holds, instead, that Mr. B.’s motivations have been represented consistently throughout the narrative and that “Richardson’s psychological insight and conscious realism make convincing what happens to a Mr. B. when he encounters a Pamela” (452).  I am interested in Richardson’s characterization of Mr. B. because of an unbecoming characteristic I found to be as prevalent in him after his “reformation” as before, that of his nearly paranoid concern with others’ perception of him.  This is evidenced by a series of solemn counsels he administers to Pamela in regards to her behavior as his wife.  Fearing the opinion of their wedding guests, for instance, he asks that she adopt an artifice of lightheartedness at their nuptials: “But whatever you do, Pamela, be cheerful; for else, may-be, of the small Company we shall have, some one, not knowing how to account for your too nice Modesty, may think there is some other Person in the World, whose Addresses would be still more agreeable to you” (342).  Of her role as hostess, he enjoins, “[B]ut yet I will say, that I expect from you, whoever comes to my House, that you will accustom yourself to one even, uniform Complaisance: That no Frown take place on your Brow . . . That . . .  you signify not, by the least reserved Look, that the Stranger is come upon you unseasonably” (371).  Finally, he warns her against ever representing their marriage in an unfavorable light: “In all Companies she must have shewn, that she had, whether I deserved it altogether, or not, a high Regard and Opinion of me” (446). 

Prior to reading Needham’s article, I considered Mr. B.’s excessive vanity just another aspect of his unsavory character, despite the fact that his creator, Richardson, clearly wished me to have a far higher opinion of him by the latter half of the novel.  Needham, however, urges that Richardson’s continued representation of this prevalent fault in the hero is not indicative of the author’s inconsistency in characterizing him, but the opposite.  It is Mr. B’s ego that is at the heart of the novel’s initial conflict, as his inner struggle, in deciding whether a marriage to Pamela is worth the censure of his peers, “finally emerges as a clear case of Pride versus Love” (Needham 455).  However, as Needham also holds that “Richardson emphasizes pride of self as Mr. B.’s dominant and pervasive trait” and “convincingly demonstrates that Mr. B.’s ego and domineering disposition remain essentially unchanged,” I now question his characterization in but a different way (445; 468).  No longer does Mr. B. seem strangely converted from one who is thoroughly bad to one who is thoroughly good.  Rather, my own observations regarding his excessive fear of the judgment of others, coupled with Needham’s insistence that his vanity explains his psychological motivations throughout the novel and provides for his realistic rendering, lead me to newly question the likelihood of such a man marrying below his station. 

Of course, Needham also asserts that Richardson has created, in Mr. B., “a man capable of correcting and disciplining himself given sufficiently strong motivation” (446).  His love for Pamela may indeed provide just such motivation.  However, as he is hardly reformed in his vanity; as he seems, in his aforementioned cautions to Pamela regarding her behavior, to prize others’ perceptions over her comfort; and as, in marrying his servant, he would surely risk a far more extensive disapprobation of his peers than that afforded by any of the smaller matters over which he shows so much concern, I have my doubts. 

 

 

The Epistolary Narrative of Pamela: Richardson's Novel Approach

As evidenced by my previous blogs, I have become increasingly intrigued by the narrative modes employed by early authors of the novel.  As such, I was of course immediately taken by the many narrative twist and turns of Richardson’s Pamela.  Much of its complications may be readily attributed to the novel’s epistolary form, which interests me in that it seems this style was newly and uniquely available to the novelist.  The seemingly faithful reproduction of a letter in works of poetry or drama would necessitate a break from their structures and would, therefore, be outside the logic of these literary forms.  That the epistolary was a new method of narration, then, speaks to the challenges Richardson faced in employing it in Pamela and renders me even more interested in his missteps, as they perhaps helped to shape what would be later novelists’ more polished attempts.

Having read Behn’s Oronooko and Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, we have, in the past few weeks, discussed the efforts of the authors and publishers of these works to present them to their audience as though they were non-fiction accounts of true events.  It is not surprising, then, that Richardson often seems intent on producing the same effect with Pamela; what is puzzling, however, is how inconsistent his efforts appear.  A narrative offered in epistolary form seems, logically, one most apropos to ostensibly faithful reproductions, as it could be imagined to quite literally be a bound collection of a series of letters.  At times, in the novel, Richardson seems determined that his audience believe Pamela to be just such a collection, yet even the novel’s preface, which references specifically the drawing of characters, belies such a reading (3).  Were Richardson more consistent in his efforts, such a preface could, like that written by Defoe as an introduction to Robinson Crusoe’s “autobiography,” have made claims to its veracity by, for instance, explaining how it was that the editor came about this series of letters concerning Pamela.  Of course, my concern with this aspect of the novel is entirely predicated on the idea that Richardson had as a goal verisimilitude.  This may very well not be the case, yet throughout the novel there is evidence of Richardson’s creative efforts to suspend the disbelief of his readers and aid in their imaginative experience of reading the actual letters of Pamela and other characters.

Perhaps the most striking of such efforts is Pamela’s recurring explanation that those letters not written by her are available to her parents by means of her copying them verbatim in some usually frenzied moment.  This makes sense in that it is unlikely that those letters that are taken from her would be later available to her for presentation to her parents.  Yet, as we learn throughout the narrative that her letters and writings are consistently stolen from her, it is difficult to understand the logic that allows for some of these writings to be recovered and later reproduced and others not, particularly when we have little doubt as to who is behind the seizure of them all.  A moment in which Richardson does seem greatly concerned with maintaining the realism of the epistolary form occurs when Mrs. Jewkes discovers and removes Pamela’s journal and Pamela, believing her recent account of her troubles to be gone from her forever, provides her parents a briefer summary of them in a new entry (236).  This, of course, like Defoe’s presenting aspects of Crusoe’s story in both autobiographical and epistolary form, gives the effect that the person who offers Pamela’s writings is so committed to their honest reproduction as to prefer tedious redundancy to the omission of any of its parts.  This leads me to question, then, why none of the letters that Pamela copied down for her parents is also represented as an original, as surely, in keeping with the logic of the narrative, at least a few of them would have been retrieved with the other, greater parts of her letters and journal entries. 

Then, of course, there is the no small matter of the novel’s temporary break from the epistolary form in which, suddenly and, as far as I can tell, inexplicably, an omniscient narrator is introduced (92-98).  (Say what?) 

Perhaps I am being presumptuous in my questioning of Pamela’s narration, as I have yet to even finish the novel.  I am hard put to imagine, however, what new element Richardson could later introduce that would account for the inconsistences aforementioned.  Certainly, however, my attention to these matters should not be viewed as indicative of a doubt regarding Richardson’s talent and skill.  Rather, I am simply intrigued by the idea that Richardson was, in writing an epistolary novel, experimenting with an innovative new technique, one that was not without its difficulties.