History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
Chapter iv.
1537 words | Chapter 226
In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that was ever
recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixote, not
excepted.
The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven
hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that
he resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked
his portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but
first he slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak
something that might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his
stomach.
Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked,
“What he could have for dinner?”--“For dinner!” says she; “it is an
odd time a day to think about dinner. There is nothing drest in the
house, and the fire is almost out.”--“Well, but,” says he, “I must
have something to eat, and it is almost indifferent to me what; for,
to tell you the truth, I was never more hungry in my life.”--“Then,”
says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot,
which will fit you.”--“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should
be obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the
landlady consented, and said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so
well recovered;” for the sweetness of our heroe's temper was almost
irresistible; besides, she was really no ill-humoured woman at the
bottom; but she loved money so much, that she hated everything which
had the semblance of poverty.
Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was
preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.
This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of
great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small
inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech,
broken bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those
who do are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it.
This vice was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often
smarted for it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be
delivered of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place.
He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I
shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive
them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.
Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily
imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds,
and begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much
gravity, for he never discomposed his muscles on any account,
“_Festina lente_, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever
touched a razor.”--“I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones.
“A poor one,” said the barber, “_non omnia possumus omnes._”--“Again!”
said Jones; “I fancy you are good at capping verses.”--“Excuse me,
sir,” said the barber, “_non tanto me dignor honore_.” And then
proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since I have dealt in
suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for shaving; the
one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I conjecture,
sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of these
motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of
your beard, that it is _tondenti gravior_.”--“I conjecture,” says
Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”--“You mistake me widely,
sir,” said the barber: “I am too much addicted to the study of
philosophy; _hinc illae lacrymae_, sir; that's my misfortune. Too much
learning hath been my ruin.”--“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess,
friend, you have more learning than generally belongs to your trade;
but I can't see how it can have injured you.”--“Alas! sir,” answered
the shaver, “my father disinherited me for it. He was a
dancing-master; and because I could read before I could dance, he took
an aversion to me, and left every farthing among his other
children.--Will you please to have your temples--O la! I ask your
pardon, I fancy there is _hiatus in manuscriptis_. I heard you was
going to the wars; but I find it was a mistake.”--“Why do you conclude
so?” says Jones. “Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a
man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals
to Newcastle.”
“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, and I like
thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me
after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better
acquainted with thee.”
“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times as great a
favour, if you will accept of it.”--“What is that, my friend?” cries
Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I
dearly love good-nature; and as you have found me out to be a comical
fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not one of the
best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” Jones now walked downstairs
neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was not a lovelier figure;
and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as that good woman did
not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither did she in her
taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she had seen
with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so violently in
love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards cost her
many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as coy;
for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the
neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in
a moment.
When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor
indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining _in
statu quo_, as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment
might have put many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had
no such effect on Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke,
saying, “Since it was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the
beef cold.” But now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by
shame, or by whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her
servants a round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never
given, and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set
about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it.
This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as
_lucus a non lucendo_; for it was an apartment into which the sun had
scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and
happy was it for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry
to find any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered
the drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed
some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon.
The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time,
attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait
so long for his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to
the landlady, who was entertaining a circle that she had gathered
round her with the history of poor Jones, part of which she had
extracted from his own lips, and the other part was her own ingenious
composition; for she said “he was a poor parish boy, taken into the
house of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and
now turned out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love
to his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how
else should he come by the little money he hath; and this,” says she,
“is your gentleman, forsooth!”--“A servant of Squire Allworthy!” says
the barber; “what's his name?”--“Why he told me his name was Jones,”
says she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too,
that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had
quarrelled with him now.”--“And if his name be Jones, he told you the
truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in that
country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”--“Why doth he not go
by the name of his father?”--“I can't tell that,” said the barber;
“many people's sons don't go by the name of their father.”--“Nay,”
said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman's son, thof he was
a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another guess manner; for many
of these bye-blows come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband
used to say, never affront any customer that's a gentleman.”
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