One of my resolutions this year is to try and engage more with the art I enjoy instead of just consuming one thing and then moving onto the next, or at best looking at what other people have thought about it and then taking on whatever opinion I feel suits me best as my own. So I’ve decided to try and write at least a little something about every book I read. I finished The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle by Tobias Smollett a few days ago, and even though, as previous attempts have taught me, I’m terrible at writing and even worse at putting my innate thoughts and feelings about something into concrete words, I’ve tried to write something about which I’ve thought for myself and tried to explain it in my own way.
And so, The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, one of several brick-sized 18th century British picaresque novels, and since the only other I’ve read is Tom Jones, and since that’s the only other book of this kind I’ve read I’m going to start by trying to understand why I enjoyed Smollett’s work and yet spent 600 pages reading Tom Jones in anticipation of when it was going to start getting good before finally throwing in the towel.
Both begin in almost identical fashion, familiarizing the reader with several characters and each ones situations and relations between them, before giving any focus to the titular character. Both follow an episodic picaresque structure, Peregrine Pickle more so, and yet despite that it feels like more continuous, it feels like a steady stream slowly flowing to its eventual destination, taking regular breaks and always remaining funny, whilst in Tom Jones a clear goal is set out quite early on and yet the way contains far more repetitive meandering. The story moves forward only due to misunderstandings, usually caused by simple bad timing, and therefore although the geography of the book changes, the story feels stuck in the same place for hundreds of pages, and comedically, for me at least, runs out of steam after probably the 4th time that a fight breaks out in a pub because of some amusing confusion or argument.
Smollett’s use of humour is genuinely funny throughout, Peregrine’s pranks are constant and yet never feel tired, and the comedy is used in some less obvious ways too. Take the Commodore Hawser Trunnion’s (who alongside his two garrisoned ship-mates Jack Hatchway and Tom Pipes have instantly become three of my favourite characters in English literature) death scene around the midway point of the novel. When first introduced to the Commodore and his companions and their unerring dedication to nautical speech and sailing metaphors its nothing more than a funny bit of characterisation, yet the fact the Commodore still speaks this way just hours from dying makes his death more impactful and poetic than anything which could have been said in an outburst of poetical profusions.
Both Jones and Peregrine are shaped by their circumstances, largely familial, but Peregrine feels much more his own man, his actions seem to come from him and him only, he knows who he is, whereas for me Tom Jones is a complete non-entity even to himself. One thing I will say though, is that maybe Peregrine knows himself so well that he see’s no reason to change, he is the same person as a 6 year old playing pranks on his teachers and classmates and as a fully grown adult by the novels end despite his many experiences.
The main love interest, Emilia Gauntlet, is also a strong character in her own right. Yes maybe she wants more or less the same things that most ‘goodly virgin maidens’ in these types of novels do, but she remains wholly her own person, especially in her willingness to let people know what she doesn’t want, and what she doesn’t want she rejects outright. No better shown than when Peregrine tries to drunkenly bed his life long ‘object of desire’ after a masquerade ball and she decimates him in her rejection, laying the foulness of his actions and current character bare in front of him, and us.
“Sir, I scorn to upbraid you with a repetition of your former vows and protestations, nor will I recapitulate the little arts you have practised to ensnare my heart; because, though by dint of the most perfidious dissimulation you have found means to deceive my opinion, your utmost efforts have never been able to lull the vigilance of my conduct, or to engage my affection beyond the power of discarding you without a tear, whenever my honour should demand such a sacrifice. Sir, you are unworthy of my concern or regret, and the sigh that now struggles from my breast is the result of sorrow, for my own want of discernment. As for your present attempt upon my chastity, I despise your power, as I detest your intention. Though, under the mask of the most delicate respect, you have decoyed me from the immediate protection of my friends, and contrived other impious stratagems to ruin my peace and reputation, I confide too much in my own innocence, and the authority of the law, to admit one thought of fear, much less to sink under the horror of this shocking situation, into which I have been seduced. Sir, your behaviour on this occasion is, in all respects, low and contemptible. For, ruffian as you are, you durst not harbour the thought of executing your execrable scheme, while you knew my brother was near enough to prevent or revenge the insult; so that you must not only be a treacherous villain, but also a most despicable coward.” This is as close as I can imagine an 18th century novel can come to what today would a ‘get the fuck away from me you freak’
by marqueemoonchild