wishedthatshehadreadbooks.Nickneverreadbooks,nevertalkedofIreland,ortheHouseofLordsandasforhisfinger-nails!ShewouldlearnLatinandreadVirgil.Shehadbeenagreatreader.ShehadreadScottshehadreadDumas.AttheSladenooneread.ButnooneknewFannyattheSlade,orguessedhowemptyitseemedtoherthepassionforear-rings,fordances,forTonksandSteer—whenitwasonlytheFrenchwhocouldpaint,Jacobsaid.ForthemodernswerefutilepaintingtheleastrespectableoftheartsandwhyreadanythingbutMarloweandShakespeare,Jacobsaid,andFieldingifyoumustreadnovels?
"Fielding,"saidFanny,whenthemaninCharingCrossRoadaskedherwhatbookshewanted.
SheboughtTomJones.
Atteno'clockinthemorning,inaroomwhichshesharedwithaschoolteacher,FannyElmerreadTomJones—thatmysticbook.Forthisdullstuff(Fannythought)aboutpeoplewithoddnamesiswhatJacoblikes.Goodpeoplelikeit.Dowdywomenwhodon'tmindhowtheycrosstheirlegsreadTomJones—amysticbookforthereissomething,Fannythought,aboutbookswhichifIhadbeeneducatedIcouldhaveliked—muchbetterthanear-ringsandflowers,shesighed,thinkingofthecorridorsattheSladeandthefancy-dressdancenextweek.Shehadnothingtowear.
Theyarereal,thoughtFannyElmer,settingherfeetonthemantelpiece.Somepeopleare.Nickperhaps,onlyhewassostupid.Andwomennever—exceptMissSargent,butshewentoffatlunch-timeandgaveherselfairs.Theretheysatquietlyofanightreading,shethought.Notgoingtomusic-hallsnotlookinginatshopwindowsnotwearingeachother'sclothes,likeRobertsonwhohadwornhershawl,andshehadwornhiswaistcoat,whichJacobcouldonlydoveryawkwardlyforhelikedTomJones.
Thereitlayonherlap,indoublecolumns,pricethreeandsixpencethemysticbookinwhichHenryFieldingeversomanyyearsagorebukedFannyElmerforfeastingonscarlet,inperfectprose,Jacobsaid.Forheneverreadmodernnovels.HelikedTomJones.
"IdolikeTomJones,"saidFanny,atfive-thirtythatsamedayearlyinAprilwhenJacobtookouthispipeinthearm-chairopposite.
Alas,womenlie!ButnotClaraDurrant.Aflawlessmindacandidnatureavirginchainedtoarock(somewhereoffLowndesSquare)eternallypouringoutt