Count Fathom, part 1 | Page 2

exerting his
Equanimity and Fortitude XXXVIII The Biter is Bit

INTRODUCTION
The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom, Smollett's third novel,
was given to the world in 1753. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, writing
to her daughter, the Countess of Bute, over a year later [January 1st,
1755], remarked that "my friend Smollett . . . has certainly a talent for
invention, though I think it flags a little in his last work." Lady Mary
was both right and wrong. The inventive power which we commonly
think of as Smollett's was the ability to work over his own experience
into realistic fiction. Of this, Ferdinand Count Fathom shows
comparatively little. It shows relatively little, too, of Smollett's
vigorous personality, which in his earlier works was present to give life
and interest to almost every chapter, were it to describe a street brawl, a
ludicrous situation, a whimsical character, or with venomous prejudice
to gibbet some enemy. This individuality--the peculiar spirit of the
author which can be felt rather than described--is present in the
dedication of Fathom to Doctor ------, who is no other than Smollett
himself, and a candid revelation of his character, by the way, this
dedication contains. It is present, too, in the opening chapters, which
show, likewise, in the picture of Fathom's mother, something of the
author's peculiar "talent for invention." Subsequently, however, there is

no denying that the Smollett invention and the Smollett spirit both flag.
And yet, in a way, Fathom displays more invention than any of the
author's novels; it is based far less than any other on personal
experience. Unfortunately such thorough-going invention was not
suited to Smollett's genius. The result is, that while uninteresting as a
novel of contemporary manners, Fathom has an interest of its own in
that it reveals a new side of its author. We think of Smollett, generally,
as a rambling storyteller, a rational, unromantic man of the world, who
fills his pages with his own oddly-metamorphosed acquaintances and
experiences. The Smollett of Count Fathom, on the contrary, is rather a
forerunner of the romantic school, who has created a tolerably organic
tale of adventure out of his own brain. Though this is notably less
readable than the author's earlier works, still the wonder is that when
the man is so far "off his beat," he should yet know so well how to meet
the strange conditions which confront him. To one whose idea of
Smollett's genius is formed entirely by Random and Pickle and
Humphry Clinker, Ferdinand Count Fathom will offer many surprises.
The first of these is the comparative lifelessness of the book. True, here
again are action and incident galore, but generally unaccompanied by
that rough Georgian hurly-burly, common in Smollett, which is so
interesting to contemplate from a comfortable distance, and which goes
so far towards making his fiction seem real. Nor are the characters, for
the most part, life-like enough to be interesting. There is an apparent
exception, to be sure, in the hero's mother, already mentioned, the
hardened camp-follower, whom we confidently expect to become
vitalised after the savage fashion of Smollett's characters. But, alas! we
have no chance to learn the lady's style of conversation, for the few
words that come from her lips are but partially characteristic; we have
only too little chance to learn her manners and customs. In the fourth
chapter, while she is making sure with her dagger that all those on the
field of battle whom she wishes to rifle are really dead, an officer of the
hussars, who has been watching her lucrative progress, unfeelingly puts
a brace of bullets into the lady's brain, just as she raises her hand to
smite him to the heart. Perhaps it is as well that she is thus removed
before our disappointment at the non-fulfilment of her promise
becomes poignant. So far as we may judge from the other personages

of Count Fathom, even this interesting Amazon would sooner or later
have turned into a wooden figure, with a label giving the necessary
information as to her character.
Such certainly is her son, Fathom, the hero of the book. Because he is
placarded, "Shrewd villain of monstrous inhumanity," we are fain to
accept him for what his creator intended; but seldom in word or deed is
he a convincingly real villain. His friend and foil, the noble young
Count de Melvil, is no more alive than he; and equally wooden are
Joshua, the high-minded, saint-like Jew, and that tedious, foolish Don
Diego. Neither is the heroine alive, the peerless Monimia, but then, in
her case, want of vitality is not surprising; the presence of it would
amaze us. If she were a woman throbbing with life, she would be
different from Smollett's other heroines. The "second lady" of the
melodrama, Mademoiselle