2024 in reading and viewing

1/ I’m sure none of you are surprised to hear that the greatest novel I’ve read this year is Don Quixote, the funniest and saddest of novels. 

It blows my mind still that Shakespeare and Cervantes were contemporaries—I have seen Shakespeare everywhere, now I see Don Quixote everywhere. 

2/ My reading in 2024 discovered two interesting things. 

One was that Don Quixote led to the exploration of the Spanish Golden Age: 3 plays by Lope de Vega (The Dog in the Manger, Fuenteovejuna, The King the Greatest Alcalde), 3 plays by Pedro Calderón de la Barca (The Surgeon of Honour, Life Is a Dream, Love After Death), 1 play by Cervantes (The Siege of Numantia), 1 play by Tirso de Molina (The Trickster of Seville, the original Don Juan), 12 stories by Cervantes (Exemplary Novels). 

I have known a bit of 17th century Britain. Now I know a bit of 17th century Spain. Also went to the Spanish Gallery in Bishop Auckland (I know, it’s great to be an art lover in England). 

To sum up my impression, Lope de Vega has a better sense of pacing and structure, and his characters are more vividly drawn, but Calderón’s plays are the ones with complexity and depth. Neither of them is Shakespeare. Neither of them is Cervantes. But who is? Life Is a Dream is a great play, the best among these plays, and you should read it. The Dog in the Manger and Fuenteovejuna are also good fun. 

(Those of you who have often scolded me for only reading novels—you know who you are—where’s my cookie?) 

The other thing in 2024 is that I started filling my 18th century gap: Dangerous Liaisons, (part of) Pamela, Shamela, Joseph Andrews, Evelina, The Female Quixote, Candide, and now Tom Jones.

(Each of these, except Candide, got multiple blog posts).

Am I going to read Clarissa? Maybe. Don’t know. Perhaps someday. But right now there are plenty of writers to get to first: Sterne, Swift, Defoe, Goethe, etc. Enjoyed Dangerous Liaisons, Evelina, and Henry Fielding. 

3/ The best non-fiction I’ve read this year is Primo Levi: If This Is a Man, The Truce, and Moments of Reprieve. 

The best book of literary criticism is possibly What Happens in Hamlet by John Dover Wilson. Followed closely by The Imperial Theme by G. Wilson Knight, which has a couple of interesting essays about Antony and Cleopatra. 

4/ This year, I saw two Shakespeare plays onstage: Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) and A Midsummer Night’s Dream (2024, Royal Shakespeare Company, dir. Eleanor Rhode, starring Mathew Baynton as Bottom).

Both productions were enjoyable enough. 

The Macbeth production was the fourth version I saw (though the first Shakespeare onstage), after Trevor Nunn (Ian McKellen – Judi Dench), Joel Coen (Denzel Washington – Frances McDormand), and Orson Welles (Orson Welles – Jeanette Nolan). The Trevor Nunn production is the standard—Ian McKellen and Judi Dench are the Macbeths—everything else suffers in comparison. But I did enjoy Indira Varma’s portrayal of Lady Macbeth, and enjoyed the comic touch in Ralph Fiennes’s performance. 

My first complaint is that the production was too bright—Shakespeare’s Macbeth is a dark and murky play, a play in which night strangles the travelling lamp, a play in which darkness does the face of earth entomb—it didn’t quite work the same way when the performance was in full light. 

My second complaint is that Simon Godwin increased the presence and significance of the witches but they looked too… human—there’s nothing strange or eerie or frightening about them as though they’re not the inhabitants of the earth—look at the witches in the Trevor Nunn production or Kathryn Hunter in Joel Coen’s film. 

They also cut the porter scene. 

The production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the second version I saw, after the 1968 film (which had a spectacular cast: Ian Holm as Puck, Judi Dench as Titania, Helen Mirren as Hermia, Diana Rigg as Helena, etc). 

It was enjoyable enough, largely thanks to Mathew Baynton as Bottom, and was especially funny towards the end. As it’s a modern-dress version, some of the costume choices were questionable and I didn’t particularly like the couples—my friend Zena Hitz thought the best of the four was Boadicea Ricketts as Helena and I think she’s right—Ryan Hutton was too camp as Lysander and the other two were forgettable—but unfortunately for Boadicea Ricketts, I had seen Diana Rigg in the same role. Mathew Baynton was the one who carried the production—I never thought of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as Bottom’s play—but this production belonged to Mathew Baynton. 

5/ Over the past few years, I’ve been complaining about contemporary cinema. But this year, I watched quite a few good films—cinema is not dead, baby, cinema is not dead—Anatomy of a Fall, La chimera, The Zone of Interest, The Holdovers, The Taste of Things—all from 2023. 

Anyway, enjoy the holiday, folks. In case I don’t write another blog post by then, Merry Christmas!

Tom Jones: “an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet”

1/ I like the sexual frankness of Tom Jones. 

“… Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had [Molly] of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion.” (B.4, ch.6) 

Henry Fielding is so likeable because he values goodness and virtue but he is tolerant and forgiving of human frailty—next to him, George Eliot and Edith Wharton and even Jane Austen may occasionally come across as rather harsh. 

“… Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cried out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of the grove.” (B.5, ch.10)

Hahahahaha. You can probably see why I love Tom Jones. No wonder some contemporary critic called it a tale of “bastardism, fornication, and adultery” (if that doesn’t make you want to pick up the novel, I don’t know what can). But it’s fascinating to see sexual frankness and an embrace of horniness in the 17th century (like Shakespeare) or the 18th century (Tom Jones, Dangerous Liaisons) after being used for years to the reticence and prudishness of the 19th century. 

(Did Tolstoy ever read Fielding? My quick googling told me nothing. I’m rather amused imagining his shock and outrage upon reading Tom Jones). 

I like the warm, good-humoured persona of the author: 

“… I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals.” (B.5, ch.5)

The novel has a comic tone, but Fielding has no illusions about humanity. He depicts the greed and misogyny of Captain Blifil, the hypocrisy of Thwackum, the artful and dishonest behaviour of Master Blifil, the wantonness of Molly Seagrim, the carefree egotism and thoughtless cruelty of Squire Western, the deceit of Black George… but, like Tolstoy or Chekhov, he depicts all these characters with compassion. 

2/ It is good to read Fielding’s masterpiece after Joseph Andrews. Both are full of warmth, wit, and good humour, but one can see the improvements. 

First of all is the main character. Like Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones is handsome, “one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.” But if in his first novel, Fielding concentrated most of his energy on Parson Adams (and some on Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop) and didn’t give Joseph a personality, he now does a good job with the characterisation of Tom Jones, who is impulsive and has a wild streak but who is nevertheless good-natured, loyal, generous, and lovable.  

Another difference is the plotting. I have written that Joseph Andrews, as a picaresque novel, is episodic and doesn’t have anything that holds it together—it is loose and drags on sometimes—Tom Jones in contrast is tightly plotted and I can see why Coleridge said it’s one of “the three most perfect plots ever planned.” 

I probably won’t say much about the plot and the characters till I’m close to finishing the book though. 

What a romp! 

PS: I’ve just read that Samuel Johnson said about Tom Jones: “I am shocked to hear you quote from so vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession which no modest lady should ever make. I scarcely know a more corrupt work.” 

Hahaha.

Tom Jones: “we have […] adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook”

I’ve noted that some bloggers complain about the narrator of Tom Jones—why?—this is one of the great charms of the novel.   

“The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.” (B.1, ch.1) 

I used to think I disliked the intrusive narrator, until I discovered Thackeray and Fielding (turns out I just didn’t get along with George Eliot). 

“… As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.” (B.1, ch.5) 

Fielding’s authorial persona is a delight—his influence on Thackeray is obvious. 

Tom Jones is divided into 18 books and each book begins with the author talking about his own writing—meta? I’ve come across readers who say that these chapters contribute nothing to the plot and that they are skippable, but they’re a carefully constructed part of the novel—like the essays in War and Peace or Life and Fate—in Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding has created a warm, witty, large-hearted narrator as an essential part of the novel; in Tom Jones, he goes further, talking about the art of the very book we are reading. 

“… I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.” (B.5, ch.1)

I guess the advantage of the novel being such a new thing in the 18th century was that writers could do whatever they wanted (I know, I will read Tristram Shandy). Some features and techniques people commonly associate with postmodernism were there from the very beginning (including Don Quixote). 

“Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them.

[…] Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.” (ibid.) 

Take that, critics! 

The funny part is that now and then, the narrator pretends not to know everything. 

“Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very particular business, though I know not what it was…” (B.1, ch.3) 

Who knows if you don’t, Mr Fielding? 

“… it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress.” (B.2, ch.3) 

This is even funnier: 

“As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world.” (B.4, ch.3) 

Isn’t that against what novels are about? 

“… As to the name of Jones, [Blifil] thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.” (B.5, ch.10)

What would Tolstoy think? (I’m thinking of his criticism of Shakespeare for not only concealing but sometimes also removing characters’ motives). 

Let’s see if next time I find anything interesting to blog about. I’m enjoying Tom Jones, especially the references to Shakespeare and Don Quixote. 

Why do some great novels resist adaptation?

Yesterday I watched two Czechoslovakian films: Alice and When the Cat Comes (both of which I recommend). As I was watching Alice, Jan Švankmajer’s wonderfully dark and disturbing adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I thought about classic novels that were adapted for the screen over and over again. 

And I thought, why are some great novels so much harder to adapt than others? 

I’m not talking about novels with an odd structure, an obvious challenge such as Moby Dick or The Sound and the Fury or One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m also not talking about faithful adaptations—you can’t accuse me of being a purist—just film or TV adaptations that can stand on their own as works of art. Like Jan Švankmajer’s Alice. Or Dr Strangelove. Or Ran.

But clearly some novels seem to resist adaptation. Take Don Quixote for instance. This is one of the most important novels in the world, this is a novel that has been adapted a million times, and yet—perhaps I am ignorant—there is not a single adaptation that is considered a good film of Don Quixote. BFI has an article called “The troubled history of Don Quixote on film”, about the failures of Orson Welles and Walt Disney and Terry Gilliam to bring it (successfully) to the screen. Terry Gilliam in the end managed to make The Man Who Killed Don Quixote in 2019, but it’s not successful, is it? Critic score of 66% and audience score of 59% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

Anna Karenina, another favourite novel of mine, also doesn’t seem to work well on the screen. The challenge of the depth of Tolstoy’s characters is not the only reason. The 1972 adaptation of War and Peace, with Anthony Hopkins as Pierre, demonstrates that it’s possible to convey the depth of characters and the conflicts between them—the only flaw of that version is Natasha (many people love the Soviet version, but it’s only because they seem to be fine with Sergei Bondarchuk stripping away all psychological and philosophical depth and character development). But there is not a single good adaptation of Anna Karenina and I have seen six different ones: Greta Garbo (1935), Vivien Leigh (1948), Tatiana Samoilova (1967), Sophie Marceau (1997), Keira Knightley (2012), and Vittoria Puccini (2013). There is always something wrong—with Anna or Vronsky or Karenin or all of them—not to mention that the Levin strand is almost always reduced to a mere subplot. 

But I guess the complexity of Tolstoy’s characters is the main reason. Filmmakers tend to go for a simpler version. 

Wuthering Heights is another hard one. Jane Eyre has an excellent adaptation in 2006, with Ruth Wilson as Jane and Toby Stephens as Mr Rochester. Some people seem to like the 2011 film with Mia Wasikowska, for some reason. But Wuthering Heights has not had a single good adaptation—we all agree, yes? The news of the version currently in the works doesn’t particularly cheer anyone up either. How could Emerald Fennel possibly cast Margot Robbie as Cathy and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff? Madness. 

My favourite Emma: Kate Beckinsale. 

The case of Jane Austen is easier to understand. Almost all of her novels have had a good adaptation: Lady Susan has a brilliant adaptation in 2016, confusingly named Love and Friendship; Northanger Abbey has been adapted only once* in 2007, with Felicity Jones, which seems popular enough; Sense and Sensibility has the Oscar-winning film in 1995 with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet; Pride and Prejudice has the 1995 series, with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, leading to the Austen craze and the whole Janeite industry (though there are, oddly, some people who prefer the Keira Knightley film); Emma has a great adaptation in 1996 with Kate Beckinsale, which is my favourite, though the consensus is that the best one is Clueless; Persuasion has a celebrated version, also in 1995, with Amanda Root as Anne Elliot and Ciarán Hinds as Captain Wentworth. All filmmakers have left to do is to “ruin” them with some “subversive” adaptations, like Netflix has done with Persuasion and presumably will do again with Pride and Prejudice (well, for those who like that sort of thing, that’s the sort of thing they like). 

The one Jane Austen novel that has not had a good adaptation is Mansfield Park. But that is not hard to understand: modern filmmakers cannot handle a morally serious and sombre Jane Austen novel and a heroine so unlike the Strong Female Character trope of Hollywood—Fanny Price, strong in a different way, is not a girlboss or a kickass heroine—filmmakers keep feeling a misplaced urge to “improve” on the book.  

But I do wonder why Wuthering Heights hasn’t got a good adaptation. Is it only because filmmakers keep sanitising and romanticising the story? Or is there some fierce, intense quality to Emily Bronte’s story that makes it impossible to work on the screen? 

But I suppose people are going to attempt again and again. 

* Addendum: There is also a version in 1987 that I did not know about. Thanks, Brian. 

100 latest films and plays I've watched [updated]

I originally shared my 100 list on 27/11 but made a mistake (listing two Inside No.9 episodes twice, instead of listing them once and noting "twice" at the end as I usually do), so here is the updated list. 

From November 2023 to December 2024

In bold: films, plays, and TV episodes I think are good

1/ Inside No.9: Nana's Party (2015) 

2/ Inside No.9: Séance Time (2015) 

3/ Inside No.9: The Devil of Christmas (2016) 

4/ Inside No.9: The Bill (2017) - twice

5/ Inside No.9: Diddle Diddle Dumpling (2017) 

6/ Inside No.9: Private View (2017) 

7/ Inside No.9: Once Removed (2018) 

8/ Inside No.9: To Have and to Hold (2018) 

9/ Inside No.9: The Riddle of the Sphinx (2017) 

10/ Inside No.9: And the Winner Is... (2018) 

11/ Inside No.9: Tempting Fate (2018) 

12/ Inside No.9: Deadline (2018) 

13/ Inside No.9: The Referee's a W***er (2020) 

14/ Inside No.9: Empty Orchestra (2017) 

15/ Inside No.9: Death Be Not Proud (2020)  

16/ Inside No.9: Love's Great Adventure (2020) 

17/ Inside No.9: Misdirection (2020) 

18/ Inside No.9: Thinking Out Loud (2020) 

19/ Inside No.9: The Stakeout (2020) 

20/ Inside No.9: Wuthering Heist (2021) - twice 

21/ Inside No.9: Simon Says (2021) 

22/ Inside No.9: Lip Service (2021) 

23/ Inside No.9: Hurry Up and Wait (2021) 

24/ Inside No.9: How Do You Plead (2021) 

25/ Inside No.9: Last Night of the Proms (2021)

26/ Inside No.9: Merrily, Merrily (2022) 

27/ Inside No.9: Mr King (2022) 

28/ Inside No.9: Nine Lives Kat (2022) 

29/ Inside No.9: Kid/Nap (2022) 

30/ Inside No.9: A Random Act of Kindness (2022) 

31/ Inside No.9: Wise Owl (2022) 

32/ Inside No.9: The Bones of St Nicholas (2022) 

33/ Inside No.9: Mother's Ruin (2023) 

34/ Inside No.9: Paraskevidekatriaphobia (2023) 

35/ An Ideal Husband (1999) 

36/ Inside No.9: Love Is a Stranger (2023) 

37/ Inside No.9: 3 by 3 (2023) 

38/ Inside No.9: The Last Weekend (2023) 

39/ Inside No.9: The 12 Days of Christine (2015) 

40/ Coriolanus (2011) 

41/ A Christmas Carol (1984) 

42/ Blackadder's Christmas Carol (1988) 

43/ The Shop Around the Corner (1940) 

44/ Miracle on 34th Street (1947) 

45/ The Bishop's Wife (1947) 

46/ Nicholas Nickleby (2002) 

47/ Hamlet at Elsinore (1964) - twice 

48/ The Sound of Music (1965) 

49/ Chimes at Midnight (1965) 

50/ Henry IV, Part 1 (1979 BBC) 

51/ Henry IV, Part 2 (1979 BBC) 

53/ Anatomie d'une chute (Anatomy of a Fall - France - 2023) 

54/ King Lear (1971, dir. Peter Brook, starring Paul Scofield) 

55/ Past Lives (2023) 

56/ The Holdovers (2023) 

57/ Maestro (2023) 

58/ American Fiction (2023) 

59/ Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) - onstage 

60/ The Zone of Interest (2023) 

61/ May December (2023) 

62/ Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967) 

63/ Mai (Vietnam - 2024) 

64/ Certain Women (2016) 

65/ Charlie's Angels (2019) 

66/ All the President's Men (1976) 

67/ La Passion de Dodin Bouffant (The Taste of Things - France - 2023) 

68/ Reality (2023) 

69/ Inside No.9: Boo to a Goose (2024) 

70/ Mr Holmes (2015) 

71/ Inside No.9: The Trolley Problem (2024) 

72/ Inside No.9: Mulberry Close (2024) 

73/ Inside No.9: CTRL, ALT, ESC (2024) 

74/ The Protégé (2021) 

75/ Inside No.9: Curse of the Ninth (2024) 

76/ Inside No.9: Plodding On (2024) 

77/ Henry V (1979 BBC) 

78/ Widows (2018)

79/ No Way Out (1987) 

80/ Hit Man (2023) 

81/ The Bikeriders (2023) 

82/ 楢山節考 (The Ballad of Narayama - Japan - 1983) 

83/ Sur mes lèvres (Read My Lips - France - 2001) 

84/ 몽타주 (Montage - South Korea - 2013) 

85/ レイクサイド マーダーケース (Lakeside Murder Case - Japan - 2004)

86/ Cold Comfort Farm (1995)

87/ 恋や恋なすな恋 (The Mad Fox - Japan - 1962) 

88/ La chimera (Italy, France, Switzerland - 2023) 

89/ Perfect Days (Japan, Germany - 2023) 

90/ 山の音 (The Sound of the Mountain - Japan - 1954) 

91/ Plein soleil (Purple Noon - France, Italy - 1960) 

92/ Le Samouraï (France, Italy - 1967) 

93/ La piscine (The Swimming Pool - France, Italy - 1969)

94/ The Fall (2006) 

95/ 버닝 (Burning - South Korea - 2018) 

96/ Toni Erdmann (Germany, Austria - 2016) 

97/ Kuolleet lehdet (Fallen Leaves - Finland - 2023) 

98/ Mies vailla menneisyyttä (The Man Without a Past - Finland - 2002) 

99/ Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) 

100/ Něco z Alenky (Alice - Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, the UK, West Germany - 1988) 

The Female Quixote: “would certainly make a Convert of Lady Bella”

Having now said goodbye to Arabella, I’m going to jot down some final thoughts (the blog post will be short as I’m ill and miserable). 

My main two criticisms of the novel remain true till the end. The Female Quixote is a one-trick pony—Charlotte Lennox may be funny at first but the joke soon gets stale. When Fielding was taking the piss out of Richardson’s Pamela, he knew his simple premise was not enough to sustain a full-length novel, so Shamela is just a novella or a long short story. Joseph Andrews, the full-length novel that started off as a parody of Pamela, soon went in another direction and developed into something else. Arabella’s misreading of everything in life as resembling 17th century French romances is not enough material for 400 pages, but Charlotte Lennox also adds nothing for variation or depth—even when she brings her protagonist to Bath and then to London, it’s the same joke over and over and over again.

The other problem is, as I said, the characterisation of Arabella. Lennox tells us now and again that Arabella is an accomplished lady, that she has great wit and delicacy, that she has a noble mind and good reasoning as long as the subject of conversation is neither love nor romances, but where is it? Lennox doesn’t show it. There may be a remark here and there where Arabella moralises about something, such as about raillery, but she would then come across as moralistic.

My new complaint, now that I’ve read the whole novel, is that the resolution is unsatisfying. The hurried, abrupt, contrived ending feels like an interference from outside—either Samuel Johnson or Samuel Richardson—especially when the introduction of the Countess seemed to be potentially important (“Mr. Glanville at his Return to the Dining-Room, finding Arabella retired, told his Father in a Rapture of Joy, that the charming Countess would certainly make a Convert of Lady Bella”) but that plotline got suddenly cut off. What happened? 

As for characterisation in general, it’s generally weak. I said that in Evelina, every character was defined by a single trait, but at least Frances Burney gave each one a distinct voice—her characters may not be complex but they feel alive—I can’t say the same about Charlotte Lennox’s characters. What is Mr Glanville’s trait, for instance? Apart from being in love with Arabella (for some reason) and continually getting second-hand embarrassment because of her ridiculous behaviour? Arabella is defined by a single trait; most other characters don’t even have a personality trait. The best character in The Female Quixote, I would say, is not Arabella but Miss Glanville, sister of the poor Mr Glanville. She is frivolous, she is envious and petty, she is not extraordinary; but she loves and hates, she is human, she is flesh and blood.

Great novels such as Anna Karenina, Don Quixote, or Moby Dick should be read and reread multiple times throughout one’s life. Some novels like Evelina or Joseph Andrews may not be so great and complex to require multiple readings, but they’re worth reading once. I’m not sure I can say The Female Quixote, unless you have some specialist interest, is worth reading once.

Richard II revisited: some scattered thoughts on the King

I have always loved the poetry of Richard II. Lots of great lines. 

“RICHARD II […] The accuser and the accusèd freely speak. 

High-stomached are they both, and full of ire, 

In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.” 

(Act 1 scene 1) 

Or: 

“MOWBRAY […] The purest treasure mortal times afford 

Is spotless reputation—that away, 

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. 

A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast; 

Mine honor is my life, both grow in one; 

Take honor from me, and my life is done…” 

(ibid.) 

In time and in style, Richard II is close to Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream—the verse is more regular, there is more rhyme—quite different from the knotty language of the later plays.  

“RICHARD What says he? 

NORTHUMBERLAND Nay, nothing, all is said; 

His tongue is now a stringless instrument; 

Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.” 

(Act 2 scene 1) 

The play is full of great speeches—you know the famous “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle” speech? It’s in this play. 

Undeniably magnificent is the poetry of Richard II. And yet I have felt that I didn’t quite get the play, mostly because I didn’t quite get Richard. 

When he’s back from Ireland, hearing about Bolingbroke’s uprising, he says: 

“… Not all the water in the rough rude sea 

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king…” 

(Act 3 scene 2) 

Not long after: 

“RICHARD But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; 

And till so much blood thither come again, 

Ave I not reason to look pale and dead? 

All souls that will be safe fly from my side, 

For Time hath seat a blot upon my pride. 

AUMERLE Comfort, my liege, remember who you are. 

RICHARD I had forgot myself: am I not King?...” 

(ibid.) 

He has seen himself as lost before getting defeated. He has let go before having to give up his crown. 

Shakespeare gives him some great speeches. 

“RICHARD […] For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings: 

How some have been deposed, some slain in war, 

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, 

Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, 

All murdered—for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king 

Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, 

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, 

Allowing him a breath, a little scene, 

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, 

Infusing him with self and vain conceit, 

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and, humored thus, 

Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!...” 

(ibid.) 

All is vanity. When Lear has lost everything, he realises at last there’s not much difference between a king and poor Tom. So does Richard. 

“RICHARD […] Throw away respect,

Tradition, form and ceremonious duty.

For you have but mistook me all this while,

I live with bread like you, feel want, 

Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,

How can you say to me I am a king?”

(ibid.) 

More than any other Shakespeare play, Richard II examines what it means to be a king. In some way, the play makes me think of King Lear: in the abdication scene, for example, Richard repeats several times the word “nothing”, which recurs throughout King Lear; Richard says “I have no name, no title” and “know not now what name to call myself”, which is similar to Lear’s feeling of loss of identity when he has lost his power and gets treated abominably by his daughters. But Richard is not a larger-than-life character like Lear or Macbeth; he doesn’t have the stature and vitality of Lear or Richard III; he is small and becomes smaller and smaller as he withdraws more into himself towards the latter part of the play. 

But look at the mirror moment: 

“RICHARD […] Was this the face

That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? 

Was this the face that faced so many follies, 

And was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke? 

A brittle glory shineth in this face, 

As brittle as the glory is the face.

[Throws glass down]

For there it is, cracked in a hundred shivers, 

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport: 

How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.” 

(Act 4 scene 1) 

Shakespeare does something brilliant here. This is a bad king, a corrupt king, a selfish and self-pitying and even self-dramatising king. And yet you can still feel his grief and see his tortured soul underneath all the self-dramatisation. 

I have to think some more about his scene in prison and the “a generation of still-breeding thoughts” soliloquy.

I reread Richard II with my friends Michael and Himadri. Follow the discussion! 

My previous blog post about the play. 

Oh these shameless moderns!

1/ Over the past few months, I have been bombarded with Facebook ads for The Duchess (of Malfi), featuring Jodie Whittaker. 

What is it? you ask—why is “of Malfi” in brackets? It’s because this is a contemporary adaptation of Webster’s play. “A bloody revenge tragedy made marvellously modern”, says The Telegraph. The Duchess of Malfi stripped of its poetry, stripped of its language. Reduced to its plot. Reduced to something about “the patriarchy” and “female resistance.” 

One ad has the writer-director, Zinnie Harris, discussing “why she thinks John Webster’s classic text is still studied in school and remains relevant today.” 

I’d say The Duchess of Malfi endures because of its poetry, not because of its plot. Zinnie Harris herself mentions language and imagery—then why did she remove all of it? 

I’ll give you two quotes from Webster’s play:  

“BOSOLA Do you not weep?

Other sins only speak; murther shrieks out: 

The element of water moistens the earth, 

But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. 

FERDINAND Cover her face. My eyes dazzle: she di’d young.”

(Act 5 scene 5) 

“ANTONIO […] In all our quest of greatness, 

Like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, 

We follow after bubbles, blown in th’air. 

Pleasure of life, what is’t? only the good hours

Of an ague: merely a preparative to rest, 

To endure vexation…” 

(Act 5 scene 4)

2/ In 2022, Netflix released an adaptation of Persuasion. A “subversive new take on Jane Austen”, according to British Vogue. Persuasion Fleabag-ified. Anne Elliot regularly breaks the fourth wall and at some point says “Now we’re worse than exes, we’re friends.” Her sister Mary calls herself “an empath.” Someone says “It’s often said that if you’re a 5 in London, you’re a 10 in Bath.” Isn’t that relatable? British Vogue says “The introduction of direct-to-camera moments and doses of contemporary humour make Anne’s inner journey immediately relatable, in a way that might have been impossible under the standard conventions of the buttoned-up Regency drama.”

“Impossible”, they say—why do they think so many people love the book? 

But that’s not all. Carrie Cracknell, the director said “I’ve always loved casting in a color-conscious way. A conversation that I’ve had with lots of the actors that I’ve worked with over the years is how powerful it can be for a diverse audience to see themselves represented in historic cultural texts and stories, because in some way it sort of broadens the scope of the audience who can feel part of this story or can feel ownership over this story.” 

How marvellous! Where would we be without Carrie Cracknell and people like her? Since its publication in 1817, we pitiful people of colour have never felt that Persuasion was ours till Netflix condescended to help us feel included. 

3/ Today, at The Open Book in Richmond, I came across a book called She Speaks! What Shakespeare’s Women Might Have Said by Harriet Walter. 

“An incisive, funny, mischievously subversive homage to Shakespeare’s heroines, written by one of mine,” Meera Syal blurbs. 

Tamsin Greig says “With characteristic wit, compassion and fierce intelligence, she gives tantalising voice to the Bard’s female greats.” 

These are the opening lines of the introduction on the dust jacket:

“Dame Harriet Walter, renowned for her wonderful portrayals in Succession and Killing Eve, among others, is one of Britain’s most acclaimed Shakespearean actors. Now, having played most of the Bard’s female characters, audaciously she lets them speak their minds.” 

I’m sorry—do they not speak in the plays? 

One of the reasons Shakespeare is called the greatest writer of all time is that his range of characters is unequalled—he creates characters of different backgrounds, races, nationalities, classes, sexes, sexualities, religions, political views, points of view… and also different types of characters—he contains everything. Look at the female characters he created—look at Cleopatra and Lady Macbeth and Gertrude and Volumnia and Rosalind and Beatrice and Isabella and Viola and Portia and Imogen and Desdemona and Emilia and Hermione and Juliet’s nurse and so on and so forth—and Harriet Walter or the intro writer thinks she “lets them speak their minds”? That she imagines what “these women were really thinking”? And Walter thinks “the mirror that [Shakespeare] held up to nature reflected a predominantly male image of the world” and he needs her to “let a little sunlight in on some of his women’s stories”? 

The arrogance is incredible. 

The Female Quixote: “silently cursed his ill Fate, to make him in love with a Woman so ridiculous”

1/ I’m taking back my comment earlier that Arabella’s ridiculous but lovable. 

“… You are a foolish Wench! replied Arabella, smiling at [Lucy’s] Simplicity. Do you think I have any Cause to accuse myself, though five thousand Men were to die for me! It is very certain my Beauty has produced very deplorable Effects: the unhappy Hervey has expiated, by his Death, the Violence his too-desperate Passion forced him to meditate against me: the no less guilty, the noble unknown Edward, is wandering about the World, in a tormenting Despair; and stands exposed to the Vengeance of my Cousin, who has vowed his Death. My Charms have made another Person, whose Character ought to be sacred to me, forget all the Ties of Consanguinity; and become the Rival of his Son, whose Interest he once endeavoured to support: and lastly, the unfortunate Bellmour consumes away in an hopeless Passion; and, conscious of his Crime, dooms himself, haply, with more Severity than I desire, to a voluntary Death; in Hopes, thereby, of procuring my Pardon and Compassion when he is no more…” (B.4, ch.9) 

Delusional and narcissistic. At the beginning, Arabella seems rather sweet and compassionate and non-judgemental, just odd and foolish. But she becomes increasingly narcissistic as the story goes on. 

“Will your Ladyship, then, let poor Sir George die? said Lucy, who had listened very attentively to this fine Harangue without understanding what it meant.

Questionless, he must die, replied Arabella, if he persists in his Design of loving me.” (ibid.) 

Mental. We know Sir George’s not gonna die from his love for her, but she doesn’t know that—does she not come across as callous about death? She also expects men to risk their lives and kill for her. Why does Mr Glanville love Arabella? It’s madness. 

There are, I think, three problems in Charlotte Lennox’s characterisation of Arabella. 

First of all is, as written above, her narcissism. One of the reasons Don Quixote is such an enduring and lovable character is because Cervantes combines in him ridiculousness and goodness, or nobility—the same goes for Fielding’s Parson Adams, another character modelled after Don Quixote. Or if we compare Charlotte Lennox and Jane Austen, Emma Woodhouse misperceives everything; she is foolish, snobbish, meddlesome; but she is lovable because her meddling comes from a desire to do good for others and she is capable of self-reflection.

Arabella is irritating and extremely frustrating—not only does she misread everything, but she also makes it impossible for others to speak and clear things up. 

“Reasons! said Sir Charles: there is no making her hear Reason, or expecting Reason from her. I never knew so strange a Woman in my Life: she would not allow me to speak what I intended concerning you; but interrupted me every Moment, with some high-flown Stuff or other.” (B.5, ch.5) 

Another problem is that Lennox tells us that Arabella is an accomplished woman, that Mr Glanville is charmed by “the agreeable Sallies of her Wit, and her fine Reasoning upon every Subject he proposed” except romances or the subject of love, but Lennox doesn’t show us. Again, look at Don Quixote: we do hear him talk about a wide range of subjects; we can see that he’s highly intelligent and knowledgeable; we do get the impression that he’s a good and sensible and understanding man, as long as the subject of chivalry doesn’t come up. We never hear Arabella talk about anything else. 

“I shall not trouble myself to deny any thing about them, Madam, said Miss Glanville; for I never heard of them before; and really I do not choose to be always talking of Queens and Princesses, as if I thought none but such great People were worthy my Notice: it looks so affected, I should imagine every one laughed at me that heard me.” (B.5, ch.1) 

This leads to the third problem: The Female Quixote is one-note. Lots of things happen in Don Quixote. Lots of things happen in Joseph Andrews. Lots of things happen in Northanger Abbey. Lots of things happen in Emma. Everything in The Female Quixote is more or less variation of the same joke—how many times are we going to watch Arabella misperceive things as resembling those silly romances? how many times are we going to watch others laugh at her, or get speechlessly confused about her?

The first one is not necessarily a fault—we don’t have to like the protagonist to recognise the quality of a book—after all my favourite novels include Madame Bovary, Wuthering Heights, Lolita. But the other two points explain why the book is now little known. The Female Quixote still keeps me reading just because Charlotte Lennox is funny, very funny. 

2/ After the set-up, the plot of The Female Quixote is driven by the pursuit of Arabella by two men: Mr Glanville, a good man who loves her (for some reason) and can’t stand silly romances; and Sir George, a mercenary man who eyes her fortune and courts her in the style of those romances he has also read. 

Charlotte Lennox interrupts the central joke of The Female Quixote with Sir George’s narration of his own life, completely made up and in the style of romances: 

“… I love you, divine Philonice; and not being able either to repent, or cease to be guilty of loving you, I am resolved to die, and spare you the Trouble of pronouncing my Sentence. I beseech you therefore to believe, that I would have died in Silence, but for your Command to declare myself; and you should never have known the Excess of my Love and Despair, had not my Obedience to your Will obliged me to confess it.” (B.6, ch.9)

He does know these books very well—he’s clearly determined to catch Arabella (even if it makes him look like a bellend before everyone else). 

“The Silence of Philonice, continued Sir George, pierced me to the Heart; and when I saw her rise from her Seat, and prepare to go away without speaking, Grief took such Possession of my Spirits, that, uttering a Cry, I fell into a Swoon, which, as I afterwards was informed, greatly alarmed the beautiful Philonice; who, resuming her Seat, had the Goodness to assist her Women in bringing me to myself; and, when I opened my Eyes, I had the Satisfaction to behold her still by me, and all the Signs of Compassion in her Face…” (B.6, ch.10) 

It is very funny—but just in small doses—Charlotte Lennox drags this on for 10 chapters, 10 tedious chapters—it would probably be more enjoyable if one knew those French romances and hated them with the same passion. The conclusion of this episode however is hilarious, in its unexpectedness—Lennox probably has to take a while to build it up for that hysterical conclusion. 

I’m curious about how the novel’s gonna end. 

The Female Quixote: “she often complained of the Insensibility of Mankind, upon whom her Charms seemed to have so little Influence”

1/ In creating a female Quixote, Charlotte Lennox has one great disadvantage: Arabella can never have the grandeur of Don Quixote—as a woman, what can she do?—she cannot go on adventures, she cannot chase glory, she cannot fight the wicked, she cannot rescue the weak—the heroines in her favourite novels do none of these things and neither does she. 

“Well, well, madam, said Glanville, I’ll convince you of my Innocence, by bringing that Rascal’s Head to you, whom you suspect I was inclined to assist in stealing you away.

If you do that, resumed Arabella, doubtless you will be justified in my Opinion, and the World’s also; and I shall have no Scruple to treat you with as much Friendship as I did before.

[…] Does your Ladyship consider, said Miss Glanville, that my Brother can take away no Person’s Life whatever, without endangering his own?

I consider, Madam, said Arabella, your Brother as a Man possessed of Virtue and Courage enough to undertake to kill all my Enemies and Persecutors, though I had ever so many; and I presume he would be able to perform as many glorious Actions for my Service, as either Juba, Cæsario, Artamenes, or Artaban, who, though not a Prince, was greater than any of them.

[…] I perceive, interrupted Arabella, what kind of Apprehensions you have: I suppose you think, if your Brother was to kill my Enemy, the Law would punish him for it: but pray undeceive yourself, miss…” (B.3, ch.6) 

There lies the central difference between them: Don Quixote is mad and often foolish, such as when he tilts at windmills or attacks wineskins, and his efforts to rescue others are often futile, sometimes even counter-productive, but there are numerous occasions on which he puts his own life in danger—he is noble and has ideals—Arabella in contrast expects others to risk their lives for her and thus comes across as entitled and delusional and careless about life and death. 

When Mr Glanville is ill: 

“… Die, Miss! interrupted Arabella eagerly: No, he must not die; and shall not, if the Pity of Arabella is powerful enough to make him live. Let us go then, Cousin, said she, her Eyes streaming with Tears; let us go and visit this dear Brother, whom you lament: haply the Sight of me may repair the Evils my Rigour has caused him; and since, as I imagine, he has forborne, through the profound Respect he has for me, to request the Favour of a Visit, I will voluntarily bestow it on him, as well for the Affection I bear you, as because I do not wish his Death.

You do not wish his Death, Madam! said Miss Glanville, excessively angry at a Speech, in her Opinion, extremely insolent. Is it such a mighty Favour, pray, not to wish the Death of my Brother, who never injured you? I am sure, your Behaviour has been so extremely inhuman, that I have repented a thousand Times we ever came to the Castle.” (B.3, ch.7) 

Man, this Arabella is irritating. 

(A side note: Don Quixote is the original cosplayer; Arabella is the original fangirl). 

2/ However, The Female Quixote shows what it’s like to be in a woman in the 18th century, and does have certain ideas that might be called feminist. 

“… her Lover should purchase her with his Sword from a Crowd of Rivals, and arrive to the Possession of her Heart by many Years of Services and Fidelity.

The Impropriety of receiving a Lover of her Father’s Recommending appeared in its strongest Light. What Lady in Romance ever married the Man that was chosen for her?” (B.1, ch.8) 

Why should Arabella marry someone just because her father has made that choice? 

Here what she says to her father: 

“… if it is your absolute Command, that I should marry, give me not to one, who, though he has the Honour to be allied to you, has neither merited your Esteem, nor my Favour, by any Action worthy of his Birth, or the Passion he pretends to have for me; for, in fine, my Lord, by what Services has he deserved the Distinction with which you honour him? Has he ever delivered you from any considerable Danger? Has he saved your Life, and hazarded his own for you, upon any Occasion whatever? Has he merited my Esteem, by his Sufferings, Fidelity, and Respect; or, by any great and generous Action, given me a Testimony of his Love, which should oblige me to reward him with my Affection?” (B.1, ch.10) 

Her vision of life is coloured by those French romances, but the gist of it isn’t wrong: what has Mr Glanville done to merit her esteem and affection? Jane Austen must have liked this. 

3/ Charlotte Lennox is very, very funny. This scene for example is hilarious:     

“Arabella, as soon as she left them, went up to her Apartment; and calling Lucy into her Closet, told her that she had made Choice of her, since she was best acquainted with her Thoughts, to relate her History to her Cousins, and a Person of Quality who was with them.

Sure your Ladyship jests with me, said Lucy: how can I make a History about your Ladyship?

[…] Well! exclaimed Arabella: I am certainly the most unfortunate Woman in the World! […] you ask me to tell you what you must say; as if it was not necessary you should know as well as myself, and be able not only to recount all my Words and Actions, even the smallest and most inconsiderable, but also all my Thoughts, however instantaneous; relate exactly every Change of my Countenance; number all my Smiles, Half-Smiles, Blushes, Turnings pale, Glances, Pauses, Full-Stops, Interruptions; the Rise and Falling of my Voice; every Motion of my Eyes; and every Gesture which I have used for these ten Years past; nor omit the smallest Circumstance that relates to me.

Lord bless me, Madam! said Lucy, excessively astonished: I never, till this Moment, it seems, knew the hundredth thousandth Part of what was expected from me. I am sure, if I had, I would never have gone to Service; for I might well know I was not fit for such Slavery.” (B.3, ch.5) 

Hahahahaha. Isn’t Arabella such an extreme narcissist? 

The quote in the headline comes from the very first chapter of the novel. 

4/ In a blog post about Evelina, I wrote that every character was defined by a single trait. However, there is variation in the book, because Volume 1 is about Evelina’s exploration of London with her middle-class friends; Volume 2 is about her visits to other parts of London with her trade relatives; and Volume 3 is about her stay in Bristol with some aristocrats. It also isn’t boring because we have both the voices of different characters, which are all distinct, and the voice of Evelina commenting on these people and events. 

Charlotte Lennox is very funny, like Frances Burney, but she writes about a smaller group of characters and the book essentially has a one-joke plot. I’m nearly halfway through—I doubt there would be a second joke—we’ll see. 

The Female Quixote: “supposing Romances were real Pictures of Life, from them she drew all her Notions and Expectations”

1/ My blog isn’t much read, I guess, when I keep blogging about books most people haven’t read and probably haven’t even heard of. But there are three reasons for me to pick up The Female Quixote; or The Adventures of Arabella (1752) by Charlotte Lennox: a) I’m currently wandering around the 18th century; b) it was—surprise!—inspired by Don Quixote; c) it in turned inspired Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. 

(Perhaps I should make a reading list of Fiction Suspicious of Fiction). 

It’s also a good idea to read The Female Quixote right after Evelina because a) Arabella is 17, the same age as Evelina; b) they are both sheltered girls who don’t know much about the world, and have a series of “adventures”; c) I can compare Charlotte Lennox and Frances Burney, both early female novelists. 

Now you’re gonna ask, if Don Quixote takes aim at chivalry romances and Northanger Abbey parodies gothic novels, what about The Female Quixote? Its target is 17th century French romance novels. Readers of Lennox’s novel may find this website useful.

Interestingly enough, The Female Quixote and Madame Bovary—separated by about 100 years—both have a go at female readers who think life is like romance novels, but they are extremely different.

2/ Like Parson Adams in Joseph Andrews, Arabella is so clearly modelled after Don Quixote that we could all recognise it even without the author’s acknowledgement: 

“For Heaven’s sake, Cousin, resumed Arabella, laughing, how have you spent your Time; and to what Studies have you devoted your Hours, that you could find none to spare for the Perusal of Books from which all useful Knowledge may be drawn; which give us the most shining Examples of Generosity, Courage, Virtue, and Love; which regulate our Actions, form our Manners, and inspire us with a noble Desire of emulating those great, heroic, and virtuous Actions, which made those Persons so glorious in their Age, and so worthy Imitation in ours?” (B.1, ch.12)  

Some details come straight out of Don Quixote, such as the call for book-burning. I’m not calling Lennox’s book a rip-off—I’m saying that there’s something about Cervantes’s novel that resonates with lots of people and inspires lots of books.

One thing: what I heard about The Female Quixote before picking it up made me think that Arabella mistakenly assumed everyone to be in love with her when they’re not—that’s not her delusion—many men are indeed attracted to her—her problem is that she bases her own conduct upon 17th century romance novels and judges everyone according to these ridiculous standards and makes erroneous assumptions about everything she sees. Her delusion and wild distortion of events make her closer to Don Quixote than Catherine Morland (Northanger Abbey) or Emma Woodhouse.

Like Frances Burney, Charlotte Lennox is very funny. The most important thing she seems to have learnt from Cervantes is how to create a character who appears rather mad and misperceives everything and acts oddly but who is nevertheless lovable—Arabella is nuts, but you can slowly see why Mr Glanville thinks that her weirdness “notwithstanding the pain it gave him, could not lessen the love he felt for her”. 

Did Jane Austen learn from Lennox to create Emma? 

3/ So who is Arabella’s Sancho? 

“… I have reason to expect, I shall suffer the same Violence that many illustrious Ladies have done before me; and be carried away by Force from my own House, as they were.

Alas! madam! said Lucy, terrified at this Discourse, who is it that intends to carry your Ladyship away? Sure no Robbers will attempt any Mischief at such a Time as this!

Yes, Lucy, replied Arabella, with great Gravity, the worst kind of Robbers; Robbers who do not prey upon Gold and Jewels, but, what is infinitely more precious, Liberty and Honour. […] And Heaven knows when I shall be delivered from his Chains!

God forbid, said Lucy, sobbing, that ever such a Lady should have such hard Hap! What Crime, I wonder, can you be guilty of, to deserve to be in Chains?” (B.2, ch.10)

Charlotte Lennox gives Arabella’s maid Lucy, Sancho’s susceptibility and cowardice—let’s see if Lucy’s going to develop, as Sancho does. 

However, if Dulcinea doesn’t exist, Arabella’s love is very real and that’s her cousin Mr Glanville. 

4/ The Female Quixote is in some ways closer to a play. Little description. Little narration. Mostly dialogue. 

I’ve noted something interesting: 

“Lady Bella, from the Familiarity with which Miss Glanville treated this gay Gentleman, concluding him her Lover, and one who was apparently well received by her, had a strong Curiosity to know her Adventures; and as they were walking the next Morning in the Garden, she told her, that she thought it was very strange they had hitherto observed such a Reserve to each other, as to banish mutual Trust and Confidence from their Conversation. Whence comes it, Cousin, added she, being so young and lovely as you are, that you, questionless, have been engaged in many Adventures, you have never reposed Trust enough in me to favour me with a Recital of them?

Engaged in many Adventures, Madam! returned Miss Glanville, not liking the Phrase: I believe I have been engaged in as few as your Ladyship.

You are too obliging, returned Arabella, who mistook what she said for a Compliment; for since you have more Beauty than I, and have also had more Opportunities of making yourself beloved, questionless you have a greater Number of Admirers.

As for Admirers, said Miss Charlotte bridling, I fancy I have had my Share! Thank God, I never found myself neglected; but, I assure you, madam, I have had no Adventures, as you call them, with any of them.

No, really! interrupted Arabella, innocently.

No, really, Madam, retorted Miss Glanville; and I am surprised you should think so.” (B.2, ch.9)

By not using speech marks, Charlotte Lennox blends together the voice of the narrator and the voices of the characters. I should think more about its effects. 

Evelina: “Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disengage myself from him”

I thought the last blog post would be, well, the last blog post about Evelina, but it turns out that I have some more to say. 

1/ One thing that surprised me about Evelina was the violence throughout the book. Evelina’s London adventures are marred by constant sexual harassment and assault. London is a terrifying place for a beautiful young woman, especially if she wanders to the wrong place. 

“By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentlemen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush suddenly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put their arms at their sides, and formed a kind of circle, which first stopped our proceeding, and then our retreating, for we were presently entirely enclosed. […]

Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disengage myself from him, that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts to detain me; and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk, hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and company we had so foolishly left: but before I could possibly accomplish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of whom placed himself so directly in my way, calling out, “Whither so fast, my love?”-that I could only have proceeded by running into his arms.

In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired, when I ran next, to accompany me in a race; while the rest of the party stood still and laughed.” (Vol.2, Letter 15) 

But it’s not only sexual harassment. There’s a scene of a woman getting attacked and thrown into a ditch. There’s a scene of a monkey biting a man. There’s a scene of two poor old women being forced to race for the amusement of some idle aristocrats. 

The world of Evelina is closer to those of Pamela and Joseph Andrews, than to the genteel world of Jane Austen. 

2/ I have said that Frances Burney depicts a larger world than Jane Austen does. Whereas Austen only writes about her own class (the landed gentry), Evelina gives us a view of different classes in the three volumes. In Volume 1, Evelina explores London with the Mirvans, representing the middle class, and goes sight-seeing, goes to the opera, etc. In Volume 2, she has a series of misadventures in other parts of London with the Branghtons, the working class. In Volume 3, she’s in Bristol with the upper class, represented by Lord Merton, Lady Louisa, Sir Clement Willoughby, and so on. 

There’s also a Frenchman (Monsieur Du Bois), and a Scotsman (Mr Macartney). 

Firstly, the novel shows that an outsider’s or newcomer’s experience of London very much depends on where they go and whom they go with (if you visit London, well, you should go explore with me). The London of the Mirvans is very different from the London of the Branghtons. 

Secondly, the novel depicts the entertainments or amusements of different types of people, and through these pastimes, says something about the characters. For instance, Evelina, a girl of sensibility and refined tastes, enjoys the opera (“I am quite astonished to find how little music is attended to in silence”); so do Mrs Mirvan and Maria; the Branghtons are philistines, preferring lowbrow entertainment (“… why, there’s nothing but singing!—I wonder when they’ll speak”); Mr Lovel goes to the theatre and does watch the play but pretends not to know what was going on, as though there’s something shameful about watching a play (“I confess I seldom listen to the players: one has so much to do, in looking about and finding out one’s acquaintance, that, really, one has no time to mind the stage”).

One thing I find interesting is that the Branghtons—the trade people—are ill-bred and vulgar but, if you think about it, are not as cruel as some others. Captain Mirvan finds amusement in his cruel pranks, violent and sadistic. The upper class such as Lord Merton and Mr Caverley make two poor old women race for a bet. The violence in Evelina is much more disturbing than in Joseph Andrews. 

Evelina: “absolutely overpowered and stopped by the violence of their mirth”

Good day, folks. I just returned from Switzerland 2 days ago (work trip). 

1/ One good thing about my habit of blogging whilst still reading the book is that I might change my mind and there are thus disagreements and conversations on the blog, even when I’m not getting any comments (I’m looking at all five of you, readers). 

In the previous blog post, I wrote: 

“The prank that Captain Mirvan later plays on Madame Duval especially feels like something in the vein of Joseph Andrews, which traces back to Don Quixote—you obviously don’t get that in Jane Austen but I don’t think you find it in Victorian novels either.”

There’s a slight difference: I don’t think you’re meant to take seriously the violence in Don Quixote and Joseph Andrews, any more than the falls and beatings and explosions in cartoons or Home Alone, but Evelina’s reactions to the prank and Frances Burney’s handling of its aftermath make me think that, even though there is a comical side to it, the violence is real and there is nothing light-hearted about Captain Mirvan’s cruel and despotic nature. 

In a way, what Frances Burney does with Madame Duval is similar to what Shakespeare does with Malvolio and Jane Austen does with Miss Bates: depicting a character as ridiculous than humanising them through humiliation and pain, making us feel complicit and thus ashamed for having forgotten that these ridiculous people also have feelings. 

“M. Du Bois listened to her with a look of the utmost horror, repeatedly lifting up his eyes and hands, and exclaiming, “O ciel! quel barbare!” The young ladies gave her the most earnest attention; but their brother, and the young man, kept a broad grin upon their faces during the whole recital. She was, however, too much engaged to observe them; but, when she mentioned having been tied in a ditch, young Branghton, no longer able to contain himself, burst into a loud laugh, declaring that he had never heard anything so funny in his life! His laugh was heartily re-echoed by his friend; the Miss Branghtons could not resist the example; and poor Madame Duval, to her extreme amazement, was absolutely overpowered and stopped by the violence of their mirth.” (Vol.2, Letter 9) 

Who laughs at Madame Duval’s humiliation? Not Evelina. Not M. Du Bois, whom Evelina describes as “civil and respectful”. But the Branghtons and Mr Smith, people that Evelina sees as rude, ill-bred, and callous.  

One thing I’d like to note, however, is that the humiliation of Malvolio darkens the rest of Twelfth Night and the insult towards Miss Bates makes her appear in a different light for the rest of Emma—I don’t think the same could be said about Madame Duval—not long afterwards, she returns to being an unaware, ridiculous figure. 

2/ Evelina has the 18th century trope of beautiful young women getting chased by, and having to ward off, undesirable men. Compared to Fielding’s Fanny Goodwill, Evelina has a much more vivid existence. Compared to Richardson’s Pamela, she is much more likeable. But the plot sometimes feels rather ludicrous. Wherever she goes, men fall for her. Whenever she appears, she gets all the attention. Poor Maria Mirvan—nobody seems to notice her. Look at Pride and Prejudice: Elizabeth gets two proposals (or three, you may correct me, but two are from Mr Darcy), but her sisters Jane and Lydia also get male attention. Look at War and Peace: Natasha is charming and often the focus of attention, but her friend Sonya also gets some male interest. That’s more realistic. Evelina eclipses everyone else, chased by one man after another who can’t take no for an answer. It is repetitive and, if Frances Burney were not such a funny writer, would be quite tiresome. 

There is a shift when several men “passed [Evelina] without notice, and surrounded the chair of Lady Louisa Larpent”—as “a nobody”, Evelina is neglected by everyone else—“I knew not, till now, how requisite are birth and fortune to the attainment of respect and civility.” But when the men are drunk and forget their own snobbery and hypocrisy—Lord Merton especially—they again chase Evelina, thus insulting Lady Louisa. 

If we compare Jane Austen and her predecessor Frances Burney, both are witty; both are brilliant at portraying vulgarity and lack of self-awareness; Frances Burney depicts a larger world, a more exciting and eventful and dangerous world, full of mysteries and secrets; Jane Austen focuses on a narrower world and writes about more prosaic things, but she eschews and makes fun of all the exaggerations and clichés of Romances and sentimental novels and aims for greater realism. For instance, there’s a scene where Evelina saves a man on the brink of suicide—it’s the kind of “exciting” things you don’t get in Jane Austen. But then you read on and learn about the story of Mr Macartney, the desperate man, and realise that it’s the kind of idealised, exaggerated, Romance-like stories that would fit right in Don Quixote—Evelina is a sentimental novel—Jane Austen marks a clear change. 

Come to think of it, there’s something extraordinary about the way Jane Austen focuses on “mundane” things and deliberately avoids all the “fun” things: in Mansfield Park, for instance, she refuses to go with the elopers—she stays with Fanny Price in Portsmouth—and indeed, that is where the truly interesting thing is. 

3/ It seems that Evelina gives Jane Austen the premise for Pride and Prejudice: what if a rich man is attracted to a poor woman but their obstacle isn’t the wealth difference, but the woman’s embarrassing relatives? 

(In case anyone wants to “well, actually” me: Evelina has obscure birth and Lord Orville doesn’t know her actual circumstances until he has professed his feelings). 

Frances Burney gives Jane Austen the idea, but Austen goes much further—she creates conflict, pride, prejudice, Caroline Bingley’s manipulation, Mr Wickham’s deception, Mr Darcy’s internal struggle, the foolishness of Mrs Bennet and the neglect of Mr Bennet and their consequences, Elizabeth’s self-reflection. There is more incident in Evelina, but more actual conflict in Pride and Prejudice. 

More importantly, in Jane Austen’s novels, things are not always what they seem. In Evelina, Volume 3 is particularly engrossing because of the mystery, deception, and misunderstanding relating to Evelina and her father, so things are always not what they seem, but that whole plot is the stuff of Romances and sentimental novels (even Joseph Andrews has that plot). In Jane Austen’s novels, the difference between appearance and reality is because of deception, manipulation, duplicity of character, or misperception, misunderstanding, prejudice—there is depth and complexity and character development. 

Those with a more pessimistic (or realistic) view of life would say that both Evelina and Pride and Prejudice are a woman’s fantasy—where would you meet Lord Orville? Or Mr Darcy? But in Pride and Prejudice, you can see why Mr Darcy is attracted to Elizabeth—she is one of the most charming, beloved female characters in literature. In Evelina, it’s harder to see why Lord Orville is so drawn to Evelina beyond her looks—as a letter writer, she is very funny, very entertaining—but whenever she encounters Lord Orville, as she describes it herself, she comes across as rather naïve, awkward, tongue-tied, often stammering, and not particularly interesting—it takes time to get to know her, as he says, but why is he so drawn to her in the first place? 

4/ Evelina is an enjoyable read. Is it as great as Jane Austen? Of course not. But it’s captivating, full of wit and humour, full of lively characters, and full of twists and turns, especially in Volume 3. 

Mrs Selwyn for instance is a brilliant character. 

“Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came up stairs with Lord Merton. The former, advancing hastily to me, said, “Miss Anville, have you an almanack?”

[…] “Egad,” cried Mr. Coverley, “I never bought one in my life; it would make me quite melancholy to have such a time-keeper in my pocket. I would as soon walk all day before an hour-glass.”

“You are in the right,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “not to watch time, lest you should be betrayed, unawares, into reflecting how you employ it.”

[…] I know not if he understood the full severity of her satire, but he only turned off with a laugh: and she then applied to Mr. Lovel, and asked if he had an almanack?

Mr. Lovel, who always looks alarmed when she addresses him, with some hesitation answered, “I assure you, Ma’am, I have no manner of antipathy to an almanack,-none in the least,-I assure you;-I dare say I have four or five.”

“Four or five!-pray, may I ask what use you make of so many?”

“Use!-really, Ma’am, as to that,-I don’t make any particular use of them; but one must have them, to tell one the day of the month:-I’m sure, else I should never keep it in my head.”

“And does your time pass so smoothly unmarked, that, without an almanack, you could not distinguish one day from another?”” (Volume 3, Letter 16)

How delightful. 

And the monkey scene? I did not expect the monkey scene.