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.  

Evelina: “can your Ladyship be serious in proposing to introduce her to the gaieties of a London life?”

1/ Evelina, her mother dead and her father not acknowledging her, has been raised by Rev. Arthur Villars in the country. She is now 17 and Lady Howard invites Evelina to spend some time with her, her daughter Mrs Mirvan, and her granddaughter Miss Maria Mirvan at Howard Grove. The plot is kicked into action when Evelina joins Mrs and Miss Mirvan to London, despite Rev. Villars’s misgivings, to meet Captain Mirvan (Mrs Mirvan’s husband) after a seven-year separation. Then in London, she runs into her grandmother Madame Duval, an immoral woman who broke relations with her daughter and only recently learnt about Evelina’s existence. 

The full title of the book is Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World, so it’s about all the misassumptions, misunderstandings, and mishaps as Evelina figures her way through the fashionable world of London. 

You can see why such a plot is great material for a comedy of manners. 

Then what are the similarities between Evelina and the novels of Jane Austen—in other words, the things that Jane Austen appears to have learnt or taken from Frances Burney? The genre comedy of manners; a lovable female protagonist, a romantic interest, some obstacles, a few “odious creatures” (such as Mr Loval and Sir Clement Willoughby in Evelina or Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice), vulgar characters, embarrassing relatives; a gift for capturing different voices and manners of speaking; a bright, light, and sparkling quality. 

Here, when I say the novels of Jane Austen, I mostly mean Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice; Mansfield Park is sombre and not a comedy of manners; Emma and Persuasion, despite having some of these features, are also very different in tone. 

As I have seen Jane Austen’s development as a writer, I’m curious about Frances Burney’s later novels. 

2/ Some of the humour in Evelina is in the spats between Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval, Evelina’s ridiculous grandmother, who pretends to be French. 

“This entertainment concluded with a concert of mechanical music: I cannot explain how it was produced, but the effect was pleasing. Madame Duval was in ecstasies; […] and, in the midst of the performance of the Coronation Anthem, while Madame Duval was affecting to beat time, and uttering many expressions of delight, [Captain Mirvan] called suddenly for salts, which a lady, apprehending some distress, politely handed to him, and which, instantly applying to the nostrils of poor Madame Duval, she involuntarily snuffed up such a quantity, that the pain and surprise made her scream aloud. When she recovered, she reproached him with her usual vehemence; but he protested he had taken that measure out of pure friendship, as he concluded, from her raptures, that she was going into hysterics.” (Vol.1, Letter 19) 

They constantly argue, constantly provoke each other. Madame Duval also provides lots of laughs for Captain Mirvan when she and her French companion, Monsieur DuBois, fall over and get completely soaked in the mud. Frances Burney is very, very funny. 

Later: 

“… we had hardly turned out of Queen Ann Street, when a man, running full speed, stopt the coach. He came up to the window, and I saw he was the Captain’s servant. He had a broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duval demanded his business: “Madam,” answered he, “my master desires his compliments to you, and-and-and he says he wishes it well over with you. He! he! he!-”

Madame Duval instantly darted forward, and gave him a violent blow on the face; “Take that back for your answer, sirrah,” cried she, “and learn not to grin at your betters another time. Coachman, drive on!”

The servant was in a violent passion, and swore terribly; but we were soon out of hearing.” (Vol.1, Letter 21) 

Is it just me, or is this kind of broad humour—crude and violent—more like Henry Fielding than Jane Austen? There seems to have been a shift in sensibilities.

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.  

3/ Generally speaking, the characters in Evelina may be more memorable than those in Joseph Andrews, partly because we spend more time with them and partly because Frances Burney gives each character a distinct voice. Hear the Captain, for example: 

““Now, do you see,” said he, “as to Lady Howard, I sha’n’t pretend for to enlist her into my service, and so I shall e’en leave her to make it out as well as she can; but as to all you, I expect obedience and submission to orders; I am now upon a hazardous expedition, having undertaken to convoy a crazy vessel to the shore of Mortification; so, d’ye see, if any of you have anything to propose that will forward the enterprise,-why speak and welcome; but if any of you, that are of my chosen crew, capitulate, or enter into any treaty with the enemy,-I shall look upon you as mutinying, and turn you adrift.”” (Vol.1, Letter 33) 

His way of talking is defined by slang and naval terms. 

In the previous blog post, I wrote that Evelina “is indeed full of scenes, dialogue, characters, the novelistic stuff—I would probably say that Evelina is like a bridge between epistolary novels and Jane Austen’s comedies of manners.” 

For a large part of the novel—when Evelina takes over and becomes the narrator, so to speak—the book is more like a comedy of manners in the vein of Jane Austen. But once in a while, such as near the end of Volume 1, Frances Burney does make use of the epistolary form—we see communication and clashing perspectives. 

4/ Certain things in Evelina find echoes in Jane Austen: the men who can’t take no for an answer remind me of Mr Collins; Evelina’s embarrassing relatives make me think of the Bennets; the scene of her and Sir Clement in the chariot find parallels in the scene of Emma and Mr Elton in his carriage; and so on and so forth. 

The most unrealistic part of Evelina and also Richardson’s Pamela is that because of the epistolary form, these girls tell their (real or adoptive) parents everything—have these authors not met teenagers? Jane Austen’s novels don’t have this problem.

Reading Evelina is interesting for various reasons. On the one hand, Frances Burney is very funny and has some of Jane Austen’s qualities—wouldn’t it make more sense for Janeites to read Burney than contemporary writers’ spin-offs? But on the other hand, we can see that Burney laid the ground but Austen went much further—it is no wonder that Jane Austen is considered one of the greatest writers of all time whereas Burney doesn’t get anywhere near the same attention. The characters in Evelina do have a distinct voice but they are largely defined by a single trait, and more importantly, things are as they appear, whereas in Jane Austen, things are often not what they seem—from the very beginning, in Northanger Abbey and Sense and Sensibility (I’m excluding the juvenilia), she has explored the question of appearance vs reality. That gives her novels a depth and complexity that one doesn’t quite see in Evelina.

Perhaps I’m being hasty as usual—I’m on Volume 2 out of 3—but Lord Orville is a romantic interest from the start, he and Evelina are attracted to each other right away, the “odious creatures” are odious and I don’t think they are different from what they appear. The question is whether they are capable of surprise, like Shakespeare’s Sir Andrew Aguecheek or Dickens’s Sir Leicester. 

So let’s see. 

Evelina: “this species of writing […] saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity”

1/ Now that I have got acquainted with the fathers of the English novel (Richardson and Fielding), it’s natural that I get to know the mother (Frances Burney, or Fanny Burney). She’s of particular interest to me also because of her influence on Jane Austen. 

Let’s look at the timeline: 

1740: Richardson’s Pamela 

1741: Fielding’s Shamela (parody of Pamela, published under a pseudonym) 

1742: Fielding’s Joseph Andrews 

1748: Richardson’s Clarissa (I know it’s important and will have to read it at some point, but 970,000 words? War and Peace is not even 600,000 words in English) 

1749: Fielding’s Tom Jones (his masterpiece and one of the greatest novels of the 18th century—I will definitely read it) 

1759-1767: Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (I tried this once—will try again when I’m more used to 18th century’s English) 

1778: Burney’s Evelina (first published anonymously but soon acknowledged)

1782: Choderlos de Laclos’s Dangerous Liaisons 

1791: Cao Xueqin’s Hong lou meng (Dream of the Red Chamber or The Story of the Stone) 

1811: Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility (the first draft, titled Elinor and Marianne, was written around 1795 and in the epistolary form)

1813: Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (originally titled First Impressions, written around 1796-1797) 

2/ The quote in the headline comes from Frances Burney’s Preface: 

“In the republic of letters, there is no member of such inferior rank, or who is so much disdained by his brethren of the quill, as the humble Novelist; nor is his fate less hard in the world at large, since, among the whole class of writers, perhaps not one can be named of which the votaries are more numerous but less respectable.

Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors, to whom this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson, Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, no man need blush at starting from the same post, though many, nay, most men, may sigh at finding themselves distanced.”

She also wrote: 

“… however I may feel myself enlightened by the knowledge of Johnson, charmed with the eloquence of Rousseau, softened by the pathetic powers of Richardson, and exhilarated by the wit of Fielding, and humour of Smollett, I yet presume not to attempt pursuing the same ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared the weeds, they have also culled the flowers; and, though they have rendered the path plain, they have left it barren.”

I will return to these lines when I have finished reading Evelina. But I will say that the innocent, inexperienced, rather sheltered and awkward Evelina is much livelier and more likeable than Richardson’s virtuous Pamela and Fielding’s beautiful Fanny Goodwill. Fanny Goodwill is no more than a cardboard cutout, from the beginning to the end a damsel in distress. Pamela is exceedingly irritating, a Mary Sue who constantly faints. I know you’re going to mumble that Richardson’s and Fielding’s masterpieces are something else, but all these three novels I’m comparing are first novels—Frances Burney was 26 when she got Evelina published. 

3/ Frances Burney’s influence on Jane Austen is quite obvious. Look at this passage, for example: 

“His conversation was sensible and spirited; his air, and address were open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen.” (Vol.1, Letter 11) 

Does that not sound like something one might come across in Jane Austen? I didn’t think “That sounds like Jane Austen” when I was reading Fielding or Richardson, but now with Burney, I sometimes do. 

Evelina is lively and spirited, highly adept at capturing people’s voices and conversations. 

““I am gone, Madam, I am gone!” with a most tragical air; and he marched away at a quick pace, out of sight in a moment; but before I had time to congratulate myself, he was again at my elbow.” (Vol.1, Letter 13) 

Like Austen, Frances Burney is wickedly funny. 

When Tom (Wuthering Expectations) was reading Evelina a few years ago, he noted: 

“For its first few pages, Evelina looks like an epistolary novel, like a Samuel Richardson novel.  “I am, dear Sir, with great regard” (Letter I) etc. 

[…] Evelina herself finally takes over in Letter VIII (only twelve pages into my Norton edition – now there’s a difference from Richardson – shorter letters) and the rhetorical mode changes, quickly, until the letters do not sound much like letters at all.  They are full of scenes, dialogue, characters, jokes, the usual novelistic stuff.  Maybe like a journal, but not really.  More like, you know, a novel. 

[…] One of Burney’s innovations is to merely gesture toward the conventions of the epistolary novel, keeping the interiority and moral reflection but dumping most of the rest of the epistolarity, unless she wants it for plotty reasons.” 

As an epistolary novel, Pamela is quite awkward—it starts as a correspondence and then becomes a journal because Pamela is detained by her lustful employer and cannot send letters—compared to Dangerous Liaisons, it doesn’t quite have the perfect construction (after all, Richardson was trying something new) and the realism (where does Pamela find the time to write all this stuff? and in secret?). But Tom is right that Evelina is even less of an epistolary novel than Pamela—it is indeed full of scenes, dialogue, characters, the novelistic stuff—I would probably say that Evelina is like a bridge between epistolary novels and Jane Austen’s comedies of manners. 

The Member of the Wedding: “an unjoined person who hung around in doorways”

1/ Himadri (Argumentative Old Git) has written at length about the characters in The Member of the Wedding and the themes of loneliness, identity, belonging, and so on—what can I possibly say?—so I’m gonna have to write about something else. 

Maybe Carson McCullers’s style? 

“She complained aloud, and her voice was fringed and sharp like the edge of a saw.” 

Later on: 

“So she sharpened her voice and chiselled the words.” 

Remember Nabokov’s idea that before the 19th century, writers didn’t “see” colours? “The sky was blue, the dawn red, the foliage green, the eyes of beauty black, the clouds grey, and so on”? 

“She opened her eyes, and it was night. The lavender sky had at last grown dark and there was slanted starlight and twisted shade. Her heart had divided like two wings and she had never seen a night so beautiful.” 

Lavender sky. 

“The air was chilled, and day after day the sky was a clear green-blue, but filled with light, the colour of a shallow wave.” 

Carson McCullers is not Flannery O’Connor, who fills her pages with strange and striking metaphors, but once in a while one comes across an interesting sentence in McCullers. 

“The noon air was thick and sticky as hot syrup, and there was the stifling smell of the dye-rooms from the cotton mill.” 

I like this: 

“In the silence of the kitchen they heard the tone shaft quietly across the room, then again the same note was repeated. A piano scale slanted across the August afternoon. A chord was struck. Then in a dreaming way a chain of chords climbed slowly upward like a flight of castle stairs…” 

This is an unusual sentence: 

“… But nevertheless there were times when Frances felt his presence there, solemn and hovering and ghost-grey.” 

These phrases are repeated later: “solemn”, “hovering”, “ghost-grey”. 

2/ As I read The Member of the Wedding, I couldn’t help thinking of the contrast between Carson McCullers and Flannery O’Connor—both female writers from the American South, about a decade apart. 

Carson McCullers is warm. Flannery O’Connor is cold. 

Tolstoy is warm. Flaubert, cold. Chekhov, warm. Ibsen, cold. Fielding, warm. Thackeray, warm. Choderlos de Laclos, cold. Dickens, warm. Jane Austen, I’d say cold. Vasily Grossman, warm. Nabokov, cold.

With Flannery O’Connor, you can feel her cold, pitiless stare as she cuts open her characters and studies them. Carson McCullers, in contrast, depicts her characters with compassion and warmth, even affection. 

3/ Much has been said about the central character of the book, Frankie, the 12-year-old tomboy who belongs to no club and who so desperately wants to belong, to be part of something that she fantasises about her brother’s wedding, wanting to join him and his wife and get out of her ugly little town. Himadri for example has written a very good blog post about Frankie, who calls herself F. Jasmine in the second section of the book (a name she adopts to group herself with her brother Jarvis and his bride Janice), and who becomes Frances in the final section. 

It is very good, but I don’t particularly remember 12-year-old me. Perhaps I blocked it out of my memory. 

So I’m more interested in Frankie’s black cook, Berenice. This is a black woman in the segregated South. This is a woman who first got married at the age of 13, just one year older than Frankie now, and who has gone through many bad marriages, each time worse than the last. This is a woman who has a blue glass eye because her last husband gouged out her eye. 

But she was happy once (I should say, she was adored once too). 

“‘I loved Ludie and he was the first man I loved.  Therefore, I had to go and copy myself forever afterward. What I did was to marry off little pieces of Ludie whenever I come across them. It was just my misfortune they all turned out to be the wrong pieces…’” 

It is heartbreaking. I suspect that when I have forgotten everything else about The Member of the Wedding, I will still remember Berenice. 

Joseph Andrews: “one Gentleman had thought proper to produce some Poetry upon me”

(Drawing of Parson Adams, by Thomas Rowlandson) 

1/ In an earlier blog post, I wrote that Joseph Andrews, like Vanity Fair over a century later, wasn’t rich in metaphor—Fielding is no Dickens. 

“No sooner had Joseph grasped his Cudgel in his Hands than Lightning darted from his Eyes; and the heroick Youth, swift of Foot, ran with the utmost speed to his Friend’s Assistance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of the Skirt of his Cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a Simile on this occasion, but for two Reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the Description, which should be rapid in this Part; but that doth not weigh much, many Precedents occurring for such an Interruption: the second and much the greater Reason is, that we could find no Simile adequate to our Purpose: for indeed, what Instance could we bring to set before our Reader’s Eyes at once the Idea of Friendship, Courage, Youth, Beauty, Strength, and Swiftness? all which blazed in the Person of Joseph Andrews. Let those, therefore, that describe Lions and Tigers, and Heroes fiercer than both, raise their Poems or Plays with the Simile of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the reach of any Simile.” (Vol.3, ch.6) 

Good, that. A simile would interrupt the description, but the intrusive narration does not? One can’t help liking Fielding. He has a charming authorial persona. 

“Thus far the Muse hath with her usual Dignity related this prodigious Battle, a Battle we apprehend never equalled by any Poet, Romance or Life-writer whatever, and, having brought it to a Conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary Style with the Continuation of this History.” 

This is a good scene, in which Parson Adams is chased by hounds and by someone who is “a great Hunter of Men” (for sport, not for meat). The following scene, at the Squire’s, is amusing—the Squire’s friends all play pranks on him, turning him into the butt of their jokes, “which the inoffensive Disposition of his own Heart made him slow in discovering”—it is clearly modelled after one scene in Don Quixote. There’s also a bit where Parson Adams, like Don Quixote, makes a fool of himself by dancing, “to the infinite Joy of the Beholders, who declared he was the best Dancer in the Universe.” 

(The quote in the headline comes from the same scene). 

One of the central differences between Parson Adams and Don Quixote is that we know Fielding’s character is unaware at first, because of his naïveté, then he realises and feels the insult, whereas with Cervantes, things are uncertain—is Don Quixote truly mad, or does he play mad? Is he a victim of cruel pranks, or does he know it but play along? Does he genuinely think he’s a knight, or does he know he’s not but choose to be one anyway? Does he live in delusion, seeing everything through a distorted lens, or does he fight against reality and against his own reason, wanting to mould his own fate? 

We don’t have such uncertainties about Parson Adams. We may have different opinions about him, but I don’t think he invites or allows for multiple interpretations. That is not to denigrate Fielding’s achievement. There are some characters so rich, so elusive, so full of meaning—like Don Quixote and Hamlet (shall I also say Moby Dick?)—that critics and readers ponder over them and argue about interpretation for centuries. That’s not the case for most great characters—even Tolstoy’s greatest characters such as Pierre, Andrei, Natasha, Anna, Levin… don’t invite contradictory interpretations—but they’re still great, in a different way. Parson Adams is a brilliant creation. Isn’t it difficult to create a kind, morally good character? To make them not only believable and rounded but also lovable? Think of all the morally good characters who feel too flat, too unrealistic, too insufferable, too priggish, etc. and you’ll realise how brilliant Parson Adams is. 

2/ After Parson Adams, I think the most delightful characters in Joseph Andrews are Lady Booby and her upper servant Mrs Slipslop, both of whom are older women who are horny for the youthful and handsome Joseph. 

As Joseph Andrews is a picaresque novel, it is episodic and the characters come and go. Some minor characters are very amusing—such as parson-farmer Trulliber, with the farcical scene in the pigsty, or Betty the kind chambermaid who gets fired for being horny—but Fielding generally moves quickly from them, brings the travellers to a different location, and introduces a new set of characters. Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop have a more vivid existence because we stay with them for a while at the beginning of the novel, before Lady Booby kicks Joseph out of the house for rejecting her; we come across Mrs Slipslop again later during Joseph’s travel; and in the last volume, the travellers return to Booby Hall and we again meet them. 

Fielding depicts very well Lady Booby, who “loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised the same Person by Fits, which changed in a very short Interval”. She is very much like the lady in The Dog in the Manger by Lope de Vega. 

Mrs Slipslop is also very well-delineated—the kind of servant who looks down on other servants and always acts as though educated, not realising that she regularly uses the wrong word. Fielding gives her malapropism and a sexual appetite (“she was arrived at an Age when she thought she might indulge herself in any Liberties with a Man, without the Danger of bringing a third Person into the World to betray them”), thus giving the character more life. 

These two characters are delightful on their own—put together, they’re hilarious. 

 

3/ Earlier, Fielding wrote that he didn’t pick a simile because “it would interrupt the Description”. Let’s now look at another fighting scene, in which Joseph comes to save his damsel in distress: 

“… He no sooner came within Sight, and perceived her struggling with a Man, than, like a Cannon-ball, or like Lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her…” (Vol.4, ch.7) 

What would Flaubert say? 

But this works—Fielding gets away with it because he is funny. 

In the end, there’s still not much to say about Joseph and Fanny: Fanny spends most of her time getting chased by lustful men and Joseph spends most of his time getting chased by horny women, and defending Fanny. “[For] all my Pleasure is centred in Fanny”, he says. 

Don Quixote and Joseph Andrews are both episodic, which is the nature of the form. Don Quixote holds our interest with the friendship between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; in addition, Part 1 is held together by Don Quixote’s promise to Sancho about an ínsula; Part 2 is held together by Don Quixote’s goal to disenchant Dulcinea, not to mention the other characters’ knowledge of Part 1 and Don Quixote’s awareness of Avellaneda’s book.

Fielding’s picaresque novel doesn’t have anything to hold it together as such. One may argue that it’s the love story between Joseph and Fanny and all the obstacles thrown their way, but I think everyone would agree that they both are flat characters who are neither interesting by themselves nor interesting together. 

And yet, Fielding does get me to care—he gets me to want them happily married—possibly because Lady Booby is so unreasonable but so powerful, and because Parson Adams risks his livelihood to do the right thing and defend them. 

4/ The Rosinante of Parson Adams, here unnamed, has a funny moment: 

“Mr Adams, greatly exulting on this Occasion (for such Ceremonies were Matters of no small moment with him), accidentally gave Spurs to his Horse, which the generous beast disdaining—for he was of high Mettle, and had been used to more expert Riders than the Gentleman who at present bestrode him, for whose Horsemanship he had perhaps some Contempt—immediately ran away full speed, and played so many antic Tricks that he tumbled the Parson from his Back; which Joseph perceiving, came to his Relief.

[…] 

The Horse having freed himself from his unworthy Rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of his way…” (Vol.4, ch.16) 

5/ The Penguin English library edition of Joseph Andrews includes, at the end, an essay by Mark Spilka about the comic resolution of the novel. 

He makes a good point that the bedroom scenes at Booby Hall “neither increase nor heighten the dramatic intensity of the incest plot; rather, they lessen its seriousness”. The next day, the characters are all merry, even Joseph and Fanny and more cheerful; “it becomes obvious that some sort of emotional purgation has occurred and that the resolution of the main plot will be anticlimactic.” 

I did have a blast with those scenes. 

Spilka writes: 

“… if passions never stop working, they are sometimes resolved, and that it is the business of a good comic writer to resolve them. In the night adventures at Booby Hall, Fielding has done just that; with the aid of condensed, violent action, he has stood his book on its head, shaken out of all the themes and passions, and resolved them through warmhearted laughter.” 

I have now finished reading Joseph Andrews.