Arabella, the protagonist of Charlotte Lennox’s The Female Quixote (1752), is not the adventurous, engaging, and larger-than-life figure that Don Quixote is; nor is Lennox’s work a rival of any kind to Cervantes’ early 17th-century masterpiece. But none of that much matters. Lennox’s novel is a fun and intriguing story, written when Lennox was in her mere mid-20s, and with only a single attempt at a novel behind her. She would go on to write sixteen more novels, and influence none other than Jane Austen. Not a bad resume. Sadly, though, she died not in comfortable circumstances, but in poverty.
The Female Quixote, as one might guess, puts center stage a young lady who becomes utterly absorbed in novels of romance. Her favorite works are those written by Madeleine de Scudéry, a 17th-century French novelist who had a strong penchant for classical antiquity. These fantastical novels, filled with stupendous acts of courage and insane devotions of love, are not reality. Not even close. But Lady Arabella consumes them in the same enthusiastic manner as Don Quixote; and, also like her idealistic predecessor, she becomes thoroughly convinced that they are true stories: ones containing exceptional personages worthy of admiration and emulation.
The result of her infatuation with such romances — combined with her unshakeable belief that they should wholly guide her conduct — is, unsurprisingly, zany scenarios featuring concerned family, frustrated suitors, and flummoxed onlookers. Such is the spectacle of a person living not in reality, but fantasy.
The primary cause of her delusions is Arabella’s unflagging wonderment for the novels of Scudery and others. But her almost total isolation out in the country — where her once politically powerful father moved to after being the subject of spiteful machinations — is another. And with no mother around, Arabella’s existence is lonely and dull, composed only of her interactions with her “grave and melancholy father, or her own attendants.” At the ripe age of seventeen, eager and ready to experience what life has to offer, Arabella’s existence is empty: no suitors, no friends, no stimulation. Except, that is, the dazzling adventures and romantic preoccupations found in page after page of her beloved novels, which she takes to be “real pictures of life, [from which she draws] all her notions and expectations.”
This, then, is the set up for Lennox’s novel: a young woman, isolated from the world and filled with utterly fantastical notions, who expects those around her to operate by the same “romantic forms” that are majestically presented in her books.
Throughout the novel’s 400-plus pages, one might be struck by just how relatively little danger Arabella ever finds herself in, despite her ludicrous and delusional beliefs. In fact, far from finding herself in dire straits, she exerts considerable control over nearly every one of the novel’s small cast of characters. Her most sincere and committed suitor, Glanville, must put on nothing less than a marathon display of patience, humility, and subservience as he wearies from the effects of her insane ideas while attempting to restore her rationality and make her his wife.
Glanville is the most ardent suitor, but there are plenty of others. The novel’s narrative consists of the deluded but exceptionally beautiful and otherwise intelligent heroine drawing in suitors who are confronted with her less-than-normal behavior. As fun as such drama can be for the reader, Lennox’s characters often feel flat and vague — names and outlines of personalities rather than full-bodied and distinct persons. For a novel built more on dialogue rather than action and adventure, these underdeveloped elements can, at times, make the novel feel lackluster and inert.
It’s a far cry from Cervantes’ Don Quixote, where the zealous and indefatigable protagonist gallops across vast terrains, mutilates wineskins, rambles with adversaries, and directly interacts with a wide variety of figures. But, really, how could such a life be possible for a young female of Arabella’s time? Part of the allure of such a novel like Lennox’s is seeing how a female quixotic figure plays out in a realm of limitations; what wonders and freedoms do such fantastical conceptions of romance offer her? More control, is one simple answer. Reflecting on her father’s selection of a marriage partner for her, Arabella thinks to herself, “What lady in romance ever married the man that was chosen for her?”
Because of Arabella’s solitary life and the limited ways in which her idealistic figure interacts with others, The Female Quixote has plenty of less-than-enthralling scenes. One’s level of amusement wanes after experiencing the same pattern play out between the offended Arabella and the confused and dismayed interlocutor. And with hardly any side plots in the novel or a female friend for the heroine (Lucy’s role is nothing like that of Sancho Panza to Don Quixote) the texture of the novel can feel monotonous and uninspired.
But Lennox’s novel has its share of zestful and polished writing. One of the most entertaining episodes of the entire novel comes when a character named George presents a pseudo-autobiography in front of Arabella and others. Filled with the same kind of grandiloquent acts and heart-pounding excitement that Arabella finds in her novels, George’s narrative is meant to inflame her passions for him. It’s a clever plan, really, but he unwittingly makes certain of his own actions in the story fall short of the demanding protocol expected of worthy suitors. Poor George. But neither he nor us should be too surprised at such a result. After all, pleasing the unwavering idealist is never easy.
As Arabella gradually experiences more of the world — venturing from the countryside to Bath and London as she accompanies others — opportunities abound for reality to hit her square on. But one’s deeply held perceptions aren’t so easily altered. Those same circumstances also propel Arabella to greater convictions about the substance of her beloved novels. Lennox’s ending leaves something to be desired — both in delivery and substance — but it doesn’t subtract much from the novel’s overall merits.
How does any novelist bring a delusional character — old or young, male or female — convincingly and naturally back to reality after being so enmeshed in fantasy land? For that matter, how do any of us — both as readers of The Female Quixote and as human beings who have undoubtedly gone through periods of being less than rational — explain our return to a position of greater veracity with reality. The interplay between rationality and fantasy — between the desire for truth and the desire for fulfilment — is endlessly fascinating.
It’s for good reason that Cervantes’ Don Quixote is one of the most famous novels ever written. It offers a startling and illuminating exploration into the wants and needs of the human psyche. Lennox’s The Female Quixote, with its young and ardent heroine entrenched in a certain view of the world, explores very similar questions while also presenting and playing with new ones.
Spectatio 