ARTICLES
By the editor of 'Ramblings', on indieauthors.com
I use
this title intentionally to make light of the remarkable loyalty and
devotion often found in the fans of Jane Austen, who almost view
the discussion or comparison of any
other author, heresy. I make light of it, probably, while my house is
being burnt down.
I am myself an admirer of both, but
human nature always seems to beg the question, ‘Which one do
you admire more? Which one is
better?’ Jane Austen is the clear favorite in most minds, for
the very reason that most people reading this have wondered who Fanny
Burney
is, and why she could be compared to Jane Austen. After all, Pride and
Prejudice is often voted the most popular book in print,
and Jane Austen is a
household name. As a testament to her popularity, the Jane Austen
society is worldwide. In regard to Fanny Burney,
most who are familiar with her are familiar with her diary and letters,
or her famous descriptions of Samuel Johnson. From what I know,
there was a little
smattering of people calling themselves the ‘Fanny Burney
Society’ a few years ago, but their membership was not above
15, and they no longer appear to exist.
I came across Fanny Burney herself through Jane
Austen, who mentioned her as ‘the first female English
writer’. I did not realise initially
that by ‘first’ she meant best, not
earliest, but I was only nineteen years old. At the time I had
exhausted the Jane Austen catalog,and
longed for something else to read of the same
style. I knew in advance that this particular writer had been forgotten
in the 20th century, and I assumed
quite justly so. I persevered, however, in the hope of acquiring
knowledge, and thus I approached her first book Evelina,
much the way a person might approach
the systematic reading of the dictionary.
I found the opening pages very elegant and
interesting, but was absolutely surprised by the rest. Someone who has
read Evelina will tell you
that the Brangtons, Madam Duval, Mr. Smith, and Captain Mirvan are the
primary beauties of this novel, but in addition I must confess
I was captivated by the character of Sir Clement
Wiloughby. Not so much a villain as an unscrupulous corruptor who
preyed upon the virtue of unprotected young women,
I knew him at once, and thoroughly enjoyed every scene where he
appeared. The ‘ma foi’s ’ of Madam
Duval,
stay with the reader for months. Reading Evelina was, in fact, the
first time I cried in simple appreciation of the story, and gratitude
to the author for having written it. For this
reason, I must defend the underdog, not simply because she is the
underdog, but because in my
opinion, along with Jane Austen, she deserves admiration and accolades
similar to her successor.
Why?
Some may say (and I compliment their reasoning)
that admiration is earned, and in this case, obviously the better
writer won, because we have
collectively forgotten Fanny Burney, and idolise Jane Austen. It
appears to me, however, that notice of the ‘public’
is not always a reflection
of merit so much as taste, and the different receptions recieved by the
two writers in the 18th and 20th century’s will prove
that. Fanny
Burney was the most noteworthy novelist of that time, praised and
adored by all noteable figures of that time (Samuel
Johnson, Edmund Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Richard
Sheridan, Lady Montagu) Comparably, Jane Austen published without
fanfare, sold moderately,
but was generally unknown and forgotten at her death until we
resurrected her in the 18th and 19th century.
I have often wondered why that was. Who, upon
reading ‘Pride and Predjudice’ could have doubted
her talents and allowed her to fade
into obscurity? The question, I think is a matter of taste,
and so I will present it to you here:
When I first read ‘Pride and
Prejudice’ at 18, I was struck by dialogue like ‘We
are each of an unsocial taciturn disposition, unwilling to
speak lest we say
something which will amaze the whole room and be handed down to
posterity with all the éclat of a proverb,’ which
sent me running for my dictionary, and made such
an impression on me, I do not doubt that I have remembered it almost
exactly without
reference. This, to me, seemed wordy and
inaccessible, and prompted me, at the time, to keep a word list of
words I did not understand, like
‘alacrity’. I laughed, therefore, to learn that
Jane Austen had described herself as the most uneducated woman to ever
pick up a pen. Much later, however, I realised
that however difficult I found it at first, it was far more accessible
than almost anything else in that
century.
The difference in popularity between these two
amazing writers, one popular in her own time and forgotten in the next,
and the other forgotten in
her time but popular now, is that they both appealed the the tastes and
(abilities) of the readership of different times. In the
18th century, before there was such an abundance of immediate, time
consuming entertainment available, the taste was for something
that occupied you
for the longer period of time, and which really required much effort
and attention for enjoyment. The literate upper
classes admired well-turned out, elegant
sentences, hidden meanings, delicacy and subtlety. Jane Austen, by
contrast, is straightforward and
approachable, intelligent, good-humoured but largely unadorned.
Rereading some of her work, I am struck how like a play, with dialogue
and terse stage direction it can seem. Consider the opening
page or so of Pride and Predjudice (there is no need to read the whole
quote, but I have included as much as I thought
could demonstrate it.):
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may
be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed
in the minds of the
surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of
some one or other of their daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to
him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at
last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she;
“for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about
it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken
it?” cried his wife impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no
objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long
says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the
north of England; that he came down on Monday in a
chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it,
that he agreed with Mr. Morris
immediately; that he is to take possession before
Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end
of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A
single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine
thing for our girls!”
“How so? How can it affect
them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied
his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I
am thinking of his marrying one of them.”
“Is that his design in settling
here?”
“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so!
But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and
therefore you must visit him as soon
as he comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the
girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be
still better, for as you are as handsome as any of
them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party.”
Contrast it to the opening passage of Cecilia, by
Fanny Burney, her second, and less ‘approachable’
book (which is neverthless my favorite
novel of any writer):
”Peace to the spirits of my honoured
parents, respected be their remains, and immortalized their virtues!
may time, while it moulders
their frail relicks to dust, commit to tradition
the record of their goodness; and Oh, may their orphan-descendant be
influenced through life by
the remembrance of their purity, and be solaced in death, that by her
it was unsullied!”
Such was the secret prayer with which the only
survivor of the Beverley family quitted the abode of her youth, and
residence of her
forefathers; while tears of recollecting sorrow
filled her eyes, and obstructed the last view of her native town which
had excited them.
Cecilia, this fair traveller, had lately entered into the
one-and-twentieth year of her age. Her ancestors had been rich farmers
in the county of Suffolk, though her father, in whom a
spirit of elegance had supplanted the rapacity of wealth, had spent his
time as a private country gentleman,
satisfied, without increasing his store, to live upon what he inherited
from the labours of his predecessors. She had lost him in
her early youth, and her mother had not long survived him.
They had bequeathed to her 10,000 pounds, and consigned her to the care
of the Dean of -, her uncle. With this
gentleman, in whom, by various contingencies, the accumulated
possessions of a rising and prosperous family
were centred, she had passed the last four years of her life; and a few
weeks only had yet elapsed since his death, which, by
depriving her of her last relation, made her heiress to an estate of
3000 pounds per annum; with no other restriction than that of annexing
her name, if she married, to the disposal of her
hand and her riches.
But though thus largely indebted to fortune, to nature she
had yet greater obligations: her form was elegant, her heart was
liberal; her
countenance announced the intelligence of her mind, her complexion
varied with every emotion of her soul, and her eyes, the heralds of
her speech, now beamed with
understanding and now glistened with sensibility.”
Most readers from the 20th century will not even bother to
read a book with such an opening.
Read Jane Austen vs Fanny Burney, part II, at
indieauthors.com
On First Encountering Fanny Burney d'Arblay
By Ellen Moody
Fanny Burney, miniature by John Bogle (c. 1786)
I first encountered Fanny Burney d'Arblay in a small plain
1940 Everyman edition of The Diary of Fanny Burney by Lewis Gibbs. I
found it on a shelf in The Strand a vast
second-hand bookstore in Manhattan. It was summer, sometime in the mid-
1960s. I cannot remember whether I found her
under the "A's" or "B's" or "D's" of the "Literature" section, but I
know I went with the intention of finding some Burney, as well
as works about the French revolution. Since most
readers nowadays first encounter Burney as the author of Evelina in
college editions
which announce author and text as important, my memories of an older
time and different journey may be of interest.
Like Elaine Bander in whose footsteps I follow in
filling this page of the Burney Letter, I was in my third year of
college. I attended Queens College, a commuter
school, but remember using the libraries of both Queens and Brooklyn
College, two of the senior colleges of the City
University of New York. Both libraries had a large
collection of eighteenth- century books, and, as I recall, I could take
home whatever I
borrowed. I remark upon this because these collections included some
very old books -- or at least so they seemed to me. What led me to
seek Fanny Burney elsewhere was an
edition of Ann Radcliffe's The Romance of the Forest in an exquisitely
delicate three-volume set
published sometime in the early nineteenth
century. I am still fond of this novel of Radcliffe's out of regard for
how it charmed me when I was young. It
was Radcliffe who led to my looking for other writers of this period. I
remember loving Charlotte Smith's The Old Manor
House, gobbling
up a very old Everyman called The Minor Poets of the
Eighteeenth-Century, coming across a couple of Harriet Lee's
Canterbury Tales, the first volume of Sophia Lee's The
Recess, all of Robert Bage's Hermsprong, or Man as He Is Not, and
reading various
letters and memoirs translated from the French. There was the Princess
de Lamballe who had been beheaded, and another book, a copy of
which I now own, the Memoirs of Mlle. des
Ècherolles, an autobiography of a French gentlewoman who,
with her family, was imprisoned
during the Terror.
Unlike Elaine, I read Austen before Burney, and
by this time knew all of the major novels but Emma. I had loved them,
but I then thought of Austen as
different, special, a genius. It was reading and enjoying other
eighteenth-century writers, and especially women writers,
which made me seek Burney.
Was there no Burney, no Evelina on the shelves of these CUNY libraries?
Maybe I kept turning up on days
when all the Burney either library had
on the open shelves had been taken out. I of course had read about her
diaries because I also liked to read
histories of literature. So I betook myself to The Strand to see what
of Burney I could find there and lit upon Gibbs.
I was drawn to the Burney of Gibbs's book. I came
away with vivid memories of the trauma of her years at court, and the
grief she
experienced when her
husband and then her son both died before her. I much preferred the
later sections, I admit, to those on Evelina
and Streatham Park. I could not believe that
Burney's friends and family members did not recognise Evelina as her
work: their behavior was so pointed. The
behaviour of everyone at Streatham was strained, and I felt sorry for
Sophy Streatfield who cried upon their command.
Still I wanted to read more, and a few years
later (when I was richer) I made my way to a more selective and
expensive Manhattan
bookstore, the
Argosy, and came away with a copy of an 1892 three-volume edition of
Charlotte Barrett's The Diary and Letters of Madame
d'Arblay (Frances Burney), notes by W. C. Ward,
prefaced by Macaulay's essay. These are dark brown books which I still
own. I enjoyed
Macaulay, read avidly of Fanny's times at Bath, and much more
of Cecilia, her years at court, her relationship with her husband,
Camilla
cottage, and the time in France too. I also bought James
Clifford's life of Hester Lynch Thrale Piozzi; I had by then read much
more by and of Johnson, so could bring
to my reading perspectives and knowledge about "the Streatham set"
which was lacking in the young Fanny
Burney.
There is a value in coming to Fanny Burney not as
the novelist hidden away behind the stage of her fiction, but as a
diarist, letter-writer, and woman
communing in her own private space with herself about the real events
of her life, dramatising what she has experienced as it
impinges directly on her. Burney makes her
presence felt on the pages of her autobiographical writings; her
phrases exude vibrant energies which are presented
as fully alive. To the reader of her diaries and letters, she makes her
mind's intensity immediately present. I have
never wondered what
originally inspired Joyce Hemlow to set out on her Herculean task, and
write such a moving biography. I first read
Evelina as part of a course assignment
after I read my Charlotte Barrett volumes. I liked it much better than
I otherwise would have,
because I saw it as but one
extension of Burney's mind, one whose limitations derive partly from
the nature of the genre to which Evelina
belongs.
There is also a value in not having to disengage
Burney's writing from someone else's framework. When I much more
recently read Cecilia,
Camilla, and The Wanderer for the first time, they unfolded
for me against what I have now read of the McGill editions of Burney's
diaries and letters, against
the same kinds of writings by other women in Burney's era, and against
books by her contemporaries, French as well as
English. I do not compare them to Jane Austen nor place them
in a history of the novel or old and new feminisms. I can understand
why her
contemporaries fully expected The Wanderer to take place in France; I
was disappointed when I discovered that it did not. I cannot say
I retain the same half-grateful half-nostalgic
emotion towards the Gibbs Everyman that I do towards Radcliffe's The
Romance of the Forest. For me that emotion belongs
to Barrett's volumes which have, by-the-bye, always been badly in need
of rebinding, testifying (I like to
think) of how many times they were read
before they came into my hands. But Gibbs was my first gateway into the
work of this remarkable writer.
Charlotte Smith, by George Romney (1792)
Contact Ellen
Moody.
Pagemaster: Jim Moody.
Page
Last Updated: 12 April 2004
Extract from Fanny Burney: A Biography
In the middle of January 1778, Fanny
received a parcel containing proofs of the three volumes of her novel
for correction from Lowndes,
this time via Gregg's Coffee House in York Street, Covent
Garden, which was now being run by her two aunts, Ann and Rebecca
Burney. The aunts, who
might otherwise have become suspicious of the traffic going on at their
address between Lowndes and ‘Mr Grafton’,
also
had to be let in on the secret. Their delight and pride in what Fanny
was now referring to, with unconvincing insouciance, as her
‘frolic’ was gratifying to the anxious author, but
the gradual widening of the circle of confidants was beginning to take
the secret out
of her control.
The actual
publication of the book, on 29 January 1778, was rather abstract
affair. Fanny had the unbound and incomplete set of sheets
from Lowndes, but didn't
receive any finished copies for another six months. If the story she
tells in the Memoirs is to be believed, she
only found out that the book was ready
for sale when her stepmother read aloud an advertisement of it in the
newspaper at
breakfast:
Or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.
Printed for T. Lowndes, Fleet-street.
About six weeks passed without any news of the book's progress reaching St Martin's Street, and though the author would have us believe that this was just as she wished, it is clear that curiosity and impatience soon began to get the better of both her and her sisters. As soon as Doctor and Mrs Burney left on a visit to Streatham Park on 13 March, the young women invited cousin Edward round to tea, and together they devised a plan to go to Bell's Circulating Library in the Strand to ‘ask some questions about Evelina’. When they got to the shop, which was one from which Charles Burney ordered new books, Fanny's nerve failed and all she could bring herself to ‘ask questions’ about were some magazines, only to find that there was an advertisement for Evelina on the back of one of them. This hard evidence of her book having made its own ‘entrance into the world’ was peculiarly disturbing to the young author, who made this interesting observation in her journal:
I have an exceedingly odd sensation, when I consider that it is in the power of any & every body to read what I so carefully hoarded even from my best Friends, till this last month or two, – & that a Work which was so lately Lodged, in all privacy, in my Bureau, may now be seen by every Butcher & Baker, Cobler & Tinker, throughout the 3 kingdoms, for the small tribute of 3 pence.
While Edward was at Bell's Library he may well have bought the copy of Evelina which he took off the next day to Brompton, where his brother Richard was convalescing from a fever, attended by the Worcester family nurse, Miss Humphries. Fanny, whose partiality for her cousin Richard is clear from several remarks earlier in the journal, was tempted to excuse herself from joining the party at Brompton when she discovered from Charlotte that the book, hotly recommended by both Edward and the Covent Garden aunts, was now in his hands. ‘This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness’, she wrote in her journal. ‘I foresaw a thousand dangers of Discovery, – I dreaded the indiscreet warmth of all my Confidents; & I would almost as soon have told the Morning Post than Miss Humphries.’
But the visit went ahead, and had aspects of sentimental comedy which would have transferred very nicely onto the stage of Drury Lane, where Sheridan's The Rivals and The School for Scandal had been such recent successes. Even on the way up the stairs of the lodgings, Fanny could overhear Miss Humphries reading the book aloud, presumably to the invalid Richard. She had got as far as Mr Villars's consolatory letter to Evelina after her father has refused to acknowledge her (which is at the beginning of volume two, so they had read pretty far in one day): ‘Let me entreat you, therefore, my dearest child, to support yourself with that courage which your innocency ought to inspire …’ ‘How pretty that is!’ Miss Humphries was commenting as the author entered the room. ‘I longed for the Diversion of hearing their observations’, Fanny wrote in her diary, relating how she begged Miss Humphries to go on with the reading. If this was publication, what had she to fear?
I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from Laughing upon several occasions, – & several Times, when they praised what they read, I was upon the point of saying ‘You are very good!’ & so forth, & I could scarce keep myself from making Acknowledgements, & Bowing my Head involuntarily.
However, I got off perfectly safely.
Article II
April 20, 2007
Jane
Austen vs Fanny Burney, Part II
Every writer re-invents the wheel, in a sense, as it is rarely satisfying to exactly duplicate the method of our favourite writers, nor are we usually suited for it. As a fan of Fanny Burney, whose first novel Evelina had come out approximately 20 or 30 years before, in her own work Jane Austen altered the style and setting to suit her tastes and abilities. Great writers who have come before us show us how to do what we could not, and thus allow us to expand the genre by adding the gift of our own tastes and abilities. The world of literature may be seen as a maze or trails each new writer walks, till at last he feels prepared to forge his own for others. In the case of Jane Austen, the trail she forged was different in setting and subject.
To us the setting and subject of either author is synonymous with their time period, the 18th century and women respectively. Considering that neither woman would have regarded her time period as her setting, it is clear that Jane Austen’s setting and subject revolved around country life and the family, while Fanny Burney’s dealt with the world at large, and the many hazardous and unusual situations and characters a young girl might encounter without the protection of family, etc… A typical Jane Austen novel begins with an introduction of the heroine and her family and small circle of nearest connections, typically disrupted by some new circumstance which has introduced a new family or person into their lives.
From Emma: Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.”
“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire.”
“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold.”
“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”
“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”
“By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?”
“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.”
“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly
say `poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma;
but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At
any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two.”
“Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”
“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse,
with a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”
Each of Fanny Burney’s novels, excepting Camilla, sees the heroine entering alone and largely unprotected, into the wide world.
Miss Mirvan was soon engaged; and presently after a very fashionable gay looking man, who seemed about thirty years of age, addressed himself to me, and begged to have the honour of dancing with me. Now Maria’s partner was a gentleman of Mrs. Mirvan’s acquaintance; for she had told us it was highly improper for young women to dance with strangers at any public assembly. Indeed it was by no means my wish so to do: yet I did not like to confine myself from dancing at all; neither did I dare refuse this gentleman as I had done Mr. Lovel, and then, if any acquaintance should offer, accept him: and so, all these reasons combining, induced me to tell him-yet I blush to write it to you!-that I was already engaged; by which I meant to keep myself at liberty to a dance, or not, as matters should fall out.
I suppose my consciousness betrayed my artifice, for he looked at me as if incredulous; and, instead of being satisfied with my answer and leaving me, according to my expectation, he walked at my side, and, with the greatest ease imaginable, began a conversation in the free style which only belongs to old and intimate acquaintance. But, what was most provoking, he asked me a thousand questions concerning the partner to whom I was engaged. And at last he said, “Is it really possible that a man whom you have honoured with your acceptance can fail to be at hand to profit from your goodness?”
I felt extremely foolish; and begged Mrs. Mirvan to lead to a seat; which she very obligingly did. The Captain sat next her; and to my great surprise, this gentleman thought proper to follow, and seat himself next to me.
“What an insensible!” continued he; “why, Madam, you are missing the most delightful dance in the world!-The man must be either mad or a fool-Which do you incline to think him yourself?”
“Neither, Sir,” answered I, in some confusion.
He begged my pardon for the freedom of his supposition, saying, “I really was off my guard, from astonishment that any man can be so much and so unaccountably his own enemy. But where, Madam, can he possibly be!-has he left the room!-or has not he been in it?”
“Indeed, Sir,” said I peevishly, “I know nothing of him.”
“I don’t wonder that you are disconcerted, Madam; it is really very provoking. The best part of the evening will be absolutely lost. He deserves not that you should wait for him.”
“I do not, Sir,” said I, “and I beg you not to-”
“Mortifying, indeed, Madam,” interrupted he, “a lady to wait for a gentleman!-O fie!-careless fellow!-What can detain him?-Will you give me leave to seek him?”
“If you please, Sir,” answered I; quite terrified lest Mrs. Mirvan should attend to him; for she looked very much surprised at seeing me enter into conversation with a stranger.
“With all my heart,” cried he; “pray, what coat has he on?”
“Indeed I never looked at it.”
“Out upon him!” cried he; “What! did he address you in a coat not worth looking at?-What a shabby wretch!”
How ridiculous! I really could not help laughing, which I fear encouraged him, for he went on.
“Charming creature! -and can you really bear ill usage with so much sweetness? Can you, like patience on a monument, smile in the midst of disappointment? For my part, though I am not the offended person, my indignation is so great, that I long to kick the fellow round the room! -unless, indeed, -(hesitating and looking earnestly at me,) unless, indeed, -it is a partner of your own creating?”
I was dreadfully abashed, and could not make an answer.
“But no!” cried he (again, and with warmth,) “It cannot be that you are so cruel! Softness itself is painted in your eyes.-You could not, surely, have the barbarity so wantonly to trifle with my misery.”
I turned away from this nonsense with real disgust, Mrs. Mirvan saw my confusion, but was perplexed what to think of it, and I could not explain to her the cause, lest the Captain should hear me. I therefore proposed to walk; she consented, and we all rose; but, would you believe it? this man had the assurance to rise too, and walk close by my side, as if of my party!
“Now,” cried he, “I hope we shall see this ingrate.-Is that he?”-pointing to an old man who was lame, “or that?” And in this manner he asked me of whoever was old or ugly in the room. I made no sort of answer: and when he found that I was resolutely silent, and walked on as much as I could without observing him, he suddenly stamped his foot, and cried out in a passion, “Fool! idiot! booby!”
I turned hastily toward him: “O, Madam,” continued he, “forgive my vehemence; but I am distracted to think there should exist a wretch who can slight a blessing for which I would forfeit my life!-O that I could but meet him, I would soon-But I grow angry: pardon me, Madam, my passions are violent, and your injuries affect me!”
Writers work from their strengths. Jane Austen lived a retired life in the country and her books invariably reflect this. Pages and pages of her work are filled with the lively and humourous descriptions of a relatively small circle of characters, which the reader has been gradually introduced to. Fanny Burney lived mostly in London, and as a result of her father’s positon and acquaintances, she was a quiet observer of the more cosmopolitan aspects of 18th century life. Her novels (again excepting Camilla, her 3rd and sometimes thought her worst novel, which took place almost entirely in a country setting) depict encounters with a broad range of people, more likely to harrass or amaze the heroine, than to form a long-standing connection with her.
Reading Jane Austen, one feels ‘closer’ to her secondary characters. The conclusion has therefore been that they are drawn with more skill, or are somehow more true to life, than those found in the works of Fanny Burney. There is, however, an entirely different kind of skill involved in painting characters whose connections to the main character are close and sustained, than in painting those who have only a passing encounter with them, and who are less likely to expose deeper aspects of their personalities. Simply put, Jane Austen specialized in drawing characters known to the heroine, and Fanny Burney in drawing those unknown to her. Each, in my own opinion, was superior at what she did.
In the words of Mrs. Bennent, the society drawn by Jane Austen was ‘confined and unvarying’ in contrast with that of Fanny Burney, and therefore the individual characters were more in-depth.
In regard to setting and subject, Jane Austen also benifits by appealing to the modern taste. While expressions and customs can change dramaticalling in 200 years, basic family relationships do not, and for the reader form a bridge of understanding from one time to the next. It is easier for a 21st century reader to relate to and understand the 18th century character at home, or in small circles, for there they are less stiff, less formal, less fashionable, and more able to reflect universal human traits. Whenever time or culture differences separate a writer from their readers, the intimate portrayal of home life, where conduct is more honest, comes across any century.
• Jane Austen vs Fanny Burney, Part I
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Poets' Corner memorial for Fanny Burney
• The Guardian,
• Thursday June 13 2002
• Article history
Paula Stepankowsky, president of the Burney Society, ruefully admits the most common public reaction will probably be "who?".
Burney was one of the most successful writers of her day, author of the bestseller Evelina (1778), a friend of Samuel Johnson, and a significant influence on generations of later writers - including Jane Austen, who acknowledged the debt.
The site of her grave in Bath has been lost, and she is now little read, though there are signs that situation may be changing: a two day conference in London to mark the anniversary is oversubscribed.
"It's hard to overestimate the success of Evelina - it was the Bridget Jones's Diary of her day. But her heroine is also without precedent because she is living in contemporary society, and developing throughout the book.
"There's nothing like it among the work of her contemporaries - I know, because I've read them," said Ms Stepankowsky. She is an American financial journalist who founded the society five years ago with another American and a Canadian.
When Burney is remembered at all, it is usually for her letters and diaries, published after her death. She recorded the dramas of her own life, including a detailed description of undergoing a mastectomy without anaesthetic, and her elation when Johnson praised Evelina. "I think I should love Dr Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm in literature, even if I were not myself the identical grub he has obliged."
Unlike Jane Austen she was living in London society, and witnessing moments of history. On August 2 1786 she recorded an assassination attempt on George III at St James's, by a woman presenting a petition.
"She presented it with her right hand; and at the same moment the King bent forward to take it, she drew from it, with her left hand, a knife which she aimed straight at his heart! ... the King started back, scarce believing the testimony of his own eyes; and the woman made a second thrust, which just touched his waistcoat before he had time to prevent her."
The woman was seized by the crowd, "when the King, the only calm and moderate person then present, called aloud to the mob, 'The poor creature is mad! - Do not hurt her! She has not hurt me!'" She will be the only 18th century woman writer represented in Poets' Corner. Jane Austen published in the 19th century, and the 17th century Aphra Behn, the first to earn her living by writing, has a humble memorial in the cloister.
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