Article I April 08, 2007

Jane Austen vs Fanny Burney, Part I

By the editor

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.

Part II next week…

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