At the age of fifteen, Frances Burney (1752-1840) tossed the plays, poems, and first novel she had written into a bonfire. Why? She was consumed with guilt. After all, in 1767, women were not supposed to spend their time writing anything but private letters. Better they perform useful household chores and fine needlework.
Luckily, Frances Burney’s resolve to be a proper lady did not last more than nine months at which time she began a journal which is remarkable recounting of the history and personages of the late 18th and early 19th century.
Over a lifetime that took her from England to France and back to England, she served Queen Charlotte at the royal court during which she witnessed the madness of King George, she married a poverty-stricken French émigré who at first served and then was wounded fighting Napoleon, she underwent a mastectomy for breast cancer without anesthesia which she duly described in her journal, and despite all that successfully wrote eight plays and four novels.
During her lifetime, her novels were immensely popular, appreciated for their wit and comedy of manners. Her first novel Evelina was praised by Edmund Burke and Dr. Johnson. Jane Austin was particularly influenced by her writing.
The following excerpt is from the beginning paragraphs of her journal – recorded on March 27, 1768 at the age of sixteen.
Poland Street, London
To Nobody, then, I will write my journal! since to Nobody can I be wholly unreserved – to Nobody can I reveal every thought, every wish of my heart, with the most unlimited confidence, the most unremitting sincerity to the end of my life! For what chance, what accident, can I end my connections to Nobody? No secret can I conceal from No-body, and to No-body can I be ever unreserved. Disagreement cannot stop our affection. Time has no power to end our friendship. The love, the esteem I hold for No-body, No-body’s self has not the power to destroy. From No-body I have nothing to fear, the secrets sacred to friendship. Nobody will reveal when the affair is doubtful. Nobody will not look to the side least favorable –
I will suppose you then, to be my best friend; tho’ God for bid you ever should! my dearest companion – and a romantik Girl for mere oddity may perhaps be more sincere – more tender – than if you were a friend in propria personae – in as much as in imagination often exceeds reality. In your Breast my errors may create pity without exciting contempt; may raise your compassion, without eradicating your love.
From this moment then, my dear Girl – but why, permit me to ask, must a female be made Nobody? Ah! my dear, what were this world good for, were Nobody a female? And now I have done with preambulation.
Learn more about Francis Burney
Embarrassingly, as far as I can recall, I’ve tossed only one thing I wrote (apart from school assignments): my first novel, after it made the rounds of every science fiction publisher my then-agent could think of. Virtually every other piece of fiction I’ve written is tucked away in a file drawer. I keep thinking some of it might be re-worked into something else.
The historian in me cringes to think of what cultural tidbits might have been lost in Burney’s fire. Hard to see any writer throw away their writing. But as an artist, I have definitely culled out student works and pieces that look amateurish. Personally, I haven’t thrown away any of my writing, yet. I have all kinds of bits and pieces in my files that I hope will someday find a place in a story or novel. But eventually, I will have to admit that just like my art, not everything is worth saving.
Then there were Jane Austen’s letters, culled (probably by her sister) after her death. They probably contained fascinating insights.
Wouldn’t it be terrific to be able to read them!
You can cast gloom over any group of Janeites by mentioning this loss of fascinating insights. And they would have been, judging from things in the letters that survived, like this gen: “Walter Scott has no business to write novels, especially good ones. – It is not fair. – He has Fame and Profit enough as a Poet, and should not be taking the bread out of other people’s mouths. – I do not like him, & do not mean to like Waverley if I can help it – but I fear I must.”
Love it!