Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

She felt supremely happy. Though Mrs. Burney had not shown any particular wish to repeat what Reynolds had said to her about the book, she knew perfectly well that this was only because of her general distrust of anything in the form of a novel, and her fear lest something unreadable should get into the hands of the girls. But Fanny also knew that the fact of Mrs. Burney's shunning the novels of the circulating libraries would not interfere with the reputation that must accrue to the author of “Evelina”; so she was not affected by the indifference shown by her stepmother to all that Reynolds had said. She awaited without impatience the day when her father should take up the book and read the Ode at the beginning. She felt that, although his name was not at the head, he would know that the verses were addressed to him, and that it was his daughter Fanny who had written them. She knew that however firmly he might assert himself on the side of his wife in preventing the entrance to the house of all novels excepting those of Richardson—Fanny herself had never had a chance of reading even “The Vicar of Wakefield”—he would be proud of her as the writer of “Evelina.” She was not quite sure if he would be as proud of her as if she had developed a wonderful musical capacity; but she never doubted that his affection for her—assisted by his knowledge of the impression the book had made upon the most important of his own associates—would cause him to take her into his arms with delight and to forgive her for running the chance of being classed among the Miss Minifies of the period—the female writers whose ridiculous productions were hidden beneath the sofa cushions in so many households. Fanny Burney was a dutiful daughter and she had nothing of the cynic about her, but she was well aware of the fact that success would be regarded by her father as justifying an experiment that failure would have made discreditable.

Once more, then, the three sisters met that night in Fanny's bedroom. The two younger could now look on her without their feeling of awe. They were on the verge of being indignant with Mrs. Burney for having made no reference whatever since returning from the Reynoldses to the subject of Sir Joshua's eulogy.

“Not once did she mention the name of 'Evelina' to the padre; Sir Joshua might just as well have talked of Miss Herschel's comet to her,” said Susy.

“And after our schooling ourselves so rigidly to give no sign that we were in any measure connected with the book too—it was cruel!” said Lottie.

“It was not as if the padre did not give her a good chance more than once,” continued Susy. “Did he not ask if anyone had given her any news? And what did she answer?—Why, only that someone had said that Mr. Fox had lost a fortune a few nights ago at faro! As if anybody cares about Mr. Fox! I was prepared for her opening out at once to him about the book—maybe begging him to send Williams to buy it at Mr. Lowndes'.”

“What, at seven-and-sixpence!” cried Fanny. “My dear child, do you know mamma no better than to fancy that?”

“What I don't know is how she resisted it,” said Lottie. “Oh, you heard how Sir Joshua talked about it; and Miss Reynolds too—she praised it up to the skies.”

“Other people in the painting-room as well as in the drawing-room were talking of it,” said Susy. “I heard the beautiful Miss Horneck speak of it to the lady with the big muff and the rose taffeta with the forget-me-not embroidery.”

“I am sure that everybody was speaking of it—I could hear the name 'Evelina' buzzing round the rooms,” cried Lottie.

“Yes; everyone was talking about it, and only mamma was silent—is silent. I don't think that at all fair,” continued Susy.