Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

She had no illusions regarding herself. She knew just how good-looking she was; she knew that by the side of any of her sisters she was almost plain; but that she had a pleasing, simple face of a very ordinary type. She knew that she could love with the truest devotion and she could trust herself not to change with time. But she felt that these were not beyond the traits of the ordinary young woman, and that they did not lift her from the level of insignificance to the level of Signor Rauzzini.

She knew that she was at that moment an insignificant person; and she made no attempt to think of herself as otherwise.

Yes; but she had heard of people—even young women—being insignificant one day, and the next springing to a pinnacle of fame to which all eyes looked up. How would it be if she were destined to reach in a moment a position that would place her on a level with the man of her thoughts—the man whose fame as a singer had caused him to be the centre round which every conversation in the most notable circles turned? Everyone was talking in praise of Rauzzini; and she herself thought of him as occupying a place on a height as far above her as King Cophetua's throne was above the marble steps at the foot of which the beggar maid had crouched; but in her mind there was the possibility that her name might one day be spoken by the world in connection with an achievement that would raise her from the insignificance of Fanny Burney to the importance of Signor Rauzzini, and prevent people from asking what on earth had induced so glorious a person as he to make her his wife!

That was the secret dream which filled the imagination of this imaginative young woman—the same dream as comes to so many young women who have written the last chapter of a book and sent it forth for the world to receive with acclaim—the dream of fame—of immortality! She had written a novel and it was about to be given to the world, if the world would have it, and upon its success her happiness depended. If it brought her fame, it would place her by the side of the man whom she loved; but if it failed, then she would remain a person of no significance, and quite unworthy of sharing the honours which were showered upon her lover. She had imagination, and this faculty it was that made her more than doubtful of the success of King Cophetua's rash experiment. She felt sure that King Cophetua had now and again, turning suddenly round, caught one of his courtiers with his tongue in his cheek when his Majesty was entering the throne-room with his shy and insignificant Queen by his side, and that the Queen had occasionally overheard the whispers of her maids of honour, when they did not know she was at hand, asking one another what on earth the King had seen in her that induced him to make her his consort. Little Miss Burney had long ago made up her mind that the union of King Cophetua and his beggar maid was far from being a happy one—that the King looked around him and saw several princesses of great beauty and quite devoid of shyness who were fully acquainted with the convenances of his court and would not, if he had married any one of them, have made the mistakes which she was sure the young person whom he had elevated had fallen into, causing him constant irritation.

Little Miss Burney had resolved that she would never play the part of a crowned beggar maid. The man whom she loved had won fame for himself, and she would not go to him unless she, too, had at least made such a name for herself as should prevent her from feeling herself in the position of the beggar maid whom King Cophetua had raised to his side. Little Miss Burney resolved that although she could scarcely expect to go to her lover wearing purple robes embroidered with gold, she could, at any rate, refrain from wearing beggars' rags. She had her ambitions, and she felt that they were not ignoble, but that they made for the happiness of the man she loved, and who had been gracious enough to love her—the least attractive member of the family.

But after she had sat for some time with her hands lying idle on the sempstress' work at which she had been engaged on the departure of her sister—after her imagination had carried her much farther away than she intended it should, she was sensible of a return to the cold world from which she had soared. Her heart, which had begun to beat quickly when Hetty had told her how the divine Rauzzini had spoken of her, sank within her as she seemed to hear a voice asking who was she that she should hope to reach by the publication of that story which she had been writing by stealth and at odd times during the past three years, even the smallest measure of fame that would compare with that of Signor Rauzzini? What fame attached to the writing of a novel in comparison with that achieved by the enchantment of a singer who had power to move the hearts of men and women as it pleased him? Orpheus—ah, what fame could compare with the fame of Orpheus, the singer? His was a heaven-sent gift. What was her little talent compared with such a gift? If she had the ability even to make music such as one of her sisters could bring forth from the keys of the piano, she would have a better chance of being accounted worthy of a place beside Signor Rauzzini than if her novel found its way to the shelves of many readers. The writing of a novel was a poor achievement—nay, in the opinion of a good many people, including her own stepmother—a most practical woman—it was something to be ashamed of; and Fanny herself, thinking over all the novels written by women which she herself had read—most of them surreptitiously—was disposed to agree with her. That was why she had kept as a secret for more than three years the fact that she was trying to write a novel. Her father knew nothing of it, and her stepmother was equally uninformed. Even her old friend Mr. Crisp, to whom she wrote voluminous letters week after week, and to whom she gave her confidence on many matters, had no suspicion that she had written her novel.

She had thought it prudent to keep this matter hidden from them, for she did not doubt that if she had told any one of them of her project, she would never have a chance of realizing it. They would certainly have pronounced against such a proceeding even before a page of her novel came to be written.

And yet it was the thought that this novel was shortly to be published that had caused her to feel that she was drawing nearer to her lover.

As she reflected upon this, sitting idly over her work when her sister had left the house, her tears began to fall, not in a torrent, but slowly dropping at intervals upon the fabric which she had been sewing. She felt very sad, very hopeless, very lonely.

Nor could it be said that the sudden return of Mrs. Burney meant a return of happiness to the girl.