Business: the blog’s old “subscribe by email” function is being throttled on July 1. I have moved every email subscriber over to a new service. My hope is that the only change will be the format of the email, and that you, dear reader, will not have to do a thing, and that this will all be a nuisance to me and to no one else. We’ll see. Please let me know about problems. Apologies in advance.
Pleasure: I read Frances Burney’s Evelina, or, The
History of a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World (1778) alongside a
Twitter group (#Evelina1778). Evelina
is a curious thing, a hinge in the history of the English novel. It is nominally an epistolary novel, but
moves much closer in form to a standard first-person novel (standard, I mean,
for us, now) and in substance to Jane Austen.
Burney’s novel is simultaneously a vehicle to move the innovations of
the English comic stage of the 1770s – Goldsmith, Sheridan – into the English
novel.
Evelina is a seventeen year-old country mouse, timid and
virtuous and beautiful, making her first visit to London. She has a complicated, mysterious parentage
that will move the plot along. Maybe she
is poor and illegitimate, and maybe not.
Guess, in the end, which. In the
meantime, she makes a tour of London entertainment with a variety of appalling
friends and relatives, and fights off the unwanted attention, ranging from
rudeness to sexual assault, of a variety of men.
To the first point, Evelina is a literal comedy of
manners. The governing conceit is that
Evelina is unsophisticated but polite, while almost every other character,
whatever their class status, is rude beyond belief. The middle third of the book is spent with
Evelina’s shopkeeper-class cousins (remember that Evelina is describing the
scene in a “letter”):
The dinner was ill-served, ill-cooked, and ill-managed. The maid who waited had so often to go down stairs for something that was forgotten, that the Branghtons were perpetually obliged to rise from table themselves, to get plates, knives, and forks, bread or beer. Had they been without pretensions, all this would have seemed of no consequence; but they aimed at appearing to advantage, and even fancied they succeeded. However, the most disagreeable part of our fare was that the whole family continually disputed whose turn it was to rise, and whose to be allowed to sit still. (Letter XLII)
The forks and bread are unusually material for Evelina,
but the key, even new, observations are in the last sentence, about the rules
of conduct and their violation.
Minutiae, but also the meaningful substance of much of the next two
hundred years of the novel. There is not
much description in Evelina, not much stuff (aside from all of the
different carriages, and their ownership, and who rides with whom, as important
here as in Austen’s novels), but manners are described thoroughly.
To the other point above, the rules are meaningful and
minute because however imperfectly obeyed they make civilization function. Without them, men, especially, become
animals. Women are under constant threat
of assault. The freedom of women is
tightly constrained, but the world outside the home, and sometimes inside, is
awful. This is a dark undercurrent for a
comic novel. The heroines of all three
Samuel Richardson novels are kidnapped and threatened, or worse, and I wonder
to what extent Burney, who is unlike her heroine a savvy city mouse, is
deliberately invoking Richardson, her epistolary ancestor. But I take the actual London to be a
threatening place to an unaccompanied young woman.
The general ethos of Evelina is cruel, aside from the
sexual menace. The “prank” theme
reinforces the cruelty. One of the
pranks of course involves the abduction of a woman. One at the very end of the novel is based on
a monkey dressed as a fop. It goes on
for many pages, just when I am ready to wrap up the book. “It was impossible now to distinguish whose
screams were loudest…” (Letter LXXXII). It is not clear to me to what extent Burney
means the pranks as pure comedy, however cruel.
Evelina is not so far from Don Quixote.
Tomorrow I’ll go into the literary history, what I meant by “hinge.”
I thought of Burney as new wine in an old wineskin when I read Cecilia, which might be what you mean by hinge. Psychological realism with swooning and high-flown language.
ReplyDeleteI think the few eighteenth-century novels by women I've read all have the same alarming message that for a woman it's vital to keep the rules to the letter, and stick to the people who keep them, because there will be consequences if the chalk circle of protection gets smeared. Evelina says this particularly directly, despite or because of being a comedy.
I guess I think the wineskin is newer than it first appears. But I haven't read Cecelia. It sounds like a lot of fun. Dumps those dang letters completely, doesn't it?
ReplyDelete"says this particularly directly" - yes, that is what is so interesting. A woman takes one step away from her protection and the predators swarm.
Your reading journal, by the way, which I have just wandered through, is full of surprises.
ReplyDelete"But I take the actual London to be a threatening place to an unaccompanied young woman."
ReplyDeleteThe funny part is that I feel that way now.
Yes, it is as easy to imagine tings getting worse, even if they are better than they were in 1770 or 1890.
ReplyDelete