Cecilia: “the VOLUBLE […] are flirting, communicative, restless, and familiar, and attack without the smallest ceremony”

1/ Evelina, Frances Burney’s first book, is an epistolary novel, but because it’s mainly composed of Evelina’s letters narrating her experiences in London, it very quickly stops looking like letters, and looks more like a first-person narrative—with scenes, dialogue, characters, etc. Cecilia has a third-person narrator, though Frances Burney mainly focuses on the perspective of Cecilia Beverley. 

“… This, added to the behaviour of young Delvile, made her suspect that some engagement was in agitation on his own part, and that while she thought him so sedulous only to avoid her, he was simply occupied in seeking another. This painful suggestion, which every thing seemed to confirm, again overset all her schemes, and destroyed all her visionary happiness. Yet how to reconcile it with what had passed at their last meeting she knew not; she had then every reason to believe that his heart was in her power, and that courage, or an opportunity more seasonable, was all he wanted to make known his devotion to her; why, then, shun if he loved her? why, if he loved her not, seem so perturbed at the explanation of her independence?” (B.4, ch.10)

That’s an example of free indirect speech, though Frances Burney doesn’t use it extensively in the novel. 

“Her pity, however, for Miss Belfield was almost wholly unallayed by jealousy; she harboured not any suspicion that she was loved by young Delvile, whose aspiring spirit led her infinitely more to fear some higher rival, than to believe he bestowed even a thought upon the poor Henrietta; but still she wished with the utmost ardour to know the length of their acquaintance, how often they had met, when they had conversed, what notice he had taken of her, and how so dangerous a preference had invaded her heart.

[…] Would she obtain them? no; the most romantic generosity would revolt from such a demand, for however precarious was her own chance with young Delvile, Miss Belfield she was sure could not have any; neither her birth nor education fitted her for his rank in life, and even were both unexceptionable, the smallness of her fortune, as Mr Monckton had instructed her, would be an obstacle insurmountable.

Would it not be a kind of treachery to gather from her every thing, yet aid her in nothing? to take advantage of her unsuspicious openness in order to learn all that related to one whom she yet hoped would belong ultimately to herself, and gratify an interested curiosity at the expence of a candour not more simple than amiable? “No,” cried Cecilia, “arts that I could never forgive, I never will practice; this sweet, but unhappy girl shall tell me nothing; betrayed already by the tenderness of her own heart, she shall at least suffer no further from any duplicity in mine. If, indeed, Mr Delvile, as I suspect, is engaged elsewhere, I will make this gentle Henrietta the object of my future solicitude; the sympathy of our situations will not then divide but unite us, and I will take her to my bosom, hear all her sorrows, and calm her troubled spirit by participating in her sensibility. But if, on the contrary, this mystery ends more happily for myself, if Mr Delvile has now no other engagement, and hereafter clears his conduct to my satisfaction, I will not be accessory to loading her future recollection with the shame of a confidence she then cannot but repent, nor with an injury to her delicacy that may wound it for ever.”” (B.5, ch.9) 

Frances Burney narrates Cecilia’s feelings; then uses free indirect discourse, blending the narrator’s voice with the thoughts of Cecilia; and then switches to direct speech (why does Cecilia make such a long speech to herself though?). 

2/ When I read Vanity Fair (1848) a couple of years ago and came across the passage “I wonder how many families are driven to roguery and to ruin by great practitioners in Crawley’s way?—how many great noblemen rob their petty tradesmen, condescend to swindle their poor retainers out of wretched little sums and cheat for a few shillings?...” (ch.37, it’s a long passage), I wrote: 

“… personally I find it interesting because I often read 19th century novels and don’t think other writers directly address, as Thackeray does, the impact on the tradesmen and employees when a person of higher class lives beyond their means and cheats them, or goes bankrupt and cannot repay debts.” 

We don’t see this in, say, Madame Bovary or The Custom of the Country. But look at Cecilia: not only had Frances Burney done it in 1782 but she also went further, letting us meet the workmen and the creditors. 

3/ Except for the heroine, the characters in Cecilia are largely characterised through dialogue, which would make it easy should anyone intend to adapt it for the screen (hint hint). Cecilia would work best as a TV series, but a lot would still have to be cut: lots of scenes could be shortened or cut altogether; Mr Gosport could easily be removed; Mr Morrice could go; etc.

Unfortunately I think a lot of these things should have been cut from the novel itself. I have always defended the length of Moby-Dick and War and Peace (and read both from cover to cover twice), but Cecilia should be significantly shorter: there is too much dialogue; most scenes are too long; many conflicts and misunderstandings are too drawn out… 

Take for example the development of the Harrels. Cecilia has three guardians after her uncle’s death: Mr Harrel, Mr Briggs, and Mr Delvile. She moves into Mr Harrel’s house because his wife Priscilla was her childhood friend, and at first she has a nice time as the Harrels are merry people and she gets introduced to high society and all sorts of amusements in London. Gradually Cecilia realises that the Harrels live a life of extravagance and dissipation: not only do they live beyond their means, paying no heed to the poor workers and tradesmen, but Mr Harrel is also a gambler. Mr Harrel is one of the most well-delineated, well-developed characters I’ve come across in fiction—Frances Burney doesn’t hold back—she depicts the recklessness and duplicity and treachery of Mr Harrel as he becomes more and more desperate. The development of Mr Harrel, as Burney gradually removes the layers and exposes his base character, is excellent. Mrs Harrel is also very well-written—she is shallow and callous and selfish, living as though actions have no consequences. I can’t help wondering, was Thackeray influenced by Frances Burney? Was George Eliot? Was Edith Wharton? Were Emily and Anne Bronte?

Frances Burney’s depiction of Cecilia’s naïveté and gullibility (though extremely irritating) is also excellent, especially when Cecilia struggles with herself: 

“… Startled by this consideration, she most severely reproached herself for a compliance of which she had so lightly weighed the consequences, and thought with the utmost dismay, that while she had flattered herself she was merely indulging the dictates of humanity, she might perhaps be accused by the world as an abettor of guile and injustice.” (B.5, ch.9) 

At the same time, parts of the novel are too long. Do we need pages and pages of vapid conversations? Do we need Mr Gosport’s analysis of various types of people in high society? Do we need so many scenes—and such long scenes—of Cecilia getting manipulated by the Harrels? Do we need such a long elaborate scene at Vauxhall, with all the empty talks thoroughly and meticulously written down, before the fatal act? I don’t think we do. It gets exhausting and I think a lot of the dialogue could be cut. Frances Burney has great talent for giving each character an individual voice, but she doesn’t know when to stop—very often I find myself thinking, all right Fanny, you have delighted us long enough.

The quote in the headline comes from B.1, ch.5.