A Private History of Happiness (27 page)

Fanny Burney, novelist, writing in her journal

CHESSINGTON, SURREY
• JUNE 18, 1778

I received from Charlotte [Fanny’s sister] a letter, the most interesting that could be written to me, for it acquainted me that dear father was, at length, reading my book, which has now been published six months.

How this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but, it seems, that the very moment almost that my mother [Fanny’s stepmother, Elizabeth] and Susan and Sally [Fanny’s sister Susanna and half-sister, Sarah] left the house, he desired Charlotte to bring him the
Monthly Review
; she contrived to look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at the account of
Evelina
[. . .] He read it with great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after snatched it up, and read it again. Doubtless, his paternal heart felt some agitation for his girl, in reading a review of her publication! How he got at the name, I cannot imagine. Soon after he turned to Charlotte, and bidding her come close to him, he put his finger on the word “Evelina,” and [. . .] bade her write down the name, and send the man to Lowndes [publisher of
Evelina
], as if for herself. This she did, and away went William [. . .]

But the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he had begun reading it with Lady Hales [. . .] Susan begged to have, then, my father’s real and final opinion; and it is such that I almost blush to write, even for my own private reading; but yet is such as I can by no means suffer to pass unrecorded, as my whole journal contains nothing so grateful to me. I will copy his own words, according to Susan’s solemn declaration of their authenticity: “Upon my word I think it the best novel I know, except Fielding’s, and, in some respects, better than his!”

Fanny Burney had just turned twenty-six. Her father was the renowned English musician Charles Burney. On this June day in 1778, she was staying with a family friend, Samuel Crisp, at his home outside London. She had just received important news from her family home back in the city.

Six months ago, Fanny Burney had published her first book, a novel titled
Evelina: Or the History of A Young Lady’s Entrance into the World
. It had been very well received. In accordance with the customs of her time, being a young lady, she had not put her name on the cover. Since she had also concealed from her father the fact that she had been writing it, she thought her authorship was hidden from him. Her brother and her sisters did know the secret. And now her father had realized the truth.

The first sign had been when her sister Charlotte had found their father reading a review of the novel. He was deeply focused. Then he asked Charlotte to arrange for the purchase of a copy, and to pretend that the book was “for herself.” He sounded very solemn. Was there going to be trouble about
Evelina
with Charles Burney?

He took the novel off to read with a friend, Lady Hales. This must have produced some suspense in the household while the siblings were waiting for him to comment. Then Susan had “begged to have [. . .] father’s real and final opinion.” At this point in her record, Fanny Burney’s feelings broke into her narrative as she recorded how “it is such that I almost blush to write, even for my own private reading.” The news had been good. It made her very happy to think of it.

Instead of disapproving or being critical, her father had declared that “‘Upon my word I think it is the best novel I know.’” He compared it to the work of Henry Fielding, one of the most celebrated writers at this time. He even believed it was “in some respects, better than his.”

When she read these words in Susan’s letter, and imagined him saying it, Fanny Burney experienced a moment of self-confirmation so joyful that “my whole journal contains nothing so grateful to me.” It flowed through her, this new assurance. Her creative self was now out in the sunlight at last.

She had had a struggle over her writing. Her stepmother had tried to stop her even keeping a private journal. Now she was confident and ready to move forward. Fanny Burney went on to become a successful and celebrated novelist, whose stories are read to this day.

Benjamin Franklin, scientist and statesman, writing a letter to a friend

PHILADELPHIA
• OCTOBER 31, 1751

I forget whether I wrote to you [Cadwallader Colden, a fellow scientist] that I have melted brass pins and steel needles, inverted the poles of the magnetic needle, given a magnetism and polarity to needles that had none, and fired dry gunpowder by the electric spark. I have five bottles that contain eight or nine gallons each, two of which charged are sufficient for those purposes; but I can charge and discharge them altogether. There are no bounds (but what expense and labour give) to the force man may raise and use in the electrical way; for bottle may be added to bottle in infinitum and all united and discharged together as one, the force and effect proportioned to their number and size. The greatest known effects of common lightning may, I think, without much difficulty, be exceeded in this way, which a few years since could not have been believed, and even now may seem to many a little extravagant to suppose. So we are got beyond the skill of Rabelais’ [sixteenth-century French author] devils of two years old, who, he humorously says, had only learnt to thunder and lighten a little round the head of a cabbage.

Benjamin Franklin was in his mid-forties when he performed the experiments that he described in this letter to a scientific friend. He had achieved financial security through his printing business and through publishing and writing, including his highly popular
Poor Richard’s Almanack
.
Now retired and with the status of a gentleman, he was free to pursue his scientific researches.

Here he was trying out ways of generating and using electrical sparks. This was more the enthusiasm and ingenuity of the inventor at work than the seriousness and prudence of the statesman he was to become in the coming struggle for American independence from Britain. He was enjoying life among the bottles and the needles that were scattered around him.

Every detail of this account expressed his delight in the ingenuity of his own devices; the bottles with their electrical fluid excited him like birthday presents. He was fascinated by the range of effects he could produce, the melting of metal and the shifting patterns of magnetism. A new physical world was opening up to him and his passionate interest overflowed in the rush of these magician-like powers.

Then there followed a moment of deepening realization that there would be “no bounds” to the powers of this new force, except for the limitations of human industry and resources. He brushed aside “the greatest known effects” of natural, “common lightning” in a sweeping moment of happy confidence. It was not merely personal confidence, though, but belief in human creativity as a whole. What he was doing with these bits and bobs would carry forward in the hands of others into a great legacy.

For better or worse, a new relationship was dawning between humanity and nature. Yet this moment of realization was also full of playfulness. Franklin found himself reminded of some infantile demons imagined by the French satirist Rabelais. They have only just begun to acquire their magic powers and all they can do is crackle and flash “a little round the head of a cabbage.” In these words, the pleasure of ingenious invention and the excitement of learning spilled over into humor.

Benjamin Franklin must have been pleased to think that he was about to give society this new knowledge. As he fiddled with the new gadgets and thought of the flashes brighter than common lightning in the sky, he was of course feeling confident. But there was a genuine humility at the core of his sense of achievement. Other people would follow who would truly comprehend what he was just starting to see. He rejoiced that humanity showed such promise of greater invention and understanding.

Edward FitzGerald, poet and translator, writing a letter to a friend

BOULGE, SUFFOLK
• APRIL 21, 1837

Ah! I wish you were here to walk with me now that the warm weather is come at last. Things have been delayed but to be more welcome, and to burst forth twice as thick and beautiful. This is boasting however, and counting of the chickens before they are hatched: the East winds may again plunge us back into winter; but the sunshine of this morning fills one’s pores with jollity, as if one had taken laughing gas. Then my house is getting on: the books are up in the bookshelves and do my heart good; then Stothard’s
Canterbury Pilgrims
[Thomas Stothard’s etchings of Chaucer’s characters] are over the fireplace; Shakespeare in a recess: how I wish you were here for a day or two!

Edward FitzGerald was furnishing a cottage in the grounds of his parents’ grand house in the hamlet of Boulge, near the town of Woodbridge in East Anglia. He was in his late twenties, and his correspondent John Allen was a close friend from their time as students at Cambridge University a few years prior. Allen was already becoming an eminent clergyman, while FitzGerald had yet to find his vocation. Meanwhile he was reading poetry in several languages. He would later become famous through his English version of the Persian poem “The Rubaiyat” by Omar Khayyam (1048–1131). FitzGerald’s translation was originally published anonymously in 1859 and achieved success over the next decade, until he eventually acknowledged its authorship.

On this April day in 1837, he felt life “burst forth,” exploding into flower, after a long wait. Suddenly, the world seemed to have a lot more in it, “thick and beautiful.” Spring was lovely, partly because there was simply more vitality present now. It was as if each moment contained more life than whole days during winter. For FitzGerald that day, the beauty of spring was not mere prettiness. The new season was coming all in a rush, like a force being unleashed.

Every kind of beginning was wrapped up together in this “jollity.” His new home, all the bustle and preparation, were caught up in this new energy. Normally rather reserved and somber, FitzGerald was all the more conscious of the bubbling-up happiness that was upon him now, “as if one had taken laughing gas” (a relatively recent discovery). It felt as if some laughing spirit was taking hold of him. There was even a certain sense of exciting danger, as if the pleasure were too great, as if he might be saturated by such an intense sensation. It had a narcotic power.

FitzGerald did not easily feel happy, which was perhaps one reason for this subtle edge of risk and even fear. Yet when a moment of happiness came, he was all the more aware of it. Happiness seemed to enter his soul from outside. He felt it as a free gift, a blessing come upon him. His fearful nature still talked to him of counting chickens too soon. He knew that the minute he started to enjoy the spring warmth, he could be plunged into a renewed chill. Yet he was too cheered to give in to his darker side. His joyfulness overrode his innate nervousness.