Writing about women writing in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Rebecca Romney outlines some of the risks for those who dared to venture out of the “private” sphere into the “public” in that fashion, echoing ideas expressed by Sandra Gilbert, Susan Gubar, Elaine Showalter, Dale Spender, and Ellen Moers.

“In fact, these women weren’t criticized for publishing something deemed offensive; they were criticized for publishing at all, since that act was viewed as opening themselves up to the impropriety of public commentary.” Which is part of the reason why so many eighteenth-century women published as Anonymous.

Romney is not afraid to display her expertise, largely garnered via her work in the book-collecting sector; she is equally unafraid to point out her personal foibles. This, I love. She freely admits that her decision to avoid reading Fanny Burney’s fiction was short-sighted and foolish. She chuckles at the lengths to which she went, avoiding Burney’s work.

This endears her to opinionated readers everywhere: we get it wrong, as often as we get it right. Her avoidance was based largely on English literature college survey courses and ‘authoritative’ texts that consistently praised for Austen and only Austen. (She did read Austen, despite habitually avoiding romances, historical or otherwise: Austen was canonical.)

Whenever another woman writer was mentioned, Romney noticed it was always in relationship to Austen—and that, next, Austen was declared the superior writer. Even when scholars allowed that Austen herself had read Fanny Burney, the next statement would reinforce the idea that Austen also improved upon Burney’s work. (Romney does cite one exception, a scholar who holds that Burney is the superior writer.)

This is using comparison “to rank rather than to reveal”, as Romney puts it. This is the “Smurfette Principle” as Katha Pollitt puts it: a lone, stereotypical female in an otherwise-male ensemble. “Between women writers, you have to beat the best or you don’t get to play at all,” Romney says.

After many years, however, even after reading her diaries and biographies, Romney finally gets to Burney—beginning with her Evelina. Romney notes Burney’s her ability to sketch a compelling scene, her deft handling of comic scenes, and how familiar certain situations and plot elements are (reappearing in Austen’s works). She also notices that Burney holds a space for more problematic relations between the sexes and that, centuries later, these characterizations are still relevant.

“In just a few sentences, Burney efficiently summed up some of the most common methods of men who don’t like to be told no. Don’t believe you can ever be rejected. If rejected, don’t take the woman who rejects you at her word. Force the conversation into more intimate territory. And do not leave her alone. I was amazed at how clearly Burney had captured what it feels like for a woman to be in a situation like this, even in the twenty-first century. This wasn’t watered-down Austen.”

Romney titles for and begins with Austen, but serious Jane-ites might be disappointed to find that Romney considers Austen only in the context of the inspiration and influence of other works on Austen’s oeuvre, as suits her title: Jane Austen’s Bookshelf: A Rare Book Collector’s Quest to Find the Women Writers Who Shaped a Legend.

Her writing on Burney is remarkable largely because of her initial resistance, but she references many other sources by/about Burney for those who crave more (and the supporting materials in the back are so neatly arranged that any eager reader could use them as reading lists). She also considers Ann Radcliffe (once more shocked to find how much she enjoys her work), Charlotte Lennox, Hannah More, Charlotte Smith, Elizabeth Inchbald, Hester Lynch Thrale Piozzi, and Maria Edgeworth.

Perhaps because her framework resides in her work as a book collector, Romney only briefly refers to Aphra Behn, Delarivier Manley, and Eliza Haywood. She is primarily concerned with relating the ways in which these three women were persecuted for their creative work, the personal price they paid for publishing (despite—or, perhaps because of—their records of success).

Dale Spender, in Mothers of the Novel, groups these three together as well; and, as much as I’m enjoying Romney’s book, Spender’s list suits me better. So, I’ve started by rereading Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko. Which I’ve wanted to do for years, but I’ve been inspired to do so now, thanks to Bill’s curiosity about early novels and the development of the form. 

It’s such a wonder when readers’ curiosities overlap, and when company exploring a book or an author—or an idea, even—helps you reach reading goals you’d had in the back of your mind for a long time.

If you’ve been wondering what women were writing before Jane picked up her pen—you’ve got a year to gather a stack of reading options: check out Bill’s notice for his 2027 project here. (Spoiler: he reaches back farther than 1688.) But, as often happens with projects, it can be hard to spot their true beginnings, and their endings can be equally hard to define: you might notice, in the photo below, that this has also sparked my interest in other overlooked, non-canonical writers/books, as only half of these are from the eighteenth-century, but they’re all in my stack.