Loe raamatut: «Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches», lehekülg 7

"Now and then," she remarks laughing, "I really have great difficulty in securing two quiet hours for my work"; but everything is done in such method and order, the writing included, there is little wonder that so much is got through. It is a full, happy, complete life. "I think," she adds, "my one great dread and anxiety is a review. I never yet have got over my terror of it, and as each one arrives, I tremble and quake afresh ere reading."

"April's Lady" is one of the author's lately published works. It is in three volumes, and ran previously as a serial in Belgravia. "Lady Patty," a society sketch drawn from life, had a most favourable reception from the critics and public alike, but in her last novel, very cleverly entitled "Nor Wife, Nor Maid," Mrs. Hungerford is to be seen, or rather read, at her best. This charming book, so full of pathos, so replete with tenderness, ran into a second edition in about ten days. In it the author has taken somewhat of a departure from her usual lively style. Here she has indeed given "sorrow words." The third volume is so especially powerful and dramatic, that it keeps the attention chained. The description indeed of poor Mary's grief and despair are hardly to be outdone. The plot contains a delicate situation, most delicately worked out. Not a word or suspicion of a word jars upon the reader. It is not however all gloom. There is in it a second pair of lovers who help to lift the clouds, and bring a smile to the lips of the reader.

Mrs. Hungerford does not often leave her pretty Irish home. What with her incessant literary work, her manifold domestic occupations, and the cares of her large family, she can seldom be induced to quit what she calls, "an out and out country life," even to pay visits to her English friends. Mr. Hungerford unhesitatingly declares that everything in the house seems wrong, and there is a howl of dismay from the children when the presiding genius even suggests a few days' leave of absence. Last year, however, she determined to go over to London at the pressing invitation of a friend, in order to make the acquaintance of some of her distinguished brothers and sisters of the pen, and she speaks of how thoroughly she enjoyed that visit, with an eager delight. "Everyone was so kind," she says, "so flattering, far, far too flattering. They all seemed to have some pretty thing to say to me. I have felt a little spoilt ever since. However, I am going to try what a little more flattery will do for me, so Mr. Hungerford and I hope to accept, next Spring, a second invitation from the same friend, who wants us to go to a large ball she is going to give some time in May for some charitable institution – a Cottage Hospital I believe; but come," she adds, suddenly springing up, "we have spent quite too much time over my stupid self. Come back to the drawing-room and the chicks, I am sure they must be wondering where we are, and the tea and the cakes are growing cold."

At this moment the door opens, and her husband, gun in hand, with muddy boots and gaiters, nods to you from the threshold; he says he dare not enter the "den" in this state, and hurries up to change before joining the tea table. "He is a great athlete," says his wife, "good at cricket, football, and hockey, and equally fond of shooting, fishing, and riding." That he is a capital whip, you have already found out.

In the morning you see from the library window a flower garden and shrubbery, with rose trees galore, and after breakfast a stroll round the place is proposed. A brisk walk down the avenue first, and then back to the beech trees standing on the lawn, which slopes away from the house down to a river running at the bottom of a deep valley, up the long gravelled walk by the hall door, and you turn into a handsome walled kitchen garden, where fruit trees abound – apple and pear trees laden with fruit, a quarter of an acre of strawberry beds, and currant and raspberry bushes in plenty.

But time and tide, trains and steamers, wait for no man, or woman either. A few hours later you regretfully bid adieu to the charming little author, and watch her until the bend of the road hides her from your sight. Mr. Hungerford sees you through the first stage of the journey, which is all accomplished satisfactorily, and you reach home to find that whilst you have been luxuriating in fresh sea and country air, London has been wrapped in four days of gloom and darkness.

MATILDA BETHAM-EDWARDS

A winding road from the top of the old-fashioned High Street of Hastings leads to High Wickham, where, on an elevation of some hundred feet above the level of the main road on the East Hill stands a cottage, which is the abode of a learned and accomplished author, Miss Betham-Edwards. The quaint little "Villa Julia," as she has named it after a friend, is the first of a terrace of picturesque and irregularly-built houses. A tortuous path winds up the steep ascent, and on reaching the summit, one of the finest views in Southern England is obtained.

The vast panorama embraces sea, woodland, streets, and roads, the umbrageous Old London coach-road, above, the grassy slopes reaching to the West and Castle hills. Far beyond may be seen the crumbling ruins of the Conqueror's stronghold (alas! this historic spot is now defaced by an odiously vulgar and disfiguring "lift!"), and further still, the noble headland of Beachy Head and broad expanse of sea, on which the rays of sunshine glitter brightly. Between the East and West hills, a green environment, lies nestled the town, with its fine old churches of All Saints' and St. Clement's. On a clear day, such as the present, no view can be more exhilarating, and the ridge on which Miss Betham-Edwards's cottage stands is lifted high above the noise of the road below. Behind stretch the gorse-covered downs leading to Fairlight, from whence may be seen the coast of France, forty miles off, as the crow flies. Close under the author's windows are hawthorn trees made merry by robins all through the winter, and at the back of the house may be heard the cuckoo, the thrush, and the blackbird, as in the heart of the country. Truly, it is a unique spot, inviting to repose and inspiring cheerfulness of mind.

The interior of the Villa Julia is in thorough keeping with the exterior. The little study which commands this glorious view is upstairs. It is a charming room, simplicity itself, yet gives evidence of taste and culture. There is nothing here to offend the eye, and no suggestion of the art-decorator, but it is all just an expression of its occupant's taste and character. "I have a fancy," says Miss Betham-Edwards, "to have different shades of gold-colour running through everything. It is an effective background for the pictures and pottery"; accordingly, the handsome Morocco carpet, bought by herself in the Bazaar at Algiers, is of warm hue. The furniture and wall-paper have the prevailing delicate tints; an arched recess on each side of the fireplace displays lovely specimens of brilliant pottery from Athens and Constantinople, with many shelves below, filled with volumes in various foreign languages. On the mantelshelf stand statuettes of Goethe and Schiller, remembrances of Weimar; the walls are hung with water-colour sketches by Mdme. Bodichen and many French artists. Long low dwarf bookcases fill two sides of the room, the top shelves of which are lavishly adorned with more pottery from Germany, Italy, Spain, and Switzerland, the whole collected by the author on her foreign travels. Her choice little library contains first and foremost the great books of the world, and, besides these, a representative selection of modern literature. "It is in a small compass," she remarks, "but I keep it for myself, eliminating and giving away useless volumes which creep in." On a neatly arranged writing table stand a stationery-case and a French schoolboy's desk, which is rather an ornamental contrivance of papier-maché. "I invariably use it," says Miss Edwards, "it is a most convenient thing, and has such a good slope. When one is worn out I buy another. I do not like things about me when I write; I keep a clear table, and MSS. in the next room. I rise early, and work for five hours every morning absolutely undisturbed: my maid does not even bring me a telegram."

From the window just below on the left can be seen the house of one of Miss Betham-Edwards's confrères, Mr. Coventry Patmore, the poet. A little further on is the picturesque villa which Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell (the first woman doctor) inhabits. "As remarkable and good a woman as ever lived," she adds. "I do not go much into society, for I find the winter is the best time for writing. I lead a completely retired literary life, but I have a few kindred spirits around me, and I occasionally hold little receptions when we all meet."

In person Miss Betham-Edwards is about the medium height, middle-aged, and slender in figure. She is fair in complexion; has hazel eyes, and a mass of thick, dark hair, grey over the temples, and worn in a twist at the back, the ends dispersed neatly round a small and compact head. She is wearing black for the present, being in mourning, but is fond of warm, cheerful colours for habitual use. "But, indeed," she says, smiling, "I have not much time to think of dress, and I was greatly amused by the remark of a former old landlady who, anxious that I should look my best at some social gathering, remarked austerely to me, 'Really, Madam, you do not dress according to your talents!' Upon which I replied 'My good woman, if all folks dressed according to their talents, two-thirds, I fear, would go but scantily clothed.'"

Matilda Barbara Betham-Edwards is a countrywoman of Crabbe, R. Bloomfield, Constable, Gainsborough, and Arthur Young. She was born at Westerfield, Suffolk, and in the fine old Elizabethan Manor House of Westerfield, Ipswich, her childhood and girlhood were spent. There was literature in her family on the maternal side, three Bethams having honourably distinguished themselves, viz., her grandfather, the Rev. W. Betham, the compiler of the "Genealogical Tables of the Sovereigns of the World"; her uncle, Sir W. Betham, Ulster King of Arms, the learned and ingenious author of "Etruria Celtica," "The Gael and the Cymri," etc.; and lastly, her aunt and godmother, Matilda Betham, the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Celebrated Women," and other works, and the intimate friend of Charles and Mary Lamb, Southey, and Coleridge.

From the paternal side Miss Betham-Edwards inherited whatever mother-wit and humour she displays; her father, for whose memory she entertains the deepest affection, was like Arthur Young, an agriculturist, and possessed a genuine vein of native humour. Left motherless at a very early age, she may be called self-educated, her teachers being plenty of the best books, and with her first story-book arose the desire and fixed intention to become herself a story-teller.

In these early days among the cowslip meadows and bean fields of Westerfield, books were the young girl's constant companions, although she had the happiness of having brothers and sisters. By the time she was twelve, she had read through Shakespeare, Walter Scott, "Don Quixote," "The Spectator," "The Arabian Nights," Johnson's "Lives of the Poets"; then, inter alia, Milton was an early favourite. As she grew up, the young student held aloof from the dances and other amusements of her sisters, writing, whilst yet in her teens, her first published romance, "The White House by the Sea," a little story which has had a long life, for it has lately been re-issued and numerous "picture-board" editions have appeared. Amongst new editions, cheaper and revised, are those of "Disarmed," "The Parting of the Ways," and "Pearls." By request, some penny stories will shortly appear from her pen. "John and I" and "Dr. Jacob" were the result of residences in Germany, the former giving a picture of South German life, and dates from this period, and the latter being founded on fact.

"On arriving at Frankfort," says Miss Betham-Edwards, "to spend some time in an Anglo-German family, my host (the Dr. Paulus of 'Dr. Jacob'), almost the first thing, asked of me, 'Have you heard the story of Dr. J – which has just scandalized this town?' He then narrated in vivid language the strange career which forms the motif of the work." That novel too has had a long existence. It was re-issued again lately, the first edition having appeared many years ago. The personages were mostly taken from life, "a fact I may aver now," she says, "most, alas! having vanished from the earthly stage." On the breaking up of her Suffolk home, the author travelled in France, Spain, and Algeria with the late Madame Bodichen – the philanthropist, and friend of Cobden, George Eliot, Dante Rossetti, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, and Herbert Spencer – herself a charming artist, and writer of no mean power, but best known, perhaps, as the co-foundress with Miss Emily Davis of Girton College. "To the husband of this noble woman," she continues, "I acknowledge myself hardly less indebted, for to Dr. Bodichen I owe my keen interest in France and French history, past and present, and I may say, indirectly, my vast circle of French friends and acquaintances, the result of which has been several works on French rural life, and the greatest happiness and interest to myself."

"Kitty," which was first published in 1870 in three volumes, later on, in one volume, and which is, perhaps, the most popular of Miss Betham-Edwards's stories, belongs to this period. In Bishop Thirlwall's "Letters to a Friend" occurs the following from the late Lord Houghton: "'Kitty' is the best novel I have ever read."

A compliment the author valued hardly less came from a very different quarter. Messrs Moody and Sankey, the American revivalists, wrote to her, and asked if she could not write for their organ a story on the lines of "Kitty," but with a distinctly Evangelical bias. The request was regretfully refused. Each character in this original and delightful book is drawn to perfection and sustained to the end, which comes all too soon. The genuine novel-lover, indeed, feels somewhat cheated, for did not the author almost promise in the last page a sequel? A new edition has just been published.

"Kitty" was followed by the "Sylvestres," which first ran through Good Words as a serial. Socialistic ideas were not so much in evidence then as now, and many subscribers to this excellent family journal gave it up, frightened by views which are at the present moment common property. No story, nevertheless, has brought Miss Betham-Edwards more flattering testimony than this; especially grateful letters from working men pleased a writer whose own views, political, social, and theological, have ever been with the party of progress. The books already mentioned are, without doubt, her most important novels, though some simple domestic stories, "Bridget" for instance, "Lisabee's Love Story," "The Wild Flower of Ravenswood," "Felicia," and "Brother Gabriel," are generally liked; whilst in America several later works, "Disarmed," and particularly the two German Idylls, "Exchange no Robbery" and "Love and Mirage" (which last novel originally appeared as a serial in Harper's Weekly Magazine in America), have found much favour. Of this novel, indeed, Miss Betham-Edwards received a gratifying compliment from Mr. John Morley, who wrote to her, saying: "'Love and Mirage' is very graceful, pretty, interesting, and pathetic. I have read it with real pleasure." It has twice been translated into German. Of later years many editions have been reproduced in one volume form. Another American favourite is the French idyllic story, "Half-Way," now re-issued in one volume.

In 1891 Miss Betham-Edwards received a signal honour at the hands of the French Government, viz., the last dignity of "Officier de l'Instruction Publique de France." She is the only English woman who enjoys this distinction, given as a recognition of her numerous studies of rural France. Her last and most important work in this field is in one volume, "France of To-day," written by request and published simultaneously in London, Leipzig, and New York. In fiction her most recent contributions are "The Romance of a French Parsonage" in two volumes, "Two Aunts and a Nephew" in one volume, and a collection of stories, entitled "A Dream of Millions." Of this the late lamented Amelia B. Edwards wrote to her cousin: "It is worthy of Balzac."

Miss Betham-Edwards has devoted herself entirely to literature, and is an excellent linguist. "I have been again and again entreated," she says, "to take part in philanthropy, public work, to accept a place on the School Board, etc., but have stoutly resisted. A worthy following of literature implies nothing less than the devotion of a life-time. Literary laziness and literary 'Liebig,' i. e., second-hand knowledge or cramming, I have ever held in disesteem. If I want to read a book I master the language in which it is written. If I want to understand a subject I do not go to a review or a cyclopædia for a digest, but to the longest, completest, most comprehensive work to be had thereon. In odd moments I have attained sufficient Latin and Greek to enjoy Tacitus and Plato in the original. French, German, Spanish, and Italian I consider the necessary, I should say the obligatory, equipments of a literary calling. It seems to me that an ordinarily long life admits of reading the choicest works of the chief European literatures in the original, and how much do they lose in translation!"

An early afternoon tea is served in the snug little dining-room below, in which stands a magnificent inlaid Spanish oak chest, occupying nearly the whole side of the wall. This is a treasure heirloom, and is dated 1626, the time of Charles I.'s accession to the throne. Two quaint old prints of Ipswich and Bury St. Edmunds are also old family relics. On the table is a German bowl from Ilmennau – Goethe's favourite resort – filled with lovely purple and white anemones, which have just arrived from Cannes, and in other little foreign vases are early primroses and violets, for Hastings has enjoyed a long continuance of bright sunshine and mild weather. Whilst at tea, the conversation turns on music, celebrated people whom your hostess has met, and many social subjects. Miss Betham-Edwards says, "Music has ever been one of my recreations, the piano being a friend, a necessity of existence, but, of course, a busy author has not much time for pianoforte playing. Vidi tantum! I have known and heard the great Liszt. I have also spent a week under the same roof as George Eliot and G. H. Lewes. I have watched the great French artist, Daubigny, paint a flotilla of fishing boats from a window at Hastings. I have heard Gambetta deliver an oration, Victor Hugo read a speech, the grandson of Goethe talk of den Grossvater in the great poet's house at Weimar. Browning, too, I used to meet at George Eliot's and Lord Houghton's breakfast parties. Tourgenieff, Herbert Spencer, and how many other distinguished men I have met! It is such recollections as these that brace one up to do, or strive to do, one's best, to contribute one's mite to the golden store-house of our national literature, with no thought of money or fame!"

Miss Betham-Edwards is a first cousin of the late Miss Amelia Blandford Edwards, the distinguished Egyptologist, and author of "Barbara's History," etc. The author of "Kitty" is a Nonconformist, and holds advanced opinions. She is an ardent disciple of Herbert Spencer, a keen antagonist of vivisection, and has written on the subject, the only social topic, indeed, which ever occupies her pen. She divides her time between her cottage residence on the hills above Hastings and her beloved France, where she has as many dear friends as in England. Of her own works, the author's favourite characters are the humorous ones. The Rev. Dr. Bacchus in "Next of Kin," Anne Brindle in "Half-way," Polly Cornford in "Kitty" ("Where on earth," Lord Houghton asked her, "did you get the original of that delightful woman!"), and Fräulein Fink in "Dr. Jacob," a study from life. As works of imagination, perhaps "Love and Mirage" and "Forestalled" are, in her estimation, the best. "The Parting of the Ways," "For One and the World," are also among a long list of Miss Betham-Edwards's works. She has written a great many short stories, whilst four charming volumes of travel must not be omitted; they are entitled "The Roof of France," "A Winter with the Swallows," "Through Spain to the Sahara," and "Holidays in Eastern France." These journeys are all described with much brightness, reality, and graphic word-painting, and betoken so thorough a knowledge of the scenes and people that they form most pleasant and instructive reading. Many of the works above mentioned have been translated into French – "Kitty" has just gone into its second edition in that language – German, and Norwegian, and all are published in Tauchnitz.

"I am always glad," remarks the author, "to hear of cheap editions. I should like to see good books brought out at a penny. I have had various publishers, and never quarrelled with any of them. I know Mr. George Bentley well. He is a man of great literary culture, and is always kindness itself to me. The late Mr. Blackett, too, was a great friend." Miss Betham-Edwards holds such decided and sensible views on one of the great questions of the day that they shall be given in her own words. "I consider," she says emphatically, "cremation to be an absolute duty towards those to come, and support it on hygienic and rationalistic grounds. Each individual should do his or her best to promote it."

The conversation of this sympathetic and intellectual woman is so fascinating that you are loath to leave without hearing somewhat of her own principal reading. Expressing the wish to her, she smiles pleasantly, and says: "My favourite English novels are 'Villette' and 'The Scarlet Letter,' both perfect to my thinking, and consummate as stories and works of art. In German, my favourite novelist is Paul Heyse. George Sand I regard as the greatest novelist of the age. George Eliot's sombre realism repels me, whilst I fully admit her enormous power. 'Don Quixote' in Spanish, with some other favourite works, I read over and over again, Lessing's 'Nathan the Wise,' Schiller's 'Æsthetic Letters,' these, and some of Goethe's smaller works I re-read regularly every year; they are necessary mental pabulum. Spinoza is also a favourite, second only to Plato. Of contemporary writers, Spencer, Harrison, Morley, and Renan stand first in my opinion; whilst of the living novelists I can only say that I endeavour to appreciate all. For the stories of the late Mrs. Ewing I entertain the highest admiration; also I delight in the graceful author of 'The Atelier du Lys.' Tolstoi, Ibsen, Zola, and that school, I find repulsive in the extreme. Imaginative literature should, above all things, delight. With the sadness inherent in life should be mingled a hopeful note, a touch of poetry, a glimpse of the beautiful and of the ideal."

Miss Betham-Edwards has one faithful and cherished companion, who always accompanies her in her walks, and who sits quietly beside her when she writes. This is a white Pomeranian dog, very intelligent and affectionate, who will certainly never be lost while he wears his present "necklace," bearing the following inscription: —

 
My name is Muff,
That's short enough;
My home's Villa Julia,
That's slightly peculiar;
On the east side you'll find it,
With Fairlight behind it;
My missus is a poet,
By this you should know it.
 

Ere the train leaves there is a good hour to spare; so, taking leave of the gifted author, you employ the time in sauntering about the town, and first go to see the fine church of St. Mary Star-of-the-Sea, founded by Mr. Coventry Patmore; also some ancient buildings of quaint architecture, in which the notorious Titus Oates is said to have lived. The Albert Memorial is the most prominent object in the town, occupying a central position at the junction of six roads, and close by are the renowned Breach's oyster rooms, where the temptation to taste the Whitstable bivalve in the fresh white-tiled shop is not to be resisted; but whilst there the great clock on the Memorial warns you to be up and away. There is much food for meditation on the return journey to town; and on reflecting over all that Miss Betham-Edwards has learnt and achieved, the poet's lines involuntarily suggest themselves:

 
"And still the wonder grew,
That one small head should carry all 'she' knew."