by Ellen Wood
It followed that whenever this singular woman came into contact with her superiors in position or culture, she opened her mind and indulged in her favourite power of argument — and a power it certainly was. But with Mrs. Wood the occasions had to be few and far between, for Mrs. Davey, in her crude but original way, would plunge into philosophy and metaphysics and controversies with which her hearer, who never argued, had no sympathy, and no nervous power wherewith to contend.
CHAPTER XVIII
“I leave thy praises unexpressed
In verse that brings myself relief,
And by the measure of my grief
I leave thy greatness to be guessed.”
THE scene was about to change. The time for leaving Norwood was approaching. East Lynne, we have said, was written through illness and suffering; much of it when the frail form was too weak to sit up, the hand found it an effort to hold the pen, and life seemed sad and hopeless.
When Mrs. Davey first appeared the work was approaching completion. Three-fourths had been published in Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine.
The writer remembers well how the interest in the portions published month by month went hand in hand with anxiety for the health of the author; and the certain atmosphere of intense sadness thrown over East Lynne in those days clings to it still Every monthly part seemed like the swan song, the last effort before the pen was laid down for ever.
Very few were in the confidence of the author when East Lynne was appearing. As in all other things, so in this, Mrs. Wood was quiet and retiring. In her own house she scarcely ever spoke of her work, for which she had too great a reverence and regard to make it a theme of ordinary conversation.
Amongst the few in this confidence was Mary Howitt; and one especial letter of hers gave Mrs. Wood much pleasure. It was the first criticism she had received upon East Lynne, and, coming from one who had herself been for many years a popular writer, seemed to foreshadow success.
My dear Mrs. Wood,” it began, “I cannot tell you how high an opinion I have of East Lynne, as far as I have read it in the monthly parts; but this I will say: that you have only to publish the work with your name attached to it, and you will at once become famous.”
A short time after this, East Lynne appeared.
Mary Howitt was one of those friends for whom Mrs. Wood had a great regard. At the time of which we are writing Mr and Mrs. Howitt were living at Highgate, where Mrs. Wood occasionally visited them. In those days they had taken up the new movement of spiritual manifestations, throwing their whole earnestness into it, but their endeavour to make a convert of Mrs. Wood did not succeed. Her conception of things unseen was too deep and reverential to allow of their being lightly handled; and she could not reconcile these manifestations with her ideas of spirituality. In the unseen world she had absolute faith, and thought it probable that spirits were about us, guarding and influencing our lives — if we permitted them to do so. She believed in occasional and direct manifestations from heaven; thought it possible that dreams and visions were occasionally and specially sent; on rare occasions warnings and presentiments — in short, that the link between heaven and earth was nearer and closer than is generally imagined.
But though some of her best friends, such as Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Milner-Gibson, took up the question of spiritualism, and spent much time in what had become a fashion of the day, Mrs. Wood could never be persuaded to have anything to do with it Some things, it is true, puzzled her — such as the extraordinary geometrical drawings which Mr. Howitt frequently showed her, declaring that they had been done under spiritual influence, he merely holding the pencil. That a perfect circle could be drawn in this way by one who drew little himself was certainly remarkable, but the truth of the assertion was of course not to be questioned.
Beyond this, Mrs. Wood never discovered anything to make her believe in the truth of the so-called manifestations. Once at Dieppe her friend Mrs. Milner-Gibson had persuaded her to accompany her to the house of a certain Madame de B. This lady, like Mrs. Milner-Gibson, was a genuine believer. That chairs and tables should float about rooms, that bonbons should scatter like snowflakes, that hair should be pulled, hands pressed, and arms pinched, all this they accepted in faith. Mrs. Wood could not do so, but she willingly accompanied her friend to the stance. The writer was also present. A great medium had come down from Paris, and unusual results were expected. In a large room the guests sat upon chairs placed in rows. Most of them were eager and excited. That Mrs. Milner-Gibson should have accepted the movement so warmly always surprised Mrs. Wood, for she was gifted with extreme shrewdness and penetration, a woman of great intellect, and one of the most admirable conversationalists of her time, to whom it was delightful to listen; “the second most perfect hostess in England,” Talleyrand once remarked of her. But that she had firm faith was certain. On the present occasion the medium was half an hour late in arriving, but arrived quietly animated and evidently in admirable “form.” He was told that Mrs. Henry Wood was present, and his genuineness would be narrowly scrutinised. For a moment a shade of anxiety and vexation was visible, but it passed. The room was darkened, and the audience waited. After a long pause some one declared they heard a tambourine in a corner of the ceiling; then, after a longer pause, there seemed to rise a pale dim vapour at the end of the room, but it disappeared. After that nothing happened but an uneasy silence and waiting. “What is the matter?” asked Madame de B. “Why don’t the spirits appear and do something?”
“They are not responsive to-night,” the medium said at last, in a strained, nervous voice. “They declare there is some one in the room antagonistic to them, and they will not perform before her. The stance must terminate.” And terminate it did, without manifestations, to the disappointment of many. The next night there was another stance, at which Mrs. Wood was not present, and great things were done, and every one was much impressed.
In appearance, manner, and conversation, Mrs. Howitt always seemed much more fervent and devotional than her husband. There was a great charm about her. Mrs. Wood frequently remarked that she had never known any one who so differed from the impression made upon you by her letters. These letters were all life, energy, and action; you fancied the writer one of those who govern the world by a strong personality. Instead of this she was the quietest and gentlest of women, speaking in subdued tones, never self-asserting: qualities which always found their way to Mrs. Wood’s heart.
We specially remember one day when Mary Howitt had been spending the afternoon with Mrs. Wood, who was then staying in Lancaster Terrace, Regent’s Park. The conversation had turned on spiritualism; not the manifestation of spirits through the medium of chairs and tables, but the spiritual world itself — how far it surrounded us, and how far even dreams and visions might be sent to us through their agency.
Both Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Wood had had a few remarkable experiences.
“I will tell you one of mine,” said Mrs. Howitt. “I was seated one morning in my study writing a book, which I had promised to finish by a certain date. Suddenly everything around me seemed to fade and disappear, and another scene arose. I was no longer at home, but distinctly saw before me a wide tract of country; it was wild and barren, such as I had never known, never visited. I knew that I was in Australia. The land was desolate and deserted. In the midst of it was a sheet of water — a large pond or small lake. As I gazed I saw men approaching; I read anxiety and concern upon their faces; I could tell that they were in trouble. Then, with appliances they had with them, I saw them drag a body out of the water. It was that of a young man, dead, and as they turned it towards me the full light of heaven shone upon the face, and I saw that it was the face of my son. I watched them slowly walking across the plain, carrying their sad burden.
“Then the vision faded, and I found myself seated at my table. How long it had lasted I know not; probably only a few moments. I was overwhelmed. ‘If this be true.’ I said aloud, ‘I can never finish this book and fulfil my engagement.�
�� I sent for my husband and told him all that had happened. We both felt that our son was dead, and that we should hear of it before long. We prepared ourselves for bad news. It did not tarry. We received all particulars — I do not doubt from one of the men who appeared in my vision. My son had been drowned; everything had happened exactly as I had seen it; I could myself have written the letter and described place and circumstances. I see it all now distinctly, as I talk to you. It was a merciful interposition of Providence to prepare me for what was coming.”
“Was it not closely allied to what the Scotch call second-sight?” asked Mrs. Wood.
“I think not altogether,” returned Mary Howitt. “Scotch second-sight, if I mistake not — in which I believe Sir Walter Scott himself had strong faith — refers invariably to things about to happen; my vision referred to what was already past; and then, I think that only the Scotch themselves have the gift of second-sight.”
“I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Wood. “If second-sight and such things really exist, I am inclined to believe that all who are of Celtic origin may be susceptible to these influences. The Celtic temperament seems more closely allied to the spiritual than the Saxon.”
“Partly through their more vivid imagination — I agree with you,” returned Mary Howitt. “And you and I,” she smiled, “both have something of the Celt in us. Nearly all great writers have possessed Celtic blood. Not,” she added modestly, “that I would call myself great, although mine has become a household name; but I think my talent consists rather in translating the ideas of others than in giving out my own — though for many years I have not known what it is for my pen not to be busy with my own thoughts. But your talent, my dear friend, is all your own. Did I not once tell you that you had only to publish East Lynne to become famous? It is only such power as yours that can, like Lord Byron, awake one morning to find itself famous. And your reputation will be lasting. Your books are photographs of real life; your characters are human beings and our personal friends — they can never die. You will be read long after many of us are forgotten.”
Yet there had been a moment when it seemed possible that East Lynne might not fulfil Mrs. Howitt’s prophecy. We have all heard of many great works rejected in the first instance by the publishers. People are slow to recognise genius. It is a new departure, and the unfamiliar seldom pleases. When Scott read his first novel to an acquaintance, his remark was, “My friend, you have made a great name as a poet, but you will make a very indifferent one as a novelist.” Scott, however, was not to be discouraged; nor did Waverley go the round of the publishers; but if Scott’s first critic had been his publisher’s reader, the story might have returned to him to be shut up in his desk for another twenty years.
In later days we know that Jane Eyre met with many rejections, until it fell into the hands of one who sat up all night to read it. Charlotte Bronte, in her far-away Yorkshire vicarage, had begun to give up hope when acceptance came as a ray of sunshine into her solitary life. She was no longer to be self-depreciating and unknown, turning in despair from her own reflection; the small, dark, old-fashioned being, whom to see was not to love.
East Lynne did not go quite the round of the publishers as in the instance of Jane Eyre, but it might have done so had it not found favour with the late Mr. Richard Bentley.
It was first offered to Messrs. Chapman and Hall. As the publishers of Bentley’s Miscellany and Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine, Mrs. Wood had been brought into slight but pleasant acquaintance with Mr. Frederick Chapman; and it was her rule to render honour where honour was due, expecting the same in return. Though Harrison Ainsworth was the proprietor of these magazines, Messrs. Chapman and Hall issued them; to these gentlemen, therefore, East Lynne was offered.
It was refused on the report of their Reader. Yet they were so convinced of the merits of the work, that Mr. Chapman told Mrs. Wood they did what they had never done before, and returned the work for the Reader’s further consideration. Harrison Ainsworth, who thought very highly of the work and its chances of future success, had said so to Messrs. Chapman and Hall, advising them to secure it A second time the Reader’s report was unfavourable, and East Lynne was declined.
“I think you are making a mistake,” Mrs. Wood remarked to Mr. Chapman, after their second decision. “I am sure the book will succeed.”
“I think so too,” he replied. “But we have made it a rule never to publish upon an unfavourable verdict, and it is a rule we have never broken. We are more or less slaves to red tape in business.”
“You should have made East Lynne the exception,” laughed Mrs. Wood; for she liked Mr. Chapman, and was disappointed at their refusal. That they did not do so, he afterwards acknowledged was their infinite regret. Later, when Mrs. Wood was visiting Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, the subject was mentioned.
“Chapman and Hall have never ceased to repent,” he said. “I cannot imagine on what plan they take or decline manuscripts. They publish a work that has no chance of success simply because the turn of a phrase or an isolated incident happens to take the Reader’s fancy, and when such a book as East Lynne is brought under their notice, they pass it over. I was never more amazed than when Frederick Chapman told me they had returned it to you.”
“Yet I had great difficulty in persuading you to let me write it,” remarked Mrs. Wood, who always found it a little hard to forgive Mr. Ainsworth for refusing year after year to accept anything but short stories from her — a matter presently referred to. “Why were you so unwilling that I should write a novel?”
Mr. Ainsworth laughed. “Your short stories were so good that I could desire nothing better,” he replied. “And they were so popular that the magazines could not get on without them. A long novel could not take their place with the readers.”
But there was also another reason, which he did not mention. He had a conviction that Mrs. Wood’s first published novel would make her famous, and, her fame once established, he felt that he should lose her. He was unwilling to run the risk, and only yielded when Mrs. Wood at length refused to write any more short stories for his magazines.
East Lynne was next offered to Messrs. Smith and Elder. Perhaps it did not fall into the hands of the Reader who had sat up all night with Jane Eyre. Or perhaps it did, and found no favour with him. However this may have been, Messrs. Smith and Elder briefly and politely declined the work. When it was returned it bore every appearance of not having been opened, and it had only remained one day with the well-known publishers in Cornhill.
This second rejection was depressing, and Mrs. Wood began to wonder whether the sickness of hope deferred, the experience of so many, was again to become hers. But the trials of past years enabled her to bear this also with fortitude.
It next came under the consideration of Mr. Bentley, who at once accepted it. So far suspense was over. But the great trial was to come — whether or not it would find favour with the world. That was soon to be proved. “I should not publish it,” Mr. Bentley said to Mrs. Wood, “but I feel sure of its success”; a remark she afterwards repeated to her husband.
“I suppose that may be taken for granted,” he laughed. “Mr. Bentley probably thinks the same of all the works he brings out, though in this instance I do not doubt his judgment.”
“You have not sent me a motto for it,” said Mr. Bentley, “and I like mottoes.”
“I don’t think the public care for them,” laughed Mrs. Wood. “Nine people out of ten would never read it. But I will send you one.”
She had no poet at hand but Shakespeare and Longfellow. Mr and Mrs. Wood had never intended to settle at Norwood, and many of their worldly possessions were packed and stored away. Much of Shakespeare Mrs. Wood knew by heart; but she was also fond of Longfellow, who in his peculiar way is very human, and adapts himself readily to quotation. Mrs. Wood was in sympathy with his earnest and reverent tone, and taking up the volume, from The Courtship of Miles Standish soon found what she wanted:
“Truly the heart is deceitful
, and out of its depths of corruption
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion:
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan.
This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution.”
The text was so applicable to the story that Longfellow might have written it for that purpose. They are also some of his best and truest lines. “I am delighted with it,” wrote Mr. Bentley when acknowledging its receipt, “and shall advertise it with the book.”
After that nearly all Mrs. Wood’s mottoes were taken from Longfellow; every motto wonderfully fitting to its story, almost telling the burden of the book; and much must be said for the poet who can furnish thoughts at once so sweet and simple, so true and earnest.
Mrs. Wood loved many of the poets, but by no means all. The dreamy and metaphysical, such as Shelley, occupied with abstruse questions, unrestful searchings into problems never to be decided, eager to solve all mysteries, longing to penetrate beyond the veil before the veil was lifted: with such she had little sympathy. Shakespeare she ever loved; Longfellow, Byron, parts of Tennyson, she never tired of reading. A little of Mrs. Browning, but not the more obscure writings of her husband; — apropos of whom we may relate the following short anecdote, which came under our own experience.
A friend was staying with him. One morning he came down into the breakfast-room before Robert Browning, and whilst waiting took up one of his poems. He lighted upon a passage that he read and re-read, but found it impossible to understand. When Browning entered the room he passed the volume to him, asking for interpretation. The poet also read and re-read the passage, and then confessed that he must give it up. “I have no doubt that I knew what I meant when I wrote it,” he laughed, “but I don’t know now.”