by Ellen Wood
It was ever so; above all things Mrs. Wood was quietly, eminently wise; and the line placed upon her tomb—” THE LORD GIVETH WISDOM” — refers not only to her work and its invariable tendency for good, but to herself; the great matters of her life, in which she made no mistakes; the frequent occasions on which in the troubled portion of that life she had to exercise supreme wisdom; her everyday home life, which she so beautified, and which in itself ever requires so much patience and tact; its singular harmony; the few errors that occurred, the smoothness with which everything was directed. Her voice was never heard in anger or even in reproach. Discouragement she held to be the greatest of errors; but everything that weakened the strict principles of life was quietly avoided. Sceptical books were never opened. No matter what the reputation of such a work, its pages never entered her house. With St. Paul she forsook all “vain and foolish babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called.” She had her reward in that Faith never failed her; nothing was more real to her, nothing more present, than the “things unseen.” Argument of every description she disliked. In politics she took no part, beyond being a strong Conservative. Inequality she recognised as a Divine law, but her sympathies were far-reaching. All social movements affecting the people or country she followed with keenest interest; and none living had their true welfare more at heart. How earnestly this was the case, and how clearly she saw into the future, is evidenced in her story of A Life’s Secret.
At the commencement of this chapter we have said that Mrs. Wood was an early riser. This recalls to mind what was to her a very singular and constant source of pleasure, even of delight.
In sleep she was ever haunted by dreams vivid and lasting, and always singularly beautiful and consecutive. The remembrance of them did not fade, as they do with most people. Whole histories and dramas would pass before her. She was ever wandering in lovely realms, amidst greenest valleys and sweetest flowers. More beautiful than anything earthly were these nightly visions, peopled by her personal friends. Elysian fields, the plains of Paradise, ever seemed the abode of her spirit when, night after night, sleep spread his gentle mantle over her. These dreams never forsook her; in the very last days she would say how beautiful they had been. We cannot wonder at this in one whose imagination was continually exercised, and to whom an unkindly thought or uncharitable word was unknown. One of her remarkable traits was an utter self-unconsciousness. It never occurred to her to be a shining light to others, only to be true to herself. Nothing was farther from her mind, nor would she have dreamed of it in her humility. The letters left to her children, to be opened after her death, which were difficult to read from their touching beauty and fervent tone, spoke more freely and openly, were more exhorting to the “better life,” than perhaps anything she had ever said when present with them. She ever looked upwards, but silently.
Only thus can so consistent a life be lived. Otherwise the disturbing elements of earth must inevitably come in, with their discord and failure. Human nature is at best erring, and Mrs. Henry Wood would have been the very first to consider herself imperfect: for the nearer we grow to holiness the more we see our own deficiencies; the greater the knowledge, the more one realises how little is known in comparison with what has yet to be known. Human nature, we say, is at best imperfect; but, as far as it was possible, hers was a perfect life. For the rest, her works bear witness. Man cannot paint beauties he does not see, but only gives out of that which is within him.
CHAPTER XXI
“Thy voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run;
Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.”
As soon as the proof-sheets of East Lynne had been corrected, Mr and Mrs. Wood went abroad, their first destination being Dieppe, a place they both so much liked, and which at this time was the most fashionable watering-place in France.
Their object in leaving England was partly to obtain rest and change. They had not been abroad for nearly three years, and this seemed to them almost like exile. During Mrs.
Wood’s lengthened illness it had been impossible to leave home. Moreover, East Lynne was being written, and, as in her worst paroxysms she could not write, it had taken her from first to last quite two years to complete the work.
Another great inducement to leaving England was to escape the remarks and reviews in connection with the book. As a first work, on which so much depended, Mrs. Wood was naturally nervous as to its reception; and to change scene and country was the best way of passing over the period of uncertainty.
They also longed once more to breathe the air and see the friends of other days. Correspondence had been kept up, and to many a question “When are you coming to us again?” the answer had to be long doubtful. Though France had ceased to be home, they only loved it the more — as we all love the years and scenes that are past. Previous visits had been red-letter days in their lives, looked forward to, intensely enjoyed. The impulsive, enthusiastic French temperament was exhilarating and refreshing; after the heavy atmosphere and colder character of the English, the sunny French skies seemed to bring back youth and happiness — les beaux jours de la vie — with which the gray skies and east winds of our island would not bear comparison. The moment they touched French shores the old life was resumed, and high and low conspired to give them welcome. Amidst old scenes and old friends, they would make a sort of royal progress.
They had left England partly to avoid the reviews, but fate pursued them. No sooner had they settled down in their hotel than Mrs. Wood took up by chance the first paper that came to hand. It happened to be the Daily News, and the very first thing that arrested her attention was a review of East Lynne, almost the first to appear.
“This is a work of remarkable power,” it began. “It is concerned with the passions; and exhibits that delicacy of touch and knowledge of the emotional part of our mental structure which would reveal the sex of the author even without the help of the title-page. The great merit of the work consists in an artistic juxtaposition of characters strongly contrasted with one another.”
Then followed an analysis of the plot, concluding with:— “The story displays a force of description and dramatic completeness we have seldom seen surpassed. The interest of the narrative intensifies itself to the deepest pathos, and shakes the feelings. The closing scene, where the dying penitent, under the impulse of strong human affection, reveals herself to her lost husband and is at length forgiven, is in the highest degree tragic, and the whole management of the story exhibits unquestionable genius and originality.”
One can imagine the pleasure with which the author read these first words of recognition. Their influence must have sweetened all the days of her stay abroad. The beauties of earth, the sparkling sea — ever the greatest delight to her — the blue skies of la belle Normandie, the sunshine, fields, and flowers, must have gained a charm they never possessed before as she began to realise a day when she would be known and appreciated.
It had been a dream long delayed. For, as we have seen, Mrs. Henry Wood commenced her literary career at a time when many writers have begun to think of giving up work. Scott was forty-five when his first book was written, and Mrs. Wood was more than forty-five when East Lynne appeared.
Those days in Dieppe must have been gilded with a secret rapture. The world must have once more seemed very fair to the patient, much-tried spirit. If the reward had been long in coming, it promised to be great. For she knew her own talent and had confidence in herself — what else had given her courage to go on writing for ten years without remuneration or any other return? — and ever felt that success would one day be hers. Both she and her husband were especially fond of the Chateau d’Arques, with its ruined and romantic walls and lovely views over the undulating country; and more bright and sunny and beautiful than ever they must have looked to her whose days had seen much care and sorrow, but who was now about to see fulfilled one of the dearest wishes of her long-tr
ied heart. That first review in the Daily News so accidentally found was a good omen.
Other reviews quickly followed; none seen during that visit to Normandy, but read long afterwards.
“East Lynne is so interesting,” said the Saturday Review, “that the interest begins with the beginning of the first volume and ends with the end of the third. The faults on which criticism fastens most naturally are all, or almost all, avoided. It is not spun out. It is not affected, or vulgar, or silly. It is full of a variety of characters, all touched off with point, finish, and felicity. It bears unmistakable signs of being written by a woman, but it has many more of the excellencies than of the weaknesses of woman’s writing.”
In speaking of the legal portion of East Lynne, the Saturday Review remarked: —
“What is more wonderful is that the legal proceedings taken when the murder is finally discovered are all, or almost all, right. There is a trial, with its preliminary proceedings, and a real summing up, and a lively cross-examination. Mrs. Wood has an accuracy and method of legal knowledge about her which would do credit to many famous male novelists.”
As already stated, Mrs. Henry Wood’s legal knowledge was really extensive and accurate. The science and mystery of the Law had always possessed great charm and attraction for her. She followed out the points of any intricate case that might be going on with clearness and insight; in trials of mystery and complication quickly forming her opinion, which seldom proved wrong.
The Saturday Review continued: —
“The murder is not the main incident of the story. The chief place is reserved for the sorrows of an erring wife. The method of dealing with this theme is entirely Mrs. Wood’s own, and shows very remarkable and unusual skill.... Evidently such a plot affords much scope for fine drawing of character and for powerful and effective scenes. In every one of the three parts of the story Mrs. Wood has been successful. She places before us a distinct picture of Lady Isabel as a young, ignorant, kind-hearted, charming girl, with a gentle spirit, although with ill-disciplined feelings and an utter want of worldly wisdom. In the second part Lady Isabel is not made either too bad or too good. We cannot bring ourselves to condemn her very harshly, and yet the authoress never for a moment allows us to doubt of her abhorrence of such a crime. But the gem of this part is the character of Barbara Hare, who presents exactly the qualities which Lady Isabel wanted; who has strong sense and a right judgment, and an adoring love for her husband very different from the gentle flickering liking which Lady Isabel bestowed on the hero. The third part, however, must have been the most difficult to write, for it is all necessarily pathetic, and to sustain pathetic writing is a great tax on the powers of a story-teller. Considering the very great difficulty of the task, the success is undeniable. Few persons could read with dry eyes the scenes that pass between the despairing mother and the little dying boy to whom she may not reveal her love. And an achievement quite as great is the contrast that is preserved between the characters of the two wives brought into daily contact under such singular circumstances. Mrs. Henry Wood has quite avoided the fault of making Barbara too good. Although at the close of the story the whole of the Attorney’s affections are most properly concentrated on his living wife, the reader is not sorry to be permitted to have a slight preference for the dead one.”
“East Lynne is so full of incident, so exciting in every page, and so admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed without reading to the very last page,” said the Observer.... The trial scene is well depicted. There are no inconsistencies of time and place to shock the intelligent reader, such as most novels are full of; and you rise from its perusal with satisfaction, feeling that the same events might reasonably have been expected to arise under similar circumstances.”
“East Lynne is touching, well-intentioned, and written in the highest tone of morality and earnestness,” said the Morning Post. “It is a strong appeal to women by a woman, who would urge upon her fellows the invincible truth that only the ways of wisdom are those of pleasantness, and only her paths are those of peace.... Mrs. Henry Wood has selected a difficult subject for a novelist whose aim is higher than that of merely providing amusement and producing excitement. To create compassion for the sinner, and to avoid sympathy with the sin; to strip the abandonment of rectitude and the dereliction from principle of all their romance; to invest them with their harshest reality, and to enforce the lesson of the hopelessly inevitable punishment which is in, and by, and through the breach of the most sacred law of God and the most binding obligations of society — are responsible and onerous tasks which the writer of East Lynne has executed well and faithfully.”
“Miss Cornelia Carlyle,” said the Press, “is one of the most laughable elderly ladies in the whole realm of fiction.”
“Nothing strikes the reader of East Lynne more than the extraordinary manner in which the mystery of each part of the plot is preserved,” said the late Mr. Hamilton Hume, the nephew of Hume the historian, in the Conservative — a paper that, in spite of admirable editing, was destined to a brief existence. “As the reader feels that he is moving in the different parts of the drama, and unconsciously feels himself deeply interested in its several characters, he almost trembles as each dangerous turning-point of the story is passed. East Lynne, we may truly say, is no ordinary novel. A high tone of morality, a remarkable discrimination of human character, and a keen perception of the manners and customs of the age, are marks by which it is especially distinguished, and form some clue to solve the mystery of its warm and greedy reception at the hands of the reading public.... Mrs. Henry Wood has served the interests of morality in holding up to society a mirror in which it may see itself exactly reflected. She probes deep, and does not, through any false prudery, gloss over its evils and only depict its brightest colours. The healthy sentiment and pure morality of Mrs. Henry Wood’s work renders it particularly valuable at the present time. Now, when it is fashionable to live fast and loose; now, when those who take the lead in the most select circles do not frown down, but rather encourage, those little excesses which a former generation might gravely term sins; now, when the sanctities of domestic life are threatened, and associations hallowed by time are endangered, it is a matter of no small importance that the follies, the inanities, the vices of society should be so ably portrayed and so thrillingly denounced as we see them in East Lynne.”
These are short extracts from a few of the many reviews that appeared at the time, almost written in the same spirit. It seems well to quote them, for they helped to establish the popularity of a work that for more than a quarter of a century has steadily increased. The thoughts and notices of that past generation have long been forgotten, but their influence remains.
We will quote one more extract — from the Times. It was one of the last, and its effect was powerful and immediate. No sooner had it appeared than the libraries were besieged and Messrs. Spottiswoode, the Queen’s Printers, had to work night and day upon new editions. It has been remarked that the two great reviews in the Times, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, have been those of Adam Bede and East Lynne. In the present day the condition of things has changed; the literary market bears no resemblance to that of five-and-twenty or thirty years ago — and Adam Bede appeared even before that period. A review in the Times in those days was rare, and it directed the whole English-speaking world to the work fortunate enough to gain its notice.
“In East Lynne? remarked the Times, “we admit the authoress to have achieved a considerable success, which has brought her into the very foremost rank of her class. The authoress,” it went on to say, in the course of its very long review, “is really what the novelist now prefers to call himself — a moralist; and there is moral purpose in her portraits, as well as vivacity. There is great breadth and clearness in her delineations of character, and her range is extensive, including many types. There is one point on which we may speak with special emphasis, and that is her capacity to portray men — an accomp
lishment so rare on the part of lady-novelists that we do not at this moment recall any one who has exhibited it in equal degree. The two characters of Mr. Carlyle and the second Lord Mount Severn are the principal examples of this rare capacity. Mount Severn is indicated with very few touches, and yet we have a portrait worthy the best of his class, like the faces which look upon us from the canvas of Vandyke.
Carlyle’s is a more elaborated performance, and its harmony is preserved, in spite of its elaboration and of the many trying tests to which it is put in the progress of the story. His character is consistent with the serious preoccupations which render him so unobservant of the love of Barbara, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, of the jealousy and suffering of his wife. He errs, but it is the error of a manly nature assailed by difficulties which a more frivolous person would have anticipated. But in dealing with his difficulties, when they do come, his conduct is admirable. It is rarely that we find a hero so consistently heroic, so sensible and just, and yet so lovable. There is a strength in his character, as presented to the reader, which makes him forget the balance of qualities required for its conception on the part of the author. Let us add that it is not only a masterly portrait, but a conception of which even a moralist may be proud: a brave, noble, and truthful gentleman, without the pretence of being a paragon for the humiliation of his species.
“On the other hand, if we take the circle of characters in which authoresses generally most excel, we shall find the authoress here is equally skilful: that is to say, in analysing the motives and emotions of her own sex. She presents us to a little group of interesting women, each well-defined and judiciously contrasted in their relations to the story — its course and conclusion. Miss Corny is remarkably good, and so is Barbara Hare. So also are Afy Hallijohn and her sister Joyce. Isabel is less marked; but then she is the instrument on which the pathos of the story is strung: she is tossed hither and thither, and is but a frail reed for such a weight of woe and misadventure. The reader cannot fail to take an interest in her fate, nor to be satisfied with the demeanour of her husband on her death-bed. The feelings of the latter are just indicated to the point to which analysis may fairly go, and then the authoress retires with a wise and decorous reticence. Balzac would have gone further, and would have handled and squeezed each throbbing heart-string, as his manner was in making his morbid preparations. But our authoress has better tact and a chaster purpose; nor does she affect to fathom the very gulf of human frailty. In short, she evinces the tact of a gentlewoman, even in the passages where less equable and chastened temperaments have a natural tendency to literary hysterics. The death-bed of Lady Isabel’s child is an example of this self-command; where the child is represented as asking a child’s questions under circumstances where others would have made him a precocious angel, and where the announcement is also made to the mother, in her agony, that her secret is known to the faithful Joyce.”