JULIA KAVANAGH. AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS
It is difficult to think of two writers more strongly contrasted,judging from the revelation their books afford of their natures and waysof thought. They both strove, in their novels, to represent individualspecimens of humanity. They must both have possessed the power ofdistinct vision; but though Miss Kavanagh was a keen observer ofexternals, her types seem to have been created by imaginative facultyrather than by insight into real men and women, while Miss Edwardsappears to have gone about the world open-eyed, and with note-book inhand, so vivid are some of her portraits.
In traditions, also, these writers differ. Miss Kavanagh has completefaith in the old French motto, "le bon sang ne peut pas mentir;" whileone of Miss Edwards's heroes, an aristocrat by birth, is extremely happyas a merchant captain, with his plebeian Italian wife.
The two writers, however, strike the same note in regard to some oftheir female personages. Both Barbara Churchill and Nathalie Montolieuare truthful to rudeness.
Julia Kavanagh never obtrudes her personality on the reader, though shelifts him into the exquisitely pure and peaceful atmosphere which onefancies must have been hers. There is something so restful in her books,that it is difficult to believe she was born no longer ago than 1824,and that only twenty years ago she died in middle life; she seems tobelong to a farther-away age--probably because her secluded life kepther strongly linked to the past, out of touch with the new generationand the new world of thought around her.
She began to write for magazines while still very young, and was onlytwenty-three when her first book, "The Three Paths," a child's story,was published. After this she wrote about fourteen novels, the bestknown of which are "Madeleine," "Nathalie," and "Adele." She wrote manyshort stories, some of which were re-printed in volumes--notably thecollection called "Forget-me-nots," published after her death. She alsowrote "A Summer and Winter in the two Sicilies," "Woman in France in the18th Century," "Women of Christianity," and two books which seem to havebeen highly praised--"Englishwomen of Letters" and "Frenchwomen ofLetters."
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Julia Kavanagh's first novel, "Madeleine," appeared in 1848--a charmingstory, its scene being in the Auvergne. The beginning is very striking,the theme being somewhat like that of "Bertha in the Lane"; butMadeleine, when she has given up her false lover, devotes the rest ofher life to founding and caring for an orphanage.
Born in Ireland, Julia Kavanagh spent the days of her youth in Normandy,and the scene of her second novel, "Nathalie," is Norman, thoughNathalie herself is a handsome, warm-blooded Provencale. The scenery andsurroundings are very lifelike, but, with one exception, the people areless attractive than they are in "Adele." In both books one feels a wishto eliminate much of the interminable talk, which could easily bedispensed with.
Nathalie, the country doctor's orphan daughter, teacher to theexcellently drawn schoolmistress, Mademoiselle Dantin, is sometimesdisturbingly rude and tactless, in spite of her graceful beauty. Withall this _gaucherie_, and a violent temper to boot, Nathalie exercises asingular fascination over the people of the story, especially over thedelightful Canoness, Aunt Radegonde, who is to me the most real of MissKavanagh's characters. Madame Radegonde de Sainville is a true oldFrench lady of fifty years ago, as charming as she is natural.
The men in Julia Kavanagh's books have led secluded lives, or they areextremely reserved--very hard nuts indeed to crack for the ingenuous,inexperienced girls on whom they bestow their lordly affection. One doesnot pity Nathalie, who certainly brings her troubles on herself; but inthe subsequent book, sweet little Adele is too bright a bit of sunshineto be sacrificed to such a being as William Osborne.
The old chateau in which Adele has spent her short life is in thenorth-east of France; its luxuriant but neglected garden, full of lovelylight and shade, its limpid lake, and the old French servants, aredelightfully fresh. The chapters which describe these are exquisitereading--a gentle idyll glowing with sunshine, and with a leisurefulcharm that makes one resent the highly coloured intrusion of the Osbornefamily, though the Osborne women afford an effective contrast. Adele isscantily educated, but she is always delightful, though we are neverallowed to forget that she is descended from the ancient family of deCourcelles. She is thoroughly amiable and much enduring, in spite of anoccasional waywardness.
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Fresh and full of beauty as these novels are, with their sweetpure-heartedness, their truth and restful peace, they cannot comparewith the admirable short sketches of the quiet side of French life bythe same writer. The scenes in which the characters of these shortstories are set, show the truth of Julia Kavanagh's observation, as wellas the quality of her style; they are quite as beautiful as some of Guyde Maupassant's little gem-like Norman stories, but they are perfectlyfree from cynicism, although she truly shows the greedy grasping natureof the Norman peasant. The gifts of this writer are intensified, andmore incisively shown, in these sketches because they contain fewsuperfluous words and conversations. Julia Kavanagh must have revelledin the creation of such tales as "By the Well," and its companions; theyare steeped in joyous brightness, toned here and there with real pathosas in "Clement's Love" and "Annette's Love-Story," in the collectioncalled "Forget-me-nots."
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Such a story as "By the Well" would nowadays be considered a lovelyidyll, and, by critics able to appreciate its breadth and finisheddetail, a Meissonier in point of execution: it glows with true colour.
Fifine Delpierre is not a decked-out peasant heroine; she is abare-footed, squalid, half-clothed, half-starved little girl, when wefirst see her beside the well. This is the scene that introduces her.
"It has a roof, as most wells have in Normandy, a low thatched roof,shaggy, brown, and old, but made rich and gorgeous when the sun shinesupon it by many a tuft of deep green fern, and many a cluster of pinksedum and golden stonecrop. Beneath that roof, in perpetual shade andfreshness, lies the low round margin, built of heavy ill-jointed stones,grey and discoloured with damp and age; and within this ... spreads anirregular but lovely fringe of hart's-tongue. The long glossy leaves ofa cool pale green grow in the clefts of the inner wall, so far as theeye can reach, stretching and vanishing into the darkness, at the bottomof which you see a little tremulous circle of watery light. This well isinvaluable to the Lenuds, for, as they pass by the farm the waters ofthe little river grow brackish and unfit for use. So long ago, beforethey were rich, the Lenuds having discovered this spring through themeans of a neighbouring mason, named Delpierre, got him to sink and makethe well, in exchange for what is called a servitude in French legalphrase; that is to say, that he and his were to have the use of the wellfor ever and ever. Bitter strife was the result of this agreement. Thefeud lasted generations, during which the Lenuds throve and grew rich,and the Delpierres got so poor, that, at the time when this story opens,the last had just died leaving a widow and three children in bitterdestitution. Maitre Louis Lenud, for the Parisian Monsieur had not yetreached Manneville, immediately availed himself of this fact to bolt andbar the postern-door through which his enemy had daily invaded thecourtyard to go to the well....
"'It was easily done, and it cost me nothing--not a sou,' exultinglythought Maitre Louis Lenud, coming to this conclusion for the hundredthtime on a warm evening in July. The evening was more than warm, it wassultry; yet Maitre Louis sat by the kitchen fire watching his oldservant, Madeleine, as she got onion soup ready for the evening meal,utterly careless of the scorching blaze which shot up the deep darkfunnel of the chimney. Pierre, his son, unable to bear this additionalheat, stood in the open doorway, waiting with the impatience of eighteenfor his supper, occasionally looking out on the farmyard, grey and quietat this hour, but oftener casting a glance within. The firelight dancedabout the stone kitchen, now lighting up the _armoire_ in the corner,with cupids and guitars, and shepherds' pipes and tabors, and lovers'knots carved on its
brown oak panels; now showing the lad the brightcopper saucepans, hung in rows upon the walls; now revealing the sterngrim figure of his father, with his heavy grey eyebrows and his longNorman features both harsh and acute; and very stern could Maitre Louislook, though he wore a faded blue blouse, an old handkerchief round hisneck, and on his head a white cotton nightcap, with a stiff tassel toit; now suddenly subsiding and leaving all in the dim uncertain shadowsof twilight.
"During one of these grey intervals, the long-drawling Norman voice ofMaitre Louis spoke:
"'The Delpierres have given up the well,' he said, with grim triumph.
"'Ay, but Fifine comes and draws water every night,' tauntingly answeredPierre.
"'Hem!' the old man exclaimed with a growl....
"'Fifine comes and draws water every night,' reiterated Pierre....
"... he had seen the eldest child Fifine, a girl of eight or ten,sitting on her doorstep singing her little brother to sleep, with awreath of hart's-tongue round her head, and a band of it round herwaist. 'And a little beggar, too, she looked,' scornfully added Pierre,'with her uncombed hair and her rags.'
"'Shall we let the dog loose to-night?' he said."
"Maitre Louis uttered his deepest growl, and promised to break every bonein his son's body if he attempted such a thing.
"Pierre silently gulped down his onion soup, but the 'do it if you dare'of the paternal wink only spurred him on. He gave up the dog as toocruel, but not his revenge.
"The night was a lovely one and its tender subdued meaning might havereached Pierre's heart, but did not. He saw as he crouched in the grassnear the old well that the full round moon hung in the sky; he saw thatthe willows by the little river looked very calm and still" ... [therevengeful lad watches for the child and falls asleep, then wakessuddenly].
"... behold ... there was little Fifine with her pitcher standings in themoonlight ... she stood there with her hair falling about her face, hertorn bodice, her scanty petticoats, and her little bare feet. How thelittle traitress had got in, whilst he, the careless dragon, slept,Pierre could not imagine; but she was evidently quite unconscious ofhis presence.... The child set her pitcher down very softly, shook backthe hanging hair from her face, and peeped into the well. She liked tolook thus into that deep dark hole, with its damp walls clothed with thelong green hart's-tongue that had betrayed her. She liked also to lookat that white circle of water below; for you see if there was a wrathfulAdam by her, ready for revenge, she was a daughter of Eve, and Eve-likeenjoyed the flavour of this forbidden fruit.... Fifine ... took up herpitcher again and walked straight on to the river. Pierre stared amazed,then suddenly he understood it all. There was an old forgotten gap inthe hedge beyond the little stream, and through that gap Fifine and herpitcher nightly invaded Maitre Louis Lenud's territory.... having pickedup a sharp flint which lay in the grass Pierre rose and bided hisopportunity. Fifine went on till she had half-crossed a bridge-likeplank which spanned the stream, then, as her ill-luck would have it, shestood still to listen to the distant hooting of an owl in the old churchtower on the hill. Pierre saw the child's black figure in the moonlightstanding out clearly against the background of grey willows, he saw thewhite plank and the dark river tipped with light flowing on beneath it.Above all, he saw Fifine's glazed pitcher, bright as silver; he was anunerring marksman, and he took a sure aim at this. The flint spedswiftly through the air; there was a crash, a low cry, and all wassuddenly still. Both Fifine and her pitcher had tumbled into the riverbelow and vanished there."
Pierre rescues her, and when Fifine has been for some years in servicewith the repentant Pierre's cousin her improved looks and clothing makeher unrecognisable to the thick-headed well-meaning young farmer.
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The only fault that can be found with these chronicles of Manneville isthe likeness between them. The "Miller of Manneville," in the"Forget-me-not" collection, is full of charm, but it too much resembles"By the Well." The "Story of Monique" gives, however, a happy variety,and Monique is a thorough French girl; so is Mimi in the bright littlestory called "Mimi's Sin." Angelique again, in "Clement's Love," is agirl one meets with over and over again in Normandy, but these Normanstories are all so exquisitely told that it is invidious to single outfavourites.
The stories laid in England, in which the characters are English, areless graphic; they lack the fresh and true atmosphere of their fellowsplaced across the Channel.
Julia Kavanagh died at Nice, where she spent the last few years of herlife. Had she lived longer she would perhaps have given us some graphicstories from the Riviera, for it is evident that foreign people andforeign ways attracted her sympathies so powerfully that she was able toreproduce them in their own atmosphere. In a brief but touching prefaceto the collection called "Forget-me-nots," published after her death,Mr. C. W. Wood gives us a lovable glimpse of this charming writer;reading this interesting little sketch deepens regret that one had notthe privilege of personally knowing so sweet a woman.
In regard to truth of atmosphere in her foreign stories, Julia Kavanaghcertainly surpasses Amelia B. Edwards. In "Barbara's History," in "LordBrackenbury," and in other stories by Miss Edwards, there are beautifuland graphic descriptions of foreign scenery, and we meet plenty offoreign people; but we feel that the latter are described by anEnglishwoman who has taken an immense amount of pains to make herselfacquainted with their ways and their speech--they somewhat lackspontaneity. In the two novels named there are chapters so full of localhistory and association that one thinks it might be well to have thebooks for companions when visiting the places described; they are fullof talent--in some places near akin to genius.
"Barbara's History" contains a great deal of genuine humour. It is amost interesting and exciting story, though in parts stagey; the openingchapters, indeed the whole of Barbara's stay at her great-aunt's farm ofStoneycroft, are so excellent that one cannot wonder the book was agreat success. Now and again passages and characters remind one ofDickens; the great-aunt, Mrs. Sandyshaft, is a thorough Dickens woman,with a touch of the great master's exaggeration; Barbara's father isanother Dickens character. There are power and passion as well as humourin this book, but in spite of its interest it becomes fatiguing whenBarbara leaves her aunt and the hundred pigs.
There is remarkable truth of characterisation in some of this writer'snovels. Hugh Farquhar is sometimes an eccentric bore, but he is real.Barbara Churchill at times is wearyingly pedantic; then, again, she isjust as delightfully original--her first meeting with Mrs. Sandyshaft isso inimitable that I must transcribe a part of it.
A rich old aunt has invited Barbara Churchill, a neglected child of tenyears old, to stay with her in Suffolk. Barbara is the youngest of Mr.Churchill's three girls, and she is not loved by either her widowedfather or her sisters, though an old servant named Goody dotes on thechild. Barbara is sent by stage-coach from London to Ipswich:--
"Dashing on between the straggling cottages, and up a hill so closelyshaded by thick trees that the dusk seems to thicken suddenly to-night,we draw up all at once before a great open gate, leading to a house ofwhich I can only see the gabled outline and the lighted windows.
"The guard jumps down; the door is thrown open; and two persons, a manand a woman, come hurrying down the path.
"'One little girl and one box, as per book,' says the guard, lifting meout and setting me down in the road, as if I were but another box, to bedelivered as directed.
"'From London?' asks the woman sharply.
"'From London,' replies the guard, already scrambling back to his seat;'All right, ain't it?'
"'All right.'
"Whereupon the coach plunges on again into the dusk; the man shouldersmy box as though it were a feather; and the woman who looks strangelygaunt and grey by this uncertain light, seizes me by the wrist andstrides away towards the house at a pace that my cramped and weary limbscan scarcely accomplish.
"Sick and bewildered, I am hurried into a cheerful roo
m where the tableis spread as if for tea and supper, and a delicious perfume of coffeeand fresh flowers fills the air; and--and, all at once even in themoment when I am first observing them, these sights and scents grow allconfused and sink away together, and I remember nothing ... when Irecover, I find myself laid upon a sofa, with my cloak and bonnet off,my eyes and mouth full of Eau de Cologne, and my hands smarting under avolley of slaps, administered by a ruddy young woman on one side, and bythe same gaunt person who brought me in from the coach on the other.Seeing me look up, they both desist; and the latter, drawing back a stepor two, as if to observe me to greater advantage, puts on an immensepair of heavy gold spectacles, stares steadily for some seconds, and andat length says:
"'What did you mean by that now?'
"Unprepared for so abrupt a question, I lie as if fascinated by herbright grey eyes, and cannot utter a syllable.
"'Are you better?'
"Still silent, I bow my head feebly, and keep looking at her.
"'Hey now. Am I a basilisk? Are you dumb, child?'
"Wondering why she speaks to me thus, and being, moreover, so very weakand tired, what can I do, but try in vain to answer, and failing in theeffort, burst into tears again? Hereupon she frowns, pulls off herglasses, shakes her head angrily, and, saying: 'That's done to aggravateme, I know it is,' stalks away to the window, and stands there grimly,looking out upon the night. The younger woman, with a world of kindnessin her rosy face ... whispers me not to cry.
"'That child's hungry,' says the other coming suddenly back. 'That'swhat's the matter with her. She's hungry, I know she is, and I won't becontradicted. Do you hear me, Jane?--I won't be contradicted.'
"'Indeed, ma'am, I think she is hungry, and tired too, poor littlething.'
"'Tired and hungry!... Mercy alive, then why don't she eat? Here's foodenough for a dozen people. Child, what will you have? Ham, cold chickenpie, bread, butter, cheese, tea, coffee, ale?'
" ... Everything tastes delicious; and not even the sight of the gaunthousekeeper ... has power to spoil my enjoyment.
"For she is the housekeeper, beyond a doubt. Those heavy goldspectacles, that sad-coloured gown, that cap with its plain closebordering can belong to no one but a housekeeper. Wondering withinmyself that she should be so disagreeable; then where my aunt herselfcan be; why she has not yet come to welcome me; how she will receive mewhen she does come; and whether I shall have presence of mind enough toremember all the curtseys I have been drilled to make, and all thespeeches I have been taught to say, I find myself eating as thoughnothing at all had been the matter with me, and even staring now andthen quite confidently at my opposite neighbour.... Left alone now withthe sleeping dogs and the housekeeper--who looks as if she never sleptin her life--I find the evening wearisome. Observing too that shecontinues to look at me in the same grim imperturbable way, and seeingno books anywhere about, it occurs to me that a little conversationwould perhaps be acceptable, and that, as I am her mistress's niece, itis my place to speak first.
"'If you please, ma'am,' I begin after a long hesitation.
"'HEY?'
"Somewhat disconcerted by the sharpness and suddenness of thisinterruption, I pause, and take some moments to recover myself.
"'If you please, ma'am, when am I to see my aunt?'
"'Hey? What? Who?'
"'My aunt, if you please, ma'am?'
"'Mercy alive! and pray who do you suppose I am?'
"'You, ma'am,' I falter, with a vague uneasiness impossible to describe;'are you not the housekeeper?'
"To say that she glares vacantly at me from behind her spectacles, losesher very power of speech, and grows all at once quite stiff and rigid inher chair, is to convey but a faint picture of the amazement with whichshe receives this observation.
"'I,' she gasps at length, 'I! Gracious me, child, I am your aunt.' Ifeel my countenance become an utter blank. I am conscious of turning redand white, hot and cold, all in one moment. My ears tingle; my heartsinks within me; I can neither speak nor think. A dreadful silencefollows, and in the midst of this silence my aunt, without any kind ofwarning, bursts into a grim laugh, and says:
"'Barbara, come and kiss me.'
"I could have kissed a kangaroo just then, in the intensity of myrelief; and so getting up quite readily, touch her gaunt cheek with mychildish lips, and look the gratitude I dare not speak. To my surpriseshe draws me closer to her knee, passes one hand idly through my hair,looks not unkindly, into my wondering eyes, and murmurs more to herselfthan me, the name of 'Barbara.'
"This gentle mood is, however, soon dismissed, and as if ashamed ofhaving indulged it, she pushes me away, frowns, shakes her head, andsays quite angrily:
"'Nonsense, child, nonsense. It's time you went to bed.'"
[Next morning at breakfast.]
"'Your name,' said my aunt, with a little off-hand nod, 'is Bab.Remember that.'" ... [Mrs. Sandyshaft asks her great niece why she tookher for the housekeeper; the child hesitates, and at last owns that itwas because of her dress.]
... "'Too shabby?'
"'N--no, ma'am, not shabby; but....'
"'But what? You must learn to speak out, Bab. I hate people whohesitate.'
"'But Papa said you were so rich, and....'
"'Ah! He said I was rich did he? Rich! Oho! And what more, Bab? Whatmore? Rich indeed! Come, you must tell me. What else did he say when hetold you I was rich?'
"'N--nothing more, ma'am,' I replied, startled and confused by hersudden vehemence. 'Indeed nothing more.'
"'Bab!' said my aunt bringing her hand down so heavily upon the tablethat the cups and saucers rang again, 'Bab, that's false. If he told youI was rich, he told you how to get my money by-and-by. He told you tocringe and fawn, and worm yourself into my favour, to profit by mydeath, to be a liar, a flatterer, and a beggar, and why? Because I amrich. Oh yes, because I am rich.'
"I sat as if stricken into stone, but half comprehending what she meant,and unable to answer a syllable.
"'Rich indeed!' she went on, excited more and more by her own words andstalking to and fro between the window and the table, like onepossessed. 'Aha! we shall see, we shall see. Listen to me, child. Ishall leave you nothing--not a farthing. Never expect it--never hope forit. If you are good and true, and I like you, I shall be a friend to youwhile I live; but if you are mean and false, and tell me lies, I shalldespise you. Do you hear? I shall despise you, send you home, neverspeak to you, or look at you again. Either way, you will get nothing bymy death. Nothing--nothing!'
"My heart swelled within me--I shook from head to foot. I tried to speakand the words seemed to choke me.
"'I don't want it,' I cried passionately. 'I--I am not mean. I have toldno lies--not one.'
"My aunt stopped short, and looked sternly down upon me, as if she wouldread my very soul.
"'Bab,' said she, 'do you mean to tell me that your father said nothingto you about why I may have asked you here, or what might come of it?Nothing? Not a word?'
"'He said it might be for my good--he told Miss Whymper to make mecurtsey and walk better, and come into a room properly; he said hewished me to please you. That was all. He never spoke of money, or ofdying, or of telling lies--never.'
"'Well then,' retorted my aunt, sharply, 'he meant it.'
"Flushed and trembling in my childish anger, I sprang from my chair andstood before her, face to face.
"'He did not mean it,' I cried. 'How dare you speak so of Papa? Howdare....'
"I could say no more, but, terrified at my own impetuosity, faltered,covered my face with both hands, and burst into an agony of sobs.
"'Bab,' said my aunt, in an altered voice, 'little Bab,' and took me allat once in her two arms, and kissed me on the forehead.
"My anger was gone in a moment. Something in her tone, in her kiss, inmy own heart, called up a quick response; and nestling close in herembrace, I wept passionately. Then she sat down, drew me on her knee,smoothed my hair with her hand, and comforted me as if I had been alitt
le baby.
"'So brave,' said she, 'so proud, so honest. Come, little Bab, you and Imust be friends.'
"And we were friends from that minute; for from that minute a mutualconfidence and love sprang up between us. Too deeply moved to answer herin words, I only clung the closer, and tried to still my sobs. Sheunderstood me.
"'Come,' said she, after a few seconds of silence, 'let's go and see thepigs.'"
The sketch of Hilda Churchill is very good, and so is that of the GrandDuke of Zollenstrasse. Taken as a whole, if we leave out the concludingchapters, "Barbara's History" is a stirring, original, and very amusingbook, full of historical and topographical information, written in terseand excellent English, and very rich in colour--the people in it are sowonderfully alive.
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"Lord Brackenbury" is very clever and full of pictures, but it lacks thebrightness and the originality of "Barbara's History." Amelia B. Edwardswrote several other novels--"Half a Million of Money," "Miss Carew,""Debenham's Vow," &c. &c. She also published a collection of shorttales--"Monsieur Maurice," etc.--and a book of ballads. Born in 1831,she began to write at a time when sensational stories were in fashion,and produced a number of exciting stories--"The Four-fifteen Express,""The Tragedy in the Bardello Palace," "The Patagonian Brothers"--allextremely popular; though, when we read them now, they seem wanting inthe insight into human nature so remarkably shown in some of her novels.
She was a distinguished Egyptologist, and the foundation in 1883 of theEgypt Exploration Fund was largely due to her efforts; she became one ofthe secretaries to this enterprise, and wrote a good deal on Egyptiansubjects for European and American periodicals. She wrote andillustrated some interesting travel books, especially her delightful "AThousand Miles up the Nile," and an account of her travels in 1872 amongthe--at that time--rarely visited Dolomites. The latter is called"Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys:" it is interesting, but notso bright as the Nile book.
When one considers that a large part of her output involved constant andlaborious research--that for the purposes of many of the books she hadto take long and fatiguing journeys--the amount of good work sheaccomplished is very remarkable; the more so, because she was not onlya writer, but an active promoter of some of the public movements of hertime. She was a member of the Biblical Archaeological Society--a member,too, of the Society for the Promotion of Hellenic Literature. Then sheentered into the woman's question, not so popular in those days as it isin these, and was vice-president of a Society for promoting Women'sSuffrage.
It is difficult to understand how in so busy and varied a life she couldhave found sufficient leisure for writing fiction; but she had a verylarge mental grasp, and probably as large a power of concentration.Remembering that she was an omnivorous reader, a careful student,possessed too of an excellent memory, we need not wonder at the fulnessand richness of her books.
[Signature: Katherine S. Macquoid]
MRS. NORTON
_By_ MRS. ALEXANDER