Ida Darwin and the refugees, 1914

Refugees_from_Belgium_in_Paris,_1914.jpg

Ida Darwin and her husband Horace were staying at a spa in the Haute Savoie, south-eastern France, when the Great War broke out on 4 August 1914. At first they thought they would wait until things settled down – only on 19 August did they decide to set out for home. This story is based on a letter that Ida wrote in September 1914 to her son Erasmus.

Ida and Horace arrived in Paris early on Tuesday 25 August, exhausted by their long train journey from Lyons and intending to rest in a hotel for a day or two. The streets that they knew well were now eerily empty. One shop on the Rue de la Paix carried a notice on its plate glass window saying that the owner and employees had gone off to war and asking the public to protect his property. Outside their hotel Ida observed people ‘eagerly buying the fresh editions of the papers with the accounts of the German advance & the beginnings of the fighting at Mons & standing still on the pavement to read them.’ They decided that it would be wise to leave Paris on the first train available, so Ida left Horace in their hotel room and went to have their passports stamped at the British Consulate.

They boarded a train leaving Paris that evening. As the train headed north Ida was struck by what she saw from her carriage window.

Our train stopped at every station & the carriages were besieged by soldiers begging for French newspapers. As we went along we saw rows & rows of horses and artillery silhouetted on the evening sky, & at Chantilly as we passed through the station was full of women & children camping out. These were the first of the refugees that we had seen.

They disembarked at Amiens at 11pm, where another train was supposed to take them on to the ferry port of Boulogne. The promised train did not arrive. Ida managed to find a porter, who told them that a trainload of wounded soldiers was expected at any moment and all other trains had been held up. It was the second night of the Battle of Mons and most of Amiens’s larger buildings had been turned into impromptu hospitals.

As they stood on the platform, unsure of what to do, Ida watched uniformed British Red Cross men darting about making preparations. Train upon train pulled in, each disgorging not wounded men, but more and more refugee families, who were then shunted on to other trains. Their porter stared at the bedraggled women and children crowding the platforms, muttering ‘Ah! Mais ce n’est pas gai.’ Ida described the pitiful scene to Erasmus.

Many of the people looked very poor & others were well to do. All with children or dogs. One sick woman was being carried on her bed by 2 priests, another by her friends – there were little nuns too, & farm labourers and their bundles. The whole station was full of the shrill sound of women’s and children’s voices, until that lot was sent off & another was poured out afresh onto the platform. And all the time there was a slow procession on the further side of trains carrying gun carriages, covered carts & other war material & endless strings of the Nord engines, being withdrawn from the enemy.

Ida and Horace took turns sitting on their trunk and bags, not daring to move far from each other for fear of getting separated in the crush of people. Their porter waited with them. Ida told Erasmus how ‘that long night 25th to 26th – the second of the battle of Mons – in the great black station with its couching arc lights & its panting engines & its ever growing crowds of refugees, is burnt into one’s memory for ever.’ She tried hard not to think about plume-helmeted Prussian troops on horseback, riding into the station with their bayonets aloft.

When dawn came Ida shared out their remaining chocolate and biscuits with the mothers of crying babies, and wondered if she would ever see England again. Then, just after 6.30am, the train to Boulogne arrived, and their faithful porter managed to bundle them into a carriage with their luggage. Ida couldn’t help noticing that it was a third class carriage, but she did not mind.

They travelled with five weeping women and their children. One mother with a baby girl and two young boys told Ida that she had been given an hour’s notice to leave her home near Cambrai on the French-Belgian border. She told Ida that they had spent all of the previous hot day travelling by train, and when they stopped at one station, kind English soldiers had run along the platform, passing their tin mugs of water up to the thirsty children.

Ida and Horace sailed from Boulogne on Wednesday afternoon, six English gunboats guarding their ship’s passage across the Channel. She told Erasmus how strange it was to look out of their Folkestone hotel window on Thursday morning and see Englishmen and women, towels under their arms, peacefully strolling down to the beach. Three days later the cross-Channel ships stopped running.

© Ann Kennedy Smith, 15 November 2018

My next post will be about Ida and her friends’ (including Eliza von Hügel)  involvement with Belgian refugees in 1914-18. This year’s ‘A Window On The War’ project has more information about a wide range of Cambridge women’s work during the Great War, with an excellent photographic exhibition now at Michaelhouse Café until 24 November. Its curator J. E. Bounford’s fascinating blog is here

Sources: Ida Darwin, Making for home, August 1914 (Blackwater Press, 1995). For more information about Ida Darwin, see Headway Cambridgeshire’s timeline.

Pesky feminists

Westminster_emmeline_pankhurst_statue_1

 

“And I’d have got away with it too, if it hadn’t been for those pesky feminists!”, or so Caroline Criado Perez imagined Sir Neil Thorne saying this week. Thorne is the former Conservative MP who attempted this summer to move the Grade 2 listed statue of Mrs Pankhurst from its present location in front of Parliament, to an obscure corner in the grounds of a private university in Regent’s Park.

In August the author and suffrage historian Elizabeth Crawford used her informative ‘Woman and sphere’ blog to draw attention to plans to dismantle the statue. Even though the online petitions protesting against it had raised thousands of signatures, Crawford explained that Westminster city council was under no obligation to take notice of them, but it did have to pay attention to complaints made to them via their planning applications procedure.

Thanks to the efforts of Crawford and Criado Perez, who helped to publicize the campaign, in less than a month Westminster city council received 896 comments on the proposed move, of which 887 were objections (including mine). It was slightly more time-consuming than clicking on an online petition, but it seems to have done the trick, as last week it was announced that the proposals have been withdrawn.

Mary Ward (Martin) copy

 

Mary Martin Ward (Newnham Hall 1876-1879), photograph reproduced with kind permission of Newnham College Cambridge

Last year the ODNB asked me to write an entry on one of Cambridge’s longest serving ‘pesky feminists’, the Irish suffragist Mary Ward (1851-1933). I knew that she was one of the original members of the Cambridge Women’s Suffrage Association in the 1880s, so I turned to Crawford’s landmark reference work, The Women’s Suffrage Movement: a reference guide to find out more. That led me to the Cambridgeshire Archives and to the archives at Newnham College (where she was a star student) and finally to the Women’s Library at the L.S.E., to consult the papers of Olwen Ward Campbell (Ward’s daughter).

My blog about Mary Ward is here, but I have been thinking about her again this week because on October 4th I’m giving a talk about her suffrage work at the Museum of Cambridge. It’s part of events supporting the  ‘At Last! Votes For Women’ exhibition that has come fresh from the LSE, and runs until 11 November. With sashes, badges and documents telling the story of the fight for equal voting rights, the campaign methods of the three main groups for women’s suffrage in the years 1908-14 are explored.

The WSPU headed by Mrs Pankhurst believed in ‘deeds not words’, and the militant actions by its members made headlines in 1913. Mary Ward, then 62, belonged to the much larger NUWSS which condemned violence and believed that the vote would be won using the ‘peaceful and constitutional methods’ it had been deploying for almost fifty years. Ward may have disagreed with the tactics of the suffragettes, but in 1913 she co-signed a letter to the Cambridge Daily News protesting against the continuing focus of ‘the sensational Press’ on the militant actions of the WSPU, and she resigned her membership of the Liberal Party in protest against the government’s treatment of militant suffrage prisoners.

That summer of 1913 saw the Great Pilgrimage, a six-week march by the many thousands of suffragists who believed in non-violent protest from all over England and Wales to Hyde Park in London (the author Jane Robinson wrote about it in her excellent recent book, Hearts and Minds). Mary Ward was one of the leaders of the Cambridge suffragists, ‘marching through unfriendly crowds from Barnwell junction to Midsummer Common’, as Crawford puts it, before setting off for London.

You might say that Ward believed in deeds and words – a stinging letter, a well-timed resignation, walking with her head high through hostile crowds to make a point about women’s rights. It’s good to know that even today words (and emails sent to the correct authority) can make things happen too. But we have to make sure we don’t assume, as feminists today, that the fight has been won by women like Mary Ward and Mrs Pankhurst, and we can let our guard down. As Elizabeth Crawford wrote last week:

‘The proposals to remove Mrs Pankhurst’s statue and re-erect it in the grounds of Regent’s University have just been WITHDRAWN… However, we would be wise not to be too complacent…this may be some kind of tactical move. Be vigilant.’

More words from me (spoken this time) at the Museum of Cambridge on October 4th. I hope you can come.

 

Sources: H.M. Lawson Dodd and others, ‘Mrs James Ward (Mary Jane Martin), Newnham Hall 1876-1879’ Newnham College Roll Newsletter, January 1934, pp. 38-47‘Ward, Mrs Mary’ (1851-1933) in E. Crawford, The Women’s Suffrage Movement: A Reference Guide 1866-1928 (1999); ‘A Petticoat Pilgrimage’ Cambridge Daily News (21 July 1913); Cambridgeshire Archives CWSA Papers 1884 –1919. With thanks to Newnham College for permission to use the photograph of Mary Ward.

A public space: Kathleen Lyttelton’s campaigning journalism

In my recent guest post for Something Rhymed, Emily Midorikawa’s and Emma Claire Sweeney’s inspiring blog on women’s literary friendships, I described how Kathleen Lyttelton was the first editor to publish Virginia Woolf’s writing, beginning a warm professional relationship. Here I take a closer look at Kathleen’s work as a journalist.  

In June 1903, when she was 47, Kathleen Lyttelton became the editor of a new supplement of a long-established Anglican weekly newspaper called The Guardian. It seems that it was her idea to start a special section of women’s pages in a publication that otherwise was aimed squarely at clergymen, with articles such as ‘The Church at Home and Abroad’ and advertisements for prayer-books and suitcases for cassocks. Arthur Lyttelton, Kathleen’s husband was the Bishop of Southampton, and she had been reviewing books anonymously for The Guardian for years (she was a published short-story writer). After his death in early 1903 she moved to London with her daughter, and began to earn her own living as a journalist.

 

Mary-Kathleen-Lyttelton-ne-Clive

Mary Kathleen Lyttelton (née Clive) by Eveleen Myers (née Tennant), platinum print, 1890s: NPG Ax68772 © National Portrait Gallery, London

Editorship of the new section allowed Kathleen to cover issues that had a direct impact on women’s lives, and to bring them directly into the homes of clergymen and their families. From the beginning, her focus was on the new opportunities opening up for women of different social classes to study and work. There were articles on women as school managers and, working in public health, much-needed sanitary inspectors. Or what about a career as a nurse, an elementary school teacher or in the printing trade? The ‘well-educated gentlewomen’ who read The Guardian were encouraged to consider what were previously seen as lowly occupations. And to cater for their needs, there was a feature on ‘A restaurant for busy women’ that had recently opened in Manchester Square, London.

By 1904 Kathleen was writing editorial leader columns every week. She was outspoken about the need for women to earn money on the same terms as men, including in her own profession of writing. She was aware that ‘in spite of Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, and Jane Austen’ women writers were still seen as overstepping a boundary if they were paid on equal terms to men. ‘Even when Charlotte Yonge achieved her first success, it was not considered the right thing for her to receive a pecuniary reward for her labours’, she noted, ‘and the difficulty was overcome by handing the proceeds to a charitable society.’ Things had not changed much, she implied.

In specially commissioned articles, Kathleen directed her readers’ attention to financial and legal issues affecting women in other countries. One article called ‘What women are doing in Germany’ described the growing call for women to have equal access to professions: ‘In Germany the woman question – as it is in England- is no mere matter of abstract right; considerations of daily bread come into the account… There are in the Empire a million more women than men’. Her friend Millicent Garrett Fawcett (writing as Mrs Henry Fawcett) contributed an article on ‘Women’s Suffrage in the Australian Commonwealth’, and in March 1904 Kathleen published ‘Indian Women’ by Cornelia Sorabji, who had studied at Somerville College in Oxford, then taken law qualifications in London and Bombay. Sorabji described how she wanted to use her training to ensure the legal rights of purdanashins, women prohibited from communicating with men, but she was not permitted to represent them in court. Three months later, however, Kathleen was happy to report that Sorabji had been appointed as a government legal adviser on the issue; later she would win the right for purdanashins to train as nurses.

Injustices closer to home were also highlighted. In July 1904 Kathleen reported on Mrs Higgs who, as a precursor of George Orwell, had described her experience of spending five days as a woman tramp, sleeping in workhouses and common lodgings. After the tramp ward men and women no longer fear prison,’ Mrs Higgs wrote, and as a result of her report, local governments in Lancashire and Yorkshire took action. Elsewhere, Kathleen reported on the ‘crying need of an ambulance service in London’ rather than using cabs to take injured people to hospital, and took up the cause of Dr Ethel Vernon, a competent and well-liked doctor who was sacked from Westminster Hospital because one male consultant did not want to work with a woman. In another leader column, she argued for a greater knowledge of the laws that existed to protect working women and girls instead of the bazaars and charity balls favoured by her well-meaning, wealthy friends.

Kathleen’s work as a campaigning journalist threw light on issues affecting women of all classes, and Millicent Fawcett described her close friend’s sudden death in 1907, at the age of 51, as ‘a grave loss… to every cause which concerns the welfare and the progress of women… it is hard to lose such a companion and fellow-worker.’

Selwyn

In autumn 2018 Selwyn College in Cambridge will rename a room in the tower as the ‘Kathleen Lyttelton Room’, marking both the centenary of the extension of the women’s franchise in 1918 and Kathleen’s twenty-five years of campaigning for political equality. Her work began when she moved to Cambridge in 1882 as the wife of the college’s first Master, Arthur Lyttelton: she was one of the founders of the Cambridge Association for Women’s Suffrage in 1884, and became President of the National Union of Women Workers in 1899. Her book Women and Their Work was published in 1901, and her portrait, above, is included in the portraits of 74 influential ‘Suffragettes and Suffragists’ at the National Portrait Gallery, London. So it is all the more appropriate that there will soon be a room at Selwyn named in her honour, where discussions between men and women can take place on equal terms.

© Ann Kennedy Smith 20 July 2018

With thanks to Selwyn College and to Andrew Wallis, Jean Chothia and Carolyn Ferguson for additional research. 

‘Marianne Thornton’, E.M. Forster’s biography-memoir

Slightly FoxedE.M. Forster’s novels continue to be read and loved around the world. However, his final full-length book, a biography of his great-aunt Marianne Thornton, has been largely overlooked by critics and forgotten by readers since its publication in 1956. That’s a shame, as it shows that Forster was a brilliant writer of nonfiction too. It connects themes familiar from his fiction – including a home loved and lost, forbidden passions, second chances – and its final section is the only published memoir he ever published of his own young life. I’m delighted that ‘Prayers Before Plenty’, my essay on this fascinating book, appears in Slightly Foxed this month. They have kindly given permission for me to reprint it here.

 

Prayers before Plenty       Ann Kennedy Smith

In 1953 the writer E. M. Forster, then aged 74, was sorting through old family papers and thinking about the past. He had recently moved back to King’s College, Cambridge, and the high-ceilinged spacious room where he sat was filled with treasured objects from his previous homes: shelves overflowing with books, framed family portraits on the walls and blue china plates neatly arranged on the mantelpiece. Letters gathered in a drift around his shabby William Morris armchair as he pored over his great-aunt Marianne Thornton’s diaries and recollections. She had died when he was 8, but it was thanks to the money she left him that as a young man he was able to study at King’s and later to travel to Italy. It was Marianne, more than anyone else, who had helped him to become a writer, and now he wanted to tell her story.

When Marianne Thornton, 17971887: A Domestic Biography was published three years later, it was greeted as a literary event. It had been five years since the appearance of Forster’s Two Cheers for Democracy, his collection of critical essays (see SF no. 44), and he had not published a novel since A Passage to India in 1924. Marianne Thornton was widely reviewed, for the most part warmly, although some critics confessed to feeling puzzled by its subject matter. Why, wondered the Spectator, did Forster want to cast his considerable charm on the Clapham Sect, that ‘particularly uncharming clan’? The New York Times critic admitted that only the writer of A Passage to India could have persuaded him to read ‘a conversation piece about English family life among the suburban dynasties’.

In the sixty years or so since Marianne Thornton’s first publication, it has been leafed through by biographers and scholars rather than read. I think this is a shame, and that this book deserves to be better known. In 2000 it was reissued as part of the Abinger edition, and in her introduction Evelyne Hanquart-Turner describes Marianne Thornton as a portrait of a modern Britain in the making, with illuminating glimpses of banking, Parliament and politics, the Church of England and the spread of popular education over nine decades of the nineteenth century. I would add that at a time when British identity is being much discussed, it is a book that seems more relevant than ever.

I discovered it in a King’s College archive, where I was working on a book project last summer. It was just before May Week, that con­fusingly named time in June when the students celebrate after their exams are over, and a marquee was being put up on the front court lawn. The sounds of heavy machinery and men working drifted in through the open window and made it hard to concentrate on hand­written letters, so I took down Marianne Thornton from the shelf and began to read. Within minutes I was transported back to another June day in 1806, and a horse-drawn carriage with election ribbons fluttering, going home to Battersea Rise, the house at the heart of this story.

Marianne was born in 1797, the eldest of nine children of Henry Thornton, a wealthy merchant banker and Member of Parliament, and his wife Mary Ann Sykes. Their home was Battersea Rise, an enlarged Queen Anne house on the north-west edge of Clapham Common in south London. The Thorntons belonged to the ‘Clapham Sect’, a close-knit group of friends that included William Wilberforce, Zachary Macaulay, Granville Sharp and James Stephen, who brought their combined influence, intellect and evangelical zeal to social reform. Their place of worship was Holy Trinity Church on the Common, presided over by the charismatic Reverend John Venn, and their social centre was Battersea Rise, where lively meetings were held in the oval library with a view of a magnificent tulip tree in the garden.

Battersea Rise was a perfect playground for Marianne and her younger siblings. ‘It satisfied in them that longing for a particular place, a home, which is common amongst our upper and middle classes,’ Forster observes: ‘some of them have transmitted that long­ing to their descendants, who have lived on into an age when it cannot be gratified.’ Writing this in his college rooms, he was think­ing of Rooksnest, the cottage in Hertfordshire where he had lived as a child and which he later commemorated in his novel Howards End. He had mourned its loss all his life; King’s College had provided him with somewhere to live, but it did not feel like home.

From the first pages of the book it is plain that Marianne Thornton is as much about Forster as it is about his great-aunt. Threaded through the book are his wry observations, teasing out connections between past and present and poking gentle fun at his illustrious forebears. At times he is combative, reminding us that although the philanthropic Clapham Sect cared passionately about abolishing the slave trade, they were supremely complacent when it came to in-equality within their own society. ‘When the slavery was industrial they did nothing and had no thought of doing anything.’

But this is a domestic biography, Forster reminds us, and the Thorntons did home life exceedingly well. Adored friends such as William Wilberforce – ‘fragile, whimsical, inspired’ – and the intel­lectual ‘bishop in petticoats’ Hannah More regularly dropped in for dinner. ‘Prayers before plenty,’ Forster observes, ‘But plenty!’ Conver­sations around the table ranged from parliamentary politics to missionary work, from economics to education, and little Marianne was encouraged to take part. Her father taught her about finance and brought her along to his election hustings and George III’s opening of Parliament. Despite the constant fear of a French invasion there were long holidays at the seaside, ‘comparable with the jauntings of Jane Austen’ in their elaborate organization. Fear of Napoleon Bona­parte was the only cloud over this sunny childhood, and Marianne vividly pictured him striding into Battersea Rise and chopping down their beloved tulip tree. Nonsense, her young friend the future his-torian Thomas Babington Macaulay assured her: when ‘Old Boney’ came, he would simply stab all the children in their beds.

The world-changing historical events of 1815 were overshadowed for Marianne and her siblings by painful personal loss when both Thornton parents died within the year. Forster skips over the ‘super­abundance’ of long, pious letters from this period and instead describes 19-year-old Marianne’s first trip to France, where she and other British tourists flocked after Waterloo. There she fell in love with all things French, and this gave her, Forster is convinced, her Gallic insouciance towards class differences which lasted for the rest of her life.

Her brother Henry, three years younger, was more straitlaced, but brother and sister ran the Thornton family as a team. Together they fought to save the bank where he was a partner when it was hit by a financial crisis in 1825: told through Marianne’s recollections, the story is as exciting and dramatic as any novel. Henry coped less well when their younger sister Laura fell in love with a poor Irish clergy­man. ‘Money must marry money, as it had always done hitherto,’ Forster observes drily, and he cheers when, thanks to a particularly spiky letter from a bishop, love wins the day. Laura married the Reverend Charles Forster, and among their ten children brought up in a ‘happy insanitary’ rectory in Essex was Eddie, the future father of the writer.

Marianne remained unmarried and devoted herself to Battersea Rise and to Henry’s three children after he was widowed. The young Forsters often came to visit, and the garden was filled with the sounds of laughter and games. Even sensible Henry occasionally entertained the family with his favourite trick before setting off for work at the bank: after setting fire to a newspaper, he would place it on the seat of his leather armchair then sit down firmly to put the flames out. ‘The vision of that substantial extinguisher descending cheers me,’ Forster writes: ‘the sun comes into the library again, the trees wave freshly on the lawn, tiny cousins collide and jump . . .’

Then Henry fell in love with Emily, his unmarried sister-in-law, and everything changed. Their marriage was not sanctioned under existing British law (the Marriage Act of 1835 made it illegal for a man to marry the sister of his deceased wife) and the ensuing scandal broke the Thornton family apart. The law would remain unchanged until the twentieth century, and writing in Cambridge in the 1950s, when homosexual love was still outlawed in Britain, Forster’s anger flashes off the page. It was, he writes, ‘yet another example of the cruelty and stupidity of the English Law in matters of sex’. Victorian disapproval did what Bonaparte and the banking crisis had failed to do: it destroyed Battersea Rise.

Marianne Thornton immerses us in a lost nineteenth-century world and, as Forster asks, ‘Where else could we take such a plunge?’ It is an invitation to enjoyment, demonstrating Forster’s brilliance as a non-fiction writer and providing us with links to our personal, cultural and national past that otherwise would be lost. Marianne’s story unfolds against a rich historical background, from Georgian England to Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, in which the Thorntons played an active role.

However, I think that this warm and engaging book is about more than British history and the decline and fall of an influential suburban dynasty. By choosing Marianne as his subject, and telling her story in the way that he does, Forster stresses the importance of personal relations, and the life of the heart and mind rather than public life. He connects his own story to his great-aunt’s, and the book’s delightful final section is both a memoir of his young life and a love letter to Rooksnest, his childhood home. ‘I took it to my heart,’ he writes, ‘and hoped, as Marianne had of Battersea Rise, that I should live and die there.’ It was not to be, but by writing his great-aunt’s story he was able to see that kindness and love were what mattered in the end, and to let go of the past. King’s College was his last home, and he was among friends there.

Battersea Rise was swallowed up long ago, and the lawn on which the tulip tree once stood is now covered by houses and streets. Holy Trinity Church still stands on a corner of Clapham Common though, and I went there recently, carrying my copy of Marianne Thornton. With its high steeple surrounded by tall, waving trees, the church looks much as it did in the Thorntons’ time, and as I approached the imposing portico, the sound of south London traffic seemed to fade away. On an outside wall a stone plaque scarred by Second World War shrapnel commemorates the evangelical and abolitionist work of the Clapham Sect. Then, as I arrive, there is the human touch. A friendly notice on the porch welcomes rough sleepers, and inside a caretaker is boiling a kettle. On a far wall a small brass plaque to Marianne Thornton glints in the shadows.

Ann Kennedy Smith lives in Cambridge and is working on her first biography. She is not related to the Kennedy dynasty, so far as she knows.

© Ann Kennedy Smith, Slightly Foxed: The Real Reader’s Quarterly, Issue 58, Summer 2018.

This article first appeared in Slightly Foxed: The Real Reader’s Quarterly, Issue 58, Summer 2018.

The independent-minded quarterly that combines good looks, good writing and a personal approach, Slightly Foxed introduces its readers to books that are no longer new and fashionable but have lasting appeal. Good-humoured, unpretentious and a bit eccentric, it’s more like a well-read friend than a literary magazine. Single issues from £10; annual subscriptions from £40. For more information please visit www.foxedquarterly.com

 

 

 

 

PS: Best of friends – a request

img_1916If you enjoy reading this blog, could I ask you, please, to forward a link to to a friend who might possibly be interested? I would love these Cambridge women to be out in the world more… thank you so much for reading and following, and for all of your thoughtful comments. Your support is very much appreciated.

Ann

Best of Friends: Fanny Prothero and Henry James

Non NPG Work - NPG Portrait Index

(C. W. Furse, 1898. Collection unknown; photograph © National Portrait Gallery, London)

She was, according to Henry James, “the minutest scrap of a little delicate black Celt that ever was – full of humour & humanity & curiosity & interrogation – too much interrogation”. In 1906 Fanny Prothero, 52, and her husband George Prothero, 58, the historian and editor of the Quarterly Review, took a weekend cottage in Rye in Sussex, close to where Henry James (63) lived in Lamb House. Although only part-time residents, both Protheros soon became part of James’s trusted innermost circle of friends there. However, it was with Fanny that he could talk most openly.

“James did like a yarn”, as the Irish writer John Banville wrote recently in the TLS.  “He was fortunate in having a large number of female friends who were lively, clever and inquisitive observers of the comédie humaine. It was mainly from these sharp-eyed and sharp-eared women, and most often at the dinner table, that he had many of the instances and ideas for stories that he recorded in his notebooks.” Sharp-eyed and sharp-eared as she was, Fanny Prothero was also excellent company. Over the next ten years James would write over a hundred letters to her, warmly addressing her as “Dearest Fanny” or “Best of Friends!” In 1912 he looked forward to inviting her to his new flat in Chelsea for tea “and perhaps another opium pill at (say) 4.30. Then there will be such tales to tell!”

Fanny was born Mary Francis Butcher in 1854, and grew up in County Meath, where her father was a Church of Ireland Bishop. Both of her brothers attended Trinity College in Cambridge and Fanny herself settled there in 1882 after her marriage to Prothero, a fellow of King’s College. (Caroline Jebb, who always denied being a matchmaker, was delighted to have introduced them). Fanny became good friends with Ida Darwin and in 1890 they were both invited to join the select discussion group, the Ladies’ Dining Society. In its early days at least, the group had strict rules about sticking to the set topic of the evening – champagne and personal conversations were forbidden – an approach that suited some more than others. “Fanny Prothero never really liked it,” the group’s organizer Louise Creighton recalled, ‘she at that time always wanted intimate talk with one person.”

Talking intimately was something that Fanny did very well, with both men and women. Horace Darwin, recovering from illness in 1889, told his sister Henrietta that “I honour a few ladies by allowing them to come and see me, the sprightly and vivacious Mrs Prothero and the gentle, charming and refined Mrs Sidgwick”. Fanny kept up her energetic nature well into her sixties, and when she became friends with Henry James she was useful to him in all sorts of practical ways – helping him to sort out furnishings for his London flat, finding him a reliable cook and popping into the kitchen at Lamb House to sit with her feet on a chair, chatting to his servants. “It was her way of keeping an eye on them,” James’s biographer Leon Edel writes – it seems likely that it was also because she was so interested in other people. She was as good at listening as she was at talking, although in 1913 Henry James confessed to his sister-in-law that Fanny’s vivid interest in what he was saying occasionally irritated him.

She has a tiresome little Irish habit (it gives at last on one’s nerves) of putting all her responses (equally), at first, in the form of interrogative surprise, so that one at first thinks one must repeat and insist on what one has said… It is her only vice!

When the First World War broke out in August 1914, both Henry James and Fanny (now Lady Prothero) threw themselves into charitable work for Belgian refugees and visiting wounded soldiers in hospital. By now, though, he was increasingly struck down by bouts of poor health, and Fanny became his devoted nurse. “She is as wonderful as ever in her indefatigability,” a grateful James told his niece Peggy on 1st December 1915. It was the last letter that he would ever write. The next morning, as he was dressing, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to the floor. Although the doctor described it as a minor stroke, it seems that James had a premonition that his death was imminent. Later that day, he told Fanny that as he fell, he heard a voice distinctly say, “So here it is at last, the distinguished thing!” He knew that she would want to hear all about it: it was quite a tale to tell.

Ann Kennedy Smith, May 2018 (all rights reserved)

Sources: I am delighted that my entry on ‘ The Ladies Dining Society’ is now included in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (May 2018 update).

Henry James letters:  Dear munificent friends: Henry James’s letters to four women, ed. Susan E. Gunter (1999) 192, 228, 193; Horace Darwin, Cambridge University Library archives, Add. 9368.1.5204; Leon Edel, Henry James, A Life (1987); “So here it is at last…” Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance (1934)

Helen Gladstone, dutiful daughter

At about 20 minutes to 12 the body was brought out of the Chapel of St. Faith, through the Chapter-house vestibule, into the west cloister, and the procession was formed. The coffin was covered with a black velvet pall edged with white silk. On it were laid many wreaths of beautiful white flowers… (‘The funeral of Mr Darwin’, The Times, 27 April 1882)

Helen-Gladstone

On Wednesday 26 April 1882, thirty-two year old Helen Gladstone attended the funeral of Charles Darwin at Westminster Abbey. She went in the place of her father, Prime Minister William Gladstone, who was busy that day giving a speech on the Irish question, she told her friend Ida Darwin. It was true that this was a time of crisis for the government: increasing political violence in Ireland had led to secret negotiations that, two weeks later, would see the Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell released early from Kilmainham Gaol. But there may have been other, more tactical reasons for Gladstone’s absence that day. As a leading light in the Church of England, it might have been seen as inappropriate for him to attend the funeral of a great naturalist whose theory of natural evolution had nothing to do with God.

“Rather a tall person, in black” was Helen Gladstone’s typically diffident description of herself, which, according to one former student of hers, was “not at all suggestive of that vivid and compelling personality with its alert and vigorous carriage and striking distinction of features and expression”. She was 28 when she moved to Cambridge to study at Newnham Hall (later Newnham College), the oldest of 25 students there. At first she worried that she was neglecting her “home duties” by choosing to study, but told herself that her presence in Cambridge would help to break down prejudices about women’s colleges. “The fact of a daughter of Papa… being sent here ought to have a good influence”, she wrote.

Gladstone himself was not in favour of higher education for women, but he made an exception in his youngest daughter’s case. Of all his seven surviving children, Helen was thought to resemble him most, and he often found his way into her thoughts and conversations: “certainly one could not be ten minutes in her company without knowing that he was her father”, a Newnham student commented years later.

Indeed I think one of the things that kept her such a very “unmarried” person was her ingrained attitude of daughter. This went beyond her earthly father, through to God.

Helen was deeply religious, and regularly attended services at Selwyn College – her family donated generously towards building the new chapel – as Newnham had no religious affiliation. She had intended only to stay in Cambridge for a year, but ended up studying for three years, and took the higher local examination in political economy. After finishing her studies she became secretary to the Principal, Nora Sidgwick, and in January 1882 she accepted the post of Vice-Principal of Newnham, with her father’s blessing.

She met Charles and Emma Darwin for the first time less than two years previously, introduced by Horace, Darwin’s youngest son. He and his wife Ida had moved to Cambridge after their marriage in January and were both active supporters of the new college at Newnham. When Charles and Emma came to Cambridge in August 1880 on their first visit to see Horace and Ida, they were introduced to their new friend Helen Gladstone. They all got on famously, so much so that Helen was invited to the Darwins’ family home in Kent the following summer. She was a little nervous at the prospect of being a guest at Down House, and asked Ida, who was also going to be there, to take her under her wing. They all met up again in Cambridge in October that year.

Charles Darwin’s death six months later came as a shock, and Helen grieved for the family. Her attendance at his funeral in Westminster Abbey was a more sincere expression of sorrow than her father’s would have been. Darwin was buried in the north aisle of the nave of the Abbey, not far from Isaac Newton, and the Times reported a long list of the names of distinguished, and mostly male, guests. Ida Darwin stayed at Down House to comfort Emma, who could not bring herself to attend the grand occasion.

In 1886 Helen was offered the post of Principal of the new Royal Holloway College for women in London. William Gladstone was deeply proud of his daughter’s achievements despite his continuing opposition to the “invasion” of women students at Oxford. He wrote her a heartfelt letter urging her to accept the position.

Your life has a distinct purpose. After all we have heard and seen, there can be no doubt that you have upon you the marks of a distinct vocation. The call is from on high and I really do not think you have a right to overlook, or not to follow the marks of it…

Helen was touched by her father’s tribute to her work as a God-given vocation, but, after much thought, she decided that her “home duties” were more important and that the work at Holloway would be too demanding. She stayed on as Vice-Principal of Newnham for another ten years.

In 1896, before she gave up her job to take care of her ageing parents at Hawarden, she asked her father to sign an official memorial calling for women to be granted degrees “in some form” at Cambridge University. There is no evidence that Gladstone ever signed it, but in any case the memorial was heavily defeated, and it would be another fifty years before women were admitted to degrees at Cambridge. For Helen Gladstone, it was perhaps enough to feel she could expect her father’s support.

© Ann Kennedy Smith, 26 April 2018

Photograph of Helen Gladstone by Barraud; reproduced with permission of the National Portrait Gallery, London.

Sources Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; Anne Isba, Gladstone and Women (Hambledon Continuum, 2006);Newnham College Roll ‘Letter’ Jan 1926; Janet Browne, Charles Darwin: The Power of Place (Pimlico, 2002); Emma Darwin’s diaries 242:44-7 and Ida Darwin’s Papers (Cambridge University Library); BBC Witness (9 mins, accessed 25/4/18). With thanks to CUL Manuscripts; Anne Thomson, Newnham College archivist; Elizabeth Stratton, Selwyn College archivist.