Principles into practice: Millicent Fawcett

Millicent FAwcettLast month, the London Mayor Sadiq Khan announced that a statue of Millicent Fawcett by the Turner prize-winning artist Gillian Wearing will be erected on Parliament Square in 2018, in time for the celebrations marking 100 years since women first secured the right to vote. Millicent Garrett Fawcett was just nineteen when she organized the first petition for women’s suffrage in 1866, even though she was too young to sign it herself. Looking back at her life in later years, she found it hard to say at what age she decided that her life would be dedicated to the fight for women’s rights. “I cannot say I became a suffragist”, she wrote. “I always was one, from the time I was old enough to think at all about the principles of Representative Government”.

One of the principles of ‘representative government’ currently under debate is how it can adapt and become a more accurate reflection of British society. The Fawcett Society, which continues the work begun by Millicent Fawcett 150 years ago and today campaigns for gender equality and women’s rights, is currently supporting the possibility of two people sharing the job of MP, as discussed in a recent article in the Huffington Post. This would enable more parents with children, carers, and disabled people to be elected (there is a marked ‘motherhood gap’ in the Commons and there are only six disabled MPs). Job-sharing for MPs is an idea supported by a range of cross-party MPs including Caroline Lucas, Dame Margaret Hodge, Sarah Wollaston and Tom Brake, who are convinced that it would help to make parliament more plural and progressive by enabling a wider range of voices to take part in debates.

Last month I went to the House of Commons to attend a committee meeting organized by the Fawcett Society. The discussion was held on the first day after the summer recess, and the high-ceilinged lobbies and halls of Westminster echoed with the shouts and laughter of MPs and others catching up with old friends and colleagues. As I walked along the oak-panelled corridor leading to the committee room, a group of dark-suited men strode by, and it was hard not to be reminded of confident senior prefects at a boys’ boarding school.

The meeting room, with its red flock wallpaper and vivid red and green carpet, was quieter, and overlooked a rainy Thames river. The host was Heather Stewart, herself a job-sharing pioneer as Political Editor of The Guardian with Anushka Asthana. The event marked the launch of the Fawcett Society pamphlet Open House? Reflections on the Possibility and Practice of MPs Job-sharing, available as a free download here. The editors of the publication, Prof Rosie Campbell and Prof Sarah Childs (both Birkbeck) were present, and discussed how their research demonstrated how MPs job-sharing could help to address, if not entirely overcome, the existing representational deficiencies in the UK House of Commons.

Also present was Clare Phipps, whose 2015 bid to stand for the Green Party, as a job-share with Sarah Cope, was rejected by Basingstoke. They took the matter to the High Court, but were not permitted to proceed with the case because the judge felt that the decision involved “important practical repercussions which this court is not equipped to evaluate”. So the responsibility was passed back to Parliament to decide how job-sharing would be done.

The House of Commons does not adapt to change easily, and there is resistance to the idea, perhaps because of the practical issues involved (although it is notable that the majority of objectors are male). “Not long ago there was a shooting range here,” Rosie Campbell reminded us. “A crèche was only introduced in 2010.” Many cite the idea as unworkable, but as Sam Smethers, the head of the Fawcett Society, pointed out at the meeting, many MPs already have other roles such as being a minister or work in another profession outside Parliament: “Stretching one person into several roles seems to me to be more challenging in terms of their performance than dividing up that role between two people.” There is plenty of evidence that job-sharing among high positions can work, and others at the meeting shared their own positive experiences.

800px-Henry_Fawcett;_Dame_Millicent_Garrett_Fawcett_(née_Garrett)_by_Ford_Madox_Brown

Sam Smethers gave a historical example of one inspiring job-sharing couple: Millicent Fawcett and her husband Henry. Henry Fawcett was a Liberal MP as well as the Professor of Political Economy at Cambridge University. Millicent Garrett was just eighteen when they met; he was 14 years older than her and completely blind, but they had a “perfect intellectual sympathy” according to Millicent’s biographer. While she was ‘his eyes’, helping him with his work, Henry Fawcett also encouraged Millicent’s own budding writing and public speaking career as a suffragist. They worked together as a team, jointly dealing with practical matters as job-sharers do, although Ford Madox Brown gives their relationship a rather more sentimental aspect in his 1872 double portrait, seen here.

Next year Millicent Fawcett’s statue will be the first woman among the eleven men already present in Parliament Square. It’s a long-overdue recognition of her lifetime’s work dedicated to giving women a voice in the democratic process. Meanwhile, the process of enabling more diversity within Parliament itself continues. As Sam Smethers says, “Let’s move on to discussing how we can make this work.”

Ann Kennedy Smith October 2017 (all rights reserved). 

Notes: “I cannot say I became a suffragist…” in ‘Dame Millicent Garrett Fawcett’ by Janet Howarth in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; David Rubinstein, A different world for women: the life of Millicent Garrett Fawcett (1991); The Fawcett Society at http://www.fawcett.org.uk; Ford Madox Ford’s portrait is at the National Portrait Gallery, London.

Advertisements

Ida, Lily and Eddie

On Ida Darwin’s friendship as a young woman with the governess Lily Whichelo and an aspiring architect, Edward Forster.

Ida Darwin was born Emma Cecilia Farrer in London in 1854: she was always known as Ida. Her father Thomas (later Lord) Farrer was a wealthy and influential civil servant whose interest in plant breeding led to his friendship with the great scientist Charles Darwin. Her mother Frances (née Erskine) was a gifted singer who died when Ida was fifteen. Four years later, in 1874, Lily Whichelo came to work for the Farrer family as a ‘nursery governess’, teaching Ida’s younger brother Noel. Lily, 19, came from a large, lower-middle-class family in London. After her drawing master father died, she had been taken under the wing of a wealthy, unmarried woman called Marianne Thornton who attended the same church, Holy Trinity on Clapham Common, as her family. Thanks to Marianne, Lily had spent a year at an expensive finishing school in Brighton, where she gained social assurance and the chance to be a governess in well-connected circles.

Lily was a charming and intelligent young woman, and she was welcomed into the Farrers’ social circles. She and Ida became close friends, sharing a lively interest in books, music (Lily played the piano; Ida sang, like her mother) and the current debates about feminism and women’s access to higher education. They were the same age, although because Ida was three months older, Lily jokingly called her ‘Grandmother’ and asked her for advice. The Farrers divided their time between their mansion overlooking Hyde Park and their country house at Abinger in Surrey, and Lily went with them, apart from occasional visits home to her mother’s boarding house in West Kensington. Marianne’s nephew Edward Forster was a family friend and a frequent visitor to Abinger Hall. Eddie was a bright, ambitious young trainee architect who worked for Arthur Blomfield in London and had a biting, sardonic wit. He, Ida and Lily spent much time together: walking over the hills on the Abinger estate, sitting by the fire after dinner, talking and making each other laugh.

In June 1876 Lily left her position at the Farrers. Noel would be going away to Eton soon, and she had decided to become a daily governess in London and live, not at home with her mother and younger siblings, but independently in lodgings in Clapham. Ida knew that Lily took the profession of being a governess seriously, and valued her independence, something that Ida herself may well have envied. Her higher social position meant that she was expected to live at home until she married, and could not pursue a career or attend one of the new women’s colleges in Oxford and Cambridge as she longed to do.

In September Lily started teaching for two London families, the Rollers and the Knowles, travelling back to her mother’s house each day for lunch. She asked Ida for advice about how she should teach girls of different ages together, help them with their appalling French and which textbooks she should buy to correct their lack of knowledge. Lily did not get on well with her first landlady, so was persuaded by her friend Maimie Synnot, the widow of Marianne Thornton’s nephew Inglis, to come and live with her in her spacious terraced house on the new Lillieshall Road in Clapham. Maimie was kind, gentle and devoutly religious and Lily was very fond of her. They spent their evenings together playing the piano, sewing bonnets for ‘paupers’ and discussing Temperance matters, Lily told Ida. A life of good works, governessing, and sisterly sainthood seemed assured.

Their evenings were more lively when Eddie Forster came to call. He had recently qualified as an architect and was drawing up plans for his first commission, a cottage for his sister Laura on the Farrer estate at Abinger. He had been close to his cousin Inglis, and he presented Maimie with a house-warming gift: an ornately carved, tall oak mantelpiece that combined the then fashionable Victorian ‘Gothic revival’ style with ideas Eddie had borrowed from the churches he had visited and sketched on his frequent visits to Italy. In November Eddie and Lily called on Ida at the Farrers’ house overlooking Hyde Park to tell her that they had become engaged. Lily was incandescent with happiness and Ida was delighted at the prospect of seeing her friend more often now that she would be the wife of someone from a higher social class. Lily and Eddie married in London in January 1877, before setting off on what would turn out to be a rather unhappy honeymoon on a bitterly cold and windswept Isle of Wight.

On their wedding certificate under ‘rank or profession’, where Eddie has put ‘architect’ Lily has left hers blank. No longer being a governess was an indication of Lily’s enhanced social status as a married woman, but it also marked the end of something: her precious and long-held independence.

By Ann Kennedy Smith (all rights reserved)

There is a photograph of the 1876 mantelpiece in my short article ‘Room with a view’ about the mantelpiece’s lifelong significance to Eddie’s and Lily’s son, the writer E.M. Forster. It appears in this week’s Times Literary Supplement, 28 July 2017.

For more about Lily, see the King’s College archive at http://www.kings.cam.ac.uk/archive-centre/exhibition/alice-clara-lily-forster.

The ascent of women at Cambridge

 

9781107158863When women were given the right to take examinations at Cambridge University in February 1881 Charles Darwin, aged 72, rejoiced. ‘You will have heard of the triumph of the Ladies at Cambridge’, he wrote from his home in Kent to his son George. ‘Horace was sent to the Lady’s [sic] College to communicate the success & was received with enthusiasm.’ Darwin is not usually celebrated for his feminist sympathies. In Descent of Man (1871) he stated that ‘the average standard of mental power in man must be above that of women’. As Dame Gillian Beer writesin regard to women Darwin ‘failed to observe in this one field the pressures of environment that were elsewhere fundamental to his arguments.’ She has contributed the foreword to a revealing new book, Darwin and Women by Samantha Evans (my review of it is here). This selection of lively letters from the team behind the Cambridge Darwin Correspondence Project shines light on many of the remarkable women with whom Darwin corresponded with interest and intellectual involvement over his lifetime.

Many of the women scientists, journalists and writers who wrote to the great scientist were involved in the promotion of women’s education. Although Darwin’s daughters Henrietta and Elizabeth (Bessy) did not have the opportunity to enrol at the new women’s colleges at Oxford and Cambridge, they attended lectures at London University and shared a keen interest in education with their friends. ‘Women in their circle, even without raising any particular banner, were extraordinarily active’, Evans writes, ‘they learnt mathematics and physics; they hired tutors; they took examinations; they watched debates in the House of Commons from the ladies’ gallery; they attended university lectures if they were open to women.’ Darwin’s daughter-in-law Ida Darwin (married to Horace) was a keen supporter of Newnham, the ‘Lady’s College’ that Darwin refers to, and a future daughter-in-law, Ellen Crofts Darwin, studied and lectured there.

The ‘triumph of the ladies’ at Cambridge in 1881 was short-lived. Although women had won the right to sit for final exams, there was to be no membership of the university, no degrees and not even the right to attend lectures for many years to come.

Forgotten friendships

My review of A Secret Sisterhood: The Hidden Friendships of Austen, Brontë, Eliot and Woolf by Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney (Aurum Press, 2017)

41Gz6fqjyrL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_

What is it about women’s friendships that makes them inherently suspect? ‘“The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know,”‘ says the flighty Isabella Thorpe to Catherine Morland in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Unfortunately in this case the men are proved right, but Catherine will instead go on to form a lasting connection with Eleanor Tilney. Her realization of this friendship’s importance to her brings its own problems when it comes to writing a letter. ‘The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen,’ the narrator notes, ‘never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney.’

Letters between friends and complex relationships feature largely in A Secret Sisterhood by Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney, who are friends and writers as well as teachers at New York University’s London campus. The value that both place on their own long-standing friendship as writers made them curious about why, as they put it, ‘misleading myths of isolation’ have grown up around women writers of the past. Why do we celebrate the riotous friendships of male writers and poets, but prefer to see our great women writers of the past as solitary and secluded figures? In this sparkling new book, structured in four separate, page-turning stories, Midorikawa and Sweeney energetically sweep away the dusty myths and throw light on real-life literary collaborations: Jane Austen and her niece’s governess Anne Sharp, an amateur playwright; Charlotte Brontë and her childhood friend, the radical novelist Mary Taylor; George Eliot and the American author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe; Virginia Woolf and the short-story writer Katherine Mansfield.

Considering the fame of Austen, Brontë, Eliot and Woolf, it is surprising, to say the least, that these notable literary collaborations have not been examined in any depth until now. Paradoxically, the authors’ iconic status may be partly responsible. As Margaret Atwood comments in her illuminating preface, after people become famous, ‘their images tend to congeal. They become engravings of themselves’. Nowhere is this more evident than in the case of Jane Austen, whose descendants were keen to preserve a carefully curated image of her as a ‘genteel’ spinster who was decorously indifferent to worldly success. We now know, of course, how ambitious Austen was, and Midorikawa and Sweeney show her actively cultivating a friendship with Anne Sharp, her niece’s governess, the only other woman writer she knew. Sharp’s own circumstances of having to earn a living as a governess meant that she would never become a published writer herself,  but her astute critical judgment was so valued by Austen that she sent Sharp a precious presentation copy of Emma, rather than give it to her brother. However, because of the class differences involved, this important literary friendship was ‘actively whitewashed’ by Austen’s family in the official version of her life, and almost all of the two friends’ correspondence was destroyed.

By contrast, Elizabeth Gaskell sought out the recollections of the independent-minded Mary Taylor, Charlotte Brontë’s lifelong friend, to use in her biography of the writer. Taylor was an adventurous traveller who had continued to correspond with Brontë after moving to New Zealand, and in her letters she encouraged her to make her novels more political. After Brontë’s early death in 1855, Taylor wanted to make public their shared rage at how women’s talents were stifled by society’s expectations, but in her Life Gaskell chose instead to stage-manage Charlotte Brontë’s image and present her as a saintly, patient figure, “a lesson in duty and self reliance” as George Henry Lewes approvingly put it. This did not reflect the politicised, fiercely independent woman Mary Taylor knew, and she ended up pouring her feelings into a feminist novel, Miss Miles, that was published in 1890, and was a passionate protest against the life Charlotte Brontë and other dutiful daughters were expected to live.

George Eliot and Harriet Beecher Stowe never met, but the two most celebrated living female authors established a warm international friendship via an eleven-year long correspondence. They had striking differences of opinion at times – such as Beecher Stowe’s enthusiastic conviction that she was able to talk to Charlotte Brontë beyond the grave – but the more sceptical George Eliot nevertheless appreciated the American’s honest critique of her work. It was ‘a hand stretched forth’ across the Atlantic by one woman writer to another, and the chance for both women to find an unlikely kindred spirit.

Virginia Woolf was, Katherine Mansfield wrote, “the only woman with whom I long to talk work. There will never be another.” The sparky friendship which sprang up between the two writers in 1917 was subject to occasional rivalries and misunderstandings as the two ambitious women competed to be the leading fiction writer of their time. “Damn Katherine!,” wrote Woolf after E.M. Forster had praised them both, “why can’t I be the only woman who knows how to write?” However, Mansfield helped to push Woolf to find experimental new forms for her novels, and their complicated friendship had a lasting influence.

Through their own considerable skill as writers, Midorikawa and Sweeney immerse us in the very different worlds these women inhabited. Reading the stories, we feel as if we had stepped into an elegant drawing room at Godmersham Park, climbed a windy hill in New Zealand or squeezed ourselves into a cramped bedsit in bohemian Chelsea. A Secret Sisterhood vividly  – but never preachily – illustrates how difficult it was for female writers to make their voices heard, by showing us the precarious existence of the governess, the ever-present domestic responsibilities and family duties, and having to conform to society’s strict expectations of women’s roles. For Austen, Brontë, Eliot and Woolf, it was their friendship with another woman who wrote (often the only one they knew) that sustained them through dark times, buoyed them up or challenged them to fresh creativity.

This scrupulously researched and engaging book shows how rare and influential such friendships were. Midorikawa and Sweeney have questioned long-held assumptions about female writers, and unearthed new evidence in the form of letters and diaries to reveal for the first time how significant these sisterly connections were to the women involved. Like Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey writing to Eleanor Tilney, they knew that the words that they exchanged mattered.

Emily Midorikawa and Emma Claire Sweeney’s blog Something Rhymed celebrates many other female literary friendships.

Light and shade: Louise Creighton (1850–1936)

louise_creighton1024Oxford 1871-75:  ‘Nobody,’ said Ruskin, ‘will believe that the main virtue of Turner is in his drawing’. The Oxford professor and author of Modern Painters was discussing ‘Light and Shade’ in a public lecture on art on a Thursday afternoon in Oxford, 9 February 1871. He told his audience, packed into the Sheldonian theatre, that he was convinced that J.M.W. Turner’s genius as an artist lay in his skills as a draughtsman rather than as a colourist. One young woman in the audience who hung on Ruskin’s every word was twenty-year-old Louise von Glehn from London. She was visiting Oxford for the first time and passionate about art: Ruskin was, she told her friends, her prophet. It was ironic that at his lecture on the virtues of monochrome, Louise had chosen to wear a striking yellow scarf. It caught the eye of Mandell Creighton, a tall, art-loving 27-year-old don. He asked to be introduced to the ‘girl who has the courage to wear yellow’, and she was instantly struck by his self-confidence and brilliant, witty conversation. ‘How dull everyone else has seemed to me in comparison,’ she later wrote. Soon afterwards they became engaged.

170px-Mandell_Creighton_aged_27According to ancient university statutes at Oxford, fellows were not permitted to marry, but Merton College made an exception in Creighton’s case: they did not want to lose this gifted teacher and scholar who, unusually for an intellectual of that time, had recently taken religious orders. Louise and Mandell (or ‘Max’ as she always called him) married in January 1872 and settled in a modern villa in St Giles, Oxford, which they named ‘Middlemarch’ after George Eliot’s novel. They gave their artistic tastes free rein in their new home, decorating the drawing-room with Burne-Jones prints, old oak furniture, a blue carpet and the yellow wallpaper they both loved. Louise and Mandell adored each other with a passion, but from the beginning it was a stormy relationship. Charming and witty in public, he was frequently critical and demanding at home, and ‘not the sort of husband who overlooks one’s faults’, she told her sister three months after her wedding, adding that ‘nothing could be better for me.’ She was never afraid to take issue with him, although she always preferred it when they came to an agreement. Her friend Bertha Johnson painted her portrait at this time, looking soulful against a Morris-like trellis of roses, but Louise was no wistful pre-Raphaelite heroine. In contrast to Mandell, she had a brusque, direct manner that some people found rather alarming.

She would have loved the chance to study at university herself. Before moving to Oxford she had taken London University’s first higher examination for women, and passed with honours: ‘had circumstances permitted it,’ she wrote later, ‘I might have become a real grubbing student’. Circumstances did not permit it because London was an all-male university until 1878. Cambridge had just begun to accept its first women students, however, and Louise and a group of like-minded women, including her friends Mary Augusta Ward and Clara Pater, decided that Oxford University needed to catch up. In 1873 they helped to set up a committee to organize the first women’s lectures and classes at the university, and in 1877 this became the Association for the Higher Education of Women. It led to the founding of Oxford’s earliest women’s colleges, St Margaret’s Hall (1878) and Somerville (1879).

170px-LouiseCreightonB

Cambridge 1884-91: From 1875 until 1884 the Creightons lived in Embleton, Northumberland where Mandell Creighton took up the post of country vicar and worked on the first volumes of his extensive papal history. Louise combined caring for, and home-educating, their six children with her own writing of a series of popular history books. In 1884 Mandell accepted the offer of the first professorship of ecclesiastical history at Cambridge, and the family and their servants decamped to a rented house on the edge of the city, where their seventh child was born. Louise was happy to be able to socialize with the new generation of university wives, and in her characteristically forthright way she decided that she would make particular friends with Kathleen Lyttelton. Kathleen and Louise had much in common: they were both published writers who were married to ambitious academic clergymen, and they shared a strong interest in social work. Their friendship became closer when they both became involved in establishing the National Union of Women Workers (now National Council of Women), a non-political organization aimed at supporting working women in their domestic lives. Louise became its first president.

She had stayed in touch with her Oxford friends Clara Pater, by now classics tutor at Somerville College (years later she privately taught Virginia Woolf) and Mary Ward, who as ‘Mrs Humphry Ward’ was achieving modest success as a writer. This all changed and Mary became famous when her novel about a doubting cleric, Robert Elsmere, was published in 1888; it was an immediate bestseller and Gladstone wrote a long review of it in the literary journal The Nineteenth Century. The journal’s canny editor J.T. Knowles, keen to boost circulation figures, suggested that Mary Ward could use her celebrity status to organize an anti-suffrage manifesto. She asked Louise for help, and together they gathered the signatures of 104 well-known women for a petition that was published in the June 1889 issue of The Nineteenth Century. The petition was scathingly attacked in the following issue by the influential suffragists Millicent Fawcett and Emilia Dilke, and in Cambridge the strongly pro-suffrage Kathleen Lyttelton was distressed by her friend’s anti-suffrage stance. Louise stayed firm, however, and in August The Nineteenth Century published her six-page ‘Rejoinder’, stating her belief that a wife was ‘purer, nobler, more unselfish’ than her husband and that giving the vote to women would ‘lower the ideal of womanhood among men’. She signed it ‘Louise Creighton’: it was her first step onto the national stage, and it made her famous. Later she regretted her involvement in the controversial manifesto, saying simply ‘I think this was a mistake on my part.’

The following year Louise and Kathleen asked a small group of their Cambridge friends to form a ladies’ dining and discussion club. It was so successful that they decided to meet twice a term, and continued to do so until 1914. The Creightons left Cambridge in 1891 when Mandell accepted a bishopric at Peterborough, but Louise never left the club; she travelled back to Cambridge for their meetings, or invited them to the bishop’s palace at Peterborough, and later Lambeth Palace.

800px-Mandell_Creighton_by_Sir_Hubert_von_HerkomerLondon 1904-6:  Mandell Creighton, Bishop of London, died age 57 in January 1901, just days before the death of Queen Victoria. Louise was overcome with grief at the loss of her husband, but pragmatic. She moved to a ‘grace and favour’ apartment at Hampton Court and set about writing her Life and Letters of Mandell Creighton, which was published in two volumes in 1904 and widely acclaimed as one of the best biographies of its time. Then there were several volumes of Mandell’s speeches and writings to edit and publish. It was as if everything she did was to establish his future reputation and ensure that this brilliant and complex man was understood.

At the 1906 conference of the National Union of Women Workers held at Tunbridge Wells, Louise stood on the platform and made an announcement. She told her audience that she had changed her mind about women’s suffrage, and from now on would support the parliamentary campaign for women to have the vote. Mary Ward was furious when she heard this, and tried to talk her friend round, but Louise was once again resolute. In 1908 Mary agreed to head the ‘Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League’. Her campaign helped to delay the vote for several more years, and ensured that Mrs Humphry Ward is today remembered less for her novels and significant contribution to women’s education and childcare provision, than for standing in the way of equal rights. Or (a worse fate for a woman who so loved controversy) simply forgotten, as John Sutherland has said.

Privately, Louise worried that people would think it was Mandell’s death that had allowed her to express her feminist opinions freely for the first time. Was there not some truth in this? In her unpublished memoir she considers the question as carefully as if Max had turned his penetrating eyes on her. ‘I certainly should not after he was a bishop or indeed at any time’ she wrote, ‘have taken up a line opposed to him in any public opinion… I do not think he was at all strongly opposed to female suffrage at any time.’ But she sounds hesitant, as if she was asking herself whether her wifely loyalty and love for Max had occasionally been in conflict with her own beliefs and saying what she thought. As Ruskin said, there was light and shade in everything.

Philpot,_Glyn_Warren;_Louise_Creighton,_Wife_of_Mandell_Creighton,_Bishop_of_London;_Lambeth_Palace

Louise continued to write, publishing history books, biographies and a treatise on venereal disease. She served on two Royal Commissions, gave lectures at the London School of Economics and as a moderate Christian feminist, worked hard to reconcile liberal and conservative factions in the Anglican Church. Her biographer noted: ‘In her later life she pondered the question of the priesthood of women. She recognized that her opposition to it was rooted in instinct and prejudice, and she could find no logical reason against it.’ In 1927 she moved back to Oxford and served on the governing body of Lady Margaret Hall for the rest of her life.

Ann Kennedy Smith

Sources: James Thayne Covert, ‘Creighton, Louise Hume (1850–1936)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004 and A Victorian marriage: Mandell and Louise Creighton (2000) Louise Creighton, Life and letters of Mandell Creighton, 2 vols. (1904); Memoir of a Victorian woman: reflections of Louise Creighton, 1850–1936, edited by J. T. Covert (1994)

 

Writing Lives: the Jebb marriage

Richard_Claverhouse_Jebb MP, known as 'Ajax'. Vanity Fair, 1904

Bacchylides was of placid temper; amiably tolerant; satisfied with a modest lot; not free from some tinge of that pensive melancholy which was peculiarly Ionian’ (‘The Life of Bacchylides’, Richard Claverhouse Jebb, 1905)

In 1905 Cambridge University Press published the first English translation of poems by Bacchylides, with an introductory essay about the Greek lyric poet’s life. The author and translator, Sir Richard Claverhouse Jebb, was considered by many to be the most brilliant classical scholar of his time, and his seven-volume edition of Sophocles was widely celebrated. He was Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge University and its Member of Parliament  (where he was nicknamed ‘Ajax’ after Sophocles’s tragic hero); he accepted a British knighthood in 1900, and was appointed to the Order of Merit in June 1905. A month later he and a group of academics sailed to South Africa with the British Association to promote its scientific and literary work. It was an exhausting and demanding lecture tour, and Richard’s health was not strong. He returned to Cambridge in October with a high fever, and died on 9 December 1905 at the age of sixty-four.

13 December 1905, Wednesday. Funeral. Sunshine through a veil of mist… Ah, my dearest.’ (Diary of Caroline Jebb)

Richard’s death came as a shock to his American wife Caroline Jebb, then sixty-five, but her next move was obvious: she would write her husband’s biography. In this she was following in the footsteps of two of her friends, both members of her ladies’ dining club. Louise Creighton’s two-volume biography of Mandell Creighton, published in 1904, was praised by many, including Lytton Strachey. Eleanor (Nora) Sidgwick was busy co-authoring a memoir of her husband Henry, who had died in 1900. In January 1906 Caroline set to work. Richard had done much of the preparation for her already, having compiled scrapbooks in which he pasted letters, reviews, excerpts from his speeches and newspaper cuttings about himself. All she had to do was to choose what to include.

Weighty biographies of great men were plentiful throughout the nineteenth century, and in many cases they were written by people who were close to their subjects, such as a wife, sibling, son or daughter. This presented the home-grown biographer with a paradox. The ideal biography was, it was believed, conscientious in its gathering of documents and deeply respectful in tone. It should be heavy on its subject’s achievements, and light on their personal failings. Undignified anecdotes were avoided, and most of all, the biographer’s own personality and feelings should be suppressed at all times.

‘Read no history: nothing but biography, for that is life without theory’ Disraeli, 1832

To modern readers, the apparently respectful, authoritative ‘Lives‘ that fill the library’s dustier shelves reveal, on closer inspection, interesting hidden narratives about the people who wrote them. Mandell Creighton’s biography was written partly to defend his posthumous reputation from his critics and yet, almost accidentally, his widow lets slip his shortcomings as husband and father. Although Eleanor Sidgwick seems to choose humble self-effacement in her memoir of her husband (by never directly referring to herself), her absence only reinforces the reader’s sense of her supreme self-confidence in the central role she played in their shared life and work towards women’s education in Cambridge.

From her family letters we know that Caroline Jebb was a discerning and enthusiastic reader of literary biographies, and she was influenced by Leslie Stephen, the Dictionary of National Biography’s first editor and, until his death in 1904, a friend of both Jebbs. Like Stephen, she wanted to avoid what Thomas Carlyle called a ‘Dryasdust’ approach to biography, in which the traditional biographer was at pains to present his or her subject in the most reverential light. J.A. Froude’s edition of Carlyle’s posthumous Reminiscences (1881) was criticized for being too revealing about the Carlyles’ unhappy marriage, but Caroline found it fascinating. ‘I can’t help thinking Froude must have slipped in thing or two unmarked by Carlyle for publication’, she told her sister.  ‘Would I have mended his trousers while he was off amusing himself with Lady Harriet Baring? I would not.’ She had misgivings about John Cross’s ‘not altogether attractive Life’ of his famous wife but it gave her an insight into George Eliot’s ‘enormous mental industry. To read about her work took my breath away’.

In her Life and Letters of Sir Richard Claverhouse Jebb, published in 1907, Caroline did not attempt to disguise her own authorial presence or her less than perfect marriage. She places herself in the first paragraph by adding a detail that only she could know. Describing Richard’s happy childhood in County Dublin, she depicts him as a boy who was both quick-tempered and highly sensitive. ‘A look of disapproval from his mother made him miserable: to disappoint anyone who loved him was all his life intolerable to him. “Dick sorry; forgive your Dick” was a phrase not confined to childhood.’ Instantly we have an insight into the Jebbs’ marriage: his quick temper and remorse; her amused tolerance. She suppresses information about his tendency to drink too much (which contributed to his poor health), but later in the bookshe  is humorous about his inability to manage money. ‘He never knew how much he had with him, or counted his change at railway stations’ she writes. ‘It filled him with a sort of disgust when less high-minded people – his wife to wit – assumed the existence of dishonesty’.

We get the impression of a real marriage with real arguments, and a man who, for all his achievements, was not always easy to live with. As Richard himself wrote in 1905, even Bacchylides suffered from ‘pensive melancholy’ sometimes, and some people might have considered Sophocles’s Ajax to be a bad loser.

Sources: Caroline Jebb, Life and Letters of Sir Richard Claverhouse Jebb (Cambridge University Press, 1907); Mary Reed Bobbitt With Dearest Love to All: The Life and Letters of Lady Jebb (London: Faber, 1960); Oxford Dictionary of National Biography

The Dining Club, 1890

HBH18900519.2.22-a1-259w-c32

10701039Vicmarriage[1]

The husbands were left to fend for themselves for the evening. Some wandered off happily to college dinners, thinking about important matters to be discussed. Others were having solitary suppers in their studies, books piled up around them. Their wives had arranged the suppers, given instructions to cooks and servants, written letters and lists for the following day, and dressed for the evening.

Caroline Jebb glanced at her reflection and approved. Her black velvet dress set off her auburn hair and her creamy complexion seemed to glow. She could still pass for much younger than fifty, she thought. When she went to say goodbye to Richard in his study, he looked up from his papers and sighed.

‘Must you go?’

‘I must. You could still have dinner in college if you wanted to.’

‘Too much work to do here. Don’t be late, Carrisima.’

Outside, Melbourne waited by the carriage. He had squeezed into his navy blue coat and put on his top hat for the occasion. As he drove her to the Darwins’ house he told her some fascinating news about the cook’s marital problems until Maud climbed into the carriage, apologizing and explaining about children’s toothaches. Caroline shook her head impatiently.

‘Did you read the article I sent you, Maud? About this evening’s topic?’

‘Yes, well, most of it, you know. George had another bad head, so I had to sit with him, and he doesn’t like me to read. He says I rustle the pages too much.’

This was too vexing. If only Maud would follow her advice she would do quite well, Caroline thought. She was still a pretty girl, though since having children she had allowed her waist to thicken and it made her look positively matronly. She was wearing something in the new style from London, but Caroline suspected she had just come from the garden. Maud caught her look.

‘It’s real nice of Mrs Creighton to invite me, though of course, I should never have got a look-in if it hadn’t been for you, Aunt Cara.’

Caroline frowned.

‘Try not to say ‘real nice’ or ‘look-in’ when you meet Mrs Creighton, Maud, remember. That sort of language should stay in Philadelphia. Come to think of it, it might be best if you said as little as possible.’

The carriage swung into a wide driveway. The Creightons’ home was one of the newer Cambridge houses, rather square and featureless, but Louise had spent money on landscaping the garden, Caroline noted with approval. The maid showed them into a hall which had a new blue carpet on a freshly polished rosewood floor. As Louise came out to greet them, Caroline looked up to see a row of children in white nightgowns peering down at them, faces pressed against the banisters. One child said wonderingly,

‘Mama, mama! What are all these ladies doing here?’

Louise shooed them off to bed before ushering Caroline and Maud into the drawing room, explaining that she had asked the maid to prepare a fruit punch.

‘Mrs Lyttelton and I decided to have no champagne at our dinners, so that our minds are sharp for the discussion at hand,’ she explained, handing them each a glass.

The other women arrived in twos and threes, some walking, others by private carriage or rented hansom cab. A gong was sounded and they were shown into the dining room. Caroline surveyed the table. Dark-haired Ellen Darwin was whispering to her sister-in-law Ida. Louise had seated them together because Ida was good at putting Ellen at her ease. Fanny Prothero was sitting on the other side and saying little, as usual, but it was not Caroline’s job to draw anyone out this evening, thank goodness. Mary Marshall was on her left. Good, Mary always had something interesting to say. She was talking to Eleanor Sidgwick who looked flushed, her eyes shining. She loved these discussions and could not wait to address the group. Eliza von Hügel was looking gracious and spiritual, with her huge crucifix around her neck.

At the end of the table Kathleen Lyttelton shuffled a heap of papers in a business-like way. Dear me, Caroline thought, I hope she doesn’t speak for too long. Louise rang a small bell.

‘Welcome, ladies. May I introduce the topic for this evening? It is a subject which affects us all, and on which everyone here will have very different views. It is, of course, the marriage question.’

Ann Kennedy Smith

Coda: In August 1888 Mona Caird published an essay called ‘Marriage’ in the Westminster Review, stating that marriage as it existed in Victorian Britain was ‘a vexatious failure’. The Daily Telegraph took up the debate, asking its readers ‘Is Marriage A Failure?’. In the following two months over 27,000 readers replied, for and against. ‘The marriage question’, as it became known, continued to be debated in Britain throughout the 1890s. I think it is likely that Caroline Jebb and her friends would have discussed it.

Sources: Carolyn Christensen Nelson, A New Woman Reader: fiction, articles and drama of the 1890s (Letchworth: Turpin, 2001) pp.184-224.