Mystifications of Authoresses.
"Don't you think," wrote the author of "Evelina" to her sister, "there
must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over
us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress?"
For at that time little Fanny Burney, twenty-six years of age, was
enjoying such an ovation as had never before come within the experience of
woman. She had written a book which all London was reading, quoting, and
discussing admiringly without the least idea of the author's identity; and
Fanny could not meet an acquaintance, could not receive a letter, could
not attend a party of friends, without being asked, "Have you read
'Evelina'? Is it not charming?" Anonymity was in this case the cleverest
_ruse_ for an absolute enjoyment of the results of her work. One after
another her family and outside friends, from the great Dr. Johnson down,
were admitted to a share of the delightful secret. All who knew that
"Little Burney" was at the bottom of this fascinating mystery were as
eager as she herself for nattering comments and conjectures, and there
were nudgings of elbows, "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when
"Evelina" was mentioned. It would have been no wonder if the little girl's
head had been turned as she hugged her surprise and happiness to her
swelling little heart. When the murder was out, and she was _fêted_ and
honored, called to court and compelled to courtesy thankfully at the
ponderous compliments of great personages, she must have felt that the
bloom of the peach was rubbed off and the bubble of the champagne departed.
In most cases strangers may not intermeddle with the joy of authorship.
Spoken praise carries off the rose and puts a thorn in its place. One of
our famous novelists, whom we will call Brown, happened to catch sight in
a strange city of the sign, "Autographs of distinguished authors for
sale," He thought to himself he would test his own market value, and
accordingly entered the shop.
"Have you the autograph of Mr. Brown?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes."
"What is the price?" he asked.
"One for two cents, or two for three cents," was the reply.
He was in the habit of declaring afterward that he could have borne the
one for two cents, but that the two for three cents stung him bitterly.
Such is fame; and no wonder that young authoresses often begrudge a
complete surrender of their identity to the Juggernaut car of public
curiosity and criticism, and begin either anonymously or with a
pseudonyme. A masculine _nom de plume_ has of late been a favorite device
with the fair sex, partly for the reason that it is supposed to confer an
ampler ease, and partly from an idea that male writers command a readier
hearing and higher prices than female. We see a great many Henris, Georges,
and the like on the title-pages of books which are a flimsy veil to
conceal the pretty feminine figure behind.
After Miss Burney had set the fashion, women pressed boldly forward into
literary ranks, although the author of "Waverley" absorbed in a great
degree the curiosity of the reading public. Miss Austen, whose work is
destined, in the opinion of good judges, to survive with the language,
made her first venture, like the author of "Evelina," anonymously; but it
created no such furore. This was "Sense and Sensibility," published in
1811; but she had already written "Northanger Abbey" and "Pride and
Prejudice," although they were not published until years afterward. No one
supposed her to be more than an every-day bright and observant young lady.
Like other English girls of her class, it was her habit to sit in the
drawing-room with the ladies of the family after eleven o'clock each day,
ready to receive visitors. Instead of having needle-work in her hand, Jane
had a pen, which was often dropped just in the midst of one of her clear,
incisive pictures of the Woodhouses, Knightleys, and Bennets, as neighbors
who might have served for the originals of those characters were
announced. Feminine tact instantly obliterated every sign of literary
occupation: the quill was thrown aside, and her sister's canvases and
embroidery were strewn over the writing-table to cover every scrap of
paper.
The famous pseudonyme of George Sand, which seems so characteristic of the
writer, was a matter of accident. When Madame Dudevant, tired of her
domestic _rôle_, went to Paris to take up a literary career, her
mother-in-law, Baroness Dudevant, said to her, with incredulous horror,--
"Is it true that it is your intention _to print books_?"
"Yes, madame."
"Well, I call that an odd notion."
"Yes, madame."
"That is all very good and very fine; but I hope you are not going to put
the name that I bear on the _covers of printed books_."
"Oh, certainly not, madame: there is no danger."
When the publisher wanted a signature for "Indiana" which should show that
it was by one of the authors of "Rose et Blanche," which she had written
in collaboration with Sandeau under the name of Jules Sand, the author
retained the Sand and prefixed George to it as a simple and rustic title.
The Brontés when about to publish their poems took the names "Currer,
Ellis, and Acton Bell," each keeping her initials. This choice, wrote
Charlotte, was "dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming
names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves
women, because, without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing
and thinking was not what is called 'feminine,' we had a vague impression
that authoresses were likely to be looked on with prejudice." The London
"Athenaeum," which was one of the few papers that noticed the little book,
spoke of the work of the three "brothers." Even after "Jane Eyre,"
"Wuthering Heights," and "Agnes Grey" were printed, the secret of the
triple identity was jealously kept, until a vexatious tangle of their
names, and a claim from certain publishers that the three authors of the
three books were one person and that all the novels were by the author of
"Jane Eyre," roused Charlotte and Anne Bronte to the point of setting off
for London to show Smith and Elder that they were honest and fair. Up to
this time the publishers had not known whether they were women or men. "On
reaching Mr. Smith's," writes Mrs. Gaskell, "Charlotte put his own letter
into his hands,--the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at
Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. 'Where did you get this?'
said he, as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed in
black, of slight figures, looking pleased yet agitated, could be the
embodied Currer and Acton Bell for whom curiosity had been hunting so
eagerly in vain." The secret, however, was not disclosed, except to the
publishers. Until "Shirley" was published, opinion was much divided as to
the probable sex of Currer Bell, but "Shirley" was declared to be written
by a woman; and, this suggestion once started, questions of identity soon
settled themselves. Charlotte went to London again, and this time was
introduced to all the literary people in the town. It was not until her
third visit, however, that she attended a lecture of Thackeray's, and at
the close found that the audience, instead of withdrawing, had formed
themselves into two lines and drawn back to see the famous authoress as
she passed out. "During this passage through the 'cream of society,' Miss
Bronté's hand trembled to such a degree that her companion feared lest she
should turn faint and be unable to proceed." Ellis and Acton Bell were in
their early graves, and all the splendor of her fame could hardly lighten
by a breath the weight of that lonely sorrow of Charlotte.
The story of George Eliot's pseudonyme has been too recently told to
require allusion, except to point out its practical value to herself,
shielding as it did her susceptibilities,--in fact, guarding like a
chrysalis the first strivings, the flutter into full life, of that
immortal winged thing it concealed.
Several of our own female writers have chosen a masculine _nom de plume_,
and guarded it consistently, like Saxe Holm, etc. Miss Murfree is, we
believe, the first whose disguise editors as well as the general public
failed to pierce. Now that the critical faculty begins to play more surely
upon the works of Charles Egbert Craddock, it may be said that a woman's
love of romance and picturesqueness shades off into haze and unreality
some of the pictures of life which a man's experience and surer knowledge
would have made vivid by fewer and more vigorous strokes. However, as long
as she chose, Miss Murfree held her secret beyond the reach of discovery,
because nobody questioned it; her disclosure was piquant, and the state of
surprise into which she threw her admirers was so utter that the full
story of it ought to be told, although we are not empowered to tell it
here.