("JOHN STRANGE WINTER").
Emerging from the Earl's Court Station, where once stood the old manor
house of the De Veres, and glancing at the noble row of buildings across
the road, which until quite lately was the site of a _maison de sante_,
it seems impossible to realise that it was at the end of the last
century a miniature private zoological garden. Yet here the great
anatomist and surgeon, John Hunter, kept a collection of rare and
foreign animals; here, too, was the kitchen and the great cauldron in
which he performed the gruesome operation of boiling down the giant
O'Brien, whose skeleton can be seen in the museum of the College of
Surgeons. It is to be hoped that the ghost of the big Irishman was
safely laid when the work of destruction was carried on! Turning to the
left, you go down Trebovir road, past the great red-stepped house of the
well-known and successful "crammer" and army coach, Captain Pinhey,
which leads out into Nevern square. Perhaps in nothing more than in the
present style of building does the growing artistic spirit of the day
assert itself. Although the houses are not erected with the solid
masonry of other days, which seemed to defy the hand of time, they
rejoice in more picturesque effects, and certainly the handsome,
spacious Nevern-square, with its large gardens, its three well-kept
tennis courts, and its fine red-brick dwellings, is a striking instance
of the fact. It is barely a decade and a half of years since this site
was occupied by large nursery gardens, through which a winding country
lane lead to St. Mathias' Church yonder; now it is surrounded by stately
mansions, broad roads, and pleasant gardens. On the south-side a ruddy
gleam of fire-light through the red window-blinds marks the residence of
the popular author, John Strange Winter. Passing through the outer and
inner entrance doors, with mounted antlers, and Swiss carvings hung
between them, you reach the long, narrow hall, where the tesselated
black-and-white paving is covered for the most part with heavy Wilton
carpets; the rich, deep-red walls are profusely decorated with quaint
old prints, whose sombreness is relieved by Nankin and Spode china. A
later inspection shows these to include some choice engravings by
Morland, a few miniatures, and a group of family silhouettes. ("Had we
any more black relations?" Mrs. Stannard, when a child, once asked her
mother on being told which members of her family they portrayed.)
Entering the dining-room on the right, your hostess is discovered,
deeply engaged in dressing dolls for an approaching juvenile festivity,
when each little guest is to receive some gift. Clouds of filmy muslin,
embroidery, lace, and silk lie before her, and several of those already
attired repose in a row on the sofa. She extends a firm, white hand in
cordial greeting, and as there is only one more doll to complete the
set, you settle down beside her to watch the process, and notice the
deft and nimble fingers, as they swiftly run up a flounce or adjust a
tiny trimming. She is dressed in a black and grey tea-gown, which looks
like fine tapestry, with grey satin sleeves, panels, and front.
Mrs. Arthur Stannard is a tall, handsome young woman. She has fine, dark
brown eyes, which sparkle with intellect and humour, level eyebrows, and
dark hair curling over her low forehead, and well-shaped head; she has a
pretty but firm little mouth, and clear-cut chin, indicative of strength
of will. Her face has settled somewhat into gravity as she pursues her
occupation, for she has put into this apparently trivial matter, just as
she does in greater things, her very best efforts with that thoroughness
which characterises her; but as she suddenly looks up, and catches you
intently watching her, she smiles a sweet, bright smile, and laughs a
low, rippling laugh, as she seems to guess exactly what are your
thoughts. "It is for the children," she says softly, and in those few
words she betrays at once the sympathy of her nature, that sympathy with
these little ones which has caused the children of her pen to live so
vividly in the hearts of her readers.
It is a large, lofty room, pale green in colour, with carved oak dado. A
bright, clear fire blazing in the wide, tiled hearth makes the heavy,
polished brass fender and "dogs" glisten like gold. On the high, black,
carved "chimney shelf," as Mrs. Stannard calls it, stand three valuable
old blue jars, and the low, broad overmantel is composed of genuine
Dutch tiles, three hundred years in age, framed in wood. Over this is
grouped a collection of ancient blue Delft; the walls are hung with a
few good proof engravings; at night the room is amply lighted by the
huge hanging, crimson-shaded lamp, which casts a soft, becoming glow
over every corner; the floor is covered with a thick Axminster carpet of
subdued colouring, and with the exception of a handsome old carved oak
dower-chest and grandfather clock, with loud and sonorous strike, which
both date back into the last century, the rest of the furniture is
mahogany; pieces picked up here and there, restored, modernised, and
chosen with an eye to effect as well as to comfort.
Mrs. Stannard is the only daughter of the late Rev. Henry Vaughan
Palmer, rector of St. Margaret's, York. For some time Mr. Palmer had
been an officer in the Royal Artillery before his convictions led him to
lay down his sword and enter the church militant; he had come of several
generations of soldiers, and to the last day of his life found his
greatest pleasure in the society of military men; this perhaps accounts
for Mrs. Stannard's almost instinctive knowledge of army men and army
ways. Asking her if, when a child, she loved books, and gave promise of
her brilliant gift, she says, smiling, "Well, as regards my lessons,
most emphatically no! I was a restless, impatient sort of child, who
tired of everything before it was half done. I think, like all very
enthusiastic people, that I was never as happy as with books, that is to
say, novels. I was just eleven when I went to my first school, but I had
read Thackeray, Dickens, Charles Reade, and Whyte Melville up to date,
besides many others, and I was never restricted in my reading; I never
remember in my life my father or mother telling me not to read any
particular book, and," speaking very impressively, "I am all the better
for it. Years afterwards, when my father died--I was twenty-one then--I
felt that the few stories I had written and sold up to that time, were
but child's play. Then I began to work in real earnest, studying certain
authors that I might clearly realise the difference of their method and
style." But the thought at once arises, that the touching and simple
pathos of her style is entirely original, and born of no earthly model.
And then, as ofttime happens when two women are sitting together in
friendly converse, a word is dropped about her married life. Ah! here,
though much could be said, in deference to your hostess's wishes the pen
must be stayed. All who know Mr. and Mrs. Stannard know how complete and
perfect is their union. Mr. Stannard is a civil engineer, and at one
time served under the late General Gordon. He is very pardonably proud
of his clever wife, and efficiently transacts all her business
arrangements, the two--so perfect an one--working, as it were, hand in
hand.
Her _nom de guerre_, "John Strange Winter," was adopted by the advice of
the publishers of her first books, because they thought it wiser that
works so military as "Cavalry Life" and "Regimental Legends" should be
assumed by the world to be written by a man, and that they would stand a
better chance of mercy at the hands of the critics than if they went
forth as the acknowledged writing of a woman, and for a time it was so
assumed; but when "Booties' Baby" made such a success, and people wanted
to know who the author was, and where he lived, it soon became known
that "he" was a woman, although, as she did not add her name to the
title-page, it was a good while before it was generally believed. It may
here be remarked that Mrs. Stannard holds very strongly the opinion that
there should be "no sex in art," and whilst never desiring to conceal
her identity, deprecates the idea of receiving indulgence or blame on
the ground of her work being that of a woman, as both unjust and absurd.
In private life she carries out her ideas on this point so effectually
that few acquaintances would gather from her conversation (unless it
were necessary to "talk shop") that she was a literary woman at all, as,
except to a fellow worker, she would rather talk on any subject under
the sun than literature.
"The author to whom," according to Ruskin, "we owe the most finished and
faithful rendering ever yet given of the character of the British
soldier" can portray, too, in a wonderful degree the beauty of
child-life. Of modern creations there can be none better known to the
public, or which have excited more sympathy, than "Mignon" and
"Houp-la."
Correct in detail, as those can prove who were in India at the time of
the terrible mutiny of 1857, she might have written "A Siege Baby" on
the spot had it not been that she was only born on the thirteenth of
January in the previous year, and at that time was an infant in arms.
Fertile in imagination, acute in observation, sprightly and wholesome in
style, there is a freshness and life in her books which charm alike old
and young, rich and poor, at home and abroad; and that her popularity is
fully maintained is testified by the gratifying fact that a late story,
"He went for a Soldier," one of the slightest of her efforts, had a
larger sale during the first month after publication than any previous
work from her pen in the same period. One practical result of this book
must be mentioned. The scene is laid at Doverscourt, a few miles from
Mr. and Mrs. Stannard's pretty summer home at Wix. She had been greatly
distressed, when visiting that seaside place, by the sight of the
overloaded hackney-carriages, with their poor, broken-down horses.
Immediately after her indignant comments on this fact in her story,
bye-laws were passed bringing these vehicles under effective police
supervision.
Besides those already named, amongst some two or three and twenty
novels, which are all so well known as not to need description--for are
they not to be found in every library and on every railway bookstall in
the United Kingdom?--"Beautiful Jim," "Harvest," "Dinna Forget," and a
most pathetic story called "My Poor Dick," remain fixed on the memory.
This last is perhaps the author's own favourite. "Booties' Baby," as all
the play-going world knows, was dramatised and brought out four years
ago at the Globe Theatre in London. It has been on tour ever since, and
there seems no intention of terminating its long run, dates having been
booked far into the year. A late story, entitled "The Other Man's Wife,"
has been running in a serial in various newspapers, and is now issued
in two-volume form. One great element in the author's success and
world-wide literary reputation is undoubtedly to be found in her
creations of the children of her military heroes, alike among the
officers' quarters and those "on the strength." She has the happy knack
of depicting them at once simple, natural, and lovable.
"I never begin a novel," says Mrs. Stannard, "until I have got a certain
scene in my mind. I cannot write any kind of story without having one
dramatic scene clearly before me; when I have got it, I work up to that;
then the story arranges itself. But this is only the germ, the first
conception of the tale. As I write one thread after another spins itself
out, to be taken up afterwards to form a consecutive, concise whole.
Sometimes I lose my original story altogether, but never any dramatic
situation towards which I am working, and the end is often quite
different to what I had intended. When this happens I very seldom try to
fight against fate. I think all stories ought more or less to write
themselves, and it seems to me that this must make a tale more like real
life than if it were all carefully mapped out beforehand, and then
simply padded up to some requisite length."
By this time the last doll is finished and added to the row on the sofa.
They all look as if they had been turned out of a first-class milliners'
establishment. Mrs. Stannard suggests a move to her study, and leads the
way up the wide staircase, the handrail of which is protected by a broad
and heavy brass guard, put there for the sake of the little children of
the house. A broad settee on the wide conservatory landing invites you
to rest awhile and look at all the odds and ends which your hostess says
are so precious to her. Here are two handsome Chippendale chairs picked
up in Essex, many photographs of the house at Wix, a dozen pieces of
Lancashire Delph porcelain, made specially as a wedding present for Mrs.
Stannard's grandmother in 1810, some Staffordshire hunting jugs, and
some quaint little figures, "all rubbish," she says, smiling, "but
precious to me." There is, however, a Spode dinner service in blue which
is emphatically not rubbish, and a set of Oriental dishes, blue and red,
which are very effective. The landing is richly carpeted; the windows
and the doors of the conservatory are all of stained glass, while above
hangs an old Empire lamp of beautiful design filled in with small
cathedral glass. The first door on the left leads into the author's
study. It is a charming room, small but lofty, with pale blue walls hung
with many little pictures, plates, old looking-glasses, and chenille
curtains of terra-cotta and pale blue softly blended. A pretty inlaid
bookcase stands opposite the window, filled with a few well-selected
books. The horseshoe hanging yonder was cast in the Balaclava charge.
She has indeed a goodly collection of these, and owns to a weakness to
them, declaring that her first great success was achieved on the day
that she picked one up at Harrogate. There must be many hundreds of
photographs scattered about in this room, and it would be a day's
occupation to look through them all; but each has its own interest for
her, and most of them are of people well known in the literary,
scientific, artistic, and fashionable world. "I never sit here," she
says. "It is my work-room, pure and simple. Sometimes my husband comes
up, and then I read to him all my newly-written stuff, but this I do
every day."
The next door opens into the drawing-room, where there is a rich harmony
in the details of the decoration and furniture, which suggests the
presence of good and cultivated taste, combined with a general sense of
luxury and comfort. The entire colouring is blended, from old gold to
terra-cotta, from Indian red to golden brown. On the left stands a
cabinet crowded with choicest bits of china, in the middle of which is
placed the bouquet, carefully preserved, presented to the author by Mr.
Ruskin on her birthday. A lovely Dutch marqueterie table contains a
goodly collection of antique silver, and among the pictures on the walls
are a painting by Lawrence Phillips, Batley's etching of Irving and
Ellen Terry, also one of Mrs. Stannard, and a series of all the original
and clever pen-and-ink sketches in "Bootles' Children," by Bernard
Partridge, drawn as illustrations to the story in the _Lady's
Pictorial_.
After lingering long over afternoon tea, you express a wish to see the
children before they sleep. Mrs. Stannard leads the way first to a room
next her own, which is occupied by a fair little maiden, seven years of
age, with grey-blue eyes, sunny hair, and a wild-rose complexion, who
asks you to "go and see the twins." Accordingly their mother takes you
on to a large night-nursery, where the two little ones, boy and girl,
are being prepared for bed. They are just turned four, and are called
Eliot and Violet Mignon, after two of the characters in Mrs. Stannard's
books. They are perfectly friendly, and as you bend to kiss the baby
girl last, she looks reproachfully out of her great dark eyes, and
sternly commands you to "kiss Gertie, too." (Gertie is the under nurse.)
This raises a hearty laugh, under cover of which you hastily retreat.
Above all things, Mrs. Stannard is a thoroughly domestic woman. Popular
in society, constantly entertaining with great hospitality, she yet
contrives to attend to every detail of her large household, which
consequently goes like clockwork. She writes for about two hours every
morning, and keeps a neat record book, in which she duly enters the
number of pages written each day.
Presently Mr. Stannard comes in, and soon suggests an adjournment to his
study downstairs, a snug, business-like room, half filled with
despatch-boxes, books, and MSS. On a table stands a large folio-like
volume, which is Mrs. Stannard's visiting book, containing many hundreds
of names. She looks ruefully at a clip containing some sixty unanswered
letters, and candidly confesses that she finds considerable difficulty
with her private correspondence and her calls, both of which accumulate
faster than she can respond to; though, as she says, her many friends
are very indulgent to her on those scores, and are "quite willing to
make allowance for a poor woman who has the bulk of her literary work
cut out for a year or two in advance, three little children, and a
houseful of servants to manage; but, happily," she adds, "good servants.
I have been so lucky in that way."
Just now, indeed, she claims especial indulgence in respect to social
observances, for, as though so busy a life were not enough to exhaust
her energies, early in 1891 she added a new burden to her indefatigable
pen, by starting a penny weekly magazine under the title of _Golden
Gates_, subsequently altered to _Winter's Weekly_ in deference to the
opinion of those who objected to the somewhat religious sound of the
former name. The little paper was the first weekly periodical that was
ever exclusively owned, edited, and published by a popular novelist, and
its fortunes have been watched with vivid interest by all who know how
treacherous and adventuresome are such enterprises. The fresh, frank
individuality of _Winter's Weekly_ has, however, made friends for the
journal wherever it has gone, and if John Strange Winter can keep it at
its present point of unconventional interest, it may consolidate into a
valuable property. Already it seems to have suggested the publication of
new journals on similar lines, though no other woman novelist has yet
had the courage to follow suit.
Later works of this favourite writer are "Mere Luck," "My Geoff,"
"Lumley, the Painter," also a powerful and pathetic novel, in two
volumes, entitled "Only Human." Her last is a story called "A Soldier's
Children," which she has given for the benefit of the Victoria Hospital
for Children, Chelsea.
But with all this accumulation of business, these domestic cares, and
social claims, somehow Mrs. Stannard never seems in a hurry. The kind
and hospitable young couple are always ready to do an act of kindness,
and to welcome with help and counsel a new aspirant to fame in the
thorny paths of literature. Small wonder that they are so much sought
after in society, and so heartily welcomed wherever they go--and one is
seldom seen without the other. You go on your way with every hearty good
wish that each year may bring them ever-increasing prosperity and
success, for in such union there is strength.
[Illustration: Annie Hector]