fifty, still retaining traces of an exceedingly handsome youth. Married,
but separated from her husband; artistic to the finger-tips; brought up
in Italy, and loving the South; hating everything British and Philistine
and commercial; detesting the Bible and religion; she had fought her way
through social odium and disability, and then through severe illness and
suffering, till she was but the wreck (she used to say) of her former
self. Nevertheless a remarkable fire and enthusiasm still survived in
her, and though one of those natures who see everything rather violently
black or white, yet the decisive artistic quality of her mind was most
refreshing and inspiring. I have given some general account founded on
her life and character in a separate sketch.[4] Sufficient to say here
that her conversations on literature and art, her criticisms of art work
(and of my own efforts), her views on marriage, on religion—though we
disagreed a thousand times and often saw things from opposite
points—were most helpful to me. They served to liberate my mind,
corrected in many respects the native vagueness of my thought, and
certainly helped me greatly on the road to choose my own way in life. I
find a scrap of a letter from her, written during this period of my
suffering and doubt as to my continuance at Cambridge and in the Church:
“I ought not to write this morning, _caro mio_, I am too depressed. It
is terrible to me to know how you suffer. Your letter last night made me
cold to the finger-ends. One thing is clear anyhow, your present life is
intolerable, _change it you must_.... When you get away from the
depressing influence of your present life with all its worries you will
breathe and clap your hands and thank God!” It is needless to say that
my move to Italy and my preparations for abandoning Orders were things
truly after her own heart.
And now for the first time I seriously entertained the idea of taking to
literature as a profession. I saw that my Cambridge career was at an
end, and that I must do something else; and for a time (though only for
a short time) it appeared to me that I might make a living by writing.
I believe I felt that I really had something to write, that I must
write, though certainly my mind and purpose was only vague as yet; and
as to the professional side of the question, though I realized, I only
partly realized, how difficult it would be to make writing of any kind
‘pay.’ There were plenty of ‘candid friends’ however to impress _that_
upon me, and I well remember the derisive chorus of the other Fellows
which greeted (at some College meeting or other) the announcement of my
intention! I stayed at home, at Brighton, during the summer and autumn
and gathered my verses—those more careful and academic productions which
I had perpetrated in the late years—together in a volume for
publication. Of course no publisher would take the volume at his risk,
and I was content, after a few efforts, to pay the piper myself for the
pleasure of seeing the work in print, and on the chance of its leaping
to a world-wide success! The book, under the title _Narcissus, and other
Poems_, was published in November 1873, and needless to say fell
practically dead—a few notices, mostly depreciatory, in the papers, a
few copies bought by friends, and then it ceased to stir.
[Illustration:
MY SISTER LIZZIE.
]
Nor was there any reason why it should stir. There was nothing of any
moment in the book; only a vague sentiment of Nature and humanity
running through, not definite enough at any point to carry weight; and
really not so much of the author’s own self in it, as of his effort to
reach a certain literary standard. Perhaps one of the best of the
pieces, both in form and intention, was “The Artist to his Lady”: which
I remember expressed in its indefinite way the dominant feeling which I
had those last years, of being drawn away from my surroundings by
another ideal than that which I could realize at Cambridge. Of the other
pieces, “The Carpenter and the King”—an extract from an unfinished
revolutionary drama of which the scene was laid in Austria and Italy in
1848—indicates a certain advance in political ideas and the germ of
future developments; while “The Angel of Death and Life” contains in
embryo some of the dominant conceptions of _Towards Democracy_.
It so happened that at the time of publication of _Narcissus_, in
November ’73, I was at Cannes, in the South of France, whither I had
gone with my sister Lizzie (to whom I was much attached) on account of
her illness. I stayed two or three weeks, and then it became necessary
for me to return home, in order to make preparations for and be present
at our College Fellows’ meeting at Christmas. It had of course become
quite imperative that I should make some distinct announcement of my
intentions with regard to the future; and for my part I had now quite
decided that I would relinquish my Orders, and go through the legal
formalities of unfrocking myself. Sincerely I hoped that this would lead
to my disappearance from Cambridge. If, before, I had recoiled from such
a thought, the torpor and misery I had experienced since then had quite
altered my point of view.
And in all this matter it was not by any means only the clerical
difficulty that troubled me. As I have hinted before I had come to feel
that the so-called intellectual life of the University was (to me at any
rate) a fraud and a weariness. These everlasting discussions of theories
which never came anywhere near actual life, this cheap philosophizing
and ornamental cleverness, this endless book-learning, and the queer
cynicism and boredom underlying—all impressed me with a sense of utter
emptiness. The prospect of spending the rest of my life in that
atmosphere terrified me; and as I had seemed to see already the vacuity
and falsity of society life at Brighton, so in another form I seemed to
see the same thing here.
And now it dawned upon me that my abandonment of Orders, instead of
being a thing to be dreaded, would be my veritable deliverance, and
would provide just that valid excuse for breaking with my old life,
which otherwise might prove hard to find. When friends, relations,
Fellows of the College, and others, were all urging upon me the folly of
committing professional suicide, I felt that the argument of
_conscience_—though not really to myself the final and convincing thing
(since that was Necessity)—was one which I could make use of, and which
I should _have_ to make use of, since every one, whether I liked it or
not, would credit me with it!
I therefore, to avoid all possible lapses or failures that might ensue
if I left the matter over to a personal explanation at the College
meeting, _wrote_ beforehand to the Master of Trinity Hall, explaining
that I had entirely made up my mind to formally relinquish my Orders,
and placing my Fellowship in his hands, in accordance with what I
supposed would be necessary under the circumstances. Then two or three
weeks afterwards I followed in person to join in the Christmas
festivities.
At that time, every year at the Christmas season, not only did all the
Fellows assemble for the transaction of College business at our
meetings, but there was a week of dinner-parties, with often fifty or
sixty guests each evening (no women) and very serious junketings! This
was, of course, in Commemoration of the Founder of the College—and with
money partly left for the purpose. We sat down to dinner, a most
extensive one, at six o’clock, which lasted, with the passing of the
loving-cup and the serving of wine and dessert, till about eight; then
we adjourned to the combination-room to take coffee and to chat for an
hour; after which the elder men generally resolved themselves into whist
parties, while the younger would retire in batches to college rooms in
order to smoke and drink brandies and soda. Soon after ten _supper_ was
served; and returning to the combination-room one found a table spread
with the traditional boar’s head, supplemented by oysters, game-pie, and
other little delicacies. In order to stimulate the exhausted powers,
bottled stout was found useful at this period. Some of the old hands did
no scant justice to the supper; others remained at the whist tables.
Finally and as the _coup de grâce_, about 11.30 hot milk punch and roast
apples appeared!
It was generally the duty of the younger Fellows to look after the
ceremonies a little, to arrange the whist parties, invite the guests to
supper, and ply them with meat and drink. I remember one evening,
somewhat past midnight, finding the Mayor of Cambridge (who had been
invited) by himself in a remote corner discussing a roast apple. I went
and got a good big glass of milk-punch, and brought it him, saying,
“Now, Mr. Mayor, I’m sure this will do you good”—but he waived it away,
with a comical gesture, replying: “No, no more—I _can’t_ drink any more,
thank you; but this apple is delicious!” Shortly afterwards, leaning on
my arm, he was to be seen carefully descending the stairs to his
carriage.
My feelings at this particular Christmas were of rather a mixed kind. As
to the Fellows they were berating me of one accord for my madness in
writing to the Master and practically resigning my Fellowship before it
was proved needful to do so; also for my supposed Quixotism in troubling
about my Orders. As to the Dean, being of course in Orders himself he
made short work of the difficulty: “It is all such tomfoolery,” he said,
“that it doesn’t matter whether you say you believe in it, or whether
you say you don’t. Look at my sermons in chapel now—are they not models
of unaffected piety! You let the matter drop, and it will all blow
over.”
Among the Fellows and members of my own and other colleges with whom at
that time I was often in contact were Henry Fawcett (afterwards
Postmaster-General), Henry Latham (Tutor of Trinity Hall), Charles
Wentworth Dilke, W. K. Clifford, George Darwin, Robert Romer (afterwards
Lord Justice), Lumley Smith, Henry Fielding Dickens, Augustine Birrell,
Edward Beck (present Master of Trinity Hall), and others of course. Most
of these—though not all—did their best from their different points of
view to dissuade me from the course I had embarked on; but I was not
going to be dissuaded it was obvious to me that half-measures would be
no good, and that if I wanted to make my escape from Cambridge I must
throw the whole thing overboard; so underneath all the unpleasantness
there was the secret satisfaction of feeling that unknown to everybody I
was really going to gain a point instead of lose one!
What kind of debates they had in College meeting over my case I don’t
know, for of course I was not present, but it was conveyed to me that
though there was a general wish that I should stay on as before, yet if
I persisted in relinquishing my Orders, it would be doubtful if I could
be asked to remain in the College—owing to the scandal of the thing! As
to the question whether my relinquishment of Orders should involve the
loss of my fellowship, that was adjourned for the present.
So again next term I did not rejoin; but remained at home, at Brighton,
occupied with another important literary project! _Moses_: a drama.
Early one morning I had woken from sleep in the midst of a heavy
thunderstorm, with an extraordinarily vivid conception (I don’t know how
it came to be there) of Moses on the top of Sinai. Then and there I
wrote out a long soliloquy (Act II. Sc. 1), which now insisted on
expanding itself into a considerable poem in dramatic form—the ruling
idea being to take the Bible story, treat it in a rationalistic way, as
an obscure tradition of an actual event, and to show Moses as a noble
but entirely human reformer, embarrassed in his great enterprise more by
the apathy, stupidity and superstition of the people he desired to save
than by anything else.[5]
Meanwhile through solicitors I set the ecclesiastical law in operation
with a view to my unfrockment. The process takes six months for its
completion. It was not necessary for me to see my Bishop again; but I
had one or two gravely regretful letters from him. I spent the ‘Long’ at
Cambridge—July and August—the last ‘Long’ that I spent there; and during
that time received the legal document which rendered me once again a
layman.
These summer vacations spent at Cambridge were the part of my university
life that—even from my undergraduate days—I had most enjoyed. Chapels
and lectures were in abeyance, the monotonous tyranny of
boating-practice and training was unknown; a few students only were up,
perhaps twenty or so at our College—but these would be the more
intelligent and congenial spirits. During the long morning from nine to
two one got through a lot of reading unhindered by lectures and other
interruptions; then came afternoons canoeing up the river, two or three
together, in the dreamy sheen of the water and the overhanging willows,
or through beds of iris; or bathing; or playing fives or rackets; or
walking the country lanes, or sitting long on some turfy bank with a
friend. Sometimes we would make quite a party and go, a fleet of canoes,
with provisions, far up the river and not return till dark. Then as a
rule there were two or three hours more work in the evening, though
sometimes this was broken through by some little entertainment.
What a curious romance ran through all that life—and yet on the whole,
with few exceptions, how strangely unspoken it was and unexpressed! This
succession of athletic and even beautiful faces and figures, what a
strange magnetism they had for me, and yet all the while how
insurmountable for the most part was the barrier between! It was as if a
magic flame dwelt within one, burning, burning, which one could not put
out, and yet whose existence one might on no account reveal.[6] How the
walks under the avenues of trees at night, and by the riversides, were
haunted full of visionary forms for which in the actual daylight world
there seemed no place!
Yet as time went on I think it must have become clearer to me that
Cambridge never would afford in this direction the actual that I wanted.
Expectation grew dry at the fount, and torpor and distress in the last
year or two took the place of the romance of the years before. Somehow I
think I must have dimly understood that the trouble arose partly from a
deep want of sympathy between myself and the whole mental attitude, mode
of life, and ideals of the university, and of the gilded or silvered
youth who lived and moved within it; for I remember that on the
memorable journey from Cannes homewards, when I was revolving the whole
situation—the abandonment of my Orders and Fellowship, the failure (as
it already appeared) of my first literary venture, and the doubt of what
I should or _could_ do in the future, it suddenly flashed upon me, with
a vibration through my whole body, that I would and must somehow go and
make my life with the mass of the people and the manual workers.
It was in pursuance of this last idea that shortly after the eventful
College meeting above mentioned I went to see James Stuart at Trinity,
who was just then organizing the first outlines of the University
Extension Lecturing Scheme, and asked him if he could find me a place on
it. He agreed to do so; and suggested that I should take the subject of
Astronomy. I consented, and shortly after was appointed to begin a
course of Lectures (in October 1874) at Leeds, Halifax and Skipton.
[Illustration:
SELF, IN ABOUT 1875
]
IV
UNIVERSITY EXTENSION AND NORTHERN TOWNS
I sometimes think myself singularly fortunate in the way in which my
dreams of life (the wildest and most unlikely) have from time to time
been realized; but in this connection I have noticed two things that
have generally happened—one is that the new life-purpose would come, to
begin with, with great force, making me believe it was going to be
realized at once, and that then it would seem to fail and almost be
abandoned, and then again, some years after, it _would_ be realized. The
second thing is (and this is in accordance with the general law of the
“cussedness of things”) that just in the moment of the realization of
the first endeavour, _another_ ideal would make itself felt, which would
in some degree supersede the former.
It had come on me with great force that I would go and throw in my lot
with the mass-people and the manual workers. I took up the University
Extension work perhaps chiefly because it seemed to promise this result.
As a matter of fact it merely brought me into the life of the commercial
classes; and for seven years I served—instead of the Rachel of my
heart’s desire—a Leah to whom I was not greatly attached. Nevertheless
this period was of interest and useful to me. I had never been in the
Northern Towns. I was profoundly ignorant of commercial life. The
manners, customs, ideas, ideals, the types of people, the trades,
manufactures, the dominance of Dissent, the comparative weakness of the
Established Church, the absence of art, literature and science, the dirt
of the towns, the rough heartiness and hospitality—all formed a strange
contrast to Cambridge and Brighton.
I spent the two winters ’74–’75 and ’75–’76 at Leeds—lecturing there,
and at Halifax and Skipton—living in Leeds, in lodgings—and seeing a
good deal of the people (mostly ladies) who were actively engaged in
promoting the Extension lectures. My subject was Astronomy. It was a
curious subject for these towns where seldom a star could be seen. As
far as the heavens were witness I might have told any fables. My own
knowledge was derived almost entirely from books, and my pupils’
knowledge was practically limited to books. Occasionally I used to drag
an evening class onto Woodhouse Moor, at Leeds, to look at the actual
subjects of our discussions, but the latter generally withdrew
themselves from observation! I don’t know whether this kind of learning
was of much use; but it was on the same lines as most modern learning. I
think the study of books educates the constructive imagination—and
teaches people to figure to themselves things and situations they have
never seen. That is perhaps the chief use of it. The bulk of the pupils
at this time and during my later connection with the University
Extension were of the “young lady” class. These were the main support of
the movement, and they might be said to fall into three groups—namely,
the best scholars from girls’ schools, especially some very intelligent
ones from the Friends’ Schools; girls living at home and having nothing
particular to do; and elder women in the same plight. These formed the
great majority of the afternoon classes, and a considerable fraction of
the evening classes; the remainder being elderly clerks and a few
extra-intelligent young men, and a very small sprinkling of manual
workers.
Though for the most part incapable of any mathematical processes, I
found my students open to simple geometrical reasoning and consequently
able to follow a great deal of formal Astronomy. They took a real
interest in the work, which carried them on and which made the teaching
a pleasure—a great pleasure in comparison with my experience of the
tuition of “poll” men at Cambridge, whose dulness and distaste for their
work were crushing.
The modern Women’s Movement was just beginning to take shape at that
time. And there was at Leeds three women—all remarkable characters in
their way—who were very much in evidence in connection with the
University Extension. They were Miss Lucy Wilson, Miss Heaton, and Miss
Theodosia Marshall. Miss Wilson was Local Secretary to the University
Extension; Miss Heaton and Miss Marshall both aspired after the dignity
and influence of the position. As may be imagined there was no love lost
between the three, and the cabals and conflicts were unending and most
amusing. At one time there were two other lecturers from Cambridge
living in Leeds besides myself, namely H. S. Foxwell (of St. John’s,
Cambridge) and E. S. Thompson (of Christ’s). We used to meet every day
for dinner at each other’s lodgings and had no end of fun comparing
notes of local scandal. Coming from a distance and being in the position
in which we were, we were naturally the recipients of confidences from
all sides. The three ladies were constantly asking one or other of us
out to _tête-à-tête_ breakfasts, lunches, or afternoon teas—pouring out
their grievances against one another, and drawing us into deadly plots.
These we duly compared—not without hatching comical counterplots of our
own.
But Miss Wilson was not to be dislodged; she was firm in her seat.
Extremely good-looking and capable, and a good organizer, she yet had
two defects. Like many “advanced” women she was very _doctrinaire_; and
having swallowed a principle (like a poker) would remain absolutely
unbending and unyielding; and, in the second place, she hated men. On
one occasion she got up a “Women’s Rights” Meeting in Leeds. It was one
of the first of these meetings—certainly the first I had been to. It was
well attended—by women; Miss Wilson made a clever speech, full of keen
thrusts at the male portion of mankind. I dare say it was well deserved.
It was very slashing. There were a few of us “lower animals” huddled
near the door. At some final witticism there was a yell of applause. We
shut our eyes, assured that our last hour had come—but were ultimately
spared for another day.
On another occasion a rather amusing thing happened. One of the
lecturers—not either of those already mentioned, but one living at
Halifax though also lecturing in Leeds—got himself engaged to be
married. This in itself was perhaps an offence to Miss Wilson. But what
was worse—and certainly foolish of the young man—he went and fixed his
wedding (in the South of England) for a date in the middle of the term,
and then asked leave to miss a lecture in order to attend it! Of course
Miss Wilson refused. Then in a day or two he wrote again. The affair was
very pressing, he said, and he must go. Miss Wilson called her committee
together. They were inclined to yield to the over-hasty marriage
arrangement—foreseeing no doubt that it was inevitable. But Miss Wilson
was absolute. _She_ would not yield—a great principle was at stake.
“What if all lecturers,” etc. Of course her word prevailed, and a
refusal was sent. Then the inevitable happened. The fellow went off
without leave, only leaving _me_, poor unfortunate! to _read_ his
lecture to his gently smiling class. After that there was a scene
between me and Miss Wilson on which the curtain had better be drawn!
“What business had I to give my services and help to the rebellious
lecturer?” etc. Sufficient to say that we both survived it, and were
quite good friends afterwards.
On the whole it was an interesting time. It was at Leeds that I came to
know the three sisters Ford of Adel Grange, whose friendship I have
valued ever since; and it was at Leeds that I resumed acquaintance, to
deepen into intimacy, with C. G. Oates, of Meanwood Side—a companion of
Cambridge days. But my health was not of the best—a certain overstrain
and tension of the nerves, dating from Cambridge worries, and carried on
and increased by other causes, was continually pulling me down, and
rendering my life at times quite painful. It was at this time too that
my brother Charlie died in India (March 1876) quite suddenly, as I have
already explained, through a fall from his horse. He was just, as it
happened, on his way home on furlough after a long absence, and the
shock to my mother and those at home was very great. And even I—though I
had seen comparatively little of him—felt it a good deal.