I wrote about Frances Larson’s Undreamed Shores: The Hidden Heroines of British Anthropology (Granta, 2021) for this week’s Times Literary Supplement– I’m thrilled that it’s highlighted on its beautiful front cover (see below). Undreamed Shores is an excellent group biography of five women who were among the first students to take the diploma in anthropology at Oxford University between 1907 and 1918. (At Cambridge during that time there was only one comparable student, Winifred Hoernle, a South African who went on to become a lecturer at the University of Witwatersrand.) Anthropology was one of a cluster of diploma courses including geography, education and modern languages to offer vocational training beyond Oxford’s traditional degrees, and many were taught by progressive tutors who welcomed female students.
After taking their diplomas, Maria Czaplicka, Katherine Routledge, Beatrice Blackwood, Winifred Blackman and Barbara Freire-Marreco were among Oxford’s first female lecturers. Instead of being content to work in libraries, as most male anthropologists had done, they showed extraordinary determination to travel to remote and inhospitable countries to pursue their research ‘in the field’. ‘Fieldwork was more than a job; it was liberation’, as Larson observes. ‘They went from the periphery into the unknown, and I doubt that any of them felt fully at home in England again.’
These ‘lady anthropologists’ had to fight hard to prevent men from compromising their ambitions. They encountered obstacles at every turn, and perhaps the most tragic story is that of Maria Czaplicka (pictured here), who left her family in Poland for the chance to study at Oxford. As part of her research, she trekked more than 3,000 miles through a frozen Siberian winter to live among nomadic reindeer-herders. Her book My Siberian Year (1916) was critically acclaimed, but she failed to get funding for further research trips and in 1919 she was forced to give up her Oxford lectureship after it was offered to a much less qualified male graduate who had returned from the war. She never recovered from this blow.
Undreamed Shores is a beautifully written book, engaging and enlightening. It also made me very angry to read about how the groundbreaking work of these talented and committed early anthropologists was not recognized during their lifetime. ‘Far from being celebrated as female pioneers in anthropological fieldwork,’ Larson writes, ‘they were almost entirely overlooked by those who followed.’ Her book does much to set this record straight.
One of my occasional short posts on the best new biographies, along with some old favourites.
Recently I’ve been enjoying reading Burning Man: The Ascent of D. H. Lawrence (Bloomsbury, 2021), a new biography by Frances Wilson. Last week Wilson appeared on BBC Radio 4’s Start The Week to discuss her book, and told Andrew Marr how wary she was in defending Lawrence, whose reputation as a writer has never recovered since the American feminist Kate Millett attacked his patriarchal attitudes to women in her 1970 book,Sexual Politics. Frances Wilson is the author of award-winning biographies of Dorothy Wordsworth, Thomas de Quincey and Bruce Ismay, the surviving captain of the Titanic, but she admits that Lawrence is probably her most contentious and complex subject. So what made her decide to take him on?
In her introduction to Burning Man Wilson describes how she’d been a fan of Lawrence’s novels since her student days, but had kept it a secret. ‘When I was growing up in the 1980s, my mother wouldn’t have his books in the house’, she writes, ‘and my (female) tutor at university wouldn’t teach him’. In the 21st century D.H. Lawrence is still seen as a writer that feminists should keep at arm’s length, she believes. ‘Even as I began this biography and thus outed myself as a Lawrentian, I found myself apologising for being so, especially to women’, Wilson tells us. ‘And yet, in his lifetime, it was Lawrence’s female friends and readers who defended him.’
To find out why, Wilson decided that this ‘cancelled writer’ needed to be examined from a fresh perspective. Burning Man avoids the familiar critical emphasis on what Wilson calls his ‘superbly imperfect’ novels, which ‘do not contain his genius’, she believes. She directs our attention instead to his unexplored wealth of nonfiction writing, including travel essays, literary criticism and his Memoir of Maurice Magnus, ‘the best single piece of writing, as writing‘ as Lawrence himself put it, that he had ever done.
Burning Man does this lesser-known work, and many others, justice. It’s a picaresque, immersive biography that darts back and forth in time and paints a brilliantly colourful picture of a decade of Lawrence and his wife Frieda’s lives from 1915 to 1925. Wilson sees the influence of Dante’s The Divine Comedy on their peripatetic existence during this period: ‘Lawrence structured his life –‘that piece of supreme art’, as he called it – around Dante’s great poem in the way that James Joyce structured Ulysses around The Odyssey.’ Lawrence certainly produced some remarkable work during this time, from the 1915 publication of The Rainbow (banned for obscenity at Bow Street, 1,011 remaining copies of the novel were burned in the street by a hangman) to his Studies in Classic American Literature (1923) completed during the three tumultuous years that the Lawrences spent with the writer and artistic patron Mabel Dodge Luhan in Taos, New Mexico, before their return to Europe in 1925.
Wilson refers to this final version of the Studies as the ‘Mabel’ edition, ‘not least because we have Mabel Dodge to thank for the book that is itself a classic of American literature.’ This made me interested in the other professional female writers who became D.H. Lawrence’s friends and supporters during his lifetime. After Lawrence’s death in 1930 of tuberculosis at the age of 44 there was glut of books about him including Lorenzo in Taos (1932) by Dodge Luhan and Frieda Lawrence’s memoir ‘Not I, But the Wind…’ (1934), which Newsweek calculated was the 17th book to appear since his death. But the most controversial, in these early years, was a biography of DH Lawrence called The Savage Pilgrimage, published in 1932. Its author, Catharine Carswell ,was accused of libel by Lawrence’s on-off friend, the writer and critic John Middleton Murry. So her book was withdrawn from bookshops, while copies of Middleton Murry’s own memoir of Lawrence continued to sell briskly.
D.H. Lawrence’s friendship with the Scottish journalist Carswell began after she wrote a glowing review of his novel The White Peacock (1911) in the Glasgow Herald. After praising The Rainbow (or rather, failing to condemn it completely), she lost her job at the paper but their friendship continued, and they exchanged manuscripts of their works in progress. Their admiration was mutual and frank: he gave her advice on her many drafts of her first novel, Open the Door! and she told him not to steal one of her character’s names for Women in Love. ‘I think you are the only woman I have met,’ Lawrence told her, ‘who is so intrinsically detached, so essentially separate and isolated, as to be a real writer or artist or recorder.’ As back-handed a compliment as this might seem, Carswell’s novel won the Melrose prize in 1920 and became a bestseller. (There’s an excellent Paris Review article about it by Emma Garman here.)
The American poet H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) and Lawrence had a more complicated connection. She was the groundbreaking Imagist poet whom Lawrence ‘feared and wondered over’ before they met, yet as soon as they started corresponding, he was giving her advice to ‘kick over your tiresome house of life’. In 1917 she was generous enough to lend the homeless Lawrences her rooms in Mecklenburgh Square: ‘the young woman tossed the rooms to them, and food and fuel, with a wild free hand,’ D.H. Lawrence later wrote in Kangaroo (1923). It took many years for H.D. to shake off Lawrence’s shadow over on her writing life, a process she describes in her novel, Bid Me to Live (1960). Francesca Wade’s chapter in her book Square Haunting (2020) is excellent on H.D.’s time in London – see my review for the TLShere.
The writer and literary critic Rebecca West’s friendship with Lawrence was more straightforward. They met in Florence in 1921, and she recalled him as ‘one of the most polite people I have ever met’ who was writing ‘about the state of his own soul at that moment’. When Lawrence died in 1930, West wrote a passionate tribute to him as a counterblast to the negative obituaries, although she was not blind to his faults. Lawrence was a great writer and a genius, she maintained. ‘But every genius is apt to be pretty much of an ass at times.’
The crime writer Dorothy L. Sayers also recognized Lawrence’s (mostly) good side. In her 1938 essay ‘Are Women Human?’ (published in Unpopular Opinions, Victor Gollancz, 1946) she writes: ‘The late D.H. Lawrence, who certainly cannot be accused of underrating the importance of sex and talked a good deal of nonsense on the subject, was yet occasionally visited with shattering glimpses of the obvious.’ She goes on to quote his words in Assorted Articles (1930): ‘Man is willing to accept woman as an equal, as a man in skirts, as an angel, a baby-face, a machine […] the one thing he won’t accept her as is a human being, a real human being of the feminine sex.’
It might be going too far to describe D.H. Lawrence as a feminist, but I think that these women writers have something in common with Frances Wilson. ‘Being loyal to Lawrence, especially as a woman, has always required some sort of explanation,’ she tells us. By revealing a lesser-known Lawrence through his lesser-known works, Burning Man provides something of that explanation.
I was delighted to be asked to write a guest post this month for the excellent Neglected Books website (‘where forgotten books are remembered’). My article about two ‘forgotten’ but beautifully written books – allowing us to experience the lived experience of women at Cambridge during the late Victorian era – is republished below, with kind permission of Neglected Books.
It’s not hard to think of fiction set in Cambridge, from E.M. Forster’s Maurice (written in 1913-14, published posthumously in 1971) to Dusty Answer (1927) by Rosamund Lehmann and, more recently, Laura Barnett’s The Versions of Us (2015). But I’m convinced that well-written nonfiction can bring an authentic story to light in a way that no novel can. During my research into Cambridge’s first women students, university wives and college tutors I’ve discovered there’s nothing like hearing their own voices in the form of memoirs and biographies based on their letters and diaries. Here I focus on two of these books.
Mary Paley Marshall’s memoir What I remember was published by Cambridge University Press, 1947. It’s a slim volume – only 50 pages long – with a jaunty introduction by the historian G.M. Trevelyan who writes:
If people who knew not the Victorians will absent themselves from the felicity of generalising about them for a while, and read this short book, they can then return to the game refreshed and instructed.
What I remember begins, as many good stories do, with a happy childhood. Mary’s was spent in a rose-covered country rectory, where her father Reverend Thomas Paley encouraged his daughters’ education: ‘We had a father who took part in work and play and who was interested in electricity and photography’, she recalls. She moved to Cambridge in 1871 as one of the University’s earliest women students and one of the ‘first five’ at Newnham College; Girton College had begun two years previously. The idea that unmarried women could live apart from their parents and attend lectures was, as Paley Marshall said herself, ‘an outrageous proceeding’ at the time.
Soon after she arrived in Cambridge, she became fascinated by Political Economy because of Alfred Marshall’s lectures. He was ‘a great preacher’ who spoke passionately about the need for women’s equality in education and quoted from George Eliot’s Mill on the Floss. With his encouragement, Mary was one of the first two women to sit for the University’s final year exams in 1874 and she became Newnham’s first residential lecturer.
By the mid-1870s the Pre-Raphaelite era of colour in dress and house decoration had dawned all over England. As Florence Ada Keynes later wrote: ‘Newnham caught the fever. We trailed about in clinging robes of peacock blue, terra-cotta red, sage green or orange, feeling very brave and thoroughly enjoying the sensation it caused’ (By-ways of Cambridge History, Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, 1956, first published 1947). The college room that Mary studied and slept in was, like those of her students, papered in William Morris designs and hung with Burne-Jones prints. At the age of twenty-five she was that rare thing in Victorian times, an unmarried woman who lived independently from her parents and earned a good income doing a job she loved.
Then she and Alfred Marshall married and accepted posts at the newly founded University College, Bristol, where they taught and together published a textbook called The Economics of Industry (1879). Their working marriage seemed the ideal of an intellectual partnership that Mary had dreamed of, and What I Remember describes the happy years the Marshalls spent in Sicily and in Oxford before returning in 1885 to Cambridge. Alfred was made a Professor and published The Principles of Economics (1890) and Mary returned to her post at Newnham, where her inspiring teaching would have a great influence on one student: Winnie Seebohm.
But do not be misled into thinking that because it is history it has nothing to do with you. 1885 is yesterday. It is probably tomorrow too.
The prize-winning biographer of Elizabeth Bowen, Edith Sitwell and Leonard Woolf, among others, Glendinning took as her first subject her Victorian great-aunt Winnie Seebohm, but the book is no less powerful for Seebohm’s obscurity. A Suppressed Cry was not much noticed when it was published in 1969 and it disappeared from view until it was reissued by Virago in 1995, with a new introduction by the author.
The issue at the heart of A Suppressed Cry is how a young woman from a close-knit Hertfordshire family rebelled against their loving claims on her and achieved her ambition to study at Cambridge. The Seebohms were linked to other Quaker clans in what Glendinning describes as ‘a tight genealogical spiral’ with banking and scholarly connections. Winnie’s father was the economic historian Frederic Seebohm, and she grew up with her siblings and invalid mother in an idyllic house called the Hermitage in rural Hitchin. Despite her obvious intelligence, Winnie was expected to be a ‘good daughter’, contented with flower-arranging and visiting her Quaker relations until a suitable husband was found for her. But she decided that ‘no woman (it is not my business to consider a man’s life) has any excuse for living a life that is not worth living’.
So, in 1885, at the age of 22, she took the gruelling Cambridge entrance exams and won a place at Newnham. A Suppressed Cry reproduces some of the touching letters and diary entries she wrote there. Winnie was thrilled with her college room, her new friends and the freedom to spend her days reading books and writing essays. She adored her tutors, particularly Mary Paley Marshall, who taught Political Economy ‘from a philanthropic woman’s point of view’. ‘She is a Princess Ida,’ Winnie told her sister, thinking of the heroine of Tennyson’s poem The Princess who founded a university for women.
She wears a flowing dark green cloth robe with dark brown fur round the bottom (not on the very edge) – she has dark brown hair which goes back in a great wave and is very loosely pinned up behind –very deep-set large eyes, a straight nose – a face that one likes to watch. Then she is enthusiastic and simple. She speaks fluently and earnestly with her head thrown back a little and her hands generally clasped or resting on her desk. She looks oftenest at the ceiling but every now and then straight at you.
Winnie wanted to become a teacher just like the marvellous Mrs Marshall, but her time as a student was heartbreakingly brief. After just six weeks at Cambridge, she fell ill and was brought back to the Hermitage to be nursed by her family. ‘How queer it looks to see everybody so leisurely here!’ Winnie wrote to her classmate Lina Bronner, confessing how she longed to return to Cambridge. ‘I imagine you lingering on dear Clare Bridge, and King’s spires will be looking grey and sharp against the sky.’
Her kindly tutor Mary Paley Marshall also wrote to her. She was the only woman Winnie knew who seemed to have it all, combining fulfilling academic work with her role as a wife. ‘If she is the woman of the future, I am sure the world will do very well,’ Winnie wrote in her diary. It was one of the last things she wrote. She died after a severe asthma attack – though she may also have had undiagnosed anorexia – just a few weeks later. Expected from childhood to suppress her ambitions and put others’ needs first, Seebohm was, in Glendinning’s memorable description, ‘left stranded on the shores of the nineteenth century’.
Mary Paley Marshall’s married life was far from the ideal that Winnie perceived. In the early 1880s Alfred turned against the idea of women at Cambridge: ‘it is not likely that men will go on marrying, if they are to have competitors as wives’ he told LSE founder Beatrice Webb. He insisted that The Economics of Industry, the book he and Mary wrote together, should be pulped and in 1897 he voted against women being awarded Cambridge degrees. But unlike poor Winnie, Mary was a survivor and she had the final word. After Alfred’s death in 1924 she co-founded Cambridge University’s Marshall Library, and worked there for nearly twenty years; her portrait now hangs above the library staircase opposite his.
What was left out of (or ‘forgotten’) in Mary Paley Marshall’s memoir What I remember is at least as interesting as what was put in; and the cheering counterbalance to Winnie Seebohm’s sad story is the continuing success of Newnham, which celebrates 150 years as a women’s college this year.
I’m delighted to be a guest this week on the excellent ‘Lost Ladies of Lit’ book podcast hosted by Kim Askew and Amy Helmes. It’s a podcast about books, creativity, the writing life, and forgotten classics by women writers: recently I enjoyed their episodes on Marjorie Hillis, Martha Gellhorn and the Irish novelist Margaret Wolfe Hungerford. I was fascinated to discover that Hungerford’s Victorian bestseller Molly Bawn is name-checked in James Joyce’s Ulysses – and there is lots more to discover on the website here. Episodes are available on Apple podcasts, or via the website.
Kim and Amy invited me to talk about Amy Levy’s novel Reuben Sachs (1888) which attracted controversy when it was first published. Levy aimed to emulate her heroes Daudet and Zola, and say something original about affluent Jewish culture in Victorian Britain. ‘Its uncompromising truths, its depth of feeling, and, above all, its absence of any single superfluous word, make it, in some sort, a classic,’ Oscar Wilde said. ‘To write thus at six-and-twenty is given to very few.’ But the novel was widely criticized (along with its dangerous ‘New Woman’ author) and after her death Levy’s novels were ‘forgotten’ – that is, quietly dropped from the canon, as many Victorian women writers were.
Today I have updated my blogpost about Levy’s friendship with her former Cambridge tutor, Ellen Wordsworth Darwin. Both women were uncompromising in their pursuit of truth, and both struggled with depression, which Darwin herself described as ‘the personal struggle for life and joy continually beaten back’.
In summer 1888 Ellen Wordsworth Darwin (née Crofts) told her sister-in-law Ida Darwin that her former student Amy Levy was coming to visit. ‘She has written a novel, in which the heroine is partly me’, she told Ida. ‘I have not read it yet, but I don’t expect much: her stories and novels are rather saddening.’
Why did Amy have Ellen Darwin in mind when she wrote about Judith Quixano in her second novel, Reuben Sachs: A Sketch? (Reuben Sachs and his beautiful, penniless cousin Quixano are deeply in love, but his political ambitions prevent him from marrying her.) Darwin was not Jewish, and her Yorkshire upbringing was very different from the fictional Quixano’s Portuguese connections. Possibly Ellen shared what Levy describes as Judith’s ‘deep, serious gaze of the wonderful eyes’ (as can be seen in the 1903 photo of Ellen) certainly she had her passionate nature and almost austere truthfulness.
In 1879 Levy was 17 and the first Jewish woman to study at Newnham College Cambridge when she met Ellen Crofts, as she was then, the college’s resident lecturer in English literature and History. Ellen was just beginning her academic career, having studied at Newnham from 1874-77; Levy was a brilliant and ambitious young poet. The two women became friends through their shared love of literature. Ellen was the great-niece of the poet William Wordsworth, and another uncle, Henry Sidgwick, was a Cambridge philosopher and one of the founders of Newnham College. She was working on a book about Elizabethan and 17th-century lyric poetry when she met Amy, who had published an essay on Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh when she was 13.
Despite enjoying her studies, Amy Levy was often lonely at Cambridge. In the close community of Newnham she felt all too conscious of her Jewish difference, and she found it difficult to join in the other young women’s cocoa parties and outings. Ellen, as her sympathetic and serious-minded tutor, was one of the few people that Amy could turn to. Writing about Darwin in 1903, her contemporary Blanche Smith recalled how ‘she from the first recognized genius in a student who, extremely unpopular, was shunned by co-mates and dons alike until Ellen made a friend of her, and so helped to draw out talents that the literary world have since acknowledged.’
Could this unpopular but talented student have been Amy Levy? We can’t be sure, but in 1881 she left Cambridge without taking her final exams. Perhaps this was because she wanted to devote more time to her writing: her first poetry collection, Xantippe and Other Verse (1881) published while she was still a student, was praised by influential critic Richard Garnett. Possibly she did not want to take the mathematics paper necessary to sit for the Tripos, which women students won the right to do in May 1881 (see my post on Mary Willcox here).
Ellen and Amy’s friendship continued after Amy left Cambridge, and it’s possible that they met up in Switzerland in the summer of 1883, when both women happened to be on holiday there. Three years later Levy would publish a poem called ‘To E.’ about a happy day that she spent with two other writer friends in the mountains: one was an unnamed male poet, and the other a ‘learned’ woman. (‘You, stepped in learned lore, and I,/ A poet too.’) Towards the end of the poem, Levy’s unrequited love for the woman is hinted at: ‘And do I sigh or smile to-day?/Dead love or dead ambition, say,/Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh/Platonic friends.’
In September 1883 Ellen gave up her Newnham lectureship (and ambitions to be a serious literary scholar) when she married the botanist Francis Darwin, who had moved to Cambridge after his father Charles Darwin’s death in 1882. Ellen became a stepmother to Frank’s young son Bernard, and their daughter Frances was born in 1886. Amy continued to divide her time between Europe and the British Library in London, where she befriended Eleanor Marx and Beatrice Webb (née Potter) and published poetry, short stories and articles in the Jewish Chronicle. But although she had close friendships with other women – and most likely a serious (on Levy’s part) love affair in Florence with Violet Paget, who wrote under the pseudonym Vernon Lee – Levy did not find the lasting romantic friendship that she longed for.
In the summer of 1888, when she travelled to Cambridge to visit Ellen, 27-year-old Levy was on the cusp of great success as a writer. Oscar Wilde, then editor of Woman’s World, had described one of her stories as having ‘a touch of genius’, and commissioned more work from her, including her article ‘Women and Club Life’. Levy’s first novel The Romance of a Shop (1888) was selling well. The book ‘aims at the young person’, as she said herself, and it’s an entertaining and light-hearted story about four independent young sisters who set up their own photography studio in London. Her next novel would be much more ambitious and complex and would, she hoped, make her name as a writer.
Reuben Sachs: A Sketch was published soon after Levy’s trip to Cambridge. The idea for it had developed from Levy’s 1886 article called ‘The Jew in Fiction’ in the Jewish Chronicle in which she called for ‘a serious treatment… of the complex problem of Jewish life and Jewish character.’ With Reuben Sachs she wanted to challenge the anti-Semitic tropes of the Victorian novel, such as Trollope’s The Eustace Diamonds (1871), as well as the well-meaning but unexamined assumptions of George Eliot’s pro-Semitic Daniel Deronda (1876) in which the Jewish family’s baby ‘carries on her teething intelligently’.
From the first, Reuben Sachs attracted controversy for its scathing depiction of the affluent upper-class Anglo-Jewish community that Levy knew well. Even though she describes a close and loving London community, who take in impoverished Judith Quixano and treat her as one of their own, Levy’s mordant attack on Jewish materialist values and critique of the late-Victorian marriage market meant that her book was widely criticized. Her satirical humour in the style of Zola or Daudet was not understood, nor was her attempt to parody George Eliot.
During the first half of the following year Levy – who never sought popularity – managed to shrug off the negative reviews. She threw herself into her writing, and took part in literary events, including organizing gatherings at the newly founded University Women’s Club in London. She was one of the guests at the first ever Women Writers’ Dinner, held at the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly in May 1889 and attended by prominent other ‘New Women’ writers Mona Caird and Olive Schreiner. At the end of July 1889 she met the poet W.B. Yeats. ‘She was talkative, good-looking in a way,’ he recalled, ‘and full of the restlessness of the unhappy.’
Yeats was perceptive about Levy’s mental state. Her work and socializing had provided a distraction from her struggles with depression, but it was not enough to protect her from loneliness and despair. Although her literary star was in the ascendant, she could not see an escape from her inner darkness, and in September 1889 she took her own life.
In January 1890 Ellen Darwin reviewed Levy’s posthumously published poetry collection, A London Plane-Tree and Other Verse (1889) in the Cambridge Review. She describes her friend’s ‘eager vital temperament’, and her constant, heroic struggle with ‘the shadow of a great mental depression’. Levy’s poetry’s range might be narrow, Darwin writes (with the characteristic honesty Levy admired), but its power comes from ‘the personal struggle for life and joy continually beaten back’. Ellen Darwin compares Levy’s poetry to that of Emily Brontë: ‘It is as different as their natures were different, but it has this one thing in common – it was written with the heart’s blood’. She says nothing in her review about ‘To E.’, the last poem in the collection.
My thanks to Anne Thomson for her archival assistance, and to Newnham College for permission to reproduce Ellen Darwin’s photograph (Newnham PH/10/4 Chrystal Album no.2). Other sources: For more on Amy Levy, see Linda Hunt Beckman, Amy Levy: her life and letters (Ohio, 2000); Eleanor Fitzsimons’s Wilde’s Women: How Oscar Wilde Was Shaped by the Women He Knew (Duckworth Overlook, 2015) and ‘A brief introduction to the works of Amy Levy’ on the Victorian Web website (accessed 19 April 2021); Ellen Darwin’s letter to Ida Darwin: Cambridge University Library, Darwin Family Papers Add.9368.1:3543; ‘In Memoriam-Ellen Wordsworth Darwin’ Newnham College Roll Newsletter 1903; Ellen Wordsworth Darwin (Ellen Crofts) Chapters in the history of English literature:from 1509 to the close of the Elizabethan period (London, Rivingtons, 1884); ‘The Poems of Amy Levy’, Cambridge Review, 23 Jan 1890; ‘The Ladies’ Dining Society 1890-1914′.