MISS BRAADDON AT HOME: SKETCH AND AN IMTERVIEW.

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 246, 14 March 1888, Page 5

MISS BRAADDON AT HOME: SKETCH AND AN IMTERVIEW.

By Joseph Hatton,

There is no more popular name at blue cir- ■ culating libraries, no nuine more universally known among novel readers to-day, than that of Miss Bruddon. "Lady Audley 's Secret" was the first of her three-volume stories. It, now heads ft list of forty-seven novels, all of which have held their own in 1 the competition of the time. 1 "Lady Audley," ''Henry Dunbnr," "Eleanor's Victory," " 'Vurora Floyd," "Tho Doctor's Wile," "The Trail of the Serpent,"' and down to tho latest, " Mohawks,"' and " Like and Unlike," they represent a steady, persistent march of honest earnest work. If the result is unequal, fiom an artistic point of view, if there is a hiatus now and then which gives special prominence to her best known eff jrls in the pure realms of fiction, this is 1 1> say that she is on the same human level with eminent toilers in all branches ot Art. Dickens, I suspect, is one of the few vrriters who always worked up to the most enthusiastic height of his ambition. He always seems to have written at a white heat. He was always under the influence • of an almost morbid sense of responsibility to the public : and when he wanted inspiration he turned back to hi 1 - own work, and re-read himself. Mise Braddon is not one oi those authors who consume themselves in their own files, nor is phe one of those plodders of the Trollope school who write by the clock, and turn out their copy with mechanical exactness. She has her workmanlike methods, but she also has her • moods, and she has sufficient of the artistic temperament to carry her through her day's work without disregarding the pressure of inspiration, and at the same Mmc without making herself a slave to it. Miss Braddon is not only a novelist, she is a housekeeper : her controlling hand is seen and felt in the kitchen as well as in the drawing-room of Lichfield House, Richmond, where, with her husband, Mr • John Maxwell, for many years her publisher, she dispenses a hearty hospitality, and lives with her family a matron and a gracious hostess. Dickens, who was so tremendously enthusiastic about his books in his letters to friends, rarely spoke of them in conversation aud Miss Braddon is even still more reticent about her work than Dickens was. She will talk shop with a fellow author, or criticism •with a literary guest ; but it will take both • of them all their time to get into conversation ■ aboufc her own books, her methods of work, Or her opinions concerning the results of her labours. She will prefer to talk to you concerning some author, or on the subject of theatres, travels, horses, or the progress of science. She is a fine horsewoman. When, between her hours of work, ghe is not scouring the roads of the New Forest in the neighbourhood of Lyndhurst, you may meet her tearing along the pleasant drives of Richmond Park. She sits her chestnut with the firmness and ease of an expert. Her love of horseflesh is an inheritance, it ** comes by nature." Her father was the "Rough "Robin" of the old "Sporting Magazine," a clever rider, devoted to country habits and pursuits, and a native of Cornwall. As a girl Miss Braddon was attracted both to the profession of literature and the stage. She acted in several country theatres, and at the same time wrote short stories and literary sketches, her first little book seeing the light through the press of a provincial publisher. She had written many trifles, both in the way of fiction and essay, before "Lady Audley." The story of that story is a romance in itself. Mr Maxwell had started, in more or less rivalry t:> Dickens' s first periodical, a magazine called "Robin Goodfellow." Dr. Mackay was its editor, and Lascelles Wraxall was his second in command. There had been some difficulty in regard to the opening novel, in consequence of which the new periodical was upon the eve of pjstponement, a serious contretemps in tne face of its extensively - advertised date of publication. The day before a decision was necessary Miss Braddon heard of the difficulty and offered to write the siory. " But even if you were strong enough to fill the position," was the publisher's reply, t( there is no time." u How long could you give me ?" asked fche aspiring authoress. " Until to-morrow morning." ' "At what time to-morrow morning ?" "If the first instalment were on my breakfast -table to-morrow morning," he replied, indicating by his tone and manner fc'ie utter impossibility of the thing, "it ■would be in time. " The next morning the publisher found upon hip breakfast table the opening chap'fj;rs of " Lady Audley's Secret." "Robin Goodfellow" did not hit the public. It did not live to finish " Lady Audley." Maxwell lost money over it ; but he discovered Miss Braddon, whose story in its three- volume shape took the town, and laid the foundation of a lasting fame and prosperity. Before "interviewing" had become popular in this country I had called upon tiveral distinguished persons in England for the literary and journalistic purposes of two great American publications. I only, however, undertook to make pen and ink sketches of ladies and gentlemen whom I knew. My work was literary more than journalistic, and I confess that it gave me pleasure. I selected my own subjectr, and it is possible that there are biographers yet unborn who will thank me for my notes when I am long past caring whether they do or nob. I commended interviewing under discreet editorial regulation to the English : press in a series of papers in "Harper's; Magazine," and in a volume entitled " .Tour- j nalistic London," as I had previously com- 1 mended it in other directions. I was only a little before my time. Some of the most interesting of M. Blowitz's contributions- to the "Times" have been interviews with eminent men and women. This is not an apology for interviewing, but an introduction ko the following sketch, which the editor of this journal is good enough to believe will be of special interost to his reafiers. A pleasant matron-like woman, Miss Braddon (Mrs* John Maxwell), above the medium height; fair, with a complexion that suggests more of horse exercise and the open air generally than pens and ink anl hard work in a library. She has &> broad, firm, compact forehead. Her eyes are small, and look a trifle tired ; her mouth large and characteristic ; firm lips, a strong chin. The expression of her face suggests an amiable temperament and a kindly nature ; and, like all author! who are at work on an engrossing , book? there is in her eyes sCn occasional suggestion of > introspection, which means that their owner for (fcie moment is thinking of her work, taxed unexpectedly with a nudden idea, or warded with the vagaries of one of the fictitious characters she has created and Cinnofc altogether control. "We have known each other twenty years." she said. "You were on* of .the contributors fo tho first number of ' Belgravia,\.and.ifcxojL.V%nt, > to write about tee *vis\ix6 yoi* hare material enough*, wfth--

out making formal advance upon so poor a subject. " " Bub I want to interview you somethihg in the fashion of a stranger, as if I did not know you, as if my editor had directed, me to drive from London to Richmond for the express purpose." " And rlo you do that kind of work when you arc directed by your editor, as you say?" w!ie asked, smiling. "When it pleases mo and I know the lady or gentleman 1 am to call upon," I said. 11 Ah, forgive me; I thoughtthere was something of the aping of humility in tho description of your mission," she paid. "But seriously, I do wish to interview you, and in a businoss-like way, for tho purpose of publication in Amorica and in England." " Very woll, then," she replied. " I have never been interviewed yet, but I am willing after luncheon to submit to tho ordeal, and in the meantime here comes Max, who will be glad to have a chat with you, while I give some household orders." The gentleman familiarly spoken of as II Max " is Miss Braddon's husband— halo, hearty, breezy, in spite of his 60 odd years. A keen business man, newspaper proprietor, publisher, printer, he has been everything in connection with the journalistic history of Fleet-street. He had a hand in starting; the " Standard," and was for years the proprietor of tho " Belgrave Magazine ;" and he it* known as well for his general hospitality as for his smart, clever business operations. " Welcome ! Glad to sco you !" ho says, and wo sit down to talk over the events of tho day, until I turn his thoughts into the channel that is moat useful for this article. An inveterate collector of pictures and bric-a-brac, I have no difficulty in making him call my attention to some of his recent purchases. They include a David Cox, a Clackbon Stan field, and two examples of Linnell. It is a noble room in which wo are talking—the drawing-room, with its three groat bay windows. Two of tho triple set of bays are filled with superb stained glass. Many rare works of art crowd the walls. There are cabinets here and there filled with brieI a-brac. Easy chairs, a grand piano, and a harmonium make up the furnishing catalogue. But for the stranger guest there will be found a tableful of current books, publications, and newspapers, and one day this week, sitting down in the glow of an autumn tire, we turned ov«r together, host, hostess, and myself, "Friths Biography," the first volume of "Darwin's Life," tho current number of " Belgravia," the " Fortnightly," anew edition of " King Solomon's Mines," tho " Telegraph " (containing its Friday gossip), a "New York Tribune," with the report of Irving's opening night in " Faust," a copy of "The Mistletoe Bough," and many other literary and journalistic works. "Frith is delightful," said the hostess. " In one instance he tells too much, perhaps, for a certain great lady whose origin was humble. Some people don't like to be reminded of their plebeian birth ; others seem to have a continual desire to talk about it. The worst of our profession is that one has not time to keep up one's current reading ; as for keeping anywhere near the standard of a daily knowledge of events and opinions, it is impossible. I mean to finish 1 Frith ' and to read * Darwin ' at San Reino." Lichfield House was oiiginally built for the first Earl of Abergavenny. It afterwards becamo the palace of the Bishop of Lichfield, and hence its name, one of the bishops using it as his episcopal residence. The drawing-room has a curious history. Having been used for ecclesiastical exami1 nations and for consecrating serious students to the service of the Church, it passed into the hands of Kawilana, the famous vocali3fc, who, at the height of her popularity, gave receptions here. The house ia in the style of Queen Anne. Sala says Sir Christopher Wren mu3t have built it. The drawing-room is a picture gallery, and indeed the house is decorated throughout with many fino examples of the best English masters. In the breakfastl'oom, among other curiosities, is the little table used by the Duke of Wellington during the Peninsular war, and on which he wrote the despatch that recounted the \ ictory of Waterloo. It is a curious table, so constructed that it is either a despatchbox, a card table, a chess table, a dining table, or a writing desk. " Sir William Hamilton Maxwell," says my host, " also wrote the tales of Waterloo on that table ; but here is another thing 1 believe I have invested in and filled since you were here last." Ho directed my attention to a magnificent bookcase, of English marqueterie work. Opening it, there was displayed a collection of large volumes handsomely bound in red morocco. •'The Braddon novels!" my host exclaimed, with undisguised pride, "the original manuscripts. It might be said one day that no one pen could have written so much and so well. Here is the answer. " " Show me the manuscript of • Lady Audley's Secret,' "I said. " The only one I do not possess ; it was burnt in a fire at the publisher's office." •♦ And the truth is," aaid the author, who joined us at this moment, " Max did not think so much of my manuscripts in those days ; I am sure it never occurred to me to take the trouble of preserving them ; and luncheon is ready." The dining-room at Lichfield House is a plain, comfortable apartment. The sideboard was in the famous Exhibition of 1051. The chairs were designed by Inigo Jones. The fireplace is a fine example of carving in black marble with his attendant "dogs." Pictures take the place of the customary overmantel. The walls everywhere, indeed, throughout the houso seemed to be crowded with paintings. Among those in the dining-room are a portrait of thjfi hostess by ; Frith, a head of Tadenoa, a couple of landscapes by Nasmyfch,. a 'Ruysdale, a pair of Stansfields, several GainsborOughs, and other notable works. One has met many a genial crowd under this mahogany, the hostess presiding, the conversation bright and general, the viands and the wine characteristic of old-fashioned hospitality. However carefully Miss Braddon may paint in her novels tho changing fashions of the day, the fivo o'clock teas in the hall, the elegant dinners a la RuMt, the formal receptions, the midnight routes, the dainty frivolities of li'fo a la mode, there is nobbing of this kind of thing at Lichfield House. Iho management here is on the linos of the old school of hospitality. Formality disappears, in the cordiality of welcome, an.d the feast is the feast, of our grandfathers; it is not served a la Itimti but oomeB,to table in the' good old English way— is carved by ho3t aiid hostess, by guests and friends, and there if even, maintained,^ good old custom .of," takings wine " r between "host and ' guesfc ; the old , habib of will be glad to take wine with you," folfowed by tho pleasant nod, the raised gflaw, *nd,t<j|>o frequent, healing of an old breach of friendship, or the beginning of an agreeable t new acquaintanceship. Making » remark upon thia subject, the hoKtess replies — "Yes, I am Cwserrntiye in my tastes, $nd if J,a?n * , politician,, I ,vn , a Tory. I don't .know, to wb*fc. extent I am a Tory; on strict principles ; but I »m a Tory by Birth apd initfoets— Hova ol* J

things, old habits, old houses, old customs, old ti'ees, old halls, old costumes." I recall ab the moment quite a family parly that sab down to luncheon, a guest or two, and some young pooplo. A " Times " writer, a yachtsman from Southampton, and an agent from the New Forest, where the Maxwells have recently built a superb country house, in which a week or two back Mr Labouphero wroto almost an entir number of "Truth." The conversational eneral ; it begins with the latest theatrleds filure, tho newost literary success, anden i«i with a discussion of tho situation in Egypt and tho bitter enmity of the French towards the English. " What amazes me," said the yachtsman, "is our persistent toadyism of tho French, when if England really wants a frtond in Europe our natural ally is Germany." " Don't you hate politics at dinner, when everybody is not in agreement upon the subject— all Tories or all Liberals?" asks the hostess, speakingaoMo vocc to her nearest neighbour. " Ye=3 ; let us talk of books and plays." But tho yachtsman had found an opponent, and the debate became too interesting i to be ignored ; and so the luncheon passed oft* merrily, both Liberal and Conservative declaring at the finish that there was no material question of division between them ; that they were both Englishmen first and partisans afterwards; and that all they desired was the maintenance of tho honour of the country and the greatost happiness for the greatest number. And at last we have ascondod to the first floor, my hostess and myself, traversing an old wainscoted staircase and landing, and sitting clown in a large, square room, with an outlook upon a long, trim George the First garden. "This is my workshop," shosays, "the usual sort of thing, I suppose, like your own, like all literary workshops ; lots of books of referenco, a somewhat disorderly desk. This block of shelves is full of French works. I bought, by the way, almost the whole of Tom Taylors French library. Here is an American edition of j Dickens, with the green covers of the original monthly parts of "Pickwick." Here are Scott, George Eliot, Lamb, Sbael, a host of old comedies, the customary dictionaries, and so on." We walk about the room As she talks, and I note the thorough business-like character of the place— plain, solid bookshelves, a desk that might have been made for a merchant's office, chairs for ease and chairs for work, no piano, no guitar; a workshop, and with a bright, cheerful tiro burning on a bright, cheerful hearth. "These are very commonplace booke," says my hostess, taking from a sholf one of several'smaU volumes. " I don't do anything in this way as systematically as our friend Sala, nor on the olaborato plan of poor Charles Reade. " She handed me a volume. It was full of carefully-written extracts from books and newspapers. "Anything that strikes me very much during my reading I preserve in this way," "Now tell me," I say, as we sifc dpwn by the fire, "something about your working day." "My idea of a perfect and pleasant day,"' she says, " is to devote tho whole of it to writing and reading ; when I say the whole of it, I mean from breakfast at ten, say until dinner at seven, with intervals of strong tea, and sometimes a little luncheon. I can do this four days during the week and enjoy it, and get through a lob of work, if I have the other two for riding, and more especially for hunting.' "And your reading? Who are your favourite authors, as the new inquisitorial autograph books put it?" " Well, I must confess that I have read very few of my contemporary novelists ; I think I have read more French stories than English. I have read and am fond of George Eliot, Rhoda Broughton, Wilkie Collins, of courße ; and I know my Thackeray, my Dickens, and my Scott. I always say that I owe 'Lady Audloy's Secret' to 'The Woman in White.' Wilkie Collins is assuredly my litorary father. My admiration for 'The Woman in White' inspired me with the idea of 'Lady Audley' as a novel of construction and character. Previously my efforts had been in the didactic, direction of Bulwer, long conversations, a great deal of sentiment ; you know what I mean. I suppose every young writer starts with an ideal author ; Bulwer was mine, and the latB Lord Lytton took great interest in my work. He undertook to correct and criticise my first story, and from both he and his son, the present Lord Lytton, I have received many charming and valuable letters. Tho late Earl wrote me long criticisms of almost every book I wrote — not mcro complimentary letters, but fault-finding letters, pointing out where he thought I was wrong, and — being very generous, of course— what he thought good points in my work. I dedicated * Lady Audley ' to him. u He was the first author ot note to give me any real endouragoment. I think I havo no hesibation in saying that all round Dickons has given me more pleasure than any other writer. Charles Read I admired greatly, both as a man and an author. I think he was one of tho most powerful of our English writers, and what a world of tenderness of thought he brought into his work !" " You are writing three novels for Leng and Co., of Sheffield?" "Yes, to run over a period of three years." ' ' Can you tell me anything about them ? "^Would it be wise, do you think?" "'it is for you to say." " I don't think it would, ' she replied. " You know how, having settled the plot of a novel, one frequently modifies it in the course of its development. How often characters themselves take the bit and run away with one. I might say something touching the story I am writing, and then later on disappoint the reader." " You are engaged upon fcho first novel for Mr Leng afc the present time ?" "Ye?." " Have you .progressed far with it ?" " Yes ; but the main work, and the hard work, has to be done, the harder because in the midst of it lam leaving England. In tho end both the story and myself will benefit by the change. Max, myself, three of our boys, and ono of our girls are, going to winter at San Remo. We start tomorrow. We shall "pause en route ab Lucerne, then at Milan ; and within the next ton days I hope we shall be settled at San Rem'b until next May, when you must come to tho Forest, and we will talk over our adventures." There are packing boxes here and there about the room, and other evidences of what North country people dall "flitting." Thero &v libbto batches of the manuscript of the new novel, a few white chrysanthemums jfrpnv Lyndhursb, the,, hosbesd had\ travelled the day previously, arid v safc in the midst of bobkB4 boxes, inanuseripts; flowers,- labels ',' For,San;Remo," and obher tokens of work and! travel, and stilL found 'the occasion not incompatible for talking shop once the right themes-were broached ; arid at an early date I shall hope to give you ,the result of what turned out to be, an. *■- conversation on ?* '^Novels and Npvelywjriters*"' •'■ „" »v M -, ;<> >. Mfcanwhile the stirrup oup is prejpefred in the diningtfoom ; itis ? , composed of choice * hfokyv with a B!Tg^itoodittonrriMW^h*«itH

a dash of boiling water. Ib is a defence against the sleefc and focr outside, tho precursor of the abnormal darkness which meets me later onin tho outskirts of London, and from which my ho3t and hostess are now flying by Continental express to the balmy attnosphero of the " sunny South," where fcho ne\t novel by tho author of "Ludy Audley" will be finished for tho columns of the "Sheffield Weekly Telegraph."