But it is perhaps time that I should drop the masculine personal pronoun for the feminine, and, being a woman, treat of the Life Literary from the woman’s point of view. In olden days the profession of literature was looked upon as a terrible thing for a woman to engage in, and the observations of some very kindly and chivalrous writers on this subject are not without pathos. To quote one example only, can anything be more quaintly droll at this time of day than the following:—
“Of all the sorrows in which the female character may participate there are few more affecting than those of an Authoress—often insulated and unprotected in society—with all the sensibility of the sex, encountering miseries which break the spirits of men!”
This delicate expression of sympathy for a woman’s literary struggles was written by the elder Disraeli as late as 1840. Truly we have raced along the rails of progress since then at express speed—and the “affecting” sorrows of an “Authoress” (with a capital A) now affect nobody except in so far as they make “copy” for the callow journalist to hang a string of cheap sneers upon. The Authoress must take part with the Author in the general rough-and-tumble of life—and she cannot too quickly learn the truth that when once she enters the literary arena, where men are already fisticuffing and elbowing each other remorselessly, she will be met chiefly with “kicks and no ha’pence.” She must fight like the rest, unless she prefers to lie down and be walked over. If she elects to try for a first place, it will take her all her time to win it, and, when won, to hold it; and, in the event of her securing success, she must not expect any chivalrous consideration from the opposite sex, or any special kindness and sympathy from her own. For the men will consider her “out of her sphere” if she writes books instead of producing babies, and the women will, in nine cases out of ten, begrudge her the freedom and independence she enjoys, particularly if such freedom and independence be allied to fortune and fame. This all goes without saying. It has to be understood and accepted uncomplainingly. The “old-fashioned” grace of chivalry to women, once so proudly lauded by poets and essayists as the distinguishing trait of all manly men, is not to be relied on in the Life Literary—for there it is as dead as door-nails. Men can be found in the literary profession who will do anything to “down” a woman in the same calling, and, if they cannot for shame’s sake do it openly, they will do it behind her back. “’Tis pitiful, ’tis wondrous pitiful”—for the men! But if the woman concerned has studied her art to any purpose she will accept calumny as a compliment, slander as a votive wreath, and “envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness” (from which, with pious hypocrisy, the most envious and uncharitable persons pray “Good Lord deliver us” every Sunday) as so many tokens and proofs of her admitted power. And none of these things need disturb the equanimity of the Life Literary. “Can any man cast me out of the Universe? He cannot; but whithersoever I may go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions, and communion with the gods!”[6]
Speaking as a woman, I can quite understand and appreciate all the little difficulties, irritations, and trials incident to a woman’s career in literature; and though I myself welcome such difficulties as so many incentives to fresh effort, I know that there are many of my sex who, growing weary and discouraged, are not able to adopt this attitude. And looking back into the past, one is bound to see a host of brilliant women done to death by cruel injustice and misrepresentation, a state of things which is quite likely to be continued as long as humanity endures.
But no useful object is served by brooding over this apparently incurable evil. “The noble army of martyrs” who praise the Lord in the “Te Deum” are likely to be of the sex feminine. But what does that matter? It is more glorious to be martyred than to die of over-eating and general plethora. Moreover mental or intellectual martyrdom is a necessary ingredient for the “happy” life—a touch of it is like the toothache, helping one to be duly thankful when the pain ceases. For, if we never understood trouble, we should never taste the full measure of joy.
One thing can be very well dispensed with by both men and women who look for happiness in the Life Literary, and that is the uneasy hankering after what is called “Fame.” Fame has a habit of setting its halo on the elected brows without any outside advice or assistance. Those authors who are destined for it will assuredly win it, though all the world should intervene; those for whom it is not intended must content themselves with the temporary notoriety of pretty newspaper puffs and “stock” compliments, such as “the renowned” or “well-known” or “admired” author or authoress, and be glad and grateful for these meaningless terms, inasmuch as the higher Fame itself at its utmost is only a brief and very often inaccurate “line in history.”
The rewards and emoluments of the happy life, such as I have always found the Life Literary to be, are manifold and frequently incongruous. They may be considered in two sections—the outward or apparent and the interior or invisible. Concerning these I can only, of course, speak from my own experience. The outward or apparent occur (so far as I myself am concerned) as follows:—
1. Certain payments, small or large, made by publishers who undertake to present one’s brain work to the world in print, and who do the best they can for their authors, as well as for themselves.
2. Public appreciation and condemnation, about equally divided.
3. Critical praise and censure, six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.