It is doubtful if women had ever been less conscious of their limitations, or less dissatisfied with them; but the definite expression of criticism arose at this period, because they were acquiring the habit of expressing themselves, and had glimpses of possible change. From Charlotte Brontë, women not only pictured life from a feminine standpoint, but discussed and criticised it—a movement which “found itself” in George Eliot.
Mrs. Oliphant still speaks, and thinks, consciously, as a woman. But she does not “accept” everything. As to the craftmanship of fiction, we may now assume it for women, as had the public. We are reaching, indeed, the time when her province is no longer to stand aside. The later writers speak as individuals among artists, not as part of a group or school.
As mentioned above, Mrs. Oliphant also wrote competent criticism and played the part, still comparatively novel among women, of an all-round practical journalist, knowing the world of letters, familiar with publishers and the “business” of authorship, handling history or biography like a person of culture. In her later years she essayed, in The Beleaguered City and elsewhere, some way into that field of psychic inquiry—developed by her son Laurence—and since their day a familiar topic in fiction.
At one time, indeed, greater things were expected of her. The Chronicles of Carlingford (1863) approach genius. They appeared after Adam Bede, and it is scarcely surprising that men imagined the discovery of a second George Eliot. We find in them that almost masculine insight—from an intellectual eminence—of parochial affairs, small society, and the country town, combined with passionate character-analysis, emotional philosophy, and bracing humour, which constituted the individuality of George Eliot.
Mrs. Oliphant, in her early days, produced several “Chronicles,” in which the characters reappear, though diversely centralised; and we may consider two examples at some length.
Miss Marjoribanks, following the woman’s lead, is professedly a study in a certain feminine type. The heroine was known among her schoolfellows as “a large girl.”
“She was not to be described as a tall girl—which conveys an altogether different idea—but she was large in all particulars, full and well-developed, with somewhat large features, not at all pretty as yet, though it was known in Mount Pleasant that somebody had said that such a face might ripen into beauty, and become ‘grandiose,’ for anything anybody could tell. Miss Marjoribanks was not vain; but the word had taken possession of her imagination, as was natural, and solaced her much when she made the painful discovery that her gloves were half a number larger, and her shoes a hair-breadth broader, than those of any of her companions; but the hands and feet were perfectly well-shaped; and being at the same time well-clothed and plump, were much more presentable and pleasant to look upon than the lean rudimentary school-girl hands with which they were surrounded. To add to these excellences, Lucilla had a mass of hair which, if it could but have been cleared a little in its tint, would have been golden, though at present it was nothing more than tawny, and curly to exasperation. She wore it in large thick curls, which did not, however, float or wave, or do any of the graceful things which curls ought to do; for it had this aggravating quality, that it would not grow long, but would grow ridiculously, unmanageably thick, to the admiration of her companions, but to her own despair, for there was no knowing what to do with those short but ponderous locks.”
After which unconventional description, we are not surprised to learn that our heroine “was possessed by nature of that kind of egotism, or rather egoism, which is predestined to impress itself, by its perfect reality and good faith, upon the surrounding world.... This conviction of the importance and value of her own proceedings made Lucilla, as she grew older, a copious and amusing conversationalist—a rank which few people who are indifferent to, or do not believe in, themselves can attain to.”
Miss Marjoribanks had two objects in life—to “be a comfort to” her widowed father and “to revolutionise society.” Undoubtedly she “made” Carlingford, and, though her father was perfectly satisfied with his own management of life, she did actually succeed in proving herself essential to his well-being. A young woman who, on her own showing, “never made mistakes” and was “different” from other ladies, was able to effect much with the “very good elements” of Carlingford. She created a social atmosphere of peculiar distinction, she managed the most intractable of archdeacons, she found “the right man” to represent the borough. She was as fearless as, and far more successful than, Miss Woodhouse, in making marriages; and in every respect went her own way with a most engaging self-confidence. Dr. Marjoribanks respected and “understood” her, though he thought her more “worldly” than she proved herself; and no one gave her full credit “for that perfect truthfulness which it was her luck always to be able to maintain.”
The character is worth our study; for it is improbable that fiction has ever produced, or will ever venture to repeat, a heroine so entirely convinced of a mission in life, and so competent to carry it out. Scarcely ever concerned with sentiment, she had a genius for doing “the right thing,” and thoroughly enjoying the contemplation of her own achievements. Yet she was really generous and kind-hearted, entirely above jealousy or meanness. We may question, perhaps, whether any woman, or man either, was ever quite so consistent: since even in yielding to Cousin Tom’s importunities, she was but planning a new campaign—“to carry light and progress” into “the County.” Yet few readers will fail to recognise the power and charm of Lucilla Marjoribanks—a new revelation of what a woman conceives woman may be.