Page 8 of The Book of Lost Stories
So Letty wrote out the first few chapters in her best copperplate on the paper so unwittingly provided by James Basset. These she enclosed in a package with a covering letter to her nephew, Thomas Grimshaw, an attorney in a good way of business in London, to forward to Sir Walter. It was quite a circuitous way of doing it, but the only one that would not raise eyebrows in Little Stidding. No one would be surprised at letters and packages passing to and fro between Letty and her kindly London relatives.
Of course, Major Weston knew nothing of Alys’s writing. He probably assumed that she and Miss Grimshaw spent all their days in the wholesome and healthy pursuits of housewifery, needlework and perhaps a little ladylike rambling about.
And, in fact, Alysdidramble about: she walked for miles and quite often at a furious pace for, full of youth, vigour and a yearning for action of some kind –anykind. She was so restless that exercise was the only way to calm her disordered spirits. And now that her novel and its characters had so taken over her mind, she muttered and occasionally evengesticulatedas shewalked, pouring into the novel all her longings for romance, travel and excitement.
Up on the moors, under the boundless and ever-changing skies, her imagination was free to soar like a hawk, even if in reality she was forever confined to run about a constricted world, like one of her own chickens.
3
Cut to the Quick
The door by which her gaoler entered the tower squealed hideously when opened: so how could the sweet music that had lulled her to sleep the first night of her sojourn in this place be rationally explained, or the glimpsed, monkish figure silently descending the stair into the windowless chamber below?
The Travails of Lady MalvinabyORLANDO BROWNE
‘And listen tothispart, Letty!’ Alys raged, indignantly brandishing the longed-for letter from Sir Walter Scott in the air, for the blinkered pride of the new author had left her in daily expectation of receiving only the most lavish terms of admiration and encouragement.
Instead, he gently pointed out those faults of the amateur – such as overwriting, a veritable thicket of exclamation marks and a derivative reflection of the works of others – that hadbeen quite obscured to Alys’s fond eye until that moment. Having them quiveringly exposed to the light of day made her feel both defensive and angry, however well meant the advice.
In short, my dear young lady, much as I may admire the inspiring works of Mrs More, or the particular genius for sweeping vistas and picturesque settings so excellently employed in Mrs Radcliffe’s novels, in general a woman’s mind is not fitted for the task of earning her living by her pen.
‘Oh … oh dear!’ Letty murmured inadequately.
‘He understandsnothingabout novel writing,’ Alys exclaimed, striding about the room in a most unladylike way. ‘If Lady Malvina is “devoid of many of those tender and pious qualities that would engage the reader’s sympathies with her terrible plight” then I am glad of it! Oh, I should have known better than to send my work to a poet, for ten to one, now I have put the notion into his head, he will steal my plot and write a novel himself!’
‘Oh, no, indeed, Alys, I am sure you are wrong.’
‘Ha! We shall see,’ Alys said, taking another hasty turn about the room, reminding her companion of nothing so much as a caged beast. ‘And the next passage adds insult to injury!’
A woman’s sole and most beautiful design should be to support and nurture the spiritual and physical comfort of her family, and to this end you must put aside any ill-judged yearnings for fame. Do not dim and sully that pure vestal light with longings for which Nature has not fitted you.
‘Pah!’ She crumpled up the letter and hurled it away with some force. ‘What, pray, can he know about my situation?Myvestal light will be quite burned out in ministering to Papa while he selfishly drinks himself into an early grave, leaving us all but penniless.’
‘He knows nothing … you are quite right, dearest Alys,’ agreed Letty. ‘I dare say Sir Walter was liverish, or does not have a taste for the Gothic, or some such thing. And I am sure that caring for your poor papa as you do isjustas much a noble duty as being a helpmeet to a husband, for were it not for your patience and firmness he would not be with us now.’
This was true, but with no control over Sir Ralph, who saw nothing amiss in supplying his invalid cousin with wines and spirits from his own cellar, her influence was limited.
Letty plied Alys with cups of weak tea and comforting platitudes until eventually she calmed down enough to retrieve the letter, smooth it out and reread it in a calmer frame of mind. And if she was soon scrawling her own angry comments over it, she was also starting to realize the sense of most of what he had said on the subject of writing.
‘And it was kind of Sir Walter to answer your letter at all, don’t you think?’ Letty ventured. ‘He probably receives so many of them.’
‘I suppose so. In retrospect I amdeeplythankful that I did not also send him some of my juvenile attempts at verse. And it may be perverse of me, but I fear I may never again read any of his verse without a feeling of distinct aggrievance.’
But she soon began to revise her novel for, while she could not make her heroine nauseatingly good and pious to suit Sir Walter’s tastes, she could and did attempt to expunge allborrowings from the novels of other authors and strive for a more original tone.
Upon request, Letty’s nephew in the city managed to find out Mrs Radcliffe’s direction and, in due course, Alys forwarded a much humbler and wiser letter and a few pages of rewritten manuscript to her for an opinion.
In due course Mrs Radcliffe wrote back to Alys briefly, but very kindly, saying, since this time Alys had mentioned her family circumstances, that she believed writing would provide much solace in her lonely situation, as she performed the loving and unselfish duties of a daughter.
But Alys could not agree with her opinion that her work showed an almostmasculinetone of assertion, or if it did, why this should be a bad thing. Besides, since it was being penned by her alter ego, Orlando Browne, she was sure any tone of masculine assertion was perfectly natural.
Mrs Radcliffe’s confession that she had only turned to writing novels in order to add to the family coffers struck Alys quite forcibly, for although publication alone had first been her dream, what if she could earn a living by doing something that she so much enjoyed?
But then, any such fruits of her labours would go to line her papa’s pockets and he would inevitably use them to hasten himself to the grave, just as Mrs Radcliffe’s money was her husband’s to do with as he would. Alys hoped for the lady’s sake that Mr Radcliffe was not in the least like Major Weston.
*
It began to be plain that Lady Basset’s increasingly poor health and palpitations had become more than imaginary, for her lipsoccasionally turned an alarming bluish shade as she gasped for breath, and the dabs of rouge stood out on her plump cheeks.
