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Summary
Summary
Constance Fenimore Woolson (1840-1894), who contributed to Henry James's conception of his heroine Isabelle Archer in The Portrait of a Lady, was one of the most accomplished American writers of the nineteenth century. Yet today the best-known (and most-misunderstood) facts of her life are her relationship with James and her probable suicide in Venice. This first full-length biography of Woolson provides a fuller picture that reaffirms her literary stature.
Uncovering new sources, Anne Boyd Rioux evokes Woolson's dramatic life. She was a grand-niece of James Fenimore Cooper and was born in New Hampshire, but her family's ill fortunes drove them west to Cleveland. Raised to be a conventional woman, Woolson was nonetheless thrust by her father's death into the role of breadwinner, and yet, as a writer, she reached for critical as much as monetary reward.
Known for her powerfully realistic and empathetic portraits of post Civil-War American life, Woolson created compelling and subtle portrayals of the rural Midwest, Reconstruction-era South, and the formerly Spanish Florida, to which she traveled with her invalid mother. After her mother's death, Woolson, with help from her sister, moved to Europe where expenses were lower, living mostly in England and Italy and spending several months in Egypt. While abroad, she wrote finely crafted foreign-set stories that presage Edith Wharton's work of the next generation.
In this rich biography, Rioux reveals an exceptionally gifted and committed artist who pursued and received serious recognition despite the difficulties faced by female authors of her day. Throughout, Rioux goes deep into Woolson's character, her fight against depression, her sources for writing, and her intimate friendships, including with Henry James, painting an engrossing portrait of a woman and writer who deserves to be more widely known today.
Author Notes
Anne Boyd Rioux , a professor at the University of New Orleans, is the author of Constance Fenimore Woolson: Portrait of a Lady Novelist and Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy: The Story of Little Women and Why It Still Matters, and the editor of Woolson's Miss Grief and Other Stories. Rioux has received two National Endowment for the Humanities Awards, one for public scholarship, and lives in New Orleans.
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In this thoughtful retelling of Constance Fenimore Woolson's life, Rioux, a professor of English at the University of New Orleans and president of the Woolson Society, seeks to bring the "lady novelist" out of the shadow of her great friend Henry James. Woolson had already published a short story collection, when, in 1880, she met James, who later used her as a model for characters in his fiction. Born in 1840 to a distinguished family-her mother's family founded Cooperstown, N.Y., and her granduncle was the novelist James Fenimore Cooper-Woolson was a bookish, serious, observant child. Haunted by financial insecurity and depression as an adult, she led a peripatetic life in the U.S. and Europe, eventually settling down in Venice. All the while, Woolson sought to find a balance between society's expectations for women and her own creative fire and drive, a dichotomy she never reconciled completely. Her lonely, ambiguous death at the age of 53-falling from the window of her Venetian palazzo, in an apparent suicide-is perhaps the most vivid reminder of the painful choices she had to make. Her work merits reexamination, and Rioux has brought to life an unjustly forgotten writer. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
A fine reappraisal of the work of the Victorian novelist and dear friend to Henry James. In this comprehensive, fleshed-out biography, author Rioux (English/Univ. of New Orleans; Writing for Immortality: Women and the Emergence of High Literary Culture in America, 2004, etc.) works back from Woolson's suicide in 1894 to consider the enormous obstacles a woman writer in her era had to overcome in the sexist American literary culture. Woolson's work was largely overshadowed by her contemporary and frequent companion James, and Rioux does not speculate idly about their relationship outside of their mutual devotion to their work, loneliness, and James' essential "underlying disdain for women writers." Indeed, Woolson grasped that disdain and evenpainful as it is to modern readerssubsumed the sexist strictures of the time, declaring to James, "a woman, after all, can never be a complete artist." Yet the two novelists were serializing their work in periodicals at the same time and similarly employed intelligent, thwarted, unrealized female characters in their fiction. A product of a large Cleveland family of mostly daughtersmany of whom died tragically in their youthWoolson saw firsthand the wasted fates of mothers and wives. She narrowly "escaped" (her word) a similar fate in marriage in her late 20s before choosing the writing life over teaching (the two professions available to single women), partly due to her middle nameJames Fenimore Cooper was her great uncle. Woolson was determined to make a living by her pen, and she was able to support her mother and sister, moving constantly and eventually settling in Venicealthough she was plagued by depression and ill health for much of her life. Rioux delineates the toll her writing ambition took on her and how, curiously, she hid her lethal literary drive from her friend James. An intelligent, sympathetic portrait of a complicated, even tortured writer who calls for fresh readers. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Resurrecting an American WriterConstance Fenimore Woolson (1840-94) was once so famous that debates about her intrepid fiction raged in the press on both sides of the Atlantic. But soon after her death, if she was remembered at all, it was only as a close friend of Henry James. Rioux has brought Woolson back to the republic of letters by writing a vivid, deeply involving biography, Constance Fenimore Woolson: Portrait of a Lady Novelist, and by putting together Miss Grief and Other Stories, a potent collection of Woolson's short fiction. So curious as a child that she was nicknamed And Why?, the keenly intelligent Woolson became an excruciatingly self-critical young woman who read ardently and wrote beautifully. After all, she had literature in her blood; James Fenimore Cooper of The Last of the Mohicans fame was her great-uncle. Her father encouraged her but certainly didn't want her to write professionally. Fate asserted itself, however, when, all gussied up to make the social rounds and meet eligible young men, Woolson spilled a bottle of ink on her fancy dress. Yet misogynist social constraints kept her from publishing until she was 30 and in dire need of income. Rioux writes with captivating lucidity and conviction as she chronicles Woolson's fortitude, abiding responsibility, constant travels, utter commitment to artistic excellence, and exhausting struggles for literary success and personal independence. Woolson wrote not about family, as many of her female peers did, but rather about places and situations far and wild. Having grown up in Cleveland, she was deeply affected by the booming industrial town's deleterious impact on the Great Lakes region, which she depicted with a naturalist's acuity and an environmentalist's concern. She also daringly wrote from a male point of view, frequently exposing the limitations of her male characters' ability to understand women's minds and motives. Sojourns in the South during Reconstruction evoked Woolson's deep insights into the psychological toll of the Civil War, resulting in uniquely sympathetic stories about the decimated land and its traumatized people that brought her tremendous renown. As for Woolson's close relationship with Henry James during her long expat years in Europe, Rioux sensitively postulates that the two trusted and loved each other as close friends, even though rivalry seethed. Contending with deafness and depression, Woolson sought human connection in literature, perfecting an approach that Rioux describes as empathic realism. Woolson not only held herself to high ethical standards, she was also a perfectionist, exhausting herself physically as she rewrote her manuscripts over and over again. All that effort, and still she remained poor and without a home, dying tragically and possibly suicidally in Venice at age 53. In conclusion, Rioux offers smart and poignant insights into why Woolson was forgotten and why her unapologetically sincere and passionate novels and stories fell so swiftly out of favor. It is a boon for everyone interested in American literature and women's lives to have Woolson back on the shelf.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2016 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
"IT NEEDED A very serene or a very powerful mind to resist the temptation to anger," Virginia Woolf wrote in 1929 in an essay about 19th-century women writers. A woman might start out writing about one thing or another but, before she knew it, she'd find herself "resenting the treatment of her sex and pleading for its rights." This was a pity, Woolf thought, and a trap she hoped By Brenda Wineaple CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON Portrait of a Lady Novelist By Anne Boyd Rioux Illustrated. 391 pp. W.W. Norton & Company. $32.95. MISS GRIEF AND OTHER STORIES By Constance Fenimore Woolson Edited by Anne Boyd Rioux 309 pp. W.W. Norton & Company. Paper, $15.95. IF THE AMERICAN writer Constance Fenimore Woolson is remembered at all, it's mostly for her dresses. And these weren't just any dresses. These were the dark silk ones that, after her sudden death, Henry James presumably tried to drown in a Venetian lagoon, hurling them from his gondola and jabbing them with a pole to keep them from rising. But he failed, and to Woolson's admirers his failure is symbol- women were on the verge of escaping. Julia Ward Howe is a good illustration of Woolf's argument, and also of its limits. Howe started out as a poet and a critic - she wrote about Goethe and Schiller - and she ended up writing about the right to vote. In between, she got very angry. This wasn't much good for her poetry, but honestly, it's hard to blame her. Julia Ward was born in New York City in 1819, three days after Queen Victoria. In 1843, she married Samuel Gridley Howe, a doctor and the first director of the Perkins Institution for the Blind. She's chiefly known for one thing, which vastly underrates and wildly misrepresents her. In 1861, she wrote the lyrics to the crushingly beautiful "Battle Hymn of the Republic." In portraits from her later years, her head is draped in lace. By the time she died, in 1910, she was known as the "Queen of America," a dear and dainty old lady. It's as if her whole life has been hidden beneath a lavender-scented doily. In a riveting and frankly distressing new biography, the distinguished critic Elaine Showalter insists that Howe, who was born in the same year as Walt Whitman, had "the subversive intellect of an Emily Dickinson, the political and philosophical interests of an Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and the passionate emotions of a Sylvia Plath." The problem was her world and, more particularly, her husband. His star student, Laura Bridgman, deaf and blind, was utterly devoted to him; it was just this sort of devotion that he desired in a wife. He told Julia he wanted her kept in a chrysalis, declaring that if she ever emerged and grew wings, "I shall unmercifully cut them off, to keep you prisoner in my arms." He was 18 years older than she was - "The Dr. calls me child," Howe told her sisters - and he was also in love with Charles Sumner, who served as best man at his wedding. Writing to Sumner only two hours after returning from his honeymoon, Howe reported that "Julia often says, Sumner ought to have been a woman & you to have married her." Soon Mrs. Howe was pregnant. "Only a year ago, Julia was a New York belle," her husband wrote to Sumner. "Now she is a wife who lives only for her husband & a mother who would melt her very beauty, were it needed, to give a drop of nourishment to her child." That's not how she saw it. "Are we meant to change so utterly?" she asked her sister Louisa. "In giving life to others, do we lose our own vitality, and sink into dimness, nothingness, and living death?" Howe loved her children; when one of them died of diphtheria, she dreamed every night of nursing him in the dark. But she worried that she didn't care for her sons and daughters in quite the way she was supposed to. "I am alas one of those exceptional women who do not love their children," she once wrote, then crossed out "do not love" and wrote instead "can not relate to." The Howes moved into the Doctor's Wing of the Perkins Institution for the Blind. She grew disgusted with her husband's obsession with incapacitated females. She wrote a poem, Anne Sextonian, about what he looked for in a woman: She has but one jaw, Has teeth like a saw, Her ears and her eyes I delight in: The one could not hear Tho' a cannon were near, The others are holes with no sight in. At home with her young children and pregnant more often than not - "My books are all that keep me alive" - Howe was miserable. "My thoughts grow daily more insignificant and commonplace." She wanted to use ether during childbirth. Her husband forbade it, declaring that women need discipline: "The pains of child birth are meant by a beneficent creator to be the means of leading them back to lives of temperance, exercise and reason." In 1847, Howe confided to her sister that her life had become unspeakable, unbearable: "You cannot, cannot know the history, the inner history of the last four years." SECRETLY, SHE BEGAN writing a novel, "the history of a strange being, written as truly as I knew how to write it." She never tried to publish it. The manuscript, with its first page and title missing, was deposited at Harvard's Houghton Library in 1951 by Howe's granddaughter, amid "10 boxes of unsorted prose manuscripts and speeches." Possibly the first person ever to read it was Mary H. Grant, a graduate student who discovered it in 1977 while on a five-day research trip to Cambridge, during which she left her baby with a friend who had three children of her own. Happening upon Howe's unpublished and fragmentary manuscript was thrilling but also frustrating, Grant later wrote, "because it was going to take hours of precious research time to try to make sense of this wandering document when I had so little babysitting time available in which to work." Howe would have understood. The novel was published in 2004, brilliantly edited by the Howe scholar Gary Williams, as "The Hermaphrodite." It tells the story of Laurence, a scholar who lives sometimes as a man and sometimes as a woman. A physician, asked to judge whether Laurence is truly either, says, "I shall speak most justly if I say that he is rather both than neither." Men fall in love with Laurence, and so do women; Laurence, whether in pants or petticoats, loves both back. "When I wished to trifle, I preferred the latter," Laurence explains. "When I wished to reason gravely, I chose the former." Howe was influenced by George Sand, but "The Hermaphrodite" is also original, and remarkably daring. Her husband would not have approved, nor would hardly anyone else in antebellum America. "I make myself obscure in order not to shock other women," she wrote in 1853, in a letter she never sent. In 1854, her first volume of poetry, "Passion-Flowers," was published anonymously and without Samuel Howe's knowledge. (The Boston publisher that issued it, and sold out the first edition, had rejected a manuscript written by her husband.) Many of the book's poems are about her terrible marriage; others concern motherhood. In "The Heart's Astronomy," three children peer through the windows at their mother, who, "intent to walk a weary mile," stomps "round and round the house." They watched me, as Astronomers Whose business lies in heaven afar, Await, beside the slanting glass, The reappearance of a star. She warns them not to mistake her for anything with so predictable an orbit: But mark no steadfast path for me, A comet dire and strange am I. Nathaniel Hawthorne, asked what American books Europeans didn't know about but ought to, named "Walden" first and then "Passion-Flowers." He admired it but didn't approve of it; the poems "let out a whole history of domestic unhappiness," he thought. A few years later, he declared that "she ought to have been soundly whipt for publishing them." But, of course, she was soundly whipped. When he learned the truth, her husband raged at her, said her poems "border on the erotic," and then, following a long estrange- ment, demanded they resume sexual relations or else divorce. It was likely, she wrote to her sister, that he wanted to marry "some young girl who would love him supremely." Faced with the prospect of losing her children, she gave in: "I made the greatest sacrifice I can ever be called upon to make," she confessed. When she became pregnant yet again, her husband considered putting the baby up for adoption if she disobeyed him. Having accepted this dreadful bargain, Howe turned her attention to abolitionism. So did her husband, who supported John Brown. It was to the tune of "John Brown's Body" that Howe wrote her Civil War anthem in 1861. "Writing ?Battle Hymn' was the turning point in her life, and its renown gave her the power and the incentive to emancipate herself," Showalter writes. This is unconvincing. It seems more likely that the end of childbearing was the turning point in Howe's life; she gave birth to the last of her six children in 1859, when she was 40. By the time she wrote "Battle Hymn," her youngest was weaned, and Julia Ward Howe's body was hers again. "I have been married 22 years today," she wrote in 1865. "In the course of this time I have never known my husband to approve of any act of mine which I myself valued. Books - poems - essays - everything has been contemptible or contraband in his eyes." After the war, she fought for the passage of the 14th and 15th Amendments and then, in 1869, the year she turned 50, decided to focus her attention on women's rights, joining advocates like Lucy Stone and Susan B. Anthony, who, Howe wrote, "had fought so long and so valiantly for the slave," and "now turned a searchlight of their intelligence upon the condition of woman." "BEGAN MY NEW life today," she wrote on Jan. 14, 1876, the day after her husband's funeral. She had been married for nearly 33 years and would live another 34, as Showalter points out. The rest of Howe's life was devoted to women's suffrage. She served as president of the American Woman Suffrage Association and founded the Association for the Advancement of Women. Very little of this period, the last third of her life, is chronicled in Showalter's biography. The book trails off as soon as Howe's husband dies, and ends abruptly, as if this part of Howe's life doesn't much matter. In a long and extraordinary career as a literary critic, one of Showalter's most influential works is an essay called "Toward a Feminist Poetics," published in 1979. In it, she argued that women's writing should be sorted into three periods: Feminine, 1840-1880; Feminist, 1880-1920; and Female, beginning in 1920, by which time English and American women had gotten the right to vote and, presumably, women writers were freed, mercifully, to answer only to their art. To me, this history reads more like the stages of a woman's life: A period of moody inwardness is followed by a period of angry political agitation that yields to a period of broadminded humanity. And then it begins all over again. The history of the woman writer, Woolf thought, "lies at present locked in old diaries, stuffed away in old drawers, halfobliterated in the memories of the aged." Showalter is part of a generation of exceptional scholars who found that writing and read it. Now what? In many ways, of course, it would be good to get past feminism. It can be tiresome to fight so old a fight. But that doesn't mean the fight isn't urgent. To live the life of the mind that Laurence could live only when dressed as a man, women are still asked to live as men and women who are mothers can still expect, more often than not, to fail. "A comet dire and strange am I." "She is no longer angry," Woolf wrote in 1929. Oh yes she is. ic: You can't keep this good writer down. Woolson's latest advocate is Anne Boyd Rioux, a professor of English at the University of New Orleans, whose very reliable "Constance Fenimore Woolson: Portrait of a Lady Novelist" resurrects her subject as a pioneering author who chose a literary career over the more conventional options of marriage and motherhood, a choice made in spite of the debilitating depressions that plagued her and her family. Woolson's bookish father, a prosperous New England stove manufacturer, was an insecure man whose deafness intensified his inherent melancholy, and the deaths of three of her older sisters, weeks after Woolson's birth in 1840, so devastated her mother that she never recovered. In the aftermath, the Woolsons moved to Cleveland, but more family tragedy - the sudden deaths of two more sisters, shortly after they married - persuaded the 13-year-old Woolson to fear "the ways women gave up their health and even their lives to love and marriage." Still, she too might have sacrificed her health to wedlock if the Civil War hadn't robbed her of a suitor who survived the fighting only to resettle in Hawaii. But it was the death in 1869 of her father ("the love of Constance's life," Rioux claims) that made Woolson a professional writer. Was it that she wished to realize his ambitions - or defy the taboo against a genteel woman's appearance in print? We don't know. We do know she was soon writing for Harper's Magazine, producing more stories than it could possibly publish. Appreciating Woolson as more than the smitten confidante of Henry James is laudable, though Rioux might also have considered James's negative effect on Woolson's later, flatter work. Her early tales are by far her strongest, at least to judge by the entries in "Miss Grief and Other Stories," compiled by Rioux and graciously introduced by Colm Toibin. Two 1873 stories, "Solomon" and "St. Clair Flats," are particularly fine, meticulously delineating the natural beauty of eastern Ohio and the Great Lakes region, where Woolson vacationed in her youth. And they depict out-of-the-way characters who bleakly dwell in relative seclusion, wizened men and women whose lives are crabbed and gritty. "When a girl's spirit's once broke," one of them remarks, "she don't care for nothing, you know." Woolson also wrote stories about the post-Civil War South, where she and her mother spent winters. Published in prestigious literary magazines, these tales disturbingly suggest to a present-day reader just how much Northern liberalism colluded with Southern white supremacy. Only one of them, "Rodman the Keeper," appears in "Miss Grief." Posted after the war to a federal cemetery in North Carolina, which he tends with loving care, John Rodman is a former Union soldier who also attends, almost against his will, the deathbed of an impoverished Confederate soldier. "It is easier," he discovers, "to keep the dead than the living." In the anthology's fine title story, "Miss Grief," published in 1880, Woolson turns to one of her recurring subjects, that of the artist - in this case, a tenacious female author who writes with such undeniable force that even the most successful, if supercilious, man, editing her work, can't subdue it sufficiently for publication. Despite the renown of writers like Harriet Beecher Stowe or Fanny Fern and two of Woolson's favorites, Charlotte Brontë and George Eliot, Woolson seemed to internalize the prevailing prejudice against so-called literary women. As a result, there's frequently something tepid about her prose, as if she tried to suppress her own passions to fit reigning cultural fashions. In fact, the male character in "Miss Grief" may not represent what Rioux calls the "male literary elite" as much as Woolson's own censorious side. Henry James would call her "conservative," adding that "for her the life of a woman is essentially an affair of private relations." He was referring to her subject matter; but it's her style that's underwater. Why Woolson eventually muffled herself in phrases like "hemisphere of pie" or "embowered street" isn't quite clear. Was she a victim of bias against women, particularly women writers, as Rioux suggests, or were the causes more personal? Can we separate the two? Or, put another way, to what extent is Woolson a symbol of something else (the oppression of women; their exclusion "from the literary map") and to what extent does she interest us for and by herself? To argue that Woolson was deprived of opportunities is a stretch. Though most colleges of the period were all-male, she did attend both the progressive Cleveland Female Seminary for wealthy young women and a French finishing school in New York. Her brother-in-law was part owner of a Cleveland newspaper with connections to major New York publishers, and his literary editor had contacts at The Atlantic Monthly and other magazines. When her stories began to appear, Constance Woolson included "Fenimore" in her signature; as the grandniece of James Fenimore Cooper, she could claim a bankable literary inheritance. And while Rioux rightly claims that "it would not be easy to court the favor of the male literary elite," Woolson managed to befriend many of the most refined literary men of the day, to whom she wrote flattering and even flirtatious letters. WOOLSON DID, HOWEVER, endure a great deal of condescension from mentors who, as she said, did "not really believe in woman's genius." Self-doubting but proud, increasingly deaf, more and more isolated, believing that she was unattractive (pictures of her suggest the opposite) and evidently ambivalent about her profession, Woolson traveled to Europe in 1879 after the death of her mother. There she met many prominent American expatriates, including James. Yet she remained persistently homeless, moving back and forth between Italy, Switzerland, France, Germany and England. And although she published a great deal, she was plagued by a debilitating pain in her right arm, most likely psychosomatic, whenever she was working on a novel. In December 1886, Woolson rented a villa outside Florence, and James stayed there the following spring for six weeks, occupying the downstairs apartment with a separate entrance. No doubt James and Woolson were simpatico, but when James told Edmund Gosse he was "making love to Italy," he wasn't referring to Woolson. Nor did she fall in love with him, as has frequently been supposed, even though these two unusual people obviously shared an enduring and deeply companionable bond. When they vacationed together in Geneva in 1888, they met for dinner but lodged in hotels a mile apart. Whatever the friendship was, it wasn't easy. "You do not want to know the little literary women," Woolson wrote to James. "Only the great ones - like George Eliot. I am not barring myself out here, because I do not come in as a literary woman at all, but as a sort of - of admiring aunt." This is about as close as we get to Woolson's ardor, or her anger. Except for one important incident: In Venice in early 1894, worried about her finances, exhausted after the completion of a fourth novel, weakened by illness and relying on laudanum to sleep, Constance Woolson either fell or jumped from the third-story window of her apartment. She had been delirious or she had committed suicide. A grieving James assumed both possibilities were true. Yet no one can know for sure. And so we keep poking at those unsinkable dresses, hoping to find the submerged woman who once wore them.
Library Journal Review
Constance Fenimore Woolson, a grand-niece of James Fenimore Cooper, was a prolific and acclaimed 19th-century writer in her own right, penning novels and short stories set in such places as Michigan's Mackinac Island and the postbellum South. Woolson also had a close literary friendship with Henry James. Unfortunately, her significant literary contributions were forgotten within a few decades of her death in 1894. Rioux (English, Univ. of New Orleans; Wielding the Pen) attempts to remedy this oversight with this excellent biography. This work is thoroughly researched, with the author drawing from correspondence, journals, and other archival documents, as well as featuring photos and passages from -Woolson's noteworthy literary works. Despite Woolson's success and welcome relocation to Europe, she struggled with deafness and severe depression. The author also had to confront the extreme male chauvinism held toward women writers in late 19th-century literary circles. Her death in Venice after a fall from a window was most likely a suicide. VERDICT An important contribution to reestablishing this long overlooked writer to her rightful place in the American literary canon, this excellent book will captivate readers interested in women's studies and late 19th-century American literature. [See Prepub Alert, 8/17/15.]-Erica -Swenson -Danowitz, -Delaware Cty. Community Coll. Lib., -Media, PA © Copyright 2015. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Portraits | p. xiii |
Part 1 An Education in Womanhood (1840-1860) | |
1 A Daughters Country | p. 3 |
2 Lessons in Literature, Life, and Death | p. 17 |
3 Turning Points | p. 37 |
Part 2 An Education in Authorship (1870-1870) | |
4 False Starts | p. 59 |
5 Departures | p. 75 |
6 Places | p. 98 |
Part 3 A European Experiment (1879-1886) | |
7 The Old World at Last | p. 119 |
8 The Artist's Life | p. 140 |
9 The Expatriate's Life | p. 161 |
Part 4 The Bellosguardo Years (1886-1889) | |
10 Home Found | p. 185 |
11 Confrère | p. 206 |
12 Arcadia Lost | p. 223 |
Part 5 The Final Years (1890-1894) | |
13 To Cairo and Back | p. 245 |
14 Oxford | p. 264 |
15 The Riddle of Existence | p. 286 |
16 Aftershocks | p. 305 |
Epilogue: Remembrance | p. 319 |
Acknowledgments | p. 327 |
Notes | p. 331 |
Index | p. 371 |