Invisible Women


In her short story ''The Fullness of Life,'' Edith Wharton wrote that a woman's life is like ''a great house full of rooms,'' most of which remain unseen: ''and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.''

A Newsweek article last year reported on the dilemma three grown daughters had in planning the memorial service for their mother.  They were hard pressed to come up with anything to say about their mother.  It is true that she was a devoted mother, a faithful wife and a generous neighbor, but she had rarely traveled and had little education past high school. In short, she was dearly loved, but far from extraordinary.  Then one afternoon, while cleaning up their mother’s basement, the three sisters came across several homemade pies in the back of the basement freezer.  Each pie had been labeled as to its flavor and the individual for whom the pie had been baked. 

All agreed that their mother’s distinguished legacy was the most delicious pies in the world.

I love to read biographies and prefer to read about ordinary and, often obscure, people rather than famous, ones.  An exhibit of Tiffany lamps and windows opened at the New York Museum of Modern Art last year.  I was at first attracted to an article about it because I have built some Tiffany style lamps myself.  But when I read further I was captivated, not so much by the art, but by the artists.  I say artists, not artist because many of the stained glass windows and lamps created at the Tiffany Art Glass Studios in the early years of the 20th century; it turns out, were neither designed nor built by Louis Comfort Tiffany.

Yes, he did design many of the earliest lamps and windows and, yes, the style and initial creativity of how to effectively manufacture and create works of art from the exquisitely colored glass was his.  But his studios continued to create new masterpieces that were designed and executed, not by Tiffany, but by young women whose names were never associated with their art or craft.  The Tiffany Studios was, in some ways, like an appliance factory.  Do you know the name of the woman or man who designed or built your washing machine?  Just some union worker, right? 

In doing research for the exhibit it was discovered that many of the most famous of Tiffany’s works were designed and built by previously unknown women.  And they were all young, unmarried women.  One, Clara Driscoll, was such a fine artist that her name deserves to be etched on as many of 30 of the most famous of the Tiffany lamps that continue to enchant.  The New York Times article explained that:

Together "A New Light on Tiffany" and its accompanying catalogue break ground in several ways. They provide a new understanding of the techniques and procedures used to produce the extraordinary objects that made Tiffany such an exalted name in American design. They also give fresh insight into work life in the studio, from Driscoll's close relationship with Tiffany himself, who championed her work within the firm and for whom she professed respect and admiration; her often difficult interactions with her male peers, who went so far as to threaten to strike in 1903 in an unsuccessful attempt to overturn the influence of her department; and the challenges of administering what was, at its zenith in the first years of the century, a staff of 35 women, many of whose forgotten identities have been recovered by the curators' research. Through excerpts from Driscoll's letters, the show makes vivid the personal story of a successful woman in turn-of-the-century New York: the death of her first husband, Francis Driscoll, and finally another marriage in 1909, which ended her tenure at Tiffany. In keeping with the conventions of the time, married women could not be employed at the studio.

Though invisible for the last century, Clara Driscoll, deserves to have her name remembered alongside of the name of her famous employer.

One of my favorite television programs is “Inside the Actors Studio”.  Famous movie stars are interviewed, not about their glamorous lives as movie stars, but about how they started their careers.  The host, James Lipton, asks about what kind of lives they had as children. He inquires about their illnesses, “B” movie days, about their marriages and divorces.  They come across as real people not living Barbie Dolls. 

Not everyone can become famous.  And it is sometimes the people next to the famous that are more inspiring than the ones who garner all the fame and glory. 

Bernard Loomer wrote “The world of the individual who can be influenced by another without losing his or her identity or freedom is larger than the world of the individual who fears being in­fluenced. The former can include ranges and depths of com­plexity and contrast to a degree that is not possible for the latter. The stature of the individual who can let another exist in his or her own creative freedom is larger than the size of the individual who insists that others must conform to his own purpose and understandings.” “Two Conceptions of Power” Bernard Loomer 17-18

A book, “The Invisible Woman” by Claire Tomalin provides an example in the life of Ellen Ternan Robinson.  Nelly married a minister, the Rev. George Robinson, in 1877. Prospects looked bright for the young couple when the Rev. Robinson became headmaster of a school in Margate on the Kentish coast. 

Nelly, good minister’s wife that she was, assisted her husband by teaching the young scholars German and French as well as elocution and directing little school plays. She always loved producing school plays and, later, in her sixties, tried her hand at writing one. The   Rev. Mr. Robinson, a kind and gentle man, was well liked by his students. He and Nelly had a son and a daughter and things were going well for the family until Rev. Robinson became ill. Over the next few years the illness took its toll and the school began doing poorly and had to be sold.

The family was forced to move to a more modest house in a poorer section of town. The Rev. Robinson died leaving a wife and two small children.  Yet, in spite of this, Nelly endured and was able to send her son, Geoffrey and his sister, Gladys, to fine English boarding schools. Nelly always seemed to find the money somewhere. When Geoffrey graduated and wished to become a soldier his mother found the money to keep him in uniforms and pay for his room and board, as was the custom in England's Victorian Gentleman's Army.  On April 25, 1914 Ellen Ternan Robinson died.

 

It was then, in going through old boxes of his mother's papers, that Geoffrey discovered letters and accounts that puzzled and surprised him. There was, for example, a playbill dated August 24, 1857 that listed his mother, his grandmother and his two aunts acting in a professional theater.  His mother would have been eight years old but she is listed as playing a woman's role. There were letters from all over Europe, and particularly perplexing, love letters to his mother from one of the most famous men in nineteenth century England.   

A copy of his will, also discovered, left a significant inheritance to Nelly.

After some additional research, Geoffrey made an appointment to meet with the son of the man who many considered to be one of the great authors of nineteenth century England. He confirmed what Geoffrey guessed, or should I say - feared - that his mother, Miss Nelly Ternan before marrying the Rev. Robinson, had been the secret mistress of the famous Unitarian writer, Charles Dickens. 

She was, it turned out, ten years older than had been previously reported.  Geoffrey discovered that, from the time she was an infant, Nelly had appeared on stage with her parents. With this background Nelly must have been much more mature and widely read than most other girls who had been brought up in a more proper environment. She knew by heart much of Shakespeare as well as many other English playwrights and poets and was fluent in French, Italian and German. She was disciplined and used to hard work and enduring hardships as a way of life.

By 1857 Charles Dickens had already published Nicholas Nickerby, The Pickwick Papers and A Christmas Carol.  He was probably taken, not only, by Nelly's youth and vitality, but, also, by her mature bearing. Charles Dickens had been separated from Catherine, his wife of twenty-two years, before he met Nelly, yet he did not seek a divorce. He had a public image to maintain of being a family man and devoted father of ten children, as well as a rescuer of the poor, homeless, innocent sufferers in the streets of London. 

Charles Dickens found in Nelly someone that he could speak comfortably with about all of the issues of the world that deeply concerned him. Nelly helped him edit his manuscripts and coached him for his readings, she comforted him when he was sick and was always "there" for him.  It is reported that his acting and readings improved greatly after he met Nelly.  She gave up her own life for his.  But he never "lived with" her. He always kept one or two or three residences for himself. He liked the secretness of it.

When he died his children and the two or three friends who knew about his relationship with Nelly attempted to destroy all remaining references to her. Nelly stopped acting and became all but invisible.  It was the thoroughness of this process that culminated in the shock that Geoffrey Robinson experienced when he discovered that his mother was not the person that he thought that she was.  Geoffrey Wharton Robinson was a conservative gentleman soldier who was profoundly disturbed to discover that the mother that he knew – the dutiful wife of a minister, Sunday School teacher, well read and well spoken, who presented herself as a humble but proud proper English mother and wife had, to his mind been, in fact, little better than a prostitute from a long line of Bohemians who carried on in all manner of dress entertaining anyone who could come up with the price of a ticket.  To him, her entire life had been a lie, even to the point of shaving ten years off her age.   Geoffrey was so devastated by this information and ashamed of his mother that he promptly went home, burned all the documents that he could find and never spoke of it or her again.  

His sister, Gladys, was more tolerant of Nelly’s adventurous life and would have liked to find out more about her mother but did not possess any documents that could have helped. She passed away in 1973.  

Nelly, whom Dickens loved and who was more important to him than any other person alive, was destined to live a life of meaning and value in secret.  But that is not really so different from most of us.  Out of the billions people in this world only a handful are ever famous, even for the brief 15 minutes that Andy Warhol spoke of.  Most of us live out our lives as very private people.  Often it is only our very closest friends or relatives who really know who we are.  We may be only acquaintances to those we work side by side with or go to pot luck suppers with at church.  Yet we can’t help but lead full, though private lives.

I have never stopped being intrigued by the fascinating lives that other people live.  One of the most enjoyable evenings that I spend at Minister’s groups is when, usually on the final evening of a Minister’s retreat, we gather around to listen to either a retiring or a senior minister tell of the trials and tribulations of his or her life.  We hear about the struggles that they had growing up in a Catholic or fundamentalist or atheistic household and finding their way to Unitarian Universalism; or the natural progression from Unitarian or Universalist youth groups to seminary to ministry.  We might hear about a year spent in bed because of an illness as a child that made a reader out of her or him, or of the poverty that made the thought of going to college much less seminary seem impossible.  We might hear of difficulties with their children or their devastation at the loss of a spouse.  But whatever struggles they passed through all seemed to strengthen their character and contribute to how they were able to minister to others.

You may have heard the Buddha’s assertion that “All life is suffering”.  I recently read an article that suggested that there is a better translation.  The word, the author maintained, should be translated, not as “suffering” but as “struggle”.  Thus, the better translation might be: “All life is a struggle”. 

I find this more congruent with my own life.  I do not remember much, if any, real “suffering” in my life, but of “struggle” I have found much.  I struggled to learn to tie my shoes, to learn to read, to be good enough at baseball that I wouldn’t be the last chosen.  I struggled to study for and to pass exams, make friends, to get up the courage to ask a girl for a date, to maintain my marriage.  I struggled to overcome interpersonal frictions.  Yes, looking back, I see that, as good as my life has been, it has been, as well, a life full of struggle.  And the struggle does not end.  I struggle daily to be a good minister as well as a good father, son and husband.  Although some things come easier than others, all life is a struggle.  These are not monumental struggles.  I am not struggling to overcome a physical handicap or racism or sexism or even an addiction.  I am not attempting to scale Mt. Everest or to win a Super Bowl ring or even to be the best preacher in the denomination. 

I long ago discovered that I needed to become more humble and aspire to what is attainable rather than what is clearly not within my reach.  Yet that still entails struggle.  Just getting up in the morning and brushing my teeth requires that I put one foot in front of the other.  It is because of this that I envy and am inspired by those who have to struggle with so much more.  It is for this reason that I understand the necessity of respecting and valuing the struggles of others.  Even if we cannot actually assist in their struggles (after all, some struggles, must be overcome by oneself) at least, we can not get in the way.  By encouraging and assisting rather than demeaning or restricting or thwarting another’s yearnings, we can, in our own, private, secret, invisible way, become part of the solution rather than part of the problem.

My fascination with stories brought to life again in biographies continues.  Biographies enable me, in studying history, to peek behind the shadows, draw back the curtains and learn of the invisible people who lived their lives behind giants.  Their voices are almost never heard, yet, perhaps, have the most to offer us. Everyone has to overcome difficulties of one kind or another and in so doing exhibits strengths from which we can learn.  These are valuable legacies, however humble.  It is, frequently, not the triumphs and victories, but the deprivations, the hard times and the defeats that define us.  While those who have lived their lives with success at every turn have struggled, as well,  is it not that much more heroic to have been poor, whether in the form of money, talent, heritage, education or opportunity and overcome that adversity to make of ones life a life of wholeness and merit?

Everyone, each of us included, have unique gifts and talents to offer.  Though we may not be great scientists, writers, musicians or athletes we all bring something to all of our interactions with our families, friends and acquaintances.  It might be a gentle way of speaking or an attentive ear.   It might be a warm embrace of an affirming smile.  It might a happy whistle, or even, a cherry pie.  Whatever we offer, by offering ourselves, we offer to the world, ourselves.  And the world is that much richer for it.