In the summer of this year Lady Burton went to Ventnor, and also paid a
few visits, and in the autumn she stayed at Ascot with her sister Mrs.
Van Zeller, whose husband had just died. In November she went to
Mortlake, where she settled down in earnest to write the biography of
her husband, a work which occupied her eight months. When once she
began, she worked at it morning, noon, and night, from early till late,
and except for a flying visit to Baker Street for Christmas, she never
ceased her labours until the book was finished at the end of March, 1893.
She wrote to a friend at this time:
"I finished the book last night, and have never left Mortlake. It has
taken me eight months. I hope it will be out the end of May. I do not
know if I can harden my heart against the curs,[2] but I can put out my
tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and ears.
I am to have six months' rest, but you know what that means."[3]
Lady Burton received a substantial sum from the publishers for the book,
and it was published in May. The success which it achieved was immediate
and unqualified, and, what is more, deserved, for with all its faults it
is a great book--the last great work in the life of the woman who never
thought of self, and her supreme achievement to raise aloft her husband's
name. Its success was very grateful to Lady Burton's heart, not on her
own account, but her husband's; in fact, it may be said to have gilded
with brightness the last years of her life.
Pages:
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394