Anna Katharine Green as a Wife and Mother
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN, the novelist—whose story, “The Leavenworth Case,” brought her an international renown, won immediate admiration from Wilkie Collins, the prince of story-tellers, and at once placed that fictionary gentleman, Mr. Gryce, side by side with Monsieur Lecocq and Sherlock Holmes—lives in a picturesque little house on Norwood avenue, in Buffalo. It is an unpretentious home, pervaded by a domestic rather than a literary atmosphere. It has a piazza covered with vines and barricaded by rose bushes, in summer-time an inviting lounging place, with its antique-patterned settees, its pillows and rugs.
At the portico entrance are fragrant syringa trees; at one side you have glimpses of hedges of sweet peas, and walled nasturtiums, which grow in the back garden where the novelist spends many of her leisure hours—and there would really be the very best place to find her if you are permitted either a morning call or a late afternoon-tea visit.
It was in discussing “tall” and “dwarf” nasturtiums, and snow-ball and hydrangea plants, that I formed my first impressions of Mrs. Rohlfs, and afterward, when it was snowy and blustering on the outside, and we were all cozy within around the big grate fire, I added to them with intensified interest.
Mrs. Charles Rohlfs is well-known to be a devoted wife and mother. She is mistress of the house more in fact than theoretically, for she is a practical woman, full of American simplicity, and utterly free from affectation. Her husband, who is known as a Shakespearean scholar, and was at one time an attractive actor of the old school ethics, is a man of business; one who dignifies labor by his art, and who might be considered, in some ways, the William Morris of this country. The “Rohlfs Shop” produces odd pieces of furniture signed by the maker with the pride of a master man. The bond between this husband and wife is idealistic; the work of each appeals mutually, like unto one heart. But they have another tie that binds them, like the warp and woof of a golden netting. This is in their children—Rosamond, who is now a charming young woman just entering “society,” and Stirling and Roland, two bright sons with many of the attractive attributes of their gifted parents. It is to the mother, her domestic and book side, that I purpose, however, to devote this article, for it is of her real self that thousands would like to know. How serious is the influence of such a writer in the destinies of men! If one cannot lift an arm or wink an eyelid without altering a life, imagine, if you can, the power exerted in changing the direction of thought by a hundred works circulating among as many million people! I have seen the writings of Anna Katharine Green in the English and German libraries of the Swiss hotels among the Alpine peaks; I have seen them in the French book stalls along the Seine; an Irish officer of Constabulary near Ballyhooly read to me aloud from one; and a Baron of Berlin scratched my face with his huge mustachios when I told him that I was a frequent visitor at the author’s home. If she were to gather the different works in their different editions, in her own and other languages, no room in her house would hold them. “Mr. Gryce” was thought out by a splendid mentality, and born in a public cradle rocked by an expansive human interest.
She began “writing” when she was a very little girl—eleven years old in fact—at her first Buffalo home, which I should record here as being “on Pearl street, near Swan,” and at her first school, “No. 8 on Church Street near Delaware Avenue,” where she spoiled her text-books by annotations of her fairy stories. As she went along in her youth her father was intensely interested in her work, while the relatives remonstrated with and discouraged her. But it was in this very environment that she found, perhaps, her best teacher; the resentment and combativeness that an author’s breast is agitated by are excellent factors in mental propagation; the things that are nearest to nature’s heart are nourished by a vigilant nurse. Since those days the novelist’s career is well known. She has toiled in her spinning of yarns, and has accomplished much. “I am just simple enough,” she said to me, “in my hero worship, to feel satisfied that I have been able to distinguish myself sufficiently to have received heart letters from such masters as Gladstone and Wilkie Collins.” The latter wrote to her that he didn’t go to bed until he had finished reading “The Leavenworth Case.” This novel has been in constant demand for twenty-five years— an unparalleled record in continual production by the original publisher.
“My literary work,” said Mrs. Rohlfs, “is hard, grinding effort, mostly in the physical part of putting it down on paper in the right way. I have thought out my book when I begin to write it, and I generally complete my work to the best of my ability before I attempt to negotiate business. I am not prolific, as one might say of Trollope, although he was more of a grinder in a treadmill than I am. When I am in the throes of a book I am quite a different woman from my real social being—I cannot do anything else. In the formulation of my stories I take no one into my confidence. But as I write chapter by chapter, I have my ‘good man,’ when he comes home from the shop, read them aloud to me, and in this manner I am better able to judge my own work. I simply cannot do decent literary work on order. If I could I would be rich. I can only write when I feel that I have something to say, and am inspired by a plot. The plot’s the thing! They do not grow on bushes and to be had for the asking. I am trying to think out one now, and until I find it I am not, of course, in the literary business. It is in such an emergency as this that I degrade my housekeeper, take the reins of my own establishment from kitchen to garret, and enter more deeply into the affairs and love of my children; and it is on domestic subjects that you suggest that I would now rather prefer to talk.”
“I believe in the first place that every woman should delight in the workings of her home just as her husband delights in the workings of his office. We are, to be sure, a long way off from being able to control our servants as our husbands control their clerks. Perhaps after all it is the fault of mistresses. We did not begin rightly, long ago. If we had, perhaps we could have trained up a race of exemplary cooks and housemaids. It is an exceedingly exasperating condition. Though, as I have said, there are periods when my housekeeper has entire charge of my household machinery, I have always known what goes on. My daughter, as well as myself, has been brought up to know how to make our own garments, and sewing has been one of the diversions between my busy hours. I have very firm convictions on the subject of bringing up children; I have my own ideas about boys, and I hope my sons, Stirling and Roland, will prove the good of my theories when they reach manhood.”
“Regarding cookery,” continued Mrs. Rohlfs, “I have something of a mania for it. I like to try new recipes and discuss them. I never could understand why many otherwise sensible women are not fond of their kitchens. The art of dining well cannot be left entirely to the present-day family cook. Things must be appetizing and well served to make a happy household. Both my husband and I are positive on this subject; we are epicures in a simple way. We like dainty French dishes, country dishes, and beans as they are cooked in Boston, and this implies distinction and variety, but whatever may be the piece de resistance it must be perfect in its way, and if the cook does not know how then I teach her. I believe in the Sunday tea. On that day we dine at one o’clock, and then the servants can do as they please until bedtime. At six o’clock we sit down to a ‘picked up meal.’ Perhaps it is creamed Finan Haddie in the chafing dish, or perhaps it is only poached eggs on toast, cold meats and preserves. But it is really a merry relief from the usual program.”
Many of my meetings with Mrs. Rohlfs have been in the summer-time in her little back garden, when her fine, strong face was shadowed by an old-fashioned sunbonnet, and she was busy with gloved hands trimming or weeding. She is passionately devoted to flowers. She watches every bud day after day, and she masses her house and garden with color. She is also a lover of animal life. One of the chief inmates of the house is “Romeo,” a big Maltese cat, whose dignity and independence are monitor-like on the desk at which the novelist writes. In the winter evenings the domestic fireside is Mrs. Rohlfs’s delight. She is fond of her library of old novels and first editions of rare books, many of which are autograph copies. She is fond of entertaining, too, and brightly adapts herself to the quality of her guests. Just as one leaves the consciousness of one life and goes into another, I have seen a new expression come to her face, and in her eyes a strange dynamic flash, as she put aside her domestic thoughts and turned to her husband and the visitor to consider a more worldly subject of contemporaneous human interest.
Perhaps no finer compliment could be paid to Mrs. Rohlfs than to say that in Buffalo social life she is regarded as one of the most important factors in the greatest good it may sustain. One of the oldest residents of Buffalo said to me: “You could say of Mrs. Rohlfs that she lends dignity and sincerity to every woman’s organization she has to do with. As a member of our whist club her presence has always had a beneficial influence.”