body’. He does not seem to allow sufficiently for the devastating effect of her physical inability to have children with M de Charrière, or relate this to her clandestine affair with the handsome (but still unknown) young man in Geneva sometime in 1784–5. Zélide was then in her mid-forties, feeling life slipping away, and was perhaps making her one, last serious attempt to act like Ninon de Lenclos. As Benjamin Constant pointed out, this adulterous episode, perhaps Zélide’s only real adulterous episode, produced her masterpiece, Caliste.
Above all perhaps, Geoffrey Scott undervalues the happiness that her last circle of young women friends and protegées brought her after 1790, when she was fifty. They included the flirtatious and incorrigibly pregnant maid Henriette Monarchon; the handsome and talented Henriette l’Hardy (who became her literary executor); the dazzlingly beautiful Isabelle de Gélieu; the clever sophisticated Caroline de Sandoz-Rollin; and the ‘wild, gorgeous, defiant’ sixteen-year-old Suzette du Pasquier.
These produced Zélide’s own kind of salon des dames at Colombier, and exchanges of letters, poems, and confidences quite as full as her masculine ones. Such a circle was, after all, part of Zélide’s original plan to consecrate her life to friendship as well as love. And who is to say that some of these young women, with their new independent ways, did not bring Zélide love as well as friendship?
8
For all these limitations of sympathy and perspective, Geoffrey Scott’s biography remains a subtle triumph, and a considerable landmark. It changed forever the way English biographers wrote (or simply failed to write) about women. It recognised that women’s lives had different shapes from men’s, different emotional patterns of achievement and failure. It stressed the value of a psychological portrait of Zélide, over a mere chronology, but never descended to (the then fashionable) Freudian reductionism. It suggested that from a woman’s perspective, the very idea of ‘destiny’ was different. Zélide was both subject to men’s careers within the existing frame of eighteenth-century conventions, and yet always, stubbornly and subversively, independent of them.
The biography was a deserved success when finally published in 1925. It was widely praised by the reviewers, the TLS remarking that it was ‘a biography as acute, brilliant and witty as any that has appeared in recent years.’ Edmund Gosse in the Sunday Times added Scott to the group of ‘three or four young writers’ (including Strachey) who had put to flight the ‘wallowing monsters’ of Victorian biography, through ‘delicacy of irony, moderation of range, refinement and reserve’. The book won the James Tate Black Memorial Prize, and ran to three editions in the next five years. Scott himself had the odd experience of appearing in the Vogue Hall of Fame for 1925.
Not surprisingly, there were different reactions from within his own literary circle. Mary Berenson and Edith Wharton loyally praised it, Edith greeting it as ‘an exquisite piece of work’. But Vita Sackville-West, perhaps inspired by her new passion for Virginia Woolf, felt it was too flippant, too flashy and not sympathetic enough to Zélide as a woman writer. Francis Birrell, the voice of Bloomsbury, writing in The Nation gently reproached it as ‘very readable…fashionable, cosmopolitan, and a trifle over-painted’. Years later Harold Nicolson, Vita’s husband, described it with masterful ambiguity as a ‘delicate biography’.
Nonetheless it remains a memorable prologue to the full opening up of women’s biography in the twentieth-century. It is an early attempt to recover the importance of the woman writer’s role in the culture of Europe, and particularly in the long and rich tradition of Dutch humanism. The early writings of Zélide represent a vivid response to Voltaire, and his contes philoso-phiques. While the emotional confrontation between Zélide (or rather Madame de Charrière) and Madame de Staël, and the consequent battle for Benjamin Constant’s soul, is brilliantly deployed by Scott to sum up the intellectual confrontation between Enlightenment and Romantic values.
Raymond Mortimer saw this as one of the most original features of the biography, the picture of ‘a conflict between two centuries, two states of mind, almost one might say, two civilizations’. He also added shrewdly: ‘[Scott] is a little in love with Madame de Charrière, and so are you, before the book is done.’
Many of these judgements have proved remarkable perceptive. It is now becoming clear that Geoffrey Scott’s work forms part of the 1920’s revolution in British biography, championing a briefer, more stylish and inventive form. It needs to be set beside Strachey’s Queen Victoria (1921), André Maurois’s Ariel, ou La Vie de Shelley (1925), and Harold Nicolson’s Some People (1927).
Scott himself put his claim modestly, but very well, in the note appended to the end of the book. He first makes full acknowledgement to the faithful scholarship of Philippe Godet, and then adds: ‘All I have here done is to catch an image of her in a single light, and to make from a single angle the best drawing I can of Zélide, as I believe her to have been. I have sought to give her the reality of fiction; but my material is fact.’
9
Geoffrey Scott himself was always haunted by Zélide, though in many ways she set him free. With the success of his biography, he was for the first time offered professional literary work, as the editor of the recently discovered Boswell Papers from Malahide. This brought him a new self-confidence, a proper salary, a degree of emotional independence, and a fresh start in America where the unsorted Boswell archive had been shipped. Edith Wharton thoroughly approved of this new literary adventure.
As if to appease the shade of Zélide, Scott made his peace with Mary Berenson. He ceased to trail after Nicky Mariano or Vita, and amicably divorced Lady Sybil (who married Percy Lubbock the next year). Sybil, in turn, published her translations of Four Tales by Zélide, including ‘Le Noble’ and Caliste, in 1925, the first time they had ever appeared in English. Her daughter Iris Origo, a distinguished biographer in her own right, later wrote with great kindness and perception of her wayward stepfather.
But perhaps Zélide’s shade remained a little jealous of Geoffrey Scott. In 1928 he found a new love in America. Muriel Draper, an artist living at East 40th Street, worked for the New Yorker. With her, he felt he was at last escaping his own entanglements in the past, and the world of Zélide. By contrast Muriel made New York appear ‘the most beautiful city in the world in a curious thrilling way: because it is all happening under my own personal eyes, and not an elegant dream of the past.’
He too now planned for the future. His editing project was going well, and in spring 1929 he signed a contract with Harcourt Brace for a major new biography of Boswell. Then Geoffrey Scott unexpectedly caught pneumonia, and tragically died in a New York public hospital in August 1929, aged forty-six.
The Times obituarist noted: ‘he was the perfect person to pass an evening with, the product of a high civilization…both critical and affectionate.’ One cannot help feeling that Zélide would have said something similar. Just fifty-five years later, in 1984, her Complete Works were republished in ten volumes.
The editor would like to acknowledge the pioneering work of Richard M. Dunn on Geoffrey Scott’s family papers. See Further Reading.
1740 (20 October) Isabelle de Tuyll (Zélide) born at Castle Zuylen, Utrecht, Netherlands
1760 Isabelle begins secret correspondence with the Chevalier d’Hermenches
1762 Isabelle (as Zélide) publishes her
