• Mary's Shocking Act
Mary's Shocking Act The marriage of Mary to Frank Costelloe changed the lifestyle of the Smiths considerably. Having come to terms with the reality of the situation, Hannah made regular trips by steamer back and forth between England and the United
States in the years that followed. With the birth of Ray in 1887, she declared herself "a perfectly idiotic grandmother" and described little Ray as "a perfectly delicious baby girl."
Mary then found a house for her mother and father at 40 Grosvenor Road in London, four doors away from the house where she and Frank lived. By fall of 1888, Mary was pregnant again, an unwanted pregnancy. She was now bored with her marriage and her role as the wife of a rising politician.
In March 1889, Mary gave birth to a second girl, Karin, with Mother Hannah there to help. When Mary's recovery was slow, the Smiths discovered a country place called Friday's Hill near the Sussex village of Fernhurst where she could recuperate. It was a large, ugly house with ten acres of grounds and about two hundred acres of woodland.
There were fourteen bedrooms, two coach houses, two cotages, a conservatory, billiard room, and tennis court. It
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was, in short, a typical English squire's house and became the Smiths' summer residence for many years.
Hannah appropriated for herself a little sewing room, which she named "The Last Resort." This was her special retreat. She would vanish into it whenever the clash-maclavers (as she called the gossip sessions and philosophical discussions of youth) became too much for her.
Robert waxed enthusiastic about Friday's Hill and strolled around the grounds in a Lord-of-the-manor style.
He had a big sun-room built in the top of one of the trees on the grounds with a spiral staircase built around the tree as access. He called it his "Bo Tree," and intended to use it for Buddhist-style meditation. Hannah and Robert now had separate bedrooms and lived separate lives except when jointly involved in family and social activities.
At various times during the 1890s, a number of illustrious characters visited Friday's
Hill. A roll call of their names read like excerpts from Who's Who in England and America:
Beatrice and Sidney Webb, George Bernard Shaw, George Santayana, Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Wilde, and Bertrand Russell were all guests at one time or another, either at Friday's Hill or at the home on Grosvenor Road.
The Pearsall Smiths even paid a call or two on the aging poet Tennyson.
During the summer of 1890, a gifted young man named Bernhard Berenson showed up at Friday's Hill. He had been at Harvard when Mary was there, and they had been introduced by a friend. Berenson was of Lithuanian-Jewish origin; his family had settled in Boston. After graduating from Harvard he was touring Europe, his trip financed by some wealthy sponsors who saw in him signs of genius.
Falling in love with medieval and renaissance Italian art, he decided to devote himself to a lifelong study and interpretation of the painters of these periods. Mary had caught up with him on his return trip to England and invited him for a long weekend at Friday's Hill.
Everyone was impressed with the young man. Mary, in
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particular, drank in Berenson's discourses on poetry, pictures, and music like a thirsty sponge. Here at last was the sort of thing for which her hungry heart had been yearning.
She realized that a life centered around the search for beauty was the life she had always wanted. The combination of Berenson's personal charm and a doctrine that openly rejected Frank's political and religious ideals in favor of purely aesthetic ones could not have burst upon her at a more opportune moment.
Mary spent all of August of 1890 with Bernhard—or "B.B." as he was called—visiting art museums and galleries around London. Her husband was also impressed with B.B., who began making frequent appearances at the Costelloe home at 40 Grosvenor Road. In September, the Costelloes traveled to Paris, where Mary met Berenson for a tour of the Louvre and other galleries while Frank visited with friends. The new world of art was an enchantment for Mary. When the Costelloes returned to London, Mary began an almost daily correspondence with B.B. She was not only attracted by his abilities as an art critic, but also found him physically alluring. He was an elegant, dapper little man,
25 years of age, with dark curly hair and soulful gray eyes.
At Christmas, Mary persuaded Frank to take her to Italy where she and B.B. spent three days visiting art treasures in Florence and Rome. In February, Bernhard came to England for several months, staying with the Costelloes before he found rooms of his own. The combination of daily proximity, physical attraction, and mutual infatuation with the arts was too much for Mary and B.B. They became lovers right under Frank's nose. Years later, Bernhard admitted to Mary's granddaughter that "I found myself in the classic
French farce situation—hiding in a wardrobe, clutching my trousers, when Frank came home unexpectedly early." 2
After Bernhard left England that summer of 1891 , Mary found it intolerable to resume her former life. She decided, no matter what the cost, that she would leave Frank and go to Florence, Italy, to "study art" with B.B.
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When the confrontation took place between Mary and Frank, the emotional fallout must have rattled windows in the whole London neighborhood. To Frank, divorce was unthinkable. Not only was he Catholic, he was in politics:
A hint of scandal would end his career, and an errant wife who left her husband and ran off with another man was regarded as a totally depraved creature. Did Mary understand this? Mary did not seem to care what London society thought of her. She insisted on a separation of at least a year.
After several heated exchanges, Frank agreed on a plan that would enable him to keep his social position. He and Mary traveled together to Paris, where he remained while she went on to join B.B. and a friend in a tour of galleries throughout Germany. Mary was ecstatic. She "had happily cast off all concern for convention, and felt sure, with the optimism of a much-spoilt child, that she could pursue her own path undisturbed." 3
Hannah was appalled. She totally disapproved of her daughter's action and supported Frank's position on divorce and the role of a mother in the home. Yet she loved her daughter, an all-out love that was mostly blind to Mary's shallow and selfish nature. Hannah and Robert had warned Mary that the marriage would become intolerable—yet now that it had happened, Hannah did not throw an "I told you so" at her daughter.
Mary, it seemed, was winning all the rounds. She and B.B. had a fling around Europe, then returned to Florence, where Mary moved into an apartment but a few doors from Bernhard. She had persuaded Frank to allow Ray and Karin to spend the winter with her. To top it off, her most respectable mother was also there for a month. Hannah somehow maintained the illusion that her daughter's relationship with B.B. was purely platonic, that Mary would return to London and her marriage at the end of the year.
Mary, however, had found her niche. She had no intention of resuming her role as Frank's wife.
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When Mary brought the children home to London and said she intended to go back to Florence, Frank's patience whatever there was left of it—was exhausted. There were terrible scenes between him and his estranged wife. He was convinced that Mary, aided and abetted by her mother, planned to kidnap little five-year-old Ray. Finally the outraged husband made Mary sign a separation agreement that limited her visits to the children to four weeks a year and made her promise to be discreet about the whole affair so that his political reputation would not be damaged.
Mary abandoned her children and returned to Italy.
At this point Hannah had a decision to make about involvement in her grandchildren's lives. Her daughter's behavior could well have instilled a sad "hands-off" policy toward her two grandchildren. After all, Frank had been the cuckolded party in this situation. He merited sympathy and certainly had a right to rear his children any way he wanted. Any role she might try to play as grandmother could be fiercely resented and resisted—it could be a nowin situation for her.
As for Mary, she had made the choice to abandon responsibility, violating everything her mother had taught her. Hannah believed the wife's duty was to remain with her husband, regardless—as she was doing with Robert.
The hurt to Hannah was nearly unbearable. She very easily could have backed away from the mother-daughter relationship until Mary sought forgiveness for her folly. For the sake of her grandchildren, however—and also because of intense family loyalty—Hannah decided to be the intermediary in her daughter's marriage situation.
Since Frank was away from home a lot, Ray and Karin were in the care of their grandmother Costelloe, a cross, overprotective old lady who nagged the little girls constantly. Her attitude was so negative that nearly every form of innocent fun was forbidden to the children. Frank had also hired a nurse named Emma, who, it turned out, was
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even harsher on the children than the obdurate old lady Costelloe.
Since only a few houses separated the Costelloes and Smiths there on Grosvenor Road, frequent contact between the two families was inevitable, even though Frank Costelloe seldom issued any invitations. It was an awkward situation for Hannah, since she had to tiptoe around Frank to spend time with her grandchildren. She was constantly on edge, for fear Frank would take a sudden notion to banish her from their lives forever.
Once she was allowed to bring Ray back to her house for a little fun in the sunny nursery that Hannah had fitted up in the back of the house where the windows got the most light. When it was time for Ray to go home, the grandmother got the little girl's boots out and was tugging them on, preparing to go out in the rainy November afternoon.
"Grandma," Ray said, biting her little lip, "do I have to go home? Why can't I just live here with you?"
"Thee must be with thy daddy. Why doesn't thee want to live there?" Hannah asked gently.
"Because Nana (Emma) punishes me. She shuts me up in a dark room. She says you spoil me and she is going to take it out of me. She talks very cross to me."
"When did this happen?" Hannah asked mildly.
"It happens all the time."4
"Well, thee is very precious to me and I will do all I can to make thy life happy." The grandmother gave Ray a warm hug, set her on her feet, and walked her toward the door.
"We must take thee back to thy house now." With the trusting little hand in hers, Hannah dutifully returned the child to her home.
Later Hannah stood at the nursery window, looking out on the dead grass and trampled, broken flowers that had turned brown in the frost. How can I bear it? she thought.
/ feel sometimes as if it will kill me; only, alas! sorrow does not kill. So I will go down again tomorrow and protect little
Ray all I can.
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Not only Hannah, but Logan and Alys too became aware that little Ray was suffering from her nurse's cruel treatment. The three of them had a family conference and decided that Logan and Alys would confront Frank. Then, after the preliminaries were over, Hannah would join them.
Accordingly, an appointment was set up with Frank. Logan, then 27, and Alys, then 25, marched to number 40 Grosvenor to do battle. Alys, prettier and softer spoken than her older sister, took a seat on an uncomfortable plush chair, so popular in Victorian times. Logan, often indecisive like his father, lounged beside her, sitting on a stool, a determined look on his face. Frank sat behind his massive desk.
"What was it you wanted to see me about?" Frank began, his voice testy.
Alys shifted nervously in her chair. "We are all concerned about Emma's behavior toward the children."
"Well, that is my business, isn't it?" he responded. "The children are my responsibility. I will do what I think best."
"We realize that," Logan chimed in, "but are you aware of how brutal she is to Ray? You are a busy man. You can't really be expected to keep tabs on the nursery night and day."
"Your mother has made me all too aware of her feelings in the matter," Frank continued coldly. "I must say that I find her constant interference most annoying."
"But Ray is your child. How can you stand by and allow her to be treated so harshly?" There was a note of pleading in the voice of the soft-hearted Alys.
"The children must be taught proper discipline," Frank continued. "They must be instructed by someone who has sufficient knowledge of the Catholic faith. I find Emma to be quite suitable." Then he glared at Alys and Logan. "You and your family have abrogated any rights to the children and their upbringing. I'm tired of your mother sneaking around, trying to impose on my good nature. I don't trust her in any way, shape, or form."
"Mother—sneaking around?" Logan was also upset. "In
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all the years I have known my mother, I can testify to the unimpeachable integrity of her character!"
"The other morning she and the workmen whom she had hired barged into my house and removed my carpets before six a.m. when the rest of the house was soundly sleeping. I call that sneaking," said Frank crossly.
"But those were Mary's carpets," answered Alys in amazement. "I can remember when Mother bought those rugs for Mary and brought them here."
"According to English law"—Frank banged his fist on his massive desk for emphasis—"all the furnishings in this house are now my property. Neither your sister nor your mother has a right to a stick of furniture here. Why should
I attempt to be conciliatory toward your sister and your mother when they keep conspiring against me?"
Logan opened his mouth to defend his mother, then gritted his teeth instead.
"Mary has hinted to me," Frank went on inexorably, "that she intends to institute legal action against me for refusing her access to her daughter. She threatens me with exposure and public scandal if I will not allow her to have
Ray. She has no legal rights to either Ray or Karin. She has forfeited her right by her unseemly behavior. I have the law on my side. Furthermore, I have other plans for the children this summer. They will not be making their usual visit to Friday's Hill."
Alys began to cry quietly into her handkerchief. Logan was red-faced with anger. At this tense moment, Hannah was announced by the maid.
"Mother," Alys asked in a strained voice, "did thee come in with some men early the other morning and take up
Frank's carpets?"
Hannah was appalled. "Of course I did not," she answered indignantly. "Mary must have ordered the men to take up the carpets.
I knew nothing about it." Her level, honest gaze met Frank's. He tried to meet her eyes but failed, glancing downward with a trace of embarrassment.
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"Well, Mary hinted in her last letters that you were going to create a public scandal if I refused to give Ray back to her," he said with some sulkiness.
"I would never consent to such a thing," Hannah replied.
"I have tried to live my whole life in obedience to the Christian faith. Never in all my years have I handled any situation by resorting to force or threats!"
"Mother, Frank has said that he will not let Ray and Karin come to Friday's Hill this year," Logan said, watching his mother with anxious eyes.
The strain and anguish of the past months caught up with iron-willed Hannah. She broke down and started to cry. Then she pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and vainly tried to stem the flood of tears. Logan and Alys both rose to their feet and went to her side. Logan patted her awkwardly, while Alys knelt down and put her arms around her mother's heaving shoulders. For some moments there was no sound in Frank's book-lined study except the almost hysterical sobs of Hannah, and Alys's soft little murmurs of consolation.6
Frank cleared his throat. "Perhaps I have been too hasty," he offered, trying to make amends. "We will discuss this again when we have all calmed down."
With Alys and Logan supporting their mother, the three of them retraced their steps to their own house.
Hannah slept very little that night. During the following week she wrote several desperate letters to Mary:
Now, darling, whatever it is that thee is contemplating, let me entreat thee to consider well before thee does anything that aggravates Frank. While we keep things on fairly friendly terms, we can have the children, but the moment he is angry, we shall lose them altogether If they are torn away from us and left with Emma as an absolute tyrant over them, it will be too awful to endure.
. It would be far wiser for thee not to stir him (Frank) up, both for thyself and for Berenson; for if he is made angry, he will bring a suit against thee for adultery with Berenson as co-respondent. That would certainly be
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very serious for B., especially as he has very compromising letters ofB's which would be made public. Frank (naturally) feels very bitterly toward Berenson, and he said to me once that ifmatters come to an open issue he could and would ruin
For a time after the tearful scene of January 12, Frank seemed to be more friendly toward Hannah and inclined to consult her about the children's welfare, but by March he was on the rampage again. Apparently Mary had written some letters to him that had made him very angry, and, as usual, Hannah was the victim of his fury. That Hannah's patience with her daughter was sorely tested is evident in this letter of March 21, 1893:
Frank says that he never wishes to stay in the same house with me and prefers to be independent as regards the children.
. He is exceedingly angry with thee.
. He shows us plainly that he is determined to go his own way and do what he thinks best for the children without consulting us. ... I wrote thee a year ago that this would be the case if thee was not willing to make some sacrifices to keep thy hold on them.
If thee would have been willing to give up Berenson—for a few years, at least—and keep thy hold on the children until they were old enough to understand things, all this might have been saved. Now I am afraid it is too late.
. The law and public opinion as well would entirely support him in refusing thee access to (the children) while thee continues thy present relations with Berenson. It is literally and simply, I believe, a choice now for thee between the children and Berenson.
If thee realized the gravity of the situation and is willing to make some sacrifices in order to keep hold of thy children, there is, I believe, one way open to thee. Give up Berenson for a few years at least and come home.
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A few days later Hannah sat at her desk and looked out the window toward the River Thames. The sun shone intermittently between banks of heavy clouds, scattering rays
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of diluted brightness on Vauxhall in the distance across the river. A spasm of pain tied her stomach into knots. She leaned back against her chair, and the sad thoughts rushed in upon her as inexorably as the heavy clouds moving outside her window.
"Alas for motherhood. How it hurts!" she said to herself.
Like a malicious sprite knocking on the door of her mind came the memory of a dinner party at her sister's home in Baltimore in December 1886. She remembered with shame an embarrassing scene that had occurred in the midst of the meal. Edith Thomas, Hannah's niece-in-law, had remarked that Mary seemed to lead men on to fall in love with her. Hannah had turned on Edith in a burst of fury, insisting that Mary was an angel of goodness, using her power over men only to lead them to a higher and purer way of life. Hannah's tirade had caused Edith to leave the room in tears.
Tears stung the inside of Hannah's eyelids. How her mother love had blinded her to Mary's faults even to the point of defending her daughter's infidelities. She had sympathized with her daughter's unhappiness in her marriage with Frank, but she had never dreamed that it would all end like this. If only Mary had left Frank and come home with the children. If only Mary had not met Berenson. If only she had more sense of responsibility than desire for her own pleasure. Mary's youth had been so full of promise.
She then recalled sitting in that back room at The Cedars so long ago, in the summer of 1864, feeling such an overwhelming love toward the baby in the cradle across the room. She remembered the demure child of 10, posing for a portrait in London during their first preaching tour to Europe. How sweet and young Mary was, yet how poised and grown up. There was the little love letter she had written to her eldest on the occasion of her nineteenth birthday:
/ am on thy side, even against myself, if such a thing could be possible.
She pressed her hands against her throbbing temples
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and the tears flowed. "Alas for motherhood," she said to herself again. "How it hurts." Both she and Robert were to blame for the spoiled, wayward behavior of their daughter.
They had indulged Mary too much as a child. They had thought Mary a paragon who could do no wrong. Now they were paying for their mistakes.
Oh, God, she cried out from the depths of her disturbed soul, thou must help her. I cannot. Forgive me for my blunders.
I trust her to thee. Thou art able to cover me for my foolish indulgence. I trust her and poor little motherless Ray and Karin to thy care. Thou lovest them far more than I do.
Oh, Lord, I come to thee as a little child creeping into her mother s arms, longing for comfort. Thank thee for thy forgiving love.
A wave of compassion flooded Hannah's troubled spirit.
God's blessed solace surrounded her like a fortress. She felt herself enfolded in an embrace of consolation and sympathy. He was always there when she needed Him. She sat for several moments, savoring the assurance of the love of Jesus. Later she wrote that this thought was often to sustain her:
We are not wise enough to judge our situations, whether they are really in their essence joys or sorrows, but the Lord knows; and because He loves us with an unselfish and limitless love, He cannot fail to make the apparently hard or cruel or even wicked thing work together for our best good.
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For whatever it would mean—and Hannah, to her credit, would not demand an answer from God—she would cling to God's love until the last.