Life of Frances Power Cobbe as Told by Herself with Additions by the Author, and Introduction by Blanche Atkinson

The story of the beautiful life which came to an end on the 5th of April, 1904, is told by Miss Cobbe herself in the following pages up to the close of 1898. Nothing is left for another pen but to sketch in the events of the few remaining years.

But first a word or two as to the origin of the book. One spring day in 1891 or ’92, when Miss Cobbe was walking with me through the Hengwrt grounds on my way to the station, after some hours spent in listening to her brilliant stories of men and things, I asked her if she would not some day write her autobiography. She stood still, laughing, and shook her head. Nothing in her life, she said, was of sufficient importance to record, or for other people to read. Naturally I urged that what had interested me so greatly would interest others, and that her life told by herself could not fail to make a delightful book. She still laughed at the idea; and the next time I saw her and repeated my suggestion, told me that she had not time for such an undertaking, and also that she did not think her friend, Miss Lloyd, would like it. At last, however, to my great satisfaction, I heard that the friends had talked the matter over, and were busily engaged in looking at old letters and records of past days, and both becoming interested in the retrospection. So the book grew slowly into an accomplished fact, and Miss Cobbe often referred to it laughingly as “your” book, to which I replied that then I had not lived in vain! It is possible that the idea had occurred to her before; but she always gave me to understand that my persuasion had induced her to write the book. She came to enjoy writing it. Once when I said:—“I want you to tell us everything; all your love-stories—andeverything!” she took me up to her study and read me the passage she had written in the 1st Chapter concerning such matters. The great success of the book was a real pleasure to both Miss Cobbe and her friend. She told me that it brought her more profit than any of her books. Most of them had merely a succès d’estime. Better still, it brought her a number of kindly letters from old and new friends, and from strangers in far off lands; and these proofs of the place she held in many hearts was a true solace to a woman of tender affections, who had to bear more than the usual share of the abuse and misrepresentation which always fall to those who engage in public work and enter into public controversies.

The sorrow of Miss Lloyd’s death changed the whole aspect of existence for Miss Cobbe. The joy of life had gone. It had been such a friendship as is rarely seen—perfect in love, sympathy, and mutual understanding. No other friend—though Miss Cobbe was rich in friends—could fill the vacant place, and henceforward her loneliness was great even when surrounded by those she loved and valued. To the very last she could never mention the name of “my dear Mary,” or of her own mother, without a break in her voice. I remember once being alone with her in her study when she had been showing me boxes filled with Miss Lloyd’s letters. Suddenly she turned from me towards her bookshelves as though to look for something, and throwing up her arms cried, with a little sob, “My God! how lonely I am!”