‘I’ve Always Feared He Might Do You Some Deadly Harm’
A novel published in 1921 by Australian writer Elizabeth von Arnim about an unhappy marriage dominated by a manipulative husband seems eerily familiar and relevant to modern times.
Today we’d call it coercive control. But when Elizabeth von Arnim released her novel about a domestic tyrant, one reviewer dismissed it as feminist propaganda.
A century on, Vera is recognised as the author’s masterpiece which presents a chilling depiction of intimate abuse far ahead of its time. With male behaviour and power under increasing scrutiny, it is a book with renewed currency.
Von Arnim, who was born in Sydney’s Kirribilli and raised in England, was a best-selling author known for her wit and satire.
Vera revolves around a naive young woman courted by an older man, who appears initially as a figure of fun. But when the couple marry and move to his windswept English country house, the book turns gothic.
The husband’s ebullience is replaced by dark moods and vile tempers as he psychologically manipulates, isolates and terrorises his guileless bride.
Von Arnim was stung by early reviews of the book, particularly the influential Times Literary Supplement. It argued that if the novel’s young wife fell for her husband’s slimy blandishments, she got what she deserved. Victim blaming?
Around London’s high-society dinner tables and oak-panelled clubs, the book landed like a grenade. Many recognised the inspiration for Vera’s terrifying despot: von Arnim’s aristocratic former husband.
John Francis “Frank” Russell, the second Earl Russell, was a member of the House of Lords and the brother of philosopher Bertrand Russell. Dubbed The Wicked Earl, Russell had been married twice and convicted of bigamy when he began courting von Arnim in early 1914.
She was the Countess von Arnim, the widow of a Prussian aristocrat and an internationally successful author, when she fell passionately and dangerously in love with Russell. She brushed aside warnings from friends and married him in 1916.
She loved hearing him speak in the House of Lords, where he was admired for his eloquence. In private, Russell was prone to mood swings, possibly exacerbated by cocaine use, and foul tempers particularly when they were alone at his West Sussex country home, Telegraph House (the model for Vera’s isolated The Willows).
Within six months of her marriage, von Arnim wrote: “I’m practically in prison. Within the limits of the wire fencing I can go & come if I have first asked if I may go for a walk, but to get outside it means almost every time bad blood.”
She fled to America but Russell followed her across the Atlantic. There, they reconciled and, convinced her husband was a new man, von Arnim returned to England.
“ “I’m practically in prison. Within the limits of the wire fencing I can go & come if I have first asked if I may go for a walk, but to get outside it means almost every time bad blood.””
He wasn’t. Von Arnim learnt of his affairs and his escalating high-stakes gambling. Her fragile hope that beneath his temper lay a decent man – one capable of reform – was in tatters. After three years of marriage she fled for good.
She knew Russell would seek revenge. Soon he initiated a court fight over possessions, including objects as trivial as a hammock and used tennis balls. He was undeterred by his brother Bertrand’s warning not to pursue such vindictive action.
Russell lost the case, but soon found other ways to punish von Arnim. He vilified her around London, circulating written allegations about her behaviour. He insisted he still loved her and that her departure had blighted his life. He never ceased to see himself as the wronged party.
Russell even accused his brother of disloyalty and demanded Bertrand break contact with her. Bertrand refused, writing to von Arnim: “It is quite hateful to think of your being so tormented & battered … don’t forget you have won liberty, which is worth a price – & that you can build up friendships with people who will appreciate you without wanting to destroy you.”
Russell was incandescent when Vera was released in late 1921. He bailed up members of his Pall Mall club, demanding to know if they recognised him or Telegraph House in the book. Writer H.G. Wells certainly did. “The description of his freaks of temper and tyranny and his house are absurdly true,” Wells wrote.
Society hostess Marie Belloc Lowndes, around whose dining table von Arnim had often sat, was horrified by the book. Even Bertrand Russell, who had been bullied by his brother as a child, was appalled. He warned his children: “Do not marry a novelist.”
Frank Russell threatened to sue. Perhaps realising he would lose, he dropped the matter. Von Arnim was glad. Although she knew the press attention generated by the case would boost Vera’s sales, she did not want to face him in court again.
She felt only relief in 1931 when she learned Russell had died. So too did her older sister, who wrote to von Arnim: “I’ve always feared he might do you some deadly harm.”
Von Arnim, who died in 1941, wrote more than 20 best-selling books during a remarkable four-decade career. She knew Vera, which remains in print, was her high watermark, but she paid a high price for its creation. She acknowledged in a letter to her daughter. “It was extracted from me by torment.”
Joyce Morgan is the author of The Countess from Kirribilli (Allen & Unwin), a biography of Elizabeth Von Arnim.