I read an amazing book yesterday. The Open Door by Elizabeth Maguire is a fictionalized account of the life of Constance Fenimore Woolson (grandniece of James Fenimore Cooper).  She was a nineteenth century “women’s” writer, and very popular in her time.  After the mother she’d cared for and supported for years (with her writing) died, Woolson set off to Europe for adventure and new sights.  She also hoped to finally meet her hero, Henry James.  They met, they became friends, they were close for years.  When Woolson died, James made sure all letters between them were burned.  And so we have the makings of a novel.  Was Woolson as portrayed by James’ fans, a second-rate writer and spinster who wanted James to marry her and hounded him to do so?  Or was she as presented here, an independent thinking, free-wheeling and free-loving, wholly honest and admirable, and very American woman?

At first it bothered me that I could not tell what was fiction and what was fact but as the novel went on, I didn’t care.  For me, now, Woolson will always be as Maguire made her for me, an amazing woman I wished I had known, and who had a fabulous life.  Without a man, or kids, or admiration of the literary world, but with what she valued most: her freedom, her independence, and her own true self.  According to Maguire, Woolson always kept a copy of the works of the Stoic Epictetus at her side and one favorite quotation was “Is freedom anything else other than the right to live as we wish?  Nothing else.“  Woolson did live as she wished, often solitary, always busy, and wholly herself.

Maguire captivated me early on in the novel (but after a somewhat silly scene involving swimming naked off Mackinac Island) by giving me a personal and intimate audience with Woolson.  Woolson’s thoughts come across as a conversation, a story told with lyrical yet simple phrasing: “Have you ever been heartbroken to finish a book?  Has a writer kept whispering in your ear long after the last page is turned?  Did you ever long to meet that person who sees the world with your eyes, so that you can continue the conversation?“  Yes, Yes, Yes!  I yelled.  And I understood her explanation of why she set off to Europe to meet Henry James.

Maguire imagines scenes between James and Woolson that seem very true and spontaneous.  For example, Woolson is excusing her simple apartment in Rome to the visiting James (who has more opulent tastes) by saying, “All I need are the things I love and a table to write on.”  He responds, “Well, you have surrounded yourself with so many things, Fenimore, that one can only surmise you possess an extremely promiscuous heart.”  Yes, she loved many things, and people, and places.

I think that Maguire (who tragically died at the age of 48 from cancer) had a really good time writing this novel.  She seems to have fun with Woolson’s words and thoughts and she did a good job giving us the woman and the writer.  She has Woolson express so many wishes and desires and satisfactions that I understood down through my spine, like, when she asks, “Is there anything more luxurious than selling descriptions of pink villas and terraces and the gorgeous Bay of Naples to a magazine?”  I cannot imagine anything better than to travel and be paid for it, and I bet Maguire felt the same way.  Woolson lived that way, writing for Harpers and Atlantic magazine, writing her stories and novels and travel pieces, and making her way through the world.

Maguire also had fun portraying James as a priggish jerk, his sister Alice as self-absorbed, and Woolson’s lover Clarence King as “the most purely American creation, more devoted to personal freedom than any creature….”, all the while having her heroine accept the people in her life, foibles and all.  Woolson was forgiving; Maguire perhaps not so much.

The title of this novel, “The Open Door”, refers to a nasty review James wrote of her work (but couched in terms of friendship and admiration) in which he spoke of  “the way the door stands open between the personal life of American women and the immeasurable world of print” and how the “conservative” nature of Woolson’s  writing ensures she wants nothing more than to stay inside a women’s life, restricted and ruled by those with power over her. Nothing could have been further from the truth, according to Maguire, according to biographers of Woolson, and according to the heroines of her own short stories and novels.  Her most famous story, “Miss Grief”, is about a female artist of talent and drive who comes up against  a male power player whom she has admired, and from whom praise or advice would be welcome; instead he shuts her down and refuses to admit that her genius is as real and full as his own. Written before her friendship with James developed, it was however uncannily correct in its forecast of how she herself would be treated by him.

Woolson wrote liberally but tactfully about social issues many male writers were afraid to address; in addition, her acceptance of the equality of blacks and whites, and her understanding of the tensions in Europe, the problems with class distinctions and ethnocentricity, were indications of her broad and brilliant mind.  Constance Fenimore Woolson is definitely on my list of people from the past I would like to invite to dinner.  Elizabeth Maguire is too, for that matter.