Part 18

If I live five years longer the positive result of my existence on the side of truth and goodness will out-weigh the small negative good that would have consisted in my not doing anything to shock others, and I can conceive no consequences that will make me repent the past. Do not misunderstand me, and suppose that I think myself heroic or great in any way. Far enough from that! Faulty, miserably faulty I am--but least of all faulty where others most blame.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Miss Sara Hennell_, 1857, in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

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[Sidenote: “George Eliot” and George Lewes.]

What a contrast the pair presented! He, _pétillant d’esprit_, as the French say, as brimful of life, geniality, and animation, as it was possible for any human being often oppressed with bodily ailments to be, ever able to shake off these for the sake of lively, engrossing talk, ever on the alert to discover intellectual qualities in others; she, grave, pensive, thoughtful, not disinclined for sportiveness and wit certainly, as ready as he to bring out the best in those around her, but equally devoid of his habitual gayety and lightheartedness, as was he of her own earnest mood. There was something irresistibly winning and attractive about Mr. Lewes. The heart warmed to him at once, he was so kindly, so ready to offer help or counsel, so pleased to be of use. George Eliot’s large-hearted, deep-souled benevolence took in all human kind, but could not so easily individualize. That commanding spirit, that loyal, much-tried nature, could not be expected to testify the same catholicity in personal likings as a man, who, despite his rare intellectual endowments and devotion to especial fields of learning, yet remained a man of the world.

Charles Lamb speaks somewhere of a woman’s “divine plain face,” and perhaps the same criticism might be passed on George Eliot. The plainness vanished as soon as she smiled, and the tone of the voice was singularly sympathetic and harmonious. As to Mr. Lewes’ looks or personal appearance, one never thought of the matter at all. Small, spare, sallow, much bearded, with brilliant eyes, he could neither be called handsome nor ugly. Delightful he ever was, kindness itself, always on the look-out to serve and to amuse. For he knew--none better--the value of a smile.

With George Eliot acquaintance ripened slower into friendship. In spite of her warm human sympathies and the keenness of her desire to enter into the feelings of others, her manner at first awed, perhaps even repelled. It was so much more difficult for her than for Mr. Lewes to quit her own world of thought and speculation, and enter into that of the common joys and sorrows and aspirations of humanity. Yet few delighted more in gathering her friends together. “From my good father I learned the pleasure of being hospitable,” she once said to me with a glow of feeling. “He rejoiced ever to receive his friends, and to my eyes now the pleasure wears the shape of a duty.”

I am not sure as to the precise words she used, but this was the sentiment.

It is pleasant to record their love of the good and the beautiful in the least little thing--George Eliot’s rapture at the sight of an exquisite flower, Mr. Lewes’ delight in a bright happy child; also the keenness of their sympathy with common joys and sorrows, and the unbounded kindliness and pitifulness of their nature.

---- ----: ‘A Week with George Eliot.’ _Temple Bar_, February, 1885.

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[Sidenote: First attempt at fiction.]

[Sidenote: “A capital title.”]

[Sidenote: ‘Scenes from Clerical Life.’]

[Sidenote: Last chapters of ‘Amos Barton.’]

September, 1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I began to write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that some time or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of what the novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to another. But I never went further towards the actual writing of the novel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire village and the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed on I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel, just as I desponded about every thing else in my future life. I always thought I was deficient in dramatic power, both of construction and dialogue, but I felt I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts of a novel. My “introductory chapter” was pure description, though there were good materials in it for dramatic presentation. It happened to be among the papers I had with me in Germany, and one evening at Berlin something led me to read it to George. He was struck with it as a bit of concrete description, and it suggested to him the possibility of my being able to write a novel, though he distrusted--indeed, disbelieved in--my possession of any dramatic power. Still, he began to think that I might as well try some time what I could do in fiction, and by and by, when we came back to England, and I had greater success than he ever expected in other kinds of writing, his impression that it was worth while to see how far my mental power would go towards the production of a novel, was strengthened. He began to say very positively, “You must try and write a story,” and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin at once. I deferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that does not present itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was thinking what should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts merged themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a story, of which the title was ‘The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton.’ I was soon wide awake again and told G. He said, “Oh, what a capital title!” and from that time I had settled in my mind that this should be my first story. George used to say, “It may be a failure--it may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps it may be just good enough to warrant your trying again.” Again, “You may write a _chef d’œuvre_ at once--there’s no telling.” But his prevalent impression was, that though I could not write a _poor_ novel, my effort would want the highest quality of fiction--dramatic presentation.... I did not begin my story till September 22. After I had begun it, as we were walking in the park, I mentioned to G. that I had thought of the plan of writing a series of stories, containing sketches drawn from my own observation of the clergy, and calling them ‘Scenes from Clerical Life,’ opening with ‘Amos Barton.’ He at once accepted the notion as a good one--fresh and striking; and about a week afterwards, when I read him the first part of ‘Amos,’ he had no longer any doubt about my ability to carry out the plan. The scene at Cross Farm, he said, satisfied him that I had the very element he had been doubtful about--it was clear I could write good dialogue. There still remained the question whether I could command any pathos; and that was to be decided by the mode in which I treated Milly’s death. One night G. went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening for writing it. I wrote the chapter from the news brought by the shepherd to Mrs. Hackit, to the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside, and I read it to G. when he came home. We both cried over it, and then he came up to me and kissed me, saying, “I think your pathos is better than your fun.”

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Her pseudonym.]

I may mention that my wife told me the reason she fixed on this name [George Eliot] was that George was Mr. Lewes’ Christian name, and Eliot was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Genesis of “Adam Bede.”]

The germ of “Adam Bede” was an anecdote told me by my Methodist Aunt Samuel (the wife of my father’s younger brother)--an anecdote from her own experience. We were sitting together one afternoon during her visit to me at Griff, probably in 1839 or 1840, when it occurred to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned criminal--a very ignorant girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; how she had stayed with her praying through the night, and how the poor creature at last broke out into tears and confessed her crime. My aunt afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of execution; and she described to me the great respect with which this ministry of hers was regarded by the official people about the jail. The story, told by my aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the impression of that afternoon and our talk together; but I believe I never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, till something prompted me to tell it to George in December, 1856, when I had begun to write the “Scenes of Clerical Life.” He remarked that the scene in the prison would make a fine element in a story; and I afterwards began to think of blending this and some other recollections of my aunt in one story, with some points in my father’s early life and character. The problem of construction that remained was to make the unhappy girl one of the chief _dramatis personæ_, and connect her with the hero. At first I thought of making the story one of the series of “Scenes,” but afterward when several motives had induced me to close these with “Janet’s Repentance,” I determined on making what we always called in our conversation “My Aunt’s Story” the subject of a long novel, which I accordingly began to write on the 22d October, 1857.

[Sidenote: Dinah.]

The character of Dinah grew out of my recollections of my aunt, but Dinah is not at all like my aunt, who was a very small, black-eyed woman, and (as I was told, for I never heard her preach) very vehement in her style of preaching. She had left off preaching when I knew her, being probably sixty years old, and in delicate health; and she had become, as my father told me, much more gentle and subdued than she had been in the days of her active ministry and bodily strength, when she could not rest without exhorting and remonstrating in season and out of season. I was very fond of her, and enjoyed the few weeks of her stay with me greatly. She was loving and kind to me, and I could talk to her about my inward life, which was closely shut up from those usually round me. I saw her only twice again, for much shorter periods--once at her own home at Wirksworth, in Derbyshire, and once at my father’s last residence, Foleshill.

[Sidenote: Adam.]

The character of Adam and one or two incidents connected with him were suggested by my father’s early life; but Adam is not my father any more than Dinah is my aunt. Indeed, there is not a single portrait in Adam Bede--only the suggestions of experience wrought up into new combinations. When I began to write it, the only elements I had determined on, besides the character of Dinah, were the character of Adam, his relation to Arthur Donnithorne, and the mutual relation to Hetty--_i. e._, to the girl who commits child-murder--the scene in the prison being, of course, the climax toward which I worked. Everything else grew out of the characters and their mutual relations. Dinah’s ultimate relation to Adam was suggested by George, when I had read to him the first part of the first volume: he was so delighted with the presentation of Dinah, and so convinced that the reader’s interest would centre in her, that he wanted her to be the principal figure at the last. I accepted the idea at once, and from the end of the third chapter worked with it constantly in view.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: ‘The Mill on the Floss’ not strictly autobiographical.]

[Sidenote: Labor of writing ‘Romola.’]

[Sidenote: Her sense of possession.]

[Sidenote: Dorothea and Rosamond.]

We must be careful not to found too much on _suggestions_ of character in George Eliot’s books; and this must particularly be borne in mind in the ‘Mill on the Floss.’ No doubt the early part of Maggie’s portraiture is the best autobiographical representation we can have of George Eliot’s own feelings in her childhood, and many of the incidents in the book are based on real experiences of family life, but so mixed with fictitious elements and situations that it would be absolutely misleading to trust to it as a true history. The writing of ‘Romola’ ploughed into her more than any of her other books. She told me she could put her finger on it as marking a well-defined transition in her life. In her own words, “I began it a young woman--I finished it an old woman.” She told me that, in all that she considered her best writing, there was a “not herself,” which took possession of her, and that she felt her own personality to be merely the instrument through which this spirit, as it were, was acting. Particularly she dwelt on this in regard to the scene in ‘Middlemarch’ between Dorothea and Rosamond, saying that, although she always knew they had, sooner or later, to come together, she kept the idea resolutely out of her mind until Dorothea was in Rosamond’s drawing-room. Then, abandoning herself to the inspiration of the moment, she wrote the whole scene exactly as it stands, without alteration or erasure, in an intense state of excitement and agitation, feeling herself entirely possessed by the feelings of the two women. Of all the characters she had attempted she found Rosamond’s the most difficult to sustain. With this sense of “possession” it is easy to imagine what the cost to the author must have been of writing books, each of which has its tragedy.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Her MSS.]

George Eliot was the most careful and accurate among authors. Her beautifully written manuscript, free from blur or erasure, and with every letter delicately and distinctly finished, was only the outward and visible sign of the inward labor which she had taken to work out her ideas. She never drew any of her facts or impressions from second-hand; and thus, in spite of the number and variety of her illustrations, she had rarely much to correct in her proof-sheets. She had all that love of doing her work well for the work’s sake, which she makes a prominent characteristic of ‘Adam Bede,’ and ‘Stradivarius.’

---- ----: ‘George Eliot,’ _Blackwood’s Magazine_, February, 1881.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Inscriptions on MSS.]

The manuscript of ‘Adam Bede’ bears the following inscription: “To my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the MS. of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life.”

The manuscript of ‘The Mill on the Floss’ bears the following inscription:

“To my beloved husband, George Henry Lewes, I give this MS. of my third book, written in the sixth year of our life together, at Holly Lodge, South Field, Wandsworth, and finished 21st March, 1860.”

The manuscript of ‘Romola’ bears the following inscription:

“To the Husband whose perfect love has been the best source of her insight and strength, this manuscript is given by his devoted wife, the writer.”

The manuscript of ‘Felix Holt’ bears the following inscription: “From George Eliot to her dear Husband, this thirteenth year of their united life, in which the deepening sense of her own imperfectness has the consolation of their deepening love.”

The manuscript of ‘The Spanish Gypsy’ bears the following inscription: “To my dear--every day dearer--Husband.”

The manuscript of ‘Middlemarch’ bears the following inscription:

“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, in this nineteenth year of our blessed union.”

The manuscript of ‘Daniel Deronda’ bears the following inscription:

“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes.

“Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

* * * * *

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising Haply I think on thee--and then my state Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Depression after finishing each book.]

As to the “great novel,” which remains to be written, I must tell you that I never believe in future books.... Always after finishing a book I have a period of despair that I can ever again produce anything worth giving to the world. The responsibility of the writer grows heavier and heavier--does it not?--as the world grows older and the voices of the dead more numerous. It is difficult to believe, until the germ of some new work grows into imperious activity within one, that it is possible to make a really needed contribution to the poetry of the world--I mean possible to oneself to do it.

[Sidenote: Attitude towards criticism.]

I hardly ever read anything that is written about myself--indeed, never unless my husband expressly wishes me to do so by way of exception. I adopted this rule many years ago as a necessary preservative against influences that would have ended by nullifying my power of writing....

I hardly think that any critic can have so keen a sense of the short-comings in my works as that I groan under in the course of writing them, and I cannot imagine any edification coming to an author from a sort of reviewing which consists in attributing to him or her unexpressed opinions, and in imagining circumstances which may be alleged as petty private motives for the treatment of subjects which ought to be of general human interest.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Letters_, quoted by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, in ‘Last Words from George Eliot,’ _Harper’s Magazine_, for March, 1882.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: George Eliot in 1864.]

It was at Villino Trollope, [the Florentine residence of Mr. T. Adolphus Trollope] that we first saw ... George Eliot. She is a woman of forty, perhaps, of large frame and fair Saxon coloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatly resembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of Wordsworth, judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is gentle and amiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring. In conversation, Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in young writers is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of this class. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she addressed a young girl who had just began to handle a pen, how frankly she related her own literary experience, and how gently she _suggested_ advice. True genius is always allied to humility, and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the work of a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman as much as we had ever admired the writer. “For years,” said she to us, “I wrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity.”

KATE FIELD: ‘English Authors in Florence,’ _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1864.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Mr. Cross’s first impression in 1869.]

I still seem to hear, as I first heard them, the low, earnest, deep, musical tones of her voice; I still seem to see the fine brows, with the abundant auburn-brown hair framing them, the long head, broadening at the back, the gray-blue eyes, constantly changing in expression, but always with a very loving, almost deprecating look at my mother, the finely-formed, thin, transparent hands, and a whole _Wesen_ that seemed in complete harmony with everything one expected to find in the author of ‘Romola.’

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Priory.]

[Sidenote: Receptions.]

[Sidenote: Manner of life.]

[Sidenote: Recreations.]

In the course of the year 1865, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes moved from 16 Blandford Square to the Priory, a commodious house in North Bank, St. John’s Wood, which has come to be intimately associated with the memory of George Eliot. Here in the pleasant dwelling-rooms decorated by Owen Jones might be met, at her Sunday afternoon receptions, some of the most eminent men in literature, art and science. For the rest, her life flowed on its even tenor, its routine being rigidly regulated. The morning till lunch time was invariably devoted to writing; in the afternoon she either went out for a quiet drive of about two hours, or she took a walk with Lewes in Regent’s Park. There the strange-looking couple--she with a certain weird, sibylline air, he not unlike some unkempt Polish refugee of vivacious manners--might be seen, swinging their arms as they hurried along at a pace as rapid and eager as their talk. Besides these walks, George Eliot’s chief recreation consisted in frequenting concerts and picture galleries. To music she was passionately devoted, hardly ever failing to attend the Saturday afternoon concerts at St. James’ Hall, besides frequenting various musical reunions.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A retired life.]

Perhaps no one filling a large portion of the thoughts of the public in two hemispheres has ever been so little known to the public at large. Always in delicate health, always living a student life, caring little for what is called general society, though taking a genial delight in that of her chosen friends, she very seldom appeared in public. She went to the houses of but a few, finding it less fatiguing to see her friends at home. Those who knew her by sight beyond her own immediate circle did so from seeing her take her quiet drives in Regent’s Park and the northern slopes of London, or from her attendance at those concerts where the best music of the day was to be heard.

C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’ _Harper’s Magazine_, May, 1881.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Visits to the Zoological Gardens.]

[Sidenote: Interest in animals.]