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Title: George Eliot's Life, Vol. III (of 3) - as related in her Letters and Journals
Author: Eliot, George, 1819-1880
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "George Eliot's Life, Vol. III (of 3) - as related in her Letters and Journals" ***
Transcriber's Note:
This is Volume III of a three volume set:
Volume I--Unknown
Volume II--Famous
Volume III--Sunset
A combined index to the entire set is located at the end of Volume III.
Narrative content written by J. Cross and material quoted from writers
other than George Eliot are interspersed throughout the text. Their
content is placed in block quotes.
Remaining transcriber's notes are located at the end of the text.
* * * * *
GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE
VOL. III.--SUNSET
"OUR FINEST HOPE IS FINEST MEMORY"
[Illustration: No. 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.]
GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE
_as related in her Letters and Journals_
ARRANGED AND EDITED BY HER HUSBAND
J. W. CROSS
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
IN THREE VOLUMES.--VOLUME III
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
GEORGE ELIOT'S WORKS.
_LIBRARY EDITION._
ADAM BEDE. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
DANIEL DERONDA. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $2.50.
ESSAYS and LEAVES FROM A NOTE-BOOK. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
MIDDLEMARCH. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $2.50.
ROMOLA. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, and SILAS MARNER. Illustrated.
12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
THE IMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRASTUS SUCH. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1.25.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
HARPER & BROTHERS _will send any of the above volumes by mail, postage
prepaid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the
price. For other editions of George Eliot's works published by Harper
& Brothers see advertisement at end of third volume_.
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER XIV.
JANUARY, 1867, TO DECEMBER, 1867.
Tour in Spain Page 1
CHAPTER XV.
JANUARY, 1868, TO DECEMBER, 1868.
"The Spanish Gypsy" 24
CHAPTER XVI.
JANUARY, 1869, TO DECEMBER, 1872.
Poems--"Middlemarch" 55
CHAPTER XVII.
JANUARY, 1873, TO DECEMBER, 1875.
"Brewing," "Deronda" 138
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARCH, 1876, TO NOVEMBER, 1878.
"Daniel Deronda"--Illness and Death of Mr. Lewes 197
CHAPTER XIX.
JANUARY, 1879, TO 22D DECEMBER, 1880.
"Theophrastus Such"--Marriage with Mr. Cross--Death 249
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. III.
NO. 4 CHEYNE WALK, CHELSEA _Frontispiece._
THE HEIGHTS, WITLEY.
From a Sketch by Mrs. Allingham _To face p. 216._
GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE.
CHAPTER XIV.
The new year of 1867 opens with the description of the journey
to Spain.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, Jan. 1867, from Bordeaux.]
We prolonged our stay in Paris in order to see Madame Mohl, who was
very good to us; invited the Scherers and other interesting people to
meet us at dinner on the 29th, and tempted us to stay and breakfast
with her on the 31st, by promising to invite Renan, which she did
successfully, and so procured us a bit of experience that we were glad
to have, over and above the pleasure of seeing a little more of
herself and M. Mohl. I like them both, and wish there were a chance of
knowing them better. We paid for our pleasure by being obliged to walk
in the rain (from the impossibility of getting a carriage) all the way
from the Rue de Rivoli--where a charitable German printer, who had
taken us up in his _fiacre_, was obliged to set us down--to the Hôtel
du Helder, through streets literally jammed with carriages and
omnibuses, carrying people who were doing the severe social duties of
the last day in the year. The rain it raineth every day, with the
exception of yesterday; we can't travel away from it, apparently. But
we start in desperation for Bayonne in half an hour.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 16th Jan. 1867, from Biarritz.]
Snow on the ground here, too--more, we are told, than has been seen
here for fifteen years before. But it has been obliging enough to
fall in the night, and the sky is glorious this morning, as it was
yesterday. Sunday was the one exception since the 6th, when we arrived
here to a state of weather which has allowed us to be out of doors the
greater part of our daylight. We think it curious that, among the many
persons who have talked to us about Biarritz, the Brownings alone have
ever spoken of its natural beauties; yet these are transcendent. We
agree that the sea never seemed so magnificent to us before, though we
have seen the Atlantic breaking on the rocks at Ilfracombe and on the
great granite walls of the Scilly Isles. In the southern division of
the bay we see the sun set over the Pyrenees; and in the northern we
have two splendid stretches of sand, one with huge fragments of dark
rock scattered about for the waves to leap over, the other an unbroken
level, firm to the feet, where the hindmost line of wave sends up its
spray on the horizon like a suddenly rising cloud. This part of the
bay is worthily called the Chambre de l'Amour; and we have its
beauties all to ourselves, which, alas! in this stage of the world,
one can't help feeling to be an advantage. The few families and
bachelors who are here (chiefly English) scarcely ever come across our
path. The days pass so rapidly, we can hardly believe in their number
when we come to count them. After breakfast we both read the
"Politique"--George one volume and I another--interrupting each other
continually with questions and remarks. That morning study keeps me in
a state of enthusiasm through the day--a moral glow, which is a sort
of _milieu subjectif_ for the sublime sea and sky. Mr. Lewes is
converted to the warmest admiration of the chapter on language in the
third volume, which about three years ago he thought slightly of. I
think the first chapter of the fourth volume is among the finest of
all, and the most finely written. My gratitude increases continually
for the illumination Comte has contributed to my life. But we both of
us study with a sense of having still much to learn and to understand.
About ten or half-past ten we go out for our morning walk; and then,
while we plunge about in the sand or march along the cliff, George
draws out a book and tries my paces in Spanish, demanding a
quick-as-light translation of nouns and phrases. Presently I retort
upon him, and prove that it is easier to ask than to answer. We find
this system of _vivâ-voce_ mutual instruction so successful that we
are disgusted with ourselves for not having used it before through all
our many years of companionship; and we are making projects for giving
new interest to Regent's Park by pursuing all sorts of studies in the
same way there. We seldom come indoors till one o'clock, and we turn
out again at three, often remaining to see the sunset. One other thing
I have been reading here which I must tell you of. It is a series of
three papers by Saveney, in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ of last year,
on "La Physique Moderne," an excellent summary, giving a glimpse of
the great vista opened in that region. I think you would like to read
them when you are strong enough for that sort of exertion.
We stayed three days in Paris, and passed our time very agreeably. The
first day we dined with Madame Mohl, who had kindly invited Professor
Scherer and his wife, Jules Simon, Lomenie, Lavergne, "and others" to
meet us. That was on the Saturday, and she tempted us to stay the
following Monday by saying she would invite Renan to breakfast with
us. Renan's appearance is something between the Catholic priest and
the dissenting minister. His manners are very amiable, his talk
pleasant, but not distinguished. We are entertaining great projects as
to our further journeying. It will be best for you to address _Poste
Restante_, Barcelona.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 2d Feb. 1867.]
Are you astonished to see our whereabouts? We left Biarritz for San
Sebastian, where we stayed three days; and both there and all our way
to Barcelona our life has been a succession of delights. We have had
perfect weather, blue skies, and a warm sun. We travelled from San
Sebastian to Saragossa, where we passed two nights; then to Lerida for
one night, and yesterday to Barcelona. You know the scenery from San
Sebastian to Alsasua, through the lower Pyrenees, because it lies on
the way to Burgos and Madrid. At Alsasua we turned off through Navarre
into Aragon, seeing famous Pampeluna, looking as beautiful as it did
ages ago among the grand hills. At Saragossa the scene was thoroughly
changed; all through Aragon, as far as we could see, I should think
the country resembles the highlands of Central Spain. There is the
most striking effect of hills, flanking the plain of Saragossa, I ever
saw. They are of palish clay, washed by the rains into undulating
forms, and some slight herbage upon them makes the shadows of an
exquisite blue.
These hills accompanied us in the distance all the way through Aragon,
the snowy mountains topping them in the far distance. The land is all
pale brown, the numerous towns and villages just match the land, and
so do the sheepfolds, built of mud or stone. The herbage is all of an
ashy green. Perhaps if I had been in Africa I should say, as you do,
that the country reminded me of Africa; as it is, I think of all I
have read about the East. The men who look on while others work at
Saragossa also seem to belong to the East, with a great striped
blanket wrapped grandly round them, and a kerchief tied about their
hair. But though Aragon was held by the Moors longer than any part of
Northern Spain, the features and skins of the people seem to me to
bear less traces of the mixture there must have been than one would
fairly expect. Saragossa has a grand character still, in spite of the
stucco with which the people have daubed the beautiful small brick of
which the houses are built. Here and there one sees a house left
undesecrated by stucco; and all of them have the fluted tiles and the
broad eaves beautifully ornamented. Again, one side of the old
cathedral still shows the exquisite inlaid work which, in the
_façade_, has been overlaid hideously. Gradually, as we left Aragon
and entered Catalonia, the face of the country changed, and we had
almost every sort of beauty in succession; last of all, between
Monserrat and Barcelona, a perfect garden, with the richest red
soil--blossoms on the plum and cherry trees, aloes thick in the
hedges. At present we are waiting for the Spanish hardships to begin.
Even at Lerida, a place scarcely at all affected by foreign
travellers, we were perfectly comfortable--and such sights! The people
scattered on the brown slopes of rough earth round the fortress--the
women knitting, etc., the men playing at cards, one wonderful, gaudily
dressed group; another of handsome gypsies. We are actually going by
steam-boat to Alicante, and from Alicante to Malaga. Then we mean to
see Granada, Cordova, and Seville. We shall only stay here a few
days--if this weather continues.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 18th Feb. 1867, from Granada.]
Your kind letter, written on the 5th, reached me here this morning. I
had not heard of the criticism in the _Edinburgh_. Mr. Lewes read the
article, but did not tell me of the reviewer's legal wisdom, thinking
that it would only vex me to no purpose. However, I had felt sure that
something of that sort must have appeared in one review article or
another. I am heartily glad and grateful that you have helped justice
in general, as well as justice to me in particular, by getting the
vindication written for the _Pall Mall_. It was the best possible
measure to adopt. Since we left Barcelona, a fortnight ago, we have
seen no English papers, so that we have been in the dark as to English
news.
Were you not surprised to hear that we had come so far? The journey
from San Sebastian by Saragossa and Lerida turned out to be so easy
and delightful that we ceased to tremble, and determined to carry out
our project of going by steamer to Alicante and Malaga. You cannot do
better than follow our example; I mean, so far as coming to Spain is
concerned. Believe none of the fictions that bookmakers get printed
about the horrors of Spanish hotels and cookery, or the hardships of
Spanish travel--still less about the rudeness of Spaniards. It is true
that we have not yet endured the long railway journeys through Central
Spain, but wherever we have been hitherto we have found nothing
formidable, even for our rickety bodies.
We came hither from Malaga in the _berlina (coupé)_ of the diligence,
and have assured ourselves that Mr. Blackburne's description of a
supposed hen-roost, overturned in the Alameda at Malaga, which proved
to be the Granada diligence, is an invention. The vehicle is
comfortable enough, and the road is perfect; and at the end of it we
have found ourselves in one of the loveliest scenes on earth.
We shall remain here till the 23d, and then go to Cordova first, to
Seville next, and finally to Madrid, making our way homeward from
thence by easy stages. We expect to be in the smoky haze of London
again soon after the middle of March, if not before.
I wish I could believe that you were all having anything like the
clear skies and warm sun which have cheered our journeying for the
last month. At Alicante we walked among the palm-trees with their
golden fruit hanging in rich clusters, and felt a more delightful
warmth than that of an English summer. Last night we walked out and
saw the towers of the Alhambra, the wide Vega, and the snowy
mountains, by the brilliant moonlight. You see, we are getting a great
deal of pleasure, but we are not working, as you seem charitably to
imagine. We tire ourselves, but only with seeing or going to see
unforgetable things. You will say that we ought to work to better
purpose when we get home. Amen. But just now we read nothing but
Spanish novels--and not much of those. We said good-bye to philosophy
and science when we packed up our trunks at Biarritz.
Please keep some friendship warm for us, that we may not be too much
chilled by the English weather when we get back.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 21st Feb. 1867.]
We are both heartily rejoiced that we came to Spain. It was a great
longing of mine, for, three years ago, I began to interest myself in
Spanish history and literature, and have had a work lying by me,
partly written, the subject of which is connected with Spain. Whether
I shall ever bring it to maturity so as to satisfy myself sufficiently
to print it is a question not settled; but it is a work very near my
heart. We have had perfect weather ever since the 27th of
January--magnificent skies and a summer sun. At Alicante, walking
among the palm-trees, with the bare brown rocks and brown houses in
the background, we fancied ourselves in the tropics; and a gentleman
who travelled with us assured us that the aspect of the country
closely resembled Aden, on the Red Sea. Here, at Granada, of course,
it is much colder, but the sun shines uninterruptedly; and in the
middle of the day, to stand in the sunshine against a wall, reminds me
of my sensations at Florence in the beginning of June. The aspect of
Granada as we first approached it was a slight disappointment to me,
but the beauty of its position can hardly be surpassed. To stand on
one of the towers of the Alhambra and see the sun set behind the dark
mountains of Loja, and send its after-glow on the white summits of the
Sierra Nevada, while the lovely Vega spreads below, ready to yield all
things pleasant to the eye and good for food, is worth a very long,
long journey. We shall start to-morrow evening for Cordova; then we
shall go to Seville, back to Cordova, and on to Madrid.
During our short stay in Paris we went a little into society, and saw,
among other people who interested us, Professor Scherer, of whom you
know something. He charmed me greatly. He is a Genevese, you know, and
does not talk in ready-made epigrams, like a clever Frenchman, but
with well-chosen, moderate words, intended to express what he really
thinks and feels. He is highly cultivated; and his wife, who was with
him, is an Englishwoman of refined, simple manners.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 10th Mch. 1867, from Biarritz.]
At Biarritz again, you see, after our long, delightful journey, in
which we have made a great loop all round the east and through the
centre of Spain. Mr. Lewes says he thinks he never enjoyed a journey
so much, and you will see him so changed--so much plumper and
ruddier--that if pity has entered much into your regard for him he
will be in danger of losing something by his bodily prosperity. We
crowned our pleasures in Spain with the sight of the pictures in the
Madrid gallery. The skies were as blue at Madrid as they had been
through the previous part of our journeying, but the air was bitterly
cold; and naughty officials receive money for warming the museum, but
find other uses for the money. I caught a severe cold the last day of
our visit, and, after an uncomfortable day and night's railway
journey, arrived at Biarritz, only fit for bed and coddling.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_March 16._--This evening we got home after a journey to the south of
Spain. I go to my poem and the construction of two prose works--if
possible.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 18th Mch. 1867.]
We got home on Saturday evening, after as fine a passage from Calais
to Dover as we ever had, even in summer. Your letter was among the
pleasant things that smiled at me on my return, and helped to
reconcile me to the rather rude transition from summer to winter which
we have made in our journey from Biarritz. This morning it is snowing
hard and the wind is roaring--a sufficiently sharp contrast to the hot
sun, the dust, and the mosquitoes of Seville.
We have had a glorious journey. The skies alone, both night and day,
were worth travelling all the way to see. We went to Cordova and
Seville, but we feared the cold of the central lands in the north, and
resisted the temptation to see Toledo, or anything else than the
Madrid pictures, which are transcendent.
Among the letters awaiting me was one from an American travelling in
Europe, who gives me the history of a copy of "Felix Holt," which, he
says, has been read by no end of people, and is now on its way through
Ireland, "where he found many friends anxious but unable to get it."
It seems people nowadays economize in nothing but books. I found also
the letter of a "Conveyancer" in the _Pall Mall_, justifying the law
of "Felix Holt" in answer to the _Edinburgh_ reviewer. I did not know,
before I was told of this letter in reply, that the _Edinburgh_
reviewer had found fault with my law.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_March 21._--Received from Blackwood a check for £2166 13_s._ 4_d._,
being the second instalment of £1666 13_s._ 4_d._ towards the £5000
for "Felix Holt," together with £500 as the first instalment of £1000
for ten years' copyright of the cheap edition of my novels.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 21st Mch. 1867.]
Your letters, with the valuable enclosure of a check for £2166 13_s._
4_d._, have come to me this morning, and I am much obliged to you for
your punctual attention.
I long to see a specimen of the cheap edition of the novels. As to the
illustrations, I have adjusted my hopes so as to save myself from any
great shock. When I remember my own childish happiness in a
frightfully illustrated copy of the "Vicar of Wakefield," I can
believe that illustration may be a great good relatively, and that my
own present liking has no weight in the question.
I fancy that the placarding at railway stations is an effective
measure, for Ruskin was never more mistaken than in asserting that
people have no spare time to observe anything in such places. I am a
very poor reader of advertisements, but even I am forced to get them
unpleasantly by heart at the stations.
It is rather a vexatious kind of tribute when people write, as my
American correspondent did, to tell me of one paper-covered American
copy of "Felix Holt" brought to Europe and serving for so many readers
that it was in danger of being worn away under their hands. He, good
man, finds it easy "to urge greater circulation by means of cheap
sale," having "found so many friends in Ireland anxious but unable to
obtain the book." I suppose putting it in a yellow cover with figures
on it, reminding one of the outside of a show, and charging a shilling
for it, is what we are expected to do for the good of mankind. Even
then I fear it would hardly bear the rivalry of "The Pretty Milliner,"
or of "The Horrible Secret."
The work connected with Spain is not a romance. It is--prepare your
fortitude--it is--a poem. I conceived the plot, and wrote nearly the
whole as a drama in 1864. Mr. Lewes advised me to put it by for a time
and take it up again, with a view to recasting it. He thinks hopefully
of it. I need not tell you that I am _not_ hopeful, but I am quite
sure the subject is fine. It is not historic, but has merely historic
connections. The plot was wrought out entirely as an incorporation of
my own ideas. Of course, if it is ever finished to my satisfaction, it
is not a work for us to get money by, but Mr. Lewes urges and insists
that it shall be done. I have also my private projects about an
English novel, but I am afraid of speaking as if I could depend on
myself; at present I am rather dizzy, and not settled down to home
habits of regular occupation.
I understand that the conveyancer who wrote to the _Pall Mall_ is an
excellent lawyer in his department, and the lecturer on Real Property
at the Law Institution.
If a reviewer ever checked himself by considering that a writer whom
he thinks worth praising would take some pains to know the truth about
a matter which is the very hinge of said writer's story, review
articles would cut a shrunken figure.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_May 5._--We went to Bouverie Street to hear the first of a course of
lectures on Positivism, delivered by Dr. Congreve. There were present
seventy-five people, chiefly men.
_May 11._--We had Mr. and Mrs. Call to dine with us, and an evening
party afterwards.
_May 12._--We went to hear Dr. Congreve's second lecture. The morning
was thoroughly wet; the audience smaller, but still good.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 13th May, 1867.]
Yesterday we went to the second of a course of lectures which Dr.
Congreve is delivering on Positivism in Bouverie Street. At the first
lecture on the 5th there was a considerable audience--about
seventy-five, chiefly men--of various ranks, from lords and M.P.'s
downwards, or upwards, for what is called social distinction seems to
be in a shifting condition just now. Yesterday the wet weather
doubtless helped to reduce the audience; still it was good. Curiosity
brings some, interest in the subject others, and the rest go with the
wish to express adhesion more or less thorough.
I am afraid you have ceased to care much about pictures, else I should
wish that you could see the Exhibition of Historical Portraits at
Kensington. It is really worth a little fatigue to see the English of
past generations in their habit as they lived--especially when
Gainsborough and Sir Joshua are the painters. But even Sir Godfrey
Kneller delights me occasionally with a finely conceived portrait
carefully painted. There is an unforgetable portrait of Newton by
him.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_May 27._--Went with G. to the Academy Exhibition.
_May 29._--Went to the Exhibition of French Pictures--very agreeable
and interesting.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 30th May, 1867.]
I do sympathize with you most emphatically in the desire to see women
socially elevated--educated equally with men, and secured as far as
possible, along with every other breathing creature, from suffering
the exercise of any unrighteous power. That is a broader ground of
sympathy than agreement as to the amount and kind of result that may
be hoped for from a particular measure. But on this special point I am
far from thinking myself an oracle, and on the whole I am inclined to
hope for much good from the serious presentation of women's claims
before Parliament. I thought Mill's speech sober and judicious from
his point of view--Karslake's an abomination.
_À propos_ of what you say about Mr. Congreve, I think you have
mistaken his, or rather Comte's, position. There is no denial of an
unknown cause, but only a denial that such a conception is the proper
basis of a practical religion. It seems to me pre-eminently desirable
that we should learn not to make our personal comfort a standard of
truth.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_June 1_ (Saturday).--Wrote up to the moment when Fedalma appears in
the Plaça.
_June 5._--Blackwood dined with us, and I read to him my poem down to
page 56. He showed great delight.
_June 26._--We went to Niton for a fortnight, returning July 10.
_July 16._--Received £2166 13_s._ 4_d._ from Blackwood, being the
final instalment for "Felix Holt," and (£500) copyright for ten
years.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 28th July, 1867.]
Again we take flight! To North Germany this time, and chiefly to
Dresden, where we shall be accessible through the _Poste Restante_. I
am ashamed of saying anything about our health--we are both "objects"
for compassion or contempt, according to the disposition of the
subject who may contemplate us.
Mr. Beesley (I think it was he) sent us Dr. Congreve's pamphlet last
night, and I read it aloud to George. We both felt a cordial
satisfaction in it. We have been a good deal beset by little
engagements with friends and acquaintances lately, and these, with the
preparations for our journey, have been rather too much for me. Mr.
Lewes is acting on the advice of Sir Henry Holland in giving up
zoologizing for the present, because it obliges him to hang down his
head. That is the reason we go inland, and not to the coast, as I
think I hinted to you that we expected to do.
You are sympathetic enough to be glad to hear that we have had
thoroughly cheerful and satisfactory letters from both our boys in
Natal. They are established in their purchased farm, and are very
happy together in their work. Impossible for mortals to have less
trouble than we. I should have written to you earlier this week--for
we start to-morrow--but that I have been laid prostrate with crushing
headache one half of my time, and always going out or seeing some one
the other half.
Farewell, dear. Don't write unless you have a real desire to gossip
with me a little about yourself and our mutual friends. You know I
always like to have news of you, but I shall not think it unkind--I
shall only think you have other things to do--if you are silent.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_July 29._--We went to Dover this evening as the start on a journey
into Germany (North).
_Oct. 1._--We returned home after revisiting the scenes of cherished
memories--Ilmenau, Dresden, and Berlin. Of new places we have seen
Wetzlar, Cassel, Eisenach, and Hanover. At Ilmenau I wrote Fedalma's
soliloquy after her scene with Silva, and the following dialogue
between her and Juan. At Dresden I rewrote the whole scene between her
and Zarca.
_Oct. 9._--Reading "Los Judios en Espâna," Percy's "Reliques," "Isis,"
occasionally aloud.
_Oct. 10._--Reading the "Iliad," Book III. Finished "Los Judios en
Espâna," a wretchedly poor book.
_Oct. 11._--Began again Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella."
_Oct. 19._--George returned last evening from a walking expedition in
Surrey with Mr. Spencer.
This entry is an interesting one to me, as it fixes the date
of the first acquaintance with my family. Mr. Herbert Spencer
was an old friend of ours, and in the course of their walk he
and Mr. Lewes happened to pass through Weybridge, where my
mother at that time lived. They came to dinner. Mr. Lewes,
with his wonderful social powers, charmed all, and they
passed a delightful evening. I was myself in America at the
time, where I was in business as a banker at New York. My
eldest sister had just then published a little volume of
poems,[1] which was kindly received by the press. On the
invitation of Mr. Lewes she went shortly afterwards to see
George Eliot, then in the zenith of her fame; nor did she
ever forget the affectionate manner in which the great author
greeted her. This was the beginning of a close friendship
between the families, which lasted, and increased in
intimacy, to the end. Mr. Spencer, in writing to tell me that
it was he who first made Mr. Lewes acquainted with George
Eliot, adds, "You will perhaps be struck by the curious
coincidence that it was also by me that Lewes was introduced
to your family at Weybridge and remoter issues entailed."
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 20th Oct. 1867.]
Before I got your letter I was about to write to you and direct your
attention to an article in the forthcoming (October) number of the
_Quarterly Review_, on the Talmud. You really must go out of your way
to read it. It is written by one of the greatest Oriental scholars,
the man among living men who probably knows the most about the Talmud;
and you will appreciate the pregnancy of the article. There are also
beautiful, soul-cheering things selected for quotation.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_Oct. 31._--I have now inserted all that I think of for the first part
of the "Spanish Gypsy." On Monday I wrote three new Lyrics. I have
also rewritten the first scenes in the gypsy camp, to the end of the
dialogue between Juan and Fedalma. But I have determined to make the
commencement of the second part continue the picture of what goes
forward in Bedmar.
_Nov. 1._--Began this morning Part II. "Silva was marching homeward,"
etc.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 9th Nov. 1867.]
About putting Fedalma in type. There would be advantages, but also
disadvantages; and on these latter I wish to consult you. I have more
than three thousand lines ready in the order I wish them to stand in,
and it would be good to have them in print to read them critically.
Defects reveal themselves more fully in type, and emendations might be
more conveniently made on proofs, since I have given up the idea of
copying the MS. as a whole. On the other hand, _could the thing be
kept private when it had once been in the printing-office_? And I
particularly wish not to have it set afloat, for various reasons.
Among others, I want to keep myself free from all inducements to
premature publication; I mean, publication before I have given my work
as much revision as I can hope to give it while my mind is still
nursing it. Beyond this, delay would be useless. The theory of laying
by poems for nine years may be a fine one, but it could not answer for
me to apply it. I could no more live through one of my books a second
time than I can live through last year again. But I like to keep
checks on myself, and not to create external temptations to do what I
should think foolish in another. If you thought it possible to secure
us against the oozing out of proofs and gossip, the other objections
would be less important. One difficulty is, that in my MS. I have
frequently two readings of the same passage, and, being uncertain
which of them is preferable, I wish them both to stand for future
decision. But perhaps this might be managed in proof. The length of
the poem is at present uncertain, but I feel so strongly what Mr.
Lewes insists on, namely, the evil of making it too long, that I shall
set it before me as a duty not to make it more than nine thousand
lines, and shall be glad if it turns out a little shorter.
Will you think over the whole question? I am sure your mind will
supply any prudential considerations that I may have omitted.
I am vexed by the non-success of the serial edition of the works. It
is not, Heaven knows, that I read my own books or am puffed up about
them, but I have been of late quite astonished by the strengthening
testimonies that have happened to come to me of people who care about
every one of my books, and continue to read them--especially young
men, who are just the class I care most to influence. But what sort of
data can one safely go upon with regard to the success of editions?
"Felix Holt" is immensely tempted by your suggestion,[2] but George
Eliot is severely admonished by his domestic critic not to scatter his
energies.
Mr. Lewes sends his best regards. He is in high spirits about the
poem.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_Nov. 22._--Began an "Address to the Working Men, by Felix Holt," at
Blackwood's repeated request.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1867.]
Yes, indeed--when I do _not_ reciprocate "chaos is come again." I was
quite sure your letter would come, and was grateful beforehand.
There is a scheme on foot for a Woman's College, or, rather,
University, to be built between London and Cambridge, and to be in
connection with the Cambridge University, sharing its professors,
examinations, and degrees! _Si muove._
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 1st Dec. (?) 1867.]
I have written to Miss Davies to ask her to come to see me on Tuesday.
I am much occupied just now, but the better education of women is one
of the objects about which I have _no doubt_, and shall rejoice if
this idea of a college can be carried out.
I see Miss Julia Smith's beautiful handwriting, and am glad to think
of her as your guardian angel.
The author of the glorious article on the Talmud _is_ "that bright
little man" Mr. Deutsch--a very dear, delightful creature.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_Dec. 4._--Sent off the MS. of the "Address" to Edinburgh.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 7th Dec. 1867.]
I agree with you about the phrase "Masters of the country."[3] I wrote
that part twice, and originally I distinctly said that the epithet was
false. Afterwards I left that out, preferring to make a stronger
_argumentum ad hominem_, in case any workman believed himself a future
master.
I think it will be better for you to write a preliminary note, washing
your hands of any over-trenchant statements on the part of the
well-meaning Radical. I much prefer that you should do so.
Whatever you agree with will have the advantage of not coming from one
who can be suspected of being a special pleader.
What you say about Fedalma is very cheering. But I am chiefly anxious
about the road still untravelled--the road I have still _zurück zu
legen_.
Mr. Lewes has to request several proofs of Fedalma, to facilitate
revision. But I will leave him to say how many. We shall keep them
strictly to ourselves, you may be sure, so that three or four will be
enough--one for him, one for me, and one for the resolution of our
differences.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood 12th Dec. 1867.]
I am very grateful to you for your generous words about my work. That
you not only feel so much sympathy, but are moved to express it so
fully, is a real help to me.
I am very glad to have had the revise of the "Address." I feel the
danger of not being understood. Perhaps, by a good deal longer
consideration and gradual shaping, I might have put the ideas into a
more concrete, easy form.
Mr. Lewes read the proof of the poem all through to himself for the
first time last night, and expressed great satisfaction in the
impression it produced. Your suggestion of having it put into type is
a benefit for which we have reason to be obliged to you.
I cannot help saying again that it is a strong cordial to me to have
such letters as yours, and to know that I have such a _first reader_
as you.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_Dec. 21._--Finished reading "Averroës and Averroisme" and "Les
Médicins Juifs." Reading "First Principles."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 22d Dec. 1867.]
Our Christmas will be very quiet. On the 27th Mr. Lewes means to start
on a solitary journey to Bonn, and perhaps to Würzburg, for anatomical
purposes. I don't mean that he is going to offer himself as an
anatomical subject, but that he wants to get answers to some questions
bearing on the functions of the nerves. It is a bad time for him to
travel in, but he hopes to be at home again in ten days or a
fortnight, and _I_ hope the run will do him good rather than harm.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1867.]
_Dec. 25._--George and I dined happily alone; he better for weeks than
he has been all the summer before; I more ailing than usual, but with
much mental consolation, part of it being the delight he expresses in
my poem, of which the first part is now in print.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 26th Dec. 1867.]
Thanks for the pretty remembrance. You were not unthought of before it
came. Now, however, I rouse all my courage under the thick fog to tell
you my inward wish--which is that the new year, as it travels on
towards its old age, may bring you many satisfactions undisturbed by
bodily ailment.
Mr. Lewes is going to-morrow on an unprecedented expedition--a rapid
run to Bonn, to make some anatomical researches with Professor Schutze
there. If he needs more than he can get at Bonn, he may go to
Heidelberg and Würzburg. But in any case he will not take more than a
fortnight.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 28th Dec. 1867.]
Public questions which, by a sad process of reduction, become piteous
private questions, hang cloudily over all prospects. The state of
Europe, the threat of a general war, the starvation of multitudes--one
can't help thinking of these things at one's breakfast. Nevertheless,
there is much enjoyment going on, and abundance of rosy children's
parties.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 30th Dec. 1867.]
It is very good and sweet of you to propose to come round for me on
Sunday, and I shall cherish particularly the remembrance of that
kindness. But, on our reading your letter, Mr. Lewes objected, on
grounds which I think just, to my going to any public manifestation
without him, since his absence could not be divined by outsiders.
I am companioned by dyspepsia, and feel life a struggle under the
leaden sky. Mme. Bodichon writes that in Sussex the air is cold and
clear, and the woods and lanes dressed in wintry loveliness of fresh,
grassy patches, mingled with the soft grays and browns of the trees
and hedges. Mr. Harrison shed the agreeable light of his kind eyes on
me yesterday for a brief space; but I hope I was more endurable to my
visitors than to myself, else I think they will not come again. I
object strongly to myself, as a bundle of unpleasant sensations with a
palpitating heart and awkward manners. Impossible to imagine the large
charity I have for people who detest me. But don't you be one of them.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th Dec. 1867.]
I am much obliged to you for your handsome check, and still more
gratified that the "Address" has been a satisfaction to you.
I am very glad to hear of your projected visit to town, and shall
hope to have a good batch of MS. for you to carry back. Mr. Lewes is
in an unprecedented state of delight with the poem, now that he is
reading it with close care. He says he is astonished that he can't
find more faults. He is especially pleased with the sense of variety
it gives; and this testimony is worth the more because he urged me to
put the poem by (in 1865) on the ground of monotony. He is really
exultant about it now, and after what you have said to me I know this
will please you.
Hearty wishes that the coming year may bring you much good, and that
the "Spanish Gypsy" may contribute a little to that end.
_SUMMARY._
JANUARY, 1867, TO DECEMBER, 1867.
Letter to Madame Bodichon from Bordeaux--Madame
Mohl--Scherer--Renan--Letter to Mrs. Congreve from
Biarritz--Delight in Comte's "Politique"--Gratitude to him
for illumination--Learning Spanish--Papers in the _Revue des
Deux Mondes_, by Saveney--Letter to Madame Bodichon from
Barcelona--Description of
scenery--Pampeluna--Saragossa--Lerida--Letter to F. Harrison
from Granada--The vindication of the _law_ in "Felix
Holt"--Spanish travelling--Letter to John Blackwood from
Granada--Alicante--Granada--Letter to Mrs. Congreve from
Biarritz--Delight of the journey--Madrid pictures--Return to
the Priory--Letter to John Blackwood--"Felix Holt"--Cheap
edition of novels--"Spanish Gypsy"--Dr. Congreve's Lectures
on Positivism--Letter to Miss Hennell--Historical Portraits
at South Kensington--Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor--Women's
claims--Comte's position--Fortnight's Visit to the Isle of
Wight--Letter of adieu to Mrs. Congreve--Two months' visit to
North Germany--Return to England--Reading on Spanish
subjects--Mr. Lewes and Mr. Spencer at
Weybridge--Acquaintance with Mrs. Cross and family--Letter to
Miss Hennell--Deutsch's article on the Talmud--Letter to
Blackwood about putting "Spanish Gypsy" in type--"Address to
Workingmen, by Felix Holt"--Letter to Miss Hennell--Girton
College--Letter to Madame Bodichon--The higher education of
women--Letter to John Blackwood on the "Address"--Christmas
day at the Priory--Letter to Miss Hennell--Visit of Mr. Lewes
to Bonn--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Depression--Letter to John
Blackwood--Mr. Lewes on "Spanish Gypsy."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "An Old Story and Other Poems," by Elizabeth D. Cross.
[2] "Address to the Working Men."
[3] In the "Address to the Working Men."
CHAPTER XV.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 9th Jan. 1868.]
There is a good genius presiding over your gifts--they are so
felicitous. You always give me something of which I have felt the want
beforehand, and can use continually. It is eminently so with my pretty
mittens; there was no little appendage I wanted more; and they are
just as warm at the wrist as I could have wished them to be--warming,
too, as a mark of affection at a time when all cheering things are
doubly welcome.
Mr. Lewes came home last night, and you may imagine that I am glad.
Between the bad weather, bad health, and solitude, I have been so far
unlike the wicked that I have not flourished like the green bay-tree.
To make amends, he--Mr. Lewes, not the wicked--has had a brilliant
time, gained great instruction, and seen some admirable men, who have
received him warmly.
I go out of doors very little, but I shall open the drawer and look at
my mittens on the days when I don't put them on.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_Jan._--Engaged in writing Part III. of "Spanish Gypsy."
_Feb. 27._--Returned last evening from a very pleasant visit to
Cambridge.[4] I am still only at p. 5 of Part IV., having had a
wretched month of _malaise_.
_March 1._--Finished Guillemin on the "Heavens," and the 4th Book of
the "Iliad." I shall now read Grote.
_March 6._--Reading Lubbock's "Prehistoric Ages."
_March 8._--Saturday concert. Joachim and Piatti, with Schubert's
Ottett.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 17th Mch. 1868.]
We go to-morrow morning to Torquay for a month, and I can't bear to go
without saying a word of farewell to you. How sadly little we have
seen each other this winter! It will not be so any more, I hope, will
it?
We are both much in need of the change, for Mr. Lewes has got rather
out of sorts again lately. When we come back I shall ask you to come
and look at us before the bloom is off. I should like to know how you
all are; but you have been so little inspired for note-writing lately
that I am afraid to ask you to send me a line to the post-office at
Torquay. I really deserve nothing of my friends at present.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Mch. 1868.]
I don't know whether you have ever seen Torquay. It is pretty, but not
comparable to Ilfracombe; and, like all other easily accessible
sea-places, it is sadly spoiled by wealth and fashion, which leave no
secluded walks, and tattoo all the hills with ugly patterns of roads
and villa gardens. Our selfishness does not adapt itself well to these
on-comings of the millennium.
I am reading about savages and semi-savages, and think that our
religious oracles would do well to study savage ideas by a method of
comparison with their own. Also, I am studying that semi-savage poem,
the "Iliad." How enviable it is to be a classic. When a verse in the
"Iliad" bears six different meanings, and nobody knows which is the
right, a commentator finds this equivocalness in itself admirable!
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, end of Mch. 1868.]
Mr. Lewes quite agrees with you, that it is desirable to announce the
poem. His suggestion is, that it should be simply announced as "a
poem" first, and then a little later as "The Spanish Gypsy," in order
to give a new detail for observation in the second announcement. I
chose the title, "The Spanish Gypsy," a long time ago, because it is a
little in the fashion of the elder dramatists, with whom I have
perhaps more cousinship than with recent poets. Fedalma might be
mistaken for an Italian name, which would create a definite
expectation of a mistaken kind, and is, on other grounds, less to my
taste than "The Spanish Gypsy."
This place is becoming a little London, or London suburb. Everywhere
houses and streets are being built, and Babbacombe will soon be joined
to Torquay.
I almost envy you the excitement of golf, which helps the fresh air to
exhilarate, and gives variety of exercise. Walking can never be so
good as a game--if one loves the game. But when a friend of Mr.
Lewes's urges him angrily to play rackets for his health, the prospect
seems dreary.
We are afraid of being entangled in excursion trains, or crowds of
Easter holiday-makers, in Easter week, and may possibly be driven back
next Wednesday. But we are loath to have our stay so curtailed.
Mr. Lewes sends his kind regards, and pities all of us who are less
interested in ganglionic cells. He is in a state of beatitude about
the poem.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 4th April, 1868.]
We find a few retired walks, and are the less discontented because the
weather is perfect. I hope you are sharing the delights of sunshine
and moonlight. There are no waves here, as you know; but under such
skies as we are having, sameness is so beautiful that we find no
fault, and there is a particular hill at Babbacombe of the richest
Spanish red. On the whole, we are glad we came here, having avoided
all trouble in journeying and settling. But we should not come again
without special call, for in a few years all the hills will be parts
of a London suburb.
How glorious this weather is for the hard workers who are looking
forward to their Easter holiday! But for ourselves, we are rather
afraid of the railway stations in holiday time. Certainly, we are ill
prepared for what Tennyson calls the "To-be," and it is good that we
shall soon pass from this objective existence.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 6th April, 1868.]
I think Ruskin has not been encouraged about women by his many and
persistent attempts to teach them. He seems to have found them wanting
in real scientific interest--bent on sentimentalizing in everything.
What I should like to be sure of, as a result of higher education for
women--a result that will come to pass over my grave--is their
recognition of the great amount of social unproductive labor which
needs to be done by women, and which is now either not done at all or
done wretchedly. No good can come to women, more than to any class of
male mortals, while each aims at doing the highest kind of work, which
ought rather to be held in sanctity as what only the few can do well.
I believe, and I want it to be well shown, that a more thorough
education will tend to do away with the odious vulgarity of our
notions about functions and employment, and to propagate the true
gospel, that the deepest disgrace is to insist on doing work for which
we are unfit--to do work of any sort badly. There are many points of
this kind that want being urged, but they do not come well from me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 17th April, 1868.]
Your letter came just at the right time to greet us. Thanks for that
pretty remembrance. We are glad to be at home again with our home
comforts around us, though we became deeply in love with Torquay in
the daily heightening of spring beauties, and the glory of perpetual
blue skies. The eight hours' journey (one hour more than we paid for)
was rather disturbing; and, I think, Mr. Lewes has got more zoological
experience than health from our month's delight--but a delight it
really has been to us to have perfect quiet with the red hills, the
sunshine, and the sea.
I shall be absorbed for the next fortnight, so that I cannot allow
myself the sort of pleasure you kindly project for us; and when May
begins, I want you to come and stay a night with us. I shall be ready
by and by for such holiday-making, and you must be good to me. Will
you give Dr. Congreve my thanks for his pamphlet, which I read at
Torquay with great interest? All protests tell, however slowly and
imperceptibly, and a protest against the doctrine that England is to
keep Ireland under all conditions was what I had wished to be made.
But in this matter he will have much more important concurrence than
mine. I am bearing much in mind the great task of the translation.
When it is completed we shall be able and glad to do what we were not
able to do in the case of the "Discours Préliminaire," namely, to take
our share, if we may, in the expenses of publication.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_April 16._--Returned home, bringing Book IV. finished.
_April 18._--Went with Mr. Pigott to see Holman Hunt's great picture,
Isabella and the Pot of Basil.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 21st April, 1868.]
I send you by to-day's post the MS. of Book IV., that it may be at
hand whenever there is opportunity for getting it into print, and
letting me have it in that form for correction. It is desirable to get
as forward as we can, in case of the Americans asking for delay after
their reception of the sheets--if they venture to make any
arrangement. I shall send the MS. of Book V. (the last) as soon as
headache will permit, but that is an uncertain limit. We returned from
Torquay on the 16th, leaving the glorious weather behind us. We were
more in love with the place on a better acquaintance: the weather, and
the spring buds, and the choirs of birds, made it seem more of a
paradise to us every day.
The poem will be less tragic than I threatened: Mr. Lewes has
prevailed on me to return to my original conception, and give up the
additional development, which I determined on subsequently. The poem
is rather shorter in consequence. Don't you think that my artistic
deference and pliability deserve that it should also be better in
consequence? I now end it as I determined to end it when I first
conceived the story.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_April 25._--Finished the last dialogue between Silva and Fedalma. Mr.
and Mrs. Burne Jones dined with us.
_April 29._--Finished "The Spanish Gypsy."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 29th Aug. 1868.]
I send you by to-day's post the conclusion of the poem in MS., and the
eighteen sheets of revise. The last book is brief, but I may truly use
the old epigram--that it would have taken less time to make it longer.
It is a great bore that the name of my heroine is wrongly spelled in
all the earlier sheets. It is a fresh proof of the fallibility of our
impressions as to our own doings, that I would have confidently
affirmed the name to be spelled Fedalma (as it ought to be) in my
manuscript. Yet I suppose I should have affirmed falsely, for the _i_
occurs in the slips constantly.
As I shall not see these paged sheets again, will you charitably
assure me that the alterations are safely made?
Among my wife's papers were four or five pages of MS. headed,
"Notes on the Spanish Gypsy and Tragedy in General." There is
no evidence as to the date at which this fragment was
written, and it seems to have been left unfinished. But there
was evidently some care to preserve it; and as I think she
would not have objected to its presentation, I give it here
exactly as it stands. It completes the history of the poem.
[Sidenote: Notes on "The Spanish Gypsy."]
The subject of "The Spanish Gypsy" was originally suggested to me by a
picture which hangs in the Scuola di' San Rocco at Venice, over the
door of the large Sala containing Tintoretto's frescoes. It is an
Annunciation, said to be by Titian. Of course I had seen numerous
pictures of this subject before; and the subject had always attracted
me. But in this my second visit to the Scuola di' San Rocco, this
small picture of Titian's, pointed out to me for the first time,
brought a new train of thought. It occurred to me that here was a
great dramatic motive of the same class as those used by the Greek
dramatists, yet specifically differing from them. A young maiden,
believing herself to be on the eve of the chief event of her
life--marriage--about to share in the ordinary lot of womanhood, full
of young hope, has suddenly announced to her that she is chosen to
fulfil a great destiny, entailing a terribly different experience from
that of ordinary womanhood. She is chosen, not by any momentary
arbitrariness, but as a result of foregoing hereditary conditions: she
obeys. "Behold the handmaid of the Lord." Here, I thought, is a
subject grander than that of Iphigenia, and it has never been used. I
came home with this in my mind, meaning to give the motive a clothing
in some suitable set of historical and local conditions. My
reflections brought me nothing that would serve me except that moment
in Spanish history when the struggle with the Moors was attaining its
climax, and when there was the gypsy race present under such
conditions as would enable me to get my heroine and the hereditary
claim on her among the gypsies. I required the opposition of race to
give the need for renouncing the expectation of marriage. I could not
use the Jews or the Moors, because the facts of their history were too
conspicuously opposed to the working-out of my catastrophe. Meanwhile
the subject had become more and more pregnant to me. I saw it might be
taken as a symbol of the part which is played in the general human lot
by hereditary conditions in the largest sense, and of the fact that
what we call duty is entirely made up of such conditions; for even in
cases of just antagonism to the narrow view of hereditary claims, the
whole background of the particular struggle is made up of our
inherited nature. Suppose for a moment that our conduct at great
epochs was determined entirely by reflection, without the immediate
intervention of feeling, which supersedes reflection, our
determination as to the right would consist in an adjustment of our
individual needs to the dire necessities of our lot, partly as to our
natural constitution, partly as sharers of life with our
fellow-beings. Tragedy consists in the terrible difficulty of this
adjustment--
"The dire strife of poor Humanity's afflicted will,
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny."
Looking at individual lots, I seemed to see in each the same story,
wrought out with more or less of tragedy, and I determined the
elements of my drama under the influence of these ideas.
In order to judge properly of the dramatic structure it must not be
considered first in the light of doctrinal symbolism, but in the light
of a tragedy representing some grand collision in the human lot. And
it must be judged accordingly. A good tragic subject must represent a
possible, sufficiently probable, not a common, action; and to be
really tragic, it must represent irreparable collision between the
individual and the general (in differing degrees of generality). It is
the individual with whom we sympathize, and the general of which we
recognize the irresistible power. The truth of this test will be seen
by applying it to the greatest tragedies. The collision of Greek
tragedy is often that between hereditary, entailed Nemesis and the
peculiar individual lot, awakening our sympathy, of the particular man
or woman whom the Nemesis is shown to grasp with terrific force.
Sometimes, as in the Oresteia, there is the clashing of two
irreconcilable requirements, two duties, as we should say in these
times. The murder of the father must be avenged by the murder of the
mother, which must again be avenged. These two tragic relations of the
individual and general, and of two irreconcilable "oughts," may
be--will be--seen to be almost always combined. The Greeks were not
taking an artificial, entirely erroneous standpoint in their art--a
standpoint which disappeared altogether with their religion and their
art. They had the same essential elements of life presented to them as
we have, and their art symbolized these in grand schematic forms. The
Prometheus represents the ineffectual struggle to redeem the small
and miserable race of man, against the stronger adverse ordinances
that govern the frame of things with a triumphant power. Coming to
modern tragedies, what is it that makes Othello a great tragic
subject? A story simply of a jealous husband is elevated into a most
pathetic tragedy by the hereditary conditions of Othello's lot, which
give him a subjective ground for distrust. Faust, Rigoletto (Le Roi
s'Amuse), Brutus. It might be a reasonable ground of objection against
the whole structure of "The Spanish Gypsy" if it were shown that the
action is outrageously improbable--lying outside all that can be
congruously conceived of human actions. It is _not_ a reasonable
ground of objection that they would have done better to act otherwise,
any more than it is a reasonable objection against the Iphigenia that
Agamemnon would have done better not to sacrifice his daughter.
As renunciations coming under the same great class, take the
renunciation of marriage, where marriage cannot take place without
entailing misery on the children.
A tragedy has not to expound why the individual must give way to the
general; it has to show that it is compelled to give way; the tragedy
consisting in the struggle involved, and often in the entirely
calamitous issue in spite of a grand submission. Silva presents the
tragedy of entire rebellion; Fedalma of a grand submission, which is
rendered vain by the effects of Silva's rebellion. Zarca, the struggle
for a great end, rendered vain by the surrounding conditions of life.
Now, what is the fact about our individual lots? A woman, say, finds
herself on the earth with an inherited organization; she may be lame,
she may inherit a disease, or what is tantamount to a disease; she
may be a negress, or have other marks of race repulsive in the
community where she is born, etc. One may go on for a long while
without reaching the limits of the commonest inherited misfortunes. It
is almost a mockery to say to such human beings, "Seek your own
happiness." The utmost approach to well-being that can be made in such
a case is through large resignation and acceptance of the inevitable,
with as much effort to overcome any disadvantage as good sense will
show to be attended with a likelihood of success. Any one may say,
that is the dictate of mere rational reflection. But calm can, in
hardly any human organism, be attained by rational reflection.
Happily, we are not left to that. Love, pity, constituting sympathy,
and generous joy with regard to the lot of our fellow-men comes
in--has been growing since the beginning--enormously enhanced by wider
vision of results, by an imagination actively interested in the lot of
mankind generally; and these feelings become piety--_i.e._, loving,
willing submission and heroic Promethean effort towards high
possibilities, which may result from our individual life.
There is really no moral "sanction" but this inward impulse. The will
of God is the same thing as the will of other men, compelling us to
work and avoid what they have seen to be harmful to social existence.
Disjoined from any perceived good, the divine will is simply so much
as we have ascertained of the facts of existence which compel
obedience at our peril. Any other notion comes from the supposition of
arbitrary revelation.
That favorite view, expressed so often in Clough's poems, of doing
duty in blindness as to the result, is likely to deepen the
substitution of egoistic yearnings for really moral impulses. We
cannot be utterly blind to the results of duty, since that cannot be
duty which is not already judged to be for human good. To say the
contrary is to say that mankind have reached no inductions as to what
is for their good or evil.
The art which leaves the soul in despair is laming to the soul, and is
denounced by the healthy sentiment of an active community. The
consolatory elements in "The Spanish Gypsy" are derived from two
convictions or sentiments which so conspicuously pervade it that they
may be said to be its very warp, on which the whole action is woven.
These are: (1) The importance of individual deeds. (2) The
all-sufficiency of the soul's passions in determining sympathetic
action.
In Silva is presented the claim of fidelity to social pledges. In
Fedalma the claim constituted by an hereditary lot less consciously
shared.
With regard to the supremacy of love: if it were a fact without
exception that man or woman never did renounce the joys of love, there
could never have sprung up a notion that such renunciation could
present itself as a duty. If no parents had ever cared for their
children, how could parental affection have been reckoned among the
elements of life? But what are the facts in relation to this matter?
Will any one say that faithfulness to the marriage tie has never been
regarded as a duty, in spite of the presence of the profoundest
passion experienced after marriage? Is Guinivere's conduct the type of
duty?
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 7th May, 1868.]
Yes, I am at rest now--only a few pages of revise to look at more. My
chief excitement and pleasure in the work are over: for when I have
once written anything, and it is gone out of my power, I think of it
as little as possible. Next to the doing of the thing, of course, Mr.
Lewes's delight in it is the cream of all sympathy, though I care
enough about the sympathy of others to be very grateful for any they
give me. Don't you imagine how the people who consider writing simply
as a money-getting profession will despise me for choosing a work by
which I could only get hundreds, where for a novel I could get
thousands? I cannot help asking you to admire what my husband is,
compared with many possible husbands--I mean, in urging me to produce
a poem rather than anything in a worldly sense more profitable. I
expect a good deal of disgust to be felt towards me in many quarters
for doing what was not looked for from me, and becoming unreadable to
many who have hitherto found me readable and debatable. Religion and
novels every ignorant person feels competent to give an opinion upon,
but _en fait de poésie_, a large number of them "only read
Shakespeare." But enough of that.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 25th May, 1868.]
Before we set off to Germany I want to tell you that a copy of "The
Spanish Gypsy" will be sent to you. If there had been time before our
going away I should have written on the fly-leaf that it was offered
by the author "in grateful remembrance." For I especially desire that
you should understand my reasons for asking you to accept the book to
be retrospective and not prospective.
And I am going out of reach of all letters, so that you are free from
any need to write to me, and may let the book lie till you like to
open it.
I give away my books only by exception, and in venturing to make you
an exceptional person in this matter, I am urged by the strong wish
to express my value for the help and sympathy you gave me two years
ago.
The manuscript of "The Spanish Gypsy" bears the following
inscription:
"To my dear--every day dearer--Husband."
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 26th (?) May, 1868.]
Yes, indeed, I not only remember your letter, but have always kept it
at hand, and have read it many times. Within these latter months I
have seemed to see in the distance a possible poem shaped on your
idea. But it would be better for you to encourage the growth towards
realization in your own mind, rather than trust to transplantation.
My own faint conception is that of a frankly Utopian construction,
freeing the poet from all local embarrassments. Great epics have
always been more or less of this character--only the construction has
been of the past, not of the future.
Write to me _Poste Restante_, Baden-Baden, within the next fortnight.
My head will have got clearer then.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_May 26._--We set out this evening on our journey to Baden, spending
the night at Dover. Our route was by Tournay, Liége, Bonn, and
Frankfort, to Baden, where we stayed nine days; then to Petersthal,
where we stayed three weeks; then to Freiburg, St. Märgen, Basle,
Thun, and Interlaken. From Interlaken we came by Fribourg, Neuchâtel,
Dijon, to Paris and Folkestone.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 7th July, 1868.]
We got your letter yesterday here among the peaceful mountain-tops.
After ascending gradually (in a carriage) for nearly four hours, we
found ourselves in a region of grass, corn, and pine woods, so
beautifully varied that we seem to be walking in a great park laid
out for our special delight. The monks, as usual, found out the
friendly solitude, and this place of St. Märgen was originally nothing
but an Augustinian monastery. About three miles off is another place
of like origin, called St. Peter's, formerly a Benedictine monastery,
and still used as a place of preparation for the Catholic priesthood.
The monks have all vanished, but the people are devout Catholics. At
every half-mile by the roadside is a carefully kept crucifix; and last
night, as we were having our supper in the common room of the inn, we
suddenly heard sounds that seemed to me like those of an accordion.
"Is that a zittern?" said Mr. Lewes to the German lady by his side.
"No--it is prayer." The servants, by themselves--the host and hostess
were in the same room with us--were saying their evening prayers,
men's and women's voices blending in unusually correct harmony. The
same loud prayer is heard at morning, noon, and evening, from the
shepherds and workers in the fields. We suppose that the believers in
Mr. Home and in Madame Rachel would pronounce these people "grossly
superstitious." The land is cultivated by rich peasant proprietors,
and the people here, as in Petersthal, look healthy and contented.
This really adds to one's pleasure in seeing natural beauties. In
North Germany, at Ilmenau, we were constantly pained by meeting
peasants who looked underfed and miserable. Unhappily, the weather is
too cold and damp, and our accommodations are too scanty, under such
circumstances, for us to remain here and enjoy the endless walks and
the sunsets that would make up for other negatives in fine, warm
weather. We return to Freiburg to-morrow, and from thence we shall go
on by easy stages through Switzerland, by Thun and Vevay to Geneva,
where I want to see my old friends once more.
We shall be so constantly on the move that it might be a vain trouble
on your part to shoot another letter after such flying birds.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_July 23._--Arrived at home (from Baden journey).
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 24th July, 1868.]
We got home last night--sooner than we expected, because we gave up
the round by Geneva, as too long and exciting. I dare say the three
weeks since we heard from you seem very short to you, passed amid your
usual occupations. To us they seem long, for we have been constantly
changing our scene. Our two months have been spent delightfully in
seeing fresh natural beauties, and with the occasional cheering
influence of kind people. But I think we were hardly ever, except in
Spain, so long ignorant of home sayings and doings, for we have been
chiefly in regions innocent even of _Galignani_. The weather with us
has never been oppressively hot; and storms or quiet rains have been
frequent. But our bit of burned-up lawn is significant of the dryness
here. I believe I did not thank you for the offer of "Kinglake," which
we gratefully accept. And will you kindly order a copy of the poem to
be sent to Gerald Massey, Hemel-Hempstead.
A friendly gentleman at Belfast sends me a list of emendations for
some of my verses, which are very characteristic and amusing.
I hope you have kept well through the heat. We are come back in great
force, for such feeble wretches.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 28th July, 1868.]
As to the reviews, we expected them to be written by omniscient
personages, but we did _not_ expect so bad a review as that Mr. Lewes
found in the _Pall Mall_. I have read no notice except that in the
_Spectator_, which was modest in tone. A very silly gentleman, Mr.
Lewes says, undertakes to admonish me in the _Westminster_; and he
thinks the best _literary_ notice of the poem that has come before him
is in the _Athenæum_. After all, I think there would have been good
reason to doubt that the poem had either novelty or any other
considerable intrinsic reason to justify its being written, if the
periodicals had cried out "Hosanna!" I am sure you appreciate all the
conditions better than I can, after your long experience of the
relations between authors and critics. I am serene, because I only
expected the unfavorable. To-day the heat is so great that it is
hardly possible even to read a book that requires any thought. London
is a bad exchange for the mountains.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th July, 1868.]
I enclose a list of corrections for the reprint. I am indebted to my
friendly correspondent from Belfast for pointing out several
oversights, which I am ashamed of, after all the proof-reading. But,
among the well-established truths of which I never doubt, the
fallibility of my own brain stands first.
I suppose Mudie and the other librarians will not part with their
copies of the poems quite as soon as they would part with their more
abundant copies of a novel. And this supposition, if warranted, would
be an encouragement to reprint another moderate edition at the same
price. Perhaps, before a cheaper edition is prepared, I may add to the
corrections, but at present my mind resists strongly the effort to go
back on its old work.
I think I never mentioned to you that the occasional use of irregular
verses, and especially verses of twelve syllables, has been a
principle with me, and is found in all the finest writers of blank
verse. I mention it now because, as you have a certain _solidarité_
with my poetical doings, I would not have your soul vexed by the
detective wisdom of critics. Do you happen to remember that saying of
Balzac's, "When I want the world to praise my novels I write a drama;
when I want them to praise my drama I write a novel"?
On the whole, however, I should think I have more to be grateful for
than to grumble at. Mr. Lewes read me out last night some very
generous passages from the _St. Paul's Magazine_.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_August._--Reading 1st book of Lucretius, 6th book of the "Iliad,"
"Samson Agonistes," Warton's "History of English Poetry," Grote, 2d
volume, "Marcus Aurelius," "Vita Nuova," vol. iv. chap. i. of the
"Politique Positive," Guest on "English Rhythms," Maurice's "Lectures
on Casuistry."
_Sept. 19._--We returned from a visit to Yorkshire. On Monday we went
to Leeds, and were received by Dr. Clifford Allbut, with whom we
stayed till the middle of the day on Wednesday. Then we went by train
to Ilkley, and from thence took a carriage to Bolton. The weather had
been gray for two days, but on this evening the sun shone out, and we
had a delightful stroll before dinner, getting our first view of the
Priory. On Thursday we spent the whole day in rambling through the
woods to Barden Tower and back. Our comfortable little inn was the Red
Lion, and we were tempted to lengthen our stay. But on Friday morning
the sky was threatening, so we started for Newark, which we had
visited in old days on our expedition to Gainsborough. At Newark we
found our old inn, the Ram, opposite the ruins of the castle, and then
we went for a stroll along the banks of the Trent, seeing some
charming, quiet landscapes.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 20th Sept. 1868.]
This note comes to greet you on your return home, but it cannot greet
you so sweetly as your letter did me on our arrival from Leeds last
night. I think it gave me a deeper pleasure than any I have had for a
long while. I am very grateful to you for it.
We went to Leeds on Monday, and stayed two days with Dr. Allbut. Dr.
Bridges dined with us one day, and we had a great deal of delightful
chat. But I will tell you everything when we see you. Let that be
soon--will you not? We shall be glad of any arrangement that will give
us the pleasure of seeing you, Dr. Congreve, and Emily, either
separately or all together. Please forgive me if I seem very fussy
about your all coming. I want you to understand that we shall feel it
the greatest kindness in you if you will all choose to come, and also
choose _how_ to come--either to lunch or dinner, and either apart or
together. I hope to find that you are much the better for your
journey--better both in body and soul. One has immense need of
encouragement, but it seems to come more easily from the dead than
from the living.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 24th Sept. 1868.]
Your letter gave an additional gusto to my tea and toast this morning.
The greater confidence of the trade in subscribing for the second
edition is, on several grounds, a satisfactory indication; but, as you
observe, we shall be still better pleased to know that the copies are
not slumbering on the counters, but having an active life in the hands
of readers.
I am now going carefully through the poem for the sake of correction.
I have read it through once, and have at present found some ten or
twelve _small_ alterations to be added to those already made. But I
shall go through it again more than once, for I wish to be able to put
"revised" to the third edition, and to leave nothing that my
conscience is not ready to swear by. I think it will be desirable for
me to see proofs. It is possible, in many closely consecutive
readings, not to see errors which strike one immediately on taking up
the pages after a good long interval.
We are feeling much obliged for a copy of "Kinglake," which I am
reading aloud to Mr. Lewes as a part of our evening's entertainment
and edification, beginning again from the beginning.
This week we have had perfect autumnal days, though last week, when we
were in Yorkshire, we also thought that the time of outside chills and
inside fires was beginning.
We do not often see a place which is a good foil for London, but
certainly Leeds is in a lower circle of the great town--_Inferno_.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 25th Sept. 1868.]
I can imagine how delicious your country home has been under the
glorious skies we have been having--glorious even in London. Yesterday
we had Dr. and Mrs. Congreve, and went with them to the Zoological
Gardens, and on our return, about 5 o'clock, I could not help pausing
and exclaiming at the exquisite beauty of the light on Regent's Park,
exalting it into something that the young Turner would have wanted to
paint.
We went to Leeds last week--saw your favorite, David Cox, and thought
of you the while. Certainly there was nothing finer there in landscape
than that Welsh funeral. Among the figure-painters, Watts and old
Philip are supreme.
We went on from Leeds to Bolton, and spent a day in wandering through
the grand woods on the banks of the Wharfe. Altogether, our visit to
Yorkshire was extremely agreeable. Our host, Dr. Allbut, is a good,
clever, graceful man, enough to enable one to be cheerful under the
horrible smoke of ugly Leeds; and the fine hospital, which, he says,
is admirably fitted for its purpose, is another mitigation. You would
like to see the tasteful, subdued ornamentation in the rooms which are
to be sick wards. Each physician is accumulating ornamental objects
for his own ward--chromo-lithographs, etc.--such as will soothe sick
eyes.
It was quite cold in that northerly region. Your picture keeps a
memory of sunshine on my wall even on this dark morning.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 21st Oct. 1868.]
I have gone through the poem twice for the sake of revision, and have
a crop of small corrections--only in one case extending to the
insertion of a new line. But I wish to see the proof-sheets, so that
"Revised by the Author" may be put in the advertisement and on the
title-page.
Unhappily, my health has been unusually bad since we returned from
abroad, so that the time has been a good deal wasted on the endurance
of _malaise_; but I am brooding over many things, and hope that coming
months will not be barren. As to the criticisms, I suppose that better
poets than I have gone through worse receptions. In spite of my reason
and of my low expectations, I am too susceptible to all discouragement
not to have been depressingly affected by some few things in the shape
of criticism which I have been obliged to know. Yet I am ashamed of
caring about anything that cannot be taken as strict evidence against
the value of my book. So far as I have been able to understand, there
is a striking disagreement among the reviewers as to what is best and
what is worst; and the weight of agreement, even on the latter point,
is considerably diminished by the reflection that three different
reviews may be three different phases of the same gentleman, taking
the opportunity of earning as many guineas as he can by making easy
remarks on George Eliot. But, as dear Scott's characters say, "Let
that fly stick in the wa'--when the dirt's dry, it'll rub out." I
shall look at "Doubles and Quits," as you recommend. I read the two
first numbers of "Madame Amelia," and thought them promising.
I sympathize with your melancholy at the prospect of quitting the
country; though, compared with London, beautiful Edinburgh is country.
Perhaps some good, thick mists will come to reconcile you with the
migration.
We have been using the fine autumn days for flights into Kent between
Sundays. The rich woods about Sevenoaks and Chislehurst are a delight
to the eyes, and the stillness is a rest to every nerve.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_Oct. 22._--Received a letter from Blackwood, saying that "The Spanish
Gypsy" must soon go into a third edition. I sent my corrections for
it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 27th Oct. 1868.]
At last I have spirit enough in me to thank you for your valuable
gift, which Emily kindly brought me in her hand. I am grateful for
it--not only because the medallion[5] is a possession which I shall
always hold precious, but also because you thought of me among those
whom you would choose to be its owners.
I hope you are able to enjoy some walking in these sunshiny mornings.
We had a long drive round by Hendon and Finchley yesterday morning,
and drank so much clear air and joy from the sight of trees and fields
that I am quite a new-old creature.
I think you will not be sorry to hear that the "Spanish Gypsy" is so
nearly out of print again that the publishers are preparing a new,
cheaper edition. The second edition was all bought up (subscribed
for) by the booksellers the first day.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 30th Oct. 1868.]
Your pretty letter is irresistible. May we then be with you on Tuesday
somewhere about twelve, and return home on Wednesday by afternoon
daylight? If the weather should be very cold or wet on Tuesday we must
renounce or defer our pleasure, because we are both too rickety to run
the risk of taking cold. So you see we are very much in need of such
sweet friendliness as yours gives us faith in, to keep us cheerful
under the burden of the flesh.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_Nov. 3._--Went to dine and sleep at the Congreves, at Wandsworth.
_Nov. 4._--We set off for Sheffield, where we went over a great iron
and steel factory under the guidance of Mr. Benzon. On Saturday, the
7th, we went to Matlock and stayed till Tuesday. I recognized the
objects which I had seen with my father nearly thirty years
before--the turn of the road at Cromford, the Arkwrights' house, and
the cottages with the stone floors chalked in patterns. The landscape
was still rich with autumn leaves.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, Thursday evening, 12th Nov. 1868.]
We got home last night after delicious days spent at Matlock. I was so
renovated that my head was clearer, and I was more unconscious of my
body than at the best of times for many months. But it seemed suddenly
colder when we were in London, and old uneasy sensations are
revisiting us both to-day.
I wonder whether you will soon want to come to town, and will send me
word that you will come and take shelter with us for the night? The
bed is no softer and no broader; but will you not be tempted by a new
carpet and a new bit of matting for your bath?--perhaps there will
even be a new fender? If you want to shop, I will take you in the
brougham.
I think you will be just able to make out this note, written by a
sudden impulse on my knee over the fire.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 16th Nov. 1868.]
No oracle would dare to predict what will be our next migration. Don't
be surprised if we go to the borders of the White Sea, to escape the
fitful fast and loose, hot and cold, of the London climate.
We enjoyed our journey to the north. It was a great experience to me
to see the stupendous iron-works at Sheffield; and then, for a
variety, we went to the quiet and beauty of Matlock, and I recognized
all the spots I had carried in my memory for more than five-and-twenty
years. I drove through that region with my father when I was a young
grig--not very full of hope about my woman's future. I am one of those
perhaps exceptional people whose early, childish dreams were much less
happy than the real outcome of life.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 20th Nov. 1868.]
I think your birthday comes after mine; but I am determined to write
beforehand to prove to you that I bear you in my thoughts without any
external reminder.
I suppose we are both getting too old to care about being wished
_many_ happy returns of the day. We shall be content to wish each
other as many more years as can carry with them some joy and calm
satisfaction in the sense of living. But there is one definite
prospect for you which I may fairly hope for, as I do most
tenderly--the prospect that this time next year you will be looking
back on your achieved work as a good seed-sowing. Some sadness there
must always be in saying good-bye to a work which is done with love;
but there may--I trust there _will_--be a compensating good in feeling
that the thing you yearned to do is gone safely out of reach of
casualties that might have cut it short.
We have been to Sheffield at the seducing invitation of a friend, who
showed us the miraculous iron-works there; and afterwards we turned
aside to beautiful Matlock, where I found again the spots, the turns
of road, the rows of stone cottages, the rushing river Derwent, and
the Arkwright mills--among which I drove with my father when I was in
my teens. We had glorious weather, and I was quite regenerated by the
bracing air. Our friend Mr. Spencer is growing younger with the years.
He really looks brighter and more enjoying than he ever did before,
since he was in the really young, happy time of fresh discussion and
inquiry. His is a friendship which wears well, because of his
truthfulness. He always asks with sympathetic interest how you are
going on.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_Nov. 22._--The return of this St. Cecilia's Day finds me in better
health than has been usual with me in these last six months. But I am
not yet engaged in any work that makes a higher life for me--a life
that is young and grows, though in my other life I am getting old and
decaying. It is a day for resolves and determinations. I am meditating
the subject of Timoleon.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 30th Nov. 1868.]
I like to think of you painting the physiological charts, although
they tire your eyes a little; for you must be sure that the good of
such work is of a kind that goes deep into young lives. "Fearfully and
wonderfully made" are words quite unshaken by any theory as to the
making; and I think a great awe in the contemplation of man's delicate
structure, freighted with terrible destinies, is one of the most
important parts of education. A much-writing acquaintance of ours one
day expressed his alarm for "the masses" at the departure of a
religion which had _terror_ in it. Surely terror is provided for
sufficiently in this life of ours--if only the dread could be directed
towards the really dreadful.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 12th Dec. 1868.]
We have been having a little company, and are rejoicing to think that
our duties of this sort are done for the present. We like our studies
and our dual solitude too well to feel company desirable more than one
day a-week. I wish our affection may be with you as some little
cheering influence through the dark months. We hardly estimate enough
the difference of feeling that would come to us if we did not imagine
friendly souls scattered here and there in places that make the chief
part of the world so far as we have known it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 16th Dec. 1868.]
Tell Dr. Congreve that the "mass of positivism," in the shape of "The
Spanish Gypsy," is so rapidly finding acceptance with the public that
the second edition, being all sold, the third, just published, has
already been demanded to above 700. Do not think that I am becoming an
egotistical author. The news concerns the doctrine, not the writer.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 19th Dec. 1868.]
I am moved to congratulate you on writing against the ballot with such
admirably good sense--having just read your "slip" at the
breakfast-table. It has been a source of amazement to me that men
acquainted with practical life can believe in the suppression of
bribery by the ballot, as if bribery in all its Protean forms could
ever disappear by means of a single external arrangement. They might
as well say that our female vanity would disappear at an order that
women should wear felt hats and cloth dresses. It seems to me that you
have put the main unanswerable arguments against the ballot with
vigorous brevity.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 29th Dec. 1868.]
Thanks for letting me know about the meeting. I shall not be able to
join it bodily, but I am glad always to have the possibility of being
with you in thought. I have a twofold sympathy on the occasion, for I
cannot help entering specially into your own wifely anxieties, and I
shall be glad to be assured that Dr. Congreve has borne the excitement
without being afterwards conscious of an excessive strain.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1868.]
_Dec. 30._--I make to-day the last record that I shall enter of the
old year 1868. It has been as rich in blessings as any preceding year
of our double life, and I enjoy a more and more even cheerfulness and
continually increasing power of dwelling on the good that is given to
me and dismissing the thought of small evils. The chief event of the
year to us has been the publication and friendly reception by the
public of "The Spanish Gypsy." The greatest happiness (after our
growing love) which has sprung and flowed onward during the latter
part of the year is George's interest in his psychological inquiries.
I have, perhaps, gained a little higher ground and firmer footing in
some studies, notwithstanding the yearly loss of retentive power. We
have made some new friendships that cheer us with the sense of new
admiration of actual living beings whom we know in the flesh, and who
are kindly disposed towards us. And we have had no real trouble. I
wish we were not in a minority of our fellow-men! I desire no added
blessing for the coming year but this--that I may do some good,
lasting work, and make both my outward and inward habits less
imperfect--that is, more directly tending to the best uses of life.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 31st Dec. 1868.]
Many thanks for the check, which I received yesterday afternoon. Mr.
Lewes is eminently satisfied with the sales; and, indeed, it does
appear from authoritative testimony that the number sold is unusually
large even for what is called a successful poem.
The cheap edition of the novels is so exceptionally attractive in
print, paper, and binding, for 3_s._ 6_d._, that I cannot help
fretting a little at its not getting a more rapid sale. The fact
rather puzzles me, too, in presence of the various proofs that the
books really are liked. I suppose there is some mystery of reduced
prices accounting for the abundant presentation of certain works and
series on the bookstalls at the railways, and the absence of others,
else surely those pretty volumes would have a good chance of being
bought by the travellers whose taste shrinks from the diabolical
red-and-yellow-pictured series. I am sure you must often be in a state
of wonderment as to how the business of the world gets done so as not
to ruin two thirds of the people concerned in it; for, judging from
the silly propositions and requests sometimes made to me by
bald-headed, experienced men, there must be a very thin allowance of
wisdom to the majority of their transactions.
Mr. Lewes is attracted by the biographical studies of George the
Second's time; but last night, after he had done reading about
Berkeley, I heard him laughing over "Doubles and Quits." It is
agreeable to think that I have that bit of cheerful reading in store.
Our first snow fell yesterday, and melted immediately. This morning
the sun is warm on me as I write. The doctors say that the season has
been horribly unhealthy, and that they have been afraid to perform
some operations from the low state of vitality in the patients, due to
the atmospheric conditions. This looks like very wise writing, and
worthy of Molière's "Médecin."
Mr. Lewes joins me in sincere good wishes to Mr. William Blackwood, as
well as yourself, for the coming year--wishes for general happiness.
The chief, particular wish would be that we should all in common look
back next Christmas on something achieved in which we share each
other's satisfaction.
[Sidenote: Letter to Hon. Robert Lytton (now Lord Lytton). No date.
Probably in 1868.]
I am much obliged to you for mentioning, in your letter to Mr. Lewes,
the two cases of inaccuracy (I fear there may be more) which you
remembered in the "Spanish Gypsy." How I came to write Zincálo instead
of Zíncalo is an instance which may be added to many sadder examples
of that mental infirmity which makes our senses of little use to us in
the presence of a strong prepossession. As soon as I had conceived my
story with its gypsy element, I tried to learn all I could about the
names by which the gypsies called themselves, feeling that I should
occasionally need a musical name, remote from the vulgar English
associations which cling to "gypsy." I rejected Gitana, because I
found that the gypsies themselves held the name to be opprobrious; and
Zíncalo--which, with a fine capacity for being wrong, I at once got
into my head as Zincálo--seemed to be, both in sound and meaning, just
what I wanted. Among the books from which I made notes was "Pott, die
Zigeuner," etc.; and in these notes I find that I have copied the sign
of the tonic accent in Romanó, while in the very same sentence I have
not copied it in Zíncalo, though a renewed reference to Pott shows it
in the one word as well as the other. But "my eyes were held"--by a
demon prepossession--"so that I should not see it." Behold the
fallibility of the human brain, and especially of George Eliot's.
I have been questioned about my use of Andalus for Andalusia, but I
had a sufficient authority for that in the "Mohammedan Dynasties,"
translated by Gayangos.
It may interest you, who are familiar with Spanish literature, to know
that after the first sketch of my book was written I read Cervantes'
novel "La Gitanélla," where the hero turns gypsy for love. The novel
promises well in the earlier part, but falls into sad commonplace
towards the end. I have written my explanation partly to show how much
I value your kind help towards correcting my error, and partly to
prove that I was not careless, but simply stupid. For in authorship I
hold carelessness to be a mortal sin.
_SUMMARY._
JANUARY, 1868, TO DECEMBER, 1868.
Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Mr. Lewes's return from Bonn--First
visit to Cambridge--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Month's visit to
Torquay--Letter to Miss Hennell--Reading the "Iliad"--Letter
to John Blackwood--Title of "Spanish Gypsy"--Letter to Madame
Bodichon--Women's work--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--England and
Ireland--Translation of the "Politique"--Return to London
from Torquay--Letter to John Blackwood--Ending of "Spanish
Gypsy"--The poem finished--George Eliot's "Notes on the
Spanish Gypsy and Tragedy in general"--Suggestion of the poem
an Annunciation by Titian, at Venice--Motive--Hereditary
conditions--Gypsy race--Determination of conduct--Nature of
tragedy--Collision between the individual and the
general--Greek tragedy--Hereditary misfortunes--Growth of
human sympathy--Moral sanction is obedience to facts--Duty
what tends to human good--Letter to Mrs. Bray on the writing
of poetry instead of novels--Letter to F. Harrison presenting
copy of "Spanish Gypsy"--Inscription on MS. of "Spanish
Gypsy"--Letter to F. Harrison on suggestion of a poem--Six
weeks' journey to Baden, etc.--Letter to John Blackwood from
St. Märgen--Catholic worship--Return to London--Letters to
John Blackwood--_Pall Mall_ review of "Spanish Gypsy"--Saying
of Balzac--Letter to William
Blackwood--Versification--Reading Lucretius, Homer, Milton,
Warton, Marcus Aurelius, Dante, Comte, Guest, Maurice--Visit
to Dr. Clifford Allbut at Leeds--Visit to Newark--Letter to
Mrs. Congreve--Letters to John Blackwood--Second edition of
"Spanish Gypsy"--"Kinglake"--Criticisms on "Spanish
Gypsy"--Visit to the Congreves--Visit to Sheffield with Mr.
Benzon--Matlock--Letters to Madame Bodichon and Miss Hennell
on Sheffield journey--Herbert Spencer--Meditating subject of
Timoleon--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Physiological charts--Letter
to Madame Bodichon on influence of friends--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve--Positivism in "Spanish Gypsy"--Letter to Charles
Bray on vote by ballot--Retrospect of 1868--Letter to John
Blackwood--The cheap edition of novels--Letter to the Hon.
Robert Lytton--Pronunciation in "Spanish Gypsy"--Cervantes'
"La Gitanélla."
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Visit to Mr. W. G. Clark.
[5] Of Comte.
CHAPTER XVI.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_Jan. 1._--I have set myself many tasks for the year--I wonder how
many will be accomplished?--a novel called "Middlemarch," a long poem
on Timoleon, and several minor poems.
_Jan. 23._--Since I wrote last I have finished a little poem on old
Agatha. But the last week or two I have been so disturbed in health
that no work prospers. I have made a little way in constructing my new
tale; have been reading a little on philology; have finished the 24th
Book of the "Iliad," the 1st Book of the "Faery Queene," Clough's
poems, and a little about Etruscan things, in Mrs. Grey and Dennis.
Aloud to G. I have been reading some Italian, Ben Jonson's "Alchemist"
and "Volpone," and Bright's speeches, which I am still reading,
besides the first four cantos of "Don Juan." But the last two or three
days I have seemed to live under a leaden pressure--all movement,
mental or bodily, is grievous to me. In the evening read aloud
Bright's fourth speech on India, and a story in Italian. In the
_Spectator_ some interesting facts about loss of memory and "double
life." In the _Revue des Cours_, a lecture by Sir W. Thomson, of
Edinburgh, on the retardation of the earth's motion round its axis.
_Jan. 27._--The last two days I have been writing a rhymed poem on
Boccaccio's story of "Lisa." Aloud I have read Bright's speeches, and
"I Promessi Sposi." To myself I have read Mommsen's "Rome."
_Feb. 6._--We went to the third concert. Madame Schumann played finely
in Mendelssohn's quintet, and a trio of Beethoven's. As a solo she
played the sonata in D minor. In the evening I read aloud a short
speech of Bright's on Ireland, delivered twenty years ago, in which he
insists that nothing will be a remedy for the woes of that country
unless the Church Establishment be annulled: after the lapse of twenty
years the measure is going to be adopted. Then I read aloud a bit of
the "Promessi Sposi," and afterwards the _Spectator_, in which there
is a deservedly high appreciation of Lowell's poems.
_Feb. 14._--Finished the poem from Boccaccio. We had rather a numerous
gathering of friends to-day, and among the rest came Browning, who
talked and quoted admirably _à propos_ of versification. The Rector of
Lincoln thinks the French have the most perfect system of
versification in these modern times!
_Feb. 15._--I prepared and sent off "How Lisa Loved the King" to
Edinburgh.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 15th Feb. 1869.]
I have looked back to the verses in Browning's poem about Elisha, and
I find no mystery in them. The foregoing context for three pages
describes that function of genius which revivifies the past. Man, says
Browning (I am writing from recollection of his general meaning),
cannot create, but he can restore: the poet gives forth of his own
spirit, and reanimates the forms that lie breathless. His use of
Elisha's story is manifestly symbolical, as his mention of Faust
is--the illustration which he abandons the moment before to take up
that of the Hebrew seer. I presume you did not read the context
yourself, but only had the two concluding verses pointed out or quoted
to you by your friends. It is one of the afflictions of authorship to
know that the brains which should be used in understanding a book are
wasted in discussing the hastiest misconceptions about it; and I am
sure you will sympathize enough in this affliction to set any one
right, when you can, about this quotation from Browning.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_Feb. 20._--A glorious concert: Hallé, Joachim, and Piatti winding up
with Schubert's trio.
_Feb. 21._--Mr. Deutsch and Mrs. Pattison lunched with us--he in
farewell before going to the East. A rather pleasant gathering of
friends afterwards.
_Feb. 24._--I am reading about plants, and Helmholtz on music. A new
idea of a poem came to me yesterday.
_March 3._--We started on our fourth visit to Italy, viâ France and
the Cornice.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 4th May, 1869, from Paris.]
I found your letter at Florence on our arrival there (on the 23d); but
until now bodily ease and leisure enough to write to you have never
happened to me in the same moments. Our long journey since we left
home on the 3d March, seen from a point of view which, happily, no one
shares with me, has been a history of ailments. In shunning the
English March, we found one quite as disagreeable, without the
mitigation of home comforts; and though we went even as far as Naples
in search of warmth, we never found it until we settled in Rome, at
the beginning of April. Here we had many days of unbroken sunshine,
and enjoyed what we were never able to enjoy during our month's stay
in 1860--the many glorious views of the city and the mountains. The
chief novelty to us in our long route has been the sight of Assisi and
Ravenna; the rest has been a revisiting of scenes already in our
memories; and to most of them we have probably said our last
good-bye. Enough of us and our travels. The only remarkable thing
people can tell of their doings in these days is that they have stayed
at home.
The _Fortnightly_ lay uncut at Mr. Trollope's, and Mr. Lewes had
nothing more pressing to do than to cut it open at the reply to
Professor Huxley.[6] He presently came to me, and said it was
excellent. It delighted him the more because he had just before, at
Rome, alighted on the _Pall Mall_ account of the article, which
falsely represented it as entirely apologetic. At the first spare
moment I plunged into an easy-chair, and read, with thorough
satisfaction in the admirable temper and the force of the reply. We
intend to start for Calais this evening; and as the rain prevents us
from doing anything agreeable out of doors, I have nothing to hinder
me from sitting, with my knees up to my chin, and scribbling, now that
I am become a little sounder in head and in body generally than
beautiful Italy allowed me to be. As beautiful as ever--more
beautiful--it has looked to me on this last visit; and it is the fault
of my _physique_ if it did not agree with me. Pray offer my warmest
sympathy to Dr. Congreve in the anxieties of his difficult task. What
hard work it seems to go on living sometimes! Blessed are the dead.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_May 5._--We reached home after our nine weeks' absence. In that time
we have been through France to Marseilles, along the Cornice to
Spezia, then to Pisa, Florence, Naples, Rome, Assisi, Perugia,
Florence again, Ravenna, Bologna, Verona; across the Brenner Pass to
Munich; then to Paris _viâ_ Strasburg. In such a journey there was
necessarily much interest both in renewing old memories and recording
new; but I never had such continuous bad health in travelling as I
have had during these nine weeks. On our arrival at home I found a
delightful letter from Mrs. H. B. Stowe, whom I have never seen,
addressing me as her "dear friend."
It was during this journey that I, for the first time, saw my
future wife, at Rome. My eldest sister had married Mr. W. H.
Bullock (now Mr. W. H. Hall), of Six-Mile-Bottom,
Cambridgeshire, and they were on their wedding journey at
Rome when they happened to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lewes by chance
in the Pamfili Doria Gardens. They saw a good deal of one
another, and when I arrived, with my mother and another
sister, we went by invitation to call at the Hôtel Minerva,
where Mr. Lewes had found rooms on their first arrival in
Rome. I have a very vivid recollection of George Eliot
sitting on a sofa with my mother by her side, entirely
engrossed with her. Mr. Lewes entertained my sister and me on
the other side of the room. But I was very anxious to hear
also the conversation on the sofa, as I was better acquainted
with George Eliot's books than with any other literature. And
through the dimness of these fifteen years, and all that has
happened in them, 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." The next day Mr. and Mrs. Lewes went on
to Assisi and we to Naples, and we did not meet again till
the following August at Weybridge.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 8th May, 1869.]
I value very highly the warrant to call you friend which your letter
has given me. It lay awaiting me on our return, the other night, from
a nine weeks' absence in Italy, and it made me almost wish that you
could have a momentary vision of the discouragement--nay, paralyzing
despondency--in which many days of my writing life have been passed,
in order that you might fully understand the good I find in such
sympathy as yours--in such an assurance as you give me that my work
has been worth doing. But I will not dwell on any mental sickness of
mine. The best joy your words give me is the sense of that sweet,
generous feeling in you which dictated them, and I shall always be the
richer because you have in this way made me know you better. I must
tell you that my first glimpse of you as a woman came through a letter
of yours, and charmed me very much. The letter was addressed to Mrs.
Follen; and one morning when I called on her in London (how many years
ago![7]) she was kind enough to read it to me because it contained a
little history of your life, and a sketch of your domestic
circumstances. I remember thinking that it was very kind of you to
write that long letter in reply to the inquiries of one who was
personally unknown to you; and looking back with my present experience
I think it was still kinder than it then appeared. For at that time
you must have been much oppressed with the immediate results of your
fame. I remember, too, that you wrote of your husband as one who was
richer in Hebrew and Greek than in pounds or shillings; and as the
ardent scholar has always been a character of peculiar interest to me,
I have rarely had your image in my mind without the accompanying image
(more or less erroneous) of such a scholar by your side. I shall
welcome the fruit of his Goethe studies, whenever it comes. In the
meantime let me assure you that whoever else gave you that description
of my husband's "History of Philosophy"--namely, "that it was to solve
and settle all things"--he himself never saw it in that light. The
work has been greatly altered, as well as enlarged, in three
successive editions; and his mind is so far from being a captive to
his own written words that he is now engaged in physiological and
psychological researches which are leading him to issues at variance
in some important respects with the views expressed in some of his
published works. He is one of the few human beings I have known who
will often, in the heat of an argument, see, and straightway confess,
that he is in the wrong, instead of trying to shift his ground or use
any other device of vanity.
I have good hopes that your fears are groundless as to the obstacles
your new book may find here from its thorough American character. Most
readers who are likely to be really influenced by writing above the
common order will find that special aspect an added reason for
interest and study, and I dare say you have long seen, as I am
beginning to see with new clearness, that if a book which has any sort
of exquisiteness happens also to be a popular, widely circulated
book, its power over the social mind for any good is, after all, due
to its reception by a few appreciative natures, and is the slow result
of radiation from that narrow circle. I mean, that you can affect a
few souls, and that each of these in turn may affect a few more, but
that no exquisite book tells properly and directly on a multitude,
however largely it may be spread by type and paper. Witness the things
the multitude will say about it, if one is so unhappy as to be obliged
to hear their sayings. I do not write this cynically, but in pure
sadness and pity. Both travelling abroad, and staying at home among
our English sights and sports, one must continually feel how slowly
the centuries work towards the moral good of men. And that thought
lies very close to what you say as to your wonder or conjecture
concerning my religious point of view. I believe that religion, too,
has to be modified--"developed," according to the dominant phrase--and
that a religion more perfect than any yet prevalent must express less
care for personal consolation, and a more deeply-awing sense of
responsibility to man, springing from sympathy with that which of all
things is most certainly known to us, the difficulty of the human lot.
I do not find my temple in Pantheism, which, whatever might be its
value speculatively, could not yield a practical religion, since it is
an attempt to look at the universe from the outside of our relations
to it (that universe) as human beings. As healthy, sane human beings,
we must love and hate--love what is good for mankind, hate what is
evil for mankind. For years of my youth I dwelt in dreams of a
pantheistic sort, falsely supposing that I was enlarging my sympathy.
But I have travelled far away from that time. Letters are necessarily
narrow and fragmentary, and, when one writes on wide subjects, are
liable to create more misunderstanding than illumination. But I have
little anxiety of that kind in writing to you, dear friend and
fellow-laborer, for you have had longer experience than I as a writer,
and fuller experience as a woman, since you have borne children and
known the mother's history from the beginning. I trust your quick and
long-taught mind as an interpreter little liable to mistake me.
When you say, "We live in an orange grove and are planting many more,"
and when I think that you must have abundant family love to cheer you,
it seems to me that you must have a paradise about you. But no list of
circumstances will make a paradise. Nevertheless, I must believe that
the joyous, tender humor of your books clings about your more
immediate life, and makes some of that sunshine for yourself which you
have given to us.
I see the advertisement of "Old Town Folk," and shall eagerly expect
it.
That and every other new link between us will be reverentially valued.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_May 8_ (Saturday).--Poor Thornie arrived from Natal, sadly wasted by
suffering.
_May 24._--Sold "Agatha" to Fields & Osgood, for the _Atlantic
Monthly_, for £300.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 26th May, 1869.]
That "disturbance" in my favorite work, with which you and Dr.
Congreve are good enough to sympathize, is unhappily greater now than
it has been for years before. Our poor Thornie came back to us about
seventeen days ago. We can never rejoice enough that we were already
at home, seeing that we held it impossible for him to set out on his
voyage until at least six weeks later than he did. Since he arrived
our lives have been chiefly absorbed by cares for him; and though we
now have a nurse to attend on him constantly, we spend several hours
of the day by his side. There is joy in the midst of our trouble, from
the tenderness towards the sufferer being altogether unchecked by
anything unlovable in him. Thornie's disposition seems to have become
sweeter than ever with the added six years; and there is nothing that
we discern in his character or habits to cause us grief. Enough of our
troubles. I gather from your welcome letter, received this morning,
that there is a good deal of enjoyment for you in your temporary home,
in spite of bad weather and faceache, which I hope will have passed
away when you read this.
Mr. Beesley[8] wrote to me to tell me of his engagement, and on Sunday
we had the pleasure of shaking him by the hand and seeing him look
very happy. His is one of a group of prospective marriages which we
have had announced to us since we came home. Besides Mr. Harrison's,
there is Dr. Allbut's, our charming friend at Leeds. I told Mr.
Beesley that I thought myself magnanimous in really rejoicing at the
engagements of men friends, because, of course, they will be
comparatively indifferent to their old intimates.
Dear Madame Bodichon is a precious help to us. She comes twice a week
to sit with Thornie, and she is wonderfully clever in talking to young
people. One finds out those who have real practical sympathy in times
of trouble.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 9th June, 1869.]
Your letter has fulfilled two wishes of mine. It shows me that you
keep me in your kind thoughts, and that you are very happy. I had been
told by our friends, the Nortons, of your engagement, but I knew
nothing more than that bare fact, and your letter gives me more of a
picture. A very pretty picture--for I like to think of your love
having grown imperceptibly along with sweet family affections. I do
heartily share in your happiness, for however space and time may keep
us asunder, you will never to my mind be lost in the distance, but
will hold a place of marked and valued interest quite apart from those
more public hopes about you which I shall not cease to cherish.
Both Mr. Lewes and I shall be delighted to see you any evening. I
imagine that when you are obliged to stay in town the evening will be
the easiest time for you to get out to us. Any time after eight you
will find us thoroughly glad to shake hands with you. Do come when you
can.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_July 3._--Finished my reading in Lucretius. Reading Victor Hugo's
"L'homme qui rit;" also the Frau von Hillern's novel, "Ein Arzt der
Seele." This week G. and I have been to Sevenoaks, but were driven
home again by the cold winds and cloudy skies. "Sonnets on
Childhood"--five--finished.
_July 10._--I wrote to Mrs. Stowe, in answer to a second letter of
hers, accompanied by one from her husband.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 11th July, 1869.]
I hoped before this to have seen our friend, Mrs. Fields, on her
return from Scotland, and to have begged her to send you word of a
domestic affliction which has prevented me from writing to you since I
received your and your husband's valued letters. Immediately on our
return from Italy, Mr. Lewes's second son, a fine young man of
five-and-twenty, returned to us from Natal, wasted by suffering from
a long-standing spinal injury. This was on the 8th of May, and since
then we have both been absorbed in our duties to this poor child, and
have felt our own health and nervous energy insufficient for our
needful activity of body and mind. He is at present no better, and we
look forward to a long trial. Nothing but a trouble so great as this
would have prevented me from writing again to you, not only to thank
you and Professor Stowe for your letters, but also to tell you that I
have received and read "Old Town Folks." I think few of your many
readers can have felt more interest than I have felt in that picture
of an elder generation; for my interest in it has a double root--one,
in my own love for our old-fashioned provincial life, which had its
affinities with a contemporary life, even all across the Atlantic, and
of which I have gathered glimpses in different phases, from my father
and mother, with their relations; the other is, my experimental
acquaintance with some shades of Calvinistic orthodoxy. I think your
way of presenting the religious convictions which are not your own,
except by indirect fellowship, is a triumph of insight and true
tolerance. A thorough comprehension of the mixed moral influence shed
on society by dogmatic systems is rare even among writers, and one
misses it altogether in English drawing-room talk. I thank you
sincerely for the gift (in every sense) of this book, which, I can
see, has been a labor of love.
Both Mr. Lewes and I are deeply interested in the indications which
the Professor gives of his peculiar psychological experience, and we
should feel it a great privilege to learn much more of it from his
lips. It is a rare thing to have such an opportunity of studying
exceptional experience in the testimony of a truthful and in every
way distinguished mind. He will, I am sure, accept the brief thanks
which I can give in this letter, for all that he has generously
written to me. He says, "I have had no connection with any of the
modern movements, except as father confessor;" and I can well believe
that he must be peculiarly sensitive to the repulsive aspects which
those movements present. Your view as to the cause of that "great wave
of spiritualism" which is rushing over America--namely, that it is a
sort of Rachel-cry of bereavement towards the invisible existence of
the loved ones, is deeply affecting. But so far as "spiritualism" (by
which I mean, of course, spirit-communication, by rapping, guidance of
the pencil, etc.) has come within reach of my judgment on our side of
the water, it has appeared to me either as degrading folly, imbecile
in the estimate of evidence, or else as impudent imposture. So far as
my observation and experience have hitherto gone, it has even seemed
to me an impiety to withdraw from the more assured methods of studying
the open secret of the universe any large amount of attention to
alleged manifestations which are so defiled by low adventurers and
their palpable trickeries, so hopelessly involved in all the
doubtfulness of individual testimonies as to phenomena witnessed,
which testimonies are no more true objectively because they are honest
subjectively, than the Ptolemaic system is true because it seemed to
Tycho Brahé a better explanation of the heavenly movements than the
Copernican. This is a brief statement of my position on the subject,
which your letter shows me to have an aspect much more compulsory on
serious attention in America than I can perceive it to have in
England. I should not be as simply truthful as my deep respect for you
demands, if I did not tell you exactly what is my mental attitude in
relation to the phenomena in question. But whatever you print on the
subject and will send me I shall read with attention, and the idea you
give me of the hold which spiritualism has gained on the public mind
in the United States is already a fact of historic importance.
Forgive me, dear friend, if I write in the scantiest manner,
unworthily responding to letters which have touched me profoundly. You
have known so much of life, both in its more external trials and in
the peculiar struggles of a nature which is made twofold in its
demands by the yearnings of the author as well as of the woman, that I
can count on your indulgence and power of understanding my present
inability to correspond by letter.
May I add my kind remembrances to your daughter to the high regard
which I offer to your husband?
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_July 14._--Returned from Hatfield, after two days' stay.
_July 15._--Began Nisard's "History of French
Literature"--Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart, Christine de Pisan,
Philippe de Comines, Villers.
_July 16._--Read the articles Phoenicia and Carthage in "Ancient
Geography." Looked into Jewitt's "Universal History" again for
Carthaginian religion. Looked into Sismondi's "Littérature du Midi"
for Roman de la Rose; and ran through the first chapter about the
formation of the Romance languages. Read about _Thallogens_ and
_Acrogens_ in the "Vegetable World." Read Drayton's "Nymphidia"--a
charming poem--a few pages of his "Polyolbion." Re-read Grote,
v.-vii., on Sicilian affairs, down to rise of Dionysius.
_July 18._--Miss Nannie Smith came, after a long absence from England;
Professor Masson and Dr. Bastian, Madame Bodichon, and Dr. Payne. Some
conversation about Saint-Simonism, _à propos_ of the meeting on
Woman's Suffrage the day before, M. Arles Dufour being uneasy because
Mill did not in his speech recognize what women owed to
Saint-Simonism.
_July 19._--Writing an introduction to "Middlemarch." I have just
re-read the 15th Idyll of Theocritus, and have written three more
sonnets. My head uneasy. We went in the afternoon to the old
water-colors, finding that the exhibition was to close at the end of
the week. Burne-Jones's Circe and St. George affected me, by their
colors, more than any of the other pictures--they are poems. In the
evening read Nisard on Rabelais and Marot.
_July 22._--Read Reybaud's book on "Les Réformateurs Modernes." In the
afternoon Mrs. P. Taylor came and saw Thornie, who has been more
uneasy this week, and unwilling to move or come out on the lawn.
_July 23._--Read Theocritus, Id. 16. Meditated characters for
"Middlemarch." Mrs. F. Malleson came.
_July 24._--Still not quite well and clear-headed, so that little
progress is made. I read aloud Fourier and Owen, and thought of
writing something about Utopists.
_July 25._--Read Plato's "Republic" in various parts. After lunch Miss
Nannie Smith, Miss Blythe, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Deutsch. In the evening
I read Nisard, and Littré on Comte.
_Aug. 1._--Since last Sunday I have had an uncomfortable week from
mental and bodily disturbance. I have finished eleven sonnets on
"Brother and Sister," read Littré, Nisard, part of 22d Idyll of
Theocritus, Sainte-Beuve, aloud to G. two evenings. Monday evening
looked through Dickson's "Fallacies of the Faculty." On Tuesday
afternoon we went to the British Museum to see a new bronze, and I was
enchanted with some fragments of glass in the Slade collection, with
dyes of sunset in them. Yesterday, sitting in Thornie's room, I read
through all Shakespeare's "Sonnets." Poor Thornie has had a miserably
unsatisfactory week, making no progress. After lunch came Miss N.
Smith and Miss Blythe, Mr. Burton, Mr. and Mrs. Burne-Jones, and Mr.
Sanderson.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 1st Aug. 1869.]
My last words to you might appear to imply something laughably opposed
to my real meaning. "Think of me only as an example" meant--an example
to be avoided. It was an allusion in my mind to the servant-girl who,
being arrested for theft, said to her fellow-servant, "Take example by
me, Sally." With the usual caprice of language, we say. "Make an
example of her," in that sense of holding up for a warning, which the
poor girl and I intended.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_Aug. 2._--Began "Middlemarch" (the Vincy and Featherstone parts).
_Aug. 5._--Thornie during the last two or three days gives much more
hopeful signs: has been much more lively, with more regular appetite
and quieter nights. This morning I finished the first chapter of
"Middlemarch." I am reading Renouard's "History of Medicine."
_Aug. 31._--We went to Weybridge, walked on St. George's Hill, and
lunched with Mrs. Cross and her family.
This visit to Weybridge is a very memorable one to me,
because there my own first intimacy with George Eliot began,
and the bonds with my family were knitted very much closer.
Mr. and Mrs. Bullock were staying with us; and my sister, who
had some gift for music, had set one or two of the songs from
the "Spanish Gypsy." She sang one of them--"On through the
woods, the pillared pines"--and it affected George Eliot
deeply. She moved quickly to the piano, and kissed Mrs.
Bullock very warmly, in her tears. Mr. and Mrs. Lewes were in
deep trouble owing to the illness of Thornton Lewes; we were
also in much anxiety as to the approaching confinement of my
sister with her first child; and I was on the eve of
departure for America. Sympathetic feelings were strong
enough to overleap the barrier (often hard to pass) which
separates acquaintanceship from friendship. A day did the
work of years. Our visitors had come to the house as
acquaintances, they left it as lifelong friends. And the
sequel of that day greatly intensified the intimacy. For
within a month my sister had died in childbirth, and her
death called forth one of the most beautiful of George
Eliot's letters. A month later Thornton Lewes died.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_Sept. 1._--I meditated characters and conditions for "Middlemarch,"
which stands still in the beginning of chapter iii.
_Sept. 2._--We spent the morning in Hatfield Park, arriving at home
again at half-past three.
_Sept. 10._--I have achieved little during the last week, except
reading on medical subjects--Encyclopædia about the "Medical
Colleges," "Cullen's Life," Russell's "Heroes of Medicine," etc. I
have also read Aristophanes' "Ecclesiazusoe," and "Macbeth."
_Sept. 11._--I do not feel very confident that I can make anything
satisfactory of "Middlemarch." I have need to remember that other
things which have been accomplished by me were begun under the same
cloud. G. has been reading "Romola" again, and expresses profound
admiration. This is encouraging.
_Sept. 15._--George and I went to Sevenoaks for a couple of nights,
and had some delicious walks.
_Sept. 21._--Finished studying again Bekker's "Charikles." I am
reading Mandeville's Travels. As to my work, _im Stiche gerathen_.
Mrs. Congreve and Miss Bury came; and I asked Mrs. Congreve to get me
some information about provincial hospitals, which is necessary to my
imagining the conditions of my hero.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 21st Sept. 1869.]
As to the Byron subject, nothing can outweigh to my mind the heavy
social injury of familiarizing young minds with the desecration of
family ties. The discussion of the subject in newspapers, periodicals,
and pamphlets is simply odious to me, and I think it a pestilence
likely to leave very ugly marks. One trembles to think how easily that
moral wealth may be lost which it has been the work of ages to produce
in the refinement and differencing of the affectionate relations. As
to the high-flown stuff which is being reproduced about Byron and his
poetry, I am utterly out of sympathy with it. He seems to me the most
_vulgar-minded_ genius that ever produced a great effect in
literature.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1869.]
_Sept. 22._--We went down to Watford for a change.
_Sept. 24._--Returned home this morning because of the unpromising
weather. It is worth while to record my great depression of spirits,
that I may remember one more resurrection from the pit of melancholy.
And yet what love is given to me! What abundance of good I possess!
All my circumstances are blessed; and the defect is only in my own
organism. Courage and effort!
_Oct. 5._--Ever since the 28th I have been good for little, ailing in
body and disabled in mind. On Sunday an interesting Russian pair came
to see us--M. and Mme. Kovilevsky: she, a pretty creature, with
charming modest voice and speech, who is studying mathematics (by
allowance, through the aid of Kirchhoff) at Heidelberg; he, amiable
and intelligent, studying the concrete sciences apparently--especially
geology; and about to go to Vienna for six months for this purpose,
leaving his wife at Heidelberg!
I have begun a long-meditated poem, "The Legend of Jubal," but have
not written more than twenty or thirty verses.
_Oct. 13._--Yesterday Mr. W. G. Clark of Cambridge came to see us, and
told of his intention to give up his oratorship and renounce his
connection with the Church.
I have read rapidly through Max Müller's "History of Sanskrit
Literature," and am now reading Lecky's "History of Morals." I have
also finished Herbert Spencer's last number of his "Psychology." My
head has been sadly feeble, and my whole body ailing of late. I have
written about one hundred verses of my poem. Poor Thornie seems to us
in a state of growing weakness.
_Oct. 19._--This evening at half-past six our dear Thornie died. He
went quite peacefully. For three days he was not more than fitfully
and imperfectly conscious of the things around him. He went to Natal
on the 17th October, 1863, and came back to us ill on the 8th May,
1869. Through the six months of his illness his frank, impulsive mind
disclosed no trace of evil feeling. He was a sweet-natured boy--still
a boy, though he had lived for twenty-five years and a half. On the
9th of August he had an attack of paraplegia, and although he
partially recovered from it, it made a marked change in him. After
that he lost a great deal of his vivacity, but he suffered less pain.
This death seems to me the beginning of our own.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 15th Dec. 1869.]
The day after our dear boy's funeral we went into the quietest and
most beautiful part of Surrey, four miles and a half from any railway
station. I was very much shaken in mind and body, and nothing but the
deep calm of fields and woods would have had a beneficent effect on
me. We both of us felt, more than ever before, the blessedness of
being in the country, and we are come back much restored. It will
interest you, I think, to know that a friend of ours, Mr. W. G. Clark,
the public orator at Cambridge, laid down his oratorship as a
preparatory step to writing a letter to his bishop renouncing, or,
rather, claiming to be free from, his clerical status, because he no
longer believes what it presupposes him to believe. Two other men whom
we know are about to renounce Cambridge fellowships on the same
ground.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 31st Dec. 1869.]
We shall be delighted to have you on Monday. I hope you will get your
business done early enough to be by a good fire in our drawing-room
before lunch. Mr. Doyle is coming to dine with us, but you will not
mind that. He is a dear man, a good Catholic, full of varied
sympathies and picturesque knowledge.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 15th Jan. 1870.]
I am moved to write to you rather by the inclination to remind you of
me than by the sense of having anything to say. On reading "The
Positivist Problem"[9] a second time, I gained a stronger impression
of its general value, and I also felt less jarred by the more personal
part at the close. Mr. Lewes would tell you that I have an
unreasonable aversion to personal statements, and when I come to like
them it is usually by a hard process of _con_-version. But my second
reading gave me a new and very strong sense that the last two or three
pages have the air of an appendix, added at some distance of time from
the original writing of the article. Some more thoroughly explanatory
account of your non-adhesion seems requisite as a nexus--since the
statement of your non-adhesion had to be mentioned after an argument
for the system against the outer Gentile world. However, it is more
important for me to say that I felt the thorough justice of your
words, when, in conversation with me, you said, "I don't see why there
should be any mystification; having come to a resolution after much
inward debate, it is better to state the resolution." Something like
that you said, and I give a hearty "Amen," praying that I may not be
too apt myself to prefer the haze to the clearness. But the fact is, I
shrink from decided "deliverances" on momentous subjects from the
dread of coming to swear by my own "deliverances," and sinking into an
insistent echo of myself. That is a horrible destiny--and one cannot
help seeing that many of the most powerful men fall into it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 16th Mch. 1870.]
Cara has told me about your republication of the "Inquiry," and I have
a longing to write--not intrusively, I hope--just to say "thank you"
for the good it does me to know of your being engaged in that act of
piety to your brother's memory. I delight in the act itself, and in
the satisfaction which I know you have in performing it. When I
remember my own obligation to the book, I must believe that among the
many new readers a cheap edition will reach there must be minds to
whom it will bring welcome light in studying the New Testament--sober,
serious help towards a conception of the past, instead of stage-lights
and make-ups. And this value is, I think, independent of the opinions
that might be held as to the different degrees of success in the
construction of probabilities or in particular interpretations.
Throughout there is the presence of grave sincerity. I would gladly
have a word or two directly from yourself when you can scribble a note
without feeling me a bore for wanting it. People who write many
letters without being forced to do so are fathomless wonders to me,
but you have a special faculty for writing such letters as one cares
to read, so it is a pity that the accomplishment should lie quite
unused. I wonder if you have read Emerson's new essays. I like them
very much.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 3d April, 1870.]
We shall leave Berlin on Tuesday, so that I must ask you to send me
the much-desired news of you to Vienna, addressed to the Hon. Robert
Lytton, British Embassy. We do not yet know the name of the hotel
where rooms have been taken for us. Our journey has not been
unfortunate hitherto. The weather has been cold and cheerless, but we
expected this, and on the 1st of April the sun began to shine. As for
my _Wenigkeit_, it has never known a day of real bodily comfort since
we got to Berlin: headache, sore throat, and _Schnupfen_ have been
alternately my companions, and have made my enjoyment very languid.
But think of this as all past when you get my letter; for this
morning I have a clearer head, the sun is shining, and the better time
seems to be come for me. Mr. Lewes has had a good deal of satisfaction
in his visits to laboratories and to the _Charité_, where he is just
now gone for the third time to see more varieties of mad people, and
hear more about Psychiatrie from Dr. Westphal, a quiet, unpretending
little man, who seems to have been delighted with George's sympathetic
interest in this (to me) hideous branch of practice. I speak with all
reverence: the world can't do without hideous studies.
People have been very kind to us, and have overwhelmed us with
attentions, but we have felt a little weary in the midst of our
gratitude, and since my cold has become worse we have been obliged to
cut off further invitations.
We have seen many and various men and women, but except Mommsen,
Bunsen, and Du Bois Reymond, hardly any whose names would be known to
you. If I had been in good health I should probably have continued to
be more amused than tired of sitting on a sofa and having one person
after another brought up to bow to me, and pay me the same compliment.
Even as it was, I felt my heart go out to some good women who seemed
really to have an affectionate feeling towards me for the sake of my
books. But the sick animal longs for quiet and darkness.
The other night, at Dr. Westphal's, I saw a young English lady
marvellously like Emily in face, figure, and voice. I made advances to
her on the strength of that external resemblance, and found it carried
out in the quickness of her remarks. But new gentlemen to be introduced
soon divided us. Another elegant, pretty woman there was old Boeckh's
daughter. One enters on all subjects by turns in these evening
parties, which are something like reading the Conversations-Lexicon in
a nightmare. Among lighter entertainments we have been four times to
the opera, being tempted at the very beginning of our stay by Gluck,
Mozart, and an opportunity of hearing Tannhäuser for the second time.
Also we have enjoyed some fine orchestral concerts, which are to be had
for sixpence! Berlin has been growing very fast since our former stay
here, and luxury in all forms has increased so much that one only here
and there gets a glimpse of the old-fashioned German housekeeping. But
though later hours are becoming fashionable, the members of the
Reichstag who have other business than politics complain of having to
begin their sitting at eleven, ending, instead of beginning, at four,
when the solid day is almost gone. We went to the Reichstag one
morning, and were so fortunate as to hear Bismarck speak. But the
question was one of currency, and his speech was merely a brief
winding-up.
Now I shall think that I have earned a letter telling me all about
you. May there be nothing but good to tell of! Pray give my best love
to Emily, and my earnest wishes to Dr. Congreve, that he may have
satisfaction in new work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 18th May, 1870.]
I gladly and gratefully keep the portrait.[10] For my own part, I
should have said, without hesitation, "Prefix it to the 'Inquiry.'"
One must not be unreasonable about portraits. How can a thing which is
always the same be an adequate representation of a living being who is
always varying--especially of a living being who is sensitive, bright,
many-sided, as your brother was? But I think the impression which this
portrait gives excites interest. I am often sorry for people who lose
half their possible good in the world by being more alive to
deficiencies than to positive merits.
I like to know that you have felt in common with me while you read
"Jubal." Curiously enough, Mr. Lewes, when I first read it to him,
made just the remark you make about the scene of Jubal coming with the
lyre. We laughed at Mr. Bray's sharp criticism. Tell him it is not the
fashion for authors ever to be in the wrong. They have always
justifying reasons. But also it is the fashion for critics to know
everything, so that the authors don't think it needful to tell their
reasons.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1870.]
_May 20._--I am fond of my little old book in which I have recorded so
many changes, and shall take to writing in it again. It will perhaps
last me all through the life that is left to me. Since I wrote in it
last, the day after Thornie's death, the chief epochs have been our
stay at Limpsfield, in Surrey, till near the beginning of December; my
writing of "Jubal," which I finished on the 13th of January; the
publication of the poem in the May number of _Macmillan's Magazine_;
and our journey to Berlin and Vienna, from which we returned on the
6th of this month, after an absence of eight weeks. This is a
fortnight ago, and little has been done by me in the interim. My
health is in an uncomfortable state, and I seem to be all the weaker
for the continual depression produced by cold and sore throat, which
stretched itself all through our long journey. These small bodily
grievances make life less desirable to me, though every one of my best
blessings--my one perfect love, and the sympathy shown towards me for
the sake of my works, and the personal regard of a few friends--have
become much intensified in these latter days. I am not hopeful about
future work. I am languid, and my novel languishes too. But to-morrow
may be better than to-day.
_May 25._--We started for Oxford, where we were to stay with the
Rector of Lincoln and his wife. After luncheon G. and I walked alone
through the town, which, on this first view, was rather disappointing
to me. Presently we turned through Christ Church into the meadows, and
walked along by the river. This was beautiful to my heart's content.
The buttercups and hawthorns were in their glory, the chestnuts still
in sufficiently untarnished bloom, and the grand elms made a border
towards the town. After tea we went with Mrs. Pattison and the rector
to the croquet-ground near the Museum. On our way we saw Sir Benjamin
Brodie, and on the ground Professor Rawlinson, the "narrow-headed
man;" Mrs. Thursfield and her son, who is a Fellow (I think, of
Corpus); Miss Arnold, daughter of Mr. Thomas Arnold, and Professor
Phillips, the geologist. At supper we had Mr. Bywater and Miss Arnold,
and in chat with them the evening was passed.
_May 26._--G. and I went to the Museum, and had an interesting morning
with Dr. Rolleston, who dissected a brain for me. After lunch we went
again to the Museum, and spent the afternoon with Sir Benjamin Brodie,
seeing various objects in his laboratories; among others, the method
by which weighing has been superseded in delicate matters by
_measuring_ in a graduated glass tube. Afterwards Mrs. Pattison took
me a drive in her little pony carriage round by their country refuge,
the Firs, Haddington, and by Littlemore, where I saw J. H. Newman's
little conventual dwelling. Returning, we had a fine view of the
Oxford towers. To supper came Sir Benjamin and Lady Brodie.
_May 27._--In the morning we walked to see the two Martyrs' Memorial,
and then to Sir Benjamin Brodie's pretty place near the river and
bridge. Close by their grounds is the original ford whence the place
took its name. The Miss Gaskells were staying with them, and, after
chatting some time, we two walked with Sir Benjamin to New College,
where we saw the gardens surrounded by the old city wall; the chapel
where William of Wykeham's crosier is kept; and the cloisters, which
are fine, but gloomy, and less beautiful than those of Magdalen, which
we saw in our walk on Thursday before going to the Museum. After lunch
we went to the Bodleian, and then to the Sheldonian Theatre, where
there was a meeting _à propos_ of Palestine Exploration. Captain
Warren, conductor of the Exploration at Jerusalem, read a paper, and
then Mr. Deutsch gave an account of the interpretation, as hitherto
arrived at, of the Moabite Stone. I saw squeezes of this stone for the
first time, with photographs taken from the squeezes. After tea Mrs.
Thursfield kindly took us to see a boat-race. We saw it from the Oriel
barge, under the escort of Mr. Crichton, Fellow of Merton, who, on our
return, took us through the lovely gardens of his college. At supper
were Mr. Jowett, Professor Henry Smith, and Miss Smith, his sister,
Mr. Fowler, author of "Deductive Logic," etc.
_May 28._--After a walk to St. John's College we started by the train
for London, and arrived at home about two o'clock.
_May 29._--Mr. Spencer, Mrs. Burne-Jones, and Mr. Crompton came. I
read aloud No. 3 of "Edwin Drood."
_May 30._--We went to see the autotypes of Michael Angelo's frescoes,
at 36 Rathbone Place. I began Grove on the "Correlation of the
Physical Forces"--needing to read it again--with new interest, after
the lapse of years.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 13th June, 1870.]
Dr. Reynolds advises Mr. Lewes to leave London again, and go to the
bracing air of the Yorkshire coast. I said that we should be here till
the beginning of August, but the internal order proposes and the
external order disposes--if we are to be so priggish as to alter all
our old proverbs into agreement with new formulas! Dickens's death
came as a great shock to us. He lunched with us just before we went
abroad, and was telling us a story of President Lincoln having told
the Council, on the day he was shot, that something remarkable would
happen, because he had just dreamt, for the third time, a dream which
twice before had preceded events momentous to the nation. The dream
was, that he was in a boat on a great river, all alone, and he ended
with the words, "I drift--I drift--I drift." Dickens told this very
finely. I thought him looking dreadfully shattered then. It is
probable that he never recovered from the effect of the terrible
railway accident.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 23d June, 1870, from Cromer.]
We have been driven away from home again by the state of Mr. Lewes's
health. Dr. Reynolds recommended the Yorkshire coast; but we wanted to
know Cromer, and so we came here first, for the sake of variety. To me
the most desirable thing just now seems to be to have one home, and
stay there till death comes to take me away. I get more and more
disinclined to the perpetual makeshifts of a migratory life, and care
more and more for the order and habitual objects of home. However,
there are many in the world whose whole existence is a makeshift, and
perhaps the formula which would fit the largest number of lives is "a
doing without, more or less patiently." The air just now is not very
invigorating anywhere, I imagine, and one begins to be very anxious
about the nation generally, on account of the threatening drought.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Robert Lytton (now Lady Lytton),
8th July, 1870, from Harrogate.]
I did not like to write to you[11] until Mr. Lytton sent word that I
might do so, because I had not the intimate knowledge that would have
enabled me to measure your trouble; and one dreads, of all things, to
speak or write a wrong or unseasonable word when words are the only
signs of interest and sympathy that one has to give. I know now, from
what your dear husband has told us, that your loss is very keenly felt
by you, that it has first made you acquainted with acute grief, and
this makes me think of you very much. For learning to love any one is
like an increase of property--it increases care, and brings many new
fears lest precious things should come to harm. I find myself often
thinking of you with that sort of proprietor's anxiety, wanting you to
have gentle weather all through your life, so that your face may never
look worn and storm-beaten, and wanting your husband to be and do the
very best, lest anything short of that should be disappointment to
you. At present the thought of you is all the more with me because
your trouble has been brought by death; and for nearly a year death
seems to me my most intimate daily companion. I mingle the thought of
it with every other, not sadly, but as one mingles the thought of some
one who is nearest in love and duty with all one's motives. I try to
delight in the sunshine that will be when I shall never see it any
more. And I think it is possible for this sort of impersonal life to
attain great intensity--possible for us to gain much more independence
than is usually believed of the small bundle of facts that make our
own personality. I don't know why I should say this to you, except
that my pen is chatting as my tongue would if you were here. We women
are always in danger of living too exclusively in the affections, and
though our affections are, perhaps, the best gifts we have, we ought
also to have our share of the more independent life--some joy in
things for their own sake. It is piteous to see the helplessness of
some sweet women when their affections are disappointed; because all
their teaching has been that they can only delight in study of any
kind for the sake of a personal love. They have never contemplated an
independent delight in ideas as an experience which they could confess
without being laughed at. Yet surely women need this sort of defence
against passionate affliction even more than men. Just under the
pressure of grief, I do not believe there is any consolation. The word
seems to me to be drapery for falsities. Sorrow must be sorrow, ill
must be ill, till duty and love towards all who remain recover their
rightful predominance. Your life is so full of those claims that you
will not have time for brooding over the unchangeable. Do not spend
any of your valuable time now in writing to me, but be satisfied with
sending me news of you through Mr. Lytton when he has occasion to
write to Mr. Lewes.
I have lately finished reading aloud Mendelssohn's "Letters," which we
had often resolved and failed to read before. They have been quite
cheering to us from the sense they give of communion with an eminently
pure, refined nature, with the most rigorous conscience in art. In
the evening we have always a concert to listen to--a concert of modest
pretensions, but well conducted enough to be agreeable.
I hope this letter of chit-chat will not reach you at a wrong moment.
In any case, forgive all mistakes on the part of one who is always
yours sincerely and affectionately.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1870.]
_Aug. 4._--Two months have been spent since the last record! Their
result is not rich, for we have been sent wandering again by G.'s want
of health. On the 15th June we went to Cromer, on the 30th to
Harrogate, and on the 18th July to Whitby, where Mrs. Burne-Jones also
arrived on the same day. On Monday, August 1, we came home again for a
week only, having arranged to go to Limpsfield next Monday. To-day,
under much depression, I begin a little dramatic poem,[12] the subject
of which engaged my interest at Harrogate.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 12th Aug. 1870.]
We, too, you see, have come back to a well-tried refuge--the same
place that soothed us in our troubles last October--and we especially
delight in this deep country after the fuss which belongs even to
quiet watering-places, such as Cromer, Harrogate, and Whitby, which
are, after all, "alleys where the gentle folks live." We are excited,
even among the still woods and fields, by the vicissitudes of the war,
and chiefly concerned because we cannot succeed in getting the day's
_Times_. We have entered into the period which will be marked in
future historical charts as "The period of German ascendency." But how
saddening to think of the iniquities that the great harvest-moon is
looking down on! I am less grieved for the bloodshed than for the
hateful trust in lies which is continually disclosed. Meanwhile
Jowett's "Translation of Plato" is being prepared for publication, and
he has kindly sent us the sheets of one volume. So I pass from
discussions of French lying and the Nemesis that awaits it to
discussions about rhetorical lying at Athens in the fourth century
before Christ. The translations and introductions to the "Dialogues"
seem to be charmingly done.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 25th Aug. 1870.]
We shall return to town on Monday, various small reasons concurring to
make us resolve on quitting this earthly paradise. I am very sorry for
the sufferings of the French nation; but I think these sufferings are
better for the moral welfare of the people than victory would have
been. The war has been drawn down on them by an iniquitous government;
but in a great proportion of the French people there has been
nourished a wicked glorification of selfish pride, which, like all
other conceit, is a sort of stupidity, excluding any true conception
of what lies outside their own vain wishes. The Germans, it seems,
were expected to stand like toy-soldiers for the French to knock them
down. It is quite true that the war is in some respects the conflict
of two differing forms of civilization. But whatever charm we may see
in the southern Latin races, this ought not to blind us to the great
contributions which the German energies have made in all sorts of ways
to the common treasure of mankind. And who that has any spirit of
justice can help sympathizing with them in their grand repulse of the
French project to invade and divide them? If I were a Frenchwoman,
much as I might wail over French sufferings, I cannot help believing
that I should detest the French talk about the "Prussians." They
wanted to throttle the electric eel for their own purposes.
But I imagine that you and the doctor would not find us in much
disagreement with you in these matters. One thing that is pleasant to
think of is the effort made everywhere to help the wounded.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1870.]
_Oct. 27._--On Monday the 8th August we went to our favorite Surrey
retreat--Limpsfield--and enjoyed three weeks there reading and walking
together. The weather was perfect, and the place seemed more lovely to
us than before. Aloud I read the concluding part of Walter Scott's
Life, which we had begun at Harrogate; two volumes of Froude's
"History of England," and Comte's "Correspondence with Valat." We
returned on Monday the 29th.
During our stay at Limpsfield I wrote the greater part of "Armgart,"
and finished it at intervals during September. Since then I have been
continually suffering from headache and depression, with almost total
despair of future work. I look into this little book now to assure
myself that this is not unprecedented.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 18th Nov. 1870.]
Yesterday, for the first time, we went to hear A. (a popular
preacher). I remembered what you had said about his vulgar, false
emphasis; but there remained the fact of his celebrity. I was glad of
the opportunity. But my impressions fell below the lowest judgment I
ever heard passed upon him. He has the gift of a fine voice, very
flexible and various; he is admirably fluent and clear in his
language, and every now and then his enunciation is effective. But I
never heard any pulpit reading and speaking which in its level tone
was more utterly common and empty of guiding intelligence or emotion;
it was as if the words had been learned by heart and uttered without
comprehension by a man who had no instinct of rhythm or music in his
soul. And the doctrine! It was a libel on Calvinism that it should be
presented in such a form. I never heard any attempt to exhibit the
soul's experience that was more destitute of insight. The sermon was
against fear, in the elect Christian, as being a distrust of God; but
never once did he touch the true ground of fear--the doubt whether the
signs of God's choice are present in the soul. We had plenty of
anecdotes, but they were all poor and pointless--Tract Society
anecdotes of the feeblest kind. It was the most superficial
grocer's-back-parlor view of Calvinistic Christianity; and I was
shocked to find how low the mental pitch of our society must be,
judged by the standard of this man's celebrity.
Mr. Lewes was struck with some of his tones as good actor's tones, and
was not so wroth as I was. But just now, with all Europe stirred by
events that make every conscience tremble after some great principle
as a consolation and guide, it was too exasperating to sit and listen
to doctrine that seemed to look no further than the retail Christian's
tea and muffins. He said "Let us approach the throne of God" very much
as he might have invited you to take a chair; and then followed this
fine touch--"We feel no love to God because he hears the prayers of
others; it is because he hears my prayer that I love him."
You see I am relieving myself by pouring out my disgust to you. Oh,
how short life--how near death--seems to me! But this is not an
uncheerful thought. The only great dread is the protraction of life
into imbecility or the visitation of lingering pain. That seems to me
the insurmountable calamity, though there is an ignorant affectation
in many people of underrating what they call bodily suffering. I
systematically abstain from correspondence, yet the number of
acquaintances and consequent little appeals so constantly increases
that I often find myself inwardly rebelling against the amount of
note-writing that I cannot avoid. Have the great events of these
months interfered with your freedom of spirit in writing? One has to
dwell continually on the permanent, growing influence of ideas in
spite of temporary reactions, however violent, in order to get courage
and perseverance for any work which lies aloof from the immediate
wants of society. You remember Goethe's contempt for the Revolution of
'30 compared with the researches on the Vertebrate Structure of the
Skull? "My good friend, I was not thinking of those people." But the
changes we are seeing cannot be doffed aside in that way.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, Nov. 1870.]
Lying awake early in the morning, according to a bad practice of mine,
I was visited with much compunction and self-disgust that I had ever
said a word to you about the faults of a friend whose good qualities
are made the more sacred by the endurance his lot has in many ways
demanded. I think you may fairly set down a full half of any alleged
grievances to my own susceptibility, and other faults of mine which
necessarily call forth less agreeable manifestations from others than
as many virtues would do, if I had them. I trust to your good sense to
have judged well in spite of my errors in the presentation of any
matter. But I wish to protest against myself, that I may, as much as
possible, cut off the temptation to what I should like utterly to
purify myself from for the few remaining years of my life--the
disposition to dwell for a moment on the faults of a friend.
Tell the flower and fern giver, whoever it may be, that some strength
comes to me this morning from the pretty proof of sympathy.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 2d Dec. 1870.]
I have it on my conscience that I may not have given you a clear
impression of my wishes about the poor pensioner who was in question
between us to-day, so I write at once to secure us both against a
possible misunderstanding. I would rather not apply any more money in
that direction, because I know of other channels[13]--especially a
plan which is being energetically carried out for helping a
considerable group of people without almsgiving, and solely by
inducing them to work--into which I shall be glad to pour a little
more aid. The repugnance to have relief from the parish was a feeling
which it was good to encourage in the old days of contra-encouragement
to sturdy pauperism; but I question whether one ought now to indulge
it, and not rather point out the reasons why, in a case of real
helplessness, there is no indignity in receiving from a public fund.
After you had left me, it rang in my ears that I had spoken of my
greater cheerfulness as due to a reduced anxiety about myself and my
doings, and had not seemed to recognize that the deficit or evil in
other lives could be a cause of depression. I was not really so
ludicrously selfish while dressing myself up in the costume of
unselfishness. But my strong egoism has caused me so much melancholy,
which is traceable simply to a fastidious yet hungry ambition, that I
am relieved by the comparative quietude of personal craving which age
is bringing. That is the utmost I have to boast of, and, really, to be
cheerful in these times could only be a virtue in the sense in which
it was felt to be so by the old Romans when they thanked their general
for not despairing of the republic.
I have been reading aloud to Mr. Lewes this evening Mr. Harrison's
article on "Bismarckism," which made me cry--it is in some passages
movingly eloquent.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1870.]
_Dec. 2._--I am experimenting in a story ("Miss Brooke") which I began
without any very serious intention of carrying it out lengthily. It is
a subject which has been recorded among my possible themes ever since
I began to write fiction, but will probably take new shapes in the
development. I am to-day at p. 44. I am reading Wolf's "Prolegomena to
Homer." In the evening, aloud, "Wilhelm Meister" again!
_Dec. 12._--George's mother died this morning quite peacefully as she
sat in her chair.
_Dec. 17._--Reading "Quintus Fixlein" aloud to G. in the evening.
Grote on Sicilian history.
_Dec. 31._--On Wednesday the 21st we went to Ryde to see Madame
Bodichon at Swanmore Parsonage, a house which she had taken for two
months. We had a pleasant and healthy visit, walking much in the
frosty air. On Christmas Day I went with her to the Ritualist Church
which is attached to the parsonage, and heard some excellent intoning
by the delicate-faced, tenor-voiced clergyman. On Wednesday last, the
28th, Barbara came up to town with us. We found the cold here more
severe than at Ryde; and the papers tell us of still harder weather
about Paris, where our fellow-men are suffering and inflicting
horrors.
Here is the last day of 1870. I have written only one hundred
pages--good printed pages--of a story which I began about the opening
of November, and at present mean to call "Miss Brooke." Poetry halts
just now.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 2d Jan. 1871.]
We spent our Christmas in the Isle of Wight, and on Christmas Day I
went to a Ritualist church and heard some fine intoning of the service
by a clear, strong, tenor voice, sweet singing from boys' throats,
and all sorts of Catholic ceremonial in a miniature way.
It is good to see what our neighbors are doing. To live in seclusion
with one's own thoughts is apt to give one very false notions as to
the possibilities of the present time in the matter of conversion
either to superstition or anti-superstition.
In this cruel time, I no sooner hear of an affliction than I see it
multiplied in some one of the endless forms of suffering created by
this hellish war. In the beginning I could feel entirely with the
Germans, and could say of that calamity called "victory," I am glad.
But now I can be glad of nothing. No people can carry on a long,
fierce war without being brutalized by it, more or less, and it pains
me that the educated voices have not a higher moral tone about
national and international duties and prospects. But, like every one
else, I feel that the war is too much with me, and am rather anxious
to avoid unwise speech about it than to utter what may seem to me to
be wisdom. The pain is that one can _do_ so little.
I have not read "Sir Harry Hotspur," but as to your general question,
I reply that there certainly are some women who love in that way, but
"their sex as well as I may chide them for it." Men are very fond of
glorifying that sort of dog-like attachment. It is one thing to love
because you falsely imagine goodness--that belongs to the finest
natures--and another to go on loving when you have found out your
mistake. But married constancy is a different affair. I have seen a
grandly heroic woman who, out of her view as to the responsibilities
of the married relation, condoned everything, took her drunken husband
to her home again, and at last nursed and watched him into penitence
and decency. But there may be two opinions even about this sort of
endurance--_i.e._, about its ultimate tendency, not about the beauty
of nature which prompts it. This is quite distinct from mere animal
constancy. It is duty and human pity.
[Sidenote: Letter to Colonel Hamley (now General Sir Edward Hamley),
24th Jan. 1871.]
I write to say God bless you for your letter to the _Times_, of this
morning. It contains the best expression of right principle--I was
almost ready to say, the only good, sensible words--that I have yet
seen on the actual state of things between the Germans and the French.
You will not pause, I trust, but go on doing what can be done only by
one who is at once a soldier, a writer, and a clear-headed man of
principle.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1871.]
_March 19_ (Sunday).--It is grievous to me how little, from one cause
or other, chiefly languor and occasionally positive ailments, I manage
to get done. I have written about two hundred and thirty-six pages
(print) of my novel, which I want to get off my hands by next
November. My present fear is that I have too much matter--too many
_momenti_.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 3d April, 1871.]
I happened to-day to be talking to a very sweet-faced woman (the
sister of Dr. Bridges, whom I think you know something of), and she
mentioned, _à propos_ of educating children in the love of animals,
that she had felt the want of some good little book as a help in this
matter. I told her of yours, and when I said that it was written by
Mrs. Bray, the author of "Physiology for Schools," she said, "Oh, I
know that book well." I have made her a present of my copy of "Duty to
Animals," feeling that this was a good quarter in which to plant that
offset. For she had been telling me of her practical interest in the
infant and other schools in Suffolk, where she lives. We have had a
great pleasure to-day in learning that our friend Miss Bury is engaged
to be married to Mr. Geddes, a Scotch gentleman. There is a streak of
sadness for her family in the fact that she is to go to India with
her husband next November, but all else is bright in her prospect. It
is very sweet to see, and think of, the happiness of the young. I am
scribbling with an infirm head, at the end of the day, just for the
sake of letting you know one proof, in addition doubtless to many
others which you have already had, that your pretty little book is
likely to supply a want.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Gilchrist, 19th April, 1871.]
We are very much obliged to you for your kind, methodical
thoughtfulness as to all which is necessary for our accommodation at
Brookbank, and also for your hints about the points of beauty to be
sought for in our walks. That "sense of standing on a round world,"
which you speak of, is precisely what I most care for among
out-of-door delights. The last time I had it fully was at St. Märgen,
near Freiburg, on green hilltops, whence we could see the Rhine and
poor France.
The garden has been, and is being, attended to, and I trust we shall
not find the commissariat unendurable.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 6th June, 1871.]
It seems like a resurrection of a buried-alive friendship once more to
have a letter from you. Welcome back from your absorption in the
Franchise! Somebody else ought to have your share of work now, and you
ought to rest.
Ever since the 1st of May we have been living in this queer cottage,
which belongs to Mrs. Gilchrist, wife of the Gilchrist who wrote the
life of William Blake the artist. We have a ravishing country round
us, and pure air and water; in short, all the conditions of health, if
the east wind were away. We have old prints for our dumb
companions--charming children of Sir Joshua's, and large-hatted ladies
of his and Romney's. I read aloud--almost all the evening--books of
German science, and other gravities. So, you see, we are like two
secluded owls, wise with unfashionable wisdom, and knowing nothing of
pictures and French plays. I confess that I should have gone often to
see Got act if I had been in town, he is so really great as an actor.
And yet one is ashamed of seeking amusement in connection with
anything that belongs to poor, unhappy France. I am saved from the
shame by being safely shut out from the amusement.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 17th June, 1871.]
How about Madame Mohl and her husband? I have been wondering through
all the horrors whether M. Mohl had returned to Paris, and whether
their house, containing, too probably, the results of much studious
work, lies buried among ruins. But I will not further recall the
sorrows in that direction.
I am glad to see the words "very satisfactory" in connection with the
visit to Hitchin and Cambridge. Ely Cathedral I saw last year, but too
cursorily. It has more of the massive grandeur that one adores in Le
Mans and Chartres than most of our English cathedrals, though I am
ready to recall the comparison as preposterous.
I don't know how long we shall stay here; perhaps, more or less, till
the end of August, for I have given up the idea of going to the Scott
Festival at Edinburgh, to which I had accepted an invitation. The
fatigue of the long journey, with the crowd at the end, would be too
much for me.
Let us know beforehand when you are about coming.
George is gloriously well, and studying, writing, walking, eating, and
sleeping with equal vigor. He is enjoying the life here immensely. Our
country could hardly be surpassed in its particular kind of
beauty--perpetual undulation of heath and copse, and clear views of
hurrying water, with here and there a grand pine wood, steep,
wood-clothed promontories, and gleaming pools.
If you want delightful reading get Lowell's "My Study Windows," and
read the essays called "My Garden Acquaintances" and "Winter."
Get the volumes of a very cheap publication--the "Deutscher
Novellenschatz." Some of the tales are remarkably fine. I am reading
aloud the last three volumes, which are even better than the others. I
have just been so deeply interested in one of the stories--"Diethelm
von Buchenberg"--that I want everybody to have the same pleasure who
can read German.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Gilchrist, 3d July, 1871.]
We are greatly obliged to you for the trouble you have so
sympathetically taken on our behalf, and we shall prepare to quit our
quiet shelter on Wednesday, the 2d of August. During the first weeks
of our stay I did not imagine that I should ever be so fond of the
place as I am now. The departure of the bitter winds, some improvement
in my health, and the gradual revelation of fresh and fresh beauties
in the scenery, especially under a hopeful sky such as we have
sometimes had--all these conditions have made me love our little world
here and wish not to quit it until we can settle in our London home. I
have the regret of thinking that it was my original indifference about
it (I hardly ever like things until they are familiar) that hindered
us from securing the cottage until the end of September, for the
chance of coming to it again after a temporary absence. But all
regrets ought to be merged in thankfulness for the agreeable weeks we
have had, and probably shall have till the end of July. And among the
virtues of Brookbank we shall always reckon this, that our
correspondence about it has been with you rather than with any one
else, so that, along with the country, we have had a glimpse of your
ready, quick-thoughted kindness.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 13th July, 1871.]
One word to you in response to Emily's note, which comes to me this
morning, and lets me know that by this time she is probably in the
last hour of her unmarried life. My thoughts and love and tender
anxiety are with her and with all of you. When you receive this she
will, I suppose, be far away, and it is of little consequence that I
can make no new sign to her of my joy in her joy.
For the next few weeks my anxiety will be concentrated on you and
yours at Yarmouth. Pray, when your mind and body are sufficiently free
from absorbing occupation, remember my need of news about you, and
write to me. The other day I seemed to get a glimpse of you through
Mrs. Call, who told me that you looked like a new creature--so much
stronger than you were wont; and she told me of Dr. Congreve's address
at the school, which raised my keenest sympathy, and made me feel
myself a very helpless friend.
Please give my love to the children, and tell Sophy especially that I
think her happy in this--that there is a place made for all the effort
of her young life to fill it with something like the goodness and
brightness which she has known and has just now to part with. I expect
her to be your guardian angel, perhaps in a new way--namely, in saving
you from some fatigue about details.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 15th July, 1871.]
I still feel that I owe you my thanks for your kind letter, although
Mr. Lewes undertook to deliver them in the first instance. You
certainly made a seat at the Commemoration Table[14] look more
tempting to me than it had done before; but I think that prudence
advises me to abstain from the fatigue and excitement of a long
railway journey, with a great gathering at the end of it. If there is
a chance that "Middlemarch" will be good for anything, I don't want to
break down and die without finishing it. And whatever "the tow on my
distaff" may be, my strength to unwind it has not been abundant
lately.
_À propos_ of bodily prosperity, I am sincerely rejoiced to know, by
your postscript this morning, that Mr. Simpson is recovered. I hope he
will not object to my considering him a good friend of mine, though it
is so long since I saw him. The blank that is left when thorough
workers like him are disabled is felt not only near at hand, but a
great way off. I often say--after the fashion of people who are
getting older--that the capacity for good work, of the kind that goes
on without trumpets, is diminishing in the world.
The continuous absence of sunshine is depressing in every way, and
makes one fear for the harvest, and so grave a fear that one is
ashamed of mentioning one's private dreariness. You cannot play golf
in the rain, and I cannot feel hopeful without the sunlight; but I
dare say you work all the more, whereas when my spirits flag my work
flags too.
I should have liked to see Principal Tulloch again, and to have made
the acquaintance of Captain Lockhart, whose writing is so jaunty and
cheery, yet so thoroughly refined in feeling. Perhaps I may still have
this pleasure in town, when he comes up at the same time with you.
Please give my kind regards to Mr. William Blackwood.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 24th July, 1871.]
Thanks for the prompt return of the MS., which arrived this morning.
I don't see how I can leave anything out, because I hope there is
nothing that will be seen to be irrelevant to my design, which is to
show the gradual action of ordinary causes rather than exceptional,
and to show this in some directions which have not been from time
immemorial the beaten path--the Cremorne walks and shows of fiction.
But the best intentions are good for nothing until execution has
justified them. And you know I am always compassed about with fears. I
am in danger in all my designs of parodying dear Goldsmith's satire on
Burke, and think of refining when novel-readers only think of
skipping.
We are obliged to turn out of this queer cottage next week; but we
have been fortunate enough to get the more comfortable house on the
other side of the road, so that we can move without any trouble. Thus
our address will continue to be the same until the end of August.
Tennyson, who is one of the "hill-folk" about here, has found us out.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Robert Lytton[15] (now Lady
Lytton), 25th July, 1871.]
This morning your husband's letter came to us, but if I did not know
that it would be nearly a week before any words of mine could reach
you, I should abstain from writing just yet, feeling that in the first
days of sorrowing it is better to keep silence. For a long while after
a great bereavement our only companionship is with the lost one. Yet I
hope it will not be without good to you to have signs of love from
your friends, and to be reminded that you have a home in their
affections, which is made larger for you by your trouble. For weeks my
thought has been continually going out to you, and the absence of news
has made me so fearful that I have mourned beforehand. I have been
feeling that probably you were undergoing the bitterest grief you had
ever known. But under the heart-stroke, is there anything better than
to grieve? Strength will come back for the duty and the fellowship
which gradually bring new contentments, but at first there is no joy
to be desired that would displace sorrow.
What is better than to love and live with the loved? But that must
sometimes bring us to live with the dead; and this too turns at last
into a very tranquil and sweet tie, safe from change and injury.
You see, I make myself a warrant out of my regard for you, to write as
if we had long been near each other. And I cannot help wishing that we
were physically nearer--that you were not on the other side of Europe.
We shall trust in Mr. Lytton's kindness to let us hear of you by and
by. But you must never write except to satisfy your own longing. May
all true help surround you, dear Mrs. Lytton, and whenever you can
think of me, believe in me as yours with sincere affection.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Mary Cross, 31st July, 1871.]
I read your touching story[16] aloud yesterday to Mr. Lewes, and we
both cried over it. Your brother wrote to me that you had doubts about
giving your name. My faith is, that signature is right in the absence
of weighty special reasons against it.
We think of you all very often, and feel ourselves much the richer for
having a whole dear family to reckon among our friends. We are to stay
here till the end of the month. When the trees are yellow, I hope you
will be coming to see us in St. John's Wood. How little like the
woods we have around us! I suppose Weybridge is more agreeable than
other places at present, if it has any of its extra warmth in this
arctic season.
Our best love, to your dear mother supremely, and then to all.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 2d Aug. 1871.]
I always say that those people are the happiest who have a peremptory
reason for staying in one place rather than another. Else I should be
sorry for you that you are kept in London--by Parliamentary business,
of course.
There is sunshine over our fields now, but the thermometer is only 64°
in the house, and in the warmest part of the day I, having a talent
for being cold, sit shivering, sometimes even with a warm-water bottle
at my feet. I wonder if you went to the French plays to see the
supreme Got? That is a refined pleasure which I enjoyed so much in
Paris a few years ago that I was sorry to be out of reach of it this
spring.
About the Crystal Palace music I remember feeling just what you
mention--the sublime effect of the Handel choruses, and the total
futility of the solos.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 3d Aug. 1871.]
Thanks for your little picture of things. Eminently acceptable in
place of vague conjectures. I am a bitter enemy to make-believe about
the human lot, but I think there is a true alleviation of distress in
thinking of the intense enjoyment which accompanies a spontaneous,
confident, intellectual activity. This may not be a counterpoise to
the existing evils, but it is at least a share of mortal good, and
good of an exquisite kind.
Are you not happy in the long-wished-for sunshine? I have a pretty
lawn before me, with hills in the background. The train rushes by
every now and then to make one more glad of the usual silence.
A good man writes to me from Scotland this morning, asking me if he is
not right in pronouncing Rom[)o]la, in defiance of the world around
him (not a large world, I hope) who _will_ say Rom[=o]la. Such is
correspondence in these days; so that quantity is magnificent _en
gros_ but shabby _en détail_--_i.e._, in single letters like this.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 14th Aug. 1871.]
We shall stay here only till the end of this month--at least, I have
no hope that our _propriétaires_ will be induced to protract their
absence; and if the lingering smell of paint does not drive us away
from the Priory again, we expect to stay there from the first of
September, without projects of travel for many, many months.
We enjoy our roomy house and pretty lawn greatly. Imagine me seated
near a window, opening under a veranda, with flower-beds and lawn and
pretty hills in sight, my feet on a warm-water bottle, and my writing
on my knees. In that attitude my mornings are passed. We dine at two;
and at four, when the tea comes in, I begin to read aloud. About six
or half-past we walk on to the commons and see the great sky over our
head. At eight we are usually in the house again, and fill our evening
with physics, chemistry, or other wisdom if our heads are at par; if
not, we take to folly, in the shape of Alfred de Musset's poems, or
something akin to them.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 29th Oct. 1871.]
Yesterday we returned from Weybridge, where, for a few days, I have
been petted by kind friends (delightful Scotch people), and have had
delicious drives in the pure autumn air. That must be my farewell to
invalidism and holiday making. I am really better--not robust or fat,
but perhaps as well as I am likely to be till death mends me.
Your account of Mr. Main[17] sets my mind at ease about him; for in
this case I would rather have your judgment than any opportunity of
forming my own. The one thing that gave me confidence was his power of
putting his finger on the right passages, and giving emphasis to the
right idea (in relation to the author's feeling and purpose). Apart
from that, enthusiasm would have been of little value.
One feels rather ashamed of authoresses this week after the
correspondence in the _Times_. One hardly knows which letter is in the
worst taste. However, if we are to begin with marvelling at the little
wisdom with which the world is governed, we can hardly expect that
much wisdom will go to the making of novels.
I should think it quite a compliment if the general got through "Miss
Brooke." Mr. Lewes amused himself with the immeasurable contempt that
Mr. Casaubon would be the object of in the general's mind.
I hardly dare hope that the second part will take quite so well as the
first, the effects being more subtile and dispersed; but Mr. Lewes
seems to like the third part better than anything that has gone before
it. But can anything be more uncertain than the reception of a book by
the public? I am glad to see that the "Coming Race" has got into a
fourth edition. Let us hope that the Koom Posh may be at least
mitigated by the sale of a good book or two.
As for me, I get more and more unable to be anything more than a
feeble sceptic about all publishing plans, and am thankful to have so
many good heads at work for me. _Allah illah allah!_
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1871.]
We who are getting old together have the tie of common infirmities.
But I don't find that the young troubles seem lighter on looking back.
I prefer my years now to any that have gone before. I wish you could
tell me the same thing about yourself. And, surely, writing your book
is, on the whole, a joy to you--it is a large share in the meagre lot
of mankind. All hail for the morrow! How many sweet laughs, how much
serious pleasure in the great things others have done, you and I have
had together in a past islet of time that remains very sunny in my
remembrance.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1871.]
_Dec. 1._--This day the first part of "Middlemarch" was published. I
ought by this time to have finished the fourth part, but an illness
which began soon after our return from Haslemere has robbed me of two
months.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 15th Dec. 1871.]
If you have not yet fallen in with Dickens's "Life" be on the lookout
for it, because of the interest there is in his boyish experience, and
also in his rapid development during his first travels in America. The
book is ill organized, and stuffed with criticism and other matter
which would be better in limbo; but the information about the
childhood, and the letters from America, make it worth reading. We
have just got a photograph of Dickens, taken when he was writing, or
had just written, "David Copperfield"--satisfactory refutation of that
keepsakey, impossible face which Maclise gave him, and which has been
engraved for the "Life" in all its odious beautification. This
photograph is the young Dickens, corresponding to the older Dickens
whom I knew--the same face, without the unusually severe wear and
tear of years which his latest looks exhibited.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1872.]
_Dec. 20._--My health has become very troublesome during the last
three weeks, and I can get on but tardily. Even now I am only at page
227 of my fourth part. But I have been also retarded by construction,
which, once done, serves as good wheels for progress.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 1st Jan. 1872.]
Your good wishes and pleasant bits of news made the best part of my
breakfast this morning. I am glad to think that, in desiring happiness
for you during the new year, I am only desiring the continuance of
good which you already possess.
I suppose we two, also, are among the happiest of mortals, yet we have
had a rather doleful Christmas, the one great lack, that of health,
having made itself particularly conspicuous in the surrounding fog.
Having no grandchildren to get up a Christmas-tree for, we had nothing
to divert our attention from our headaches.
Mr. Main's book broke the clouds a little, and now the heavens have
altogether cleared, so that we are hoping to come back from a visit of
three days to Weybridge with our strength renewed--if not like the
eagle's, at least like a convalescent tomtit's.
The "Sayings" are set off by delightful paper and print, and a binding
which opens with inviting ease. I am really grateful to every one
concerned in the volume, and am anxious that it should not be in any
way a disappointment. The selections seem to me to be made with an
exquisite sensibility to the various lights and shades of life; and
all Mr. Main's letters show the same quality. It is a great help to me
to have such an indication that there exist careful readers for whom
no subtilest intention is lost.
We have both read the story of the "Megara" with the deepest interest;
indeed, with a quite exceptional enjoyment of its direct,
unexaggerated painting.
The prescription of two days' golfing per week will, I hope, keep up
your condition to the excellent pitch at which it was on your return
from Paris. Good news usually acts as a tonic when one's case is not
too desperate; and I shall be glad if you and we can get it in the
form of more success for "Middlemarch." Dickens's "Life," you see,
finds a large public ready to pay more. But the British mind has long
entertained the purchase of expensive biographies. The proofs lately
given that one's books don't necessarily go out like lucifer matches,
never to be taken up again, make one content with moderate immediate
results, which perhaps are as much as can reasonably be expected for
any writing which does not address itself either to fashions or
corporate interests of an exclusive kind.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 18th Jan. 1872.]
It is like your kindness to write me your encouraging impressions on
reading the third book. I suppose it is my poor health that just now
makes me think my writing duller than usual. For certainly the
reception of the first book by my old readers is quite beyond my most
daring hopes. One of them, who is a great champion of "Adam Bede" and
"Romola," told Mr. Lewes yesterday that he thought "Middlemarch"
surpassed them. All this is very wonderful to me. I am thoroughly
comforted as to the half of the work which is already written; but
there remains the terror about the _un_written. Mr. Lewes is much
satisfied with the fourth book, which opens with the continuation of
the Featherstone drama.
We went yesterday to the Tichborne trial, which was an experience of
great interest to me. We had to come away after the third hour of
Coleridge's speaking; but it was a great enjoyment to me to hear what
I did. Coleridge is a rare orator--not of the declamatory, but of the
argumentative order.
Thanks, not formal, but sincerely felt, for the photographs. This
likeness will always carry me back to the first time I saw you, in our
little Richmond lodging, when I was thinking anxiously of "Adam Bede,"
as I now am of "Middlemarch."
I felt something like a shudder when Sir Henry Maine asked me last
Sunday whether this would not be a very long book; saying, when I told
him it would be four good volumes, that that was what he had
calculated. However, it will not be longer than Thackeray's books, if
so long. And I don't see how the sort of thing I want to do could have
been done briefly.
I have to be grateful for the gift of "Brougham's Life," which will be
a welcome addition to my means of knowing the time "when his ugliness
had not passed its bloom."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 22d Jan. 1872.]
Your letter seems to pierce the rainy fog with a little sunlight. Cold
and clearness are the reverse of what we are usually having here.
Until the last few days my chief consciousness has been that of
struggling against inward as well as outward fog; but I am now better,
and have only been dragged back into headachiness by a little too much
fatigue from visitors. I give you this account as a preface to my
renunciation of a journey to Dover, which would be very delightful, if
I had not already lost too much time to be warranted in taking a
holiday.
Next Saturday we are going to have a party--six to dine, and a small
rush of people after dinner, for the sake of music. I think it is four
years at least since we undertook anything of that kind.
A great domestic event for us has been the arrival of a new dog, who
has all Ben's virtues, with more intelligence, and a begging attitude
of irresistible charm. He is a dark-brown spaniel. You see what
infantine innocence we live in!
Glad you are reading my demigod Milton! We also are rather
old-fashioned in our light reading just now; for I have rejected
Heyse's German stories, brand new, in favor of dear old Johnson's
"Lives of the Poets," which I read aloud in my old age with a
delicious revival of girlish impressions.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1872.]
_Jan. 29._--It is now the last day but one of January. I have finished
the fourth part--_i.e._, the second volume--of "Middlemarch." The
first part, published on December 1, has been excellently well
received; and the second part will be published the day after
to-morrow. About Christmas a volume of extracts from my works was
published, under the title, "Wise, Witty, and Tender Sayings, in Prose
and Verse." It was proposed and executed by Alexander Main, a young
man of thirty, who began a correspondence with me by asking me how to
pronounce Romola, in the summer, when we were at Shottermill.
Blackwood proposed that we should share the profits, but we refused.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 29th Jan. 1872.]
I do lead rather a crawling life under these rainy fogs and low
behavior of the barometer. But I am a little better, on the whole,
though just now overdone with the fatigue of company. We have been to
hear Coleridge addressing the jury on the Tichborne trial--a very
interesting occasion to me. He is a marvellous speaker among
Englishmen; has an exquisitely melodious voice, perfect gesture, and a
power of keeping the thread of his syntax to the end of his sentence,
which makes him delightful to follow. We are going some other day, if
possible, to hear a cross-examination of Ballantyne's. The digest of
the evidence which Coleridge gives is one of the best illustrations of
the value or valuelessness of testimony that could be given. I wonder
if the world, which retails Guppy anecdotes, will be anything the
wiser for it.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 21st Feb. 1872.]
To hear of a friend's illness after he has got well through it is the
least painful way of learning the bad news. I hope that your attack
has been a payment of insurance.
You probably know what it grieved us deeply to learn the other
day--that our excellent friend Mr. William Smith is dangerously ill.
They have been so entirely happy and wrapped up in each other that we
cannot bear to think of Mrs. Smith's grief.
Thanks for the list of sales since February 12th. Things are
encouraging, and the voices that reach us are enthusiastic. But you
can understand how people's interest in the book heightens my anxiety
that the remainder should be up to the mark. It has caused me some
uneasiness that the third part is two sheets less than the first. But
Mr. Lewes insisted that the death of old Featherstone was the right
point to pause at; and he cites your approbation of the part as a
proof that effectiveness is secured in spite of diminished quantity.
Still it irks me to ask 5_s._ for a smaller amount than that already
given at the same price. Perhaps I must regard the value as made up
solely by effectiveness, and certainly the book will be long enough.
I am still below par in strength, and am too much beset with visitors
and kind attentions. I long for the quiet spaces of time and the
absence of social solicitations that one enjoys in the country, out of
everybody's reach.
I am glad to hear of the pleasure "Middlemarch" gives in your
household: that makes quite a little preliminary public for me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 4th Mch. 1872.]
I can understand very easily that the two last years have been full
for you of other and more imperative work than the writing of letters
not absolutely demanded either by charity or business. The proof that
you still think of me affectionately is very welcome now it is come,
and all the more cheering because it enables me to think of you as
enjoying your retreat in your orange orchard--your western
Sorrento--the beloved Rabbi still beside you. I am sure it must be a
great blessing to you to bathe in that quietude--as it always is to us
when we go out of reach of London influences, and have the large space
of country days to study, walk, and talk in. Last year we spent our
summer months in Surrey, and did not leave England. Unhappily, the
country was not so favorable to my bodily health as to my spiritual,
and on our return to town I had an illness which was the climax of the
summer's _malaise_. That illness robbed me of two months, and I have
never quite recovered a condition in which the strict duties of the
day are not felt as a weight. But just now we are having some clear
spring days, and I am in hope of prospering better, the sunshine being
to me the greatest visible good of life--what I call the wealth of
life, after love and trust.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 8th Mch. 1872.]
When I am more at liberty I will certainly read Mr. Owen's books, if
he is good enough to send them to me. I desire on all subjects to keep
an open mind, but hitherto the various phenomena reported or attested
in connection with ideas of spirit-intercourse, "psychion," and so on,
have come before me here in the painful form of the lowest
_charlatanerie_. Take Mr. H. as an example of what I mean. I could not
choose to enter a room where he held a _séance_. He is an object of
moral disgust to me; and nothing of late reported by Mr. Crookes, Lord
Lindsay, and the rest carries conviction to my mind that Mr. H. is not
simply an impostor, whose professedly abnormal manifestations have
varied their fashion in order to create a new market, just as if they
were _papier mâché_ wares or pomades for the idle rich. But apart from
personal contact with people who get money by public exhibitions as
mediums, or with semi-idiots, such as those who make a court for a
Mrs. Guppy or other feminine personage of that kind, I would not
willingly place any barriers between my mind and any possible channel
of truth affecting the human lot.
The spirit in which you have written in the paper you kindly sent me
is likely to teach others--to rouse them, at least, to attention in a
case where you have been deeply impressed.
I write to you quite openly, dear friend, but very imperfectly, for my
letters are always written in shreds of time.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 14th Mch. 1872.]
Thanks for the budget of this morning. The sales, we think, are very
cheering, and we may well be content if they continue in the same
ratio. But the Greek proverb about the beginning being the half of the
whole wants as much defining and excepting from as most other
proverbs.
I have just had sent me a copy of the magazine _Für die Literatur des
Auslander_, containing a review of "Miss Brooke," which will be good
for Asher's edition, and is otherwise satisfactory as an intelligent
appreciation. It mentions at the end the appearance of Mr. Main's
book, "The Sayings." A Frenchman, apparently accomplished, a M.
Landolphe, who has made some important translations, is going to
translate the whole of "Middlemarch;" and one of the contributors to
the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ has written for leave to extract
Dorothea's history.
I fancy we have done a good turn to English authors generally by
setting off Asher's series, for we have heard that Tauchnitz has
raised his offers. There is another way in which benefit might come
that would be still more desirable--namely, to make him more careful
in his selections of books for reprint. But I fear that this effect is
not so certain. You see Franz Duncker, who publishes the German
translation of "Middlemarch," has also begun an English series. This
is really worth while, for the Germans are excellent readers of our
books. I was astonished to find so many in Berlin who really knew
one's books, and did not merely pay compliments after the fashion of
the admirers who made Rousseau savage--running after him to pay him
visits, and not knowing a word of his writing.
You and other good readers have spoiled me, and made me rather shudder
at being read only once; and you may imagine how little satisfaction I
get from people who mean to please me by saying that they shall wait
till "Middlemarch" is finished, and then sit up to read it "at one
go-off."
We are looking for a country retreat not too far from town, so that
we may run up easily. There is nothing wanting to our happiness except
that "Middlemarch" should be well ended without growing signs of its
author's debility.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 17th March, 1872.]
Before I received your letter this morning, I was going to write you a
word of sympathy, knowing how deeply you would be feeling the death of
Mazzini. Such a man leaves behind him a wider good than the loss of
his personal presence can take away.
"The greatest gift the hero leaves his race
Is to have been a hero."
I must be excused for quoting my own words, because they are my
_credo_. I enter thoroughly into your sense of wealth in having known
him.
Brighton does not suit Mr. Lewes. But he was near going there for a
night a little while ago to see our friends, Mr. and Mrs. William
Smith. He (the author of "Thorndale," etc.) is, I fear, wasting
fatally with organic disease, and we grieve much at the too-probably
near parting of a husband and wife who have been among the perfectly
happy couples of the world. She is a charming woman, and I wish that
you may happen to know her.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d March, 1872.]
Owing to my loss of two months in illness, and my infirm health ever
since, I have not yet finished the writing of "Middlemarch." This
payment of wintry arrears makes one prefer the comforts of a London
home; but we are obliged to see more company than my health is equal
to, and for this reason I dare say we shall soon migrate. To-day we
have been to our last morning concert--or Saturday Pop.--held on a
Friday because of the University boat-race to-morrow. These concerts
are an easy pleasure which we are sorry to part with. This is one of
my bad weeks, owing probably to the change in the weather, and I am
constantly struggling with hemicrania and _malaise_. Even writing this
scrap of a note is the feather too much, and I must leave off. You
have known too much of nervous weakness not to understand this.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1872.]
_May 8._--I have been reposing for more than a week in the hope of
getting stronger, my life having been lately a swamp of illness, with
only here and there a bit of firm walking. In consequence of this
incessant interruption (almost every week having been half nullified
for me so far as my work has been concerned) I have only finished the
fifth book, and have still three books to write--equal to a large
volume and a half.
The reception of the book hitherto has been quite beyond what I could
have believed beforehand, people exalting it above everything else I
have written. Kohn is publishing an English edition in Germany;
Duncker is to publish a translation; and Harpers pay me £1200 for
reprinting it in America.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 4th June, 1872.]
I am glad to know that you are having a time of refreshing in fine
scenery, with entire freedom to paint. I am in a corresponding state
of relief from the noises and small excitements that break up the day
and scatter one's nervous energy in London.
We have been in our hiding-place about twelve days now, and I am
enjoying it more and more--getting more bodily ease and mental
clearness than I have had for the last six months. Our house is not in
the least beautiful, but it is well situated and comfortable,
perfectly still in the middle of a garden surrounded by fields and
meadows, and yet within reach of shops and civilization.
We managed to get to the Academy one day before leaving town. I was
delighted with Walker's picture--were you?--and Mason's unfinished
Reaper, and a few, very few, others.
Also we went twice to the opera in order to save ourselves from any
yearnings after it when we should have settled in the country.
We tell no one our address, and have our letters sent on from the
Priory.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 4th June, 1872.]
We too are in a country refuge, you see, and this bit of Surrey, as I
dare say you know, is full of beauty of the too garden-like sort for
which you pity us. How different from your lodge in the wilderness! I
have read your description three or four times--it enchants me so
thoroughly--and Mr. Lewes is just as much enamoured of it. We shall
never see it, I imagine, except in the mirror of your loving words;
but thanks, many and warm, dear friend, for saying that our presence
would be welcome. I have always had delight in descriptions of
American forests since the early days when I read "Atala," which I
believe that you would criticise as half unveracious. I dwelt on the
descriptions in "Dred" with much enjoyment.
Pray give my special thanks to the Professor for his letter. His
handwriting, which does really look like Arabic--a very graceful
character, surely--happens to be remarkably legible to me, and I did
not hesitate over a single word. Some of the words, as expressions of
fellowship, were very precious to me, and I hold it very good of him
to write to me that best sort of encouragement. I was much impressed
with the fact--which you had told me--that he was the original of the
"visionary boy" in "Old Town Folk;" and it must be deeply interesting
to talk with him on his experience. Perhaps I am inclined, under the
influence of the facts, physiological and psychological, which have
been gathered of late years, to give larger place to the
interpretation of vision-seeing as _subjective_ than the Professor
would approve. It seems difficult to limit--at least to limit with any
precision--the possibility of confounding sense by impressions,
derived from inward conditions, with those which are directly
dependent on external stimulus. In fact, the division between within
and without in this sense seems to become every year a more subtle and
bewildering problem.
_Your_ experience with the _planchette_ is amazing; but that the words
which you found it to have written were dictated by the spirit of
Charlotte Brontë is to me (whether rightly or not) so enormously
improbable, that I could only accept it if every condition were laid
bare, and every other explanation demonstrated to be impossible. If it
were another spirit aping Charlotte Brontë--if here and there at rare
spots and among people of a certain temperament, or even at many spots
and among people of all temperaments, tricksy spirits are liable to
rise as a sort of earth-bubbles and set furniture in movement, and
tell things which we either know already or should be as well without
knowing--I must frankly confess that I have but a feeble interest in
these doings, feeling my life very short for the supreme and awful
revelations of a more orderly and intelligible kind which I shall die
with an imperfect knowledge of. If there were miserable spirits whom
we could help, then I think we should pause and have patience with
their trivial-mindedness; but otherwise I don't feel bound to study
them more than I am bound to study the special follies of a
particular phase of human society. Others who feel differently, and
are attracted towards this study, are making an experiment for us as
to whether anything better than bewilderment can come of it. At
present it seems to me that to rest any fundamental part of religion
on such a basis is a melancholy misguidance of men's minds from the
true sources of high and pure emotion.
I am comforted to think that you partly agree with me there.
I have not time to write more than this very imperfect fragmentary
sketch of _only one_ aspect which the question of spirit-communications
wears to me at present--being always rather brain-weary after my
morning's work, and called for by my husband to walk with him and read
aloud to him. I spend nearly three hours every day in this exercise of
reading aloud, which, happily, I can carry on without fatigue of lungs.
Yet it takes strength as well as time.
Mr. Lewes is gone into town to-day, so I have an additional hour at
liberty, and have been glad to be able to send you a letter which is
not worth anything, indeed, but which satisfies my need to thank you
and the Professor for your sweet friendliness--very sweet to me, I
assure you. Please accept my entire frankness as a proof of that high
value I set on you. And do not call anything I may have written a
prejudice--it is simply a statement of how certain things appear to my
inward eyesight, which I am ready to have rectified by more light.
About photographs--I have _no_ photograph of myself, having always
avoided having one taken. That makes me seem very selfish in being
particularly glad to get yours.
Mrs. Fields, with the beautiful face and charming manners, sent me a
letter a little while ago, inviting us in the most tempting way to go
to Boston. She said that this pretty action was done at your
prompting, which is just like you as you have always shown yourself to
me.
Dear friend, how much you have lived through, both in the flesh and in
the spirit! My experience has been narrow compared with yours. I
assure you I feel this, so do not misinterpret anything I say to you
as being written in a flippant or critical spirit. One always feels
the want of the voice and eyes to accompany a letter and give it the
right tone.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 4th July, 1872.]
You were very good and dear to want to give me the pleasure of knowing
that the news was good, instead of leaving me to my small stock of
hopefulness. Ask Emily to care a little even now, with baby on her
mind, that her old friends are the better for hearing that she is
well. Four or five months ago it happens that I was writing some
playfulness about a baby and baby's hair, which is now in print, to
appear next month. I am not afraid that Emily should be revolted by my
blasphemy!
Mr. Lewes had "a lovely time" from Saturday to Monday at Weybridge. He
was feeling languid, and yet was tempted to sit at his desk. The
little change has been very serviceable, and he is now bright.
Our first book, read aloud by me after we came down, was Wallace's
"Eastern Archipelago," which, I think, you had spoken well of to Mr.
Lewes. It is delightful. The biography of the infant ourang-outang
alone is worth getting the book for. We are now in the middle of
Tylor's "Primitive Culture," which is worth studying, and useful for
reference on special points, if you happen to want knowledge about
the ideas of the savage tribes.
Our days go by in delicious peace, unbroken except by my little inward
anxieties about all unfinished work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 19th July, 1872.]
This morning came the joyful news that Gertrude has a fine healthy
baby--a daughter. We have just been saying in our walk that by the end
of this century our one-day-old granddaughter will probably be married
and have children of her own, while we are pretty sure to be at rest.
This obvious kind of wisdom does very well for discourse in the
delicious sunshine, as we wander over a hilly, half fern-clad, half
grassy wilderness called South Park, from which we can overlook two
fertile bosky valleys. We like this bit of country better and better.
As to health, I am not quite so prosperous as I was at first, but to
make amends, Mr. Lewes is in a good average condition, and only now
and then has a morning in which he is forced to wander about instead
of going to his beloved work. We have had much happiness here, much
sympathy in letters from far-off friends unknown in the flesh, and
peaceful enjoyment of our occupations. But we have longed for more
continuous warmth and brightness, and to-day may perhaps be the
beginning of that one wanting condition.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 1st Aug. 1872(?).]
The death of that honored, good creature, Mr. William Smith, touched
us particularly, because of the perfect marriage-bond which had made
the last eleven years of his life unspeakably precious both to him and
his wife. Mr. Lewes offered to go to Brighton to see him; but he was
so reduced, so very feeble in body, though he kept to the last much
brightness of mind, that Mrs. Smith feared for him the excitement of
seeing friends who came, specially, from a distance.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 4th Aug. 1872.]
I like to think that your journey was a success. But I had felt sure,
that unless bad health or bad weather overtook you, both Mrs.
Blackwood and you must have great happiness in taking that bright,
lovely daughter abroad and watching her fresh impressions. I imagine
her laudable indignation at the crushing of the little lizard! Those
little creatures darting about the stones seem part of the happiness
of Italian sunshine, as the small birds hopping after the rain seem
part of the moist happiness at home.
I shall send Part VII. in a few days. Since Mr. Lewes tells me that
the _Spectator_ considers me the most melancholy of authors, it will
perhaps be a welcome assurance to you that there is no unredeemed
tragedy in the solution of the story.
Mr. Lewes examines the newspapers before I see them, and cuts out any
criticisms which refer to me, so as to save me from these spiritual
chills--though, alas! he cannot save me from the physical chills which
retard my work more seriously. I had hoped to have the manuscript well
out of my hands before we left this place at the end of the month, but
the return of my dyspeptic troubles makes me unable to reckon on such
a result.
It will be a good plan, I think, to quicken the publication towards
the end; but we feel convinced that the slow plan of publication has
been of immense advantage to the book in deepening the impression it
produces. Still I shudder a little to think what a long book it will
be--not so long as "Vanity Fair" or "Pendennis," however, according to
my calculation.
How good the articles on French manners and domestic life are in
"Maga." The spirit in which they are written is excellent.
The manuscript of "Middlemarch" bears the following
inscription:
"To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, in this nineteenth year of
our blessed union."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, Sept. 1872.]
I am tired of behaving like an ungrateful wretch--making no sign in
answer to affectionate words which have come to me with cheering
effect. And I want to tell you and Mr. Hall (alas! for the dear old
name[18] which had such cherished associations) that I long too much
to see you all at Six-Mile Bottom, to give up utterly the prospect of
that good. We imagine that the place is near Ipswich, which is no more
than an hour and fifty minutes from London. If so, the journey would
be easily managed, and would be worth taking for the sake of one whole
day and two half days with you--just as if you were the hour nearer,
at Weybridge--before we set our faces towards Germany. I am not
hopeless that we might do that in the second week of September, if you
are not quite disgusted with the thought of me as a person who is
always claiming pity for small ailments, and also if Mr. Hall can
secure me against being shot from the other side of the hedge by the
Prince of Wales,[19] while we are discussing plantations.
I dare not count much on fulfilling any project, my life for the last
year having been a sort of nightmare, in which I have been scrambling
on the slippery bank of a pool, just keeping my head above water. But
I shall be the happier for having told you that I delight in the
double invitation for the sake of the love it assures me of, and that
I do want to see you all.
You are all gloriously well, I hope, and Alkie looking more and more
cherubic, and Emily and Florence blooming. My best love to all.
Particular regards to J., and regrets that we were not on his route
from Brindisi. I read his paper on New York with much interest and
satisfaction.
You are often among my imaged companions both in dreaming and waking
hours.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, Oct. 1872, from Homburg.]
It was a delightful surprise to see your handwriting when we went to
inquire at the _Poste Restante_. We had, on the whole, a fortunate
journey, and are especially grateful to Mr. Hall for suggesting the
route by Trèves, where we spent two nights and an exquisite day. I was
continually reminded of Rome when we were wandering in the outskirts
in search of the antiquities, and the river banks are a loveliness
into the bargain which Rome has not. We had even an opportunity of
seeing some dissipation, for there happened to be an excellent circus,
where we spent our evening. The pretty country through which we passed
had an additional interest for us about Libramont.
The air, the waters, the plantations here are all perfect--"only man
is vile." I am not fond of denouncing my fellow-sinners, but gambling
being a vice I have no mind to, it stirs my disgust even more than my
pity. The sight of the dull faces bending round the gaming-tables, the
raking up of the money, and the flinging of the coins towards the
winners by the hard-faced croupiers, the hateful, hideous women
staring at the board like stupid monomaniacs--all this seems to me the
most abject presentation of mortals grasping after something called a
good that can be seen on the face of this little earth. Burglary is
heroic compared with it. I get some satisfaction in looking on, from
the sense that the thing is going to be put down. Hell is the only
right name for such places.
It was cruel to find the bitter cold just set in as we arrived. For
two days we were as cold as in clear winter days at Berlin. There are
no amusements for the evening here, and the pleasure of listening to
the excellent band in the afternoons is diminished by the chillness
which makes one fear to sit down in the open air. But we like being
idle, and the days pass easily.
It is good to have in our memories the two happy days at Six-Mile
Bottom; and the love that surrounded me and took care of me there is
something very precious to believe in among hard-faced strangers. Much
gratitude for the anticipated letter that will come to tell us more
news of you by-and-by.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 4th Oct. 1872.]
At last I begin a letter which is intended not as a payment but as an
acknowledgment of debt. It will have at least the recommendation of
requiring no answer. After some perfect autumnal days we are
languishing with headache from two days' damp and mugginess, and feel
it almost as much work as we are equal to to endure our _malaise_. But
on the whole we are not sorry that we came to this place rather than
any other. On dry days the air is perfect, and the waters are really
an enticing drink. Then there is a wood close by where we can wander
in delicious privacy: which is really better than the company here,
save and except a few friends whom we found at first, and who have now
moved off to Baden. The Kursaal is to me a hell, not only for the
gambling but for the light and heat of the gas, and we have seen
enough of its monstrous hideousness. There is very little dramatic
_Stoff_ to be picked up by watching or listening. The saddest thing to
be witnessed is the play of a young lady, who is only twenty-six
years old, and is completely in the grasp of this mean, money-making
demon. It made me cry to see her young, fresh face among the hags and
brutally stupid men around her. Next year, when the gambling has
vanished, the place will be delightful; there is to be a subvention
from Government to keep up the beautiful grounds; and it is likely
that there will be increase enough in the number of decent visitors to
keep the town tolerably prosperous. One attraction it has above other
German baths that I have seen is the abundance of pleasant apartments
to be had, where one can be as peaceful as the human lot allows in a
world of pianos.
Asher's cheap editions are visible everywhere by the side of
Tauchnitz, but the outside is not, I think, quite equally
recommendable and recommending.
We brought no books with us, but have furnished our table with German
books which we bought at Frankfort, from learned writing about
Menschlich Sprache and Vernunft down to Kotzebue's comedies, so that
we have employment for the rainy hours when once our heads are clear
of aches. The certainty that the weather is everywhere else bad will
help our resolution to stay here till the 12th at least. In the mean
time we hope to have the proof of the finale to "Middlemarch."
I am rejoiced to learn from Mr. William's letter that Mr. Simpson has
returned from his excursion in good condition. That must be a comfort
to you, both for friendship and for work's sake.
We mean to return by Paris, and hope that the weather will not drive
us away from health and pleasure-seeking until the end of the month. I
fear, from the accounts of your Scottish weather, that you will have
enjoyed Strathtyrum less than usual, and will be resigned to Edinburgh
before your proper time. How one talks about the weather! It is
excusable here where there is no grave occupation, and no amusement
for us, who don't gamble, except seeking health in walks and water
drinking.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 27th Oct. 1872, from Boulogne.]
I had meant to write to you again from Germany, but I was hindered
from doing so by the uncertainty of our plans, which vacillated
between further wanderings in South Germany and the usual dreary
railway journeying by Strasburg to Paris. As it was, we left Homburg
on the 13th and had ten days of delicious autumnal weather and
quietude at Stuttgart and Carlsruhe--ten days which made the heart of
our enjoyment. We still hesitated whether we should go to Augsburg,
and even Munich, making our way home through Germany and Belgium, and
turning our shoulders on Paris. Our evil genius persuaded us to go to
Paris and to make the journey by night--whence came headache and
horrible disgust with the shops of the Rue de la Paix and the
Boulevard. After going to Versailles in the rain, seeing the sad ruins
of the Hotel de Ville, missing the Theatre Français, and getting
"Patrie" in exchange, we rushed away to this place, where we are
trying to recover the sense of benefit from our change, which forsook
us on quitting old Germany. We have an affinity for what the world
calls "dull places," and always prosper best in them. We are sure to
be at home next week, and I hope before long to have some news of you
there--some dear faces coming to bring it. We shall linger here a few
days and take a favorable time for crossing, but our patience will
hardly last beyond Friday.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 1st Nov. 1872.]
We returned yesterday evening from six weeks' absence in Germany, and
I found your dear, sad letter among the many awaiting me. I prize very
highly the fact that you like to write to me and bear me in your mind
as one who has a certain fellowship in your sorrow; and I do trust
that this letter may reach you in time to prevent you from thinking,
even for a moment, that I could be indifferent about responding to any
word you send me. I shall address it to the care of Blackwood & Sons,
because I imagine you to be by this time in Edinburgh with that
delightful friend, Mrs. Stirling, whom I had much kindness from many
years ago when I was on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. George Combe. She took
me to hear Dr. Guthrie and Dr. Candlish, and through her I saw
Craigcrook. I like to think of those hours and her pleasant talk.
Mr. Lewes, I am thankful to say, has been getting more robust for the
last two years, and is very bright and active. I think there is hardly
any one left to whom he would so willingly have written or talked
about the subjects which are filling his mind as that dear one who is
gone from your side, but is perpetually present in your consciousness.
To-day I have been reading the memorial article in _Blackwood_, and
have been hoping that there is nothing in it which jars on your
feeling. Everybody will think as I do--that the bits from your pen are
worth all the rest. I have been especially moved, though, by the two
stanzas quoted at the end. Mr. Lewes judges that the writer of the
article did not personally know your husband, and wishes that more
special touches had been given. I know, dear friend, that the sorrow
is irremediable; but the pain--the anguish--will become less sharp and
life will be less difficult. You will think of things to do such as he
would approve of your doing, and every day will be sacred with his
memory--nay, his presence. There is no pretence or visionariness in
saying that he is still part of you. Mr. Lewes sends his affectionate
regards, which you will not reject. We mention your name to each other
with a certain tenderness, as if your sorrow somehow belonged to our
love for each other. But I hardly dare to think of what these words
which I have written mean. Sometimes in the midst of happiness I cry
suddenly at the thought that there must come a parting. Are not you
and I very near to one another? I mean in feeling.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 19th Nov. 1872.]
I found a letter from dear Mrs. William Smith on my return, and I have
had another since in answer to mine. It is inevitable that her sense
of loss should deepen for some time to come. I am hoping that
by-and-by active interests will arise to make her feel that her life
is useful.
The article in _Blackwood_ was chiefly valuable for the extracts it
contained from Mrs. Smith's own memoir. One felt that the writer of
the article had not known Mr. William Smith personally; but her
sketches did something to supply that defect. Mr. Lewes felt a
peculiar attachment to him. He had always been thoroughly sympathetic,
both morally and intellectually, and it was a constant regret to us
that he and Mrs. Smith were so far away. There was no man with whom
Mr. Lewes would have found it so pleasant to discuss questions of
science and philosophy--his culture was so rare and his disposition so
free from littleness: and his wife was worthy of him.
Gertrude's little Blanche is a charming young lady--fat, cooing, and
merry. It is a great comfort to see her with this hope fulfilled--I
mean to see Gertrude with her hope fulfilled, and not Blanche, as the
grammar seemed to imply. That small person's hopes are at present easy
of fulfilment.
We have made but one expedition since our return, and that was to see
the pictures at Bethnal Green--altogether a cheering and delightful
sight. Of course you saw them long ago. The Troyon is my favorite.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 19th Nov. 1872.]
I will impute your total silence towards me for many, many months to
your preoccupation with the work now announced, and will not believe
that a greeting from me at this time of the year will be less welcome
than of old. I remember that last year one of your prettily-expressed
wishes was that I should write another book and--I think you
added--send it to you to read. On the strength of this remembrance,
you will be one of the three exceptional people to whom we order
"Middlemarch" to be sent. But do not write to me about it, because
until a book has quite gone away from me and become entirely of the
_non-ego_--gone thoroughly from the wine-press into the casks--I would
rather not hear or see anything that is said about it.
Cara sent me word that you were looking, as usual, very pretty, and
showing great energy on interesting occasions. But this was two months
ago, and some detailed news from yourself would be a delightful gift.
I am getting stronger, and showing some meagre benefit from being
indulged in all possible ways. Mr. Lewes makes a martyr of himself in
writing all my notes and business letters. Is not that being a sublime
husband? For all the while there are studies of his own being put
aside--studies which are a seventh heaven to him.
Is there any one who does not need patience? For when one's outward
lot is perfect, the sense of inward imperfection is the more pressing.
You are never long without entering into my thoughts, though you may
send nothing fresh to feed them. But I am ashamed of expressing regard
for my friends, since I do no earthly thing for them.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1872.]
A kiss to you on your birthday! with gratitude for your delightful
letter, such as only you can write me. How impossible it is to _feel_
that we are as old as we are! Sometimes it seems a little while since
you and I were walking over the Radford fields, with the youth in our
limbs, talking and laughing with that easy companionship which it is
difficult to find in later life. I am busy now reading Mr. Lewes's
manuscript, which has been accumulating fast during my "Middlemarch"
time. Did I tell you that in the last two years he has been mastering
the principles of mathematics? That is an interesting fact,
impersonally, at his age. Old Professor Stowe--Mrs. H. B. Stowe's
husband--sent me this story, which is almost better than Topsy. He
heard a school-master asking a little black girl the usual questions
about creation--who made the earth, the sea, etc. At last came, "And
who made you?" Some deliberation was necessary, after which she said,
"Nobody; _I was so afore_." Expect to be immensely disappointed with
the close of "Middlemarch." But look back to the Prelude. I wish I
could take the wings of the morning every now and then to cheer you
with an hour's chat, such as you feel the need of, and then fly back
on the wings of the wind. I have the most vivid thoughts of you,
almost like a bodily presence; but these do you no good, since you can
only believe that I have them--and you are tired of believing after
your work is done.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 1st Dec. 1872.]
Before your letter came, Mr. Lewes had been expressing to me his
satisfaction (and he is very hard to satisfy with articles on me) in
the genuineness of judgment, wise moderation, and excellent selection
of points in "Maga's" review of "Middlemarch." I have just now been
reading the review myself--Mr. Lewes had meant at first to follow his
rule of not allowing me to see what is written about myself--and I am
pleased to find the right moral note struck everywhere, both in remark
and quotation. Especially I am pleased with the writer's sensibility
to the pathos in Mr. Casaubon's character and position, and with the
discernment he shows about Bulstrode. But it is a perilous matter to
approve the praise which is given to our own doings.
I think that such an article as that which you hint at on the tone of
the Bar is very desirable. We are usually at one on points of feeling.
Is it not time now to insist that ability and not lying is the force
of a barrister--that he has not to make himself a bad actor in order
to put a case well, but to get the clearness and breadth of vision
which will enable him to handle the evidence effectively?
Untruthfulness usually ends by making men foolish. I have never read
"Spiritual Wives," but judging from the extracts which have come
before me, it must be a nasty book. Still, if people will be censors,
let them weigh their words. I mean that the words were unfair by the
disproportionateness of the condemnation which everybody with some
conscience must feel to be one of the great difficulties in denouncing
a particular person. Every unpleasant dog is only one of many, but we
kick him because he comes in our way, and there is always some want of
distributive justice in the kicking.
I shall be agreeably surprised if there is a respectable subscription
for the four volumes. Already the numbers taken have been
satisfactorily large, considering the indisposition of the public to
buy books by comparison with other wares, and especially to buy novels
at a high price. I fancy every private copy has done duty for a
circle. Friends of mine in the country have implied that they lent
their copies to all the readers in their neighborhood. A little fuss
of advertisement, together with the reviews, will perhaps create a few
more curious inquirers after the book, and impress its existence on
the slower part of the reading world. But really the reading world is,
after all, very narrow, as, according to the _Spectator_, the
"comfortable" world also is--the world able to give away a sovereign
without pinching itself. Those statistics just given about incomes are
very interesting.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 11th Dec. 1872.]
A thousand thanks for your kind interest in our project, and for the
trouble you have taken in our behalf. I fear the land buying and
building[20] is likely to come to nothing, and our construction to
remain entirely of the aerial sort. It is so much easier to imagine
other people doing wise things than to do them one's self!
Practically, I excel in nothing but paying twice as much as I ought
for everything. On the whole, it would be better if my life could be
done for me, and I could look on. However, it appears that the
question of the land at Shere may remain open until we can discuss it
with you at Weybridge; and there is no telling what we may not venture
on with your eyes to see through.
But, oh dear, I don't like anything that is troublesome under the name
of pleasure.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 12th Dec. 1872.]
I have had the news that you are safely landed at Pooree, so now I can
write with some courage. I have got some comfort--I trust it is not
false comfort--out of the probability that there will be much good
mingled with the evil of this winter's exile for you. You must be the
richer for it mentally, and your health may be the better--and then,
you will be back again in the late spring. In this way I make myself
contented under the incompleteness of our life without you, and I am
determined not to grumble at my share of the loss which falls so sadly
on Dr. Congreve and the children. Dr. Congreve kindly let me know when
you had got through the trials of the Red Sea, rather better than
might have been expected; and Sophie tells me that you speak of the
brilliant coloring in your new world as quite equal to any description
you had read. Beyond that all is a blank to me except the fact of your
arrival at Pooree, and all my feeling is taken up with the joy there
must have been in the meeting with Mr. Geddes. You find it very
difficult to write in the heat--so don't make the thought of me
disagreeable by associating it with a claim on you for a letter. I
will be grateful for scraps from your correspondence with home, and
wait for my turn when you come back to us. For ourselves, we think our
little granddaughter, Blanche, the perfection of a baby. She is,
dispassionately speaking, very pretty, and has a cooing, chanting song
of her own which it makes me happy to hear. Mr. Lewes goes on at his
writing with as much interest as ever, and is bringing the first part
of his work into its final shape. Since we came home I have been
reading his manuscript, which has been piling itself up in
preparation for my leisure, and I have been wearing my gravest
philosophic cap. Altogether we are dangerously happy. You remember
Mrs. Blank of Coventry? You know hers was another name for astonishing
cleverness in that town. Now, of course, she is old, and her
cleverness seems to have a mouldy flavor. _Apropos_ of the seventh
book of "Middlemarch"--which you may not have read, but never
mind--Mrs. Blank, having lain awake all night from compassion for
Bulstrode, said, "Poor, dear creature, after he had done so much for
that wretch, sitting up at night and attending on him! _and I don't
believe it was the brandy that killed him_--and what is to become of
Bulstrode now, he has nobody left but Christ!" I think this is worth
sending to India, you see; it is a little bit of old Coventry life
that may make you and Emily laugh with all the more lively memory in
the midst of your strange scenery. But there is a hovering terror
while I write to you from far off, lest my trivialities should find
you when you are ill or have some cause for being sad. In any case,
however, you will take my letter for a simple proof that I dwell on
you and Emily as images constantly present in my mind, and very often
moving to the foreground in my contemplation. Mr. Lewes is one with me
in many affectionate thoughts about you, and your names are often on
our lips. We are going to pass the Christmas week with our friends at
Weybridge; and I shall be glad to escape the London aspects of that
season--aspects that are without any happy association for me. Mr.
Lewes has just been in to speak to me, and begs me to say that he
hopes baby is raised to the _n_^{th} power. You see the lofty point of
view from which he regards the world at present. But there is enough
of the sap of affection in him to withstand all the dryness of the
dryest mathematics, and he has very hearty regards for you all,
including Mr. Geddes, not as a matter of course, but with special
emphasis. Good-bye, dear, dear friend. May it give you some little
satisfaction to think of me as yours always lovingly.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 18th Dec. 1872.]
Your letter was very welcome to me. I wanted to know how you were; and
I think that I discern in your words some growth of courage to face
the hard task--it is a hard task--of living a separate life. I reckon
it a great good to me that any writing of mine has been taken into
companionship by you, and seemed to speak with you of your own
experience. Thank you for telling me of that.
This weather, which is so melancholy in the privation it must cause to
those who are worst off in the world, adds a little weight to
everybody's griefs. But I trust that you find it a comfort, not an
oppression, to be among friends who make a little claim on your
attention. When you go to How, please tell me all about the place, and
whom you have near you, because I like to be able to imagine your
circumstances.
I have been, and am still, reading Mr. Lewes's manuscript--and I often
associate this with your dear husband, to whom I imagine mine would
have liked to send his proofs when the matter had reached the printing
stage.
We are both very well, and Mr. Lewes is enjoying his morning at his
desk. He likes very much to be included in your love, and has always
thought you one of the most charming women among our acquaintance.
Please not to say that he has bad taste in women. We both cherish very
tender thoughts of your sorrow, dear friend. Let me always be assured
that you think of me as yours affectionately.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mr. Simpson, 18th Dec. 1872.]
We have to thank you for two things especially. First, for the good
bargain you have made for "Middlemarch" with Australia; and secondly,
for the trouble you have kindly taken with the MS., which has come to
us safely in its fine Russian coat.
The four volumes, we imagine, must have been subscribed long ago; and
we should be glad to know, if it were convenient--perhaps even if it
were _in_convenient--what are the figures representing the courage of
"the trade" in the matter of a 42_s._ novel, which has already been
well distributed.
We both hope that your health is well confirmed, and that you are
prepared for Christmas pleasures, among which you would probably, like
Caleb Garth, reckon the extra "business" which the jolly season
carries in its hinder wallet.
_SUMMARY._
JANUARY, 1869, TO DECEMBER, 1872.
Poem on Agatha--Reading on Philology, "Iliad," "Faery Queen,"
Clough's Poems, Bright's Speeches, "Volpone," Lecture by Sir
Wm. Thomson--Writing "How Lisa Loved the King"--Browning and
Rector of Lincoln on Versification--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Browning's "Elisha"--Fourth visit to Italy--Two
months away--Letter to Mrs. Congreve from Paris--Dr.
Congreve's Reply to Professor Huxley in
_Fortnightly_--Meeting in Rome with Mrs. Bullock and Mr. and
Mrs. Cross--Letter to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe--Effect of
books--Religion of the future--Arrival of Thornton Lewes from
Natal--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Marriage engagements of Mr.
Beesley, Mr. Frederic Harrison, and Dr. Clifford
Allbut--Finished five "Sonnets on Childhood"--Letter to Mrs.
Stowe--"Old Town Folks"--Presentation of alien religious
convictions--Spiritualism--Reading Drayton and Grote--Writing
Introduction to "Middlemarch"--Reading
Theocritus--Burne-Jones's Pictures--Reading Littré on
Comte--Sainte Beuve--Thornton Lewes's continued
illness--Visit to Mrs. Cross at Weybridge--Reading for
"Middlemarch"--Asks Mrs. Congreve to get information about
provincial hospitals--Letter to Miss Hennell--The Byron
scandal--Byron a vulgar-minded genius--The
Kovilevskys--"Legend of Jubal" begun--Mr. W. G.
Clark--Reading Max Müller--Lecky and Herbert Spencer--Death
of Thornton Lewes--Letter to Miss Hennell describing month's
visit to Limpsfield--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Mr.
Doyle--Letter to F. Harrison on the Positivist
Problem--Aversion to personal statements--Shrinking from
deliverances--Letter to Miss Hennell on Charles Hennell's
"Inquiry"--Letter to Mrs. Congreve from Berlin--Sees Mommsen,
Bunsen, and Du Bois Reymond--Visit to Vienna--Return to
London--Three days' visit to the Rector of Lincoln College,
Oxford, and Mrs. Pattison--Meets Sir Benjamin
Brodie--Professor Rawlinson and Professor Phillips--Dr.
Rolleston and the Miss Gaskells, and Miss Arnold--Mr. Jowett,
Professor Henry Smith, and Mr. Fowler--Re-reading Grove "On
the Correlation of the Physical Forces"--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Dickens's Death, and his story of President
Lincoln--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--Visit to Cromer--Growing
dislike of migratory life--Letter to Mrs. Lytton on the death
of Lord Clarendon--Danger of women living too exclusively in
the affections--Reading Mendelssohn's letters--From Cromer to
Harrogate and Whitby--Meets Mrs. Burne-Jones there--"Armgart"
begun--Three weeks' visit to Limpsfield--Letter to Miss
Hennell on the beginning of the war between Germany and
France--Jowett's "Plato"--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--The French
nation--"Armgart" finished at Limpsfield--Return to the
Priory--Letter to Miss Hennell--A popular preacher--Growing
influence of ideas--Goethe's contempt for revolution of
1830--Letter to Mme. Bodichon on the faults of one's
friends--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Industrial schemes--Greater
cheerfulness--Frederic Harrison on Bismarckism--Writing "Miss
Brooke"--Reading Wolf's "Prolegomena to Homer" and "Wilhelm
Meister"--Visit to Mme. Bodichon at Ryde--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Ritualism at Ryde--Brutalizing effect of German
war--Trollope's "Sir Harry Hotspur"--Limits of woman's
constancy--Miss Bury's engagement to Mr. Geddes--Letter to
Mrs. Peter Taylor--Three and a half months' visit to
Petersfield--Mode of life--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--Lowell's
"My Study Windows"--"Diethelm von Buchenberg" in _Deutschen
Novellenschatz_--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Mrs. Geddes's
marriage--Letter to John Blackwood--Relinquishment of Scott
Commemoration--Captain Lockhart--Letter to John Blackwood on
MS. of "Middlemarch"--Visit from Tennyson--Letter to Mrs.
Lytton on death of her son--Letter to Miss Mary Cross on
story in _Macmillan's Magazine_--Letter to Mrs. Peter
Taylor--Suffering from cold--Got's acting--Crystal Palace
music--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Delight in intellectual
activity--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Enjoyment of
Cherrimans--Letter to John Blackwood--Visit to Weybridge--Mr.
Main, the collector of the "Sayings"--Reception of
"Middlemarch"--Letters to Miss Hennell--Foster's "Life of
Dickens"--Low health--Tichborne trial--Letters to John
Blackwood: pleased with the "Sayings"--Visit to
Weybridge--Length of "Middlemarch"--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve--Reading Johnson's "Lives of the Poets"--Finished
second volume of "Middlemarch"--Letter to Mrs.
Stowe--Spiritualistic phenomena--Letter to John
Blackwood--German and French interest in
"Middlemarch"--Asher's edition--German readers--Letter to
Mrs. Peter Taylor on death of Mazzini--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Low health--Letter to Mrs. Stowe--Spirit
communications--Letter to Mrs. Congreve on Wallace's "Eastern
Archipelago"--Tylor's "Primitive Culture"--Letter to John
Blackwood--"Middlemarch" finished--Letter to Mrs. Cross on
invitation to Six-Mile Bottom, Cambridge--Month's visit to
Homburg--Letter to Mrs. Cross--Trèves--On gambling at
Homburg--Letter to John Blackwood--Play of a young lady at
Homburg--German reading--Letter to Mrs. Cross from
Boulogne--Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith of condolence on loss of
her husband--Memorial article on Mr. Wm. Smith--Letter to
Mrs. Peter Taylor on Mr. Wm. Smith--Letters to Miss
Hennell--Presentation copies of "Middlemarch"--Mr. Lewes
studying mathematics--Letter to John Blackwood--"Maga's"
review of "Middlemarch"--Tone of the Bar--Letter to J. W.
Cross on building a house at Shere--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve--Happiness--Story of Coventry lady and
Bulstrode--Letter to Mr. Simpson--MS. of "Middlemarch."
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Dr. Congreve's article, "Mr. Huxley on M. Comte," in _Fortnightly
Review_, April, 1869.
[7] See _ante_, vol. i. p. 220.
[8] Professor Edmund Spenser Beesley, a well-known member of the
Positivist body, who married Miss Crompton, daughter of Mr. Justice
Crompton.
[9] An article by Mr. Frederic Harrison in the _Fortnightly Review_ of
November, 1869.
[10] Portrait of Charles Hennell.
[11] Written after the death of Lord Clarendon, who, Lady Lytton tells
me, had been like a father to her.
[12] "Armgart."
[13] Miss Octavia Hill. Walmer Street Industrial Experiment, tried by
Canon Fremantle under Miss Hill's supervision.
[14] Scott Commemoration.
[15] Written just before the death of Mrs. Lytton's eldest boy.
[16] "Marie of Villefranche." _Macmillan's Magazine_, August, 1871.
[17] The collector of "The Wise, Witty, and Tender Sayings of George
Eliot."
[18] Mr. W. H. Bullock--changed his name to Hall.
[19] The Six-Mile Bottom shooting had been let to H. R. H. that year.
[20] A site offered near Shere, in Surrey.
CHAPTER XVII.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1873.]
_Jan. 1._--At the beginning of December the eighth and last book of
"Middlemarch" was published, the three final numbers having been
published monthly. No former book of mine has been received with more
enthusiasm--not even "Adam Bede;" and I have received many deeply
affecting assurances of its influence for good on individual minds.
Hardly anything could have happened to me which I could regard as a
greater blessing than the growth of my spiritual existence when my
bodily existence is decaying. The merely egoistic satisfactions of
fame are easily nullified by toothache, and _that_ has made my chief
consciousness for the last week. This morning, when I was in pain, and
taking a melancholy breakfast in bed, some sweet-natured creature sent
a beautiful bouquet to the door for me, bound round with the written
wish that "Every year may be happier and happier, and that God's
blessing may ever abide with the immortal author of 'Silas Marner.'"
Happily my dear husband is well, and able to enjoy these things for
me. That he rejoices in them is my most distinct personal pleasure in
such tributes.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 3d Jan. 1873.]
It was very pleasant to have your greeting on the New Year, though I
was keeping its advent in melancholy guise. I am relieved now from the
neuralgic part of my ailment, and am able to write something of the
hearty response I feel to your good wishes.
We both hope that the coming year may continue to you all the family
joys which must make the core of your happiness, without underrating
golf and good contributors to "Maga." Health has to be presupposed as
the vehicle of all other good, and in this respect you may be possibly
better off in '73 than in '72, for I think you have had several
invalidings within the last twelve months.
Mr. Langford wrote yesterday that he knew of an article on
"Middlemarch" being in preparation for the _Times_, which certainly
was never before so slow in noticing a book of mine. Whether such an
article will affect the sale favorably seems eminently uncertain, and
can only complicate Mr. Simpson's problem.
We have been glad to welcome our good friend, Mr. Anthony Trollope,
after his long absence. He is wonderfully full of life and energy, and
will soon bring out his two thick volumes on Australian colonies.
My friendly Dutch publishers lately sent us a handsome row of
volumes--George Eliot's "Romantische Werke," with an introduction, in
which comparisons are safely shrouded for me in the haze of Dutch, so
that if they are disadvantageous, I am not pained.
Please give my best wishes for the coming year to Mr. William
Blackwood.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 4th Jan. 1873.]
At last I break my silence, and thank you for your kind care about me.
I am able to enjoy my reading at the corner of my study fire, and am
at that unpitiable stage of illness which is counterbalanced by extra
petting. I have been fearing that you too may be undergoing some
_malaise_ of a kindred sort, and I should like to be assured that you
have quite got through the troubles which threatened you.
How good you have all been to me, and what a disappointing investment
of affection I have turned out! But those evening drives, which
perhaps encouraged the faceache, have left me a treasure of picture
and poetry in my memory quite worth paying for, and in these days all
prices are high.
The new year began very prettily for me at half-past eight in the
morning with a beautiful bouquet, left by an unknown at our door, and
an inscription asking that "God's blessing might ever abide with the
immortal author of 'Silas Marner.'"
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 25th Feb. 1873.]
I am much pleased with the color and the lettering of the guinea
edition, and the thinner paper makes it delightfully handy. Let us
hope that some people still want to read it, since a friend of ours,
in one short railway bit to and fro, saw two persons reading the
paper-covered numbers. Now is the moment when a notice in the _Times_
might possibly give a perceptible impulse.
Kohn, of Berlin, has written to ask us to allow him to reprint the
"Spanish Gypsy" for £50, and we have consented. Some Dresdener, who
has translated poems of Tennyson's, asked leave to translate the
"Spanish Gypsy" in 1870, but I have not heard of his translation
appearing.
The rain this morning is welcome, in exchange for the snow, which in
London has none of its country charms left to it. Among my books,
which comfort me in the absence of sunshine, is a copy of the "Handy
Royal Atlas" which Mr. Lewes has got for me. The glorious index is all
the more appreciable by me, because I am tormented with German
historical atlases which have no index, and are covered with names
swarming like ants on every map.
The catalogue coming in the other day renewed my longing for the cheap
edition of Lockhart's novels, though I have some compunction in
teasing your busy mind with my small begging. I should like to take
them into the country, where our days are always longer for reading.
I have a love for Lockhart because of Scott's Life, which seems to me
a perfect biography. How different from another we know of!
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 28th Feb. 1873.]
After your kind words I will confess that I should very much like to
have the "Manual of Geography" by Mackay, and Bayne's "Port Royal
Logic."
_À propos_ of the "Lifted Veil," I think it will not be judicious to
reprint it at present. I care for the idea which it embodies and which
justifies its painfulness. A motto which I wrote on it yesterday
perhaps is a sufficient indication of that idea:
"Give me no light, great heaven, but such as turns
To energy of human fellowship;
No powers, save the growing heritage
That makes completer manhood."
But it will be well to put the story in harness with some other
productions of mine, and not send it forth in its dismal loneliness.
There are many things in it which I would willingly say over again,
and I shall never put them in any other form. But we must wait a
little. The question is not in the least one of money, but of care for
the best effect of writing, which often depends on circumstances, much
as pictures depend on light and juxtaposition.
I am looking forward with interest to "Kenelm Chillingly," and
thinking what a blessed lot it is to die on just finishing a book, if
it could be a good one. I mean, it is blessed only to quit activity
when one quits life.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 1st Mch. 1873.]
If I had been quite sure of your address I should have written to you
even before receiving your dear letter, over which I have been crying
this morning. The prompting to write to you came from my having ten
days ago read your Memoir--brief yet full--of the precious last months
before the parting. Mrs. P. Taylor brought me her copy as a loan. But
may I not beg to have a copy of my own? It is to me an invaluable bit
of writing; the inspiration of a great sorrow, born of a great love,
has made it perfect; and ever since I read it I have felt a
strengthening companionship from it. You will perhaps think it strange
when I tell you that I have been more cheerful since I read the record
of his sweet, mild heroism, which threw emphasis on every blessing
left in his waning life, and was silent over its pangs. I have even
ventured to lend this copy, which is not my own, to a young married
woman of whom I am very fond, because I think it is an unforgetable
picture of that union which is the ideal of marriage, and which I
desire young people to have in their minds as a goal.
It is a comfort in thinking of you that you have two lovable young
creatures with you. I have found quite a new interest in young people
since I have been conscious that I am getting older; and if all
personal joy were to go from me as it has gone from you, I could
perhaps find some energy from that interest, and try to teach the
young. I wish, dear friend, it were possible to convey to you the
sense I have of a great good in being permitted to know of your
happiness, and of having some communion with the sorrow which is its
shadow. Your words have a consecration for me, and my husband shares
my feeling. He sends his love along with mine. He sobbed with
something which is a sort of grief better worth having than any
trivial gladness, as he read the printed record of your love. He,
too, is capable of that supreme, self-merging love.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 14th Mch. 1873.]
This is good news about the guinea edition, but I emphatically agree
with you that it will be well to be cautious in further printing. I
wish you could see a letter I had from California the other day,
apparently from a young fellow, and beginning, "Oh, you dear lady! I
who have been a Fred Vincy ever so long ... have played vagabond and
ninny ever since I knew the meaning of such terms," etc., etc.
I am sorry to infer, from what you say about being recommended to go
to a German bath, that you have been out of health lately. There
really is a good deal of curative virtue in the air, waters, and
exercise one gets at such places, and if the boredom were not strong
enough to counteract the better influences, it would be worth while to
endure.
That phrase of Miss Stuart's--"fall flat on the world"--is worth
remembering. I should think it is not likely to prove prophetic, if
she is at all like her cousin, whose fair, piquant face remains very
vividly before me. The older one gets, the more one delights in these
young things, rejoicing in their joys.
The ministerial crisis interests me, though it does not bring me any
practical need for thinking of it, as it does to you. I wish there
were some solid, philosophical Conservative to take the reins--one who
knows the true functions of stability in human affairs, and, as the
psalm says, "Would also practice what he knows."
[Sidenote: Letter to Edward Burne-Jones, 20th Mch. 1873.]
I suppose my hesitation about writing to you to tell you of a debt I
feel towards you is all vanity. If you did not know me, you might
think a great deal more of my judgment than it is worth, and I should
feel bold in that possibility. But when judgment is understood to
mean simply one's own impression of delight, one ought not to shrink
from making one's small offering of burnt clay because others can give
gold statues.
It would be narrowness to suppose that an artist can only care for the
impressions of those who know the methods of his art as well as feel
its effects. Art works for all whom it can touch. And I want in
gratitude to tell you that your work makes life larger and more
beautiful to me. I mean that historical life of all the world, in
which our little personal share often seems a mere standing-room from
which we can look all round, and chiefly backward. Perhaps the work
has a strain of special sadness in it--perhaps a deeper sense of the
tremendous outer forces which urge us, than of the inner impulse
towards heroic struggle and achievement--but the sadness is so
inwrought with pure, elevating sensibility to all that is sweet and
beautiful in the story of man and in the face of the earth that it can
no more be found fault with than the sadness of mid-day, when Pan is
touchy, like the rest of us. Don't you agree with me that much
superfluous stuff is written on all sides about purpose in art? A
nasty mind makes nasty art, whether for art or any other sake; and a
meagre mind will bring forth what is meagre. And some effect in
determining other minds there must be, according to the degree of
nobleness or meanness in the selection made by the artist's soul.
Your work impresses me with the happy sense of noble selection and of
power determined by refined sympathy. That is why I wanted to thank
you in writing, since lip-homage has fallen into disrepute.
I cannot help liking to tell you a sign that my delight must have
taken a little bit of the same curve as yours. Looking, _à propos_ of
your picture, into the "Iphigenia in Aulis," to read the chorus you
know of, I found my blue pencil-marks made seven years ago (and gone
into that forgetfulness which makes my mind seem very large and
empty)--blue pencil-marks made against the dance--loving Kithara and
the footsteps of the muses and the nereids dancing on the shining
sands. I was pleased to see that my mind had been touched in a dumb
way by what has touched yours to fine utterance.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 15th April, 1873]
Welcome back to Europe! What a comfort to see your handwriting dated
from San Remo--to think that Dr. Congreve's anxieties about your
voyage are at an end, and that you are once more in the post which is
more specially and permanently yours! Mr. Lewes finds fault with your
letter for not telling enough; but the mere fact of your safety seems
to fill it quite full for me, and I can think of no drawbacks--not
even of the cold, which I hope is by this time passing away for you,
as it is for us. You must be so rich in memories that we and our small
ordinary news must appear very flat to you, but we will submit to be a
little despised by you if only we can have you with us again. I have
never lost the impression of Dr. Congreve's look when he paid us his
farewell visit, and spoke of his anxiety about your voyage, fearing
that you had started too late; and that impression gives me all the
keener sympathy with the repose I trust he is feeling. About ourselves
I have only good news to tell. We are happier than ever, and have no
troubles. We are searching for a country-house to go to at the end of
May or earlier. I long for the perfect peace and freedom of the
country again. The hours seem to stretch themselves there, and to hold
twice as much thought as one can get into them in town, where
acquaintances and small claims inevitably multiply.
Imagine us nearly as we were when we last saw you--only a little
older--with unchanged affection for you and undimmed interest in
whatever befalls you. Do not tax yourself to write unless you feel a
pleasure in that imperfect sort of communication. I will try not to
fear evil if you are silent, but you know that I am glad to have
something more than hope to feed on.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 25th April, 1873.]
It was a cordial to me this morning to learn that you have the project
of going with your young friend to Cambridge at the end of the autumn.
I could not have thought of anything better to wish for on your behalf
than that you should have the consciousness of helping a younger life.
I know, dear friend, that so far as you directly are concerned with
this life the remainder of it can only be patience and resignation.
But we are not shut up within our individual life, and it is one of
the gains of advancing age that the good of young creatures becomes a
more definite, intense joy to us. With that renunciation for ourselves
which age inevitably brings, we get more freedom of soul to enter into
the life of others; what we can never learn they will know, and the
gladness which is a departed sunlight to us is rising with the
strength of morning to them.
I am very much interested in the fact of young women studying at
Cambridge, and I have lately seen a charming specimen of the pupils at
Hitchin--a very modest, lovely girl, who distinguished herself in the
last examination. One is anxious that, in the beginning of a higher
education for women--the immediate value of which is chiefly the
social recognition of its desirableness--the students should be
favorable subjects for experiment, girls or young women whose natures
are large and rich enough not to be used up in their efforts after
knowledge.
Mr. Lewes is very well and goes on working joyously. Proofs come in
slowly, but he is far from being ready with all the manuscript which
will be needed for his preliminary volume--the material, which has
long been gathered, requiring revision and suggesting additions.
Do think it a privilege to have that fine _physique_ of yours instead
of a headachy, dyspeptic frame such as many women drag through life.
Even in irremediable sorrow it is a sort of blasphemy against one's
suffering fellow-beings to think lightly of any good which they would
be thankful for in exchange for something they have to bear.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1873.]
_May 19._--We paid a visit to Cambridge at the invitation of Mr.
Frederick Myers, and I enjoyed greatly talking with him and some
others of the "Trinity Men." In the evenings we went to see the
boat-race, and then returned to supper and talk--the first evening
with Mr. Henry Sidgwick, Mr. Jebb, Mr. Edmund Gurney; the second, with
young Balfour, young Lyttelton, Mr. Jackson, and Edmund Gurney again.
Mrs. and Miss Huth were also our companions during the visit. On the
Tuesday morning we breakfasted at Mr. Henry Sidgwick's with Mr. Jebb,
Mr. W. G. Clark, Mr. Myers, and Mrs. and Miss Huth.
_May 22._--We went to the French play at the Princess's and saw Plessy
and Desclée in "Les Idées de Madame Aubray." I am just finishing again
Aristotle's "Poetics," which I first read in 1856.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 25th May, 1873.]
Our plans have been upset by the impossibility of finding a house in
the country that is suitable to us, and weariness of being deluded
into journeys of investigation by fanciful advertisements has inclined
Mr. Lewes for the present to say that we will go abroad. Still, I have
nothing to tell that is absolutely settled, and I must ask you, when
you return, to send a note to this house. If I am in England it will
be forwarded to me, and you will get a prompt answer. If I am silent
you will conclude that I am gone abroad. I think it is at the end of
June that you are to come home?
Here we have been wearing furs and velvet, and having fires all
through the past week, chiefly occupied by Mr. Lewes and me in a visit
to Cambridge. We were invited ostensibly to see the boat-race, but the
real pleasure of the visit consisted in talking with a hopeful group
of Trinity young men. On Monday we had a clear, cold day, more like
the fine weather of mid-winter than any tradition of May time. I hope
that you have had no such revisiting of winter at San Remo. How much
we should enjoy having you with us to narrate everything that has
happened to you in the last eventful half year! I shall feel the loss
of this, as an immediate prospect, to be the greatest disadvantage in
our going abroad next month--if we go.
Your last news of Emily and of "baby's teeth" is cheerful. "Baby's
teeth" is a phrase that enters much into our life just now. Little
Blanche had a sad struggle with her first little bit of ivory, but she
has been blooming again since, and is altogether a ravishing child.
To-day we have had a large collection of visitors, and I have the
usual Sunday evening condition of brain. But letters are so constantly
coming and claiming my time to answer them, that I get fidgety lest I
should neglect to write to you; and I was determined not to let
another day pass without letting you have a proof that I think of you.
When I am silent please believe that the silence is due to feebleness
of body, which narrows my available time. Mr. Lewes often talks of
you, and will value any word from you about yourself as much as I
shall.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 2d June, 1873.]
Thanks for sending me word of poor Miss Rebecca Franklin's death. It
touches me deeply. She was always particularly good and affectionate
to me, and I had much happiness in her as my teacher.
In September a house near Chislehurst will be open to us--a house
which we think of ultimately making our sole home, turning our backs
on London. But we shall be allowed to have it, furnished, for a year
on trial.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1873.]
_June._--In the beginning of June we paid a visit to Mr. Jowett at
Oxford, meeting there Mr. and Mrs. Charles Roundell, then newly
married. We stayed from Saturday to Monday, and I was introduced to
many persons of interest. Professor T. Green, Max Müller, Thomson, the
Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, a Mr. Wordsworth, the grandson
of the poet, who had spent some time in India, and a host of others.
_June 23._--Started for the Continent. Fontainebleau, Plombières, etc.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 9th Aug. 1873.]
I feel myself guilty that I have allowed the vicissitudes of
travelling to hinder me from writing to you, for the chance that a
letter from me might be welcome to you in what I have been imagining
as the first weeks of your return to England and the house in
Mecklenburgh Square. I am sure that I should not have been guilty in
this way if I had been at any time able to say where you should send
me an answer which I could call for at a _Poste Restante_. But we have
been invariably uncertain as to the length of our stay in any one
place and as to our subsequent route; and I confess that I shrink from
writing a letter full of my own doings, without the prospect of
getting some news in return. I am usually in a state of fear rather
than of hope about my absent friends; and I dread lest a letter
written in ignorance about them should be ill-timed. But at last all
fears have become weaker than the uneasy sense that I have omitted to
send you a sign of your loved presence in my thoughts, and that you
may have lost a gleam of pleasure through my omission.
We left home on the 23d of June, with a sketch of a journey in our
minds, which included Grenoble, the Grande Chartreuse, Aix-les-Bains,
Chambéry, and Geneva. The last place I wished to get to, because my
friend Mme. d'Albert is not likely to live much longer, and I thought
that I should like to see her once more. But during a short stay at
Fontainebleau I began to feel that lengthy railway journeys were too
formidable for us old, weak creatures, and, moreover, that July and
August were not the best months for those southern regions. We were
both shattered, and needed quiet rather than the excitement of seeing
friends and acquaintances--an excitement of which we had been having
too much at home--so we turned aside by easy stages to the Vosges, and
spent about three weeks at Plombières and Luxeuil. We shall carry home
many pleasant memories of our journey--of Fontainebleau, for example,
which I had never seen before. Then of the Vosges, where we count on
going again. Erckmann-Chatrian's books had been an introduction to
the lovely region; and several of them were our companions there. But
what small experiences these are compared with yours; and how we long
for the time when you will be seated with us at our country-house
(Blackbrook, near Bromley, is the name of the house), and tell us as
much as you can think of about this long year in which we have been
deprived of you. If you receive this letter in time to write me a
line, which would reach me by the 15th, I shall be most grateful if
you will give me that undeserved indulgence.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 24th Aug. 1873.]
On our return yesterday from our nine-weeks' absence I found a letter
from Mr. Main, in which he shows some anxiety that I should write you
the "formal sanction" you justly require before admitting extracts
from "Middlemarch" in the new edition of the "Sayings." I have no
objection, if you see none, to such an enlargement of the volume, and
I satisfy our good Mr. Main's promptitude by writing the needed
consent at once.
We used our plan of travel as "a good thing to wander from," and went
to no single place (except Fontainebleau) to which we had beforehand
projected going.
Our most fortunate wandering was to the Vosges--to Plombières and
Luxeuil--which have made us in love with the mode of life at the
_Eaux_ of France, as greatly preferable to the ways of the German
_Bad_.
We happened to be at Nancy just as the Germans were beginning to quit
it, and we saw good store of _tricolores_ and paper lanterns ready in
the shop windows for those who wished to buy the signs of national
rejoicing. I can imagine that, as a Prussian lady told us, the Germans
themselves were not at all rejoiced to leave that pretty town for
"les bords de la Spree," where, in French dialogue, all Germans are
supposed to live.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1873.]
_Sept. 4._--Went to Blackbrook, near Bickley.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 17th Sept. 1873.]
Thanks, dear friend, for the difficult exertion you gave to the
telling of what I so much wished to know--the details of the
trouble[21] which you have all had to go through either directly or
sympathetically. But I will not dwell now on what it cost you, I fear,
too much pain to recall so as to give me the vivid impressions I felt
in reading your letter. The great practical result of such trouble is
to make us all more tender to each other; this is a world in which we
must pay heavy prices for love, as you know by experience much deeper
than mine.
I will gossip a little about ourselves now. We gave up our intention
of going far southward, fearing the fatigue of long railway journeys,
and the heat (which hardly ever came) of July and August in the region
we had thought of visiting. So, after staying a very enjoyable time at
Fontainebleau, we went to the Vosges, and at Plombières and Luxeuil we
should have felt ourselves in paradise if it had not been for a sad
deafness of George's, which kept us uneasy and made us hurry to that
undesirable place, Frankfort, in order to consult Spiess. At Frankfort
the nearest bath was the also undesirable Homburg; so we spent or
wasted a fortnight there, winning little but the joy of getting away
again. The journey home, which we took very easily, was
interesting--through Metz, Verdun, Rheims, and Amiens.
As to our house, spite of beautiful lawn, tall trees, fine
kitchen-garden, and good, invigorating air, we have already made up
our minds that it will not do for our home. Still, we have many things
to enjoy, but we shall not probably remain here longer than to the end
of October.
My motherly love to all such young ones as may be around you. I do not
disturb George in order to ask for messages from him, being sure that
his love goes with mine.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 19th Sept. 1873.]
I quite assent to your proposal that there should be a new edition of
"Middlemarch" in one volume, at 7_s._ 6_d._--to be prepared at once,
but not published too precipitately.
I like your project of an illustration; and the financial arrangements
you mention are quite acceptable to me.
For one reason especially I am delighted that the book is going to be
reprinted--namely, _that I can see the proof-sheets and make
corrections_. Pray give orders that the sheets be sent to me. I should
like the binding to be of a rich, sober color, with very plain Roman
lettering. It might be called a "revised edition."
Thanks for the extract from Mr. Collins's letter. I did not know that
there was really a Lowick, in a Midland county too. Mr. Collins has my
gratitude for feeling some regard towards Mr. Casaubon, in whose life
_I_ lived with much sympathy.
When I was at Oxford, in May, two ladies came up to me after dinner:
one said, "How could you let Dorothea marry _that_ Casaubon?" The
other, "Oh, I understand her doing that, but why did you let her marry
the other fellow, whom I cannot bear?" Thus two "ardent admirers"
wished that the book had been quite different from what it is.
I wonder whether you have abandoned--as you seemed to agree that it
would be wise to do--the project of bringing out my other books in a
cheaper form than the present 3_s._ 6_d._, which, if it were not for
the blemish of the figure illustrations, would be as pretty an edition
as could be, and perhaps as cheap as my public requires. Somehow, the
cheap books that crowd the stalls are always those which look as if
they were issued from Pandemonium.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 11th Oct. 1873.]
I am rather ashamed of our grumblings. We are really enjoying the
country, and have more than our share of everything. George has happy
mornings at his desk now, and we have fine bracing air to walk in--air
which I take in as a sort of nectar. We like the bits of scenery round
us better and better as we get them by heart in our walks and drives.
The house, with all its defects, is very pretty, and more delightfully
secluded, without being remote from the conveniences of the world,
than any place we have before thought of as a possible residence for
us.
I am glad that you have been seeing the Cowper Temples. My knowledge
of them has not gone beyond dining with them at Mrs. Tollemache's, and
afterwards having a good conversational call from them, but they both
struck me very agreeably.
Mr. Henry Sidgwick is a chief favorite of mine--one of whom his
friends at Cambridge say that they always expect him to act according
to a higher standard than they think of attributing to any other chief
man, or of imposing on themselves. "Though we kept our own fellowships
without believing more than he did," one of them said to me, "we
should have felt that Henry Sidgwick had fallen short if he had not
renounced his."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 12th Oct. 1873.]
Our plan is not to give up our London house, but to have a country
place as a retreat. We want a good house in a lovely country, _away
from rows of villas_, but within easy reach of all conveniences. This
seems an immodest requirement in a world where one good is hardly to
be got without renunciation of another. You perceive that we are
getting very old and fastidious.
I like to interpret your enjoyment of Brighton and its evening skies
as a proof that you flourish there physically. All things are to be
endured and counted even as a fuller life, with a body free from pain
and depressing sensations of weakness; but illness is a partial death,
and makes the world dim to us.
We have no great strength to boast of; but we are so unspeakably happy
in all other respects that we cannot grumble at this tax on us as
elderly mortals.
Our little Blanche grows in grace, and her parents have great delight
in her--Charles being quite as fond a father as if he had beforehand
been an idolizer of babies.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, Sunday, 20th Oct. 1873.]
The chances of conversation were against my being quite clear to you
yesterday as to the cases in which it seems to me that conformity is
the higher rule. What happened to be said or not said is of no
consequence in any other light than that of my anxiety not to appear
what I should _hate to be_--which is surely not an ignoble, egoistic
anxiety, but belongs to the worship of the Best.
All the great religions of the world, historically considered, are
rightly the objects of deep reverence and sympathy--they are the
record of spiritual struggles, which are the types of our own. This is
to me pre-eminently true of Hebrewism and Christianity, on which my
own youth was nourished. And in this sense I have no antagonism
towards any religious belief, but a strong outflow of sympathy. Every
community met to worship the highest Good (which is understood to be
expressed by God) carries me along in its main current; and if there
were not reasons against my following such an inclination, I should go
to church or chapel constantly for the sake of the delightful emotions
of fellowship which come over me in religious assemblies--the very
nature of such assemblies being the recognition of a binding belief or
spiritual law, which is to lift us into willing obedience and save us
from the slavery of unregulated passion or impulse. And with regard to
other people, it seems to me that those who have no definite
conviction which constitutes a protesting faith may often more
beneficially cherish the good within them and be better members of
society by a conformity, based on the recognized good in the public
belief, than by a nonconformity which has nothing but negatives to
utter. _Not_, of course, if the conformity would be accompanied by a
consciousness of hypocrisy. That is a question for the individual
conscience to settle. But there is enough to be said on the different
points of view from which conformity may be regarded to hinder a ready
judgment against those who continue to conform after ceasing to
believe, in the ordinary sense. But with the utmost largeness of
allowance for the difficulty of deciding in special cases, it must
remain true that the highest lot is to have definite beliefs about
which you feel that "necessity is laid upon you" to declare them, as
something better which you are bound to try and give to those who have
the worse.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 5th Nov. 1873.]
It was a cheerful accompaniment to breakfast this morning to have a
letter from you, with the pretty picture you suggested of Miss
Blackwood's first ball. I am glad that I have seen the "little
fairy," so as to be able to imagine her.
We are both the better for the delicious air and quiet of the country.
We, too, like you, were sorry to quit the woods and fields for the
comparatively disturbed life which even we are obliged to lead in
town. Letters requesting interviews can no longer be made void by
one's absence; and I am much afflicted by these interruptions, which
break up the day without any adequate result of good to any mortal. In
the country the days have broad spaces, and the very stillness seems
to give a delightful roominess to the hours.
Is it not wonderful that the world can absorb so much "Middlemarch" at
a guinea the copy? I shall be glad to hear particulars, which, I
imagine, will lead to the conclusion that the time is coming for the
preparation of a 7_s._ 6_d._ edition. I am not fond of reading proofs,
but I am anxious to correct the sheets of this edition, both in
relation to mistakes already standing, and to prevent the accumulation
of others in the reprinting.
I am slowly simmering towards another big book; but people seem so
bent on giving supremacy to "Middlemarch" that they are sure not to
like any future book so well. I had a letter from Mr. Bancroft (the
American ambassador at Berlin) the other day, in which he says that
everybody in Berlin reads "Middlemarch." He had to buy two copies for
his house; and he found the rector of the university, a stupendous
mathematician, occupied with it in the solid part of the day. I am
entertaining you in this graceful way about myself because you will be
interested to know what are the chances for our literature abroad.
That Ashantee business seems to me hideous. What is more murderous
than stupidity? To have a husband gone on such an expedition is a
trial that passes my imagination of what it is possible to endure in
the way of anxiety.
We are looking forward to the "Inkerman" volume as something for me to
read aloud.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 11th Nov. 1873.]
During the latter part of our stay at Blackbrook we had become very
fond of the neighborhood. The walks and drives round us were
delightfully varied--commons, wooded lanes, wide pastures--and we felt
regretfully that we were hardly likely to find again a country-house
so secluded in a well-inhabited region.
We have seen few people at present. The George Howards are come from a
delicious, lonely _séjour_ in a tower of Bamborough Castle!--and he
has brought many sketches home. That lodging would suit you, wouldn't
it? A castle on a rock washed by the sea seems to me just a paradise
for you.
We have been reading John Mill's "Autobiography," like the rest of the
world. The account of his early education and the presentation of his
father are admirable; but there are some pages in the latter half that
one would have liked to be different.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 6th Dec. 1873.]
Our wish to see you after all the long months since June, added to
your affectionate invitation, triumphs over our disinclination to
move. So, unless something should occur to make the arrangement
inconvenient to you, we will join the dear party on your hearth in the
afternoon of the 24th, and stay with you till the 26th.
Notwithstanding my trust in your words, I feel a lingering uneasiness
lest we should be excluding some one else from enjoying Christmas with
you.
J.'s friend, Dr. Andrew Clark, has been prescribing for Mr.
Lewes--ordering him to renounce the coffee which has been a chief
charm of life to him, but being otherwise mild in his prohibitions.
I hear with much comfort that you are better, and have recovered your
usual activity. Please keep well till Christmas, and then love and pet
me a little, for that is always very sweet.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 22d Dec. 1873.]
In writing any careful presentation of human feelings, you must count
on that infinite stupidity of readers who are always substituting
their crammed notions of what ought to be felt for any attempt to
recall truly what they themselves have felt under like circumstances.
We are going to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with our friends
at Weybridge.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 28th Dec. 1873.]
We have been spending our Christmas in the country, and it is only on
my return that I got your kind note, with its pretty symbols of
remembrance. Such little signs are very sweet, coming from those whom
one loves well in spite of long separation. I am very glad to have
seen you in your new home, and to be able to imagine you among your
household treasures--especially to imagine both you and your husband
in enjoyable health. We have been invalidish lately, and have put
ourselves under the discipline of Dr. Andrew Clark, who is not one of
the "three meat-meals and alcohol" physicians, but rather one of those
who try to starve out dyspepsia.
We both send our kind regards to Mr. Taylor, and hope that he may
remain robust for his parliamentary campaign. Life, I trust, will deal
gently with you in future, dear friend, and give you years of peace
after your period of anxiety and of parting from old places and
habits.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1874.]
_Jan. 1._--The happy old year, in which we have had constant enjoyment
of life, notwithstanding much bodily _malaise_, is gone from us
forever. More than in any former year of my life love has been poured
forth to me from distant hearts, and in our home we have had that
finish to domestic comfort which only faithful, kind servants can
give. Our children are prosperous and happy--Charles evidently growing
in mental efficiency; we have abundant wealth for more than our actual
needs; and our unspeakable joy in each other has no other alloy than
the sense that it must one day end in parting. My dear husband has a
store of present and prospective good in the long work which is likely
to stretch through the remaining years of his intellectual activity;
and there have not been wanting signs that what he has already
published is being appreciated rightly by capable persons. He is
thinner than ever, but still he shows wonderful elasticity and nervous
energy. I have been for a month rendered almost helpless for
intellectual work by constant headache, but am getting a little more
freedom. Nothing is wanting to my blessings but the uninterrupted
power of work. For as to all my unchangeable imperfections I have
resigned myself.
_Jan. 17._--I received this morning, from Blackwood, the account of
"Middlemarch" and of "The Spanish Gypsy" for 1873. Of the guinea
edition of "Middlemarch," published in the spring, 2434 copies have
been sold. Of "The Spanish Gypsy" 292 copies have been sold during
1873, and the remaining copies are only 197. Thus, out of 4470 which
have been printed, 4273 have been distributed.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 12th Feb. 1874.]
We have received the volume--your kind and valuable gift--and I have
read it aloud with Mr. Lewes, all except the later pages, which we
both feel too much to bear reading them in common. You have given a
deeply interesting and, we think, instructive picture, and Mr. Lewes
has expressed his wish that it had not been restricted to a private
circulation. But I understand your shrinking from indiscriminate
publicity, at least in the first instance. Perhaps, if many judges on
whom you rely concur with Mr. Lewes, you will be induced to extend the
possible benefit of the volume. I care so much for the demonstration
of an intense joy in life on the basis of "plain living and high
thinking" in this time of more and more eager scrambling after wealth
and show. And then there are exquisite bits which you have rescued
from that darkness to which his self-depreciation condemned them. I
think I never read a more exquisite little poem than the one called
"Christian Resignation;" and Mr. Lewes, when I read it aloud, at once
exclaimed, "How very fine--read it again!" I am also much impressed
with the wise mingling of moderation with sympathy in that passage,
given in a note, from the article on Greg's "Political Essays."
What must have been the effort which the writing cost you I can--not
fully, but almost--imagine. But believe, dear friend, that in our
judgment you have not poured out these recollections in a cry of
anguish all in vain. I feel roused and admonished by what you have
told, and if I--then others.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 20th Feb. 1874.]
I imagined you absorbed by the political crisis, like the rest of the
world except the Lord Chief-justice, who must naturally have felt his
summing-up deserving of more attention. I, who am no believer in
salvation by ballot, am rather tickled that the first experiment with
it has turned against its adherents.
I have been making what will almost certainly be my last corrections
of the "Spanish Gypsy," and that causes me to look forward with
special satisfaction to the probable exhaustion of the present
edition. The corrections chiefly concern the quantity of the word
Zincálo, which ought to be Zíncalo; but there are some other
emendations; and, altogether, they make a difference to more than
seventy pages. But it would still be worth while to retain the
stereotypes, replacing simply the amended pages, there being about 400
in the whole book. I am sadly vexed that I did not think of having
these corrections ready for the German reprint.
I have been compunctious lately about my having sprinkled cold water
on the proposal suggested by Mr. Simpson, of bringing out my novels in
a cheaper way--on thinner paper and without illustrations. The
compunction was roused by my happening, in looking at old records, to
alight on some letters, one especially, written by a working-man, a
certain E. Hall,[22] more than ten years ago, begging me to bring out
my books in a form cheap enough to let a poor man more easily "get a
read of them." Hence, if you and Mr. Simpson see good to revive the
design in question, I am perfectly in accord.
You did send me a copy of Lord Lytton's "Fables"--many thanks for
doing so. Mr. Lewes had seen several of them in manuscript, and
thought well of their merits. I am reading them gradually. They are
full of graceful fancies and charming verse. So far as cleverness goes
it seems to me he can do almost anything; and the leanings of his mind
are towards the best things. The want I feel is of more definiteness
and more weight. The two stanzas to his wife, placed before "Far and
Near," are perfect.
I think I have never written to you since I wanted to tell you that I
admired very much the just spirit in which the notice of Mill's
"Autobiography" was written in the Magazine. Poor Dickens's latter
years wear a melancholy aspect, do they not? But some of the extracts
from his letters in the last volume have surprisingly more freshness
and naturalness of humor than any of the letters earlier given. Still,
something should be done by dispassionate criticism towards the reform
of our national habits in the matter of literary biography. Is it not
odious that as soon as a man is dead his desk is raked, and every
insignificant memorandum which he never meant for the public is
printed for the gossiping amusement of people too idle to re-read his
books? "He gave the people of his best. His worst he kept, his best he
gave;" but there is a certain set, not a small one, who are titillated
by the worst and indifferent to the best. I think this fashion is a
disgrace to us all. It is something like the uncovering of the dead
Byron's club-foot.
Mr. Lewes is in a more flourishing condition than usual, having been
helped by Dr. Andrew Clark, who ministers to all the brain-workers. I
have been ill lately: weeks of _malaise_ having found their climax in
lumbar-neuralgia, or something of that sort, which gave fits of pain
severe enough to deserve even a finer name.
My writing has not been stimulated as Scott's was under circumstances
of a like sort, and I have nothing to tell you securely.
Please give an expression of my well-founded sympathy to Mr. William
Blackwood. My experience feelingly convinces me of the hardship there
must be in his. I trust I shall hear of the lameness as a departed
evil.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 6th Mch. 1874.]
I send you by this post a small collection of my poems, which Mr.
Lewes wishes me to get published in May.
Such of them as have been already printed in a fugitive form have been
received with many signs of sympathy, and every one of those I now
send you represents an idea which I care for strongly, and wish to
propagate as far as I can. Else I should forbid myself from adding to
the mountainous heap of poetical collections.
The form of volume I have in my eye is a delightful duodecimo edition
of Keats's poems (without the "Endymion") published during his life:
just the volume to slip in the pocket. Mine will be the least bit
thicker.
I should like a darkish green cover, with Roman lettering. But you
will consider the physique and price of the book, and kindly let me
know your thoughts.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 25th Mch. 1874.]
I fear the fatal fact about your story[23] is the absence of God and
hell. "My dear madam, you have not presented motives to the children!"
It is really hideous to find that those who sit in the scribes' seats
have got no further than the appeal to selfishness, which they call
God. The old Talmudists were better teachers. They make Rachel
remonstrate with God for his hardness, and remind him that she was
kinder to her sister Leah than he to his people--thus correcting the
traditional God by human sympathy. However, we must put up with our
contemporaries, since we can neither live with our ancestors nor with
posterity.
It is cheering to see the programme of your new society. There
certainly is an awakening of conscience about animals in general as
our fellow-creatures--even the vogue of Balaam's ass is in that sense
a good sign. A lady wrote to me the other day that when she went to
church in the island of Sark the sermon turned on that remonstrant
hero or heroine.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 27th Mch. 1874.]
I can imagine how great an encouragement you feel from the enthusiasm
generously expressed in Mr. C.'s letter. It is always an admirable
impulse to express deeply felt admiration, but it is also possible
that you have some grateful readers who do not write to you. I have
heard men whose greatest delight is literature, say that they should
never dream of writing to an author on the ground of his books alone.
Poor Mr. Francis Newman must be aged now and rather weary of the world
and explanations of the world. He can hardly be expected to take in
much novelty. I have a sort of affectionate sadness in thinking of the
interest which, in far-off days, I felt in his "Soul" and "Phases of
Faith," and of the awe I had of him as a lecturer on mathematics at
the Ladies' College. How much work he has done in the world which has
left no deep, conspicuous mark, but has probably entered beneficially
into many lives!
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 23d April, 1874.]
How glorious this opening spring is! At this moment even London is so
beautiful that I come home filled with the Park landscapes, and see
them as a background to all my thoughts. Your account of Mr. George
Dawson is rather melancholy. I remember him only as a bright,
vigorous, young man--such as perhaps his sons are now. I imagine it is
his fortune, or, rather, misfortune, to have talked too much and too
early about the greatest things.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Mary Cross, 11th May, 1874.]
I could not dwell on your sweet gift[24] yesterday--I should perhaps
have begun to cry, which would not have been _convenable_ in a
hostess. For I have been in a suffering, depressed condition lately,
so your good, loving deed has come just at the right time--when I need
the helpfulness that love brings me--and my heart turns to you with
grateful blessing this Monday morning.
I have been looking at the little paintings with a treble delight,
because they were done for _me_, because you chose for them subjects
of my "making," and because they are done with a promising charm of
execution (which Mr. Lewes feels as well as I). It gives me special
gladness that you have this sort of work before you. Some skill or
other with the hands is needful for the completeness of the life, and
makes a bridge over times of doubt and despondency.
Perhaps it will please you to know that nineteen years ago, when Mr.
Lewes and I were looking at a print of Goethe's statue by Ritzchl,
which stands on a pedestal ornamented with _bassi relievi_ of his
characters, I said (little believing that my wish would ever be
fulfilled), "How I should like to be surrounded with creatures of my
own making!" And yesterday, when I was looking at your gift, that
little incident recurred to me. Your love seemed to have made me a
miniature pedestal.
I was comforted yesterday that you and J. had at least the pleasure of
hearing Bice Trollope sing, to make some amends for the long, cold
journey. Please do not any of you, forget that we shall only be three
weeks more in this corner of the world, and that we want to see you as
often as you care to come.
Best love to all, the mother being chief among the all.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1874.]
_May 19._--This month has been published a volume of my poems--"Legend
of Jubal, and other Poems." On the 1st of June we go into the country
to the cottage, Earlswood Common, for four months, and I hope there to
get deep shafts sunk in my prose book. My health has been a wretched
drag on me during this last half-year. I have lately written "a
symposium."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Cross, 14th June, 1874.]
I have so much trust in your love for us that I feel sure you will
like to know of our happiness in the secure peace of the country, and
the good we already experience in soul and body from the sweet breezes
over hill and common, the delicious silence, and the unbroken spaces
of the day. Just now the chill east wind has brought a little check to
our pleasure in our long afternoon drives; and I could wish that Canon
Kingsley and his fellow-worshippers of that harsh divinity could have
it reserved entirely for themselves as a tribal god.
We think the neighborhood so lovely that I must beg you to tell J. we
are in danger of settling here unless he makes haste to find us a
house in your "country-side"--a house with undeniable charms, on high
ground, in a strictly rural neighborhood (water and gas laid on,
nevertheless), to be vacant precisely this autumn!
My philosopher is writing away with double _verve_ in a projecting
window, where he can see a beautiful green slope crowned and studded
with large trees. I, too, have an agreeable corner in another room.
Our house has the essentials of comfort, and we have reason to be
contented with it.
I confess that my chief motive for writing about ourselves is to earn
some news of you, which will not be denied me by one or other of the
dear pairs of hands always ready to do us a kindness.
Our Sunday is really a Sabbath now--a day of thorough peace. But I
shall get hungry for a sight of some of the Sunday visitors before the
end of September.
I include all your family in a spiritual embrace, and am always yours
lovingly.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 16th June, 1874.]
We are revelling in the peace of the country, and have no drawback to
our delight except the cold winds, which have forced us to put on
winter clothing for the last four or five days.
Our wide common is very breezy, and the wind makes mournful music
round our walls. But I should think it is not possible to find a much
healthier region than this round Reigate and Redhill; and it is
prettier than half the places one crosses the Channel to see. We have
been hunting about for a permanent country home in the neighborhood,
but no house is so difficult to get as one which has at once seclusion
and convenience of position, which is neither of the suburban-villa
style nor of the grand hall and castle dimensions.
The restoration of the empire (in France), which is a threatening
possibility, seems to me a degrading issue. In the restoration of the
monarchy I should have found something to rejoice at, but the
traditions of the empire, both first and second, seem to my sentiment
bad. Some form of military despotism must be, as you say, the only
solution where no one political party knows how to behave itself. The
American pattern is certainly being accepted as to senatorial manners.
I dare say you have been to Knebworth and talked over French matters
with Lord Lytton. We are grieved to hear from him but a poor account
of sweet Lady Lytton's health and spirits. She is to me one of the
most charming types of womanliness, and I long for her to have all a
woman's best blessings.
The good news about the small remainder of "Jubal" is very welcome,
and I will write at once to Mr. Simpson to send him my two or three
corrections, and my wishes about the new edition. The price of the
book will well bear a thicker and a handsomely tinted paper,
especially now it has proved movable; and I felt so much the
difference to the eye and touch of the copies on rich tinted paper,
that I was much vexed with myself for having contributed to the shabby
appearance of the current edition by suggesting the thin Keats volume
as a model. People have become used to more luxurious editions; and I
confess to the weakness of being affected by paper and type in
something of the same subtile way I am affected by the odor of a room.
Many thanks for Lord Neaves's pleasant little book, which is a capital
example of your happily planned publication.
I came down here half poisoned by the French theatre, but I am
flourishing now, and am brewing my future big book with more or less
(generally less) belief in the quality of the liquor which will be
drawn off. The secured peacefulness and the pure air of the country
make our time of double worth; and we mean to give no invitations to
London friends desirous of change. We are selfishly bent on dual
solitude.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 1st July, 1874.]
I am so glad to know from your kind letter that you are interesting
yourself, with Madame Belloc, in the poor workhouse girls. You see my
only social work is to rejoice in the labors of others, while I live
in luxurious remoteness from all turmoil. Of course you have seen
Mrs. Senior's report. I read it, and thought it very wise, very
valuable in many ways, and since then she has sent me word how much
she has been worried about it by (as I imagine) obstructive officials.
We are revelling in our country peacefulness, in spite of the chills
and rain, driving about every day that the weather will allow, and
finding in each drive new beauties of this loveliest part of a lovely
country. We are looking out for a house in this neighborhood as a
permanent retreat; not with the idea of giving up our London house, at
least for some years, but simply of having a place to which we may
come for about six months of the year, and perhaps finally shrink into
altogether.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 1st July, 1874.]
Only the day before your letter came to me I had been saying, "I
wonder how our dear Mrs. William Smith is?" so that your impulse to
write to me satisfied a need of mine. I cannot help rejoicing that you
are in the midst of lovely scenery again, for I had had a presentiment
that Cambridge was antipathetic to you; and, indeed, I could not have
imagined that you would be in the right place there but for the
promised helpfulness of your presence to a young friend.
You tell me much that is interesting. Your picture of Mr. and Mrs.
Stirling, and what you say of the reasons why one may wish even for
the anguish of being _left_ for the sake of waiting on the beloved one
to the end--all that goes to my heart of hearts. It is what I think of
almost daily. For death seems to me now a close, real experience, like
the approach of autumn or winter, and I am glad to find that advancing
life brings this power of imagining the nearness of death I never had
till of late years. I remember all you told me of your niece's
expected marriage, and your joy in the husband who has chosen her. It
is wealth you have--that of several sweet nieces to whom being with
you is a happiness. You can feel some sympathy in their cheerfulness,
even though sorrow is always your only private good--can you not, dear
friend?--and the time is short at the utmost. The blessed reunion, if
it may come, must be patiently waited for; and such good as you can do
others, by loving looks and words, must seem to you like a closer
companionship with the gentleness and benignity which you justly
worshipped while it was visibly present, and still more, perhaps, now
it is veiled, and is a memory stronger than vision of outward things.
We are revelling in the sweet peace of the country, and shall remain
here till the end of September.
Mr. Lewes sends his affectionate remembrances with mine. I am
scribbling while he holds my bed-candle, so pray forgive any
incoherency.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 17th July, 1874.]
I have two questions to ask of your benevolence. First, was there not
some village near Stonehenge where you stayed the night, nearer to
Stonehenge than Amesbury? Secondly, do you know anything specific
about Holmwood _Common_ as a place of residence? It is ravishingly
beautiful; is it in its higher part thoroughly unobjectionable as a
site for a dwelling?
It seems that they have been having the heat of Tophet in London,
whereas we have never had more than agreeable sunniness, this common
being almost always breezy. And the country around us must, I think,
be the loveliest of its undulating, woody kind in all England.
I remember, when we were driving together last, something was said
about my disposition to melancholy. I ought to have said then, but did
not, that I am no longer one of those whom Dante found in hell border
because they had been sad under the blessed sunlight.[25] I am
uniformly cheerful now--feeling the preciousness of these moments, in
which I still possess love and thought.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d Aug. 1874.]
It was sweet of you to write me that nice long letter. I was athirst
for some news of you. Life, as you say, is a big thing. No wonder
there comes a season when we cease to look round and say, "How shall I
enjoy?" but, as in a country which has been visited by the sword,
pestilence, and famine, think only how we shall help the wounded, and
how find seed for the next harvest--how till the earth and make a
little time of gladness for those who are being born without their own
asking. I am so glad of what you say about the Latin. Go on conquering
and to conquer a little kingdom for yourself there.
We are, as usual, getting more than our share of peace and other good,
except in the matter of warmth and sunshine. Our common is a sort of
ball-room for the winds, and on the warmest days we have had here we
have found them at their music and dancing. They roar round the
corners of our house in a wintry fashion, while the sun is shining on
the brown grass.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 8th Aug. 1874.]
Thanks for sending me the good news. The sale of "Middlemarch" is
wonderful "out of all whooping," and, considered as manifesting the
impression made by the book, is more valuable than any amount of
immediate distribution. I suppose there will be a new edition of the
"Spanish Gypsy" wanted by Christmas; and I have a carefully corrected
copy by me, containing my final alterations, to which I desire to
have the stereotyped plates adjusted.
As to confidence in the work to be done I am somewhat in the condition
suggested to Armgart, "How will you bear the poise of eminence with
dread of falling?" And the other day, having a bad headache, I did
what I have sometimes done before at intervals of five or six
years--looked into three or four novels to see what the world was
reading. The effect was paralyzing, and certainly justifies me in that
abstinence from novel-reading which, I fear, makes me seem
supercilious or churlish to the many persons who send me their books,
or ask me about their friends' books. To be delivered from all doubts
as to one's justification in writing at this stage of the world, one
should have either a plentiful faith in one's own exceptionalness, or
a plentiful lack of money. Tennyson said to me, "Everybody writes so
well now;" and if the lace is only machine-made, it still pushes out
the hand-made, which has differences only for a fine, fastidious
appreciation. To write indifferently after having written well--that
is, from a true, individual store which makes a special
contribution--is like an eminent clergyman spoiling his reputation by
lapses, and neutralizing all the good he did before. However, this is
superfluous stuff to write to you. It is only a sample of the way in
which depression works upon me. I am not the less grateful for all the
encouragement I get.
I saw handsome Dean Liddell at Oxford. He is really a grand figure.
They accuse him of being obstructive to much-needed reforms. For my
own part I am thankful to him for his share in "Liddell and Scott" and
his capital little Roman History. _À propos_ of books and St. Andrews,
I have read aloud to Mr. Lewes Professor Flint's volume, and we have
both been much pleased with its conscientious presentation and
thorough effort at fairness.
We have enjoyed the country, as we always do; but we have been, for
our constitutions, a little unfortunate in the choice of a spot which
is the windiest of the windy. That heat which we have read and heard
of has hardly been at all felt by us; and we have both suffered a
little from chills. You will perceive from my letter I am just now
possessed by an evil spirit in the form of headache; but on the whole
I am much the stronger for the peace and the delicious air, which I
take in as a conscious addition to the good of living.
We have been near buying a little country hermitage on Holmwood
Common--a grand spot, with a view hard to match in our flat land. But
we have been frightened away by its windiness. I rather envy Major
Lockhart and the rest of the golfian enthusiasts; to have a seductive
idleness which is really a healthy activity is invaluable to people
who have desk-work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 11th Nov. 1874.]
I feel rather disgraced by the fact that I received your last kind
letter nearly two months ago. But a brief note of mine, written
immediately on hearing of you from Mrs. Fields, must have crossed
yours and the Professor's kind letters to me; and I hope it proved to
you that I love you in my heart.
We were in the country then, but soon afterwards we set out on a
six-weeks' journey, and we are but just settled in our winter home.
Those unspeakable troubles in which I necessarily felt more for _you_
than for any one else concerned, are, I trust, well at an end, and you
are enjoying a time of peace. It was like your own sympathetic energy
to be able, even while the storm was yet hanging in your sky, to
write to me about my husband's books. Will you not agree with me that
there is one comprehensive Church whose fellowship consists in the
desire to purify and ennoble human life, and where the best members of
all narrower Churches may call themselves brother and sister in spite
of differences? I am writing to your dear husband as well as to you,
and in answer to his question about Goethe, I must say, for my part,
that I think he had a strain of mysticism in his soul--of so much
mysticism as I think inevitably belongs to a full, poetic nature--I
mean the delighted bathing of the soul in emotions which overpass the
outlines of definite thought. I should take the "Imitation" as a type
(it is one which your husband also mentions), but perhaps I might
differ from him in my attempt to interpret the unchangeable and
universal meanings of that great book.
Mr. Lewes, however, who has a better right than I to a conclusion
about Goethe, thinks that he entered into the experience of the
mystic--as in the confessions of the _Schöne Seele_--simply by force
of his sympathetic genius, and that his personal individual bent was
towards the clear and plastic exclusively. Do not imagine that Mr.
Lewes is guided in his exposition by theoretic antipathies. He is
singularly tolerant of difference, and able to admire what is unlike
himself.
He is busy now correcting the proofs of his second volume. I wonder
whether you have headaches and are rickety as we are, or whether you
have a glorious immunity from those ills of the flesh. Your husband's
photograph looks worthy to represent one of those wondrous Greeks who
wrote grand dramas at eighty or ninety.
I am decidedly among the correspondents who may exercise their
friends in the virtue of giving and hoping for nothing again.
Otherwise I am unprofitable. Yet believe me, dear friend, I am always
with lively memories of you, yours affectionately.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 20th Nov. 1874.]
We have spent this year in much happiness, and are sorry to part with
it. From the beginning of June to the end of September we had a house
in Surrey, and enjoyed delicious quiet with daily walks and drives in
the lovely scenery round Reigate and Dorking. October we spent in a
country visit to friends (Six-Mile Bottom) and in a journey to Paris,
and through the Ardennes homeward, finishing off our travels by some
excursions in our own country, which we are ready to say we will never
quit again--it is so much better worth knowing than most places one
travels abroad to see. We make ourselves amends for being in London by
going to museums to see the wonderful works of men; and the other day
I was taken over the Bank of England and to Woolwich Arsenal--getting
object-lessons in my old age, you perceive. Mr. Lewes is half through
the proof-correcting of his second volume; and it will be matter of
rejoicing when the other half is done, for we both hate
proof-correcting (do you?)--the writing always seems worse than it
really is when one reads it in patches, looking out for mistakes.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Ponsonby (now Lady Ponsonby), 10th
Dec. 1874.]
My books have for their main bearing a conclusion the opposite of that
in which your studies seem to have painfully imprisoned you--a
conclusion without which I could not have cared to write any
representation of human life--namely, that the fellowship between man
and man which has been the principle of development, social and moral,
is not dependent on conceptions of what is not man: and that the idea
of God, so far as it has been a high spiritual influence, is the ideal
of a goodness entirely human (_i.e._, an exaltation of the human).
Have you quite fairly represented yourself in saying that you have
ceased to pity your suffering fellow-men, because you can no longer
think of them as individualities of immortal duration, in some other
state of existence than this of which you know the pains and the
pleasures?--that you feel less for them now you regard them as more
miserable? And, on a closer examination of your feelings, should you
find that you had lost all sense of quality in actions, all
possibility of admiration that yearns to imitate, all keen sense of
what is cruel and injurious, all belief that your conduct (and
therefore the conduct of others) can have any difference of effect on
the well-being of those immediately about you (and therefore on those
afar off), whether you carelessly follow your selfish moods, or
encourage that vision of others' needs which is the source of justice,
tenderness, sympathy in the fullest sense--I cannot believe that your
strong intellect will continue to see, in the conditions of man's
appearance on this planet, a destructive relation to your sympathy.
This seems to me equivalent to saying that you care no longer for
color, now you know the laws of the spectrum.
As to the necessary combinations through which life is manifested, and
which seem to present themselves to you as a hideous fatalism, which
ought logically to petrify your volition, have they, _in fact_, any
such influence on your ordinary course of action in the primary
affairs of your existence as a human, social, domestic creature? And
if they don't hinder you from taking measures for a bath, without
which you know that you cannot secure the delicate cleanliness which
is your second nature, why should they hinder you from a line of
resolve in a higher strain of duty to your ideal, both for yourself
and others? But the consideration of molecular physics is not the
direct ground of human love and moral action any more than it is the
direct means of composing a noble picture or of enjoying great music.
One might as well hope to dissect one's own body and be merry in doing
it, as take molecular physics (in which you must banish from your
field of view what is specifically human) to be your dominant guide,
your determiner of motives, in what is solely human. That every study
has its bearing on every other is true; but pain and relief, love and
sorrow, have their peculiar history, which make an experience and
knowledge over and above the swing of atoms.
The teaching you quote as George Sand's would, I think, deserve to be
called nonsensical if it did not deserve to be called wicked. What
sort of "culture of the intellect" is that which, instead of widening
the mind to a fuller and fuller response to all the elements of our
existence, isolates it in a moral stupidity?--which flatters egoism
with the possibility that a complex and refined human society can
continue, wherein relations have no sacredness beyond the inclination
of changing moods?--or figures to itself an æsthetic human life that
one may compare to that of the fabled grasshoppers who were once men,
but having heard the song of the Muses could do nothing but sing, and
starved themselves so till they died and had a fit resurrection as
grasshoppers? "And this," says Socrates, "was the return the Muses
made them."
With regard to the pains and limitations of one's personal lot, I
suppose there is not a single man or woman who has not more or less
need of that stoical resignation which is often a hidden heroism, or
who, in considering his or her past history, is not aware that it has
been cruelly affected by the ignorant or selfish action of some
fellow-being in a more or less close relation of life. And to my mind
there can be no stronger motive than this perception, to an energetic
effort that the lives nearest to us shall not suffer in a like manner
from _us_.
The progress of the world--which you say can only come at the right
time--can certainly never come at all save by the modified action of
the individual beings who compose the world; and that we can say to
ourselves with effect, "There is an order of considerations which I
will keep myself continually in mind of, so that they may continually
be the prompters of certain feelings and actions," seems to me as
undeniable as that we can resolve to study the Semitic languages and
apply to an Oriental scholar to give us daily lessons. What would your
keen wit say to a young man who alleged the physical basis of nervous
action as a reason why he could not possibly take that course?
As to duration and the way in which it affects your view of the human
history, what is really the difference to your imagination between
infinitude and billions when you have to consider the value of human
experience? Will you say that, since your life has a term of
threescore years and ten, it was really a matter of indifference
whether you were a cripple with a wretched skin disease, or an active
creature with a mind at large for the enjoyment of knowledge, and with
a nature which has attracted others to you?
Difficulties of thought--acceptance of what is, without full
comprehension--belong to every system of thinking. The question is to
find the least incomplete.
When I wrote the first page of this letter I thought I was going to
say that I had not courage to enter on the momentous points you had
touched on in the hasty, brief form of a letter. But I have been led
on sentence after sentence--not, I fear, with any inspiration beyond
that of my anxiety. You will at least pardon any ill-advised things I
may have written on the prompting of the moment.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1875.]
_Jan. 13._--Here is a great gap since I last made a record. But the
time has been filled full of happiness. A second edition of "Jubal"
was published in August; and the fourth edition of the "Spanish Gypsy"
is all sold. This morning I received a copy of the fifth edition. The
amount of copies sold of "Middlemarch" up to 31st December is between
nineteen and twenty thousand.
Yesterday I also received the good news that the engagement between
Emily Cross and Mr. Otter is settled.
The last year has been crowded with proofs of affection for me and of
value for what work I have been able to do. This makes the best motive
or encouragement to do more; but, as usual, I am suffering much from
doubt as to the worth of what I am doing, and fear lest I may not be
able to complete it so as to make it a contribution to literature and
not a mere addition to the heap of books. I am now just beginning the
part about "Deronda," at page 234.
[Sidenote: Letter to Francis Otter, 13th (?) Jan. 1875.]
Your letter was a deeply felt pleasure to me last night; and I have
one from Emily this morning, which makes my joy in the prospect of
your union as thorough as it could well be. I could not wish either
her words or yours to be in the least different. Long ago, when I had
no notion that the event was probable, my too hasty imagination had
prefigured it and longed for it. To say this is to say something of
the high regard with which all I have known of you has impressed
me--for I hold our sweet Emily worthy of one who may be reckoned among
the best. The possibility of a constantly growing blessedness in
marriage is to me the very basis of good in our mortal life; and the
believing hope that you and she will experience that blessedness seems
to enrich me for the coming years. I shall count it among my
strengthening thoughts that you both think of me with affection, and
care for my sympathy. Mr. Lewes shares in all the feelings I express,
and we are rejoicing together.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 15th Jan. 1875.]
Please never wonder at my silence, or believe that I bear you in any
the less lively remembrance because I do not write to you.
Writing notes is the _crux_ of my life. It often interferes with my
morning hours (before 1 o'clock), which is the only time I have for
quiet work. For certain letters are unavoidable demands, and though my
kind husband writes them for me whenever he can, they are not all to
be done by proxy.
That glorious bit of work of yours about the Home for Girls[26] is
delightful to hear of. Hardly anything is more wanted, I imagine, than
homes for girls in various employments--or, rather, for unmarried
women of all ages.
I heard also the other day that your name was among those of the
ladies interested in the beginning of a union among the bookbinding
women, which one would like to succeed and spread.
I hope, from your ability to work so well, that you are in perfect
health yourself. Our friend Barbara, too, looks literally the pink of
well-being, and cheers one's soul by her interest in all worthy
things.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Ponsonby (now Lady Ponsonby), 30th
Jan. 1875.]
I should urge you to consider your early religious experience as a
portion of valid knowledge, and to cherish its emotional results in
relation to objects and ideas which are either substitutes or
metamorphoses of the earlier. And I think we must not take every great
physicist--or other "ist"--for an apostle, but be ready to suspect him
of some crudity concerning relations that lie outside his special
studies, if his exposition strands us on results that seem to stultify
the most ardent, massive experience of mankind, and hem up the best
part of our feelings in stagnation.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 7th Feb. 1875.]
Last night I finished reading aloud to Mr. Lewes the "Inkerman"
volume, and we both thank you heartily for the valuable present. It is
an admirable piece of writing; such pure, lucid English is what one
rarely gets to read. The masterly marshalling of the material is
certainly in contrast with the movements described. To my non-military
mind the Inkerman affair seems nothing but a brave blundering into
victory. Great traits of valor--Homeric movements--but also a powerful
lack of brains in the form of generalship. I cannot see that the
ordering up of the two 18-pounder guns was a vast mental effort,
unless the weight of the guns is to be counted in the order as well as
in the execution. But the grand fact of the thousands beaten by the
hundreds remains under all interpretation. Why the Russians, in their
multitudinous mass, should have chosen to retreat into Sebastopol,
moving at their leisure, and carrying off all their artillery, seems a
mystery in spite of General Dannenberg's memorable answer to
Mentschikoff.
There are some splendid movements in the story--the tradition of the
"Minden Yell," the "Men, remember Albuera," and the officer of the
77th advancing with, "Then I will go myself," with what followed, are
favorite bits of mine. My mind is in the anomalous condition of hating
war and loving its discipline, which has been an incalculable
contribution to the sentiment of duty.
I have not troubled myself to read any reviews of the book. My eye
caught one in which the author's style was accused of affectation. But
I have long learned to apply to reviewers an aphorism which tickled me
in my childhood--"There must be some such to be some of all sorts."
Pray tell Mr. Simpson that I was much pleased with the new dress of
the "Spanish Gypsy."
The first part of "Giannetto" raised my interest, but I was
disappointed in the unravelling of the plot. It seems to me neither
really nor ideally satisfactory. But it is a long while since I read a
story newer than "Rasselas," which I re-read two years ago, with a
desire to renew my childish delight in it, when it was one of my
best-loved companions. So I am a bad judge of comparative merits among
popular writers. I am obliged to fast from fiction, and fasting is
known sometimes to weaken the stomach. I ought to except Miss
Thackeray's stories--which I cannot resist when they come near me--and
bits of Mr. Trollope, for affection's sake. You would not wonder
at my fasting, if you knew how deplorably uncalled-for and
"everything-that-it-should-not-be" my own fiction seems to me in times
of inward and outward fog--like this morning, when the light is dim on
my paper.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Ponsonby (now Lady Ponsonby), 11th
Feb. 1875.]
_Do_ send me the papers you have written--I mean as a help and
instruction to me. I need very much to know how ideas lie in other
minds than my own, that I may not miss their difficulties while I am
urging only what satisfies myself. I shall be deeply interested in
knowing exactly what you wrote at that particular stage. Please
remember that I don't consider myself a teacher, but a companion in
the struggle of thought. What can consulting physicians do without
pathological knowledge? and the more they have of it, the less
absolute--the more tentative--are their procedures.
You will see by the _Fortnightly_, which you have not read, that Mr.
Spencer is very anxious to vindicate himself from neglect of the
logical necessity that the evolution of the abstraction "society" is
dependent on the modified action of the units; indeed, he is very
sensitive on the point of being supposed to teach an enervating
fatalism.
Consider what the human mind _en masse_ would have been if there had
been no such combination of elements in it as has produced poets. All
the philosophers and _savants_ would not have sufficed to supply that
deficiency. And how can the life of nations be understood without the
inward light of poetry--that is, of emotion blending with thought?
But the beginning and object of my letter must be the end--please send
me your papers.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 10th May, 1875.]
We cannot believe that there is reason to fear any painful
observations on the publication of the memoir in one volume with
"Gravenhurst" and the essays. The memoir is written with exquisite
judgment and feeling; and without estimating too highly the taste and
carefulness of journalists in their ordinary treatment of books, I
think that we may count on their not being impressed otherwise than
respectfully and sympathetically with the character of your dear
husband's work, and with the sketch of his pure, elevated life. I
would also urge you to rely on the fact that Mr. Blackwood thinks the
publication desirable, as a guarantee that it will not prove
injudicious in relation to the outer world--I mean, the world beyond
the circle of your husband's especial friends and admirers. I am
grieved to hear of your poor eyes having been condemned to an inaction
which, I fear, may have sadly increased the vividness of that inward
seeing, already painfully strong in you. There has been, I trust,
always some sympathetic young companionship to help you--some sweet
voice to read aloud to you, or to talk of those better things in human
lots which enable us to look at the good of life a little apart from
our own particular sorrow.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 11th May, 1875.]
The doctors have decided that there is nothing very grave the matter
with me: and I am now so much better that we even think it possible I
may go to see Salvini, in the Gladiator, to-morrow evening. This is to
let you know that there is no reason against your coming, with or
without Margaret, at the usual time on Friday.
Your words of affection in the note you sent me are very dear to my
remembrance. I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I
am loved. I am not sure that you are of the same mind. But the realm
of silence is large enough beyond the grave. This is the world of
light and speech, and I shall take leave to tell you that you are very
dear.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 14th May, 1875.]
You are right--there is no time, but only the sense of not having
time; especially when, instead of filling the days with useful
exertion, as you do, one wastes them in being ill, as I have been
doing of late. However, I am better now, and will not grumble. Thanks
for all the dear words in your letter. Be sure I treasure the memory
of your faithful friendship, which goes back--you know how far.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 1st June, 1875.]
If you could, some day this week or the beginning of next, allow me
half an hour's quiet _tête-à-tête_, I should be very much obliged by
such a kindness.
The trivial questions I want to put could hardly be shapen in a letter
so as to govern an answer that would satisfy my need. And I trust that
the interview will hardly be more troublesome to you than writing.
I hope, when you learn the pettiness of my difficulties, you will not
be indignant, like a great doctor called in to the favorite cat.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 9th Aug. 1875, from
Rickmansworth.]
We admire our bit of Hertfordshire greatly; but I should be glad of
more breezy common land and far-reaching outlooks. For fertility,
wealth of grand trees, parks, mansions, and charming bits of stream
and canal, our neighborhood can hardly be excelled. And our house is a
good old red-brick Georgian place, with a nice bit of garden and
meadow and river at the back. Perhaps we are too much in the valley,
and have too large a share of mist, which often lies white on our
meadows in the early evening. But who has not had too much moisture in
this calamitously wet, cold summer?
Mr. Lewes is very busy, but not in zoologizing. We reserve that for
October, when we mean to go to the coast for a few weeks. It is a long
while since I walked on broad sands and watched the receding tide; and
I look forward agreeably to a renewal of that old pleasure.
I am not particularly flourishing in this pretty region, probably
owing to the low barometer. The air has been continually muggy, and
has lain on one's head like a thick turban.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 14th Aug. 1875.]
What a comfort that you are at home again and well![27] The sense of
your nearness had been so long missing to us that we had begun to take
up with life as inevitably a little less cheerful than we remembered
it to have been formerly, without thinking of restoration.
My box is quite dear to me, and shall be used for stamps, as you
recommend, unless I find another use that will lead me to open it and
think of you the oftener. It is very precious to me that you bore me
in your mind, and took that trouble to give me pleasure--in which you
have succeeded.
Our house here is rather a fine old brick Georgian place, with a
lovely bit of landscape; but I think we have suffered the more from
the rainy, close weather, because we are in a valley, and can see the
mists lie in a thick, white stratum on our meadows. Mr. Lewes has
been, on the whole, flourishing and enjoying--writing away with vigor,
and making a discovery or theory at the rate of one per diem.
Of me you must expect no good. I have been in a piteous state of
debility in body and depression in mind. My book seems to me so
unlikely ever to be finished in a way that will make it worth giving
to the world, that it is a kind of glass in which I behold my
infirmities.
That expedition on the Thames would be a great delight, if it were
possible to us. But our arrangements forbid it. Our loving thanks to
Mr. Druce, as well as to you, for reviving the thought. We are to
remain here till the 23d of September; then to fly through town, or
at least only perch there for a night or so, and then go down to the
coast, while the servants clean our house. We expect that Bournemouth
will be our destination.
Let us have news of you all again soon. Let us comfort each other
while it is day, for the night cometh.
I hope this change of weather, in which we are glorying both for the
country's sake and our own, will not make Weybridge too warm for Mrs.
Cross.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Ponsonby, 19th Aug. 1875.]
I don't mind how many letters I receive from one who interests me as
much as you do. The receptive part of correspondence I can carry on
with much alacrity. It is writing answers that I groan over. Please
take it as a proof of special feeling that I declined answering your
kind inquiries by proxy.
This corner of Hertfordshire is as pretty as it can be of the kind.
There are really rural bits at every turn. But for my particular taste
I prefer such a region as that round Haslemere--with wide, furzy
commons and a grander horizon. Also I prefer a country where I don't
make bad blood by having to see one public house to every six
dwellings--which is literally the case in many spots around us. My
gall rises at the rich brewers in Parliament and out of it, who plant
these poison shops for the sake of their million-making trade, while
probably their families are figuring somewhere as refined
philanthropists or devout Evangelicals and Ritualists.
You perceive from this that I am dyspeptic and disposed to melancholy
views. In fact, I have not been flourishing, but I am getting a little
better; grateful thanks that you will care to know it. On the whole
the sins of brewers, with their drugged ale and devil's traps,
depress me less than my own inefficiency. But every fresh morning is
an opportunity that one can look forward to for exerting one's will. I
shall not be satisfied with your philosophy till you have conciliated
necessitarianism--I hate the ugly word--with the practice of willing
strongly, willing to will strongly, and so on, that being what you
certainly can do and have done about a great many things in life,
whence it is clear that there is nothing in truth to hinder you from
it--except, you will say, the absence of a motive. But that absence I
don't believe in in your case--only in the case of empty, barren
souls.
Are you not making a transient confusion of intuitions with innate
ideas? The most thorough experientialists admit intuition--_i.e._,
direct impressions of sensibility underlying all proof, as necessary
starting-points for thought.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1875.]
_Oct. 10._--On the 15th June, we went to a house we had taken at
Rickmansworth. Here, in the end of July, we received the news that our
dear Bertie had died on June 29th. Our stay at Rickmansworth, though
otherwise peaceful, was not marked by any great improvement in health
from the change to country instead of town--rather the contrary. We
left on 23d September, and then set off on a journey into Wales, which
was altogether unfortunate on account of the excessive rain.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 10th Oct. 1875.]
I behaved rather shabbily in not thanking you otherwise than by proxy
for the kind letter you sent me to Rickmansworth, but I had a bad time
down there, and did less of everything than I desired. Last night we
returned from our trip--a very lively word for a journey made in the
worst weather; and since I am, on the whole, the better for a
succession of small discomforts in hotels, and struggling walks taken
under an umbrella, I have no excuse for not writing a line to my
neglected correspondents.
You will laugh at our nervous caution in depositing our MSS. at the
Union Bank before we set out. We could have borne to hear that our
house had been burned down, provided no lives were lost, and our
unprinted matter, our _oeuvres inédites_, were safe out of it.
About _my_ unprinted matter, Mr. Lewes thinks it will not be well to
publish the first part till February. The four first monthly parts are
ready for travelling now. It will be well to begin the printing in
good time, so that I may not be hurried with the proofs; and I must
beg Mr. Simpson to judge for me in that matter with kind carefulness.
I can't say that I am at all satisfied with the book, or that I have a
comfortable sense of doing in it what I want to do; but Mr. Lewes _is_
satisfied with it, and insists that since he is as anxious as possible
for it to be fine, I ought to accept his impressions as trustworthy.
So I resign myself.
I read aloud the "Abode of Snow" at Rickmansworth, to our mutual
delight; and we are both very much obliged to you for the handsome
present. But what an amazing creature is this Andrew Wilson to have
kept pluck for such travelling while his body was miserably ailing!
One would have said that he had more than the average spirit of hardy
men to have persevered even in good health after a little taste of the
difficulties he describes.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 20th Oct. 1875.]
The arrangements as to the publication of my next book are already
determined on. Ever since "Adam Bede" appeared I have been continually
having proposals from the proprietors or editors of periodicals, but
I have always declined them, except in the case of "Romola," which
appeared in the _Cornhill_, and was allowed to take up a varying and
unusual number of pages. I have the strongest objection to cutting up
my work into little bits; and there is no motive to it on my part,
since I have a large enough public already. But, even apart from that
objection, it would not now be worth the while of any magazine or
journal to give me a sum such as my books yield in separate
publication. I had £7000 for "Romola," but the mode in which
"Middlemarch" was issued brings in a still larger sum. I ought to say,
however, that the question is not entirely one of money with me: if I
could gain _more_ by splitting my writing into small parts, I would
not do it, because the effect would be injurious as a matter of art.
So much detail I trouble you with to save misapprehension.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 18th Nov. 1875.]
Your enjoyment of the proofs cheers me greatly; and pray thank Mrs.
Blackwood for her valuable hints on equine matters. I have not only
the satisfaction of using those hints, I allow myself the inference
that where there is no criticism on like points I have made no
mistake.
I should be much obliged to Mr. Simpson--whom I am glad that Gwendolen
has captivated--if he would rate the printers a little about their
want of spacing. I am anxious that my poor heroes and heroines should
have all the advantage that paper and print can give them.
It will perhaps be a little comfort to you to know that poor Gwen is
spiritually saved, but "so as by fire." Don't you see the process
already beginning? I have no doubt you do, for you are a wide-awake
reader.
But what a climate to expect good writing in! Skating in the morning
and splashy roads in the afternoon is just typical of the alternation
from frigid to flaccid in the author's bodily system, likely to give a
corresponding variety to the style.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 20th Nov. 1875.]
I got my head from under the pressure of other matters, like a frog
from under the water, to send you my November greeting. My silence
through the rest of the months makes you esteem me the more, I hope,
seeing that you yourself hate letter-writing--a remarkable exception
to the rule that people like doing what they can do well, if one can
call that a rule of which the reverse seems more frequent--namely,
that they like doing what they do ill.
We stayed till nearly the end of September at the house we had taken
in Hertfordshire. After that we went into Wales for a fortnight, and
were under umbrellas nearly the whole time.
I wonder if you all remember an old governess of mine who used to
visit me at Foleshill--a Miss Lewis? I have found her out. She is
living at Leamington, very poor as well as old, but cheerful, and so
delighted to be remembered with gratitude. How very old we are all
getting! But I hope you don't mind it any more than I do. One sees so
many contemporaries that one is well in the fashion. The approach of
parting is the bitterness of age.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 15th Dec. 1875.]
Your letter is an agreeable tonic, very much needed, for that wretched
hinderance of a cold last week has trailed after it a series of
headaches worse than itself. An additional impression, like Mr.
Langford's, of the two volumes is really valuable, as a sign that I
have not so far failed in relation to a variety of readers. But you
know that in one sense I count nothing done as long as anything
remains to do; and it always seems to me that the worst difficulty is
still to come. In the sanest, soberest judgment, however, I think the
third volume (which I have not yet finished) would be regarded as the
difficult bridge. I will not send you any more MS. until I can send
the whole of vol. iii.
We think that Mr. Simpson has conducted our Australian business
admirably. Remembering that but for his judgment and consequent
activity we might have got no publication at all in that quarter, we
may well be content with £200.
Mr. Lewes has not got the Life of Heine, and will be much pleased and
obliged by your gift.
Major Lockhart's lively letter gives one a longing for the fresh,
breezy life and fine scenery it conjures up. You must let me know when
there is a book of his, because when I have done my own I shall like
to read something else by him. I got much pleasure out of the two
books I did read. But when I am writing, or only thinking of writing,
fiction of my own, I cannot risk the reading of other English fiction.
I was obliged to tell Anthony Trollope so when he sent me the first
part of his "Prime Minister," though this must seem sadly ungracious
to those who don't share my susceptibilities.
Apparently there are wild reports about the subject-matter of
"Deronda"--among the rest, that it represents French life! But that is
hardly more ridiculous than the supposition that after refusing to go
to America, I should undertake to describe society there! It is
wonderful how "Middlemarch" keeps afloat in people's minds. Somebody
told me that Mr. Henry Sidgwick said it was a bold thing to write
another book after "Middlemarch," and we must prepare ourselves for
the incalculableness of the public reception in the first instance. I
think I have heard you say that the chief result of your ample
experience has been to convince you of that incalculableness.
What a blow for Miss Thackeray--the death of that sister to whom she
was so closely bound in affection.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1875.]
_Dec. 25._--After our return from Wales in October I grew better and
wrote with some success. For the last three weeks, however, I have
been suffering from a cold and its effects so as to be unable to make
any progress. Meanwhile the two first volumes of "Daniel Deronda" are
in print, and the first book is to be published on February 1st. I
have thought very poorly of it myself throughout, but George and the
Blackwoods are full of satisfaction in it. Each part as I see it
before me _im werden_ seems less likely to be anything else than a
failure; but I see on looking back this morning--Christmas Day--that I
really was in worse health and suffered equal depression about
"Romola;" and, so far as I have recorded, the same thing seems to be
true of "Middlemarch."
I have finished the fifth book, but am not far on in the sixth, as I
hoped to have been; the oppression under which I have been laboring
having positively suspended my power of writing anything that I could
feel satisfaction in.
_SUMMARY._
JANUARY, 1873, TO DECEMBER, 1875.
Reception of "Middlemarch"--Letter to John Blackwood--Mr.
Anthony Trollope--Dutch translation of George Eliot's
novels--Letter to Mrs. Cross--Evening drives at
Weybridge--Letter to John Blackwood--German reprint of
"Spanish Gypsy"--"The Lifted Veil"--"Kenelm
Chillingly"--Letter to Mrs. William Smith on her Memoir of
her husband--Pleasure in young life--Letter to John
Blackwood--Want of a Conservative leader--Letter to Mr.
Burne-Jones--The function of art--Purpose in art--"Iphigenia
in Aulis"--Letter to Mrs. Congreve--Welcoming her
home--Letter to Mrs. William Smith on women at
Cambridge--Visit to Mr. Frederic Myers at Cambridge--Meets
Mr. Henry Sidgwick, Mr. Jebb, Mr. Edmund Gurney, Mr. Balfour,
and Mr. Lyttelton, and Mrs. and Miss Huth--Letter to Mrs.
Bray--Death of Miss Rebecca Franklin--Visit to the Master of
Balliol--Meets Mr. and Mrs. Charles Roundell--Professor
Green--Max Müller--Thomson, the Master of Trinity College,
Cambridge--Nine-weeks' trip to the Continent--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve from Homburg--Fontainebleau, Plombières, and
Luxeuil--Two months' stay at Bickley--Letter to Mrs. Cross on
journey abroad and Blackbrook--Letter to John Blackwood--New
edition of "Middlemarch"--A real Lowick in a Midland
county--Cheap editions--Letter to Mrs. Cross on the pleasures
of the country and on Mr. Henry Sidgwick--Letter to Mrs.
Peter Taylor--House in the country--Letter to J. W. Cross on
conformity--Letter to John Blackwood--Interruptions of town
life--Simmering towards another book--Berlin reading
"Middlemarch"--Ashantee war--Letter to Madame Bodichon--The
George Howards--John Stuart Mill's Autobiography--Letter to
Mrs. Cross on Christmas invitation--Dr. Andrew Clark--Letter
to Mrs. Bray on stupidity of readers--Letter to Mrs. Peter
Taylor--Retrospect of 1873--Sales of "Middlemarch" and
"Spanish Gypsy"--Letter to Mrs. William Smith--"Plain living
and high thinking"--Letter to John Blackwood--Conservative
reaction--Cheaper edition of novels--Lord Lytton's
"Fables"--Dickens's Life and biography in general--Letter to
John Blackwood--Volume of poems--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Motives
for children--Letter to Miss Hennell--Francis Newman--George
Dawson--"The Legend of Jubal and other Poems"
published--"Symposium" written--Letter to Miss Mary Cross
thanking her for a vase--Letter to Mrs. Cross--Delight in
country--Letter to John Blackwood--Threatened restoration of
the empire in France--"Brewing" "Deronda"--Letter to Mrs.
Peter Taylor on Mrs. Nassau Senior's report--Letter to Mrs.
William Smith on consolations in loss--Letter to Madame
Bodichon--No disposition to melancholy--Letter to Mrs.
Burne-Jones--The serious view of life--Letter to John
Blackwood--Justifications for writing--Dean Liddell--Letter
to Mrs. Stowe--Goethe's mysticism--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Visit to Six-Mile Bottom--Paris and the
Ardennes--Bank of England and Woolwich Arsenal--Letter to
Mrs. Ponsonby--The idea of God an exaltation of human
goodness--Vision of others' needs--Ground of moral
action--Need of altruism--The power of the will--Difficulties
of thought--Sales of books--Retrospect of 1874--Letter to
Francis Otter on his engagement--Letter to Mrs. Peter
Taylor--Note-writing--Home for girls--Letter to Mrs.
Ponsonby--Value of early religious experience--Limitations of
scientists--Letter to John Blackwood--Kinglake's
"Crimea"--Discipline of war--"Rasselas"--Miss
Thackeray--Anthony Trollope--Letter to Mrs. Ponsonby--Desire
to know the difficulties of others--Companion in the struggle
of thought--Mr. Spencer's teaching--The value of
poets--Emotion blending with thought--Letter to Mrs. William
Smith--Her memoir--Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones--The world of
light and speech--Letter to Mrs. Peter
Taylor--Rickmansworth--Letter to F. Harrison asking for
consultation--Letter to J. W. Cross--"The
Elms"--Depression--Letter to Mrs. Ponsonby--The Brewing
interest--Conciliation of necessitarianism with will--Innate
ideas--Death of Herbert Lewes--Trip to Wales--Letter to John
Blackwood--Not satisfied with "Deronda"--Letter to Mrs. Peter
Taylor--Mode of publication of books--Letter to John
Blackwood--Gwendolen--Letter to Miss Hennell--Miss
Lewis--Letter to John Blackwood--Impressions of
"Deronda"--Major Lockhart--Depression about "Deronda."
FOOTNOTES:
[21] Death of Mrs. Cross's sister of cholera, at Salzburg.
[22] See _ante_, p. 66.
[23] "Paul Bradley."
[24] A vase with paintings from "Romola" on tiles.
[25]
"Tristi fummo
Nell'aer dolce che dal sol s'allegra."
_Inferno_, cant. vii. 121, 122.
[26] Bessborough Gardens.
[27] I had been abroad for six weeks.
CHAPTER XVIII.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 17th March, 1876.]
We have just come in from Weybridge, but are going to take refuge
there again on Monday for a few days more of fresh air and long,
breezy afternoon walks. Many thanks for your thoughtfulness in sending
me the cheering account of sales.
Mr. Lewes has not heard any complaints of not understanding Gwendolen,
but a strong partisanship for and against her. My correspondence about
the misquotation of Tennyson has quieted itself since the fifth
letter. But one gentleman has written me a very pretty note, taxing me
with having wanted insight into the technicalities of Newmarket, when
I made Lush say, "I will _take_ odds." He judges that I should have
written, "I will lay odds." On the other hand, another expert contends
that the case is one in which Lush would be more likely to say, "I
will take odds." What do you think? I told my correspondent that I had
a dread of being righteously pelted with mistakes that would make a
cairn above me--a monument and a warning to people who write novels
without being omniscient and infallible.
Mr. Lewes is agitating himself over a fifth reading of revise, Book
VI., and says he finds it more interesting than on any former reading.
It is agreeable to have a home criticism of this kind! But I am deep
in the fourth volume, and cannot any longer care about what is past
and done for--the passion of the moment is as much as I can live in.
We had beautiful skies with our cold, and only now and then a snow
shower. It is grievous to read of the suffering elsewhere from floods.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 30th March, 1876.]
I am well pleased that "Deronda" touches you. I _wanted_ you to prefer
the chapter about Mirah's finding, and I hope you will also like her
history in Part III., which has just been published.
We want very much to get away, but I fear we shall hardly be able to
start till the end of May. At present we think of the Maritime Alps as
a destination for the warm summer--if we have such a season this year;
but we shall wander a little on our way thither, and not feel bound to
accomplish anything in particular. Meanwhile we are hearing some nice
music occasionally, and we are going to see Tennyson's play, which is
to be given on the 15th. The occasion will be very interesting, and I
should be very sorry to miss it.
We have been getting a little refreshment from two flights between
Sundays to Weybridge. But we have had the good a little drained from
us by going out to dinner two days in succession. At Sir James Paget's
I was much interested to find that a gentle-looking, clear-eyed,
neatly-made man was Sir Garnet Wolseley; and I had some talk with him,
which quite confirmed the impression of him as one of those men who
have a power of command by dint of their sweet temper, calm demeanor,
and unswerving resolution. The next subject that has filled our chat
lately has been the Blue Book on Vivisection, which you would like to
look into. There is a great deal of matter for reflection in the
evidence on the subject, and some good points have been lately put in
print, and conversation that I should like to tell you of if I had
time. Professor Clifford told us the other Sunday that Huxley
complained of his sufferings from "the profligate lying of virtuous
women."
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_April 12._--On February 1st began the publication of "Deronda," and
the interest of the public, strong from the first, appears to have
increased with Book III. The day before yesterday I sent off Book VII.
The success of the work at present is greater than that of
"Middlemarch" up to the corresponding point of publication. What will
be the feeling of the public as the story advances I am entirely
doubtful. The Jewish element seems to me likely to satisfy nobody. I
am in rather better health--having, perhaps, profited by some eight
days' change at Weybridge.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 18th April, 1876.]
Your sympathetic letter is a welcome support to me in the rather
depressed condition which has come upon me from the effect, I imagine,
of a chill taken in the sudden change from mildness to renewed winter.
You can understand how trying it is to have a week of incompetence at
the present stage of affairs. I am rather concerned to see that the
part is nearly a sheet smaller than any of the other parts. But Books
V. and VI. are proportionately thick. It seemed inadmissible to add
anything after the scene with Gwendolen; and to stick anything in not
necessary to development between the foregoing chapters is a form of
"matter in the wrong place" particularly repulsive to my authorship's
sensibility.
People tell us that the book is enormously discussed, and I must share
with you rather a neat coincidence which pleased us last week. Perhaps
you saw what Mr. Lewes told me of--namely, that [a critic] opined that
the scenes between Lush and Grandcourt were not _vraisemblable_--were
of the imperious feminine, not the masculine, character. Just
afterwards Mr. Lewes was chatting with a friend who, without having
read the [criticism] or having the subject in the least led up to by
Mr. Lewes, said that he had been at Lady Waldegraves', where the
subject of discussion had been "Deronda;" and Bernal Osborne,
delivering himself on the book, said that the very best parts were the
scenes between Grandcourt and Lush. Don't you think that Bernal
Osborne has seen more of the Grandcourt and Lush life than that critic
has seen? But several men of experience have put their fingers on
those scenes as having surprising verisimilitude; and I naturally was
peculiarly anxious about such testimony, where my construction was
founded on a less direct knowledge.
We are rather vexed, now it is too late, that I did not carry out a
sort of incipient intention to expunge a motto from Walt Whitman which
I inserted in Book IV. Of course the whole is irrevocable by this
time; but I should have otherwise thought it worth while to have a new
page, not because the motto itself is objectionable to me--it was one
of the finer things which had clung to me from among his writings--but
because, since I quote so few poets, my selection of a motto from Walt
Whitman might be taken as a sign of a special admiration, which I am
very far from feeling. How imperfectly one's mind acts in
proof-reading! Mr. Lewes had taken up Book IV. yesterday to re-read it
for his pleasure merely; and though he had read it several times
before, he never till yesterday made a remark against taking a motto
from Walt Whitman. I, again, had continually had an _appetency_
towards removing the motto, and had never carried it out--perhaps from
that sort of flaccidity which comes over me about what _has been_
done, when I am occupied with what _is being_ done.
People in their eagerness about my characters are quite angry, it
appears, when their own expectations are not fulfilled--angry, for
example, that Gwendolen accepts Grandcourt, etc., etc.
One reader is sure that Mirah is going to die very soon, and, I
suppose, will be disgusted at her remaining alive. Such are the
reproaches to which I make myself liable. However, that you seem to
share Mr. Lewes's strong feeling of Book VII. being no falling off in
intensity makes me brave. Only endings are inevitably the least
satisfactory part of any work in which there is any merit of
development.
I forgot to say that the "tephillin" are the small leather bands or
phylacteries, inscribed with supremely sacred words, which the Jew
binds on his arms and head during prayer.
Any periphrasis which would be generally intelligible would be
undramatic; and I don't much like explanatory foot-notes in a
poem or story. But I must consider what I can do to remedy the
unintelligibility.
The printers have sadly spoiled the beautiful Greek name Kalonymos,
which was the name of a celebrated family of scholarly Jews,
transplanted from Italy into Germany in mediæval times. But my writing
was in fault.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, 6th May, 1876.]
Your letter was one of the best cordials I could have. Is there
anything that cheers and strengthens more than the sense of another's
worth and tenderness? And it was that sense that your letter stirred
in me, not only by the words of fellowship and encouragement you give
directly to me, but by all you tell me of your own feeling under your
late painful experience. I had felt it long since I had heard of your
and the Professor's well being; but I need not say one word to you of
the reasons why I am not active towards my distant friends except in
thought. I _do_ think of them, and have a tenacious memory of every
little sign they have given me. Please offer my reverential love to
the Professor, and tell him I am ruthlessly proud that I kept him out
of his bed. I hope that both you and he will continue to be interested
in my spiritual children. My cares for them are nearly at an end, and
in a few weeks we expect to set out on a Continental journey, as the
sort of relaxation which carries one most thoroughly away from studies
and social claims. You rightly divine that I am a little overdone, but
my fatigue is due not to any excess of work so much as to the
vicissitudes of our long winter, which have affected me severely as
they have done all delicate people. It is true that some nervous wear,
such as you know well, from the excitement of writing, may have made
me more susceptible to knife-like winds and sudden chills.
Though you tenderly forbade me to write in answer to your letter, I
like to do it in these minutes when I happen to be free, lest
hinderances should come in the indefinite future. I am the happier for
thinking that you will have had this little bit of a letter to assure
you that the sweet rain of your affection did not fall on a sandy
place.
I make a delightful picture of your life in your orange-grove--taken
care of by dear daughters. Climate enters into _my_ life with an
influence the reverse of what I like to think of in yours. Sunlight
and sweet air make a new creature of me. But we cannot bear now to
exile ourselves from our own country, which holds the roots of our
moral and social life. One fears to become selfish and emotionally
withered by living abroad, and giving up the numerous connections with
fellow countrymen and women whom one can further a little towards both
public and private good.
I wonder whether you ever suffered much from false writing (about your
biography and motives) in the newspapers. I dare say that pro-slavery
prints did not spare you. But I should be glad to think that there was
less impudent romancing about you as a _citoyenne_ of the States than
there appears to be about me as a stranger. But it is difficult for us
English, who have not spent any time in the United States, to know the
rank that is given to the various newspapers; and we may make the
mistake of giving emphasis to some American journalism which is with
you as unknown to respectable minds as any low-class newspaper with
us.
When we come back from our journeying, I shall be interesting myself
in the MS. and proofs of my husband's third volume of his Problems,
which will then go to press, and shall plunge myself into the
mysteries of our nervous tissue as the Professor has been doing into
the mysteries of the Middle Ages. I have a cousinship with him in that
taste--but how to find space in one's life for all the subjects that
solicit one? My studies have lately kept me away from the track of my
husband's researches, and I feel behindhand in my wifely sympathies.
You know the pleasure of such interchange--husband and wife each
keeping to their own work, but loving to have cognizance of the
other's course.
God bless you, dear friend. Beg the Professor to accept my
affectionate respect, and believe me always yours with love.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_June 3._--Book V. published a week ago. Growing interest in the
public, and growing sale, which has from the beginning exceeded that
of "Middlemarch;" the Jewish part apparently creating strong interest.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 3d June, 1876.]
The useful "companion," which your loving care has had marked with my
initials, will go with me, and be a constant sign of the giver's
precious affection, which you have expressed in words such as I most
value.
Even success needs its consolations. Wide effects are rarely other
than superficial, and would breed a miserable scepticism about one's
work if it were not now and then for an earnest assurance such as you
give me that there are lives in which the work has done something "to
strengthen the good and mitigate the evil."
I am pursued to the last with some bodily trouble--this week it has
been sore throat. But I am emerging, and you may think of me next week
as raising my "Ebenezer."
Love and blessings to you all.
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."
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_June 10._--We set off on our journey, intending to go to San Martino
Lantosc in the Maritime Alps. But I was ill at Aix, where the heat had
become oppressive, and we turned northwards after making a pilgrimage
to Les Charmettes--stayed a few days at Lausanne, then at Vevey, where
again I was ill; then by Berne and Zurich to Ragatz, where we were
both set up sufficiently to enjoy our life. After Ragatz to
Heidelberg, the Klönthal, Schaffhausen, St. Blasien in the Black
Forest, and then home by Strasburg, Nancy, and Amiens, arriving
September 1.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 6th July, 1876, from Ragatz.]
After much travelling we seem to have reached the right place for our
health and comfort, and as we hope to stay here for at least a
fortnight, I have begun to entertain selfish thoughts about you and
the possibility of having news from you. Our month's absence seems
long to us--filled with various scenes and various ailments--but to
you, I dare say, the request for a letter to tell us what has happened
will seem to have come before there is anything particular to tell.
On our arriving at Aix the effect of railway travelling and heat on me
warned us to renounce our project of going to the Maritime Alps and to
turn northward; so after resting at Aix we went to Chambéry, just to
make a pilgrimage to Les Charmettes, and then set our faces northward,
staying at beautiful Lausanne and Vevey for a week, and then coming on
by easy stages to this nook in the mountains. In spite of illness we
have had much enjoyment of the lovely scenery we have been dwelling in
ever since we entered Savoy, where one gets what I most delight
in--the combination of rich, well-cultivated land, friendly to man,
and the grand outline and atmospheric effect of mountains near and
distant.
This place seems to be one of the quietest baths possible. Such
fashion as there is, is of a German, unimposing kind; and the King of
Saxony, who is at the twin hotel with this, is, I imagine, a much
quieter kind of eminence than a London stock-broker. At present the
company seems to be almost exclusively Swiss and German, but all the
appliances for living and carrying on the "cure" are thoroughly
generous and agreeable. We rose at five this morning, drank our
glasses of warm water, and walked till a quarter to seven, then
breakfasted; and from half-past eight to eleven walked to Bad Pfeffers
and back again, along a magnificent ravine where the Tamine boils down
beneath a tremendous wall of rock, and where it is interesting to see
the electric telegraph leaping from the summit, crossing the gulf, and
then quietly running by the roadside till it leaps upward again to the
opposite summit.
You may consider us as generally ill-informed, and as ready to make
much of a little news as any old provincial folk in the days when the
stage-coach brought a single London paper to the village Crown or Red
Lion. We have known that Servia has declared war against Turkey, and
that Harriet Martineau is dead as well as George Sand.
Our weather has been uniformly splendid since we left Paris, with the
exception of some storms, which have conveniently laid the dust.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 2d Sept. 1876.]
We reached home only last night, and had scarcely taken our
much-needed dinner before a parcel was brought in which proved to be
"Daniel Deronda" in the four bound volumes, and various letters with
other "missiles"--as an acquaintance of mine once quite naively called
his own favors to his correspondents--which have at present only gone
to swell a heap that I mean to make acquaintance with very slowly. Mr.
Lewes, however, is more eager than I, and he has just brought up to me
a letter which has certainly gratified me more than anything else of
the sort I ever received. It is from Dr. Hermann Adler, the Chief
Rabbi here, expressing his "warm appreciation of the fidelity with
which some of the best traits of the Jewish character have been
depicted by" etc., etc. I think this will gratify you.
We are both the better for our journey, and I consider myself in as
good case as I can ever reasonably expect. We can't be made young
again, and must not be surprised that infirmities recur in spite of
mineral waters and air 3000 feet above the sea-level. After Ragatz, we
stayed at Stachelberg and Klönthal--two lovely places, where an
English face is seldom seen. Another delicious spot, where the air is
fit for the gods of Epicurus, is St. Blasien, in the Schwarzwald,
where also we saw no English or American visitors, except such as
_übernachten_ there and pass on. We have done exploits in walking,
usually taking four or five hours of it daily.
I hope that you and yours have kept well and have enjoyed the heat
rather than suffered from it. I confess myself glad to think that this
planet has not become hopelessly chilly. Draughts and chills are my
enemies, and but for them I should hardly ever be ailing.
The four volumes look very handsome on the outside. Please thank Mr.
William Blackwood for many kind notes he wrote me in the days of MS.
and proofs--not one of which I ever answered or took notice of except
for my own behoof.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 6th Sept. 1876.]
We got home again last Friday, much strengthened by our journey,
notwithstanding vicissitudes. I suppose you will not be in town for
ages to come, but I let you know that I am here in case you have
anything to say to me by letter--about "objects."
After leaving Ragatz we still kept in eastern Switzerland, in high
valleys unvisited by the English; and in our homeward line of travel
we paused in the Schwarzwald at St. Blasien, which is a _Luft-kur_,
all green hills and pines, with their tops as still as if it were the
abode of the gods.
But imagine how we enjoy being at home again in our own chairs, with
the familiar faces giving us smiles which are not expecting change in
franc pieces!
We are both pretty well, but of course not cured of all infirmities.
Death is the only physician, the shadow of his valley the only
journeying that will cure us of age and the gathering fatigue of
years. Still we are thoroughly lively and "spry."
I hope that the hot summer has passed agreeably for you and not been
unfavorable to your health or comfort. Of course a little news of you
will be welcome, even if you don't particularly want to say anything
to me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 2d Oct. 1876.]
My blessing on you for your sweet letter, which I count among the
blessings given to me. Yes. Women can do much for the other women (and
men) to come. My impression of the good there is in all unselfish
efforts is continually strengthened. Doubtless many a ship is drowned
on expeditions of discovery or rescue, and precious freights lie
buried. But there was the good of manning and furnishing the ship with
a great purpose before it set out.
We are going into Cambridgeshire this week, and are watching the
weather with private views.[28]
I have had some very interesting letters both from Jews and from
Christians about "Deronda." Part of the scene at the club is
translated into Hebrew in a German-Jewish newspaper. On the other
hand, a Christian (highly accomplished) thanks me for embodying the
principles by which Christ wrought and will conquer. This is better
than the laudation of readers who cut the book up into scraps, and
talk of nothing in it but Gwendolen. I meant everything in the book to
be related to everything else there.
I quite enter into Miss Jekyll's view of negative beauty. Life tends
to accumulate "messes" about one, and it is hard to rid one's self of
them because of the associations attached. I get impatient sometimes,
and long, as Andrew Fairservice would say, to "kaim off the fleas," as
one does in a cathedral spoiled by monuments out of keeping with the
pillars and walls.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Wm. Smith, 14th Oct. 1876.]
I had felt it long before you let me have some news of you. How could
you repeat deliberately that bad dream of your having made yourself
"objectionable?" I will answer for it that you were never
objectionable to any creature except perhaps to your own self--a too
modest and shrinking self. I trusted in your understanding last spring
that I was glad to hear from my friends without having to make the
effort of answering, when answering was not demanded for practical
purposes. My health was not good, and I was absorbed as to my working
power, though not as to my interest and sympathy.
You have been in my mind of late, not only on your own account but in
affectionate association with our dear Mrs. Ruck, whose acquaintance I
owe to you.
On my return from abroad I found among my heap of letters a delightful
one from her, written, I think, at the end of June, as bright and
cheering as the hills under the summer sky. And only a day or two
after we saw that sad news in the _Times_. I think of her beautiful,
open face, with the marks of grief upon it. Why did you write me such
a brief letter, telling me nothing about your own life? I am a poor
correspondent, and have to answer many letters from people less
interesting to me than you are. Will you not indulge me by writing
more to me than you expect me to write to you? That would be generous.
We both came back the better for our three months' journeying, though
I was so ill after we had got to the south that we thought of
returning, and went northward in that expectation. But Ragatz set me
up, so far as I expect to be set up, and we greatly enjoyed our fresh
glimpses of Swiss scenery.
Mr. Lewes is now printing his third volume of "Problems of Life and
Mind," and is, as usual, very happy over his work. He shares my
interest in everything that relates to you; and be assured--will you
not?--that such interest will always be warm in us. I shall not, while
I live, cease to be yours affectionately.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_Oct. 20._--Looking into accounts _apropos_ of an offer from Blackwood
for another ten years of copyright, I find that before last Christmas
there had been distributed 24,577 copies of "Middlemarch."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. H. B. Stowe,[29] 29th Oct. 1876.]
"Evermore thanks" for your last letter, full of generous sympathy that
can afford to be frank. The lovely photograph of the grandson will be
carefully preserved. It has the sort of beauty which seems to be
peculiarly abundant in America, at once rounded and delicate in form.
I do hope you will be able to carry out your wish to visit your son at
Bonn, notwithstanding that heavy crown of years that your dear Rabbi
has to carry. If the sea voyage could be borne without much
disturbance, the land journey might be made easy by taking it in short
stages--the plan we always pursue in travelling. You see I have an
interested motive in wishing you to come to Europe again, since I
can't go to America. But I enter thoroughly into the disinclination to
move when there are studies that make each day too short. If we were
neighbors, I should be in danger of getting troublesome to the revered
Orientalist, with all kinds of questions.
As to the Jewish element in "Deronda," I expected from first to last,
in writing it, that it would create much stronger resistance, and even
repulsion, than it has actually met with. But precisely because I felt
that the usual attitude of Christians towards Jews is--I hardly know
whether to say more impious or more stupid when viewed in the light of
their professed principles, I therefore felt urged to treat Jews with
such sympathy and understanding as my nature and knowledge could
attain to. Moreover, not only towards the Jews, but towards all
Oriental peoples with whom we English come in contact, a spirit of
arrogance and contemptuous dictatorialness is observable which has
become a national disgrace to us. There is nothing I should care more
to do, if it were possible, than to rouse the imagination of men and
women to a vision of human claims in those races of their fellow-men
who most differ from them in customs and beliefs. But towards the
Hebrews we western people, who have been reared in Christianity, have
a peculiar debt, and, whether we acknowledge it or not, a peculiar
thoroughness of fellowship in religious and moral sentiment. Can
anything be more disgusting than to hear people called "educated"
making small jokes about eating ham, and showing themselves empty of
any real knowledge as to the relation of their own social and
religious life to the history of the people they think themselves
witty in insulting? They hardly know that Christ was a Jew. And I find
men, educated, supposing that Christ spoke Greek. To my feeling, this
deadness to the history which has prepared half our world for us, this
inability to find interest in any form of life that is not clad in the
same coat-tails and flounces as our own, lies very close to the worst
kind of irreligion. The best that can be said of it is, that it is a
sign of the intellectual narrowness--in plain English, the
stupidity--which is still the average mark of our culture.
Yes, I expected more aversion than I have found. But I was happily
independent in material things, and felt no temptation to accommodate
my writing to any standard except that of trying to do my best in
what seemed to me most needful to be done, and I sum up with the
writer of the Book of Maccabees--"If I have done well and as befits
the subject, it is what I desired; and if I have done ill, it is what
I could attain unto."
You are in the middle of a more glorious autumn than ours, but we,
too, are having now and then a little sunshine on the changing woods.
I hope that I am right in putting the address from which you wrote to
me on the 25th September, so that my note may not linger away from
you, and leave you to imagine me indifferent or negligent.
Please offer my reverent regard to Mr. Stowe.
We spent three months in East Switzerland, and are the better for it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1876.]
Any one who knows from experience what bodily infirmity is--how it
spoils life even for those who have no other trouble--gets a little
impatient of healthy complainants, strong enough for extra work and
ignorant of indigestion. I at least should be inclined to scold the
discontented young people who tell me in one breath that they never
have anything the matter with them, and that life is not worth having,
if I did not remember my own young discontent. It is remarkable to me
that I have entirely lost my _personal_ melancholy. I often, of
course, have melancholy thoughts about the destinies of my fellow
creatures, but I am never in that _mood_ of sadness which used to be
my frequent visitant even in the midst of external happiness; and
this, notwithstanding a very vivid sense that life is declining and
death close at hand. We are waiting with some expectation for Miss
Martineau's Autobiography, which, I fancy, will be charming so far as
her younger and less renowned life extends. All biography diminishes
in interest when the subject has won celebrity--or some reputation
that hardly comes up to celebrity. But autobiography at least saves a
man or woman that the world is curious about from the publication of a
string of mistakes called "Memoirs." It would be nice if we could be a
trio--I mean you, Cara, and I--chatting together for an hour as we
used to do when I had walked over the hill to see you. But that
pleasure belongs to "the days that are no more." Will you believe that
an accomplished man some years ago said to me that he saw no place for
the exercise of _resignation_ when there was no personal divine will
contemplated as ordaining sorrow or privation? He is not yet aware
that he is getting old and needing that unembittered compliance of
soul with the inevitable which seems to me a full enough meaning for
the word "resignation."
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_Dec. 1._--Since we came home at the beginning of September I have
been made aware of much repugnance or else indifference towards the
Jewish part of "Deronda," and of some hostile as well as adverse
reviewing. On the other hand, there have been the strongest
expressions of interest, some persons adhering to the opinion, started
during the early numbers, that the book is my best. Delightful letters
have here and there been sent to me; and the sale both in America and
in England has been an unmistakable guarantee that the public has been
touched. Words of gratitude have come from Jews and Jewesses, and
these are certain signs that I may have contributed my mite to a good
result. The sale hitherto has exceeded that of "Middlemarch," as to
the £2 2_s._ four-volume form, but we do not expect an equal success
for the guinea edition which has lately been issued.
_Dec. 11._--We have just bought a house in Surrey, and think of it as
making a serious change in our life--namely, that we shall finally
settle there and give up town.
This was a charming house--The Heights, Witley, near
Godalming. It stands on a gentle hill overlooking a lovely
bit of characteristic English scenery. In the foreground
green fields, prettily timbered, undulate up to the high
ground of Haslemere in front, with Blackdown (where Tennyson
lives) on the left hand, and Hind Head on the right--"Heights
that laugh with corn in August, or lift the plough-team
against the sky in September." Below, the white steam-pennon
flies along in the hollow. The walks and drives in the
neighborhood are enchanting. A land of pine-woods and copses,
village greens and heather-covered hills, with the most
delicious old red or gray brick, timbered cottages nestling
among creeping roses; the sober-colored tiles of their roofs,
covered with lichen, offering a perpetual harmony to the eye.
The only want in the landscape is the want of flowing water.
About the house there are some eight or nine acres of
pleasure ground and gardens. It quite fulfilled all
expectations, as regards beauty and convenience of situation,
though I am not quite sure that it was bracing enough for
health.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1876.]
_Dec. 15._--At the beginning of this week I had deep satisfaction from
reading in the _Times_ the report of a lecture on "Daniel Deronda,"
delivered by Dr. Hermann Adler to the Jewish working-men--a lecture
showing much insight and implying an expectation of serious benefit.
Since then I have had a delightful letter from the Jewish Theological
Seminary at Breslau, written by an American Jew named Isaacs, who
excuses himself for expressing his feeling of gratitude on reading
"Deronda," and assures me of his belief that it has even already had
an elevating effect on the minds of some among his people--predicting
that the effect will spread.
I have also had a request from Signor Bartolommeo Aquarone, of Siena,
for leave to translate "Romola," and declaring that as one who has
given special study to the history of San Marco, and has written a
life of Fra Jeronimo Savonarola, he cares that "Romola" should be
known to his countrymen, for their good. _Magnificat anima mea!_ And
last night I had a letter from Dr. Benisch, editor of the _Jewish
Chronicle_, announcing a copy of the paper containing an article
written by himself on reading "Deronda" (there have long ago been two
articles in the same journal reviewing the book), and using strong
words as to the effect the book is producing. I record these signs,
that I may look back on them if they come to be confirmed.
_Dec. 31._--We have spent the Christmas with our friends at Weybridge,
but the greater part of the time I was not well enough to enjoy
greatly the pleasures their affection prepared for us.
Farewell 1876.
[Illustration: The Heights, Witley. From a Sketch by Mrs. Allingham.]
[Sidenote: Journal, 1877.]
_Jan. 1._--The year opens with public anxieties. First, about the
threatening war in the East; and next, about the calamities consequent
on the continued rains. As to our private life, all is happiness,
perfect love, and undiminished intellectual interest. G.'s third
volume is about half-way in print.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 19th Jan. 1877.]
I don't know that I ever heard anybody use the word "meliorist" except
myself. But I begin to think that there is no good invention or
discovery that has not been made by more than one person.
The only good reason for referring to the "source" would be that you
found it useful for the doctrine of meliorism to cite one
unfashionable confessor of it in the face of the fashionable extremes.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th Jan. 1877.]
What are we to do about "Romola?" It ought to range with the cheap
edition of my books--which, _exceptis excipiendis_, is a beautiful
edition--as well as with any handsomer series which the world's
affairs may encourage us to publish. The only difficulty lies in the
illustrations required for uniformity. The illustrations in the other
volumes are, as Mr. Lewes says, not queerer than those which amuse us
in Scott and Miss Austin, with one exception--namely, that where Adam
is making love to Dinah, which really enrages me with its
unctuousness. I would gladly pay something to be rid of it. The next
worst is that of Adam in the wood with Arthur Donnithorne. The rest
are endurable to a mind well accustomed to resignation. And the
vignettes on the title-pages are charming. But if an illustrator is
wanted, I know one whose work is exquisite--Mrs. Allingham.
This is not a moment for new ventures, but it will take some time to
prepare "Romola." I should like to see proofs, feeling bound to take
care of my text; and I have lately been glancing into a book on
Italian things, where almost every citation I alighted on was
incorrectly printed. I have just read through the cheap edition of
"Romola," and though I have only made a few alterations of an
unimportant kind--the printing being unusually correct--it would be
well for me to send this copy to be printed from. I think it must be
nearly ten years since I read the book before, but there is no book of
mine about which I more thoroughly feel that I could swear by every
sentence as having been written with my best blood, such as it is, and
with the most ardent care for veracity of which my nature is capable.
It has made me often sob with a sort of painful joy as I have read the
sentences which had faded from my memory. This helps one to bear false
representations with patience; for I really don't love any gentleman
who undertakes to state my opinions well enough to desire that I
should find myself all wrong in order to justify his statement.
I wish, whenever it is expedient, to add "The Lifted Veil" and
"Brother Jacob," and so fatten the volume containing "Silas Marner,"
which would thus become about 100 pages thicker.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Allingham, 8th March, 1877.]
Mr. Lewes feels himself innocent of dialect in general, and of Midland
dialect in especial. Hence I presume to take your reference on the
subject as if it had been addressed to me. I was born and bred in
Warwickshire, and heard the Leicestershire, North Staffordshire, and
Derbyshire dialects during visits made in my childhood and youth.
These last are represented (mildly) in "Adam Bede." The Warwickshire
talk is broader, and has characteristics which it shares with other
Mercian districts. Moreover, dialect, like other living things, tends
to become mongrel, especially in a central, fertile, and manufacturing
region, attractive of migration; and hence the Midland talk presents
less interesting relics of elder grammar than the more northerly
dialects.
Perhaps, unless a poet has a dialect ringing in his ears, so as to
shape his metre and rhymes according to it at one jet, it is better to
be content with a few suggestive touches; and, I fear, that the stupid
public is not half grateful for studies in dialect beyond such
suggestions.
I have made a few notes, which may perhaps be not unacceptable to you
in the absence of more accomplished aid:
1. The vowel always a double sound, the _y_ sometimes present,
sometimes not; either _aäl_ or _yaäl_. _Hither_ not heard except in
_c'moother_, addressed to horses.
2. _Thou_ never heard. In general, the 2d person singular not used in
Warwickshire except occasionally to young members of a family, and
then always in the form of _thee_--_i.e._, _'ee_. For the _emphatic_
nominative, _yo_, like the Lancashire. For the accusative, _yer_,
without any sound of the _r_. The demonstrative _those_ never heard
among the common people (unless when caught by infection from the
parson, etc.). _Self_ pronounced _sen_. The _f_ never heard in _of_,
nor the _n_ in _in_.
3. Not year but 'ear. On the other hand, with the usual
"compensation," head is pronounced _y_ead.
4. "A gallows little chap as e'er ye see."
5. Here's _to_ you, maäster.
Saäm to yo.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 20th March, 1877.]
You must read Harriet Martineau's "Autobiography." The account of her
childhood and early youth is most pathetic and interesting; but as in
all books of the kind, the charm departs as the life advances, and the
writer has to tell of her own triumphs. One regrets continually that
she felt it necessary not only to tell of her intercourse with many
more or less distinguished persons--which would have been quite
pleasant to everybody--but also to pronounce upon their entire merits
and demerits, especially when, if she had died as soon as she
expected, these persons would nearly all have been living to read her
gratuitous rudenesses. Still I hope the book will do more good than
harm. Many of the most interesting little stories in it about herself
and others she had told me (and Mr. Atkinson) when I was staying with
her, almost in the very same words. But they were all the better for
being told in her silvery voice. She was a charming talker, and a
perfect lady in her manners as a hostess.
We are only going to bivouac in our Surrey home for a few months, to
try what alterations are necessary. We shall come back to this corner
in the autumn. We don't think of giving up London altogether at
present, but we may have to give up life before we come to any
decision on that minor point.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 15th May, 1877.]
Pray bring Madame Mario to see us again. But bear in mind that on
Sunday the 27th--which probably will be our last Sunday in
London--Holmes the violinist is coming to play, with Mrs. Vernon
Lushington to accompany him. Don't mention to any one else that they
are coming, lest the audience should be larger than he wishes.
We are working a little too hard at "pleasure" just now. This morning
we are going for the third time to a Wagner rehearsal at 10 o'clock.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 15th May, 1877.]
I have not read, and do not mean to read, Mrs. Chapman's volume, so
that I can judge of it only by report. You seem to me to make a very
good case for removing the weight of blame from her shoulders and
transferring it to the already burdened back of Harriet Martineau. But
I confess that the more I think of the book and all connected with
it, the more it deepens my repugnance--or, rather, creates a new
repugnance in me--to autobiography, unless it can be so written as to
involve neither self-glorification nor impeachment of others. I like
that the "He, being dead, yet speaketh," should have quite another
meaning than that. But however the blame may be distributed, it
remains a grievously pitiable thing to me that man, or woman, who has
cared about a future life in the minds of a coming generation or
generations, should have deliberately, persistently mingled with that
prospect the ignoble desire to perpetuate personal animosities, which
can never be rightly judged by those immediately engaged in them. And
Harriet Martineau, according to the witness of those well acquainted
with facts which she represents in her Autobiography, was quite
remarkably apt to have a false view of her relations with others. In
some cases she gives a ridiculously inaccurate account of the tenor or
bearing of correspondence held with her. One would not for a moment
want to dwell on the weakness of a character on the whole valuable and
beneficent, if it were not made needful by the ready harshness with
which she has inflicted pain on others.
No; I did not agree with you about the Byron case. I understand by the
teaching of my own egoism--and therefore I can sympathize with--any
act of self-vindicating or vindictive rage under the immediate
infliction of what is felt to be a wrong or injustice. But I have no
sympathy with self-vindication, or the becoming a proxy in
vindication, deliberately bought at such a price as that of vitiating
revelations--which may even possibly be false. To write a letter in a
rage is very pardonable--even a letter full of gall and bitterness,
meant as a sort of poisoned dagger. We poor mortals can hardly escape
these sins of passion. But I have no pity to spare for the rancor that
corrects its proofs and revises, and lays it by chuckling with the
sense of its future publicity.
[Sidenote: Letter to Professor Dr. David Kaufmann, 31st May, 1877.]
Hardly, since I became an author, have I had a deeper satisfaction--I
may say, a more heartfelt joy--than you have given me in your estimate
of "Daniel Deronda."
I must tell you that it is my rule, very strictly observed, not to
read the criticisms on my writings. For years I have found this
abstinence necessary to preserve me from that discouragement as an
artist which ill-judged praise, no less than ill-judged blame, tends
to produce in me. For far worse than any verdict as to the proportion
of good and evil in our work, is the painful impression that we write
for a public which has no discernment of good and evil.
Certainly if I had been asked to choose _what_ should be written about
my books, and _who_ should write it, I should have sketched--well, not
anything so good as what you have written, but an article which must
be written by a Jew who showed not merely a sympathy with the best
aspirations of his race, but a remarkable insight into the nature of
art and the processes of the artistic mind.
Believe me, I should not have cared to devour even ardent praise if it
had not come from one who showed the discriminating sensibility, the
perfect response to the artist's intention, which must make the
fullest, rarest joy to one who works from inward conviction and not in
compliance with current fashions.
Such a response holds for an author not only what is best in "the life
that now is," but the promise of "that which is to come." I mean that
the usual approximative narrow perception of what one has been
intending and profoundly feeling in one's work, impresses one with the
sense that it must be poor perishable stuff, without roots to take any
lasting hold in the minds of men; while any instance of complete
comprehension encourages one to hope that the creative prompting has
foreshadowed and will continue to satisfy a need in other minds.
Excuse me that I write but imperfectly, and perhaps dimly, what I have
felt in reading your article. It has affected me deeply, and though
the prejudice and ignorant obtuseness which has met my effort to
contribute something towards the ennobling of Judaism in the
conceptions of the Christian community, and in the consciousness of
the Jewish community, has never for a moment made me repent my choice,
but rather has been added proof that the effort was needed--yet I
confess that I had an unsatisfied hunger for certain signs of
sympathetic discernment which you only have given.
I may mention as one instance your clear perception of the relation
between the presentation of the Jewish elements and those of English
social life.
I write under the pressure of small hurries; for we are just moving
into the country for the summer, and all things are in a vagrant
condition around me. But I wished not to defer answering your letter
to an uncertain opportunity.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 14th June, 1877.]
I am greatly indebted to you for your letter. It has done something
towards rousing me from what I will not call self-despair but
resignation to being of no use.
I wonder whether you at all imagine the terrible pressure of disbelief
in my own {duty/right} to speak to the public, which is apt with me to
make all beginnings of work like a rowing against tide. Not that I am
without more than my fair ounce of self-conceit and confidence that I
know better than the critics, whom I don't take the trouble to read,
but who seem to fill the air as with the smoke of bad tobacco.
But I will not dwell on my antithetic experiences. I only mention them
to show why your letter has done me a service, and also to help in the
explanation of my mental attitude towards your requests or
suggestions.
I do not quite understand whether you have in your mind any plan of
straightway constructing a liturgy to which you wish me to contribute
in a direct way. That form of contribution would hardly be within my
powers. But your words of trust in me as possibly an organ of feelings
which have not yet found their due expression is as likely as any
external call could be to prompt such perfectly unfettered productions
as that which you say has been found acceptable.
I wasted some time, three years ago, in writing (what I do not mean to
print) a poetic dialogue embodying or rather shadowing very
imperfectly the actual contest of ideas. Perhaps what you have written
to me may promote and influence a different kind of presentation. At
any rate all the words of your letter will be borne in mind, and will
enter into my motives.
We are tolerably settled now in our camping, experimental fashion.
Perhaps, before the summer is far advanced, you may be in our
neighborhood, and come to look at us. I trust that Mrs. Harrison is
by this time in her usual health. Please give my love to her, and
believe me always, with many grateful memories, yours sincerely.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 2d July, 1877.]
It was a draught of real comfort and pleasure to have a letter written
by your own hand, and one altogether cheerful.[30] I trust that you
will by-and-by be able to write me word of continued progress. Hardly
any bit of the kingdom, I fancy, would suit your taste better than
your neighborhood of the Land's End. You are not fond of bushy
midland-fashioned scenery. We are enjoying the mixture of wildness and
culture extremely, and so far as landscape and air go we would not
choose a different home from this. But we have not yet made up our
minds whether we shall keep our house or sell it.
Some London friends are also occasional dwellers in these parts. The
day before yesterday we had Mr. and Mrs. Frederic Harrison, whose
parents have a fine old Tudor house--Sutton Place--some three miles
beyond Guildford. And do you remember Edmund Gurney? He and his
graceful bride lunched with us the other day. And Miss Thackeray is
married to-day to young Ritchie. I saw him at Cambridge, and felt that
the nearly twenty years' difference between them was bridged hopefully
by his solidity and gravity. This is one of several instances that I
have known of lately, showing that young men with even brilliant
advantages will often choose as their life's companion a woman whose
attractions are chiefly of the spiritual order.
I often see you enjoying your sunsets and the wayside flowers.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Allingham, 26th Aug. 1877.]
I hope that this letter may be sent on to you in some delicious nook
where your dear wife is by your side preparing to make us all richer
with store of new sketches. I almost fear that I am implying
unbecoming claims in asking you to send me a word or two of news about
your twofold, nay, fourfold self. But you must excuse in me a
presumption which is simply a feeling of spiritual kinship, bred by
reading in the volume you gave me before we left town.
That tremendous tramp--"Life, Death; Life, Death"[31]--makes me care
the more, as age makes it the more audible to me, for those younger
ones who are keeping step behind me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Professor Kaufmann, 12th Oct. 1877.]
I trust it will not be otherwise than gratifying to you to know that
your stirring article on "Daniel Deronda" is now translated into
English by a son of Professor Ferrier, who was a philosophical writer
of considerable mark. It will be issued in a handsomer form than that
of the pamphlet, and will appear within this autumnal publishing
season, Messrs. Blackwood having already advertised it. Whenever a
copy is ready we shall have the pleasure of sending it to you. There
is often something to be borne with in reading one's own writing in a
translation, but I hope that in this case you will not be made to
wince severely.
In waiting to send you this news, I seem to have deferred too long the
expression of my warm thanks for your kindness in sending me the
Hebrew translations of Lessing and the collection of Hebrew poems--a
kindness which I felt myself rather presumptuous in asking for, since
your time must be well filled with more important demands. Yet I must
further beg you, when you have an opportunity, to assure Herr Bacher
that I was most gratefully touched by the sympathetic verses with
which he enriched the gift of his work.
I see by your last letter that your Theological Seminary was to open
on the 4th of this month, so that this too retrospective letter of
mine will reach you when you are in the midst of your new duties. I
trust that this new institution will be a great good to professor and
students, and that your position is of a kind that you contemplate as
permanent. To teach the young personally has always seemed to me the
most satisfactory supplement to teaching the world through books; and
I have often wished that I had such a means of having fresh, living
spiritual children within sight.
One can hardly turn one's thought towards Eastern Europe just now
without a mingling of pain and dread, but we mass together distant
scenes and events in an unreal way, and one would like to believe that
the present troubles will not at any time press on you in Hungary with
more external misfortune than on us in England.
Mr. Lewes is happily occupied in his psychological studies. We both
look forward to the reception of the work you kindly promised us, and
he begs me to offer you his best regards.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Mrs. Ponsonby, 17th Oct. 1877.]
I like to know that you have been thinking of me and that you care to
write to me, and though I will not disobey your considerate
prohibition so far as to try to answer your letter fully, I must
content my soul by telling you that we shall be settled in the old
place by the end of the first week in November, and that I shall be
delighted to see you then. There are many subjects that I shall have a
special pleasure in talking of with you.
Let me say now that the passage quoted from your friend's letter is
one that I am most glad to find falling in with your own attitude of
mind. The view is what I have endeavored to represent in a little poem
called "Stradivarius," which you may not have happened to read.
I say, not God Himself can make man's best
Without best men to help Him.
And next: I think direct personal portraiture--or caricature--is a
bastard kind of satire that I am not disposed to think the better of
because Aristophanes used it in relation to Socrates. Do you know that
pretty story about Bishop Thirlwall? When somebody wanted to bring to
him Forchhammer as a distinguished German writer, he replied, "No; I
will never receive into my house the man who justified the death of
Socrates!"
"O that we were all of one mind, and that mind good!" is an
impossible-to-be-realized wish: and I don't wish it at all in its full
extent. But I think it would be possible that men should differ
speculatively as much as they do now, and yet be "of one mind" in the
desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, in the desire to do an honest
part towards the general well-being, which has made a comfortable
_nidus_ for themselves, in the resolve not to sacrifice another to
their own egoistic promptings. Pity and fairness--two little words
which, carried out, would embrace the utmost delicacies of the moral
life--seem to me not to rest on an unverifiable hypothesis but on
facts quite as irreversible as the perception that a pyramid will not
stand on its apex.
I am so glad you have been enjoying Ireland in quiet. We love our bit
of country and are bent on keeping it as a summer refuge.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 6th Nov. 1877, from the Priory.]
_Apropos_ of authorship, I was a little uneasy on Sunday because I had
seemed in the unmanageable current of talk to echo a too slight way of
speaking about a great poet. I did not mean to say Amen when the
"Idylls of the King" seemed to be judged rather _de haut en bas_. I
only meant that I should value for my own mind "In Memoriam" as the
chief of the larger works; and that while I feel exquisite beauty in
passages scattered through the "Idylls," I must judge some smaller
wholes among the lyrics as the works most decisive of Tennyson's high
place among the immortals.
Not that my deliverance on this matter is of any moment, but that I
cannot bear to fall in with the sickening fashion of people who talk
much about writers whom they read little, and pronounce on a great
man's powers with only half his work in their mind, while if they
remembered the other half they would find their judgments as to his
limits flatly contradicted. Then, again, I think Tennyson's dramas
such as the world should be glad of--and would be, if there had been
no prejudgment that he could not write a drama.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 10th Nov. 1877.]
Never augur ill because you do not hear from me. It is, you know, my
profession _not_ to write letters. Happily I can meet your kind
anxiety by contraries. I have for two months and more been in better
health than I have known for several years. This pleasant effect is
due to the delicious air of the breezy Surrey hills; and, further, to
a friend's insistence on my practising lawn-tennis as a daily
exercise.
We are in love with our Surrey house, and only regret that it hardly
promises to be snug enough for us chilly people through the winter, so
that we dare not think of doing without the warmer nest in town.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1877.]
_Nov. 10._--We went to the Heights, Witley, at the beginning of June,
after a delightful visit to Cambridge, and returned to this old home
on the 29th October. We are at last in love with our Surrey house, and
mean to keep it. The air and abundant exercise have quite renovated my
health, and I am in more bodily comfort than I have known for several
years. But my dear husband's condition is less satisfactory, his
headaches still tormenting him.
Since the year began several little epochs have marked themselves.
Blackwood offered for another ten years' copyright of my works, the
previous agreement for ten years having expired. I declined, choosing
to have a royalty. G.'s third volume has been well received, and has
sold satisfactorily for a book so little in the popular taste. A
pleasant correspondence has been opened with Professor Kaufmann, now
Principal of the Jewish Theological Seminary at Pesth; and his
"Attempt at an Appreciation of 'Daniel Deronda'" has been translated
into English by young Ferrier, son of Professor Ferrier.
A new Cabinet edition of my works, including "Romola," has been
decided on, and is being prepared; and there have been multiplied
signs that the spiritual effect of "Deronda" is growing. In America
the book is placed above all my previous writings.
Our third little Hampstead granddaughter has been born, and was
christened Saturday--the 3d--Elinor.
Yesterday Mr. Macmillan came to ask me if I would undertake to write
the volume on Shakespeare, in a series to be issued under the title
"Men of Letters." I have declined.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 16th Nov. 1877.]
Having a more secure freedom than I may have next week, I satisfy my
eagerness to tell you that I am longing for the news of you which you
have accustomed me to trust in as sure to come at this time of the
year. You will give me, will you not, something more than an
affectionate greeting? You will tell me how and where you have been,
and what is the actual state of your health and spirits--whether you
can still interest yourself in writing on great subjects without too
much fatigue, and what companionship is now the most precious to you?
We returned from our country home (with which we are much in love) at
the beginning of this month, leaving it earlier than we wished because
of the need to get workmen into it. Our bit of Surrey has the beauties
of Scotland wedded to those of Warwickshire. During the last two
months of our stay there I was conscious of more health and strength
than I have known for several years. Imagine me playing at lawn-tennis
by the hour together! The world I live in is chiefly one that has
grown around me in these later years, since we have seen so little of
each other. Doubtless we are both greatly changed in spiritual as well
as bodily matters, but I think we are unchanged in the friendship
founded on early memories. I, for my part, feel increasing gratitude
for the cheering and stimulus your companionship gave me, and only
think with pain that I might have profited more by it if my mind had
been more open to good influences.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1877.]
_Nov. 26._--The other day we saw in the _Times_ that G.'s name had
been proposed for the Rectorship of St. Andrews. Blackwood writes me
that in less than a month they have sold off all but 400 of the 5250
printed; and in October were sold 495 of the 3_s._ 6_d._ edition of
"Adam Bede."
Our friend Dr. Allbut came to see us last week, after we had missed
each other for three or four years.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d Dec. 1877.]
I have been made rather unhappy by my husband's impulsive proposal
about Christmas. We are dull old persons, and your two sweet young
ones ought to find each Christmas a new bright bead to string on their
memory, whereas to spend the time with us would be to string on a
dark, shrivelled berry. They ought to have a group of young creatures
to be joyful with. Our own children always spend their Christmas with
Gertrude's family, and we have usually taken our sober merry-making
with friends out of town. Illness among these will break our custom
this year; and thus _mein Mann_, feeling that our Christmas was free,
considered how very much he liked being with you, omitting the other
side of the question--namely, our total lack of means to make a
suitably joyous meeting, a real festival, for Phil and Margaret. I was
conscious of this lack in the very moment of the proposal, and the
consciousness has been pressing on me more and more painfully ever
since. Even my husband's affectionate hopefulness cannot withstand my
melancholy demonstration.
So pray consider the kill-joy proposition as entirely retracted, and
give us something of yourselves, only on simple black-letter days
when the Herald Angels have not been raising expectations early in the
morning.
I am not afraid of your misunderstanding one word. You know that it is
not a little love with which I am yours ever.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 13th Dec. 1877.]
Your note yesterday gave me much comfort, and I thank you for sparing
the time to write it.
The world cannot seem quite the same to me as long as you are all in
anxiety about her who is most precious to you[32]--in immediate urgent
anxiety that is. For love is never without its shadow of anxiety. We
have this treasure in earthen vessels.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1877.]
_Dec. 31._--To-day I say a final farewell to this little book, which
is the only record I have made of my personal life for sixteen years
and more. I have often been helped, in looking back in it, to compare
former with actual states of despondency, from bad health or other
apparent causes. In this way a past despondency has turned to present
hopefulness. But of course, as the years advance, there is a new
rational ground for the expectation that my life may become less
fruitful. The difficulty is to decide how far resolution should set in
the direction of activity rather than in the acceptance of a more
negative state. Many conceptions of work to be carried out present
themselves, but confidence in my own fitness to complete them worthily
is all the more wanting because it is reasonable to argue that I must
have already done my best. In fact, my mind is embarrassed by the
number and wide variety of subjects that attract me, and the enlarging
vista that each brings with it.
I shall record no more in this book, because I am going to keep a more
business-like diary. Here ends 1877.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 17th Jan. 1878.]
Yes, it is a comfort to me, in the midst of so many dispiriting
European signs, that France has come so far through her struggle. And
no doubt you are rejoicing too that London University has opened all
its degrees to women.
I think we know no reading more amusing than the _Times_ just now. We
are deep among the gravities. I have been reading aloud Green's first
volume of his new, larger "History of the English People;" and this
evening have begun Lecky's "History of England in the Eighteenth
Century"--in fact, we are dull old fogies, who are ill-informed about
anything that is going on of an amusing kind. On Monday we took a
youth to the pantomime, but I found it a melancholy business. The dear
old story of Puss in Boots was mis-handled in an exasperating way, and
every incident as well as pretence of a character turned into a motive
for the most vulgar kind of dancing. I came away with a headache, from
which I am only to-day recovered. It is too cruel that one can't get
anything innocent as a spectacle for the children!
Mr. Lewes sends his best love, but is quite barren of suggestions
about books--buried in pink and lilac periodicals of a physiological
sort, and preoccupied with the case of a man who has an artificial
larynx, with which he talks very well.
What do you say to the phonograph, which can report gentlemen's bad
speeches with all their stammering?
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 26th Jan. 1878.]
I like to think of you and Mrs. Blackwood taking your daughter to
Rome. It will be a delightful way of reviving memories, to mingle and
compare them with her fresh impressions, and in a spiritual sense to
have what Shakespeare says is the joy of having offspring--"to see
your blood warm while you feel it cold." I wish that and all other
prospects were not marred by the threat of widening war.
Last night I finished reading Principal Tulloch's small but full
volume on "Pascal"--a present for which I am much obliged. It is
admirably fair and dispassionate, and I should think will be an
acceptable piece of instruction to many readers. The brief and graphic
way in which he has made present and intelligible the position of the
Port Royalists is an example of just what is needed in such a series
as the Foreign Classics. But of course they are the most fortunate
contributors who have to write about the authors, less commonly
treated of, and especially when they are prepared to write by an early
liking and long familiarity--as in the present case. I have read every
line of appreciation with interest. My first acquaintance with Pascal
came from his "Pensées" being given to me, as a school prize, when I
was fourteen; and I am continually turning to them now to revive my
sense of their deep though broken wisdom. It is a pity that "La
Bruyère" cannot be done justice to by any merely English presentation.
There is a sentence of his which touches with the finest point the
diseased spot in the literary culture of our time--"Le plaisir de la
critique nous ôté celui d'être vivement touchés de tres belles
choses." We see that our present fashions are old, but there is this
difference, that they are followed by a greater multitude.
You may be sure I was very much cheered by your last despatch--the
solid unmistakable proof that my books are not yet superfluous.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 23d March, 1878.]
As to my enjoyment of the "Two Grenadiers," it would have been
impossible but for the complete reduction of it to symbolism in my own
mind, and my belief that it really touches nobody now, as enthusiasm
for the execrable Napoleon I. But I feel that the devotion of the
common soldier to his leader (the sign for him of hard duty) is the
type of all higher devotedness, and is full of promise to other and
better generations.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 7th June, 1878.]
The royalties did themselves much credit.[33] The Crown Prince is
really a grand-looking man, whose name you would ask for with
expectation, if you imagined him no royalty. He is like a grand
antique bust--cordial and simple in manners withal, shaking hands, and
insisting that I should let him know when we next came to Berlin, just
as if he had been a Professor Gruppe, living _au troisième_. _She_ is
equally good-natured and unpretending, liking best to talk of nursing
soldiers, and of what her father's taste was in literature. She opened
the talk by saying, "You know my sister Louise"--just as any other
slightly embarrassed mortal might have done. We had a picked party to
dinner--Dean of Westminster, Bishop of Peterborough, Lord and Lady
Ripon, Dr. Lyon Playfair, Kinglake (you remember "Eothen"--the old
gentleman is a good friend of mine), Froude, Mrs. Ponsonby (Lord
Grey's granddaughter), and two or three more "illustrations;" then a
small detachment coming in after dinner. It was really an interesting
occasion.
We go to Oxford to-morrow (to the Master of Balliol).
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 27th June, 1878, from Witley.]
I hope we are not wrong in imagining you settled at Strathtyrum, with
a fresh power of enjoying the old scenes after your exile, in spite of
the abstinence from work--the chief sweetness of life. Mr. Lewes, too,
is under a regimen for gout, which casts its threatening shadow in the
form of nightly cramps and inward _malaise_. He wants me to tell you
something amusing--a bit of Baboo English, from an Indian journal sent
us by Lord Lytton. _Apropos_ of Sir G. Campbell's rash statement that
India was no good to England, the accomplished writer says, "But
British House of Commons stripped him to pieces, and exposed his _cui
bono_ in all its naked hideousness!" After all, I think the cultivated
Hindoo writing what he calls English, is about on a par with the
authors of leading articles on this side of the globe writing what
_they_ call English--accusing or laudatory epithets and phrases,
adjusted to some dim standard of effect quite aloof from any knowledge
or belief of their own.
Letter-writing, I imagine, is counted as "work" from which you must
abstain; and I scribble this letter simply from the self-satisfied
notion that you will like to hear from me. You see I have asked no
questions, which are the torture-screws of correspondence, hence you
have nothing to answer. How glad I shall be of an announcement that
"No further bulletins will be sent, Mr. Blackwood having gone to golf
again."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 18th July, 1878.]
I thought you understood that I have grave reasons for not speaking on
certain public topics. No request from the best friend in the
world--even from my own husband--ought to induce me to speak when I
judge it my duty to be silent. If I had taken a contrary decision, I
should not have remained silent till now. My function is that of the
_æsthetic_, not the doctrinal teacher--the rousing of the nobler
emotions, which make mankind desire the social right, not the
prescribing of special measures, concerning which the artistic mind,
however strongly moved by social sympathy, is often not the best
judge. It is one thing to feel keenly for one's fellow-beings; another
to say, "This step, and this alone, will be the best to take for the
removal of particular calamities."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th July, 1878.]
I did hope that by the time your military evolutions were over, we
might see our way to enjoying the kind welcome which you and Mrs.
Blackwood have offered us. No expedition attracts us more than the
projected visit to Strathtyrum. Unhappily, Mr. Lewes continues to be
troubled and depressed by symptoms that, with the recollection upon us
of the crippling gout which once followed them, quite rob us of the
courage to leave home. The journey and the excitement, which would be
part of his pleasure if he were tolerably well, seem to him now
dangerous to encounter--and I am not myself robust enough to venture
on a risk of illness to him; so that I cannot supply the daring he
needs. We begin to think that we shall be obliged to defer our
pleasure of seeing you in your own home--so promising of walks and
talks, such as we can never have a chance of in London--until we have
the disadvantage of counting ourselves a year older. I am very sorry.
But it is better to know that you are getting well, and we unable to
see you, than to think of you as an invalid, unable to receive us. We
must satisfy ourselves with the good we have--including the peace, and
the promise of an abundant wheat harvest.
Please ask Mrs. and Miss Blackwood to accept my best regards, and
assure them that I counted much on a longer, quieter intercourse with
them in a few sunny days away from hotels and callers.
Do not write when writing seems a task. Otherwise you know how well I
like to have a letter from you.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 15th Aug. 1878.]
We have certainly to pay for all our other happiness, which is a
Benjamin's share, by many small bodily miseries. Mr. Lewes continues
ailing, and I am keeping him company with headache. "Rejoice, O young
man, in the days of thy youth," and keep a reserve of strength for the
more evil days. Especially avoid breaking your neck in hunting. Mr.
Lewes did once try horseback, some years ago, but found the exercise
too violent for him. I think a Highland sheltie would be the suitable
nag, only he is very fond of walking; and between that and lawn-tennis
he tires himself sufficiently.
I shall hope by and by to hear more good news about your uncle's
health.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 26th Aug. 1878.]
Shall you mind the trouble of writing me a few words of news about you
and yours? just to let me know how things are with you, and deliver me
from evil dreams.
We have been so ailing in the midst of our country joys that I need to
hear of my friends being well as a ground for cheerfulness--a bit of
sugar in the cup of resignation. Perhaps this fine summer has been
altogether delightful to you. Let me know this good, and satisfy the
thirsty sponge of my affection. If you object to my phrase, please to
observe that it is Dantesque--which will oblige you to find it
admirable.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 26th Aug. 1878.]
You remember the case of the old woman of whom her murderers confessed
that they had beaten her to death, "partly with crowbars and partly
with their fists." Well, I have been beaten into silence since your
kind letter, partly by visitors and partly by continual headache. I am
a shade or two better this morning, and my soul has half awaked to run
its daily stage of duty. Happily I was temporarily relieved from
headache during our friends' (the Tom Trollopes') visit. We took them
to see Tennyson, and they were delighted with the reading which he
very amiably gave us. Then the Du Mauriers came to dine with us on the
Thursday, and so the time was not, I hope, too languid for our
visitors.
Mr. Lewes continues to show improvement in health, so that the balance
of good is not much altered by my deficit.
We shall be pleased to have any news of you, whether by post or
person.
At this time I was in the habit of going over occasionally
from Weybridge on Sundays. The shadow of trouble was on both
our houses. My mother was in her last illness, and Mr. Lewes
was constantly ailing, though none of us then thought that he
would be taken first. But the sharing of a common anxiety
contributed to make our friendship much more intimate. In our
drives in the neighborhood of Witley, Mr. Lewes used
sometimes to be suddenly seized with severe cramping pains. I
think he was himself aware that something was far wrong, but
the moment the pain ceased the extraordinary buoyancy of his
spirits returned. Nothing but death could quench that bright
flame. Even on his worst days he had always a good story to
tell; and I remember on one occasion, between two bouts of
pain, he sang through, with great _brio_, though without much
voice, the greater portion of the tenor part in the "Barber
of Seville"--George Eliot playing his accompaniment, and
both of them thoroughly enjoying the fun.
They led a very secluded life at Witley--as always in their
country retreats--but enjoyed the society of some of their
neighbors. Sir Henry and Lady Holland, who lived next door;
charming Mrs. Thellusson and her daughter, Mrs. Greville, who
lived between Witley and Godalming, were especial friends.
The Tennysons, too, and the Du Mauriers and Allinghams, were
all within easy visiting distance. George Eliot's dislike of
London life continued to increase with the increasing number
of her acquaintance, and consequent demands on time. The
Sunday receptions, confined to a small number of intimate
friends in 1867, had gradually extended themselves to a great
variety of interesting people.
These receptions have been so often and so well described
that they have hitherto occupied rather a disproportionate
place in the accounts of George Eliot's life. It will have
been noticed that there is very little allusion to them in
the letters; but, owing to the seclusion of her life, it
happened that the large majority of people who knew George
Eliot as an author never met her elsewhere. Her _salon_ was
important as a meeting-place for many friends whom she cared
greatly to see, but it was not otherwise important in her own
life. For she was eminently _not_ a typical mistress of a
_salon_. It was difficult for her, mentally, to move from one
person to another. Playing around many disconnected subjects,
in talk, neither interested her nor amused her much. She took
things too seriously, and seldom found the effort of
entertaining compensated by the gain. Fortunately Mr. Lewes
supplied any qualities lacking in the hostess. A brilliant
talker, a delightful _raconteur_, versatile, full of resource
in the social difficulties of amalgamating diverse groups,
and bridging over awkward pauses, he managed to secure for
these gatherings most of the social success which they
obtained. Many of the _réunions_ were exceedingly agreeable
and interesting, especially when they were not too crowded,
when general conversation could be maintained. But the larger
the company grew the more difficult it was to manage. The
English character does not easily accommodate itself to the
exigencies of a _salon_. There is a fatal tendency to break
up into small groups. The entertainment was frequently varied
by music when any good performer happened to be present. I
think, however, that the majority of visitors delighted
chiefly to come for the chance of a few words with George
Eliot alone. When the drawing-room door of the Priory opened,
a first glance revealed her always in the same low arm-chair
on the left-hand side of the fire. On entering, a visitor's
eye was at once arrested by the massive head. The abundant
hair, streaked with gray now, was draped with lace, arranged
mantilla-fashion, coming to a point at the top of the
forehead. If she were engaged in conversation her body was
usually bent forward with eager, anxious desire to get as
close as possible to the person with whom she talked. She had
a great dislike to raising her voice, and often became so
wholly absorbed in conversation that the announcement of an
incoming visitor sometimes failed to attract her attention;
but the moment the eyes were lifted up, and recognized a
friend, they smiled a rare welcome--sincere, cordial,
grave--a welcome that was felt to come straight from the
heart, not graduated according to any social distinction.
Early in the afternoon, with only one or two guests, the talk
was always general and delightful. Mr. Lewes was quite as
good in a company of three as in a company of thirty. In
fact, he was better, for his _verve_ was not in the least
dependent on the number of his audience, and the flow was
less interrupted. Conversation was no effort to him; nor was
it to her so long as the numbers engaged were not too many,
and the topics were interesting enough to sustain discussion.
But her talk, I think, was always most enjoyable _à deux_. It
was not produced for effect, nor from the lip, but welled up
from a heart and mind intent on the one person with whom she
happened to be speaking. She was never weary of giving of her
best so far as the wish to give was concerned. In addition to
the Sundays "at home" the Priory doors were open to a small
circle of very intimate friends on other days of the week. Of
evening entertainments there were very few, I think, after
1870. I remember some charming little dinners--never
exceeding six persons--and one notable evening when the Poet
Laureate read aloud "Maud," "The Northern Farmer," and parts
of other poems. It was very interesting on this occasion to
see the two most widely known representatives of contemporary
English literature sitting side by side. George Eliot would
have enjoyed much in her London life if she had been stronger
in health, but, with her susceptible organization, the
_atmosphere_ oppressed her both physically and mentally. She
always rejoiced to escape to the country. The autumn days
were beginning to close in now on the beautiful Surrey
landscape, not without some dim, half-recognized presage to
her anxious mind of impending trouble.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 24th Sept. 1878.]
I am not inclined to let you rest any longer without asking you to
send me some account of yourself, for it is long since I got my last
news from Edinburgh. I should like to know that you have continued to
gather strength, and that you have all been consequently more and more
enjoying your life at Strathtyrum. It is an ugly theory that happiness
wants the contrast of illness and anxiety, but I know that Mrs.
Blackwood must have a new comfort in seeing you once more with your
usual strength.
We have had "a bad time" in point of health, and it is only quite
lately that we have both been feeling a little better. The fault is
all in our own frames, not in our air or other circumstances; for we
like our house and neighborhood better and better. The general
testimony and all other arguments are in favor of this district being
thoroughly healthy. But we both look very haggard in the midst of our
blessings.
Are you not disturbed by yesterday's Indian news? One's hopes for the
world's getting a little rest from war are continually checked. Every
day, after reading the _Times_, I feel as if all one's writing were
miserably trivial stuff in the presence of this daily history. Do you
think there are persons who admire Russia's "mission" in Asia as they
did the mission in Europe?
Please write me anything that comes easily to the end of your pen, and
make your world seem nearer to me. Good Mr. Simpson, I hope, lets you
know that he is prospering in his pursuit of pleasure without
work--which seems a strange paradox in association with my idea of
him.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 15th Oct. 1878.]
The days pass by without my finding time to tell you what I want to
tell you--how delighted I was to have a good account of you. But every
bright day, and we have had many such, has made me think the more of
you, and hope that you were drawing in strength from the clear, sweet
air. I miss so much the hope that I used always to have of seeing you
in London and talking over everything just as we used to do--in the
way that will never exactly come with any one else. How unspeakably
the lengthening of memories in common endears our old friends! The new
are comparatively foreigners, with whom one's talk is hemmed in by
mutual ignorance. The one cannot express, the other cannot divine.
We are intensely happy in our bit of country, as happy as the cloudy
aspect of public affairs will allow any one who cares for them to be,
with the daily reading of the _Times_.
A neighbor of ours was reciting to me yesterday some delicious bits of
dialogue with a quaint Surrey woman; _e.g._, "O ma'am, what I have
gone through with my husband! He is so uneddicated--he never had a
tail-coat in his life!"
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 23d Nov. 1878, from the Priory.]
When Mr. Lewes sent you my MS.[34] the other morning he was in that
state of exhilarated activity which often comes with the sense of ease
after an attack of illness which had been very painful. In the
afternoon he imprudently drove out, and undertook, with his usual
eagerness, to get through numerous details of business, over-fatigued
himself, and took cold. The effect has been a sad amount of suffering
from feverishness and headache, and I have been in deep anxiety, am
still very unhappy, and only comforted by Sir James Paget's assurances
that the actual trouble will be soon allayed.
I have been telling the patient about your letter and suggestion that
he should send a form of slip as advertisement for the Magazine. He
says--and the answer seems to have been a matter of premeditation with
him--that it will be better not to announce the book in this way at
once--"the Americans and Germans will be down on us." I cannot
question him further at present, but I have no doubt he has been
thinking about the matter, and we must not cross his wish in any way.
I have thought that a good form of advertisement, to save people from
disappointment in a book of mine not being a story, would be to print
the list of contents, which, with the title, would give all but the
very stupid a notion to what form of writing the work belongs. But
this is a later consideration. I am glad you were pleased with the
opening.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, Sunday evening, 24th Nov.
1878.]
For the last week I have been in deep trouble. Mr. Lewes has been
alarmingly ill. To-day Sir James Paget and Dr. Quain pronounce him in
all respects better, and I am for the first time comforted. You will
not wonder now at my silence. Thanks for your affectionate
remembrances.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 25th Nov. 1878.]
Mr. Lewes continues sadly ill, and I am absorbed in nursing him. When
he wrote about Parliament meeting, he was thinking that it would be
called together at the usual time--perhaps February. The book can be
deferred without mischief. I wish to add a good deal, but, of course,
I can finish nothing now, until Mr. Lewes is better. The doctors
pronounced him in every respect better yesterday, and he had a quiet
night, but since five o'clock this morning he has had a recurrence of
trouble. You can feel for him and me, having so lately known what
severe illness is.
Mr. Lewes died on the 28th November, 1878.
_SUMMARY._
MARCH, 1876, TO NOVEMBER, 1878.
Letter to John Blackwood--Visit to Weybridge--"Daniel
Deronda"--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--Meets Sir Garnet
Wolseley--Vivisection--Letter to John Blackwood--Public
discussion of "Deronda"--Motto from Walt Whitman--Inscription
on the MS. of "Deronda"--Letter to Mrs. Stowe--Thanks for
sympathy--Drawbacks to going too much abroad--Mr. Lewes's
"Problems"--Letter to J. W. Cross on the effect of her
writing--Three-months' trip to Continent--Letter to John
Blackwood--Visit to Chambéry and Les Charmettes--Lausanne and
Vevey--Ragatz--Return to London--Letter to John
Blackwood--Dr. Hermann Adler--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--St.
Blasien--Women's work--Visit to Six-Mile Bottom--Meets
Turguenieff--Jewish appreciation of "Deronda"--Letter to Mrs.
William Smith--Mrs. Ruck--Letter to Mrs. Stowe--Jewish
element in "Deronda"--Letter to Miss Hennell--Miss
Martineau's "Autobiography," and biography in
general--Resignation--Gratitude of Jews for
"Deronda"--Purchase of house at Witley, near Godalming--Dr.
Hermann Adler's lectures on "Daniel Deronda"--Application to
translate "Romola" into Italian--Christmas at
Weybridge--Opening of year 1877--Letter to James Sully--The
word "meliorism"--Letter to John Blackwood--Illustrations of
cheap editions--"Romola"--Letter to William
Allingham--Warwickshire dialect--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Harriet
Martineau's "Autobiography"--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--Holmes
and Mrs. Vernon Lushington playing--Letter to Miss
Hennell--Mrs. Chapman on Harriet Martineau--Mrs. Stowe and
the Byron case--Letter to Professor Kaufmann--Gratitude for
his estimate of "Deronda"--Letter to F. Harrison--Sympathy
incentive to production--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--Miss
Thackeray's marriage--Letter to W. Allingham on his
poems--Letter to Professor Kaufmann--Translation of his
article by Mr. Ferrier--Letter to Mrs. Ponsonby--Reference to
Stradivarius--Pity and fairness--Letter to J. W.
Cross--Appreciation of Tennyson's poems and dramas--Letter to
Mrs. Peter Taylor--Improvement in health at Witley--Proposal
to write on Shakespeare for "Men of Letters" series--Letter
to Miss Hennell--Gain of health and strength at
Witley--Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones--Christmas plans--Farewell
to Journal and to year 1877--Letter to Mme. Bodichon--State
of France--London University opening degrees to
women--Reading Green's "History of the English People" and
Lecky--The phonograph--Letter to John
Blackwood--"Pascal"--"La Bruyère"--Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones
on the "Two Grenadiers"--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Meeting with
Crown Prince and Princess of Germany at Mr. Goschen's--Visit
to Oxford to the Master of Balliol--Letter to John
Blackwood--Indian story of Lord Lytton's--Letter to Mrs.
Peter Taylor--Function the æsthetic not the doctrinal
teacher--Letter to John Blackwood--Mr. Lewes's
ill-health--Letter to William Blackwood--Letter to Mrs.
Burne-Jones complaining of health--Letter to J. W. Cross--Mr.
Lewes's continued illness--Life at Witley--Effect of
receptions at the Priory--Description of receptions--Letter
to John Blackwood--Complaining of health--Letter to Mme.
Bodichon--Delight in old friends--Letters to John
Blackwood--MS. of "Theophrastus Such"--Mr. Lewes's last
illness--Postponement of publication of "Theophrastus"--Mr.
Lewes's death.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] This was a visit to Six-Mile Bottom, where M. Turguenieff, who
was a very highly valued friend of Mr. and Mrs. Lewes, had come to
compare his experiences of Russian and English sport. I remember
George Eliot telling me that she had never met any literary man whose
society she enjoyed so thoroughly and so unrestrainedly as she did
that of M. Turguenieff. They had innumerable bonds of sympathy.
[29] This letter is in acknowledgment of a letter from Mrs. Beecher
Stowe on "Daniel Deronda."
[30] Mme. Bodichon had been dangerously ill.
[31] Refers to a poem by W. Allingham, "The General Chorus," with a
burden:
"Life, Death; Life, Death;
Such is the song of human breath."
[32] The beginning of my mother's last illness.
[33] Dinner at Mr. Goschen's.
[34] "The Impressions of Theophrastus Such."
CHAPTER XIX.
For many weeks after Mr. Lewes's death, George Eliot saw no
one except Mr. Charles Lewes, and the very few persons she
was obliged to receive on necessary business. She read no
letters, and wrote none, but at once began to occupy herself
busily with Mr. Lewes's unfinished MSS., in which work Mr.
Charles Lewes was able to assist her in the arrangement. The
only entry in her diary on the 1st January, 1879, is "Here I
and sorrow sit." At the end of two months this desolation had
told terribly on her health and spirits; and on the last day
of January she was greatly comforted by a visit from Sir
James Paget--a friend for whom she had always had the highest
and most cordial regard during the many years she had known
him. Meantime she had begun to write a few short notes, and
she mentions in her journal of 2d January, "A kind letter
from Professor Michael Foster, of Cambridge, offering to help
me on any physiological point;" and on the 19th January,
"Ruminating on the founding of some educational
instrumentality as a memorial to be called by his name."
There are the following letters in January and February.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 7th Jan. 1879.]
I bless you for all your goodness to me, but I am a bruised creature,
and shrink even from the tenderest touch. As soon as I feel able to
see anybody I will see _you_. Please give my love to Bessie[35] and
thank her for me--I mean, for her sweet letter. I was a long while
before I read any letters, but tell her I shall read hers again and
again.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 13th Jan. 1879.]
It was a long while before I read any letters, and as yet I have
written none, except such as business required of me. You will believe
that this has not been for want of gratitude to all my friends for
their goodness to me. I can trust to your understanding of a sorrow
which has broken my life. I write now because I ought not to allow any
disproportionate expense to be incurred about my printed sheets.
To me, now, the writing seems all trivial stuff, but since he wished
it to be printed, and you seem to concur, I will correct the sheets
(if you will send me the remainder) gradually as I am able, and they
can be struck off and laid by for a future time. I submit this
proposition to your judgment, not knowing what may be most expedient
for your printing-office.
Thank you for all your kind words.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 22d Jan. 1879.]
Sometime, if I live, I shall be able to see you--perhaps sooner than
any one else--but not yet. Life seems to get harder instead of easier.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 30th Jan. 1879.]
When I said "sometime" I meant still a distant time. I want to live a
little time that I may do certain things for his sake. So I try to
keep up my strength, and I work as much as I can to save my mind from
imbecility. But that is all at present. I can go through anything that
is mere business. But what used to be joy is joy no longer, and what
is pain is easier because he has not to bear it.
I bless my friends for all their goodness to me. Please say so to all
of them that you know, especially Mr. Hall. Tell him I have read his
letter again and again.
If you feel prompted to say anything, write it to me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 4th Feb. 1879.]
Do not believe that your love is lost upon me, dear. I bless you for
all your goodness to me, and keep every sign of it in my memory.
I have been rather ill lately, but my head is clearer this morning.
The world's winter is going, I hope, but my everlasting winter has set
in. You know that and will be patient with me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 6th Feb. 1879.]
Bless you for your loving thought. But for all reasons, bodily and
mental, I am unable to move. I am entirely occupied with his
manuscripts, and must be on this spot among all the books. Then, I am
in a very ailing condition of body--cannot count on myself from day to
day--and am not fit to undertake any sort of journey. I have never yet
been outside the gate. Even if I were otherwise able, I could not bear
to go out of sight of the things he used and looked on.
Bless you once more. If I could go away with _anybody_ I could go away
with you.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 7th Feb. 1879.]
I do need your affection. Every sign of care for me from the beings I
respect and love is a help to me. In a week or two I think I shall
want to see you. Sometimes, even now, I have a longing, but it is
immediately counteracted by a fear. The perpetual mourner--the grief
that can never be healed--is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by
the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day
seems a new beginning--a new acquaintance with grief.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, Saturday, 22d Feb. 1879.]
If you happen to be at liberty to-morrow, or the following Friday, or
to-morrow week, I hope I shall be well enough to see you. Let me know
which day.
On Sunday, the 23d February, I saw her for the first time,
and there is the following letter next day.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 24th Feb. 1879.]
A transient absence of mind yesterday made me speak as if it were
possible for me to entertain your thoughtful, kind proposal that I
should move to Weybridge for a short time. But I cannot leave this
house for the next two months--if for no other reason, I should be
chained here by the need of having all the books I want to refer to.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 25th Feb. 1879.]
Pray do not announce "Theophrastus" in any way. It would be
intolerable to my feelings to have a book of my writing brought out
for a long while to come. What I wish to do is, to correct the sheets
thoroughly, and then have them struck off and laid by till the time of
publication comes. One reason which prompted me to set about the
proofs--in addition to my scruples about occupying the type--was that
I was feeling so ill, I thought there was no time to be lost in
getting done everything which no one else would do if I left it
undone. But I am getting better, I think; and my doctors say there is
nothing the matter with me to urge more haste than the common
uncertainty of life urges on us all.
There is a great movement now among the Jews towards colonizing
Palestine, and bringing out the resources of the soil. Probably Mr.
Oliphant is interested in the work, and will find his experience in
the West not without applicability in the East.
It is a satisfaction to you, I hope, that your son is about to be
initiated in George Street. I trust he will one day carry on the good
traditions of the name "John Blackwood."
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 5th Mch. 1879.]
Your letter, which tells me that you are benefiting by the clear,
sunny air, is very welcome. Yes, here too the weather is more
merciful, and I drive out most days. I am better bodily, but I never
feel thoroughly comfortable in that material sense, and I am
incredibly thin. As to my mind, I am full of occupation, but the
sorrow deepens down instead of diminishing. I mean to go to Witley in
a few months, that I may look again on the spots that he enjoyed, and
that we enjoyed together, but I cannot tell beforehand whether I shall
care to go again afterwards.
Everybody is very kind to me, and by and by I shall begin to see a few
intimate friends. I can do or go through anything that is business or
duty, but time and strength seem lacking for everything else. You must
excuse my weakness, remembering that for nearly twenty-five years I
have been used to find my happiness in his. I can find it nowhere
else. But we can live and be helpful without happiness, and I have had
more than myriads who were and are better fitted for it.
I am really very busy, and have been sadly delayed by want of health.
One project I have entered on is to found a studentship, which will be
called after his name. I am getting help from experienced men.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 5th Mch. 1879.]
I send the corrected sheets of "Theophrastus," and shall be much
obliged if you will order a complete revise to be sent me before they
are struck off. Whenever the book is published (I cannot contemplate
its appearing before June, and if that is a bad time it must stand
over till the autumn season) I beg you kindly to write for me a
notice, to be printed on the fly-leaf, that the MS. was placed in your
hands last November, or simply last year.
I think you will enter into my feeling when I say that to create a
notion on the part of the public of my having been occupied in writing
"Theophrastus" would be repugnant to me. And I shrink from putting
myself forward in any way.
I hope you are benefiting by the milder weather. I drive out a little
now, but you must be prepared to see me a much changed creature. I
think I should hardly know myself.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 8._--Gertrude[36] and the children came to tea.
_March 9._--Mr. Henry Sidgwick came to discuss the plan of the
studentship.
_March 13._--Professor Michael Foster came to discuss the studentship,
and we arrived at a satisfactory clearness as to the conditions. He
mentioned as men whom he thought of as suitable trustees, Huxley, Pye
Smith, Thiselton Dyer, Francis Balfour, and Henry Sidgwick.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 20th Mch. 1879.]
DEAR FRIEND,--When you have time to come to me about six o'clock I
shall love to see you.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 22._--Mrs. Congreve came again. Mrs. Burne-Jones came.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 25th Mch. 1879.]
I am so dissatisfied with "Theophrastus" on reading the revise that I
have proposed to suppress it in this original form, and regenerate it
whenever--if ever--I recover the power to do so. You see the cruel
weather has travelled after you. It makes one feel every grievance
more grievously in some respects, though to me the sunshine is in one
sense sadder.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 30._--Mr. Bowen (now Lord Justice Bowen) came, Mr. Spencer, and
J.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 5th April, 1879.]
After weighing what you have said, I agree to the publication of
"Theophrastus" in May. If you had at all suspected that the book would
injure my influence, you would not have wished me to give it forth in
its present form, and in the uncertainty of one's inner and outer life
it is not well to depend on future capabilities. There are some
things in it which I want to get said, and if the book turned out to
be effective in proportion to my other things, the form would lend
itself to a "second series"--supposing I lived and kept my faculties.
As to the price for the right of translating, you will judge. If you
will kindly undertake these negotiations for me, I shall be thankful.
And pray remember that I don't _want_ the book to be translated, so
that it will be well to wait for the application, and to ask a
sufficient sum to put the publisher on his guard as to the selection
of a translator. But, of course, this little book cannot be paid for
according to the difficulty of translation.
You see, I have been so used to have all trouble spared me that I am
ready to cast it on any willing shoulders. But I am obliged now to
think of business in many ways.
I am so glad to know that Mrs. Blackwood has the comfort of a good
report about you from the doctors. Perhaps it may seem to you the
wrong order of sympathy to be glad for your sake in the _second_
place.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_April 8._--Mrs. Stuart came.
Mrs. Stuart was a devoted friend whose acquaintance had been
formed some years before through the presentation of some
beautiful wood-carving which she had executed as an offering
to George Eliot.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 8th April, 1879.]
DEAR FRIENDS,--Will you come to see me some day? I am always in from
my drive and at liberty by half-past four. Please do not say to any
one that I am receiving visitors generally. Though I have been so long
without making any sign, my heart has been continually moved with
gratitude towards you.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 8th April, 1879.]
Your letter was very welcome this morning, for I do not like to be
very long without having some picture of you, and your words of
affection are always sweet.
The studentship I mention is to supply an income to a young man who is
qualified and eager to carry on physiological research, and would not
otherwise have the means of doing so. Mr. H. Sidgwick, Michael Foster,
and other men of kindred mind are helping me in settling the scheme. I
have been determined in my choice of the studentship by the idea of
what would be a sort of prolongation of _his_ life. That there should
always, in consequence of his having lived, be a young man working in
the way he would have liked to work, is a memorial of him that comes
nearest my feeling. It is to be at Cambridge to begin with, and we
thought at first of affiliating it to the university; but now the
notion is that it will be well to keep it free, so that the trustees
may move it where and when they will. But the scheme is not yet
drafted.
I am going to bring out one of "The Problems" in a separate volume at
the beginning of May, and am now correcting the proofs.
My going to Witley is an experiment. I don't know how I shall bear
being there, but I hope there will be nothing to hinder my _having
you_ there if you will undertake the troublous journey for my sake.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 9th April, 1879.]
I enclose the proof of title-page and motto. Whether the motto (which
is singularly apt and good) should be on the title-page or fly-leaf I
leave you to judge. Certainly, everybody who does not read Latin will
be offended by its claiming notice, and will consider that only the
deepest-dyed pedantry could have found the motive for it. But I will
not leave it out altogether.
I have had such various letters from time to time, asking me to
reprint or write essays, that, perhaps, some of the public will not be
disappointed that the volume is not a story. But that must be as it
may; and if you think the acceptance dubious, it is much the better
plan not to stereotype.
What energy there is in Mr. Kinglake in spite of the somewhat
shattered health that his _Wesen_ gives one the impression of! Among
incidents of war that one can dwell on with anything like gladness,
that account of the rescue of the colors at Isandlana is memorable, is
it not?
I go out every day, drive beyond the ranks of hideous houses in the
Kilburn outskirts, and get to lanes where I can walk, in perfect
privacy, among the fields and budding hedgerows.
I hope Mr. Julian Sturgis will take care of his writing and do
something lasting. He seems to me to have a strain above the common in
him; and he is not writing for his bread, or even his butter. I don't
know why I say this just now, except that I had it in my mind to say
long ago, and it has just come upper-most as I was thinking of the
Magazine.
[Sidenote: Letter to Professor Kaufmann, 17th April, 1879.]
Your kind letter has touched me very deeply. I confess that my mind
had, more than once, gone out to you as one from whom I should like to
have some sign of sympathy with my loss. But you were rightly inspired
in waiting till now, for during many weeks I was unable even to listen
to the letters which my generous friends were continually sending me.
Now, at last, I am eagerly interested in every communication that
springs out of an acquaintance with my husband and his works.
I thank you for telling me about the Hungarian translation of his
"History of Philosophy;" but what would I not have given if the
volumes could have come, even only a few days, before his death! For
his mind was perfectly clear, and he would have felt some joy in that
sign of his work being effective.
I do not know whether you will enter into the comfort I feel that he
never knew he was dying, and fell gently asleep after ten days of
illness, in which the suffering was comparatively mild.
One of the last things he did at his desk was to despatch a manuscript
of mine to the publishers. The book (not a story, and not bulky) is to
appear near the end of May, and, as it contains some words I wanted to
say about the Jews, I will order a copy to be sent to you.
I hope that your labors have gone on uninterruptedly for the benefit
of others, in spite of public troubles. The aspect of affairs with us
is grievous--industry languishing, and the best part of our nation
indignant at our having been betrayed into an unjustifiable war in
South Africa.
I have been occupied in editing my husband's MSS., so far as they are
left in sufficient completeness to be prepared for publication without
the obtrusion of another mind instead of his. A brief volume on "The
Study of Psychology" will appear immediately, and a further volume of
psychological studies will follow in the autumn. But his work was cut
short while he still thought of it as the happy occupation of
far-stretching months. Once more let me thank you for remembering me
in my sorrow.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 22d April, 1879.]
I am in dreadful need of your counsel. Pray come to me when you
can--morning, afternoon, or evening.
From this time forward I saw George Eliot constantly. My
mother had died in the beginning of the previous December, a
week after Mr. Lewes; and, as my life had been very much
bound up with hers, I was trying to find some fresh interest
in taking up a new pursuit. Knowing very little Italian, I
began Dante's "Inferno" with Carlyle's translation. The first
time I saw George Eliot afterwards, she asked me what I was
doing, and, when I told her, exclaimed, "Oh, I must read that
with you." And so it was. In the following twelve months we
read through the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio" together; not
in a _dilettante_ way, but with minute and careful
examination of the construction of every sentence. The
prodigious stimulus of such a teacher (_cotanto maestro_)
made the reading a real labor of love. Her sympathetic
delight in stimulating my newly awakened enthusiasm for Dante
did something to distract her mind from sorrowful memories.
The divine poet took us into a new world. It was a renovation
of life. At the end of May I induced her to play on the piano
at Witley for the first time; and she played regularly after
that whenever I was there, which was generally once or twice
a week, as I was living at Weybridge, within easy distance.
Besides Dante, we read at this time a great many of
Sainte-Beuve's "Causeries," and much of Chaucer, Shakespeare,
and Wordsworth. But I am anticipating. We will return to the
correspondence in its order.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 22d April, 1879.]
When I shall be able to get to Witley is altogether uncertain. The
cold winds make one less hungry for the country, but still it will be
a relief to me, in some respects, to get away from town. I am much
stronger than I was, and am again finding interest in this wonderful
life of ours. But I am obliged to keep my doors closed against all but
the few until I go away. You, however, I shall hope to see. I am
founding a studentship of Physiology, to be called "The George Henry
Lewes Studentship." It will be placed, in the first instance, at
Cambridge, where there is the best physiological school in the
kingdom. But the trustees (with my consent during my life) will have
the power of moving it where they judge best. This idea, which I early
conceived, has been a great stay to me. But I have plenty to think of,
plenty of creatures depending on me, to make my time seem of some
value. And there are so many in the world who have to live without any
great enjoyment.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_April 26._--Mr. and Mrs. Hall came.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d May, 1879.]
If you can come to me next week for a parting word, will you try to
learn beforehand whether and when your husband can give me half an
hour at the end of his working-day? I should like to see him before I
go, which I hope to do soon after the 13th.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_May 6._--Mr. and Mrs. Call, Eleanor and Florence (Cross) came.
_May 8._--Mr. Burne-Jones came.
_May 10._--Edith Simcox and Mr. Pigott came.
_May 13._--Dr. Andrew Clark came and gave me important suggestions
about the studentship.
_May 21._--Saw Mr. Anthony Trollope.
_May 22._--Came down to Witley--lovely mild day.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 28th May, 1879.]
Mr. Lewes always wrote the dramatic criticisms in the _Leader_, and
for a year or two he occasionally wrote such criticisms in the _Pall
Mall_. Of the latter, the chief were reprinted in the little book on
"Actors, and the Art of Acting." What was written in the
_Fortnightly_ (1865-66) is marked by signature. The most
characteristic contributions to the _Cornhill_ (1864-65) were "The
Mental Condition of Babies," "Dangers and Delights of Tobacco," "Was
Nero a Monster?" "Shakespeare in France," and "Miseries of a Dramatic
Author."
But after 1866 his contributions to any periodical were very
scanty--confined to a few articles in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, one on
"The Reign of Law," in the _Fortnightly_, and the series on Darwin,
now incorporated in "The Physical Basis of Mind." After these, his
sole contributions were an article on Dickens (1872), two on
"Spiritualism" and "Mesmerism" (1876), and one on "The Dread and
Dislike of Science" (1878).
Charles, I think, mentioned to you my desire that you should do me the
valuable service of looking over the proofs of the remaining volume of
"Problems," and you were so generous as to express your willingness to
undertake that labor. The printing will not begin till after the
16th--Dr. Michael Foster, who has also kindly offered to help me in
the same way, not being sufficiently at leisure till after that date.
I have been rather ill again lately, but am hoping to benefit by the
country quietude. You, too, I am sorry to hear, are not over strong.
This will make your loan of mind and eyesight all the more appreciated
by me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d June, 1879.]
Your letter, full of details--just the sort of letter I like to
have--has been among my comforts in these last damp, chill days. The
first week I was not well, and had a troublesome attack of pain, but I
am better, and try to make life interesting by always having something
to do.
I am wishing Margaret many happy returns of this day, and am making a
picture of you all keeping the little _fête_. A young birthday, when
the young creature is promising, is really a happy time; one can hope
reasonably; and the elder ones may be content that gladness has passed
onward from them into newer vessels. I should like to see the
blue-eyed maid with her bangles on her arms.
Please give my love to all and sundry who make any sign of love for
me; and any amount you like is ready for you to draw upon.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 10th June, 1879.]
I am greatly obliged to you for sending me the paper you are to read
to-day; and I appreciate it the more highly because your diligence is
in contrast with the general sluggishness of readers about any but
idle reading. It is melancholy enough that to most of our polite
readers the social factor in psychology would be a dull subject; for
it is certainly no conceit of ours which pronounces it to be the
supremely interesting element in the thinking of our time.
I confess the word factor has always been distasteful to me as the
name for the grandest of forces. If it were only mathematical I should
not mind, but it has many other associated flavors which spoil it for
me.
Once more--ever more--thanks.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 10th June, 1879.]
You will like to know that Mr. Frederic Harrison has sent me a brief
paper, which is to be read to-day at the Metaphysical Society, on the
"Social Factor in Psychology," opening with a quotation from the
"Study of Psychology," and marking throughout his high appreciation of
your father's work. Also the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, kindly
sent (with his initials only) to Trübner four errata which he had
found in reading the "Study of Psychology." Trübner did not know who
was the kind corrector, and very properly sent the paper to me,
offering to have the corrections made on the plates if I wished it. I
said, "By all means," and have written to thank the Rector. What a
blessing to find a man who really reads a book!
I have received the enclosed letter, with other papers (about country
lodgings at Sevenoaks for poor children). Will you look out a single
copy of as many of my books (poems included) as you can find, and send
them in a parcel, saying that they come from me for the Free Library?
Please not to mind this trouble, as it is for the _impecunious_
readers. (You know I am nothing if not "sesquipedalian" and
scientific; and a word of five syllables will do for both qualities.)
I wish you could see Coquelin in Tabourin. He is a wonderful actor,
when he gets the right part for him. He has a penetrating personality
that one cannot be indifferent to, though possibly it may be
unpleasant to some people.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 12th June, 1879.]
I was beginning, with my usual apprehensiveness, to fear that you had
no good news to tell me, since I did not hear from you, and I should
have gone on fearing till to-morrow morning if I had not happened to
drive to Godalming and ask for the second post. We only get one post a
day at the benighted Witley, so that if you want me to get a letter
quickly it must be posted early at Edinburgh.
I am heartily glad to know that the invalid is going on well, and I
trust that the softer air we are having now will help him forward.
"Theophrastus" seems to be really welcomed by the public. Mr.
Blackwood will be amused to hear that one gentleman told Charles, or
implied, that "Theophrastus" was a higher order of book, and _more
difficult to write_ than a novel. Wait long enough, and every form of
opinion will turn up. However, poor "Theophrastus" is certainly not
composed of "chips" any more than my other books.
Another amusing bit of news is, that the other day Mrs. Pattison sent
me an extract from the _livret_ of the Paris _Salon_, describing a
picture painted by a French artist from "The Lifted Veil," and
representing the moment when the resuscitated woman, fixing her eyes
on her mistress, accuses her of having poisoned her husband. I call
this amusing--I ought rather to have said typical of the relation my
books generally have with the French mind.
Thank you for sending me the list of orders. It does interest me to
see the various country demands. I hope the movement will continue to
cheer us all, and you are sure to let me know everything that is
pleasant, so I do not need to ask for that kindness.
The weather is decidedly warmer, and Tuesday was a perfectly glorious
day. But rain and storm have never let us rest long together. I am not
very bright, and am ready to interpret everything in the saddest
sense, but I have no definite ailment.
My best regards to the convalescent, who, I have no doubt, will write
to me when he is able to do so. But I am only one of many who will be
glad to hear from him.
[Sidenote: Letter from Madame Bodichon to Miss Bonham-Carter, 12th
June, 1879.]
"I spent an hour with Marian (5th June). She was more
delightful than I can say, and left me in good spirits for
her--though she is wretchedly thin, and looks, in her long,
loose, black dress, like the black shadow of herself. She
said she had so much to do that she must keep well--'the
world was so _intensely interesting_.' She said she would
come _next year_ to see me. We both agreed in the great love
we had for life. In fact, I think she will do more for us
than ever."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 20th June, 1879.]
I have been having my turn of illness of rather a sharp kind.
Yesterday, when your letter came, I was in more acute pain than I have
ever known in my life before, but before the morning was over I was
sufficiently relieved to read your pleasant news. I am writing in bed,
but am in that most keenly conscious ease which comes after unusual
suffering. The way in which the public takes "Theophrastus" is really
a comfort to me. I have had some letters, not of the complimentary,
but of the grateful kind, which are an encouragement to believe in the
use of writing. But you would be screamingly amused with one,
twenty-three pages long (from an Edinburgh man, by-the-bye), who has
not read the book, but has read of it, and thinks that his own case is
still more worthy of presentation than Merman's.
I think a valuable series (or couple of volumes) might be made up from
"Maga" of articles written _hot_ by travellers and military men, and
not otherwise republished--chronicles and descriptions by
eye-witnesses--which might be material for historians.
What a comfort that the Afghan war is concluded! But on the back of it
comes the black dog of Indian finance, which means, alas! a great deal
of hardship to poor Hindûs. Let me hear more news of you before long.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 29th June, 1879.]
Your description of the effects you feel from the restless, tormenting
winds would serve well to represent my experience too. It seems
something incredible written in my memory that when I was a little
girl I loved the wind--used to like to walk about when it was blowing
great guns. And now the wind is to me what it was to early peoples--a
demon-god, cruelly demanding all sorts of human sacrifices. Thank you,
dear, for caring whether I have any human angels to guard me. None are
permanently here except my servants, but Sir James Paget has been down
to see me, I have a very comfortable country practitioner to watch
over me from day to day, and there is a devoted friend who is backward
and forward continually to see that I lack nothing.
It is a satisfaction to me that you felt the need for "Debasing the
Moral Currency" to be written. I was determined to do it, though it
might make me a stone of stumbling and rock of offence to all the
comic tribe.
Do not rate my illness too high in the scale of mortal misery. I am
prone to make much of my ailments, and am among the worst at enduring
pain.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 29th June, 1879.]
Thank you for sending me the pretty little book.[37] I am deeply
touched by the account of its origin, and I remember well everything
you said to me of Mr. Brown in old days when he was still with you. I
had only cut a very little way into the volume when a friend came and
carried it off, but my eyes had already been arrested by some remarks
on the character of Harold Transome, which seemed to me more
penetrating and finely felt than almost anything I have read in the
way of printed comment on my own writing. When my friend brings back
the volume I shall read it reverentially, and most probably with a
sense of being usefully admonished. For praise and sympathy arouse
much more self-suspicion and sense of shortcoming than all the blame
and depreciation of all the Pepins.
I am better, and I hope on the way to complete recovery, but I am
still at some distance from that goal. Perhaps if the winds would give
one some rest from their tormenting importunity, both you and I should
get on faster.
I am looking forward to reading the "Recollections of Ekowe" in
"Maga," which came to me yesterday, with its list of my own doings and
misdoings on the cover.
Does not this Zulu war seem to you a horribly bad business?
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 30th June, 1879.]
Sir Henry Maine has sent me the one letter that has rejoiced my heart
about the "Study of Psychology." He says: "In this branch of Mr.
Lewes's studies I am almost as one of the ignorant, but I think I have
understood every sentence in the book, and I believe I have gained
great knowledge from it. It has been the most satisfactory piece of
work I have done for a long time." I have written to tell him that he
has rescued me from my scepticism as to any one's reading a serious
book except the author or editor.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 2d July, 1879.]
The sight of your handwriting on the pamphlet sent me urges me to do
the sooner what I should have already done but for a rather sharp
illness, which has kept me chiefly in bed for nearly a fortnight, and
from which I am not yet quite free.
I enclose a copy of Michael Foster's draft of conditions for the
studentship, which I put into the lawyer's hands some ten or twelve
days ago, and which is now come to me drawn up in legal form. You said
it would interest you to see the draft, and I have been bearing this
in mind, but have not been able to go to the desk where the copy lay.
I hope to hear that you have been going on well despite the cruel,
restless winds and sad intermittence of sunshine. On the 12th I am
going to have two daughters-in-law, _five_ grandchildren, and servant
for a week--if I can get well enough, as I have good hope now that I
shall. The strawberries will be ripe then, and as I don't eat any
myself it would be dolorous not to be able to have the children, and
see them enjoy the juicy blessing.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 16th July, 1879.]
I was beginning to want some news of you, and was almost ready to ask
for it. It is the more welcome for having had time to ripen into a
decidedly good report of your condition. About myself I have a very
poor story to tell, being now in the fifth week of a troublesome
illness, in which, like you, I have been partly fed on "poisonous
decoctions." To-day, however, happens to show a considerable
improvement in my symptoms, and I have been walking in the warmer air
with more ease than hitherto. Driving I have not been able to manage
for some time, the motion of the carriage shaking me too much. The
best of care has been taken of me. I have an excellent country doctor
(Mr. Parsons of Godalming) who watches me daily; and Sir James Paget
and Dr. Andrew Clark have been down to add their supervision. I begin
to think that if I can avoid any evil condition, such as a chill that
would bring on a relapse, I may soon be pretty well again. The point
to be achieved is to stop the wasting of my not too solid flesh.
I am glad to hear that the third edition of "Theophrastus" has had so
lively a movement. If the remainder should be sold off I think it
would be well just to print a small number of copies to carry on, and
avoid bringing out a cheaper edition too soon after people have been
paying for the expensive one.
I have been always able to write my letters and read my proofs,
usually in bed before the fatigue of dressing, but the rest of my time
has been very unprofitable--spent chiefly in pain and languor. I am
feeling easy now, and you will well understand that after undergoing
pain this ease is opening paradise. Invalids must be excused for being
eloquent about themselves.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 22d July, 1879.]
I feel a perhaps too selfish need to tell you that things have gone
ill with me since I last wrote to you. Why do I want to let you know
this not agreeable news about myself? Chiefly because I want you to be
quite clear that if I do not write to say, "When can you come to me?"
it is not from indifference, but from misfortune of another sort.
Meanwhile it will do me good to have little items of news from you,
when you can find half an hour for the kind deed of writing me a
letter. What helps me most is to be told things about others, and your
letters are just of the sort I like to have.
I am just now in one of my easier hours, and the demon wind has
abated. He seems to enter into my pains with hideous rejoicing.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 7th Aug. 1879.]
Thank you for your kind note. There are to be more than as many proofs
as you have already had, for which I must crave the valuable aid of
your reading.
You will understand all the better how much comfort it is to me to
have your help as well as Professor Foster's, when I tell you that for
the last eight weeks I have been seriously out of health, and have
often been suffering much pain--a state which I imagine you know by
experience to heighten all real anxieties, and usually to create
unreal.
It cheers me to be told by you that you think the volume interesting.
In reading the MS. again and again I had got into a state of tremor
about it which deprived me of judgment--just as if it were writing of
my own, which I could not trust myself to pronounce upon.
I hope that your own health, and Mrs. Sully's too, will have been
benefited by your change from south to north.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 11th Aug. 1879.]
I think that I am really getting better, and shall have to stay among
the minority in this world a little longer than I had expected.
Will you send me word how long you shall be at liberty, and whether
you would think it worth while to come down to me one morning and stay
till the afternoon of the following day? Your letter is delightful to
me. Several spiritual kisses for it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 19th Aug. 1879.]
Thank you for your sweet affection. I have had rather a trying
illness, which lasted, without great relief, for nearly eight weeks.
But I hope that I am now out of it--that is, so far established that I
may go on without a relapse. The cold weather was against me, as it
was and is against much more important matters. The days of warmth and
sunlight which have now and then blessed us have been my best
medicine, though I acknowledge the benefit of pepsin and steel, and
many other drugs. The gray skies and recurring rain are peculiarly
dispiriting to me, and one seems to feel their influence all the more
for the wide, beautiful view of field and hill which they sadden and
half conceal. In town one thinks less of the sky.
If you are ever writing to our dear Mrs. William Smith do give my love
to her, and tell her I am very grateful to her for the letter she
wrote me with the postmark _Ventnor_ upon it. With her usual delicacy
of feeling she did not send her address, so that I could not write in
return.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 3d Sept. 1879.]
I am much obliged to you for writing me your letter of pleasant news.
It is wonderful how "Theophrastus" goes on selling in these bad times,
and I have only to hope in addition that the buyers will be the better
for it. Apparently we shall get through this last edition before
Christmas, and then perhaps you will think of adding the volume to the
Cabinet Edition. I am especially rejoiced to hear that your uncle is
better again, and I trust that Strathtyrum is sharing our sunshine,
which will be the best cure for him as for me. I am getting strong,
and also am gaining flesh on my moderate scale. It really makes a
difference to one's spirits to think that the harvest may now possibly
be got in without utter ruin to the produce and unhappy producers. But
this year will certainly prove a serious epoch, and initiate many
changes in relation to farming. I fear, from what I have read, that
the rich Lothians will have to be called compassionately the poor
Lothians. By the way, if you happen to want any translation done from
the French, and have not just the right person to do it, I think I can
recommend a Miss Bradley Jenkins, of 50 Cornwall Road, Wesbourne Park,
as one who has an unusually competent knowledge of French. We sat side
by side on the same form translating Miss Edgeworth into French when
we were girls.
I have not seen her for many years, but I know that she has been
engaged in a high order of teaching, and I have lately heard from her
that she is anxious to get work of the kind in question. She already
spoke French well when we were pupils together, and she has since been
an unintermitting student.
I wonder, talking of translators, how the young Mr. Ferrier is going
on, who translated Kaufmann's pamphlet on "Deronda." What Mr.
Blackwood told me of him interested me about his future.
Oblige us all by not falling into another accident when the next
hunting season comes.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 3d Sept. 1879.]
Before I received your letter the other day I was intending to write
to you to ask whether, now that I am stronger and the fine weather
shows some signs of permanence, you feel any revival of the
inclination to come and see me for a couple of days. I hardly like to
propose your taking the journey, now that you are not being brought
near me by other visits--for the railway from you to us is, I think,
rather tiresome. But if your inclination really lies towards coming
you will be affectionately welcomed.
About the sea-side I am hopeless. The latter part of October is likely
to be too cold for me to move about without risk of chills; and I hope
to be back in town before the end of the month. I am not very fond of
the sea-side, and this year it is likely to be crowded with people who
have been hindered by the bad weather from going earlier. I prefer the
Surrey hills and the security from draughts in one's own home. The one
attraction of a coast place to me is a great breadth of sand to pace
on when it is in its fresh firmness after the fall of the tide. But
the sea itself is melancholy to me, only a little less so under warm
sunlight, with plenty of fishing-smacks changing their shadows. All
this is to let you know why I do not yield to the attraction of being
with you, where we could chat as much or as little as we liked. I feel
very much your affectionateness in wishing to have me near you.
Write me word soon whether you feel able to come as far as this for my
sake.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 10th Sept. 1879.]
I have read the article[38] with very grateful feelings. I think that
he would himself have regarded it as a generally just estimate. And I
am much obliged to you for sending it to me in proof.
Your selection of subjects for remark, and the remarks themselves, are
in accordance with my feeling to a comforting extent; and I shall
always remain your debtor for writing the article.
I trust you will not be forced to omit anything about his scientific
and philosophical work, because that is the part of his life's labor
which he most valued.
Perhaps you a little underrate the (original) effect of his "Life of
Goethe in Germany." It was received with enthusiasm, and an immense
number of copies, in both the English and German form, have been sold
in Germany since its appearance in 1854.
I wish you were allowed to put your name to the article.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 17th Sept. 1879.]
I am getting strong now after a long spell of medical discipline. All
these long months I have been occupied with my husband's manuscripts:
also with the foundation of a Physiological Studentship, which is my
monument to his memory, and which is now all settled, as you may
perhaps have seen by advertisements.[39] But I am not yet through the
proof-reading of the final volume of "Problems of Life and Mind,"
which will contain the last sheets he ever wrote.
I hear very good accounts of Madame Bodichon, who is coming to me for
a couple of days on the 29th.
You are wonderful for life and energy, in spite of your delicate
looks. May you have all the strength you need for your sympathetic
tasks!
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 7th Oct. 1879.]
I have not yet thanked you--and I do so now very gratefully--for the
help you have given me in my sad and anxious task. Your eyes have been
a most precious aid, not only as a matter of fact, but as a ground of
confidence. For I am not at all a good proof-reader, and have a
thorough distrust of myself.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 18th Oct. 1879.]
I cannot wish not to have been cheered by your triple letter, even
though I have caused you to rise earlier in the morning, and to feel a
disproportionate remorse. "Maggior difetto men vergogna lava," as says
Virgil to the blushing Dante. And you have given me the fuller measure
because I had to wait a little.
Your legend of "Fair Women" interests me very much. I feel a citizen
of the world again, knowing all the news. But the core of good news
in your letter is that your husband is well again, and again happy in
his work. Your collapse is what I feared for you; and you must call
the getting change of air and scene--I was going to say "a duty," but
are you one of those wonderful beings who find everything easier under
that name? But at least one prefers doing a hard duty to grimacing
with a pretence of pleasure in things that are no pleasure.
I am greatly comforted this morning by the fact that the (apparently)
right man is found for the George Henry Lewes Studentship--an ardent
worker, who could not have carried on his pursuit without this help. I
know you are not unmindful of what touches me deeply.
Go on your visit, dear, and come back well--then show yourself without
unnecessary delay to your loving friend.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, Saturday, 20th Oct. 1879.]
I have had a delightful bit of news from Dr. Foster this morning. He
had mentioned to me before that there was an Edinburgh student whom he
had in his mind as the right one to elect. This morning he writes:
"The trustees meet to-morrow to receive my nomination. I have chosen
Dr. Charles Roy, an Edinburgh man, and Scotchman--not one of my own
pupils. He is, I think, the most promising--by far the most
promising--of our young physiologists, putting aside those who do not
need the pecuniary assistance of the studentship. And the help comes
to him just when it is most needed--he is in full swing of work, and
was casting about for some means of supporting himself which would
least interfere with his work, when I called his attention to the
studentship. I feel myself very gratified that I can, at the very
outset, recommend just the man, as it appears to me, for the post."
This is a thing your father would have chosen as a result of his life.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, Tuesday, 27th Oct. 1879.]
I have just had some news that grieves me. Mr. Blackwood is
dangerously ill, and I fear, from Mr. William's letter, that there is
little hope of recovery. He will be a heavy loss to me. He has been
bound up with what I most cared for in my life for more than twenty
years; and his good qualities have made many things easy to me that,
without him, would often have been difficult.[40]
I wrote to Mr. Trübner to tell him that the printing of the "Problems"
being finished, I should be glad if he would arrange with you about
the conditions of publication. Bear in mind your father's wish that
the volumes should not be made dearer than necessary.
I am going to Weybridge on Friday, and I intend to be at the Priory by
Saturday before dusk. But it is _just possible_ I may be detained till
Monday morning. So if you have any good occupation for Sunday you had
better call on your way home on Monday.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 29th Oct. 1879.]
Your affectionate note would quite have determined me to do what, when
your brother kindly proposed it, raised a certain longing in me. I
thought that I should like to see you all in the remembered home
again. But I have had a little check in health, and I am feeling so
depressed that I shrink from making any engagement which involves
others.
A visitor to-day and my own languor threatens to throw me backward in
my arrangements for leaving, and I have a sense of impossibility
about everything that, under other conditions, would be a pleasure. I
am afraid lest a fit of sadness should make me an oppression to you
all; and my conclusion this morning is that I must give up the few
hours' happiness of feeling your family love around me as I used to
do, and simply go straight up to town with my servants.
But if Friday morning brings me better hopes I will telegraph to you,
since you allow me to wait till the eleventh hour. If you receive no
telegram you will understand that I am still too downhearted to
venture on a visit even to those who are among the best-loved of my
friends. In that case you must all make me amends for my loss by
coming to see me in the old place in town.
Came to Weybridge on 31st October, and returned to the Priory
on 1st November.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 8th Nov. 1879.]
I came here just a week ago, and I had a superstition that you would
come to me yesterday. But I used no enchantments--and so you didn't
come.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1879, from the
Priory.]
I am very grateful to you for your kind letter. News about you all had
been much desired by me; but I have now so many business letters to
write that I am apt to defer such as are not absolutely necessary. The
careful index is a sign of your effective industry, and I have no
doubt that it will be a great help to yourself as well as to your
readers. One very often needs an index to one's own writing. My chief
objects are quite completed now. The Dr. Roy appointed to the
studentship is held by competent persons to be the most hopeful of our
young physiologists: and there is a volume of 501 pages (the last) of
"Problems of Life and Mind" ready to appear next month. I am quite
recovered from the ailment which made me good for little in the
summer, and indeed am stronger than I ever expected to be again.
People are very good to me, and I am exceptionally blessed in many
ways; but more blessed are the dead who rest from their labors, and
have not to dread a barren, useless survival.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 6th Dec. 1879, from the
Priory.]
I am very well, dear kind friend, all things considered. One cannot
help getting occasional chills and headaches in this hard, wintry
time.
Oh, yes, I read the _Times_ with great interest, and am much concerned
to know what my contemporaries are doing. My time is very fully
occupied, for I have now to write a great many letters, such as used
to be written for me, and I would willingly spend the time thus taken
up in another sort of reading and writing.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 5th Jan. 1880.]
Thank you a thousand times, my dear friend, for your tender New Year's
greeting and inquiries. I have passed well from "under the saws and
harrows" of the severe cold, and am better, both in apparent organic
soundness and in strength for all occupation, than I once thought was
possible for me.
Our dear Barbara is painting in water colors again from her
window--just as of old. I know you will be glad to hear of this. And I
am now seeing many other friends, who interest me and bring me reports
of their several worlds. The great public calamities of the past year
have helped to quiet one's murmuring spirit in relation to private
sorrows, and the prospect for the future is not yet very bright. One
thinks of mothers like Mrs. Ruck, whose best-loved sons are in
Afghanistan. But we must live as much as we can for human joy,
dwelling on sorrow and pain only so far as the consciousness of it may
help us in striving to remedy them.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 19th Jan. 1880.]
Life has seemed worse without my glimpses of you. And now I have not
the amends of thinking that you are out of our Egyptian darkness and
getting health in the country. I must drive over to ask about you as
soon as I can.
As the year went on, George Eliot began to see all her old
friends again. But her life was nevertheless a life of
heart-loneliness. Accustomed as she had been for so many
years to solitude _à deux_, the want of close companionship
continued to be very bitterly felt. She was in the habit of
going with me very frequently to the National Gallery, and to
other exhibitions of pictures, to the British Museum
sculptures, and to South Kensington. This constant
association engrossed me completely, and was a new interest
to her. A bond of mutual dependence had been formed between
us. On the 28th March she came down to Weybridge and stayed
till the 30th; and on the 9th April it was finally decided
that our marriage should take place as soon, and as
privately, as might be found practicable.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 13th April, 1880.]
You can hardly think how sweet the name sister is to me, that I have
not been called by for so many, many years.
Without your tenderness I do not believe it would have been possible
for me to accept this wonderful renewal of my life. Nothing less than
the prospect of being loved and welcomed by you all could have
sustained me. But now I cherish the thought that the family life will
be the richer and not the poorer through your brother's great gift of
love to me.
Yet I quail a little in facing what has to be gone through--the
hurting of many whom I care for. You are doing everything you can to
help me, and I am full of gratitude to you all for his sake as well as
my own. The springs of affection are reopened in me, and it will make
me better to be among you--more loving and trustful.
I valued Florence's little visit very much. You and she will come
again--will you not?--to your sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 19th April, 1880.]
I have found the spot in "The Prelude" where the passage I mentioned
occurs. It is in book viii., "The Retrospect," towards the end:
"The human nature unto which I felt
That I belonged, and reverenced with love,
Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit
Diffused through time and space, with aid derived
Of evidence from monuments, erect,
Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest
In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime
Of vanished nations."
The bit of brickwork in the rock is
"With aid derived from evidence."
I think you would find much to suit your purpose in "The Prelude,"
such as--
"There is
One great society alone on earth:
The noble Living and the noble Dead."
Except for travelling, and for popular distribution, I prefer Moxon's
one-volumed edition of Wordsworth to any selection. No selection gives
you the perfect gems to be found in single lines, or in half a dozen
lines which are to be found in the "dull" poems.
I am sorry Matthew Arnold has not included the sonnet beginning--
"I griev'd for Buonaparté with a vain
And an unthinking grief--"
and which has these precious lines,
"'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
_Wisdom doth live with children round her knees._"
Has he the magnificent sonnet on Toussaint l'Ouverture? I don't know
where there is anything finer than the last eight lines of it.
Please don't acknowledge this note, else you will neutralize my
pleasure in sending it by making me feel that I have given you
trouble.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Lady Lytton, 24th April, 1880.]
The beautiful photograph has reached me safely, and I am very grateful
to you for your kindness in sending it to me. In comparing it with the
photograph which you gave me seven or eight years ago I see the effect
of a saddening experience which the years must bring to us all, but,
to my feeling, the face is the more endearing because of that effect.
You have been very often in my thoughts, because I have associated you
with public affairs, and have imagined sympathetically how they must
have affected your private life. I am sure that this momentous
experience in India has been a hard discipline both for you and for
Lord Lytton. I can imagine he has often been sick at heart with the
near vision, which his post forces on him, of human meanness and
rancor. You, too, must have gathered some melancholy knowledge of that
sort, which has perhaps changed a little the curves of the mouth and
the glance of the eyes since those Vienna days, when the delightful M.
de Villers helped to make the hours pleasant to us.
I saw the photographs of your daughters, which gave me an idea how
fast the dramatic authoress has developed physically as well as
mentally. When I first saw her at Vienna she was the prettiest little
rosebud.
Mrs. Strachey called the other day when I was out, and among other
reasons for my being sorry not to have seen her, was the having missed
some authentic news about your probable movements. What happens to you
will always have interest for me, since I have long been, with sincere
regard, yours most truly.
On the 24th April George Eliot came down to Weybridge, and
stayed till the 26th.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 26th April, 1880.]
I am deeply obliged to you for the care with which you have treated
the final volume of "The Problems" in the _Academy_, which you have
kindly sent me. I think you could hardly have written more effectively
towards exciting an interest in the work in the minds of the
comparatively few who really care for the study of psychology. You
have added one more to the obligations which will make me always yours
gratefully.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 5th May, 1880.]
I have something to tell you which will doubtless be a great surprise
to you; but since I have found that other friends, less acquainted with
me and my life than you are, have given me their sympathy, I think that
I can count on yours. I am going to do what not very long ago I should
myself have pronounced impossible for me, and therefore I should not
wonder at any one else who found my action incomprehensible. By the
time you receive this letter I shall (so far as the future can be
matter of assertion) have been married to Mr. J. W. Cross, who, you
know, is a friend of years, a friend much loved and trusted by Mr.
Lewes, and who, now that I am alone, sees his happiness in the
dedication of his life to me. This change in my position will make no
change in my care for Mr. Lewes's family, and in the ultimate
disposition of my property. Mr. Cross has a sufficient fortune of his
own. We are going abroad for a few months, and I shall not return to
live at this house. Mr. Cross has taken the lease of a house, No. 4
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, where we shall spend the winter and early spring,
making Witley our summer home.
I indulge the hope that you will some day look at the river from the
windows of our Chelsea house, which is rather quaint and picturesque.
Please tell Bessie[41] for me, with my love to her. I cannot write to
more than two or three persons.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 5th May, 1880.]
A great, momentous change is going to take place in my life. My
indisposition last week and several other subsequent circumstances
have hindered me from communicating it to you, and the time has been
but short since the decision was come to. But with your permission
Charles will call on you and tell you what he can on Saturday.
Yours and Emily's ever, with unchanging love.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1880.]
_May 6._--Married this day at 10.15 to John Walter Cross, at St.
George's, Hanover Square. Present, Charles, who gave me away, Mr. and
Mrs. Druce, Mr. Hall, William, Mary, Eleanor, and Florence Cross. We
went back to the Priory, where we signed our wills. Then we started
for Dover and arrived there a little after five o'clock.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 9th May, 1880.]
Your letter was a sweet greeting to us on our arrival here yesterday.
We had a millennial cabin on the deck of the Calais-Douvres, and
floated over the strait as easily as the saints float upward to heaven
(in the pictures). At Amiens we were very comfortably housed, and paid
two enraptured visits, evening and morning, to the cathedral. I was
delighted with J.'s delight in it. And we read our dear old cantos of
the "Inferno" that we were reading a year ago, declining afterwards on
"Eugénie Grandet." The nice woman who waited on us made herself very
memorable to me by her sketch of her own life. She went to England
when she was nineteen as a lady's maid--had been much _ennuyée de sa
mère_, detested _les plaisirs_, liked only her regular every-day work
and _la paix_.
Here we have a very fair _appartement_, and plenty of sunlight, _au
premier_. Before dinner we walked up to the Arc de l'Étoile and back
again, enjoying the lovely greenth and blossoms of the horse-chestnuts,
which are in their first glory, innocent of dust or of one withered
petal. This morning at twelve o'clock we are going to the Russian
church, where J. has never been, and where I hope we shall hear the
wonderful intoning and singing as I heard it years ago.
This is the chronicle of our happy married life, three days long--all
its happiness conscious of a dear background in those who are loving
us at Weybridge, at Thornhill, and at Ranby.
You are all inwoven into the pattern of my thoughts, which would have
a sad lack without you. I like to go over again in imagination all the
scene in the church and in the vestry, and to feel every loving look
from the eyes of those who were rejoicing for us. Besides Professor
Sellar's letter, which touched J. with grateful surprise, we have had
one to him from Mr. Frederic Harrison, saying everything affectionate,
and two very finely felt letters from Edith Simcox--one to him
enclosing the one to me. Certainly, she has a rare generosity and
elevation which find their easy channel in writing. My love to Henry
and to the gentle Berthe,[42] who was an invisible presence at our
wedding.
I think I must thank Florence, too, for her letter to J.; for we
accept to the full the principle of "what is mine is thine" on each
side. What most comforted him this morning was a letter from Albert
Druce about the Chelsea house. His usual exclamation over anything
from Albert is that his brother-in-law is the most satisfactory of
men!
Write us word about everything, and consider yourselves all very much
loved and spiritually petted by your loving sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 21st May, 1880, from Grenoble.]
This place is so magnificently situated, in a smiling valley, with the
Isère flowing through it, and surrounded by grand and various lines of
mountains, and we were so enraptured by our expedition yesterday to
the Grande Chartreuse that we congratulate ourselves greatly on our
choice of route. I think it unlikely that we shall want to wander
beyond the second week in July. We shall begin to long for home just
when the rest of the London world are longing for travel. We are
seeing nature in her happiest moment now--the foliage on all the
tremendous heights, the soft slopes, and the richly clad valleys on
the way to the Chartreuse is all fresh and tender, shone through by a
sunlight which cherishes and does not burn us. I had but one regret in
seeing the sublime beauty of the Grande Chartreuse. It was that the
Pater had not seen it. I would still give up my own life willingly if
he could have the happiness instead of me. But marriage has seemed to
restore me to my old self. I was getting hard, and if I had decided
differently, I think I should have become very selfish. To feel daily
the loveliness of a nature close to me, and to feel grateful for it,
is the fountain of tenderness and strength to endure.
Glorious weather always, and I am very well--quite amazingly able to
go through fatigue.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Florence Cross, 25th May, 1880.]
Our life since we wrote to you has been a chapter of
delights--Grenoble--Grande Chartreuse--Chambéry--paradisiacal walk to
Les Charmettes--roses gathered in Jean Jacques' garden--Mont Cenis
Tunnel and emergence into Italian sunshine. Milan, comfortable
_appartement_, delicious privacy, and great minds condescending to
relax themselves! We got here yesterday, and of course our first walk
was to the post, where we found your delightful budget and other
letters, which we took to a _café_ in the grand _galleria_ and read at
our ease to the accompaniment of tea.
Two of my letters yesterday touched me very gratefully. One was from
"Brother Jimmy"--the prettiest letter possible. The other letter that
moved me was one from my own brother. Then J. had a graceful letter of
congratulation from Mr. Henry James, who is still at Florence. I think
you did not send that letter of Mr. Edmund Gurney's which you mention.
I am fond of seeing the letters which put my friends in an amiable
light for my imagination. And now that I have had that charming letter
from my new brother in America, I feel that my family initiation is
complete. No woman was ever more sweetly received by brothers and
sisters than I have been; and it is a happy, new longing in my life
that I may return into their bosoms some of the gladness they have
poured into mine.
I have been uninterruptedly well, and feel quite strong with all sorts
of strength except strong-mindedness. We are going to hear the music
in the Duomo at eleven, and after that we intend to pay our first
visit to the Brera gallery. It is our present plan to stay here for
some days, and we enjoy the thought of a little stationary life such
as we have not had since we left Paris. We often talk of our sisters,
oftener think of them. You are our children, you know.
[Sidenote: Letter to Isaac P. Evans, 26th May, 1880.]
Your letter was forwarded to me here, and it was a great joy to me to
have your kind words of sympathy, for our long silence has never
broken the affection for you which began when we were little ones. My
husband, too, was much pleased to read your letter. I have known his
family for eleven years, and they have received me among them very
lovingly. The only point to be regretted in our marriage is that I am
much older than he; but his affection has made him choose this lot of
caring for me rather than any other of the various lots open to him.
Emily Clarke has lately sent me rather a sad account of Sarah's[43]
health. I trust that it is now better, for I think it is her lungs
that chiefly trouble her, and summer may act beneficently on them.
Please give my love to her, and tell her that I like the assurance of
her share in the good wishes you send me.
I have often heard of Frederick[44] through the admiration of those
who have heard him preach; and it has been a happy thought to me that
you and Sarah must feel it a great comfort to have him as well as
Walter settled near you.
Edith is the only one of your children whom I have seen since they
have been grown up, and I thought her a noble-looking woman.
We are going to remain abroad until some time in July, and shall then
return to the Heights, Witley, Surrey. Our home in London will be 4
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, looking on a very picturesque bit of the river.
I hope that your own health is quite good now, and that you are able
to enjoy the active life which I know you are fond of. Always your
affectionate sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 28th May, 1880.]
Many thanks for your delightful letter, which came to me yesterday,
with a loving though brief letter from Mrs. Congreve to keep it
company in making the day agreeable.
We arrived here on Monday, and have been induced by a nice quiet
apartment and pleasant attendance to carry out our plan of resting
here and deliberately seeing what is to be seen in this cheerful,
prosperous city. I am glad to find that the Luini pictures come up to
my remembrance, and that J. is much impressed by his introduction to
them. I continue remarkably well, and am every day surprising myself
by the amount of walking, standing, and looking that I can go through.
To-morrow or the next day we intend to go on to Verona, then, after a
sufficient pause to enjoy that glorious place, we shall move on to
Padua and Venice, where it will be best for you to send anything you
may have to send. I like to see the letters. They make one realize the
fact of one's home and little world there amid the dreaminess of
foreign travel. We take our meals in our own apartment and see nothing
of our fellow-guests in the hotel--only hear their British and
American voices when they air themselves in the _cortile_ after their
dinner.
The weather has hitherto been delicious, not excessively warm, always
with a pleasant movement in the air; but this morning there is a
decided advance in heat, and we shall both have our theory of great
heat being the best thing for us well tested in the next month.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 29th May and 1st June, 1880,
from Verona.]
The change I make in the date of this letter is a sign of the
difficulty you well know that one finds in writing all the letters one
wants to write while travelling. Ever since Charles forwarded to me
your dear letter while I was in Paris I have been meaning to write to
you. That letter was doubly sweet to me because it was written before
you received mine, _intended_ to inform you of my marriage before it
appeared in the newspapers. Charles says that my friends are chiefly
hurt because I did not tell them of the approaching change in my life.
But I really did not finally, absolutely, decide--I was in a state of
doubt and struggle--until only a fortnight before the event took
place, so that at last everything was done in the utmost haste.
However, there were four or five friends, of whom you were one, to
whom I was resolved to write, so that they should at least get my
letter on the morning of the 6th.
I had more than once said to Mr. Cross that you were that one of my
friends who required the least explanation on the subject--who would
spontaneously understand our marriage. But Charles sends me word that
my friends in general are very sympathetic, and I should like to
mention to you that Bessie[45] is one whose very kind words he has
sent to me, for you may have an opportunity of giving my love to her,
and telling her that it is very sweet to me to feel that her affection
is constant to me in this as it was in other crises of my life. I
wish, since you can no longer come in and out among us as you used to
do, that you already knew my husband better. His family welcome me
with the uttermost tenderness. All this is wonderful blessing falling
to me beyond my share, after I had thought that my life was ended, and
that, so to speak, my coffin was ready for me in the next room. Deep
down below there is a hidden river of sadness, but this must always be
with those who have lived long--and I am able to enjoy my newly
reopened life. I shall be a better, more loving creature than I could
have been in solitude. To be constantly, lovingly grateful for the
gift of a perfect love is the best illumination of one's mind to all
the possible good there may be in store for man on this troublous
little planet.
We leave Verona to-day, and stay a little at Padua on our way to
Venice. Hitherto we have had delightful weather, and just the
temperature we rejoice in. We are both fond of warmth, and could bear
more heat than we have the prospect of at present.
Yesterday we had a drive on the skirting heights of Verona, and saw
the vast fertile plain around, with the Euganean hills, blue in the
distance, and the Apennines just dimly visible on the clear margin of
the horizon. I am always made happier by seeing well-cultivated land.
We came into Italy by way of Grenoble (seeing the Grande Chartreuse),
Chambéry, and the Mont Cenis Tunnel; since then we have been staying
at Milan and enjoying the Luini frescoes and a few other great things
there. The great things are always by comparison few, and there is
much everywhere one would like to help seeing, after it has once
served to give one a notion of historical progression.
We shall stay at Venice for ten days or a fortnight; so if you have a
scribe, or would write yourself, to tell me that all is going on well
with you, the letter would not, as the Scotch say, "go amissing."
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 9th June, 1880, from Venice.]
We both enjoyed reading your letter on the morning after our arrival
at this enchanting city, where the glorious light, with comparative
stillness and total absence of dust, makes a paradise much more
desirable than that painted by Tintoretto on the wall of the Consiglio
Maggiore. Nothing but the advent of mosquitoes would make it easy for
us to tear ourselves away from this place, where every prospect
pleases, but also where one is obliged to admit that man is somewhat
vile. I am sadly disappointed in the aspect of the Venetian populace.
Even physically they look less endowed than I thought them when we
were here under the Austrian dominion. We have hardly seen a sweet or
noble woman's face since we arrived; but the men are not quite so
ill-looking as the women. The singing here (by itinerant performers in
gondolas) is disgraceful to Venice and to Italy. Coarse voices, much
out of tune, make one shudder when they strike suddenly under the
window.
Our days here are passed quite deliciously. We see a few beautiful
pictures or other objects of interest, and dwell on them sufficiently
every morning, not hurrying ourselves to do much; and afterwards we
have a _giro_ in our gondola, enjoying the air and the sight of
marvellous Venice from various points of view and under various
aspects. Hitherto we have had no _heat_, only warmth, with a light
breeze. To-day, for the first time, one thinks that violent exercise
must be terribly trying for our red-skinned fellow-mortals at work on
the gondolas and the barges. But for us it is only pleasant to find
the air warm enough for sitting out in the evening. We shall not soon
run away from Venice unless some plague--_e.g._, mosquitoes--should
arise to drive us. We edify ourselves with what Ruskin has written
about Venice, in an agreeable pamphlet shape, using his knowledge
gratefully, and shutting our ears to his wrathful innuendoes against
the whole modern world. And we are now nearly at the end of Alfieri's
autobiography, which is a deeply interesting study of character.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 10th June, 1880.]
It may well seem incredible to you, for it is hardly credible to
myself, that while I have been longing to write to you ever since I
received your dear letter, I have not found the time to satisfy my
longing. Perhaps you are more able than most people to conceive the
difficulty of getting a clear half-hour between the business of
travelling and the attention to little details of packing and toilet,
over and above the companionship of talk and reading. Certainly I have
thought of you all the more, but you have not known that, and I have
lost my claim to hear about you--a use and wont which I would not
willingly part with.
I wonder whether you have imagined--I believe that you are quick to
imagine for the benefit of others--all the reasons why it was left at
last to Charles to tell you of the great, once undreamed-of change in
my life. The momentous decision, in fact, was not made till scarcely
more than a fortnight before my marriage; and even if opportunity had
lent itself to my confiding everything to you, I think I could hardly
have done it at a time when your presence filled me rather with a
sense of your and Emily's trouble[46] than with my own affairs.
Perhaps Charles will have told you that the marriage deprives no one
of any good I felt bound to render before--it only gives me a more
strenuous position, in which I cannot sink into the self-absorption
and laziness I was in danger of before. The whole history is something
like a miracle-legend. But instead of any former affection being
displaced in my mind, I seem to have recovered the loving sympathy
that I was in danger of losing. I mean, that I had been conscious of a
certain drying-up of tenderness in me, and that now the spring seems
to have risen again. Who could take your place within me or make me
amends for the loss of you? And yet I should not take it bitterly if
you felt some alienation from me. Such alienation is very natural
where a friend does not fulfil expectations of long standing.
We have already been ten days at Venice, but we hope to remain as long
again, not fearing the heat, which has hitherto been only a false
alarm in the minds of English travellers. If you could find time to
send me word how you all are--yourself, Dr. Congreve after his
holiday, and Emily, with all her cares about removal--a letter sent to
the _Poste Restante_ here would reach me, even if we had left before
the next ten days were over. We shall hardly be at Witley before the
middle of July: but the sense of neighborhood to you at Witley is
sadly ended now.
We thought too little of the heat, and rather laughed at
English people's dread of the sun. But the mode of life at
Venice has its peculiar dangers. It is one thing to enjoy
heat when leading an active life, getting plenty of exercise
in riding or rowing in the evenings; it is another thing to
spend all one's days in a gondola--a delicious, dreamy
existence--going from one church to another--from palaces to
picture-galleries--sight-seeing of the most exhaustively
interesting kind--traversing constantly the _piccoli rei_,
which are nothing more than drains, and with bedroom-windows
always open on the great drain of the Grand Canal. The effect
of this continual bad air, and the complete and sudden
deprivation of all bodily exercise, made me thoroughly ill.
As soon as I could be moved we left Venice, on the 23d of
June, and went to Innspruck, where we stayed for a week, and
in the change to the pure, sweet, mountain air I soon
regained strength.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 7th July, 1880, from
Stuttgart.]
I was made very glad by Gertrude's letter, which assured me that
Witley had been enjoyed by you and the little ones. We stayed six days
at Innspruck, finding it more and more beautiful under the sunshine
which had been wanting to it during our first two days. Then we went
on to Munich, and yesterday we arrived here, as a temporary
resting-place on our way to Wildbad, which, we hope, will put the
finishing-touch to J.'s recovery of his usual health.
I wish I had been able to let you know in time that you could have
remained a little longer at Witley, as I think we shall hardly be at
home before the 20th if we find Wildbad what we want. Your _Mutter_ is
marvellously well and strong. It seems more natural to her to have
anxiety than to be free from it. Let us hope that she will not run
down like a jelly-fish now that her anxiety is over.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 13th July, 1880, from Wildbad.]
I received your welcome letter yesterday morning, and felt inclined to
answer it the next minute. J. is quite well again, but is inclined to
linger a little in the sweet air of the Schwarzwald, which comes to
one on gently stirred wings, laden with the scent of the pine
forests. We mean to drive from here to Baden, which is within easy
distance.
Yesterday we sallied forth for a walk over the mountain, to a place
where we could rest and lunch, returning in the afternoon. The sky was
brilliant. But in half an hour the clouds gathered and threatened a
storm. We were prudent enough to turn back, and by the time we were in
the hotel again the thunder was rolling and the rain pouring down.
This continued till about two o'clock, and then again the sky became
clear. I never saw so incalculable a state of weather as we have in
this valley. One quarter of an hour the blue sky is only flecked by
lightest cirrus clouds, the next it is almost hidden by dark rain
clouds. But we are going to start on our promised expedition this
morning, the sunshine flattering us that it is quite confirmed.
I think you had better address your next letter _Poste Restante_,
Strasburg, as I am uncertain how long we shall rest at Baden.
Left Wildbad on the 17th July, and had a delightful drive
through the Black Forest by Herrenalb to Baden, and thence by
Strasburg, Metz, Luxemburg, and Brussels, arriving at Witley
on Monday the 26th of July.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 1st Aug. 1880.]
We arrived here in all safety last Monday, and if I had not had your
welcome little note this morning I think I should soon have written to
you without any such extra stimulus.
Mr. Cross had a sharp but brief attack at Venice, due to the
unsanitary influences of that wondrous city in the later weeks of
June. We stayed a little too long there, with a continuous sirocco
blowing, and bad smells under the windows of the hotel; and these
conditions found him a little below par from long protracted anxiety
before our marriage. But ever since we left Venice (on the 23d of
June) he has been getting strong again, and we have enjoyed a
leisurely journey through Germany in constant warmth and sunshine,
save for an occasional thunderstorm. The climate in this beloved
country of ours is a sad exchange, and makes one think of a second bad
harvest, with all its consequences. Still, it is a delight to be at
home and enjoy perfect stillness, after the noisiness of foreign bells
and foreign voices indoors and out. It would be very pretty to pay you
a visit next April, if we are all alive, and I think Mr. Cross would
like it very much. He sends you, hoping you will accept them, his best
remembrances, which have been kept up by our often talking about you.
I have been amazingly well through all the exertion of our travels,
and in the latter half of the time have done a great deal of walking.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 2d Aug. 1880.]
How sweet of you to write me a little welcome as soon as you knew that
I was at home again.
Yes, we are both well now, and _glad_ to be at home again, though the
change of climate is not of the exhilarating sort. One is so sorry for
all the holiday-makers, whose best enjoyment of these three days would
have been in the clear air and sunshine.
Do not reproach me for not telling you of my marriage beforehand. It
is difficult to speak of what surprises ourselves, and the decision
was sudden, though not the friendship which led to the decision.
My heart thoroughly responds to your remembrance of our long--our
thirty-years' relation to each other. Let me tell you this once what I
have said to others--that I value you as one of the purest-minded,
gentlest-hearted women I have ever known, and where such a feeling
exists, friendship can live without much aid from sight.
We shall probably not be in town again till the beginning of November.
Our address then will be 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, where we shall have
an outlook on the river and meadows beyond. Just now we have the
prospect of going on family visits to married sisters, which prevents
us from feeling quite settled.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 12th Aug. 1880.]
I expected your letter, and expected, too, just the sort of letter I
have received, telling me everything delightfully. I can follow you
everywhere in your journeying except to Ober Wesel. I hope you will
have enjoyed St. Blasien and some of the walks there consecrated by
the beloved Pater's footsteps. We reversed your drive and went to
Freiburg, so that I can enter into your enjoyment of the Höllenthal. I
am glad that your weather has been temperate. Here we have now had
four sunny and really hot days, and this morning promises to be the
fifth. That is consolatory as to the harvest, and is very agreeable as
to our private life. The last two evenings we have walked in the
garden after eight o'clock--the first time by starlight, the second
under a vapory sky, with the red moon setting. The air was perfectly
still and warm, and I felt no need of extra clothing.
Our life has had no more important events than calls from neighbors
and our calls in return. To-morrow we pay our visit to the Druces at
Sevenoaks, where, you may remember, Mr. Druce has built a beautiful
house. At the beginning of September we are to visit Mr. and Mrs.
Otter at Ranby, and after that we shall go to Six-Mile Bottom for a
day or two. Then our wanderings will be over.
I went to the Priory the other day, and found a treatise on Blood
Pressure, by Dr. Roy, which he had sent me there, and which he has
published as the "George Henry Lewes Student." I imagine that he has
come to pursue his studies in England, as he intended to do. Delbeuf's
article on the last volume of the "Problems" (in the Belgian
_Athenæum_) is very nicely done. He has read the book.
I am pretty well, but find myself more languid than I was when abroad.
I think the cause is perhaps the moisture of the climate. There is
something languorous in this climate, or, rather, in its effects. J.
gets a little better every day, and so each day is more enjoyable.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 9th Sept. 1880.]
We have just come home after paying family visits in Lincolnshire and
Cambridgeshire, else I should have answered your letter earlier. The
former one reached me in Venice, when I was in great trouble on
account of Mr. Cross's illness. I had had reason to believe that my
letters, ordered to be posted on the 5th of May, had not been
delivered; so I asked Charles to inquire about the letter I wrote to
you--not because it demanded an answer, but because I wished you to
know that I had written.
I am so glad to know that you have been enjoying our brief English
summer. The good harvest makes the country everywhere cheerful, and we
have been in great, even districts where the fields, full of sheaves
or studded with ricks, stretch wide as a prairie. Now, we hope not to
leave this place again till November, when we intend to go to Chelsea
for the winter and earliest spring.
I almost envy you the opportunity of seeing Wombwell's Menagerie. I
suppose I got more delight out of that itinerant institution when I
was nine or ten years old than I have ever got out of the Zoological
Gardens. The smells and the sawdust mingled themselves with my
rapture. Everything was good.
It was very dear of you to write to me before you finished your
holiday. My love attends you all.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 14th Sept. 1880.]
Your letter this morning is a welcome assurance about you. We have
been away in Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire, paying visits to the
Otters and the Halls. The weather, which is now broken, was glorious
through all our wandering, which we made very interesting by pausing
to see Ely, Peterborough, and Lincoln cathedrals. The Otters have a
very pretty, happy household. He is a country gentleman now, acting as
a magistrate, and glancing towards Parliament. But he keeps up his
reading, and is delightful to talk to. Emily looks very pretty in her
matronly position, with three little children. The Halls, too, are
very pleasant to behold in their home life. He has done wonders in
building nice cottages and schools, and sinking wells where they were
wanted, and founding a co-operative store--and, in general, doing
whatever opportunity allows towards slowly improving this confused
world. We saw (at Six-Mile Bottom) Mr. and Mrs. Sidgwick. Perhaps you
know that they have had, and have, the admirable public spirit to let
their house and arrange to live for a year in the new Newnham House,
in order to facilitate matters for the double institution.
We are very well. Mr. Cross gets stronger and brighter every day. We
often mention you, because you are associated with so many of my
memories.
Our only bugbear--it is a very little one--is the having to make
preliminary arrangements towards settling ourselves in the new house
(4 Cheyne Walk). It is a quaint house; and a Mr. Armitage of
Manchester, of whom you may have heard, has been superintending the
decoration and furnishing, but not to the exclusion of old things,
which we must carry and stow, especially wallings of books. I am
become so lazy that I shrink from all such practical work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 23d Sept. 1880.]
I have been and am suffering under an attack of a comparatively mild
sort, but I expect to be well in two or three days, and am just going
to drive to Godalming to meet my husband. Hence I write this
hurriedly. We should like to see you and Gertrude from Saturday to
Monday some week next month if it would be pleasant to you.
This attack was a recurrence of the renal disorder of the
previous year. On the 29th September we went for ten days to
Brighton as the most accessible place for a bracing change.
The first effects of the sea breezes were encouraging, but
the improvement was not maintained. Shortly after our return
to Witley Dr. Andrew Clark,[47] "the beloved physician," came
down to consult with Mr. Parsons of Godalming--on 22d
October. From that time there was gradual but slow
improvement, and, during November, a decided recovery of
strength. But an English autumn was not favorable to the
invalid. Her sensibility to climatic influences was extreme.
It will have been noticed in the preceding letters how
constantly change of air and scene was required. I had never
seen my wife out of England, previous to our marriage, except
the first time at Rome, when she was suffering. My general
impression, therefore, had been that her health was always
very low, and that she was almost constantly ailing.
Moreover, I had been with her very frequently during her
long, severe illness at Witley in 1879. I was the more
surprised, after our marriage, to find that from the day she
set her foot on Continental soil till the day she returned to
Witley she was never ill--never even unwell. She began at
once to look many years younger. During the eleven years of
our acquaintance I had never seen her so strong in health.
The greater dryness and lightness of the atmosphere seemed to
have a magical effect. At Paris we spent our mornings at the
Louvre or the Luxembourg, looking at pictures or sculpture,
or seeing other sights--always fatiguing work. In the
afternoons we took long walks in the Bois, and very often
went to the theatre in the evening. Reading and writing
filled in all the interstices of time; yet there was no
consciousness of fatigue. And we had the same experience at
all the places we stayed at in Italy. On our way home she was
able to take a great deal of walking exercise at Wildbad and
Baden. Decrease of physical strength coincided exactly with
the time of our return to the damper climate of England. The
specific form of illness did not declare itself until two
months later, but her health was never again the same as it
had been on the Continent. Towards the middle of October she
was obliged to keep her bed, but without restriction as to
amount of reading and talking, which she was always able to
enjoy, except in moments of acute pain.
During her illness I read aloud, among other books, Comte's
"Discours Préliminaire," translated by Dr. Bridges. This
volume was one of her especial favorites, and she delighted
in making me acquainted with it. For all Comte's writing she
had a feeling of high admiration, intense interest, and very
deep sympathy. I do not think I ever heard her speak of any
writer with a more grateful sense of obligation for
enlightenment. Her great debt to him was always thankfully
acknowledged. But the appreciation was thoroughly selective,
so far as I was able to judge. Parts of his teaching were
accepted and other parts rejected. Her attitude towards him,
as the founder of a new religion, may be gathered from the
references and allusions in the foregoing correspondence, and
from the fact that for many years, and up to the time of her
death, she subscribed to the Comtist Fund, but never, so far
as I am aware, more directly associated herself with the
members of the Positivist Church. It was a limited adherence.
We generally began our reading at Witley with some chapters
of the Bible, which was a very precious and sacred book to
her, not only from early associations, but also from the
profound conviction of its importance in the development of
the religious life of man. She particularly enjoyed reading
aloud some of the finest chapters of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and
St. Paul's Epistles. With a naturally rich, deep voice,
rendered completely flexible by constant practice; with the
keenest perception of the requirements of emphasis, and with
the most subtile modulations of tone, her reading threw a
glamour over indifferent writing, and gave to the greatest
writing fresh meanings and beauty. The Bible and our elder
English poets best suited the organ-like tones of her voice,
which required, for their full effect, a certain solemnity
and majesty of rhythm. Her reading of Milton was especially
fine; and I shall never forget four great lines of the
"Samson Agonistes" to which it did perfect justice--
"But what more oft in nations grown corrupt,
And by their vices brought to servitude,
Than to love bondage more than liberty,
Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty."
The delighted conviction of justice in the thought--the sense
of perfect accord between thought, language, and
rhythm--stimulated the voice of the reader to find the
exactly right tone. Such reading requires for its perfection
a rare union of intellectual, moral, and physical qualities.
It cannot be imitated. It is an art, like singing--a personal
possession that dies with the possessor, and leaves nothing
behind except a memory. Immediately before her illness we had
read, together, the first part of "Faust." Reading the poem
in the original with such an interpreter was the opening of a
new world to me. Nothing in all literature moved her more
than the pathetic situation and the whole character of
Gretchen. It touched her more than anything in Shakespeare.
During the time that we were reading the "Faust" we were also
constantly reading, together, Shakespeare, Milton, and
Wordsworth: some of Scott's novels and Lamb's essays too, in
which she greatly delighted. For graver study we read through
Professor Sayce's "Introduction to the Science of Language."
Philology was a subject in which she was most deeply
interested; and this was my first experience of what seemed
to me a limitless persistency in application. I had noticed
the persistency before, while looking at pictures, or while
hearing her play difficult music; for it was characteristic
of her nature that she took just as great pains to play her
very best to a single unlearned listener as most performers
would do to a room full of critical _cognoscenti_. Professor
Sayce's book was the first which we had read together
requiring very sustained attention ("The Divina Commedia" we
had read in very short bits at a time), and it revealed to me
more clearly the depth of George Eliot's mental
concentration. Continuous thought did not fatigue her. She
could keep her mind on the stretch hour after hour: the body
might give way, but the brain remained unwearied.
Her memory held securely her great stores of reading. Even of
light books her recollections were always crisp, definite,
and vivid. On our way home from Venice, after my illness, we
were reading French novels of Cherbuliez, Alphonse Daudet,
Gustave Droz, George Sand. Most of these books she had read
years before, and I was astonished to find what clear-cut,
accurate impressions had been retained, not only of all the
principal characters, but also of all the subsidiary
personages--even their names were generally remembered. But,
on the other hand, her verbal memory was not always to be
depended on. She never could trust herself to write a
quotation without verifying it.
In foreign languages George Eliot had an experience more
unusual among women than among men. With a complete literary
and scholarly knowledge of French, German, Italian, and
Spanish, she _spoke_ all four languages with difficulty,
though accurately and grammatically; but the mimetic power of
catching intonation and accent was wanting. Greek and Latin
she could read with thorough delight to herself; and Hebrew
was a favorite study to the end of her life. In her younger
days, especially at Geneva, inspired by Professor de la
Rive's lectures, she had been greatly interested in
mathematical studies. At one time she applied herself
heartily and with keen enjoyment to geometry, and she thought
that she might have attained to some excellence in that
branch if she had been able to pursue it. In later days the
map of the heavens lay constantly on her table at Witley, and
she longed for deeper astronomical knowledge. She had a
passion for the stars; and one of the things to which we
looked forward on returning to London was a possible visit to
Greenwich Observatory, as she had never looked through a
great telescope of the first class. Her knowledge of
wild-flowers gave a fresh interest each day to our walks in
the Surrey lanes, as every hedgerow is full of wonders--to
"those who know;" but she would, I think, have disclaimed for
herself real botanical knowledge, except of an elementary
sort.
This wide and varied culture was accompanied with an
unaffected distrust of her own knowledge, with the sense of
how little she really knew, compared with what it was
possible for her to have known, in the world. Her standard
was always abnormally high--it was the standard of an expert;
and she believed in the aphorism that to know any subject
well we must know the details of it.
During our short married life our time was so much divided
between travelling and illness that George Eliot wrote very
little, so that I have but slight personal experience of how
the creative effort affected her. But 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. We have seen
the suffering alluded to in the letters on the "Mill on the
Floss," "Felix Holt," and "Romola."
For those who would know the length and the breadth of George
Eliot's intellectual capacity she has written her books. Here
I am only putting down some of my own personal impressions
or recollections, which must be taken for what they are
worth. In doing this I should like to dwell on the
catholicity of her judgment. Singularly free from the spirit
of detraction, either in respect of her contemporaries or her
predecessors, she was always anxious to see the best and the
most noble qualities of human beings or of books, in cases
where she felt some general sympathy notwithstanding
particular disagreements. And it was this wide sympathy, this
understanding of so many points of view, that gained for her
the passionate devotion not only of personal friends, but
also of literary admirers, from the most widely sundered
sections of society. Probably few people have ever received
so many intimate confidences from confidants of such diverse
habits of thought.
This many-sidedness, however, makes it exceedingly difficult
to ascertain, either from her books or from the closest
personal intimacy, what her exact relation was to any
existing religious creed or to any political party. Yet
George Eliot's was emphatically a religious mind. My own
impression is that her whole soul was so imbued with, and her
imagination was so fired by, the scientific spirit of the
age--by the constant rapid development of ideas in the
Western world--that she could not conceive that there was, as
yet, any religious formula sufficient nor any known political
system likely to be final. She had great hope for the future,
in the improvement of human nature by the gradual development
of the affections and the sympathetic emotions, and "by the
slow, stupendous teaching of the world's events," rather than
by means of legislative enactments. Party measures and party
men afforded her no great interest. Representative
government, by numerical majorities, did not appeal to her as
the last word of political wisdom. Generally speaking, she
had little patience with talk about practical politics, which
seemed to her under our present system to be too often very
unpractically handled by ignorant amateurs. The amateur was
always a "stone of stumbling, and a rock of offence." Her
wrath used often to be roused, in late years, by the
increased bitterness in the language of parties, and by the
growing habit of attributing, for political effect, the most
shameful motives to distinguished statesmen.
She was keenly anxious to redress injustices to women, and to
raise their general status in the community. This, she
thought, could best be effected by women improving their
work--ceasing to be amateurs. But it was one of the most
distinctly marked traits in her character that she
particularly disliked everything generally associated with
the idea of a "masculine woman." She was, and as a woman she
wished to be, above all things, feminine--"so delicate with
her needle, and an admirable musician." She was proud, too,
of being an excellent housekeeper--an excellence attained
from knowing how things ought to be done, from her early
training, and from an inborn habit of extreme orderliness.
Nothing offended her more than the idea that because a woman
had exceptional intellectual powers therefore it was right
that she should absolve herself, or be absolved, from her
ordinary household duties.
It will have been seen from the letters that George Eliot was
deeply interested in the higher education of women, and that
she was among the earliest contributors to Girton College.
After meeting Mr. and Mrs. Henry Sidgwick, in September,
1880, when they had gone to reside at the new hall of Newnham
College for a time, she was anxious to be associated in that
work also, but she did not live to carry out the plan
herself. The danger she was alive to in the system of
collegiate education was the possible weakening of the bonds
of family affection and family duties. In her view, the
family life holds the roots of all that is best in our mortal
lot; and she always felt that it is far too ruthlessly
sacrificed in the case of English _men_ by their public
school and university education, and that much more is such a
result to be deprecated in the case of women. But, the
absolute good being unattainable in our mixed condition of
things, those women especially who are obliged to earn their
own living must do their best with the opportunities at their
command, as "they cannot live with posterity," when a more
perfect system may prevail. Therefore, George Eliot wished
God-speed to the women's colleges. It was often in her mind
and on her lips that the only worthy end of all learning, of
all science, of all life, in fact, is, that human beings
should love one another better. Culture merely for culture's
sake can never be anything but a sapless root, capable of
producing at best a shrivelled branch.
In her general attitude towards life George Eliot was neither
optimist nor pessimist. She held to the middle term, which
she invented for herself, of "meliorist." She was cheered by
the hope and by the belief in gradual improvement of the
mass; for in her view each individual must find the better
part of happiness in helping another. She often thought it
wisest not to raise too ambitious an ideal, especially for
young people, but to impress on ordinary natures the immense
possibilities of making a small home circle brighter and
better. Few are born to do the great work of the world, but
all are born to this. And to the natures capable of the
larger effort the field of usefulness will constantly widen.
In her personal bearing George Eliot was seldom moved by the
hurry which mars all dignity in action. Her commanding brows
and deep, penetrating eyes were seconded by the sweet,
restrained, impressive speech, which claimed something like
an awed attention from strangers. But to those very near to
her there was another side of her nature, scarcely suspected
by outside friends and acquaintances. No one could be more
capable of enjoying and of communicating genuine, loving,
hearty, uncontrollable laughter. It was a deep-seated wish,
expressed in the poem of "Agatha"--"I would have young things
merry." And I remember, many years ago, at the time of our
first acquaintance, how deeply it pained her when, in reply
to a direct question, I was obliged to admit that, with all
my admiration for her books, I found them, on the whole,
profoundly sad. But sadness was certainly not the note of her
intimate converse. For she had the distinctively feminine
qualities which lend a rhythm to the movement of life. The
quick sympathy that understands without words; the capacity
for creating a complete atmosphere of loving interest; the
detachment from outside influences; the delight in
everything worthy--even the smallest thing--for its own sake;
the readiness to receive as well as to give impressions; the
disciplined mental habit which can hold in check and conquer
the natural egoism of a massive, powerful personality; the
versatility of mind; the varied accomplishments--these are
characteristics to be found more highly developed among
gifted women than among gifted men. Add to these the crowning
gift of genius, and, in such companionship, we may possess
the world without belonging to it.
The November days had come now--cold and clear. My wife was
able again to enjoy the daily drives and walks on which she
was very dependent for health. The letters continue.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 3d Nov. 1880.]
Since I wrote to you I have been much more ill, and have only, during
the last few days, begun to feel myself recovering strength. But I
have been cared for with something much better than angelic
tenderness. The fine, clear air, if it lasts, will induce us to linger
in the country; and, indeed, I am not yet quite fit to move; for,
though I appear to be quite cured of my main ailment, half my bodily
self has vanished. We are having deliciously clear days here, and I
get out for short drives and walks. I really have nothing to complain
of now except a little lack of strength. I play on the piano again,
and walk with perfect ease. There is a long chapter about myself!
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 7th Nov. 1880.]
Three weeks ago I had a rather troublesome attack, but I am getting
well now, though still reduced and comparatively weak. We shall
probably linger here till near the end of the month, for the autumnal
landscape is very beautiful, and I am not yet quite fit for the
exertion of moving. It is a comfort to think that you can be very
snug through the winter in your nice house. What a pity we are not
within an easy driving distance from you!
Mr. Hall is here to-day. He gave a lecture on Leclaire, the
house-painter in Paris who initiated an excellent plan of co-operative
sharing for his workmen. It has been printed, and when I have another
copy I will send it you. Leclaire is mentioned by John S. Mill in the
notes to his "Political Economy," but had not been otherwise taken
much notice of. Still, you may know all about him.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 18th Nov. 1880.]
Thanks for your loving remembrance of me. We have been kept in the
country by two sufficient causes: I have been ill, and the house at
Cheyne Walk has not been ready to receive us. I suppose we shall not
be there till the end of the month instead of the beginning. One of
the good things I look forward to is the sight of your dear face
again. You will see little more than half of me, for nearly half has
been consumed. But I have been nursed with supreme tenderness, and am
daily gaining some strength. Much love to both.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 23d Nov. 1880.]
We are lingering here for three reasons: the beauty of the weather,
the unreadiness of the house, and my unfitness to bear the hurry of
moving. I am getting better, but have not yet been able to bear much
exertion.
Thanks for your pretty letter. I do not think I shall have many
returns of Novembers, but there is every prospect that such as remain
to me will be as happy as they can be made by the devoted tenderness
which watches over me. Your years will probably be many, and it is
cheering to me to think that you have many springs of happiness in
your lot that are likely to grow fuller with advancing time.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 28th Nov. 1880.]
I have thought of you all the more because I have not even heard
anything of you for several months. You will wonder less why I have
not written, as a consequence of those thoughts, when I tell you that
I have been ill, and not allowed to do anything but indulge myself and
receive indulgence. I am very well now, and am every day consciously
gathering strength, so that, if I could like giving trouble, I should
look back on my illness as a great opportunity of enjoying the
tenderest watching and nursing. I kept my bed only about a week, and
have always been equal, except at short intervals, to much reading and
talking, so that there is no fair cause for any grumbling on my part.
It has not been so bad an illness as that of last summer. You see we
are not yet at Cheyne Walk, but we are to be settled there by the end
of next week. I have had no trouble, but have remained here on my
cushions while Mr. Cross has gone early for several mornings running
to superintend the removal. It is difficult to give you materials for
imagining my "world." Think of me as surrounded and cherished by
family love; by brothers and sisters whose characters are admirable to
me, and who have for years been my friends. But there is no excessive
visiting among us, and the life of my own hearth is chiefly that of
dual companionship. If it is any good for me that my life has been
prolonged till now, I believe it is owing to this miraculous affection
which has chosen to watch over me.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1880.]
_Dec. 3._--Came to 4 Cheyne Walk.
_Dec. 4._--Went to Popular Concert at St. James's Hall. Heard Madame
Neruda, Piatti, and Miss Zimmermann.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 6th Dec. 1880.]
Only on Friday evening did we get into this new house, and I had
deferred writing to you till I could say "Come and see me." I can say
so now, but on reflection I have come to the conclusion that you would
like yourself to fix a time beforehand, the journey here being rather
long. Perhaps you will like to choose a day on which you could go to
Emily also, her house being less formidably distant--across the park
and down Sloane Street would be an easy way to us. This week we shall
be much engaged in household matters, such as the reduction to order
of the chaos which still reigns in certain places least obvious to
visitors, and the procuring of small objects, either necessary or
desirable. But after this week I shall be most glad if you and Dr.
Congreve will come to see us just _as_ and _when_ you would find the
least inconvenience in doing so--either at lunch-time (half-past one)
or at a later hour.
I find myself in a new climate here--the London air and this
particular house being so warm compared with Witley. I hope that you
too find the air mild, for I know that suits you best.
Dr. and Mrs. Congreve paid their promised visit the week
after this letter was written; and Madame Belloc lunched with
us the following day. Order was beginning to reign in the new
house. The books had all been arranged as nearly as possible
in the same order that they had occupied at the Priory, Mr.
Radermacher of the Pantechnicon having given his personal
attention to this arrangement of some thousands of volumes,
for which George Eliot was particularly grateful.
Notwithstanding all this care, however, there were many
unforeseen details of furnishing still to be completed, which
caused a considerable expenditure of time. We continued
reading aloud Max Müller's "Lectures on the Science of
Language," and Duffield's translation of "Don Quixote;" we
were also reading "Hermann and Dorothea," Tennyson's last
volume of poems, just published, and Mr. Frederic Myers's
volume on Wordsworth. In the evenings we had always a little
feast of music, and were becoming in every way reconciled to
town life, notwithstanding the loss of country quiet, light,
and beauty. On the afternoon of Friday, the 17th December, we
went to see the "Agamemnon" performed in Greek by Oxford
undergraduates. The representation was a great enjoyment--an
exciting stimulus--and my wife proposed that during the
winter we should read together some of the great Greek
dramas. The following afternoon we went to the Saturday
Popular Concert at St. James's Hall. It was a cold day. The
air in the hall was overheated, and George Eliot allowed a
fur cloak which she wore to slip from her shoulders. I was
conscious of a draught, and was afraid of it for her, as she
was very sensitive to cold. I begged her to resume the cloak,
but, smiling, she whispered that the room was really too hot.
In the evening she played through several of the pieces that
we had heard at the concert, with all her accustomed
enjoyment of the piano, and with a touch as true and as
delicate as ever. On Sunday there was very slight trouble in
the throat, but not sufficient to prevent her from coming
down-stairs to breakfast as usual. In the afternoon she was
well enough to receive visits from Mr. Herbert Spencer and
one or two other friends. Afterwards she began the following
letter to Mrs. Strachey. It was left unfinished in her
writing-case, and is printed as it stands.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Strachey, 19th Dec. 1880.]
I have been thinking so much of Lady Colvile, and yet I shrank from
troubling even your more indirect sympathetic sorrow with a letter. I
am wondering how far her health is in a state to endure this loss--a
loss which extends even to me, who only occasionally saw, but was
always cheered by, the expression of a wise and sweet nature, which
clearly shone in Sir James Colvile's manner and conversation. One
great comfort I believe she has--that of a sister's affection.
Here the letter is broken off. The pen which had delighted
and comforted so many minds and hearts here made its last
mark. The spring, which had broadened out into so wide a
river of speech, ceased to flow.
Little more remains to be told. On Monday the doctor treated
the case as one of laryngeal sore throat; and when Dr. Andrew
Clark came for consultation on Wednesday evening the
pericardium was found to be seriously affected. While the
doctors were at her bedside she had just time to whisper to
me, "Tell them I have great pain in the left side," before
she became unconscious. Her long illness in the autumn had
left her no power to rally. She passed away, about ten
o'clock at night, on the 22d December, 1880.
She died, as she would herself have chosen to die, without
protracted pain, and with every faculty brightly vigorous.
Her body rests in Highgate Cemetery, in the grave next to Mr.
Lewes. In sleet and snow, on a bitter day--the 29th
December--very many whom she knew, very many whom she did not
know, pressed to her grave-side with tributes of tears and
flowers.
Her spirit joined that choir invisible "whose music is the
gladness of the world."
FOOTNOTES:
[35] Madame Belloc.
[36] Mrs. Charles Lewes.
[37] "The Ethics of George Eliot's Works," by J. C. Brown. Blackwood:
1879.
[38] Article on G. H. Lewes.--_New Quarterly Review_, Oct. 1879.
[39] "George Henry Lewes Studentship."--This studentship has been
founded in memory of Mr. George Henry Lewes, for the purpose of
enabling the holder for the time being to devote himself wholly to the
prosecution of original research in physiology. The studentship, the
value of which is slightly under £200 per annum, paid quarterly in
advance, is tenable for three years, during which time the student is
required to carry on, under the guidance of a director, physiological
investigations, to the complete exclusion of all other professional
occupations. No person will be elected as a "George Henry Lewes
Student" who does not satisfy the trustees and director, first, as to
the promise of success in physiological inquiry; and, second, as to
the need of pecuniary assistance. Otherwise all persons of both sexes
are eligible. Applications, together with such information concerning
ability and circumstances as the candidate may think proper, should be
sent to the present director, Dr. Michael Foster, New Museums,
Cambridge, not later than October 15, 1879. The appointment will be
made and duly advertised as soon as possible after that date.
[40] Mr. John Blackwood died on 29th October, 1879.
[41] Madame Belloc.
[42] Mrs. Hall.
[43] Mrs. Isaac Evans (since deceased).
[44] Rev. Frederick Evans, Rector of Bedworth.
[45] Madame Belloc.
[46] Mr. Geddes's death.
[47] Now Sir Andrew Clark.
INDEX.
"Abode of Snow," by Andrew Wilson, iii. 190.
A breezy common, iii. 108.
"Adam Bede," progress of, i. 338;
second volume finished in Dresden, ii. 42;
£800 offered for copyright for four years, 47;
its history, 48-52;
author's love of, 51;
subscription to, 59;
cheap edition suggested by working man, 66;
sale increasing, 67, 68;
quoted in House of Commons, 69;
French translation proposed, 73;
additional £400 from publishers, 80;
fourth edition (5000) sold in a fortnight, 88;
sixth edition, 96;
seventh edition (2000), 101;
Blackwoods propose to pay £800 above agreed price, 101;
16,000 copies sold in one year, 105;
copyright conceded, 111;
third volume written in six weeks, 113.
"Adam Bede, Junior," a sequel, advertised, ii. 104.
"Address to the Working Men," by Felix Holt, iii. 18.
Adler, Dr. Hermann, appreciation of Jewish character in "Deronda,"
iii. 207;
lecture on "Deronda" by, 215.
Æsthetic teaching the highest of all teaching, ii. 318.
Æsthetic, the, not a doctrinal teacher, iii. 237.
Afghanistan, effect of the sad news from, iii. 278.
"Agatha" sold to Fields & Osgood for _Atlantic Monthly_, iii. 63.
Aix to Vevey, journey to, iii. 205.
Allbut, Dr. Clifford, Leeds, iii. 41, 42.
Allingham, William, letter to, on Midland dialect, iii. 218;
on his poems, 226.
Altruism, the need of, iii. 178, 179.
Amalfi, grand drive, ii. 153.
America, interest in, i. 219;
the war in, anxiety regarding, ii. 242;
delight in descriptions of, iii. 115;
invited to visit, 118.
Amsterdam, Jewish synagogues in, ii. 317.
"An Inquiry concerning the Origin of Christianity," by Charles
Hennell, influence of, on George Eliot, i. 68;
read again with admiration, 119.
Anders, Mr., apologizes for the Liggins business, ii. 78.
Antwerp, pictures at, i. 239, 240.
Apennines, across the, ii. 168.
Application, persistence in, iii. 304.
Appreciation of Dickens's letter, ii. 6.
Ardennes, journey to the, iii. 176.
"Aristotle," by G. H. Lewes, ii. 271.
"Armgart," a dramatic poem, iii. 85.
Art, the function of, iii. 144;
purpose in, 144.
Articles written by Mr. Lewes, iii. 260, 261;
by military men, 265.
Ashantee War, the, iii. 157.
Asher's cheap editions of "George Eliot," iii. 124.
Atkinson, Mr., i. 193.
Australia, proposed visit to, i. 221.
Authors and booksellers, meeting of, i. 201.
Authorship acknowledged to the Brays and Miss Hennell, ii. 83.
Autobiography, repugnance to, iii. 221.
Autumn, love for, i. 67; ii. 263, 264.
"A Word for the Germans," ii. 288.
Aytoun, Professor, admiration of "Gilfil's Love-Story," i. 326;
on "Adam Bede," ii. 81.
Bâle, a morning in, ii. 87.
Ballot, dislike of the, iii. 49;
the first experiment of the, 161.
Balzac, a saying of, iii, 41.
Bancroft, American Minister, Berlin, on "Middlemarch," iii. 157.
Bank of England visited, iii. 176.
"Beata," by T. A. Trollope, ii. 239.
Bedworth, country about, i. 5-7.
Beesley, Professor Edmund Spencer, iii. 64.
Bellagio and the Splügen Pass, ii. 181.
Benisch, Dr., editor of _Jewish Chronicle_, iii. 216.
Berlin, popularity of "Middlemarch" in, iii. 157.
Berlin, visit to the _Charité_, iii. 77;
society and music at, 77;
increase in luxury in, 78.
Berlin recollections: meets Varnhagen, i. 251, 252;
impressions of the city, 251;
new acquaintances, 253;
portrait of Kleist, 253;
Fräulein Solmar's _salon_, 253;
General Pfuhl, 254;
Baron Sternberg, 254;
"Lisez les Chroniques," 254;
Professor Gruppe, 255, 263;
Waagen on Goethe, 256;
Edward Magnus, 257;
celebrities, 258;
Professor Stahr, 258, 263;
Schiller's portrait, 258;
Rauch the sculptor, 258;
his atelier, 259, 260;
Dessoir the actor, 260;
"Nathan der Weise," 261;
Johanna Wagner, 261;
Gluck's "Orpheus," 261;
Roger and Arabella Goddard, 264;
Vivier anecdotes, 264, 265;
works of art, 265;
evenings in, 266;
_table d'hôte_, reading between the courses, 266;
work at and books read, 268;
translating Spinoza's "Ethics," 268;
remarks on books read, 270;
return to England, 271.
Bethnal Green, pictures at, iii. 128.
Biarritz, its natural beauties, iii. 2;
the Chambre de l'Amour, 2;
journey to Barcelona from, 4.
Bible and the Liturgy of the English Church, ii. 226.
Bible reading, iii. 302.
Bickley, country-house at, iii. 152.
Birthday greetings, iii. 47.
Bishop Steignton, visit to, i. 185.
Blackie, Professor, Edinburgh, letter of sympathy from, ii. 111, 113.
_Blackwood's Magazine_ on "Adam Bede," ii. 70.
Blackwood, John, his favorable opinion of "Amos Barton," i. 302;
accepts it for "Maga," 304;
receives kind letter from author, 307;
cautions regarding "huddling up stories," 319;
not enthusiastic about "Janet's Repentance," 326;
calls on Lewes, and George Eliot reveals herself, ii. 10;
letter from George Eliot on artistic combination, 31;
offers £800 for copyright of "Adam Bede" for four years, 47;
letter to, regarding Liggins, 73;
his liberal treatment of George Eliot, 102;
proposals for "Mill on the Floss," 110;
concedes copyright of "Adam Bede," 111;
suggests title of "Mill on the Floss," 112;
letter from author on finishing "Mill on the Floss," 114;
letter to, from George Eliot at Berne, 182, 183;
do. from Florence, 218;
offers £5000 for "Felix Holt," 308;
letters to, about "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 16, 26;
about Scott Commemoration, 97;
"Middlemarch," 103;
his favorable impressions of "Middlemarch," 106;
letter to, from Homburg, 123;
New Year's greetings from George Eliot, 138;
letter on "Middlemarch," 153;
on another book simmering in her head, 157;
on corrected edition of "Spanish Gypsy," 161, 162;
letter to, with volume of poems, 164;
on printing of "Deronda," 190, 191, 197;
on re-reading "Romola," 217, 218;
offers for second ten-years' copyright, 230;
letter to, declining invitation to Strathtyrum, 237;
on her continued ill-health, 244;
his death, 276.
Blackwood, Major, his opinion of "Amos Barton," i. 306;
hopeful about the "Scenes," 342;
calls on Lewes, and suspects identity of George Eliot, 342;
letter regarding the Liggins affair, ii. 81;
letter from author on "Mill on the Floss," 167.
Blackwood, William, his favorable news of "Clerical Life," ii. 116;
letter to, on Mr. Lewes's illness, iii. 239;
on "Theophrastus Such," 254, 263, 271.
Blanc, Louis, anecdote of, i. 195.
Bodichon, Madame, discovers author of "Adam Bede," ii. 77;
letters to: on artistic combinations, 93;
on Mrs. Gaskell's letter, 107;
the rewards of the artist, 107;
on settling in London, 198;
on religious forms and ceremonies, 205;
on the necessity of sympathy, 268;
on her Spanish tour, iii. 4;
on cheerfulness, 172;
on "Deronda," 198;
on woman's work, 208;
on her illness, 225;
on improvement in health, 252;
letter regarding "Lewes Studentship," 267;
letter announcing her marriage, 283;
on sympathy with marriage, 289.
Bohn, Madame, visit from, ii. 293.
Bologna, its pictures and churches, ii. 169;
the leaning towers, 170.
Bonham-Carter, Miss, letter to, from Madame Bodichon, iii. 264.
Bonheur, Rosa, her pictures, i. 333.
Books belong to successive mental phases, ii. 211.
Books read at Malvern, 1861, ii. 228-230, 234-236.
Books read, with remarks on, i. 268-271, 322, 341, 344; ii. 58, 299;
iii. 25, 41, 68, 71, 72.
Booksellers and authors, meeting of, i. 201.
Bookstalls, literary taste at, iii. 51.
Brabant, Miss, i. 85.
Bracebridge, Mr., and Liggins, ii. 99.
Bray, Charles, his work, "The Philosophy of Necessity," i. 67;
influence of his opinions, 68;
words of affection in time of depression, 135;
letter to, on rumors of authorship, ii. 13.
Bray, Mrs., letters to: on favorite books, i. 86;
reading and music, 87;
poetry of Christianity, 93;
chameleon-like nature, 158;
orthodox friends, 162;
anxiety for letters, 164;
need of encouragement, 165;
life in Geneva, 169, 170;
Christmas wishes, 174;
severe winter, 175;
yearning for friends at home, 175;
a singular advertisement, 195;
_Westminster_ reviewers, 199;
love for music, 202;
feels well and "plucky," 207;
in Edinburgh again, 211;
pleasant travelling, 213;
a Saturday's work, 214;
work in the Strand, 215;
domestic grievances, 229;
view of union with Mr. Lewes, 235;
on careless cooking, 316;
on the charms of Richmond Park, 326;
unbelief in others' love, 337;
authorship acknowledged to, ii. 83;
recollections of journey of 1849, 191;
asking for music, 241;
on her "Physiology for Schools," 267;
on writing poetry instead of novels, iii. 31;
on happiness in recovery, 313.
Bremer, Frederica, i. 188, 190.
Brewing interest in Parliament, the, iii. 188, 189.
Brewster, Sir David, i. 190.
Bridges, Dr., Leeds, iii. 42.
Bright on Ireland, iii. 56.
Brittany, trip to, ii. 296.
Broadstairs, delight with, i. 205.
Brodie, Sir Benjamin, iii. 80.
Brontë, Charlotte, life of, i. 317.
Brooks, Shirley, delighted with "Adam Bede," ii. 70.
"Brother Jacob" written, ii. 199.
"Brother and Sister," sonnets, iii. 70.
Brougham, Lord, a delicious _non sequitur_, i. 214.
Brown, Dr. John, sends "Rab and his Friends" to author of "Adam
Bede," ii. 60;
kindly letter in reply, 60.
Brown, J. C., "Ethics of George Eliot's Works," iii. 266.
Browne, Dr., chemist, Edinburgh, i. 195.
Browning, first visit from, ii. 249;
"Elisha," iii. 56.
Browning, Mrs., her "Casa Guidi Windows", ii. 243.
Buchanan, Robert, his "David Grey," ii. 273.
Buckle, personal dislike to, ii. 47.
Buckle's "History of Civilization," i. 341, 345.
Buckle's ideal not George Eliot's, ii. 220.
Bulstrode, new view of, iii. 133.
Bunyan, reading again with pleasure, ii. 105.
Burne-Jones, Edward, letter to, on the function of art, iii. 144.
Burne-Jones, Mrs., iii. 29;
letter to, on the serious view of life, 172;
on her illness, 185;
on Christmas plans, 232;
on her sense of depression, 239.
Burton, Mr., wishes to take portrait, ii. 273;
his picture of a knight in armor, 277.
Burton, Sir Frederick, Director of the National Gallery, ii. 240.
Byron, a vulgar-minded genius, iii. 72.
Call, Mr., author of "Reverberations and other Poems," i. 335.
Calvinism, a libel on, iii. 88.
Camaldoli, expedition to, ii. 221.
Cambridge, a visit to, iii. 147;
a group of "Trinity" men, 147.
Cambridgeshire, visit to, iii. 299.
Caricature, a bastard kind of satire, iii. 228.
_Caritas_, the highest love, ii. 252.
Carlyle, Mrs., pleasant letter from, ii. 7;
her conception of George Eliot, 8.
Carlyle, on the Glasgow artisan, i. 55;
eulogium on Emerson, 140;
"Life of Sterling," 189;
anecdotes of, 190, 257;
his denunciation of the opera, 192;
letter to George Eliot on "Frederic," 343;
G. A. anxious he should read her novels, ii. 63.
"Carlyle's Memoirs," ii. 208.
Catholicity of judgment, iii. 307.
Cavour, Count, ii. 122, 143.
Cerebellum, function of the, i. 210.
Chapman, Mrs., on Harriet Martineau, iii. 220.
Charade party, failure of, ii. 287.
Charity of the Apostle Paul, the, ii. 251.
Chart of Ecclesiastical History, i. 45.
Cheap books, opinion of, iii. 154.
Cheap edition of "Adam Bede" suggested by working man, ii. 66.
Cheap editions of novels, arrangements for, iii. 10.
Cheap music in England, ii. 81.
Cheerful, now uniformly, iii. 172.
Chiem See, journey by, ii. 34.
Childhood's real feelings, i. 91.
Child's idea of God, a, i. 153, 154.
Chills, spiritual and physical, iii. 120.
Chioggia, journey to, ii. 177.
"Christianity and Infidelity," Baillie Prize Essay, i. 311.
Chronological order in writing, ii. 211.
Church-going resumed, i. 82.
Clark, Sir James, pleasant evening with, i. 222;
meeting with, 226, 230.
Clark, W. G., late public orator at Cambridge, ii. 240;
visit to, at Cambridge, iii. 24;
resigns his oratorship, 74.
"Clerical Tutor," discouraged to proceed with, i. 336.
Club criticism of "Amos Barton," i. 308.
Coaching days, i. 7.
Cobbe, Miss, her introduction to Theodore Parker, ii. 253.
Cobden, disappointed with, i. 196.
Cologne, journey to, i. 267.
Colossians, Epistle to the, i. 51.
Combe, George, friendship with, i. 186;
on the _Westminster_, 204;
visit to, in Edinburgh, 211.
Comprehensive Church, one, iii. 175.
Comte and his critics, ii. 224;
admiration of, 224;
delight in his "Politique," iii. 2.
Comte's "Discours Préliminaire," ii. 264.
Comte's works, reading, iii. 302.
Conceptions of new work, iii. 233.
Confidence, desire for, i. 128.
Conformity, letter to J. W. Cross on, iii. 155.
Congreve, Mrs., letters to, ii. 82, 84, 141;
visits George Eliot in London, 232;
letter to, on Thornton Lewes's illness, iii. 63;
leaves for India, 132;
returns to Europe, 145;
letter to, after marriage with Mr. Cross, 292;
invited to Cheyne Walk, 314.
Congreve, Richard, ii. 62, 67, 73;
friendship of Mr. and Mrs., 76, 80;
Christmas Day with, 110;
his lectures on Positivism, iii. 12;
his article Huxley on Comte, 58.
Conolly, Dr., i. 233.
Conscience in work, iii. 27.
Conservative reaction, on the, iii. 143.
Contemporary fiction, iii. 183.
Continent, start for, visiting Fontainebleau, Plombières, iii. 149;
three months' trip to the, 205.
Continental tour, six weeks' journey to Baden, etc., iii. 37;
St. Märgen, 37;
peasant proprietors in the Black Forest, 38.
Continental trip with the Brays, i. 150.
Coquelin's acting, iii. 263.
Correggio's Madonnas, ii. 43.
Correspondence, views on, i. 134.
Country, delight in the, iii. 154.
Country districts, remoteness of, i. 5.
Country-house, visions of a, ii. 61.
Country life, monotony of, i. 25;
enjoyment of, ii. 275.
Country quiet, the benefits of, iii. 110.
Critical attitude, the, iii. 79.
Criticism, sensibility to, ii. 63.
Critics, indifference to opinions of, iii. 224.
Cross, J. W., first meeting at Rome with George Eliot, iii. 59;
meet again at Weybridge, 71;
letter to, on buying a house, 131;
on conformity, 155;
on depression, 187;
on effect of her writing, 204;
on Tennyson, 229;
letters to, after Lewes's death, 250-252;
his engagement, 279;
his marriage, 282;
illness in Venice, 294.
Cross, Miss Eleanor, letter to, iii. 276;
on her engagement to Mr. Cross, 279;
on her marriage tour, 283.
Cross, Miss Elizabeth D., "An Old Story and other Poems," iii. 15.
Cross, Miss Florence, letter to from Milan on the enjoyment of
travel, iii. 286.
Cross, Miss Mary, her "Marie of Villefranche," iii. 100;
letter to, on gift of a vase, 166.
Cross, Mrs., letters to, accepting invitation to Six-Mile Bottom,
iii. 121;
letter to, from Homburg, 122;
on return home, 125;
on journey abroad, and country-house at Bickley, 152;
on the pleasures of the country, 154;
on Christmas invitation, 158;
on silence of the country, 167.
Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia, dinner with, iii. 236;
their simple manner, 236;
guests at table, 236.
Cruikshank, George, i. 202.
Cumming, article on, in the _Westminster_, i. 277.
D'Albert, M. and Mme. _See_ Durade.
Dallas, Mr., an admirer of "Adam Bede," ii. 64.
Daniel, the prophecies of, i. 122.
"Daniel Deronda," writing, iii. 180;
fear for MS. being burned, 190;
anticipations of, 193, 194;
public interest in, 199, 214;
finished, 204;
Jewish element in, 211.
Darwin's "Origin of Species," ii. 104, 105, 108.
Dawson, Mr. George, lecturer, i. 129; ii. 233; iii. 165.
Dean Ramsay, letter from, with his "Reminiscences of Scottish
Life," ii. 320.
Death, imagining the nearness of, iii. 170.
"Debasing the Moral Currency," iii. 266.
Delight in the country, iii. 154;
in old friends, 245.
Depression from damp, iii. 187.
Derbyshire, memories of, iii. 47.
Deutsch, his article on the Talmud, iii. 18.
"Deutscher Novellenschatz," iii. 96.
"Development of Industries," effect of, ii. 281.
Development of religion, iii. 62.
Dialect in "Adam Bede," ii. 72; iii. 219.
Dickens, Charles, meeting with, i. 201;
letter from, ii. 2;
recognizes woman's hand in "Clerical Life," 3;
dines at Wandsworth, 102;
asks for a story for "All the Year Round," 104;
his death, iii. 82;
his "Life" by Forster, 104.
Dinah Morris, the character of, ii. 49.
Dinner at Greenwich, with Blackwood, Colonel Stewart, Colonel
Hamley, and Mr. Skene, ii. 222.
Discontent of the young, iii. 213.
Discouraged with her writings, ii. 86.
D'Israeli's "Tancred," i. 118, 123;
his theory of races, 124;
funeral oration on the Duke of Wellington, 215.
Distrust of her own knowledge, iii. 305.
"Divina Commedia," reading the, with Mr. Cross, iii. 259.
Dorking, fourth visit to, ii. 254.
Doyle, Mr., iii. 74.
Drama, trying a, ii. 280.
Drawbacks to living abroad, iii. 203.
Drawings from "Romola," iii. 166.
Dresden: end of vol. ii. of "Adam Bede" written, ii. 42;
Holbein's "Madonna," 42;
the "Sistine Madonna," 43;
the Correggios, 43;
Murillo's "St. Rodriguez," 43;
Dutch and Flemish pictures, 44;
Veronese, 44;
the theatres and concerts, 45.
Druce, Mr., visit to, at Sevenoaks, iii. 297.
Dulwich Picture-gallery, ii. 79.
Durade, M. d'Albert, i. 164;
residence with, 165;
their household, 166;
affection to, 173;
paints her portrait, 178;
visits England, 181;
wished to translate the "Scenes," ii. 109;
two days with, 186;
translates the "Scenes," 187.
Dürer, Albert, his paintings, ii. 24.
Dutch translation of George Eliot's novels, iii. 139.
Dutch and Flemish pictures in Dresden, ii. 44.
Dwelling on faults, abstention from, iii. 89.
Dying in harness, on, iii. 141.
Dyspeptic troubles and their cure, ii. 288.
Early death, thoughts on, ii. 290.
Edinburgh criticisms more favorable than London, ii. 64.
Edinburgh, enjoyment of, i. 211;
visit to Craigcrook, 212.
Editor's life, i. 215, 221.
Education of Women, iii. 27;
the higher, 146.
Effect of talking of her own books, ii. 85.
Effect of writing, the, iii. 306.
Egotism, cure for, i. 128.
"Elijah," delight in hearing, i. 112, 118.
Ellis, Mr. and Mrs., i. 191.
Emerson, first meeting with, i. 139;
Carlyle's eulogium on, 140;
his "Man the Reformer," ii. 196.
Empire in France, the, iii. 168.
Englefield Green, delightful week at, ii. 244.
English, attitude of the, towards Orientals, iii. 212;
ignorance of the Jews, 212.
English domestic life _versus_ German, i. 271.
English and French working classes, difference between, i. 131.
"Englishwoman's Journal" on the Infant Seamstresses, ii. 97.
Enjoying the thought of work, ii. 219.
Enriched with new ideas after journey to Italy, ii. 182.
"Ethics of George Eliot's Works," by J. C. Brown, iii. 266.
Evans, Christiana (sister), married to Mr. Edward Clark, surgeon,
i. 22;
relations between the sisters, 22, 23;
her husband's death, 216;
plans for her family, 217;
letter to her brother Isaac regarding, 318;
visit to her sister, ii. 96.
Evans, Isaac (brother), recollections of his sister, i. 11;
her susceptibility to terror, 12;
their happy childhood, 12;
his marriage, 61;
renewed correspondence with his sister on her marriage with Mr.
Cross, iii. 287;
notice of his family, 287.
Evans, J. C., offers £1000 for a story for American periodical,
ii. 94.
Evans, Mrs. Samuel (aunt), the Dinah Morris of "Adam Bede," i. 33.
Evans, Robert (father), his career, i. 1, 2;
removed to Griff, 2;
influence of his ideas on his daughter, 4;
his position, 8;
his wife, partly represented in Mrs. Poyser, 10;
her death, 22;
removal to Foleshill Road, Coventry, 61;
strong disapproval of his daughter's religious views, 75;
she visits her brother at Griff, 79;
regrets her impetuosity, and returns to Foleshill, 81;
his illness, 100;
visits Dover with his daughter, 107;
trip to Isle of Wight, 120;
illness increases, and visits St. Leonards, 135;
returns to Coventry, 139;
his death, 148.
Evidence, the value of, iii. 109.
Evil-speaking, contrition for, i. 141.
"Fables," by Lord Lytton, iii. 162.
Fairness and pity, where necessary, iii. 228.
Fame in dreams, ii. 89.
Family reunion, iii. 268; joys, iii. 286.
Faraday, letter from, acknowledging presentation copy of "Clerical
Life," ii. 9.
Farming, an epoch in, iii. 271.
Faucit, Helen, admiration of, i. 222.
Faults, abstention from dwelling on, iii. 89.
"Faust," reading in the original, iii. 303.
Faux, David, Confectioner (Brother Jacob), written, ii. 199.
Fawcett, Henry, articles on Strikes by, ii. 194.
"Fawn of Sertorius," i. 108.
Fechter in "Hamlet," ii. 225;
his "Othello," 232.
Feeling old for her years, ii. 193.
"Felix Holt," writing commenced, ii. 290;
reading for, 292;
Blackwood offers £5000 for, 308;
pains taken with, 309;
finished in excitement, 311;
final instalment received from Blackwood, iii. 13;
payment for copyright, 13.
Feminine characteristics, iii. 310, 311.
Ferrier, Mr., translates Kaufmann's article on "Deronda," iii. 216.
Feuerbach, translation of, published; first and only time her real
name appeared in print, i. 233.
Fiction, contemporary, iii. 183.
Fiction-reading condemned, i. 36.
Fiction-writing, first mention of, i. 296;
how I came to write, 298-300.
First authorship, i. 42.
First novel, i. 298;
title of, 299.
Flemish and Dutch pictures in Dresden, ii. 44.
Florence: view from Fiesole and Bellasguardo, ii. 155;
the Duomo and Campanile, 156;
the palaces and libraries, 157;
the Loggia di Lanza, 158;
Santa Maria Novella, 158;
Santa Croce and the Carmine, 159;
the frescoes, 159; S. Maria Novella, 160;
San Michele, the shrine, 160;
the Uffizi Gallery, 161;
and pictures, 162;
Pitti pictures, 162;
paintings at the Accademia, 163;
Galileo's tower, 164;
Michael Angelo's house, 165, 166.
Flower, Mr., i. 191.
Fontainebleau, visit to, iii. 150.
Forster, W. E., his article on Slavery, i. 218;
"Life of Dickens," iii. 104.
Foster, Professor Michael, his draught of conditions for Lewes
scholar studentship, iii. 267, 269.
France, the Empire in, iii. 168.
Franco-German war, iii. 86, 92.
Franklin, Miss Rebecca, her school at Coventry, i. 17;
her death, iii. 149.
Freethinkers, little sympathy with, as a class, ii. 249.
French and English working classes, difference between, i. 131.
French revolution of 1848, i. 129.
Froude's "Shadows of the Clouds," i. 146.
Fuller, Margaret, her Journal, i. 198.
Function of art, the, iii. 144.
Furnishing, on troubles of, ii. 267.
"Futile Lying," letter on, ii. 290.
Gambler, a girl, iii. 124.
Garibaldi at the Crystal Palace, ii. 276.
Gaskell, Mrs., suspected to have written "Adam Bede," ii. 82;
letter from, 102;
expresses admiration of "Scenes" and "Adam Bede," 107.
Gaskell's, Mrs., "Ruth," i. 219.
Geneva, life at Campagne Plongeon, i. 151-157;
Genevese preachers, 153, 154;
_Fête_ of Navigation, 157;
effect of change of life, 159;
plans for lessons, 160;
Baronne de Ludwigsdorff, 161;
home remembrances, 170;
beauty of scenery, 171;
delight in town life, 171;
the Juras, 178;
last days in, 179.
Genevese preachers, i. 153, 154.
Genoa, the cathedral, ii. 124.
George Eliot.--1819-37:
Birth at Arbury farm, i. 1;
removal to Griff, 2;
anecdotes of father, 9;
character of mother, 10;
at Dame's school, 10;
at Miss Lathom's school at Attleboro, 11;
happy childhood, 12;
first books read, 13;
first journey to Staffordshire, 15;
Miss Wallington's school at Nuneaton, 15;
writes out "Waverley," 16;
favorite books, 17;
charade-acting, 17;
riot at Nuneaton, 20;
first letter to Miss Lewis, 21;
mother's illness and death, 22;
housekeeper at Griff, 24;
life and studies there, 24.
1838-41:
First visit to London, i. 28;
religious asceticism, 29;
nineteenth birthday, 32;
religious objections to music, 32;
religious reflections, 34;
besetting sin, ambition, 35;
objections to fiction-reading, 36;
first poem, 42;
books read and studies pursued, 44;
German lessons begun, 45;
chart of ecclesiastical history, 46;
Italian studies, 49;
dislike to housekeeping work, 50;
reads Isaac Taylor, 51;
visits Birmingham to hear "Messiah," 53;
translates German poem, 54;
her reading, 57;
removal to Foleshill Road, Coventry, 59.
1841-46: Coventry life, i. 61;
mental depression, 64;
friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Bray, 67;
reads Charles Hennell's "Inquiry," 67, 68;
effect of this book, 74;
gives up going to church, 75;
family difficulties, 79;
regrets her impetuosity, 81;
resumes going to church, 82;
intimacy with Miss Sara Hennell and Mr. and Mrs. Bray, 83;
attitude towards immortality, 84;
excursion to Stratford and Malvern, 85;
meets Robert Owen, 86;
studies German and music, 86, 87;
opinion in regard to conformity, 89;
translation of Strauss's "Leben Jesu," 90;
despair about publication of Strauss, 94;
trip to the Highlands, 97.
1846-49:
Strauss translation published, i. 107;
classical books wanted, 108;
suspected of novel-writing, 108;
reading Foster's life, 109;
thoughts on Jesus at Emmaus, 110;
a child's idea of God, 111, 112;
visits London and hears "Elijah," 112;
re-reading Hennell's "Inquiry," 119;
visit to Isle of Wight with father, 120;
admiration of Richardson, 121;
delight in George Sand's "Lettres d'un Voyageur," 122;
dislike to Jews, 125;
supremacy of Hebrew poetry, 125;
admiration of Roberts and Creswick, 127;
opinion of Mr. Dawson the lecturer, 129;
sympathy with revolution, 130;
France and England contrasted, 131;
sympathy with nonconformity, 133;
visit to St. Leonards, 135;
father's illness, 135;
mental depression, 136;
how to be overcome, 136;
admiration of Louis Blanc, 137;
recovery from depression, 138;
opinion of "Jane Eyre," 138;
meets Emerson, 138;
again suffering from depression, 141;
contrition for evil-speaking, 141;
reading Macaulay's "History," 142;
bodily suffering, 143;
on the influence of Sand's and Rousseau's writings, 143, 144;
writes review of the "Nemesis of Faith," 145;
translates Spinoza's "Tractatus Theologico-Politicus," 147;
father's death, 148.
1849-50:
Goes abroad with Mr. and Mrs. Bray, 150;
Geneva, life at Campagne Plongeon, 151,152;
prophetic anticipation of position seven years later, 158;
effect of change of life, 159;
plans for lessons, 160;
finds apartments in Geneva, 164;
enjoyment of society, 165;
need of encouragement, 165;
life in Geneva, 169, 170;
yearning for friends at home, 170;
remarks on translations of Spinoza, 172;
desire for a woman's duty, 173;
portrait by M. d'Albert, 178;
remarks on education of children, 179;
leaving Geneva, 180.
1850-54: Return to England, 181;
reviews Mackay's "Progress of the Intellect" in _Westminster_,
184;
assistant editor of _Westminster Review_, 186;
introduced to Mr. Lewes, 189;
intimacy begins, 192;
help in despondency, 198;
growing intimacy with Mr. Herbert Spencer, 201;
dislike of scrap-work, 203;
visit to Edinburgh, 211;
an editor's life, 214, 215;
ill with rheumatism, 218;
interest in America, 219;
growing intimacy with Mr. Lewes, 221, 232;
contemplates publishing "The Idea of a Future Life," 229;
union with Mr. Lewes, 234, 235;
letter to Mrs. Bray, 235, 236.
1854-55:
Visits Antwerp with Mr. Lewes, i. 239;
extracts from journal, 239 _et seq._;
Weimar, i. 240-251;
Berlin recollections, 251-268;
work at Weimar and Berlin, 268;
remarks on books read, 268-271;
return to England, 271.
1855-57:
Articles written, i. 275;
effect of article on Cumming, 278;
reading on physiology, 279;
miscellaneous writing, 280;
Spinoza's "Ethics," translation finished, 281;
wishes not to be known as translator, 283;
articles on Young and Riehl, 286;
tendency to scientific accuracy, 287;
naturalistic experiences, 288;
first mention of fiction-writing, 296;
"how I came to write fiction," 298;
correspondence about "Amos Barton," 300;
"Mr. Gilfil's Love-story" begun, 305;
Blackwood's high admiration of the story, 307;
name of George Eliot assumed, 309;
artistic bent, 310;
Caterina and the dagger scene, 313;
trip to the Scilly Isles, 313;
social life at St. Mary's, 316;
on conclusions of stories, 319;
Jersey recollections, 319-322;
Mr. Liggins, 323;
opinions of "Mr. Gilfil's Love-story," 324, 325;
happiness in her life, 328;
Blackwood's opinion of "Janet's Repentance," 329;
haunted by new story, 334;
"Adam Bede" begun, 337;
receives £120 for first edition of "Clerical Life," 337;
unbelief in others' love, 337;
sympathy with individuals, 339;
objection to theism, 339;
evening studies, 342;
Major Blackwood suspects identity of George Eliot, 324;
review of the year 1857.
1858:
The _Times_ reviews of "Scenes of Clerical Life," ii. 1;
letter from Charles Dickens, recognizing woman's hand, 3;
from Froude, 3;
from Mrs. Carlyle, 7;
reveals herself to John Blackwood, 10;
visit to Germany, 14-46;
progress with "Adam Bede," 32;
latter half written, 42;
description of life at Dresden, 45;
history of "Adam Bede," 48-52;
retrospect of year, 55.
1859-60:
Reading up for "Mill on the Floss," ii. 58;
letter to John Blackwood on "Adam Bede," 58;
wishes Carlyle to read her novels, 63;
awakening to fame, 68;
Mr. Liggins said to be author of "Adam Bede," 71;
finished the "Lifted Veil," 75;
reveals herself to Brays as author of "Adam Bede," 83;
trip to Switzerland, 87;
fourth edition (5000) of "Adam Bede" sold in a fortnight, 88;
receives £800 beyond bargain for success, 102;
16,000 sold in one year, 107;
Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, 115;
"Mill on the Floss" finished, 116;
start for Italy, 116.
1860:
First journey to Italy, ii. 120;
Rome, first sight of, 126;
description of Naples, 144, 145;
visit to Pompeii, 148;
Florence, 155;
first mention of Italian novel, 168;
Venice, 172;
home by Berne and Geneva, 181;
enriched with new ideas, 182.
1860-61:
"Mill on the Floss" success, ii. 185;
sitting to Lawrence for portrait, 194;
independence secured, 203;
the queen's admiration of "Mill on the Floss," 203;
success of "Silas Marner," 214;
second journey to Italy, 216;
hopeful about future work, 220;
began "Romola," 230;
studying for, 235, 236.
1862-65:
Begins "Romola" again, ii. 238;
offered £10,000 for "Romola" for the _Cornhill_, but idea given
up, 244;
£7000 accepted under new terms, 245;
the effect of writing "Romola," 255;
continued ill-health, 256, 258;
letter from Frederick Maurice, 259;
third visit to Italy, 278;
trying a drama, 280;
retrospect of year 1864, 282;
"A Word for the Germans" written, 288;
"Felix Holt" begun, 290;
readings, 292;
expedition to Brittany, 296;
retrospect of 1865, 299.
1866:
Mr. Harrison's legal help in "Felix Holt," ii. 303, 304, 310;
offered £5000 for "Felix Holt" by Blackwood, 308;
visit to Holland and Germany, 312;
"The Spanish Gypsy" taken up again, 317;
reading for, 321;
start for Spain, 324.
1867:
Journey to Spain, iii. 1;
learning Spanish, 3;
letters from Spain, 4-9;
return to the Priory, 9;
two months' visit to North Germany, 14;
acquaintance with Mrs. Cross and family, 15;
"Address to the Working Men," 19.
1868:
Month's visit to Torquay, iii. 25;
"Spanish Gypsy" finished, 29;
notes on the "Spanish Gypsy," 30;
on the writing of poetry instead of novels, 36;
six weeks' journey to Baden, 37;
meditating subject of Timoleon, 49;
retrospect of the year, 50;
cheap edition of novels, 51.
1869-72:
Poem on "Agatha," iii. 55;
writing "How Lisa Loved the King," 56;
fourth visit to Italy, 57;
religion of the future, 62;
"Sonnets on Childhood" finished, 65;
the phenomena of spiritualism, 67;
the Byron scandal, 72;
"Legend of Jubal" begun, 73;
letter on the Positivist problem, 75;
visit to Germany, 76;
three days' visit to Oxford, 80;
growing dislike of migratory life, 82;
"Armgart" begun, 85;
industrial schemes, 90;
visit to Petersfield, 94;
visit from Tennyson, 99;
delight in intellectual activity, 101;
reception of "Middlemarch," 103;
Foster's "Life of Dickens," 104;
"Middlemarch" finished, 121;
a month's visit to Homburg, 122;
a girl gambler, 124;
memorial article on author of "Thorndale," 126;
"Maga" on "Middlemarch," 130.
1873-75:
Reception of "Middlemarch," iii. 138;
Dutch translation of novels, 139;
German reprints, 140;
visit to Cambridge, 147;
visit to the Master of Balliol, 149;
nine weeks' trip to the Continent, 150;
another book simmering in her thoughts, 157;
retrospect of 1873, 160;
cheaper edition of novels, 162;
"Legend of Jubal" published, 167;
journey to the Ardennes, 176;
sales of her books, 180;
value of early religious experience, 182;
not satisfied with "Deronda," 193;
depression in finishing, 194.
1876-78:
Public interest in "Deronda," iii. 199;
Mrs. Stowe's admiration of "Deronda," 202;
letter to J. W. Cross, 204;
trip to the Continent, 205;
Jewish appreciation of "Deronda," 209;
Dr. Adler's lecture on, 216;
Mrs. Stowe and the Byron case, 221;
appreciation of Tennyson, 229;
gaining strength at Witley, 231;
meets Crown Prince and Princess of Germany, 236;
visit to Oxford, 236;
Mr. Lewes's ill-health, 239;
reception at the Priory, 241;
Mr. Lewes's last illness and death, 245-247.
1879-80:
First weeks of loneliness, iii. 249;
announcement of "Theophrastus Such" delayed, 252;
project of Physiological Studentship, 254;
dissatisfied with "Theophrastus," 254;
letter to J. W. Cross asking counsel, 258;
reception of "Theophrastus" by the public, 263, 264;
serious renal attack, 265;
conditions for the studentship, 267;
renewed interest in social news, 270;
Dr. Roy appointed to studentship, 275;
death of John Blackwood, 276;
engagement to Mr. Cross, 279;
married at St. George's, Hanover Square, 283;
left for the Continent, 283;
letters from France and Italy, 284-294;
Mr. Cross's illness in Venice, 294;
arrival in England, 295;
recurrence of illness, 300;
recovery of strength, 313;
settled in Cheyne Walk, 313;
first appearance of sore throat, 315;
letter to Mrs. Strachey (unfinished), 316;
sudden death, 316.
German editions of "Middlemarch," iii. 114.
German poem, translation of, i. 54.
German reading, iii. 124.
German Revolution of '48 caused by real oppression, i. 258.
German translation of "Adam Bede," ii. 116;
first volume received, 116.
Germans, Vivier's anecdotes of, i. 264, 265;
domestic life of, 271.
Germany, North, journey to, iii. 14;
places revisited and new scenes, 15.
Germany, second visit to, 1854:
Munich, ii. 14-34;
Ischl, 37;
Vienna, 38;
Prague, 40;
Dresden, 45;
Leipzig, 46.
Germany, visit to, in 1854;
extracts from journal: Weimar, i. 240;
Berlin, 251, 252.
Gift of a vase from Miss Mary Cross, iii. 166.
Girl gambler, a, iii. 124.
Girton College scheme, iii. 18.
Goethe on Spinoza, ii. 298.
Goschen, Mr., dinner with, iii. 236;
meets Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia, 236.
Got's acting, iii. 101.
Granada, the Alhambra, iii. 7;
view from, 8.
Grand Chartreuse, expedition to the, iii. 285.
Grandcourt and Lush, iii. 200.
Grandison, Sir Charles, i. 121.
Green, Professor T., iii. 149.
Ground of moral action, iii. 178.
Gurney, Mr. Edmund, iii. 147.
Gurney, Rev. Archer, on "Scenes of Clerical Life," i. 324.
Guthrie, Dr., address by, i. 230.
Hamilton, Sir William, valuable contributions, i. 278.
Hamley, Colonel (now General Sir Edward Hamley), impressions of,
ii. 315;
thanks for letter to the _Times_, iii. 93.
Handel Festival, the, ii. 82.
Hannay, Mr., on "Romola," ii. 252.
Happiness in recovery of health, iii. 313.
Hare, Mrs. Julius, ii. 263;
her death, 273.
Harrison, Frederic, letter to, on industrial co-operation, ii. 303;
his legal advice in "Felix Holt," 303;
more consultations with, 305, 306;
letter to, on æsthetic teaching, etc., 318;
receives a copy of "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 36;
consultation with, 186.
Harrogate, its lovely walks, ii. 281.
Haughton, Mrs., letters to:
on contrition for evil-speaking, i. 141;
on friends at home, 159;
on the bondage of luxuries, 177;
on her proof-reading, 231.
Haunted by new story, i. 334.
Hawthorne, admiration of, i. 208.
Heine, article on, in _Westminster_, i. 279.
Helps, Arthur, dinner with, i. 230;
incident in Spain, 242;
on "Clerical Life," ii. 2.
Hemans's "The Forest Sanctuary," i. 57.
Hennell, Charles, analysis of "An Inquiry Concerning the Origin of
Christianity," i. 68-74;
his marriage, 85.
Hennell, Miss Mary, author of "An Outline of the various Social
Systems founded on the Principle of Co-operation," her death,
i. 84.
Hennell, Miss Sara, first meeting with, i. 82;
letters to, on mental characteristics, 84;
dangers of nonconformity, 89, 90;
translating Strauss, 92;
Strauss difficulties, 96;
title of translation, 98;
finishing translation, 101;
longing for idleness, 102;
thankfulness for help in translation, 103;
visit to Mrs. Hennell, 107;
desire for classics, 108;
relief from work, 109;
admiration of "Heliados," 111;
philosophy and religion, 121;
"Live and teach," 122;
"sweet uses" of adversity, 135;
depression by father's illness, 136;
the "Romanticist," 139;
a longing for sympathy, 141;
bodily suffering, 143;
return to England, 180, 181;
Mr. Chapman's soirées, 190;
delight with change of life, 206;
letter from Berlin, 262;
on essay "Christianity and Infidelity," 311;
peacefully busy, 334;
delight in Mr. Lewes's books, ii. 11;
on the death of a mother, 12;
admiration of Liebig, 25;
sympathy with, on her mother's death, 32;
letter from Dresden, 45;
about Mrs. Clarke, 66, 67;
recollections of Mr. Liggins, 72;
authorship acknowledged to, 83;
"expecting disappointments," 201, 202;
settled in new house, 204, 205;
on the blessings of good health, 229;
old remembrances, 233;
on her low health, 306;
a birthday letter, iii. 129.
Hereditary misfortunes, iii. 34.
Hereford, Dean of, i. 227.
Herts, country-house in, iii. 186.
Higher education of women, iii. 13, 146.
History of "Adam Bede," ii. 48-52.
"History of Europe," Alison's, i. 282.
History reading, iii. 234.
Holbein's Madonna, ii. 42.
Holland and Germany, journey to, ii. 312;
the route taken, 315.
Holland, Sir Henry, visit from, ii. 321.
Holmwood Common, iii. 174.
Homburg, the gaming-tables, iii. 122.
Home, enjoyment of, iii. 208.
Home for Girls, iii. 181.
Home life, i. 13; iii. 107, 108.
"Horsedealer in Syria," ii. 101.
Housekeeping work, dislike of, i. 50.
How I came to write fiction, i. 298-300.
Hungarian, "Adam Bede" translated into, ii. 115.
Hunt, Leigh, his "The Religion of the Heart," i. 226.
Huth, Mrs. and Miss, iii. 147.
Hutton, R. H., letter to, on "Romola," ii. 261.
"Huxley on M. Comte," Dr. Congreve's article on, iii. 58.
Huxley, Mr., an agreeable evening with, i. 220.
Hyrtl, the German anatomist, ii. 39.
"Idea of a Future Life," contemplates publishing, i. 229.
Ilfracombe recollections: journey to, i. 285;
naturalistic experiences, 288;
zoological expeditions, 289;
Devonshire lanes, 289;
Rev. Mr. Tugwell, 290;
the scientific spirit, 291;
leave for Tenby, 292.
Illness a partial death, iii. 155.
Illustrations in cheap edition, not _queerer_ than in other books,
iii. 217.
Impetuosity regretted, i. 81.
"Impossibility of marrying," dangers of speaking of, ii. 212.
Incentive to production, iii. 224.
Independence of external good, i. 81.
Indian newspaper-writing, iii. 237.
Individual versus the general, the, iii. 33.
Industrious poor, helping the, iii. 90.
Inkermann, battle of, a mere brave blundering, iii. 182.
Inman, Dr., Liverpool, ii. 114.
Innspruck and Wildbad, iii. 294, 295.
Intellectual activity, enjoyment of, iii. 101.
Intellectual superciliousness, ii. 255.
"Introduction to the Science of Language," iii. 303.
"Iphigenia in Aulis," iii. 145.
Irregular verses, the use of, iii. 40.
Ischl, the Gmunden See, ii. 37;
voyage down the Danube, 38.
Isle of Wight, trip to the, ii. 72, 256.
Italian novel, first mention of, ii. 168.
Italian studies, i. 49.
Italy, first journey to, 1860:
Turin, ii. 122;
Genoa, 123;
Leghorn, 124;
Pisa, 125;
Rome, 126-144;
Naples, 144;
Salerno, 151;
Pæstum, 152;
Amalfi, 153;
Sorrento, 153, 154;
Florence, 155;
Bologna, 168;
Padua, 170;
Venice, 172;
Verona, 179;
Milan, 179-181.
Italy, second journey to, ii. 216;
stay at Florence, 217;
renewed delight in, 219;
work during the visit, 221.
Italy, third visit to, ii. 277;
Mr. Burton's companionship, 278;
the Alps by the St. Gothard, 278.
Italy, fourth visit to, iii. 57;
places visited, 58.
Italy, fifth visit to: Milan, iii. 288;
Verona, 289;
Venice, 291.
"Jane Eyre," opinion of, i. 138.
Jansa, Herr, takes lessons from, ii. 271.
Jersey recollections, 1857:
scenery, i. 319;
inland walks, 320, 321;
coast beauties, 321;
books read, 322.
Jesus at Emmaus, thoughts on, i. 110.
Jewish appreciation of "Deronda," iii. 207, 216.
Jews, dislike of, i. 125;
English ignorance of the, iii. 212.
Jones, Mr. Owen, decorates the new house, ii. 265, 266.
Journal, 1855:
Third book of "Ethics," preface written, i. 273;
_Westminster Review_, 274;
wrote for the _Leader_, 275.
1856:
Working at Spinoza, i. 281;
first mention of fiction-writing, 296;
"Mr. Gilfil's Love-story" begun, 305.
1857:
Pleasant letters regarding "Gilfil," i. 323, 324;
finished "Janet's Repentance," 336;
began "Adam Bede," 336;
books read, 342;
the year's work, 344.
1858:
News from the city regarding "Clerical Life," ii. 12;
visit to Germany, 14-46;
"Adam Bede" finished, 48.
1859:
A trip to Lucerne, ii. 87;
return to England, 88;
declined American offer for new story, 94;
anxiety and doubt about new novel, 97.
1860:
Seeing friends, ii. 114;
first journey to Italy, 120-182.
1861:
Second journey, ii. 216;
struggling constantly with depression, 227;
continued ill-health, 243-245;
despondency, 279.
1868:
Books, reading, iii. 25;
retrospect of year, 50.
1869:
Work in prospect, iii. 55;
beginning "Middlemarch," 69;
"Legend of Jubal" begun, 73.
1870:
In languid health, iii. 79.
1871:
First part of "Middlemarch" published, iii. 104.
1873:
Success of "Middlemarch," iii. 138;
retrospect of year, 159.
1875:
Sales of books, iii. 180.
1876:
Depression in writing "Deronda," iii. 194.
1877:
Cabinet edition decided on, iii. 230;
declined to renew copyright agreement, 230;
close of her journal, 233.
1879:
Seeing visitors, iii. 260.
1880:
Her marriage with Mr. Cross, iii. 283;
came to 4 Cheyne Walk, 311.
Jowett, Mr., Master of Balliol, visit to, iii. 149.
Julian the Apostate, Strauss's pamphlet on, i. 139.
Justification in writing, iii. 173.
Kaufmann, Dr. David, letter to, on his estimate of "Daniel
Deronda," iii. 222;
on the function of the teacher, 226;
on Lewes's death, 257.
Kenelm Chillingly, iii. 141.
Knight, Charles, i. 202.
La Bruyère's wisdom, iii. 235.
Lamartine as a poet, i. 130.
Languages, her knowledge of, iii. 305.
La Vernia, description of, ii. 223.
Lawrence wishes to take her portrait, ii. 115;
sits for it, 194.
Lecky's "History of Rationalism," ii. 291.
Lecture on "Daniel Deronda," by Dr. Adler, iii. 216.
Leeds, the horrible smoke of, iii. 43;
its fine hospital, 44.
"Legend of Jubal," some verses written, iii. 73;
published as "Legend of Jubal, and other Poems," 167;
new edition of, 169.
Leghorn, the Jewish synagogue, ii. 125;
to Civita Vecchia, 125;
a pleasant companion, 126.
Leipzig, two days at, ii. 45;
its picture-gallery, 45.
Leroux, Pierre, his theories, i. 194.
Letters to her friends almost all destroyed, ii. 207.
"Letter to Berthelot," Renan's, ii. 269.
Lewes, Charles, first letter to, ii. 91;
on musical parties, 98;
on liking for algebra, 106;
returns from Hofwyl, 185;
receives appointment in Post-office, 194;
letters from Florence to, 216, 219, 221;
from Isle of Wight, 257;
his engagement, 278;
letters to, on Harrison's paper, iii. 262;
on printing the "Problems," 276;
from Grenoble, 285;
from Milan, 288; from Venice, 291;
from Stuttgart and Wildbad, 294, 295;
on his visit to St. Blasien, 297;
on recurrence of illness, 300.
Lewes, George H., i. 188;
first introduction to Miss Evans, 189;
meet at the theatre, 192;
article on "Julia von Krüdener," 192;
his Comte papers, 209;
growing intimacy, 221;
his "History of Philosophy," 227;
illness, 231;
intimate relations with Miss Evans, 232;
their union, 235;
completed life of Goethe at Weimar, 267;
estimation of George Eliot, 277;
necessity for hard work, 277;
proposes sending boys to Hofwyl, 284;
goes to Switzerland with them, 297;
highly pleased with "Amos Barton," 300;
letter to John Blackwood with MS. of "Scenes of Clerical Life," 300;
George Eliot revealed to John Blackwood, ii. 10;
suggestions in "Adam Bede," 49, 50;
extract from Journal, 55;
"Physiology of Common Life," 92;
"Studies in Animal Life," 113;
dispassionate judgment, 202;
delicate health, 223;
busy with Aristotle, 233;
"History of Science" begun, 243;
views of Bible-reading, 251;
buoyant nature, 290;
walking expedition with Mr. Spencer, iii. 15;
acquaintance with Mrs. Cross, 15;
visits Bonn, 20;
death of his mother, 91;
proposed for Rectorship of St. Andrews, 232;
continued illness, 240;
his death, 247.
Lewes, Herbert, his death, iii. 189.
Lewes Studentship proposed, iii. 253;
plans for, and trustees, 254.
Lewes, Thornton, leaves for Natal, ii. 264;
returns, iii. 63;
his death, 73.
Lewis, Miss, Leamington, iii. 192.
Lewis, Miss, letters to:
On first visit to London, i. 28;
on living for eternity, 30;
emulation of Wilberforce, 31;
oratorios, 32;
bad effect of novels, 37;
religious controversies, 39;
first authorship, 42;
studies pursued, 44;
Italian studies, 49;
Mrs. Somerville's "Connection of the Physical Sciences," 50;
opinions of Isaac Taylor, 51;
German translation, 54;
a walled-in world, 55;
sensitiveness, 57;
war's purgations, 59;
satisfaction with new life, 62;
depression of mind, 64;
mind requiring rest, 65;
desire for brain waves, 66;
religious doubts and difficulties, 74, 75;
on self-denial, 78.
Lichfield, recollections of, ii. 96.
Liddell, Dean, Oxford, iii. 173.
Liebig, Professor, ii. 23;
admiration of, 25, 29.
"Life of Goethe," i. 275.
"Lifted Veil," finished April, 1859, ii. 75;
the idea of the story, iii. 141.
Liggins, Mr., first mention of, i. 323;
calls himself George Eliot, ii. 71;
some recollections of, 72;
Mr. Anders's apology, 78;
Mr. Bracebridge's letter regarding, 99.
Limitations of scientists, iii. 182.
Lincoln, President, anecdote of, iii. 82.
Lincoln, the Rector of, iii. 81.
Lincolnshire, visits to, iii. 288.
"Lisa," writing rhymed poem on, iii. 55.
Literary biography, iii. 163.
Literary taste at bookstalls, iii. 51.
Littlehampton, trip to, ii. 247.
Liturgy of the English Church and the Bible, ii. 226.
Living abroad, drawbacks to, iii. 203.
Lockhart, Captain, his writings, iii. 98, 193.
Lonely days: "here I and sorrow sit," iii. 249.
Louis Blanc, admiration of, i. 138.
Louis Philippe and his sons, i. 130.
Lowell's "My Study Windows," iii. 96.
Lucerne, a trip to, ii. 87;
visit from Mrs. Congreve, 87.
Lush and Grandcourt, iii. 200.
Lushington, Mrs. Vernon, iii. 220.
Lyrics for "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 16.
Lytton, Hon. Mrs. Robert (now Lady Lytton), letter of sympathy to,
iii. 83;
on thoughts of death, 99, 100;
on Lord Lytton's Indian experiences, 281.
Lytton, Hon. Robert (now Lord Lytton), on pronunciation in "Spanish
Gypsy," iii. 52;
explanation of errors, 52.
Lytton, Sir Edward Bulwer, letter from, thanking author of "Adam
Bede," ii. 74, 75;
visit from, 115;
criticises "Adam Bede," 115;
his criticisms of "Maggie," 190.
Macaulay, interest in, i. 142.
Mackay's "Progress of the Intellect" reviewed, i. 183;
extracts from, 183-185, 190.
"Macmillan," article on "The Mill on the Floss" in, ii. 212.
Macmillan, Mr., his proposal for volume on Shakespeare, iii. 231.
Madrid, the Gallery, iii. 9.
Madonna di San Sisto, first impression of, ii. 43.
Main, Mr., collector of "The Wise, Witty, and Tender Sayings of
George Eliot," iii. 103;
opinions of, 105.
Maine, Sir Henry, on Lewes's "Physiology," iii. 267.
Malvern, trip to, ii. 228;
improved health from, 230, 231.
"Man's Nature and Development," i. 187.
"Marie of Villefranche," by Miss Mary Cross, iii. 100.
Marriage, possibilities in, iii. 181.
Marriage, the ideal, iii. 142.
Martineau, Harriet, "The Crofton Boys," i. 93;
meeting with, 94, 193;
invitation from, 197;
article on "Niebuhr," 203;
visit to, at Ambleside, 212;
respect for her, ii. 103;
her autobiography, iii. 214, 219.
Martineau, James, i. 192;
critique of Kingsley's "Phaethon," 219;
on Sir William Hamilton, 223;
invitation from, 54; "Comte," 55.
Martineau, Maria, her death, ii. 274.
"Masculine woman," dislike of the, iii. 308.
Masson, Mr., on Recent Philosophy, ii. 298.
Mathematics, her love for, iii. 305.
Matlock, recollections of, iii. 47.
Maurice, Frederick, generous tribute from, ii. 259.
Mazzini, asked to write on "Freedom _v._ Despotism," i. 194;
his speeches, 198.
Mazzini Fund, the, ii. 294.
Mazzini's death, iii. 113.
"Meliorist," the word, iii. 217.
Memorial article on author of "Thorndale," iii. 126.
Mendelssohn's "Letters," iii. 84.
Mental characteristics described, i. 84.
"Middlemarch," writing introduction, iii. 69;
reading for, 71, 72;
the design of, 99;
anticipations of, 103;
first part published, 104;
French and German interest in, 112;
delayed by ill-health, 113;
£1200 from Harpers for reprint, 114;
finished, 121;
reviewed in _Blackwood's Magazine_, 130;
new edition called for, 153;
number sold in 1873, 160;
December, 1874, 20,000 sold, 180.
Milan, the Ambrosian Library, ii. 180;
the "Brera," 180;
Church of San Ambrogio, 181;
the "Luini" pictures, iii. 288.
Military men, articles by, iii. 265.
Mill, John Stuart, his "Autobiography," iii. 158.
"Mill on the Floss," first volume finished as "Sister Maggie,"
ii. 101;
Blackwood's proposals for, 110;
discussions as to title, 111;
Blackwood's suggestion adopted, 112;
Harpers, New York, give £300 for American edition, 115;
third volume finished, 116;
inscription on, 116;
sad at finishing, 117;
first and second editions (6000) sold, 185.
Miracle play at Antwerp, the, ii. 316.
Miscellaneous writing, i. 280.
Misconception of others, on, ii. 197.
"Miss Brooke," experimenting on, iii. 91.
Mixed marriages in Germany, ii. 28.
Modern German art, ii. 27.
Mohl, Madame, dinner with, iii. 1.
Moleschott, of Zurich, ii. 182.
Molière's "Misanthrope," ii. 108.
Mommsen's "History of Rome," ii. 264.
Mont Cenis, passage of, ii. 120.
Moral action, ground of, iii. 178.
Moral sanction is obedience to facts, iii. 34.
Morality with the "Bible shut," i. 230.
More, Mrs. Hannah, her letters, i. 123.
Müller, Max, ii. 239; iii. 149.
Munich, the opera, ii. 18;
Samson and Delilah, 18;
Schwanthaler's "Bavaria," 19;
appreciation of Rubens, 20;
Catholic and Protestant worship, 21;
the Glyptothek and Pinnacothek, 21;
Kaulbach, Bodenstedt, and Genelli, 22, 23;
Professor Wagner, 23;
Professor Martius, 23;
Liebig, 23, 25;
Heyse and Geibel, 23;
music of the "Faust," 24;
Professor Löher, 24;
Albert Dürer's paintings, 24;
Bluntschli and Melchior Meyr, 25;
the _Tafel-rund_, 26;
the Siebolds, 26, 33;
Kaulbach's pictures, 27;
mixed marriages, 28;
porcelain-painting, 30;
Madame Bodenstedt, 30;
visit to Grosshesselohe, 31;
Lewes leaves for Switzerland, 33;
leaves for Dresden, 33.
Murillo's St. Rodriguez, ii. 43.
Music, cheap, inconveniences connected with, in England, ii. 81.
Musical evenings with Mr. Pigott and Mr. Redford, ii. 227, 229, 230.
Musical parties, ii. 99.
Myers, Mr. Frederick, Cambridge, iii. 147.
"My Vegetarian Friend," written, ii. 285.
Nancy, the Germans at, iii. 151.
Naples: first impressions, ii. 144;
visits to Baiæ, Avernus, and Misena, 145;
to Pozzuoli and Capo di Monte, 146;
the Cemetery, 147;
Museo Borbonico, 147;
Pompeii, 148;
its remains, 149;
beauty of, 150;
the pictures at, 151;
Giotto's frescoes, 151;
leave for Florence, 154.
Nearness of death, imagining the, iii. 170.
Negative attitude unsatisfactory, iii. 156.
"Nemesis of Faith," reviews the, i. 145;
note from Froude, 145.
New house, enjoyment of, ii. 269, 270.
Newman, Francis, i. 140; iii. 165.
Newman's "Apologia," ii. 280.
Newman's, J. H., "Lectures on the Position of Catholics," i. 192.
New misery in writing, i. 227.
New Year's wishes, iii. 139.
Nichol's "Architecture of the Heavens," i. 65.
Nightingale, Miss Florence, note from, i. 206; ii. 61.
Noel, Mr., i. 191.
Nonconformity, effect of, i. 79;
dangers of, 90.
Normandy, trip to, ii. 296.
_North British_, favorable review, ii. 199.
Notes on the "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 30, 31.
Novel-writing, suspected of, i. 108.
Nuneaton, riot at, i. 20.
Nürnberg, description of, ii. 14;
its roofs and balconies, 15;
the Frauen-Kirche, 16;
effect of Catholic "Function," 17;
Albert Dürer's house, 17.
Old people's judgments, i. 118.
"Old Town Folks," appreciation of, iii. 66.
Oliphant, Lawrence, and the colonizing of Palestine, iii. 252.
Oliphant, Mrs., the novelist, ii. 11.
_Once a Week_, a story requested for, ii. 104, 106.
Oratorios at Birmingham, i. 53.
Oratorios condemned, i. 32.
Orientals, English attitude towards, iii. 211.
Osborne, Bernal, on "Deronda," iii. 200.
Otter, Francis, letter to, on his engagement, iii. 180, 181.
Owen, Professor, i. 202;
on the cerebellum, 210;
sends his "Palæontology," ii. 116.
Owen, Robert, i. 86.
Oxford, first visit to, iii. 80;
people met with, 80.
Oxford Tracts and Christian Year, i. 48.
Padua, Church of San Antonio, ii. 170;
the Arena Chapel, 171;
Giotto's painting, 171.
Pæstum, the Temple of Neptune, ii. 152.
Paris, visit to Comte's apartment, ii. 286.
Parkes, Miss (Madame Belloc), friendship with, i. 195; iii. 289.
"Pascal," by Principal Tulloch, iii. 235.
Passionate affliction, defence against, iii. 84.
Patience, the need of, iii. 128.
"Paul Bradley," by Mrs. Bray, iii. 164.
Pays no visits in London, ii. 215.
Peabody, George, his magnificent gift, ii. 245.
Pears, Mrs., letters to: on religious difficulties, i. 76;
on desire for truth, 77;
on her impetuosity, 81;
her friendship with Mr. Robert Evans, 147.
Penmaenmawr, ii. 96.
Permanent influence of ideas, the, iii. 89.
Persistence in application, iii. 304.
Personal bearing, her, iii. 310.
Personal portraiture objected to, iii. 228.
Personality, independence of our, iii. 84.
Phenomena of spiritualism, the, iii. 67.
Philosophical Club, first meeting of, ii. 248;
dissolution of, 253.
"Philosophy of Necessity," the, i. 339.
Phrenological indications, i. 78.
Phrenology, the position of, i. 340.
Physiological reading, i. 279.
Physiological Studentship, the purpose of, iii. 256.
"Physiology for Schools," Mrs. Bray's, ii. 267.
Pigott, Mr. Edward Smith, i. 293.
Pisa, description of, ii. 125;
the cathedral, 125.
Pity and fairness, where requisite, iii. 228.
Plain living and high thinking, iii. 161.
Plombières and the Vosges, iii. 150.
Poem in _Christian Observer_, i. 43.
Poetry instead of novels, on writing, iii. 36.
Poetry of Christianity, i. 93; ii. 251.
Poets, the value of, iii. 184.
Political and religious standpoint, iii. 308.
Pompeii and its remains, ii. 149, 150, 154.
Ponsonby, Hon. Mrs. (now Lady Ponsonby), letter to, on the idea
of God an exaltation of human goodness, etc., iii. 176;
on the desire to know the difficulties of others, 184;
on excess of public-houses, 188;
on pity and fairness, 228.
Poor, helping industrious, iii. 90.
"Popular author," characteristics of the, ii. 59.
Popular Concerts, Monday, ii. 204, 248.
Popular judgment of books, iii. 62.
Popular preacher, a, iii. 87.
Positivism in "The Spanish Gypsy," iii. 49.
Positivism regarded as one-sided, ii. 224.
Possession, the sense of, iii. 306.
Power of the will, the, iii. 179.
Poyser, Mrs., her dialogue, ii. 54;
quoted in House of Commons, 69.
Prague: the Jewish burial-ground, ii. 40;
impressive view, 41.
Preacher, a popular, criticised, iii. 87.
Presentation copies never sent, ii. 216.
Press notices of "Adam Bede," ii. 60.
"Pretended comforts," ii. 296.
Prince Albert, admiration of, i. 202.
Printed rancor, on, iii. 221.
Priory, receptions at the, iii. 241.
Private correspondence almost all destroyed, ii. 207.
Private theatricals, i. 176, 178.
"Problems of Life and Mind," by G. H. Lewes, iii. 203, 210.
_Prospective Review_, i. 219;
on Goethe, 224.
Psychical troubles, i. 232.
Public-houses, excess of, iii. 188.
Public interest in "Deronda," iii. 199.
Public school and University education, iii. 309.
Publishing books, on different methods of, iii. 190, 191.
"Pug," letter to John Blackwood on, ii. 91.
Quackery of infidelity, i. 89.
_Quarterly_ on "The Mill on the Floss," ii. 201.
Queen's admiration of "The Mill on the Floss," ii. 203.
Quiet joy in success, ii. 72.
Quirk, Mr., finally renounces Liggins, ii. 96.
Race characteristics, i. 125.
Ragatz, "The Cure" at, iii. 206;
gain in health from, 210.
Rancor, on printed, iii. 221.
Rawlinson, Professor, iii. 80.
Reade, Charles, on "Adam Bede," ii. 70.
Reading aloud, the effect of her, iii. 302, 303.
Reading world very narrow, iii. 131.
Reeves, Sims, singing "Adelaide," ii. 205.
Religion and art, i. 126;
the development of, iii. 62.
Religious controversies, i. 39, 47;
aspirations, 63;
doubts and difficulties, 74, 76;
forms and ceremonies, ii. 205;
assemblies, the need of, iii. 156;
and political standpoint, 308.
Renan, estimate of, ii. 269;
his appearance, iii. 3.
Renan's "Vie de Jésus," ii. 260.
Renunciation, on, iii. 35.
Repugnance to autobiography, iii. 221.
Responsibility of authorship, ii. 89.
Retrospect of year 1819, i. 4, 5;
of 1857, 346;
of 1858, ii. 55;
of 1864, 285;
of 1865, 300;
of 1868, iii. 50;
of year 1873, 159.
Reviews, effect of, ii. 192;
abstains from reading, 193.
Reviews of "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 40, 44.
Revolution, sympathy with, i. 130.
Revolutionary spirit, i. 138.
"Revue des Deux Mondes," review of "Adam Bede," ii. 105;
Lewes accepts editorship of periodical on plan of, ii. 287.
Rewards of the artist, the, ii. 107.
Richmond Park, the charms of, i. 326;
sunset effects, 341.
Riehl's "Die Familie," i. 344.
Ritualistic services at Ryde, iii. 91.
Rive, M. le Professeur de la, his lectures, i. 175, 177.
Romance in real life, a, ii. 258, 259.
Rome: from Civita Vecchia to, ii. 126;
first sight of, 126;
disappointed with, 127;
view from the Capitol, 128;
the Sabine and Alban hills, 128;
the temples and palaces, 129;
the arches and columns, 129, 130;
the Coliseum and baths, 130;
the Lateran and Vatican sculptures, 131;
St. Peter's, 132;
mediæval churches, 133;
Sistine chapel, 133;
palaces, 133, 134;
illumination of St. Peter's, 134;
the Quirinal, 134;
San Pietro in Vincoli, 134;
Michael Angelo's "Moses," 135;
modern artists, 135;
Riedel and Overbeck, 136;
Pamfili Doria gardens, 137;
Villa Albani and Frascati, 137;
Tivoli, 138;
pictures at the Capitol, 139;
the Lateran Museum, 139;
Shelley's and Keats's graves, 140;
removal to apartments, 142;
the French occupation, 143;
beautiful mothers and children, 143;
the Pope's blessing, 144.
"Romola," first conception of, ii. 197;
began the first chapter, 230;
studying for, 234;
begins it again, 238;
Smith offers £10,000 for it to appear in the _Cornhill_, 244;
£7000 accepted, 245;
slow progress in writing, 246, 250;
opinions of, 252;
strain of writing, 255;
finished Part XIII., 255;
completion of, 256;
application to translate into Italian, iii. 216.
Rosehill, visit to, i. 193.
Roundell, Mr. and Mrs. Charles, iii. 149.
Roy, Dr. Charles, elected Lewes Physiological student, iii. 275;
his treatise on "Blood Pressure," 298.
Rubens, appreciation of, ii. 20.
Rumors of authorship, ii. 13.
Ruskin and Alfieri, reading, iii. 292.
Ruskin's Works, opinion of, ii. 5.
Ryde, visit to, iii. 91;
ritualistic service at, 91.
Salerno, visit to, ii. 151.
Salzburg, description of scenery, ii. 36.
Sand's, George, "Lettres d'un Voyageur," i. 122.
Saragossa, the old cathedral, iii. 5.
Saturday Popular Concerts, last visit to, iii. 315.
_Saturday Review_, the, i. 281.
Saveney on "La Physique Moderne," iii. 3.
Scarborough, visit to, ii. 281.
"Scenes of Clerical Life:" "Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton," i. 299;
offered to Blackwood, 300;
accepted, 304;
sensitiveness of author, 304;
"Mr. Gilfil's Love-story" begun, 305;
"Amos Barton," published in January (1856) Magazine, 305;
opinions regarding authorship, 308, 309;
assumes the name of George Eliot, 310;
Caterina and the dagger scene, 313;
"Mr. Gilfil" finished, 319;
epilogue to, 319;
opinions of, 324;
"Janet's Repentance" begun, 326;
Blackwood's opinion of, 328;
increased circulation, 342;
favorable opinions of, ii. 10.
Scherer, Professor, Geneva, iii. 8.
School-fellows, excels her, i, 19.
Schwalbach, description of, ii. 312.
Scientists, limitations of, iii. 182.
Scilly Islands, recollections of: St. Mary's, i. 314;
Beauties of the coast, 314;
sunlight on the waves, 315;
social life, 316.
Scotch Reign of Terror, disbelief in a, i. 132.
Scotland, trip to, i. 97; visit to, ii. 275.
Scott Commemoration, afraid of journey to, iii. 97, 98.
Scott, Life of Sir Walter, ii. 61.
Scrap-work, dislike of, i. 203.
Sculpture and painting, i. 127.
Sensibility to criticism, ii. 63.
Sequel to "Adam Bede" proposed, ii. 100.
Shakespeare's "Passionate Pilgrim," i. 273.
Shakespeare, the acting preferred to the reading, ii. 109.
Shakespeare, volume on, requested by Macmillan, iii. 231.
Sheffield, visit to, iii. 46; early recollections of, 46.
Shelley's "Cloud," i. 53.
Shottermill, life at, iii. 94.
Sibree, John, letters to, i. 123;
on "Tancred" and D'Israeli, 123, 124;
race characteristics, 125;
religion and art, 126;
painting and sculpture, 127;
sympathy with him, 128;
necessity of utterance, 132;
desire for a change, 133.
Sibree, Miss Mary (Mrs. John Cash), her recollections of Miss Evans
at Coventry, i. 113-116;
letter to, 327.
Sidgwick, Mr. Henry, iii. 147.
Siebold the anatomist, ii. 26.
Siena, expedition to, ii. 164;
the Cathedral, 164, 165;
its paintings, 165.
"Silas Marner, the Weaver of Raveloe," a sudden inspiration, ii. 204;
story begun, 207;
its sombre character, 210;
subscription to, 5500, 212.
Silence of the country, iii. 107.
"Silly Novels by Lady Novelists," article on, finished, i. 297.
Simpson, Mr. George, Edinburgh, letter to, iii. 135;
proposed a yet cheaper edition of novels, 162;
author's regret at not adopting the plan, 162.
"Small upper room" 1866 years ago, comparison with, ii. 285.
Smith, Albert, on "Amos Barton," i. 308.
Smith, Barbara (Madame Bodichon), i. 205, 295.
_See_ Madame Bodichon.
Smith, Mr. George, offers £10,000 for "Romola," to appear in the
_Cornhill_, ii. 244;
accepted for £7000, 245.
Smith, Mrs. William, letters to, on the Memoir of her husband,
iii. 126, 142;
on the higher education of women, 146;
on her poems, 160.
Smith, Sydney, anecdote of, ii. 299.
Smith, William, author of "Thorndale," ii. 5, 212;
his illness, iii. 109;
his death, 119;
memoir of, 185.
Social dangers, i. 56.
Somerville's, Mrs., "Connection of the Physical Sciences," i. 50.
"Sonnets on Childhood," iii. 65.
Sorrento, visit to, ii. 153;
its neighborhood, Vico, and the Syren Isles, 154.
Spain, set off on journey to, ii. 324;
return home, iii. 9.
"Spanish Gypsy," reading for, ii. 280;
first act finished, 283;
taken up again, 317;
reading for, 321;
recommenced in new form, 321;
reading for, iii. 15;
Mr. Lewes's opinion of, 22;
shortening of, 29;
finished, 29;
notes on, 30;
the _motif_ of the poem, 30;
reviews of, 39, 40;
second and third editions, 42, 45;
reprinted in Germany, 140;
number sold in 1873, 160;
fifth edition published, 180.
Spanish grammar, studying, ii. 282.
Spanish, new system of learning, iii. 3;
scenery, 4;
travelling, 6.
Speke, Captain, the African traveller, ii. 95, 101.
Spencer, Herbert, first meeting with, i. 187;
intimacy with, 201, 203;
"Universal Postulate," 225;
"Genesis of Science," 234;
Essays, 371;
his influence on Lewes, ii. 55, 56;
enthusiastic letter from, 89;
his new work, 206;
visit from, 276;
introduces Lewes to Mrs. Cross, iii. 15;
his teaching, 184;
last visit from, 315.
Spencer, Mr., senior, teacher, ii. 272.
Spinoza's "Ethics," desires not to be known as translator, i. 283.
Spinoza's "Tractatus Theologico-Politicus," i. 147, 172.
Spiritualistic evidence, iii. 111;
phenomena, 116.
"Spiritual Wives," a nasty book, iii. 130.
Spiritualism, the phenomena of, iii. 67;
one aspect of, 117.
Splügen Pass, journey across, ii. 181.
Springs of affection reopened, iii. 280.
Stachelberg and Klönthal, iii. 207.
Staffordshire, first journey to, i. 15.
Stanley, Lord, his opinion of the "Scenes," i. 325.
_Statesman_ review of "Clerical Life," ii. 6.
Stella Collas in "Juliet," ii. 259.
Stephenson, George, one of her heroes, ii. 241.
St. Blasien, in the Schwarz Wald, iii. 207.
St. Leonards, visit to, i. 223.
St. Paul's, charity children singing, i. 203.
Stories, on conclusions of, i. 319.
Stowe, Mrs., Miss Cobbe's rejoinder to, ii. 253;
letters to, iii. 60;
on early memories of, 60;
the popular judgment of books, 61;
the development of religion, 62;
a woman's experience, 63;
on appreciation of "Old Town Folks," 66;
Professor Stowe's psychological experience, 67;
phenomena of spiritualism, 67;
on the benefits of country quiet, 110;
on spiritualistic phenomena, 116;
on Goethe, 175;
on her admiration for "Deronda," 202;
on the Jewish element in "Deronda," 211.
Stowe, Mrs., letter to Mrs. Follen, i. 220.
Stowe, Professor, his psychological experience, iii. 66;
a story by, iii. 129.
Strachey, Mrs., letter to (unfinished), iii. 315.
"Stradivarius," referred to, iii. 228.
Strain of writing "Romola," ii. 255.
Strauss, translation of, i. 90, 94;
delay in publication, 95;
difficulties, 96;
title, 98;
finishing translation, 101;
Miss Hennell's help in translation, 103;
review of, 109;
interview with, 240;
renewed acquaintance with, ii. 46.
Strength while abroad, iii. 301.
Stuart, Mrs., visit from, iii. 255.
Study, enjoyment of, ii. 322.
Studying for "Romola," ii. 234, 240, 246, 249, 250.
Sturgis, Julian, high opinion of, iii. 257.
Sully, James, letter to, on Mr. Lewes's articles, iii. 260, 269, 273;
thanking him for proof-reading, 274.
"Sunshine through the Clouds," i. 233.
Surrey, enjoyment, iii. 170.
Surrey hills preferred to the sea-side, iii. 272.
Swansea, cockle-women at, i. 292.
Swayne, Rev. Mr., his delight with "Mr. Gilfil's Love-Story," i. 311.
Switzerland, letters during residence in 1849, i. 151-179.
Sympathy, with other women, iii. 100;
the necessity of, ii. 269;
recovery of, iii. 293.
Tauchnitz offers for "Clerical Life," ii. 52;
offers £100 for German reprint of "Adam Bede," 115.
Taylor, Isaac, influence of, i. 51.
Taylor, Mrs. Peter, i. 196;
sympathy with, 197;
letters to, 218, 219;
generous letter from, with reply, 293, 294;
on her domestic position, ii. 213, 214;
letter to, on Christmas at Weybridge, iii. 159;
on difficulties of note writing, 181;
on the Lewes Studentship, 273.
Taylor, Professor Tom, i. 201.
Tenby, zoological delights, i. 293;
St. Catherine's Rock, 295;
work done here, 295;
Mr. Pigott's visit, 296;
leave and return to Richmond, 297.
Tennyson, appreciation of, iii. 229.
"Terror" in religious education, iii. 48.
Thackeray, Miss, "The Story of Elizabeth," ii. 299;
her marriage, iii. 225.
Thackeray's "Esmond," i. 214;
opinion of "Gilfil's Love-Story," 323;
favorable opinion of "Clerical Life," ii. 10.
"The Impressions of Theophrastus Such," MS. sent to publishers,
iii. 245;
publication postponed, 252;
third edition about sold out, 268.
Theism, objection to, i. 339, 340.
Thirlwall, Bishop, story of, iii. 228.
Thompson, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, iii. 149.
Thorns in actual fame, ii. 90.
Thorwaldsen's Christ scourged, i. 126.
"Thoughts in Aid of Faith," by Miss Hennell, ii. 186, 188, 195;
favorable view of, by Miss Nightingale and Miss Julia Smith, 190.
"Thoughts in Aid of Faith," ii. 73.
Thoughts on death, iii. 100;
on early death, ii. 290.
Tichborne trial, the, iii. 106;
Coleridge's address, 107.
_Times_ reviews "Adam Bede," ii. 73;
letter to, denying Liggin's authorship, 74.
Titian's paintings, ii. 43, 45.
"Too good to be true," i. 140.
Torquay, visit to, iii. 25.
Toulon to Nice, drive from, ii. 216, 217.
Town life, depression of, ii. 203.
Tragedy, notes on, iii. 32.
Translator's difficulties, a, i. 99.
Traunstein, our fellow-travellers at, ii. 35.
Trèves, a visit to, iii. 122.
Trollope, Anthony, his "Orley Farm," delightful letter from, ii. 246.
Truth, desire for, i. 77.
Truth of feeling a bond of union, i. 88.
Tryan, Rev. Mr., an ideal character, i. 332.
Tulloch, Principal, his "Pascal," iii. 235.
Turguenieff, M., iii. 209.
Turin: Count Cavour, ii. 122;
Prince de Carignan, 122.
Tylor's "Primitive Culture," iii. 118.
Tyndall, Professor, "On the Constitution of the Universe," ii. 299.
University and public school education, iii. 309.
Use of irregular verses, iii. 40.
"Utopias," poem on, ii. 286.
Venice: the Grand Canal by moonlight, ii. 172;
San Marco and Doge's Palace, 173;
pictures in the palace, 173;
interior of St. Mark's, 174;
"Death of Peter the Martyr," 175;
the Scuola di San Rocco, 176;
Tintoretto and Titian, 176;
Giovanni Bellini and Palma Vecchio, 177;
sunset on the Lagoon, 177;
Piazza of San Marco, 178;
a remarkable picture, 178.
Verona, the church of San Zenone, ii. 179;
the tombs of the Scaligers, 179.
Veronese, his "Finding of Moses," etc., ii. 44.
Via Mala, its grand scenery, ii. 182.
Vienna: Belvedere pictures, ii. 39;
the Liechtenstein collection, 39;
Hyrtl, the anatomist, 39;
journey to Prague, 40.
"Villette," i. 220.
Vision of others' needs, iii. 177.
Vision-seeing subjective, iii. 116.
"Visiting my Relations," a volume of poetry from the authoress of,
ii. 97.
Wales, visit to, iii. 189.
Wallace's "Eastern Archipelago," iii. 118.
Wallington, Miss, her school at Nuneaton, i. 15.
Walt Whitman, motto from, iii. 200.
Wandsworth, takes new house at, ii. 59.
Warwickshire magistrate, correspondence with, ii. 97.
"Waverley," writes out, i. 16.
Weimar recollections: interview with Strauss, i. 240;
the Dichter Zimmer, 240;
Scholl, 240;
excursion to Ettersburg, 241;
Arthur Helps, 242;
Goethe's beech, 242;
expedition to Ilmenau, 242;
Wagner's operas, 243;
"Der Freischütz," 243;
Schiller's house, 244;
Goethe's house, 244; his study, 245;
the _Gartenhaus_, 246;
the _Webicht_, 247;
Marquis de Ferrière, 247;
Liszt on Spontoni, 248;
breakfast with, 249;
his playing, 250;
his trophies, 250;
our expenses, 251;
work at and books read, 268-271;
wrote article on "Madame de Sablé," 268;
remarks on books read, 269-271;
return to England, 271.
_Westminster_, the, on "Essays and Reviews," ii. 200.
_Westminster Review_, assistant editor of, i. 186;
heavy work, 193;
its difficulties, 227;
wishes to give up editorship, 229.
_Westminster_ reviewers, i. 199, 200, 205, 210.
Weybridge, Christmas visit to, iii. 71, 140, 159.
Wharton's "Summary of the Laws relating to Women," i. 220.
Whitby, visit to, iii. 85.
Wicksteed's review of Strauss's translation in "Prospective," i. 109.
Wilberforce, emulation of, i. 31.
Wildbad to Brussels, iii. 295.
Will, power of the, iii. 179.
Wilson, Andrew, the "Abode of Snow," iii. 190.
Witley, house bought at, iii. 215;
life at, 240;
Sunday receptions, 241.
Wolseley, Sir Garnet, iii. 198.
Woman's duty, yearning for a, i. 173;
earnings, 282;
full experience, iii. 63;
constancy, on, 92, 93.
Womanhood, her ideal of, iii. 308.
Women's Colleges, iii. 309.
Woolwich Arsenal, a visit to, iii. 176.
Wordsworth's Poems, i. 45.
Wordsworth's Thoughts on Humanity, iii. 280.
Work at Weimar and Berlin, i. 268.
World of light and speech, iii. 185.
Writing under difficulties, ii. 307.
Young, discontent of the, iii. 213.
Young Englandism, no sympathy with, i. 124.
Young men, desire to influence, iii. 18.
Yorkshire, visit to, iii. 41.
Zoological Gardens, pleasure in, ii. 209;
friendship with the Shoebill, 209.
THE END.
GEORGE ELIOT'S WORKS.
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Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious typographical errors were repaired.
Duplicate sidenotes (repeated at the top of continuation pages) were
deleted.
Latin-1 file: _underscores_ enclose italicized content.
P. 259 sidenote (22d April, retained) and p. 260 continuation sidenote
(23d April, deleted) disagree.
P. 224, "disbelief in my own {duty/right}"--original shows "duty"
immediately above "right" with large curly braces surrounding both.
Latin-1 file: p. 133, "baby is raised to the _n_^{th} power"--^{th}
indicates "th" as a superscript.
Latin-1 file: p. 102, [)o] indicates an "o" with a breve, and [=o]
indicates an "o" with a macron. Html file displays these as in the
original.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "George Eliot's Life, Vol. III (of 3) - as related in her Letters and Journals" ***
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