TRANSLATION OF STRAUSS AND FEUERBACH.--TOUR ON THE CONTINENT.
Miss Brabant's marriage to Mr. Charles Hennell occurred some months
after this excursion to Tenby. In the meanwhile it was settled that Miss
Evans should continue her translation of Dr. Strauss's _Leben Jesu_.
Thus her first introduction to literature was in a sense accidental. The
result proved her admirably fitted for the task; for her version of this
searching and voluminous work remains a masterpiece of clear nervous
English, at the same time faithfully rendering the spirit of the
original. But it was a vast and laborious undertaking, requiring a large
share of patience, will, and energy, quite apart from the necessary
mental qualifications. On this occasion, to fit herself more fully for
her weighty task, Marian taught herself a considerable amount of Hebrew.
But she groaned, at times, under the pressure of the toil which had
necessarily to be endured, feeling tempted to relinquish what must often
have seemed almost intolerable drudgery. The active interest and
encouragement of her friends, however, tided her over these moments of
discouragement, and after three years of assiduous application, the
translation was finally completed, and brought out by Dr. (then Mr.)
John Chapman in 1846. It is probably safe to assume that the composition
of none of her novels cost George Eliot half the effort and toil which
this translation had done. Yet so badly is this kind of literary work
remunerated, that twenty pounds was the sum paid for what had cost three
years of hard labour!
Indeed, by this time, most of the twelve friends who had originally
guaranteed the sum necessary for the translation and publication of the
'Life of Jesus,' had conveniently forgotten the matter; and had it not
been for the generosity of Mr. Joseph Parkes, who volunteered to advance
the necessary funds, who knows how long the MS. translation might have
lain dormant in a drawer at Foleshill? It no sooner saw the light,
however, than every one recognised the exceptional merits of the work.
And for several years afterwards Miss Evans continued to be chiefly
known as the translator of Strauss's _Leben Jesu_.
Soon after relieving Miss Brabant from the task of translation, Miss
Evans went to stay for a time with her friend's father, Dr. Brabant, who
sadly felt the loss of his daughter's intelligent and enlivening
companionship. No doubt the society of this accomplished scholar,
described by Mr. Grote as "a vigorous self-thinking intellect," was no
less congenial than instructive to his young companion; while her
singular mental acuteness and affectionate womanly ways were most
grateful to the lonely old man. There is something very attractive in
this episode of George Eliot's life. It recalls a frequently recurring
situation in her novels, particularly that touching one of the
self-renouncing devotion with which the ardent Romola throws herself
into her afflicted father's learned and recondite pursuits.
There exists a letter written to an intimate friend in 1846, soon after
the translation of Strauss was finished, which, I should say, already
shows the future novelist in embryo. In this delightfully humorous
mystification of her friends, Miss Evans pretends that, to her
gratification, she has actually had a visit from a real live German
professor, whose musty person was encased in a still mustier coat. This
learned personage has come over to England with the single purpose of
getting his voluminous writings translated into English. There are at
least twenty volumes, all unpublished, owing to the envious machinations
of rival authors, none of them treating of anything more modern than
Cheops, or the invention of the hieroglyphics. The respectable
professor's object in coming to England is to secure a wife and
translator in one. But though, on inquiry, he finds that the ladies
engaged in translation are legion, they mostly turn out to be utterly
incompetent, besides not answering to his requirements in other
respects; the qualifications he looks for in a wife, besides a thorough
acquaintance with English and German, being personal ugliness and a snug
little capital, sufficient to supply him with a moderate allowance of
tobacco and _Schwarzbier_, after defraying the expense of printing his
books. To find this phoenix among women he is sent to Coventry on all
hands.
In Miss Evans, so she runs on, the aspiring professor finds his utmost
wishes realised, and so proposes to her on the spot; thinking that it
may be her last chance, she accepts him with equal celerity, and her
father, although strongly objecting to a foreigner, is induced to give
his consent for the same reason. The lady's only stipulation is that her
future husband shall take her out of England, with its dreary climate
and drearier inhabitants. This being settled, she invites her friends to
come to her wedding, which is to take place next week.
This lively little _jeu d'esprit_ is written in the wittiest manner, and
one cannot help fancying that this German Dryasdust contained the germ
of one of her very subtlest masterpieces in characterisation, that of
the much-to-be-pitied Casaubon, the very Sysiphus of authors. In the
lady, too, willing to marry her parchment-bound suitor for the sake of
co-operating in his abstruse mental labours, we have a faint adumbration
of the simple-minded Dorothea.
But these sudden stirrings at original invention did not prevent Miss
Evans from undertaking another task, similar to her last, if not so
laborious. She now set about translating Ludwig Feuerbach's _Wesen des
Christenthums_. This daring philosopher, who kept aloof from
professional honours, and dwelt apart in a wood, that he might be free
to handle questions of theology and metaphysics with absolute
fearlessness, had created a great sensation by his philosophical
criticism in Germany. Unlike his countrymen, whose writings on these
subjects are usually enveloped in such an impenetrable mist that their
most perilous ideas pass harmlessly over the heads of the multitude,
Feuerbach, by his keen incisiveness of language and luminousness of
exposition, was calculated to bring his meaning home to the average
reader. Mr. Garnett's account of the 'Essence of Christianity' in the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica,' admirably concise as it is, may be quoted
here, as conveying in the fewest words the gist of this "famous
treatise, where Feuerbach shows that every article of Christian belief
corresponds to some instinct or necessity of man's nature, from which he
infers that it is the creation and embodiment of some human wish, hope,
or apprehension.... Following up the hint of one of the oldest Greek
philosophers, he demonstrates that religious ideas have their
counterparts in human nature, and assumes that they must be its
product."
The translation of the 'Essence of Christianity' was also published by
Mr. Chapman in 1854. It appeared in his 'Quarterly Series,' destined "to
consist of works by learned and profound thinkers, embracing the
subjects of theology, philosophy, biblical criticism, and the history of
opinion." Probably because her former translation had been so eminently
successful, Miss Evans received fifty pounds for her present work. But
there was no demand for it in England, and Mr. Chapman lost heavily by
its publication.
About the same period Miss Evans also translated Spinoza's _De Deo_ for
the benefit of an inquiring friend. But her English version of the
'Ethics' was not undertaken till the year 1854, after she had left her
home at Foleshill. In applying herself to the severe labour of rendering
one philosophical work after another into English, Miss Evans, no doubt,
was bent on elucidating for herself some of the most vital problems
which engage the mind when once it has shaken itself free from purely
traditional beliefs, rather than on securing for herself any pecuniary
advantages. But her admirable translations attracted the attention of
the like-minded, and she became gradually known to some of the most
distinguished men of the time.
Unfortunately her father's health now began to fail, causing her no
little pain and anxiety. At some period during his illness she stayed
with him in the Isle of Wight, for in a letter to Mrs. Bray, written
many years afterwards, she says, "The 'Sir Charles Grandison' you are
reading must be the series of little fat volumes you lent me to carry to
the Isle of Wight, where I read it at every interval when my father did
not want me, and was sorry that the long novel was not longer. It is a
solace to hear of any one's reading and enjoying Richardson. We have
fallen on an evil generation who would not read 'Clarissa' even in an
abridged form. The French have been its most enthusiastic admirers, but
I don't know whether their present admiration is more than traditional,
like their set phrases about their own classics."
During the last year of her father's life his daughter was also in the
habit of reading Scott's novels aloud to him for several hours of each
day; she must thus have become deeply versed in his manner of telling
the stories in which she continued to delight all her life; and in
speaking of the widening of our sympathies which a picture of human life
by a great artist is calculated to produce, even in the most trivial and
selfish, she gives as an instance Scott's description of Luckie
Mucklebackit's cottage, and his story of the 'Two Drovers.'
But a heavy loss now befell Marian Evans in the death of her father,
which occurred in 1849. Long afterwards nothing seemed to afford
consolation to her grief. For eight years these two had kept house
together, and the deepest mutual affection had always subsisted between
them. Marian ever treasured her father's memory. As George Eliot she
loved to recall in her works everything associated with him in her
childhood; those happy times when, standing between her father's knees,
she used to be driven by him to "outlying hamlets, whose groups of
inhabitants were as distinctive to my imagination as if they belonged to
different regions of the globe." Miss Evans, however, was not suffered
to mourn uncomforted. The tender friends who cared for her as a sister,
now planned a tour to the Continent in hopes that the change of scene
and associations would soften her grief.
So they started on their travels, going to Switzerland and Italy by the
approved route, which in those days was not so hackneyed as it now is.
To so penetrating an observer as Miss Evans there must have been an
infinite interest in this first sight of the Continent. But the journey
did not seem to dispel her grief, and she continued in such very low
spirits that Mrs. Bray almost regretted having taken her abroad so soon
after her bereavement. Her terror, too, at the giddy passes which they
had to cross, with precipices yawning on either hand--so that it seemed
as if a false step must send them rolling into the abyss--was so
overpowering that the sublime spectacle of the snow-clad Alps seemed
comparatively to produce but little impression on her. Her moral triumph
over this constitutional timidity, when any special occasion arose, was
all the more remarkable. One day when crossing the Col de Balme from
Martigny to Chamounix, one of the side-saddles was found to be badly
fitted, and would keep turning round, to the risk of the rider, if not
very careful, slipping off at any moment. Marian, however, insisted on
having this defective saddle in spite of the protest of Mrs. Bray, who
felt quite guilty whenever they came to any perilous places.
How different is this timidity from George Sand's hardy spirit of
enterprise! No one who has read that captivating book, her _Lettres d'un
Voyageur_, can forget the great Frenchwoman's description of a Swiss
expedition, during which, while encumbered with two young children, she
seems to have borne all the perils, fatigues, and privations of a
toilsome ascent with the hardihood of a mountaineer. But it should not
be forgotten that, although Miss Evans was just then in a peculiarly
nervous and excitable condition, and her frequent fits of weeping were a
source of pain to her anxious fellow-travellers. She had, in fact, been
so assiduous in attendance on her sick father, that she was physically
broken down for a time. Under these circumstances an immediate return to
England seemed unadvisable, and, when her friends started on their
homeward journey, it was decided that Marian should remain behind at
Geneva.
Here, amid scenes so intimately associated with genius--where the
"self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau," placed the home of his
'_Nouvelle Heloise_,' and the octogenarian Voltaire spent the serene
Indian summer of his stirring career; where Gibbon wrote his 'History of
the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire;' where Byron and Shelley
sought refuge from the hatred of their countrymen, and which Madame de
Stael complainingly exchanged for her beloved Rue du Bac--here the
future author of 'Romola' and 'Middlemarch' gradually recovered under
the sublime influences of Nature's healing beauties.
For about eight months Miss Evans lived at a boarding-house, "Le
Plongeau," near Geneva. But she was glad to find a quieter retreat in
the family of an artist, M. d'Albert, becoming much attached to him and
his wife. Established in one of the lofty upper stories of this pleasant
house, with the blue shimmering waters of the lake glancing far below,
and the awful heights of Mont Blanc solemnly dominating the entire
landscape, she not only loved to prosecute her studies, but, in
isolation from mankind, to plan glorious schemes for their welfare.
During this stay she drank deep of Rousseau, whose works, especially
_Les Confessions_, made an indelible impression on her. And when
inciting a friend to study French, she remarked that it was worth
learning that language, if only to read him. At the same period Marian
probably became familiarised with the magnificent social Utopias of St.
Simon, Proudhon, and other French writers. Having undergone a kind of
mental revolution herself not so long ago, she must have felt some
sympathy with the thrilling hopes of liberty which had agitated the
states of Western Europe in 1849. But, as I have already pointed out,
her nature had conservative leanings. She believed in progress only as
the result of evolution, not revolution. And in one of her most incisive
essays, entitled 'The National History of German Life,' she finely
points out the "notable failure of revolutionary attempts conducted from
the point of view of abstract democratic and socialistic theories." In
the same article she draws a striking parallel between the growth of
language and that of political institutions, contending that it would be
as unsatisfactory to "construct a universal language on a rational
basis"--one that had "no uncertainty, no whims of idiom, no cumbrous
forms, no fitful shimmer of many-hued significance, no hoary archaisms
'familiar with forgotten years'"--as abruptly to alter forms of
government which are nothing, in fact, but the result of historical
growth, systematically embodied by society.
Besides the fascinations of study, and the outward glory of nature, the
charm of social intercourse was not wanting to this life at Geneva. In
M. D'Albert, a very superior man, gentle, refined, and of unusual mental
attainments, she found a highly desirable daily companion. He was an
artist by profession, and it is whispered that he suggested some of the
traits in the character of the delicate-minded Philip Wakem in the 'Mill
on the Floss.' The only portrait in oils which exists of George Eliot is
one painted by M. D'Albert at this interesting time of her life. She
inspired him, like most people who came into personal contact with her,
with the utmost admiration and regard, and, wishing to be of some
service, he escorted Miss Evans to England on her return thither.
Curiously enough, M. D'Albert subsequently translated one of her works,
probably 'Adam Bede,' without in the least suspecting who its real
author was.
It is always a shock when vital changes have occurred in one's
individual lot to return to a well-known place, after an absence of some
duration, to find it wearing the same unchangeable aspect. One expects
somehow that fields and streets and houses would show some alteration
corresponding to that within ourselves. But already from a distance the
twin spires of Coventry, familiar as household words to the Warwickshire
girl, greeted the eyes of the returning traveller. In spite of all love
for her native spot of earth, this was a heavy time to Marian Evans. Her
father was dead, the home where she had dwelt as mistress for so many
years broken up, the present appearing blank and comfortless, the future
uncertain and vaguely terrifying. The question now was where she should
live, what she should do, to what purposes turn the genius whose untried
and partially unsuspected powers were darkly agitating her whole being.
As has been already said, Marian Evans had a highly complex nature,
compounded of many contradictory impulses, which, though gradually
brought into harmony as life matured, were always pulling her, in those
days, in different directions. Thus, though she possessed strong family
affections, she could not help feeling that to go and take up her abode
in the house of some relative, where life resolved itself into a
monotonous recurrence of petty considerations, something after the Glegg
pattern, would be little short of crucifixion to her, and, however deep
her attachment for her native soil may have been, she yet sighed
passionately to break away from its associations, and to become "a
wanderer and a pilgrim on the face of the earth."
For some little time after her return from abroad Marian took up her
residence with her brother and his family. But the children who had
toddled hand-in-hand in the fields together had now diverged so widely
that no memories of a mutual past could bridge over the chasm that
divided them. Under these circumstances the family at Rosehill pressed
her to make their home permanently hers, and for about a year, from 1850
to 1851, she became the member of a household in fullest sympathy with
her. Here Mr. Bray's many-sided mental activity and genial brightness of
disposition, and his wife's exquisite goodness of heart, must have
helped to soothe and cheer one whose delicately strung nature was just
then nearly bending under the excessive strain of thought and feeling
she had gone through. One person, indeed, was so struck by the grave
sadness generally affecting her, that it seemed to him as if her coming
took all the sunshine out of the day. But whether grave or gay, whether
meditative or playful, her conversation exercised a spell over all who
came within its reach.
In the pleasant house at Rosehill distinguished guests were constantly
coming and going, so that there was no lack of the needed intellectual
friction supplied by clever and original talk. Here in a pleasant
garden, planted with rustling acacia trees, and opening on a wide
prospect of richly-wooded, undulating country, with the fitful
brightness of English skies overhead, and a smooth-shaven lawn to walk
or recline upon, many were the topics discussed by men who had made, or
were about to make, their mark. Froude was known there. George Combe
discussed with his host the principles of phrenology, at that time
claiming "its thousands of disciples." Ralph Waldo Emerson, on a
lecturing tour in this country, while on a brief visit, made Marian's
acquaintance, and was observed by Mrs. Bray engaged in eager talk with
her. Suddenly she saw him start. Something said by this quiet,
gentle-mannered girl had evidently given him a shock of surprise.
Afterwards, in conversation with her friends, he spoke of her "great
calm soul." This is no doubt an instance of the intense sympathetic
adaptiveness of Miss Evans. If great, she was not by any means calm at
this period, but inwardly deeply perturbed, yet her nature, with
subtlest response, reflected the transcendental calm of the philosopher
when brought within his atmosphere.
George Dawson, the popular lecturer, and Mr. Flower, were more
intimately associated with the Rosehill household. The latter, then
living at Stratford-on-Avon, where he was wont to entertain a vast
number of people, especially Americans, who make pilgrimages to
Shakespeare's birthplace, is known to the world as the benevolent
denouncer of "bits and bearing-reins." One day this whole party went to
hear George Dawson, who had made a great sensation at Birmingham, preach
one of his thrilling sermons from the text "And the common people heard
him gladly." George Eliot, alluding to these days as late as 1876, says,
in a letter to Mrs. Bray:
"George Dawson was strongly associated for me with Rosehill, not to
speak of the General Baptist Chapel, where we all heard him preach for
the first time (to us).... I have a vivid recollection of an evening
when Mr. and Mrs. F---- dined at your house with George Dawson, when he
was going to lecture at the Mechanics' Institute, and you felt
compassionately towards him, because you thought the rather riotous talk
was a bad preface to his lecture. We have a Birmingham friend, whose
acquaintance we made many years ago in Weimar, and from him I have
occasionally had some news of Mr. Dawson. I feared, what you mention,
that his life has been a little too strenuous in these latter years."
On the evening alluded to in this letter Mr. Dawson was dining at Mrs.
Bray's house before giving his lecture on 'John Wesley,' at the
Mechanics' Institute. His rich sarcasm and love of fun had exhilarated
the whole company, and not content with merely "riotous talk," George
Dawson and Mr. Flower turned themselves into lions and wild cats for the
amusement of the children, suddenly pouncing out from under the
table-cloth, with hideous roarings and screechings, till the hubbub
became appalling, joined to the delighted half-frightened exclamations
of the little ones. Mr. Dawson did the lions, and Mr. Flower, who had
made personal acquaintance with the wild cats in the backwoods of
America, was inimitable in their peculiar pounce and screech.
Thus amid studies and pleasant friendly intercourse did the days pass at
Rosehill. Still Marian Evans was restless, tormented, frequently in
tears, perhaps unconsciously craving a wider sphere, and more definitely
recognised position. However strenuously she, at a maturer time of life,
inculcated the necessity of resignation, she had not then learned to
resign herself. And now a change was impending--a change which, fraught
with the most important consequences, was destined to give a new
direction to the current of her life. Dr. John Chapman invited her to
assist him in the editorship of the _Westminster Review_, which passed
at that time into his hands from John Mill. They had already met, when
Marian was passing through London on her way to the Continent, on some
matter of business or other connected with one of her translations. Dr.
Chapman's proposition was accepted; and although Marian suffered keenly
from the wrench of parting with her friends, the prompting to work out
her powers to the full overcame the clinging of affection, and in the
spring of 1851 she left Rosehill behind her and came to London.