I have a great many letters from G.H. Lewes, and from George Eliot.
Many of the latter are addressed to my wife. And many, especially of
those from Lewes, relating as they do mainly to matters of literary
business, though always containing characteristic touches, are not of
sufficient general interest to make it worth while to transcribe them
for publication. In no case is there any word in any of them that
would make it expedient to withhold them on any other ground. I might
perhaps have introduced them into my narrative as nearly as possible
at the times to which chronologically they refer. But it has seemed to
me so probable that there may be many readers who may be glad of an
opportunity of seeing these letters without feeling disposed to give
their time to the rest of these volumes, that I have thought it best
to throw them together in this place.
I will begin with one written from Blandford Square, by George Eliot
to me, which is of great interest. It bears no date whatever, save
that of place; but the subject of it dates it with considerable
accuracy.
* * * * *
"DEAR MR. TROLLOPE,--I am very grateful to you for your notes.
Concerning _netto di specchio_, I have found a passage in Varchi which
decides the point according to _your_ impression." [Passages equally
decisive might be found _passim_ in the old Florentine historians.
And I ought to have referred her to them. But as she had altogether
mistaken the meaning of the phrase, I had insinuated my correction as
little presumptuously as I could.]
"My inference had been gathered from the vague use of the term to
express disqualification [_i.e._ NON _netto di specchio_ expressed
disqualification]. But I find from Varchi, b. viii. that the
_specchio_ in question was a public book, in which the names of all
debtors to the _Commune_ were entered. Thus your doubt [no doubt at
all!] has been a very useful caveat to me.
"Concerning the Bardi, my authority for making them originally
_popolani_ is G. Villani. He says, c. xxxix., '_e gia cominciavano
a venire possenti i Frescobaldi e Bardi e Mozzi_ ma di piccolo
cominciamento.' And c. lxxxi. '_e questi furono le principale case
de Guelfi che uscirono di Firenze. Del Sesto d' Oltr' Arno, i Rossi,
Nerli, e parte de' Manelli, Bardi, e Frescobaldi de' Popoloni dal
detto Sesto_, case nobili _Canigiani_,' &c. These passages corrected
my previous impression that they were originally Lombard nobles.
[It needs some familiarity with the Florentine chroniclers to
understand that the words quoted by no means indicate that the
families named were not of patrician origin. "There walked into the
lobby with the Radicals, Lord ---- and Mr. ----," would just as much
prove that the persons named had not belonged to the class of
landowners. But the passage is interesting as showing the great care
she took to make her Italian novel historically accurate. And it is to
be remembered that she came to the subject absolutely new to it. She
would have known otherwise, that the _Case_ situated in the Oltr'
Arno quarter, were almost all noble. That ward of the city was the
Florentine _quartier St. Germain_.]
"Concerning the phrase _in piazza_, and _in mercato_, my choice of
them was partly founded on the colloquial usage as represented by
Sacchetti, whose dialogue is intensely idiomatic. Also _in piazza_ is,
I believe, used by the historians (I think even by Macchiavelli), when
speaking of popular _turn-outs_. The ellipse took my fancy because of
its colloquial stamp. But I gather from your objection that it seems
too barbarous in a modern Italian ear. Will you whisper your final
opinion in Mr. Lewes's ear on Monday?
[I do not remember what the ellipse in question was. As regards the
use of the phrase _in piazza_ she is perfectly right. The term keeps
the same meaning to the present day, and is equivalent in political
language to _the street_.]
"_Boto_ was used on similar grounds, and as it is recognised by the
_Voc. della, Crusca_, I think I may venture to keep it, having a
weakness for those indications of the processes by which language is
modified.
[_Boto_ for _voto_ is a Florentinism which may be heard to the present
day, though the vast majority of strangers would never hear it, or
understand it if they did. George Eliot no doubt met with it in some
of those old chroniclers who wrote exactly as not only the lower
orders, but the generality of their fellow citizens, were speaking
around them. And her use of it testifies to the minuteness of her
care to reproduce the form and pressure of the time of which she was
writing.]
"Once more thank you, though my gratitude is in danger of looking too
much like a lively sense of anticipated favours, for I mean to ask you
to take other trouble yet.
"Yours very truly,
"MARION E. LEWES."
* * * * *
The following letter, written from Blandford Square on the 5th July,
1861, is, as regards the first three pages, from him, and the last
from her.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--We have now read _La Beata_ [my first novel], and
must tell you how charmed we have been with it. _Nina_ herself is
perfectly exquisite and individual, and her story is full of poetry
and pathos. Also one feels a breath from the Val d'Arno rustling amid
the pages, and a sense of Florentine life, such as one rarely gets out
of books. The critical objection I should make to it, apart from minor
points, is that often you spoil the artistic attitude by adopting
a critical antagonistic attitude, by which I mean that instead of
painting the thing objectively, you present it critically, _with an
eye to the opinions_ likely to be formed by certain readers; thus,
instead of relying on the simple presentation of the fact of Nina's
innocence you _call up_ the objection you desire to anticipate by side
glances at the worldly and 'knowing' reader's opinions. In a word
I feel as if you were not engrossed by your subject, but were
sufficiently aloof from it to contemplate it as a spectator, which is
an error in art. Many of the remarks are delicately felt and finely
written. The whole book comes from a noble nature, and so it impresses
the reader. But I may tell you what Mrs. Carlyle said last night,
which will in some sense corroborate what I have said. In her opinion
you would have done better to make two books of it, one the love
story, and one a description of Florentine life. She admires the book
very much I should add. Now, although I cannot by any means agree
with that criticism of hers, I fancy the origin of it was some such
feeling, as I have endeavoured to indicate in saying you are often
critical when you should be simply objective.
"We had a pleasant journey home over the St. Gothard, and found our
boy very well and happy at Hofwyl, and our bigger boy _ditto_ awaiting
us here. Polly is very well, and as you may imagine talks daily of
Florence and our delightful trip, our closer acquaintance with you and
yours being among the most delightful of our reminiscences.
"Yesterday Anthony dined with us, and as he had never seen Carlyle he
was glad to go down with us to tea at Chelsea. Carlyle had read and
_agreed_ with the West Indian book, and the two got on very well
together; both Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle liking Anthony, and I suppose
it was reciprocal, though I did not see him afterwards to hear what he
thought. He had to run away to catch his train.
"He told us of the sad news of Mrs. Browning's death. Poor Browning!
That was my first, and remains my constant reflection. When people
love each other and have lived together any time they ought to die
together. For myself I should not care in the least about dying. The
dreadful thing to me would be to live after losing, if I should ever
lose, the one who has made life for me. Of course you who all knew and
valued her will feel the loss, but I cannot think of anybody's grief
but his.
"The next page must be left for Polly's postscript, so I shall only
send my kindest regards and wishes to Mrs. Trollope and the biggest of
kisses to _la cantatrice_" [my poor girl Bice!].
"Ever faithfully yours,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
"DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--While I am reading _La Beata_ I constantly feel
as if Mr. Trollope were present telling it all to me _vivâ voce_. It
seems to me more thoroughly and fully like himself than any of his
other books. And in spite of our having had the most of his society
away from you" [on our Camaldoli excursion] "you are always part of
his presence to me in a hovering aerial fashion. So it seems quite
natural that a letter addressed to him should have a postscript
addressed to you. Pray reckon it amongst the good you do in this
world, that you come very often into our thoughts and conversation.
We see comparatively so few people that we are apt to recur to
recollections of those we like best with almost childish frequency,
and a little fresh news about you would be a welcome variety,
especially the news that you had quite shaken off that spine
indisposition which was still clinging to you that last morning when
we said our good-byes. We have enough knowledge about you and your
world to interpret all the details you can give us. But our words
about our own home doings would be very vague and colourless to you.
You must always imagine us coming to see you and wanting to know as
much about you as we can, and like a charming hostess gratify that
want. I must thank you for the account of Cavour in _The Athenaeum_,
which stirred me strongly. I am afraid I have what _The Saturday
Review_ would call 'a morbid delight in deathbeds'--not having reached
that lofty superiority which considers it bad taste to allude to them.
"How is Beatrice, the blessed and blessing? That will always be a
history to interest us--how her brown hair darkens, how her voice
deepens and strengthens, and how you get more and more delight in her.
I need send no separate message to Mr. Trollope, before I say that
"I am always yours, with lively remembrance,
"MARION E. LEWES."
* * * * *
It needed George Eliot's fine and minute handwriting to put all this
into one page of note-paper.
The next letter that came from Blandford Square, dated 9th December,
1861, was also a joint one, the larger portion of which however is
from her pen.
* * * * *
"DEAR GOOD PEOPLE,--If your ears burn as often as you are talked about
in this house, there must be an unpleasant amount of aural circulation
to endure! And as the constant _refrain_ is, 'Really we must write to
them, that they may not altogether slip away from us,' I have this
morning screwed my procrastination to the writing-desk.
"First and foremost let us know how you are, and what are the results
of the bathing. Then a word as to the new novel, or any other work,
will be acceptable. I lend about _La Beata_ in all good quarters, and
always hear golden opinions from all sorts of people. Of course you
hear from Anthony.
"Is he prosperous and enjoying his life? The book will have an enormous
sale just now; but I fancy he will find more animosity and less
friendliness than he expected, to judge from the state of exasperation
against the Britisher, which seems to be general.
"We have been pursuing the even baritone--I wish I could say tenor--of
our way. My health became seriously alarming in September, so we went
off to Malvern for a fortnight; and there the mountain air, exercise,
and regular diet set me up, so that I have been in better training for
work than I had been for a long while. Polly has not been strong, yet
not materially amiss. But as she will add a postscript to this I shall
leave her to speak for herself.
"In your (T.A.T.) book huntings, if you could lay your hand on a copy
of Hermolaus Barbarus, _Compendium Scientiae Naturalis_, 1553, or any
of Telesio's works, think of me and pounce on them. I was going to
bother you about the new edition of Galileo, but fortunately I fell in
with the Milan edition cheap, and contented myself with that. Do you
know what there is _new_ in the Florentine edition? I suppose you
possess it, as you do so many enviable books.
"We heard the other day that Miss Blagden had come to stay in London
for the winter, so Polly sent a message to her to say how glad we
should be to see her. If she comes she will bring us some account of
_casa_ Trollope. When you next pass Giotto's tower salute it for me;
it is one of my dearest Florentines, and always beckoning to us to
come back.
"Ever your faithful friend,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
She writes:--
* * * * *
"DEAR FRIENDS,--Writing letters or asking for them is not always the
way to make one's memory agreeable, but you are not among those people
who shudder at letters, since you _did_ say you would like to hear
from us, and let us hear from you occasionally. I have no good news to
tell about myself; but to have my husband back again and enjoying his
work is quite enough happiness to fall to one woman's share in this
world, where the stock of happiness is so moderate and the claimants
so many. He is deep in Aristotle's _Natural Science_ as the first step
in a history of science, which he has for a long while been hoping
that he should be able to write. So you will understand his demand for
brown folios. Indeed, he is beginning to have a slight contempt
for authors sufficiently known to the vulgar to be inserted in
biographical dictionaries. Hermolaus Barbaras is one of those
distinguished by omission in some chief works of that kind; and we
learned to our surprise from a don at Cambridge that _he_ had never
heard the name. Let us hope there is an Olympus for forgotten authors.
"Our trial of the water cure at Malvern made us think with all the
more emphasis of the possible effect on a too delicate and fragile
friend at Florence." [My wife.] "It really helped to mend George. And
as I hope the Florentine hydropathist may not be a quack as Dr.----
at Malvern certainly is, I shall be disappointed if there is no good
effect to be traced to 'judicious packing and sitz baths' that you can
tell us of. Did Beatrice enjoy her month's dissipation at Leghorn? And
is the voice prospering? Don't let her quite forget us. We make rather
a feeble attempt at musical Saturday evenings, having a new grand
piano, which stimulates musical desires. But we want a good violin and
violoncello--difficult to be found among amateurs. Having no sunshine
one needs music all the more. It would be difficult for you to imagine
very truthfully what sort of atmosphere we have been living in here in
London for the last month--warm, heavy, dingy grey. I have seen some
sunshine once--in a dream. Do tell us all you can about yourselves. It
seems only the other day that we were shaking you by the hand; and all
details will be lit up as if by your very voice and looks. Say a kind
word for me sometimes to the bright-eyed lady by whose side I sat in
your balcony the evening of the National Fête. At the moment I cannot
recall her name. We are going now to the British Museum to read--a
fearful way of getting knowledge. If I had Aladdin's lamp I should
certainly use it to get books served up to me at a moment's notice.
It may be better to search for truth than to have it at hand without
seeking, but with books I should take the other alternative.
"Ever yours,
"M.E. LEWES."
* * * * *
The lady in the balcony spoken of in the above letter was Signora
Mignaty, the niece of Sir Frederick Adam, whom I had known long years
previously in Rome, and who had married Signor Mignaty, a Greek
artist, and was (and is) living in Florence. She was, in fact, the
niece of the Greek lady Sir Frederick married. I remember her aunt, a
very beautiful woman. The niece, Signorina Margherita Albani as she
was when I first knew her at eighteen years old in Rome, inherited so
much of the beauty of her race that the Roman artists were constantly
imploring her to sit for them. She has made herself known in the
literary world by several works, especially by a recent book on
Correggio, his life and works, published in French.
The next letter from Lewes, written from Blandford Square on the 2nd
June, without date of year, but probably 1863, is of more interest to
myself than to the public. But I may perhaps be permitted to indulge
my vanity by publishing it as a testimony that his previous praise
of what I had written was genuine, and not merely the laudatory
compliments of a correspondent.
* * * * *
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--Enclosed is the proof you were good enough to say
you would correct. When am I to return the compliment?
"I have finished _Marietta_. Its picture of Italian life is extremely
vivid and interesting, but it is a long way behind _La Beata_ in
interest of story. I have just finished one volume of Anthony's
_America_, and am immensely pleased with it--so much so that I hope to
do something towards counteracting the nasty notice in the _Saturday_.
"Ever yours faithfully,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
The next letter is from Lewes, dated "The Priory, North Bank, Regent's
Park, 20th March, 1864."--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--My eldest boy, who spends his honeymoon in
Florence (is not that sugaring jam tart?), brings you this greeting
from your silent but affectionate friends. Tell him all particulars
about yourselves, and he will transmit them in his letters to us.
First and foremost about the health of your wife, and how this bitter
winter has treated her. Next about Bice, and then about yourself.
"We rejoice in the prospect of your _History of Florence_, and I am
casting about, hoping to find somebody to review it worthily for the
_Fortnightly Review_. By the way, would not you or your wife help me
there also! Propose your subjects!
"I hope you will like our daughter. She is a noble creature; and
Charles is a lucky dog (his father's luck) to get such a wife.
"We have been and are in a poor state of health, but manage to
scramble on. Charles will tell you all there is to tell. With our love
to your dear wife and Bice,
"Believe me, ever faithfully yours,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
Shortly after receiving this my wife had a letter from George Eliot,
from Venice, dated 15th May, 1864. She writes from the "Hôtel de
Ville."
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--I wonder whether you are likely to be at Lake
Como next month, or at any other place that we could take on our way
to the Alps. It would make the prospect of our journey homeward much
pleasanter if we could count on seeing you for a few hours; and I will
not believe that you will think me troublesome if I send the question
to you. I am rather discontented with destiny that she has not let us
see anything of you for nearly three years. And I hope you too will
not be sorry to take me by the hand again.
"My ground for supposing it not unlikely that you will be at one of
the lakes, is the report I heard from Mr. Pigott, that such a plan was
hovering in your mind. My chief fear is that our return, which is not
likely at the latest to be later than the middle of June, may be too
early for us to find you. We reached Venice three days ago, after a
short stay at Milan, and have the delight of finding everything more
beautiful than it was to us four years ago. That is a satisfactory
experience to us, who are getting old, and are afraid of the
traditional loss of glory on the grass and all else, with which
melancholy poets threaten us.
"Mr. Lewes says I am to say the sweetest things that can be said with
propriety to you, and love to Bice, to whose memory he appeals, in
spite of all the friends she has made since he had the last kiss from
her.
"I too have love to send to Bice, whom I expect to see changed like
a lily-bud to something more definitely promising. Mr. Trollope,
I suppose, is in England by this time, else I should say all
affectionate regards from us both to him. I am writing under
difficulties.
"Ever, dear Mrs. Trollope,
"Very sincerely yours,
"M.E. LEWES."
* * * * *
Here is another from Lewes, which the post-mark only shows to have
been written in 1865:--
* * * * *
"DEAR TROLLOPE,--Thank Signor ---- for the offer of his paper, and
express to him my regret that in the present crowded state of the
_Review_ I cannot find a place for it. Don't you however run away with
the idea that I don t want _your_ contributions on the same ground!
The fact is ----'s paper is too wordy and heavy and not of sufficient
interest for our publication; and as I have a great many well on hand,
I am forced to be particular. Originally my fear was lest we should
not get contributors enough. That fear has long vanished. But _good_
contributions are always scarce; so don't you fail me!
"We have been at Tunbridge Wells for a fortnight's holiday. I was
forced to 'cave in,' as the Yankees say--regularly beat. I am not very
flourishing now, but I can go into harness again. Polly has been,
and alas! still is, anything but in a satisfactory state. But she is
gestating, and gestation with her is always perturbing. I wish the
book were done with all my heart.
"I don't think I ever told you how very much your _History of
Florence_ interested me. I am shockingly ignorant of the subject, and
not at all competent to speak, except as one of the public; but you
made the political life of the people clear to me. I only regretted
here and there a newspaper style which was not historic. Oscar
Browning has sent me his review, but I have not read it yet. It is at
the printers. Polly sends her love.
"Ever faithfully yours,
"G.H.L."
* * * * *
He writes again, dating his letter 1st January, 1866, but post-marked
1865. It is singular, that the date as given by the writer, 1866, must
have been right, and that given by the post-mark, 1865, wrong. And
the fact may possibly some day be useful to some counsel having to
struggle against the evidence of a post-mark. The letter commences:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--A happy new year to you and Bice!
[It is quite impossible that Lewes could have so written, while my
wife, Theodosia, so great a favourite with both him and his wife, and
so constantly inquired for tenderly by them, was yet alive. I lost
her on the 13th of April, 1865. It is certain therefore, that Lewes's
letter was written in 1866, and not as the post-mark declares in 1865.
After speaking of some literary business matters, the letter goes
on:--]
"And when am I to receive those articles from you, which you
projected? I suppose other work keeps you ever on the stretch. But so
active a man must needs 'fulfil himself in many ways.'
"We have been ailing constantly without being ill, but our work gets
on somehow or other. Polly is miserable over a new novel, and I am
happy over the very hard work of a new edition of my _History of
Philosophy_, which will almost be a new book, so great are the changes
and additions. Polly sends her love to you and Bice.
"Yours very faithfully,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
Then after a long break, and after a new phase of my life had
commenced, Lewes writes on the 14th of January, 1869, from "21, North
Bank":--
* * * * *
"DEAR T.T.,--We did not meet in Germany because our plans were
altogether changed. We passed all the time in the Black Forest, and
came home through the Oberland. I did write to Salzburg however, and
perhaps the letter is still there; but there was nothing in it.
"You know how fond we are of you, and the pleasure it always gives
us to get a glimpse of you. (Not that we have not also very pleasant
associations with your wife,[1] but she is as yet stranger to us of
course.) But we went away in search of complete repose. And in the
Black Forest there was not a soul to speak to, and we liked it so much
as to stay on there.
[Footnote 1: I had married my second wife on the 29th of October,
1866.]
"We contemplate moving southwards in the spring, and if we go to Italy
and come _near_ Florence, we shall assuredly make a _détour_ and come
and see you. Polly wants to see Arezzo and Perugia. And I suppose we
can still get a _vetturino_ to take us that way to Rome? Don't want
railways, if to be avoided. I don't think we can get away before
March, for my researches are so absorbing, that, if health holds out,
I must go on, if not, we shall pack up earlier. The worst of Lent is
that one gets no theatres, and precisely because we never go to the
theatre in London, we hugely enjoy it abroad. Yesterday we took the
child of a friend of ours to a morning performance of the pantomime,
and are utterly knocked up in consequence. Somehow or other abroad the
theatre agrees with us. Polly sends the kindest remembrances to you
and your wife. Whenever you want anything done in London, consider me
an idle man.
"Ever yours faithfully,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
And on the 28th February, in the same year, accordingly he writes:--
* * * * *
"Touching our visit to Florence, you may be sure we could not lightly
forego such a pleasure. We start to-morrow, and unless we are recalled
by my mother's health, we calculate being with you about the end of
March. But we shall give due warning of our arrival. We both look
forward to this holiday, and 'languish for the purple seas;' though
the high winds now howl a threat of anything but a pleasant crossing
to Calais. _Che! Che!_ One must pay for one's pleasure! With both of
our warmest salutations to you and yours,
"Believe me, yours faithfully,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
The travellers must, however, have reached us some days before the end
of March, for I have a letter to my wife from George Eliot, dated
from Naples on the 1st of April, 1869, after they had left us. She
writes:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--The kindness which induces you to shelter
travellers will make you willing to hear something of their subsequent
fate. And I am the more inclined to send you some news of ourselves
because I have nothing dismal to tell. We bore our long journey better
than we dared to expect, for the night was made short by sleep in
our large coupé, and during the day we had no more than one headache
between us. Mr. Lewes really looks better, and has lost his twinges.
And though pleasure-seekers are notoriously the most aggrieved and
howling inhabitants of the universe, we can allege nothing against
our lot here but the persistent coldness of the wind, which is in
dangerously sudden contrast with the warmth of the sunshine whenever
one gets on the wrong side of a wall. This prevents us from
undertaking any carriage expeditions, which is rather unfortunate,
because such expeditions are among the chief charms of Naples. We have
not been able to renew our old memories of that sort at all, except by
a railway journey to Pompeii; and our days are spent in the museum
and in the sunniest out-of-door spots. We have been twice to the San
Carlo, which we were the more pleased to do, because when we were here
before, that fine theatre was closed. The singing is so-so, and the
tenor especially is gifted with limbs rather than with voice or
ear. But there is a baritone worth hearing and a soprano, whom the
Neapolitans delight to honour with hideous sounds of applause.
"We are longing for a soft wind, which will allow us to take the long
drive to Baiae during one of our remaining days here. At present we
think of leaving for Rome on Sunday or Monday. But our departure will
probably be determined by an answer from the landlord of the Hôtel
de Minerva, to whom Mr. Lewes has written. We have very comfortable
quarters here, out of the way of that English and American society,
whose charms you can imagine. Our private dinner is well served; and I
am glad to be away from the Chiaja, except--the exception is a great
one--for the sake of the sunsets which I should have seen there.
"Mr. Lewes has found a book by an Italian named Franchi, formerly a
priest, on the present condition of philosophy in Italy. He emerges
from its depths--or shallows--to send his best remembrances; and to
Bice he begs especially to recommend Plantation Bitters.
"I usually think all the more of things and places the farther I get
from them, and, on that ground, you will understand that at Naples
I think of Florence, and the kindness I found there under my small
miseries. Pray offer my kind regards to Miss Blagden when you see
her, and tell her that I hope to shake hands with her in London this
spring.
"We shall obey Mr. Trollope's injunctions to write again from Perugia
or elsewhere, according to our route homeward. But pray warn him, that
when my throat is not sore, and my head not stagnant, I am a much
fiercer antagonist. It is perhaps a delight to one's egoism to have a
friend who is among the best of men with the worst of theories. One
can be at once affectionate and spit-fire. Pray remember me with
indulgence, all of you, and believe, dear Mrs. Trollope,
"Most truly yours,
"M.E. LEWES."
* * * * *
It will be seen from the above that George Eliot had very quickly
fraternised--what is the feminine form?--with my second wife, as I,
without any misgivings, foresaw would be the case. Indeed subsequent
circumstances allowed a greater degree of intimacy to grow up
between them than had been possible in the case of my Bice's mother,
restricted as her intercourse with the latter had been by failing
health, and the comparative fewness of the hours they had passed
together. Neither she nor Lewes had ever passed a night under my roof
until I received them in the villa at Ricorboli, where I lived with my
second wife.
What was the subject of the "antagonism" to which the above letter
alludes, I have entirely forgotten. In all probability we differed on
some subject of politics,[1] by reason of the then rapidly maturing
Conservatism which my outlook ahead forced upon me. Nevertheless it
would seem from some words in a letter written to me by Lewes in the
November of 1869, that my political heresies were not deemed
deeply damning. There was a question of my undertaking the foreign
correspondence of a London paper, which came to nothing till some four
years later, under other circumstances; and with reference to that
project he writes:--
[Footnote 1: My wife, on reading this passage, tells me that according
to her recollection the differences in question had no reference to
politics at all, but to matters of higher interest relating to man's
ultimate destinies.]
* * * * *
"Polly and I were immensely pleased at the prospect for you. She
was rejoiced that you should once more be giving yourself to public
affairs, which you so well understand.... We are but just come back
from the solitudes of a farm-house in Surrey, whither I took Polly
immediately after our loss [of his son], of which I suppose Anthony
told you. It had shaken her seriously. She had lavished almost a
mother's love on the dear boy, and suffered a mother's grief in the
bereavement. He died in her arms; and for a long while it seemed as if
she could never get over the pain. But now she is calm again, though
very sad. But she will get to work, and _that_ will aid her.
"For me, I was as fully prepared (by three or four months' conviction
of its inevitableness) as one can be in such cases. It is always
sudden, however foreseen. Yet the preparation was of great use; and
I now have only a beautiful image living with me, and a deep
thankfulness that his sufferings are at an end, since recovery was
impossible.
"Give my love to your wife and Bice, and believe ever in yours
faithfully,
"G.H. LEWES."
* * * * *
The following highly interesting letter was written to my wife by
Mrs. Lewes, about a year after his death. It is dated "The Priory, 19
December, 1879":--
* * * * *
"DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--In sending me Dr. Haller's words you have sent
me a great comfort. A just appreciation of my husband's work from a
competent person is what I am most athirst for; and Dr. Haller has
put his finger on a true characteristic. I only wish he could print
something to the same effect in any pages that would be generally
read.
"There is no biography. An article entitled 'George Henry Lewes'
appeared in the last _New London Quarterly_. It was written by a man
for whom he had much esteem; but it is not strong. A few facts about
the early life and education are given with tolerable accuracy, but
the estimate of the philosophic and scientific activity is inadequate.
Still it is the best thing you could mention to Dr. Haller. You know
perhaps that a volume entitled _The Study of Psychology_ appeared in
May last, and that another volume (500 pp.) of _Problems of Life
and Mind_ has just been published. The best history of a writer is
contained in his writings; these are his chief actions. If he happens
to have left an autobiography telling (what nobody else can tell) how
his mind grew, how it was determined by the joys, sorrows, and other
influences of childhood and youth--that is a precious contribution
to knowledge. But biographies generally are a disease of English
literature.
"I have never yet told you how grateful I was to you for writing to me
a year ago. For a long while I could read no letter. But now I have
read yours more than once, and it is carefully preserved. You had been
with us in our happiness so near the time when it left me--you and
your husband are peculiarly bound up with the latest memories.
"You must have had a mournful summer. But Mr. Trollope's thorough
recovery from his severe attack is a fresh proof of his constitutional
strength. We cannot properly count age by years. See what Mr.
Gladstone does with seventy of them in his frame. And my lost one had
but sixty-one and a half.
"You are to come to England again in 1881, I remember, and then, if I
am alive, I hope to see you. With best love to you both, always, dear
Mrs. Trollope,
"Yours faithfully,
"M.E. LEWES."
* * * * *
The "words of Dr. Haller," to which the above letter refers, were to
the effect that one of Lewes's great advantages in scientific and
philosophical research was his familiar acquaintance with the works
of German and French writers, which enabled him to follow the
contemporaneous movement of science throughout Europe, whereas many
writers of learning and ability wasted their own and their readers'
time in investigating questions already fully investigated elsewhere,
and advancing theories which had been previously proved or disproved
without their knowledge. Dr. Ludwig Haller, of Berlin, in writing to
me about G.H. Lewes, then recently deceased, had said, if I remember
rightly, that he had some intention of publishing a sketch of Lewes in
some German periodical. I am not aware whether this intention was ever
carried into effect.
The attack to which the above letter alludes was a very bad one
of sciatica. At length the baths of Baden in Switzerland cured me
permanently, but after their--it is said ordinary and normal, but very
perverse--fashion, having first made me incomparably worse. I suffered
excruciatingly, consolingly (!) assured by the doctor that sciatica
never kills--only makes you wish that it would! While I was at the
worst my brother came to Baden to see me, and on leaving me after
a couple of days, wrote to my wife the following letter, which I
confiscated and keep as a memorial.
After expressing his commiseration for me, he continues:--
"For you, I cannot tell you the admiration I have for you. Your
affection and care and assiduity were to be expected. I knew you well
enough to take them as a matter of course from you to him. But your
mental and physical capacity, your power of sustaining him by your
own cheerfulness, and supporting him by your own attention, are
marvellous. When I consider all the circumstances I hardly know how to
reconcile so much love with so much self-control."
Every word true! And what he saw for a few hours in each of a couple
of days, I saw every hour of the day and night for four terrible
months!
But all this is a parenthesis into which I have been led, I hope
excusably, by Mrs. Lewes's mention of my illness.
N.B.--I said at an early page of these recollections that I had never
been confined to my bed by illness for a single day during more than
sixty years. The above-mentioned illness leaves the statement still
true. The sciatica was bad, but never kept me in bed. Indeed I was
perhaps in less torment out of it.
Here is the last letter of George Eliot's which reached us. It is
written by Mrs. Lewes to my wife, from "The Priory, 30 December,
1879":--
* * * * *
"DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--I inclose the best photograph within my reach.
To me all portraits of him are objectionable, because I see him more
vividly and truly without them. But I think this is the most like what
he was as you knew him. I have sent your anecdote about the boy to Mr.
Du Maurier, whom it will suit exactly. I asked Charles Lewes to copy
it from your letter with your own pretty words of introduction.
"Yours affectionately,
"M.E. LEWES."
* * * * *
It is pretty well too late in the day for me to lament the loss of old
friends. They have been well-nigh some time past all gone. I have
been exceptionally fortunate in an aftermath belonging to a younger
generation. But they too are dropping around me! And few losses from
this second crop have left a more regretted void than George Henry
Lewes and his wife.