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."