For many weeks after Mr. Lewes's death, George Eliot saw no
one except Mr. Charles Lewes, and the very few persons she
was obliged to receive on necessary business. She read no
letters, and wrote none, but at once began to occupy herself
busily with Mr. Lewes's unfinished MSS., in which work Mr.
Charles Lewes was able to assist her in the arrangement. The
only entry in her diary on the 1st January, 1879, is "Here I
and sorrow sit." At the end of two months this desolation had
told terribly on her health and spirits; and on the last day
of January she was greatly comforted by a visit from Sir
James Paget--a friend for whom she had always had the highest
and most cordial regard during the many years she had known
him. Meantime she had begun to write a few short notes, and
she mentions in her journal of 2d January, "A kind letter
from Professor Michael Foster, of Cambridge, offering to help
me on any physiological point;" and on the 19th January,
"Ruminating on the founding of some educational
instrumentality as a memorial to be called by his name."
There are the following letters in January and February.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 7th Jan. 1879.]
I bless you for all your goodness to me, but I am a bruised creature,
and shrink even from the tenderest touch. As soon as I feel able to
see anybody I will see _you_. Please give my love to Bessie[35] and
thank her for me--I mean, for her sweet letter. I was a long while
before I read any letters, but tell her I shall read hers again and
again.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 13th Jan. 1879.]
It was a long while before I read any letters, and as yet I have
written none, except such as business required of me. You will believe
that this has not been for want of gratitude to all my friends for
their goodness to me. I can trust to your understanding of a sorrow
which has broken my life. I write now because I ought not to allow any
disproportionate expense to be incurred about my printed sheets.
To me, now, the writing seems all trivial stuff, but since he wished
it to be printed, and you seem to concur, I will correct the sheets
(if you will send me the remainder) gradually as I am able, and they
can be struck off and laid by for a future time. I submit this
proposition to your judgment, not knowing what may be most expedient
for your printing-office.
Thank you for all your kind words.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 22d Jan. 1879.]
Sometime, if I live, I shall be able to see you--perhaps sooner than
any one else--but not yet. Life seems to get harder instead of easier.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 30th Jan. 1879.]
When I said "sometime" I meant still a distant time. I want to live a
little time that I may do certain things for his sake. So I try to
keep up my strength, and I work as much as I can to save my mind from
imbecility. But that is all at present. I can go through anything that
is mere business. But what used to be joy is joy no longer, and what
is pain is easier because he has not to bear it.
I bless my friends for all their goodness to me. Please say so to all
of them that you know, especially Mr. Hall. Tell him I have read his
letter again and again.
If you feel prompted to say anything, write it to me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 4th Feb. 1879.]
Do not believe that your love is lost upon me, dear. I bless you for
all your goodness to me, and keep every sign of it in my memory.
I have been rather ill lately, but my head is clearer this morning.
The world's winter is going, I hope, but my everlasting winter has set
in. You know that and will be patient with me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 6th Feb. 1879.]
Bless you for your loving thought. But for all reasons, bodily and
mental, I am unable to move. I am entirely occupied with his
manuscripts, and must be on this spot among all the books. Then, I am
in a very ailing condition of body--cannot count on myself from day to
day--and am not fit to undertake any sort of journey. I have never yet
been outside the gate. Even if I were otherwise able, I could not bear
to go out of sight of the things he used and looked on.
Bless you once more. If I could go away with _anybody_ I could go away
with you.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 7th Feb. 1879.]
I do need your affection. Every sign of care for me from the beings I
respect and love is a help to me. In a week or two I think I shall
want to see you. Sometimes, even now, I have a longing, but it is
immediately counteracted by a fear. The perpetual mourner--the grief
that can never be healed--is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by
the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day
seems a new beginning--a new acquaintance with grief.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, Saturday, 22d Feb. 1879.]
If you happen to be at liberty to-morrow, or the following Friday, or
to-morrow week, I hope I shall be well enough to see you. Let me know
which day.
On Sunday, the 23d February, I saw her for the first time,
and there is the following letter next day.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 24th Feb. 1879.]
A transient absence of mind yesterday made me speak as if it were
possible for me to entertain your thoughtful, kind proposal that I
should move to Weybridge for a short time. But I cannot leave this
house for the next two months--if for no other reason, I should be
chained here by the need of having all the books I want to refer to.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 25th Feb. 1879.]
Pray do not announce "Theophrastus" in any way. It would be
intolerable to my feelings to have a book of my writing brought out
for a long while to come. What I wish to do is, to correct the sheets
thoroughly, and then have them struck off and laid by till the time of
publication comes. One reason which prompted me to set about the
proofs--in addition to my scruples about occupying the type--was that
I was feeling so ill, I thought there was no time to be lost in
getting done everything which no one else would do if I left it
undone. But I am getting better, I think; and my doctors say there is
nothing the matter with me to urge more haste than the common
uncertainty of life urges on us all.
There is a great movement now among the Jews towards colonizing
Palestine, and bringing out the resources of the soil. Probably Mr.
Oliphant is interested in the work, and will find his experience in
the West not without applicability in the East.
It is a satisfaction to you, I hope, that your son is about to be
initiated in George Street. I trust he will one day carry on the good
traditions of the name "John Blackwood."
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 5th Mch. 1879.]
Your letter, which tells me that you are benefiting by the clear,
sunny air, is very welcome. Yes, here too the weather is more
merciful, and I drive out most days. I am better bodily, but I never
feel thoroughly comfortable in that material sense, and I am
incredibly thin. As to my mind, I am full of occupation, but the
sorrow deepens down instead of diminishing. I mean to go to Witley in
a few months, that I may look again on the spots that he enjoyed, and
that we enjoyed together, but I cannot tell beforehand whether I shall
care to go again afterwards.
Everybody is very kind to me, and by and by I shall begin to see a few
intimate friends. I can do or go through anything that is business or
duty, but time and strength seem lacking for everything else. You must
excuse my weakness, remembering that for nearly twenty-five years I
have been used to find my happiness in his. I can find it nowhere
else. But we can live and be helpful without happiness, and I have had
more than myriads who were and are better fitted for it.
I am really very busy, and have been sadly delayed by want of health.
One project I have entered on is to found a studentship, which will be
called after his name. I am getting help from experienced men.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 5th Mch. 1879.]
I send the corrected sheets of "Theophrastus," and shall be much
obliged if you will order a complete revise to be sent me before they
are struck off. Whenever the book is published (I cannot contemplate
its appearing before June, and if that is a bad time it must stand
over till the autumn season) I beg you kindly to write for me a
notice, to be printed on the fly-leaf, that the MS. was placed in your
hands last November, or simply last year.
I think you will enter into my feeling when I say that to create a
notion on the part of the public of my having been occupied in writing
"Theophrastus" would be repugnant to me. And I shrink from putting
myself forward in any way.
I hope you are benefiting by the milder weather. I drive out a little
now, but you must be prepared to see me a much changed creature. I
think I should hardly know myself.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 8._--Gertrude[36] and the children came to tea.
_March 9._--Mr. Henry Sidgwick came to discuss the plan of the
studentship.
_March 13._--Professor Michael Foster came to discuss the studentship,
and we arrived at a satisfactory clearness as to the conditions. He
mentioned as men whom he thought of as suitable trustees, Huxley, Pye
Smith, Thiselton Dyer, Francis Balfour, and Henry Sidgwick.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 20th Mch. 1879.]
DEAR FRIEND,--When you have time to come to me about six o'clock I
shall love to see you.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 22._--Mrs. Congreve came again. Mrs. Burne-Jones came.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 25th Mch. 1879.]
I am so dissatisfied with "Theophrastus" on reading the revise that I
have proposed to suppress it in this original form, and regenerate it
whenever--if ever--I recover the power to do so. You see the cruel
weather has travelled after you. It makes one feel every grievance
more grievously in some respects, though to me the sunshine is in one
sense sadder.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_March 30._--Mr. Bowen (now Lord Justice Bowen) came, Mr. Spencer, and
J.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 5th April, 1879.]
After weighing what you have said, I agree to the publication of
"Theophrastus" in May. If you had at all suspected that the book would
injure my influence, you would not have wished me to give it forth in
its present form, and in the uncertainty of one's inner and outer life
it is not well to depend on future capabilities. There are some
things in it which I want to get said, and if the book turned out to
be effective in proportion to my other things, the form would lend
itself to a "second series"--supposing I lived and kept my faculties.
As to the price for the right of translating, you will judge. If you
will kindly undertake these negotiations for me, I shall be thankful.
And pray remember that I don't _want_ the book to be translated, so
that it will be well to wait for the application, and to ask a
sufficient sum to put the publisher on his guard as to the selection
of a translator. But, of course, this little book cannot be paid for
according to the difficulty of translation.
You see, I have been so used to have all trouble spared me that I am
ready to cast it on any willing shoulders. But I am obliged now to
think of business in many ways.
I am so glad to know that Mrs. Blackwood has the comfort of a good
report about you from the doctors. Perhaps it may seem to you the
wrong order of sympathy to be glad for your sake in the _second_
place.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_April 8._--Mrs. Stuart came.
Mrs. Stuart was a devoted friend whose acquaintance had been
formed some years before through the presentation of some
beautiful wood-carving which she had executed as an offering
to George Eliot.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 8th April, 1879.]
DEAR FRIENDS,--Will you come to see me some day? I am always in from
my drive and at liberty by half-past four. Please do not say to any
one that I am receiving visitors generally. Though I have been so long
without making any sign, my heart has been continually moved with
gratitude towards you.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 8th April, 1879.]
Your letter was very welcome this morning, for I do not like to be
very long without having some picture of you, and your words of
affection are always sweet.
The studentship I mention is to supply an income to a young man who is
qualified and eager to carry on physiological research, and would not
otherwise have the means of doing so. Mr. H. Sidgwick, Michael Foster,
and other men of kindred mind are helping me in settling the scheme. I
have been determined in my choice of the studentship by the idea of
what would be a sort of prolongation of _his_ life. That there should
always, in consequence of his having lived, be a young man working in
the way he would have liked to work, is a memorial of him that comes
nearest my feeling. It is to be at Cambridge to begin with, and we
thought at first of affiliating it to the university; but now the
notion is that it will be well to keep it free, so that the trustees
may move it where and when they will. But the scheme is not yet
drafted.
I am going to bring out one of "The Problems" in a separate volume at
the beginning of May, and am now correcting the proofs.
My going to Witley is an experiment. I don't know how I shall bear
being there, but I hope there will be nothing to hinder my _having
you_ there if you will undertake the troublous journey for my sake.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 9th April, 1879.]
I enclose the proof of title-page and motto. Whether the motto (which
is singularly apt and good) should be on the title-page or fly-leaf I
leave you to judge. Certainly, everybody who does not read Latin will
be offended by its claiming notice, and will consider that only the
deepest-dyed pedantry could have found the motive for it. But I will
not leave it out altogether.
I have had such various letters from time to time, asking me to
reprint or write essays, that, perhaps, some of the public will not be
disappointed that the volume is not a story. But that must be as it
may; and if you think the acceptance dubious, it is much the better
plan not to stereotype.
What energy there is in Mr. Kinglake in spite of the somewhat
shattered health that his _Wesen_ gives one the impression of! Among
incidents of war that one can dwell on with anything like gladness,
that account of the rescue of the colors at Isandlana is memorable, is
it not?
I go out every day, drive beyond the ranks of hideous houses in the
Kilburn outskirts, and get to lanes where I can walk, in perfect
privacy, among the fields and budding hedgerows.
I hope Mr. Julian Sturgis will take care of his writing and do
something lasting. He seems to me to have a strain above the common in
him; and he is not writing for his bread, or even his butter. I don't
know why I say this just now, except that I had it in my mind to say
long ago, and it has just come upper-most as I was thinking of the
Magazine.
[Sidenote: Letter to Professor Kaufmann, 17th April, 1879.]
Your kind letter has touched me very deeply. I confess that my mind
had, more than once, gone out to you as one from whom I should like to
have some sign of sympathy with my loss. But you were rightly inspired
in waiting till now, for during many weeks I was unable even to listen
to the letters which my generous friends were continually sending me.
Now, at last, I am eagerly interested in every communication that
springs out of an acquaintance with my husband and his works.
I thank you for telling me about the Hungarian translation of his
"History of Philosophy;" but what would I not have given if the
volumes could have come, even only a few days, before his death! For
his mind was perfectly clear, and he would have felt some joy in that
sign of his work being effective.
I do not know whether you will enter into the comfort I feel that he
never knew he was dying, and fell gently asleep after ten days of
illness, in which the suffering was comparatively mild.
One of the last things he did at his desk was to despatch a manuscript
of mine to the publishers. The book (not a story, and not bulky) is to
appear near the end of May, and, as it contains some words I wanted to
say about the Jews, I will order a copy to be sent to you.
I hope that your labors have gone on uninterruptedly for the benefit
of others, in spite of public troubles. The aspect of affairs with us
is grievous--industry languishing, and the best part of our nation
indignant at our having been betrayed into an unjustifiable war in
South Africa.
I have been occupied in editing my husband's MSS., so far as they are
left in sufficient completeness to be prepared for publication without
the obtrusion of another mind instead of his. A brief volume on "The
Study of Psychology" will appear immediately, and a further volume of
psychological studies will follow in the autumn. But his work was cut
short while he still thought of it as the happy occupation of
far-stretching months. Once more let me thank you for remembering me
in my sorrow.
[Sidenote: Letter to J. W. Cross, 22d April, 1879.]
I am in dreadful need of your counsel. Pray come to me when you
can--morning, afternoon, or evening.
From this time forward I saw George Eliot constantly. My
mother had died in the beginning of the previous December, a
week after Mr. Lewes; and, as my life had been very much
bound up with hers, I was trying to find some fresh interest
in taking up a new pursuit. Knowing very little Italian, I
began Dante's "Inferno" with Carlyle's translation. The first
time I saw George Eliot afterwards, she asked me what I was
doing, and, when I told her, exclaimed, "Oh, I must read that
with you." And so it was. In the following twelve months we
read through the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio" together; not
in a _dilettante_ way, but with minute and careful
examination of the construction of every sentence. The
prodigious stimulus of such a teacher (_cotanto maestro_)
made the reading a real labor of love. Her sympathetic
delight in stimulating my newly awakened enthusiasm for Dante
did something to distract her mind from sorrowful memories.
The divine poet took us into a new world. It was a renovation
of life. At the end of May I induced her to play on the piano
at Witley for the first time; and she played regularly after
that whenever I was there, which was generally once or twice
a week, as I was living at Weybridge, within easy distance.
Besides Dante, we read at this time a great many of
Sainte-Beuve's "Causeries," and much of Chaucer, Shakespeare,
and Wordsworth. But I am anticipating. We will return to the
correspondence in its order.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 22d April, 1879.]
When I shall be able to get to Witley is altogether uncertain. The
cold winds make one less hungry for the country, but still it will be
a relief to me, in some respects, to get away from town. I am much
stronger than I was, and am again finding interest in this wonderful
life of ours. But I am obliged to keep my doors closed against all but
the few until I go away. You, however, I shall hope to see. I am
founding a studentship of Physiology, to be called "The George Henry
Lewes Studentship." It will be placed, in the first instance, at
Cambridge, where there is the best physiological school in the
kingdom. But the trustees (with my consent during my life) will have
the power of moving it where they judge best. This idea, which I early
conceived, has been a great stay to me. But I have plenty to think of,
plenty of creatures depending on me, to make my time seem of some
value. And there are so many in the world who have to live without any
great enjoyment.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_April 26._--Mr. and Mrs. Hall came.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d May, 1879.]
If you can come to me next week for a parting word, will you try to
learn beforehand whether and when your husband can give me half an
hour at the end of his working-day? I should like to see him before I
go, which I hope to do soon after the 13th.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1879.]
_May 6._--Mr. and Mrs. Call, Eleanor and Florence (Cross) came.
_May 8._--Mr. Burne-Jones came.
_May 10._--Edith Simcox and Mr. Pigott came.
_May 13._--Dr. Andrew Clark came and gave me important suggestions
about the studentship.
_May 21._--Saw Mr. Anthony Trollope.
_May 22._--Came down to Witley--lovely mild day.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 28th May, 1879.]
Mr. Lewes always wrote the dramatic criticisms in the _Leader_, and
for a year or two he occasionally wrote such criticisms in the _Pall
Mall_. Of the latter, the chief were reprinted in the little book on
"Actors, and the Art of Acting." What was written in the
_Fortnightly_ (1865-66) is marked by signature. The most
characteristic contributions to the _Cornhill_ (1864-65) were "The
Mental Condition of Babies," "Dangers and Delights of Tobacco," "Was
Nero a Monster?" "Shakespeare in France," and "Miseries of a Dramatic
Author."
But after 1866 his contributions to any periodical were very
scanty--confined to a few articles in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, one on
"The Reign of Law," in the _Fortnightly_, and the series on Darwin,
now incorporated in "The Physical Basis of Mind." After these, his
sole contributions were an article on Dickens (1872), two on
"Spiritualism" and "Mesmerism" (1876), and one on "The Dread and
Dislike of Science" (1878).
Charles, I think, mentioned to you my desire that you should do me the
valuable service of looking over the proofs of the remaining volume of
"Problems," and you were so generous as to express your willingness to
undertake that labor. The printing will not begin till after the
16th--Dr. Michael Foster, who has also kindly offered to help me in
the same way, not being sufficiently at leisure till after that date.
I have been rather ill again lately, but am hoping to benefit by the
country quietude. You, too, I am sorry to hear, are not over strong.
This will make your loan of mind and eyesight all the more appreciated
by me.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 3d June, 1879.]
Your letter, full of details--just the sort of letter I like to
have--has been among my comforts in these last damp, chill days. The
first week I was not well, and had a troublesome attack of pain, but I
am better, and try to make life interesting by always having something
to do.
I am wishing Margaret many happy returns of this day, and am making a
picture of you all keeping the little _fête_. A young birthday, when
the young creature is promising, is really a happy time; one can hope
reasonably; and the elder ones may be content that gladness has passed
onward from them into newer vessels. I should like to see the
blue-eyed maid with her bangles on her arms.
Please give my love to all and sundry who make any sign of love for
me; and any amount you like is ready for you to draw upon.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 10th June, 1879.]
I am greatly obliged to you for sending me the paper you are to read
to-day; and I appreciate it the more highly because your diligence is
in contrast with the general sluggishness of readers about any but
idle reading. It is melancholy enough that to most of our polite
readers the social factor in psychology would be a dull subject; for
it is certainly no conceit of ours which pronounces it to be the
supremely interesting element in the thinking of our time.
I confess the word factor has always been distasteful to me as the
name for the grandest of forces. If it were only mathematical I should
not mind, but it has many other associated flavors which spoil it for
me.
Once more--ever more--thanks.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 10th June, 1879.]
You will like to know that Mr. Frederic Harrison has sent me a brief
paper, which is to be read to-day at the Metaphysical Society, on the
"Social Factor in Psychology," opening with a quotation from the
"Study of Psychology," and marking throughout his high appreciation of
your father's work. Also the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, kindly
sent (with his initials only) to Trübner four errata which he had
found in reading the "Study of Psychology." Trübner did not know who
was the kind corrector, and very properly sent the paper to me,
offering to have the corrections made on the plates if I wished it. I
said, "By all means," and have written to thank the Rector. What a
blessing to find a man who really reads a book!
I have received the enclosed letter, with other papers (about country
lodgings at Sevenoaks for poor children). Will you look out a single
copy of as many of my books (poems included) as you can find, and send
them in a parcel, saying that they come from me for the Free Library?
Please not to mind this trouble, as it is for the _impecunious_
readers. (You know I am nothing if not "sesquipedalian" and
scientific; and a word of five syllables will do for both qualities.)
I wish you could see Coquelin in Tabourin. He is a wonderful actor,
when he gets the right part for him. He has a penetrating personality
that one cannot be indifferent to, though possibly it may be
unpleasant to some people.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 12th June, 1879.]
I was beginning, with my usual apprehensiveness, to fear that you had
no good news to tell me, since I did not hear from you, and I should
have gone on fearing till to-morrow morning if I had not happened to
drive to Godalming and ask for the second post. We only get one post a
day at the benighted Witley, so that if you want me to get a letter
quickly it must be posted early at Edinburgh.
I am heartily glad to know that the invalid is going on well, and I
trust that the softer air we are having now will help him forward.
"Theophrastus" seems to be really welcomed by the public. Mr.
Blackwood will be amused to hear that one gentleman told Charles, or
implied, that "Theophrastus" was a higher order of book, and _more
difficult to write_ than a novel. Wait long enough, and every form of
opinion will turn up. However, poor "Theophrastus" is certainly not
composed of "chips" any more than my other books.
Another amusing bit of news is, that the other day Mrs. Pattison sent
me an extract from the _livret_ of the Paris _Salon_, describing a
picture painted by a French artist from "The Lifted Veil," and
representing the moment when the resuscitated woman, fixing her eyes
on her mistress, accuses her of having poisoned her husband. I call
this amusing--I ought rather to have said typical of the relation my
books generally have with the French mind.
Thank you for sending me the list of orders. It does interest me to
see the various country demands. I hope the movement will continue to
cheer us all, and you are sure to let me know everything that is
pleasant, so I do not need to ask for that kindness.
The weather is decidedly warmer, and Tuesday was a perfectly glorious
day. But rain and storm have never let us rest long together. I am not
very bright, and am ready to interpret everything in the saddest
sense, but I have no definite ailment.
My best regards to the convalescent, who, I have no doubt, will write
to me when he is able to do so. But I am only one of many who will be
glad to hear from him.
[Sidenote: Letter from Madame Bodichon to Miss Bonham-Carter, 12th
June, 1879.]
"I spent an hour with Marian (5th June). She was more
delightful than I can say, and left me in good spirits for
her--though she is wretchedly thin, and looks, in her long,
loose, black dress, like the black shadow of herself. She
said she had so much to do that she must keep well--'the
world was so _intensely interesting_.' She said she would
come _next year_ to see me. We both agreed in the great love
we had for life. In fact, I think she will do more for us
than ever."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 20th June, 1879.]
I have been having my turn of illness of rather a sharp kind.
Yesterday, when your letter came, I was in more acute pain than I have
ever known in my life before, but before the morning was over I was
sufficiently relieved to read your pleasant news. I am writing in bed,
but am in that most keenly conscious ease which comes after unusual
suffering. The way in which the public takes "Theophrastus" is really
a comfort to me. I have had some letters, not of the complimentary,
but of the grateful kind, which are an encouragement to believe in the
use of writing. But you would be screamingly amused with one,
twenty-three pages long (from an Edinburgh man, by-the-bye), who has
not read the book, but has read of it, and thinks that his own case is
still more worthy of presentation than Merman's.
I think a valuable series (or couple of volumes) might be made up from
"Maga" of articles written _hot_ by travellers and military men, and
not otherwise republished--chronicles and descriptions by
eye-witnesses--which might be material for historians.
What a comfort that the Afghan war is concluded! But on the back of it
comes the black dog of Indian finance, which means, alas! a great deal
of hardship to poor Hindûs. Let me hear more news of you before long.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 29th June, 1879.]
Your description of the effects you feel from the restless, tormenting
winds would serve well to represent my experience too. It seems
something incredible written in my memory that when I was a little
girl I loved the wind--used to like to walk about when it was blowing
great guns. And now the wind is to me what it was to early peoples--a
demon-god, cruelly demanding all sorts of human sacrifices. Thank you,
dear, for caring whether I have any human angels to guard me. None are
permanently here except my servants, but Sir James Paget has been down
to see me, I have a very comfortable country practitioner to watch
over me from day to day, and there is a devoted friend who is backward
and forward continually to see that I lack nothing.
It is a satisfaction to me that you felt the need for "Debasing the
Moral Currency" to be written. I was determined to do it, though it
might make me a stone of stumbling and rock of offence to all the
comic tribe.
Do not rate my illness too high in the scale of mortal misery. I am
prone to make much of my ailments, and am among the worst at enduring
pain.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 29th June, 1879.]
Thank you for sending me the pretty little book.[37] I am deeply
touched by the account of its origin, and I remember well everything
you said to me of Mr. Brown in old days when he was still with you. I
had only cut a very little way into the volume when a friend came and
carried it off, but my eyes had already been arrested by some remarks
on the character of Harold Transome, which seemed to me more
penetrating and finely felt than almost anything I have read in the
way of printed comment on my own writing. When my friend brings back
the volume I shall read it reverentially, and most probably with a
sense of being usefully admonished. For praise and sympathy arouse
much more self-suspicion and sense of shortcoming than all the blame
and depreciation of all the Pepins.
I am better, and I hope on the way to complete recovery, but I am
still at some distance from that goal. Perhaps if the winds would give
one some rest from their tormenting importunity, both you and I should
get on faster.
I am looking forward to reading the "Recollections of Ekowe" in
"Maga," which came to me yesterday, with its list of my own doings and
misdoings on the cover.
Does not this Zulu war seem to you a horribly bad business?
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 30th June, 1879.]
Sir Henry Maine has sent me the one letter that has rejoiced my heart
about the "Study of Psychology." He says: "In this branch of Mr.
Lewes's studies I am almost as one of the ignorant, but I think I have
understood every sentence in the book, and I believe I have gained
great knowledge from it. It has been the most satisfactory piece of
work I have done for a long time." I have written to tell him that he
has rescued me from my scepticism as to any one's reading a serious
book except the author or editor.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 2d July, 1879.]
The sight of your handwriting on the pamphlet sent me urges me to do
the sooner what I should have already done but for a rather sharp
illness, which has kept me chiefly in bed for nearly a fortnight, and
from which I am not yet quite free.
I enclose a copy of Michael Foster's draft of conditions for the
studentship, which I put into the lawyer's hands some ten or twelve
days ago, and which is now come to me drawn up in legal form. You said
it would interest you to see the draft, and I have been bearing this
in mind, but have not been able to go to the desk where the copy lay.
I hope to hear that you have been going on well despite the cruel,
restless winds and sad intermittence of sunshine. On the 12th I am
going to have two daughters-in-law, _five_ grandchildren, and servant
for a week--if I can get well enough, as I have good hope now that I
shall. The strawberries will be ripe then, and as I don't eat any
myself it would be dolorous not to be able to have the children, and
see them enjoy the juicy blessing.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 16th July, 1879.]
I was beginning to want some news of you, and was almost ready to ask
for it. It is the more welcome for having had time to ripen into a
decidedly good report of your condition. About myself I have a very
poor story to tell, being now in the fifth week of a troublesome
illness, in which, like you, I have been partly fed on "poisonous
decoctions." To-day, however, happens to show a considerable
improvement in my symptoms, and I have been walking in the warmer air
with more ease than hitherto. Driving I have not been able to manage
for some time, the motion of the carriage shaking me too much. The
best of care has been taken of me. I have an excellent country doctor
(Mr. Parsons of Godalming) who watches me daily; and Sir James Paget
and Dr. Andrew Clark have been down to add their supervision. I begin
to think that if I can avoid any evil condition, such as a chill that
would bring on a relapse, I may soon be pretty well again. The point
to be achieved is to stop the wasting of my not too solid flesh.
I am glad to hear that the third edition of "Theophrastus" has had so
lively a movement. If the remainder should be sold off I think it
would be well just to print a small number of copies to carry on, and
avoid bringing out a cheaper edition too soon after people have been
paying for the expensive one.
I have been always able to write my letters and read my proofs,
usually in bed before the fatigue of dressing, but the rest of my time
has been very unprofitable--spent chiefly in pain and languor. I am
feeling easy now, and you will well understand that after undergoing
pain this ease is opening paradise. Invalids must be excused for being
eloquent about themselves.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 22d July, 1879.]
I feel a perhaps too selfish need to tell you that things have gone
ill with me since I last wrote to you. Why do I want to let you know
this not agreeable news about myself? Chiefly because I want you to be
quite clear that if I do not write to say, "When can you come to me?"
it is not from indifference, but from misfortune of another sort.
Meanwhile it will do me good to have little items of news from you,
when you can find half an hour for the kind deed of writing me a
letter. What helps me most is to be told things about others, and your
letters are just of the sort I like to have.
I am just now in one of my easier hours, and the demon wind has
abated. He seems to enter into my pains with hideous rejoicing.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 7th Aug. 1879.]
Thank you for your kind note. There are to be more than as many proofs
as you have already had, for which I must crave the valuable aid of
your reading.
You will understand all the better how much comfort it is to me to
have your help as well as Professor Foster's, when I tell you that for
the last eight weeks I have been seriously out of health, and have
often been suffering much pain--a state which I imagine you know by
experience to heighten all real anxieties, and usually to create
unreal.
It cheers me to be told by you that you think the volume interesting.
In reading the MS. again and again I had got into a state of tremor
about it which deprived me of judgment--just as if it were writing of
my own, which I could not trust myself to pronounce upon.
I hope that your own health, and Mrs. Sully's too, will have been
benefited by your change from south to north.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 11th Aug. 1879.]
I think that I am really getting better, and shall have to stay among
the minority in this world a little longer than I had expected.
Will you send me word how long you shall be at liberty, and whether
you would think it worth while to come down to me one morning and stay
till the afternoon of the following day? Your letter is delightful to
me. Several spiritual kisses for it.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 19th Aug. 1879.]
Thank you for your sweet affection. I have had rather a trying
illness, which lasted, without great relief, for nearly eight weeks.
But I hope that I am now out of it--that is, so far established that I
may go on without a relapse. The cold weather was against me, as it
was and is against much more important matters. The days of warmth and
sunlight which have now and then blessed us have been my best
medicine, though I acknowledge the benefit of pepsin and steel, and
many other drugs. The gray skies and recurring rain are peculiarly
dispiriting to me, and one seems to feel their influence all the more
for the wide, beautiful view of field and hill which they sadden and
half conceal. In town one thinks less of the sky.
If you are ever writing to our dear Mrs. William Smith do give my love
to her, and tell her I am very grateful to her for the letter she
wrote me with the postmark _Ventnor_ upon it. With her usual delicacy
of feeling she did not send her address, so that I could not write in
return.
[Sidenote: Letter to William Blackwood, 3d Sept. 1879.]
I am much obliged to you for writing me your letter of pleasant news.
It is wonderful how "Theophrastus" goes on selling in these bad times,
and I have only to hope in addition that the buyers will be the better
for it. Apparently we shall get through this last edition before
Christmas, and then perhaps you will think of adding the volume to the
Cabinet Edition. I am especially rejoiced to hear that your uncle is
better again, and I trust that Strathtyrum is sharing our sunshine,
which will be the best cure for him as for me. I am getting strong,
and also am gaining flesh on my moderate scale. It really makes a
difference to one's spirits to think that the harvest may now possibly
be got in without utter ruin to the produce and unhappy producers. But
this year will certainly prove a serious epoch, and initiate many
changes in relation to farming. I fear, from what I have read, that
the rich Lothians will have to be called compassionately the poor
Lothians. By the way, if you happen to want any translation done from
the French, and have not just the right person to do it, I think I can
recommend a Miss Bradley Jenkins, of 50 Cornwall Road, Wesbourne Park,
as one who has an unusually competent knowledge of French. We sat side
by side on the same form translating Miss Edgeworth into French when
we were girls.
I have not seen her for many years, but I know that she has been
engaged in a high order of teaching, and I have lately heard from her
that she is anxious to get work of the kind in question. She already
spoke French well when we were pupils together, and she has since been
an unintermitting student.
I wonder, talking of translators, how the young Mr. Ferrier is going
on, who translated Kaufmann's pamphlet on "Deronda." What Mr.
Blackwood told me of him interested me about his future.
Oblige us all by not falling into another accident when the next
hunting season comes.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 3d Sept. 1879.]
Before I received your letter the other day I was intending to write
to you to ask whether, now that I am stronger and the fine weather
shows some signs of permanence, you feel any revival of the
inclination to come and see me for a couple of days. I hardly like to
propose your taking the journey, now that you are not being brought
near me by other visits--for the railway from you to us is, I think,
rather tiresome. But if your inclination really lies towards coming
you will be affectionately welcomed.
About the sea-side I am hopeless. The latter part of October is likely
to be too cold for me to move about without risk of chills; and I hope
to be back in town before the end of the month. I am not very fond of
the sea-side, and this year it is likely to be crowded with people who
have been hindered by the bad weather from going earlier. I prefer the
Surrey hills and the security from draughts in one's own home. The one
attraction of a coast place to me is a great breadth of sand to pace
on when it is in its fresh firmness after the fall of the tide. But
the sea itself is melancholy to me, only a little less so under warm
sunlight, with plenty of fishing-smacks changing their shadows. All
this is to let you know why I do not yield to the attraction of being
with you, where we could chat as much or as little as we liked. I feel
very much your affectionateness in wishing to have me near you.
Write me word soon whether you feel able to come as far as this for my
sake.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 10th Sept. 1879.]
I have read the article[38] with very grateful feelings. I think that
he would himself have regarded it as a generally just estimate. And I
am much obliged to you for sending it to me in proof.
Your selection of subjects for remark, and the remarks themselves, are
in accordance with my feeling to a comforting extent; and I shall
always remain your debtor for writing the article.
I trust you will not be forced to omit anything about his scientific
and philosophical work, because that is the part of his life's labor
which he most valued.
Perhaps you a little underrate the (original) effect of his "Life of
Goethe in Germany." It was received with enthusiasm, and an immense
number of copies, in both the English and German form, have been sold
in Germany since its appearance in 1854.
I wish you were allowed to put your name to the article.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 17th Sept. 1879.]
I am getting strong now after a long spell of medical discipline. All
these long months I have been occupied with my husband's manuscripts:
also with the foundation of a Physiological Studentship, which is my
monument to his memory, and which is now all settled, as you may
perhaps have seen by advertisements.[39] But I am not yet through the
proof-reading of the final volume of "Problems of Life and Mind,"
which will contain the last sheets he ever wrote.
I hear very good accounts of Madame Bodichon, who is coming to me for
a couple of days on the 29th.
You are wonderful for life and energy, in spite of your delicate
looks. May you have all the strength you need for your sympathetic
tasks!
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 7th Oct. 1879.]
I have not yet thanked you--and I do so now very gratefully--for the
help you have given me in my sad and anxious task. Your eyes have been
a most precious aid, not only as a matter of fact, but as a ground of
confidence. For I am not at all a good proof-reader, and have a
thorough distrust of myself.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 18th Oct. 1879.]
I cannot wish not to have been cheered by your triple letter, even
though I have caused you to rise earlier in the morning, and to feel a
disproportionate remorse. "Maggior difetto men vergogna lava," as says
Virgil to the blushing Dante. And you have given me the fuller measure
because I had to wait a little.
Your legend of "Fair Women" interests me very much. I feel a citizen
of the world again, knowing all the news. But the core of good news
in your letter is that your husband is well again, and again happy in
his work. Your collapse is what I feared for you; and you must call
the getting change of air and scene--I was going to say "a duty," but
are you one of those wonderful beings who find everything easier under
that name? But at least one prefers doing a hard duty to grimacing
with a pretence of pleasure in things that are no pleasure.
I am greatly comforted this morning by the fact that the (apparently)
right man is found for the George Henry Lewes Studentship--an ardent
worker, who could not have carried on his pursuit without this help. I
know you are not unmindful of what touches me deeply.
Go on your visit, dear, and come back well--then show yourself without
unnecessary delay to your loving friend.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, Saturday, 20th Oct. 1879.]
I have had a delightful bit of news from Dr. Foster this morning. He
had mentioned to me before that there was an Edinburgh student whom he
had in his mind as the right one to elect. This morning he writes:
"The trustees meet to-morrow to receive my nomination. I have chosen
Dr. Charles Roy, an Edinburgh man, and Scotchman--not one of my own
pupils. He is, I think, the most promising--by far the most
promising--of our young physiologists, putting aside those who do not
need the pecuniary assistance of the studentship. And the help comes
to him just when it is most needed--he is in full swing of work, and
was casting about for some means of supporting himself which would
least interfere with his work, when I called his attention to the
studentship. I feel myself very gratified that I can, at the very
outset, recommend just the man, as it appears to me, for the post."
This is a thing your father would have chosen as a result of his life.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, Tuesday, 27th Oct. 1879.]
I have just had some news that grieves me. Mr. Blackwood is
dangerously ill, and I fear, from Mr. William's letter, that there is
little hope of recovery. He will be a heavy loss to me. He has been
bound up with what I most cared for in my life for more than twenty
years; and his good qualities have made many things easy to me that,
without him, would often have been difficult.[40]
I wrote to Mr. Trübner to tell him that the printing of the "Problems"
being finished, I should be glad if he would arrange with you about
the conditions of publication. Bear in mind your father's wish that
the volumes should not be made dearer than necessary.
I am going to Weybridge on Friday, and I intend to be at the Priory by
Saturday before dusk. But it is _just possible_ I may be detained till
Monday morning. So if you have any good occupation for Sunday you had
better call on your way home on Monday.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 29th Oct. 1879.]
Your affectionate note would quite have determined me to do what, when
your brother kindly proposed it, raised a certain longing in me. I
thought that I should like to see you all in the remembered home
again. But I have had a little check in health, and I am feeling so
depressed that I shrink from making any engagement which involves
others.
A visitor to-day and my own languor threatens to throw me backward in
my arrangements for leaving, and I have a sense of impossibility
about everything that, under other conditions, would be a pleasure. I
am afraid lest a fit of sadness should make me an oppression to you
all; and my conclusion this morning is that I must give up the few
hours' happiness of feeling your family love around me as I used to
do, and simply go straight up to town with my servants.
But if Friday morning brings me better hopes I will telegraph to you,
since you allow me to wait till the eleventh hour. If you receive no
telegram you will understand that I am still too downhearted to
venture on a visit even to those who are among the best-loved of my
friends. In that case you must all make me amends for my loss by
coming to see me in the old place in town.
Came to Weybridge on 31st October, and returned to the Priory
on 1st November.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 8th Nov. 1879.]
I came here just a week ago, and I had a superstition that you would
come to me yesterday. But I used no enchantments--and so you didn't
come.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1879, from the
Priory.]
I am very grateful to you for your kind letter. News about you all had
been much desired by me; but I have now so many business letters to
write that I am apt to defer such as are not absolutely necessary. The
careful index is a sign of your effective industry, and I have no
doubt that it will be a great help to yourself as well as to your
readers. One very often needs an index to one's own writing. My chief
objects are quite completed now. The Dr. Roy appointed to the
studentship is held by competent persons to be the most hopeful of our
young physiologists: and there is a volume of 501 pages (the last) of
"Problems of Life and Mind" ready to appear next month. I am quite
recovered from the ailment which made me good for little in the
summer, and indeed am stronger than I ever expected to be again.
People are very good to me, and I am exceptionally blessed in many
ways; but more blessed are the dead who rest from their labors, and
have not to dread a barren, useless survival.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 6th Dec. 1879, from the
Priory.]
I am very well, dear kind friend, all things considered. One cannot
help getting occasional chills and headaches in this hard, wintry
time.
Oh, yes, I read the _Times_ with great interest, and am much concerned
to know what my contemporaries are doing. My time is very fully
occupied, for I have now to write a great many letters, such as used
to be written for me, and I would willingly spend the time thus taken
up in another sort of reading and writing.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 5th Jan. 1880.]
Thank you a thousand times, my dear friend, for your tender New Year's
greeting and inquiries. I have passed well from "under the saws and
harrows" of the severe cold, and am better, both in apparent organic
soundness and in strength for all occupation, than I once thought was
possible for me.
Our dear Barbara is painting in water colors again from her
window--just as of old. I know you will be glad to hear of this. And I
am now seeing many other friends, who interest me and bring me reports
of their several worlds. The great public calamities of the past year
have helped to quiet one's murmuring spirit in relation to private
sorrows, and the prospect for the future is not yet very bright. One
thinks of mothers like Mrs. Ruck, whose best-loved sons are in
Afghanistan. But we must live as much as we can for human joy,
dwelling on sorrow and pain only so far as the consciousness of it may
help us in striving to remedy them.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 19th Jan. 1880.]
Life has seemed worse without my glimpses of you. And now I have not
the amends of thinking that you are out of our Egyptian darkness and
getting health in the country. I must drive over to ask about you as
soon as I can.
As the year went on, George Eliot began to see all her old
friends again. But her life was nevertheless a life of
heart-loneliness. Accustomed as she had been for so many
years to solitude _à deux_, the want of close companionship
continued to be very bitterly felt. She was in the habit of
going with me very frequently to the National Gallery, and to
other exhibitions of pictures, to the British Museum
sculptures, and to South Kensington. This constant
association engrossed me completely, and was a new interest
to her. A bond of mutual dependence had been formed between
us. On the 28th March she came down to Weybridge and stayed
till the 30th; and on the 9th April it was finally decided
that our marriage should take place as soon, and as
privately, as might be found practicable.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 13th April, 1880.]
You can hardly think how sweet the name sister is to me, that I have
not been called by for so many, many years.
Without your tenderness I do not believe it would have been possible
for me to accept this wonderful renewal of my life. Nothing less than
the prospect of being loved and welcomed by you all could have
sustained me. But now I cherish the thought that the family life will
be the richer and not the poorer through your brother's great gift of
love to me.
Yet I quail a little in facing what has to be gone through--the
hurting of many whom I care for. You are doing everything you can to
help me, and I am full of gratitude to you all for his sake as well as
my own. The springs of affection are reopened in me, and it will make
me better to be among you--more loving and trustful.
I valued Florence's little visit very much. You and she will come
again--will you not?--to your sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 19th April, 1880.]
I have found the spot in "The Prelude" where the passage I mentioned
occurs. It is in book viii., "The Retrospect," towards the end:
"The human nature unto which I felt
That I belonged, and reverenced with love,
Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit
Diffused through time and space, with aid derived
Of evidence from monuments, erect,
Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest
In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime
Of vanished nations."
The bit of brickwork in the rock is
"With aid derived from evidence."
I think you would find much to suit your purpose in "The Prelude,"
such as--
"There is
One great society alone on earth:
The noble Living and the noble Dead."
Except for travelling, and for popular distribution, I prefer Moxon's
one-volumed edition of Wordsworth to any selection. No selection gives
you the perfect gems to be found in single lines, or in half a dozen
lines which are to be found in the "dull" poems.
I am sorry Matthew Arnold has not included the sonnet beginning--
"I griev'd for Buonaparté with a vain
And an unthinking grief--"
and which has these precious lines,
"'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
_Wisdom doth live with children round her knees._"
Has he the magnificent sonnet on Toussaint l'Ouverture? I don't know
where there is anything finer than the last eight lines of it.
Please don't acknowledge this note, else you will neutralize my
pleasure in sending it by making me feel that I have given you
trouble.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Hon. Lady Lytton, 24th April, 1880.]
The beautiful photograph has reached me safely, and I am very grateful
to you for your kindness in sending it to me. In comparing it with the
photograph which you gave me seven or eight years ago I see the effect
of a saddening experience which the years must bring to us all, but,
to my feeling, the face is the more endearing because of that effect.
You have been very often in my thoughts, because I have associated you
with public affairs, and have imagined sympathetically how they must
have affected your private life. I am sure that this momentous
experience in India has been a hard discipline both for you and for
Lord Lytton. I can imagine he has often been sick at heart with the
near vision, which his post forces on him, of human meanness and
rancor. You, too, must have gathered some melancholy knowledge of that
sort, which has perhaps changed a little the curves of the mouth and
the glance of the eyes since those Vienna days, when the delightful M.
de Villers helped to make the hours pleasant to us.
I saw the photographs of your daughters, which gave me an idea how
fast the dramatic authoress has developed physically as well as
mentally. When I first saw her at Vienna she was the prettiest little
rosebud.
Mrs. Strachey called the other day when I was out, and among other
reasons for my being sorry not to have seen her, was the having missed
some authentic news about your probable movements. What happens to you
will always have interest for me, since I have long been, with sincere
regard, yours most truly.
On the 24th April George Eliot came down to Weybridge, and
stayed till the 26th.
[Sidenote: Letter to James Sully, 26th April, 1880.]
I am deeply obliged to you for the care with which you have treated
the final volume of "The Problems" in the _Academy_, which you have
kindly sent me. I think you could hardly have written more effectively
towards exciting an interest in the work in the minds of the
comparatively few who really care for the study of psychology. You
have added one more to the obligations which will make me always yours
gratefully.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 5th May, 1880.]
I have something to tell you which will doubtless be a great surprise
to you; but since I have found that other friends, less acquainted with
me and my life than you are, have given me their sympathy, I think that
I can count on yours. I am going to do what not very long ago I should
myself have pronounced impossible for me, and therefore I should not
wonder at any one else who found my action incomprehensible. By the
time you receive this letter I shall (so far as the future can be
matter of assertion) have been married to Mr. J. W. Cross, who, you
know, is a friend of years, a friend much loved and trusted by Mr.
Lewes, and who, now that I am alone, sees his happiness in the
dedication of his life to me. This change in my position will make no
change in my care for Mr. Lewes's family, and in the ultimate
disposition of my property. Mr. Cross has a sufficient fortune of his
own. We are going abroad for a few months, and I shall not return to
live at this house. Mr. Cross has taken the lease of a house, No. 4
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, where we shall spend the winter and early spring,
making Witley our summer home.
I indulge the hope that you will some day look at the river from the
windows of our Chelsea house, which is rather quaint and picturesque.
Please tell Bessie[41] for me, with my love to her. I cannot write to
more than two or three persons.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 5th May, 1880.]
A great, momentous change is going to take place in my life. My
indisposition last week and several other subsequent circumstances
have hindered me from communicating it to you, and the time has been
but short since the decision was come to. But with your permission
Charles will call on you and tell you what he can on Saturday.
Yours and Emily's ever, with unchanging love.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1880.]
_May 6._--Married this day at 10.15 to John Walter Cross, at St.
George's, Hanover Square. Present, Charles, who gave me away, Mr. and
Mrs. Druce, Mr. Hall, William, Mary, Eleanor, and Florence Cross. We
went back to the Priory, where we signed our wills. Then we started
for Dover and arrived there a little after five o'clock.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Eleanor Cross, 9th May, 1880.]
Your letter was a sweet greeting to us on our arrival here yesterday.
We had a millennial cabin on the deck of the Calais-Douvres, and
floated over the strait as easily as the saints float upward to heaven
(in the pictures). At Amiens we were very comfortably housed, and paid
two enraptured visits, evening and morning, to the cathedral. I was
delighted with J.'s delight in it. And we read our dear old cantos of
the "Inferno" that we were reading a year ago, declining afterwards on
"Eugénie Grandet." The nice woman who waited on us made herself very
memorable to me by her sketch of her own life. She went to England
when she was nineteen as a lady's maid--had been much _ennuyée de sa
mère_, detested _les plaisirs_, liked only her regular every-day work
and _la paix_.
Here we have a very fair _appartement_, and plenty of sunlight, _au
premier_. Before dinner we walked up to the Arc de l'Étoile and back
again, enjoying the lovely greenth and blossoms of the horse-chestnuts,
which are in their first glory, innocent of dust or of one withered
petal. This morning at twelve o'clock we are going to the Russian
church, where J. has never been, and where I hope we shall hear the
wonderful intoning and singing as I heard it years ago.
This is the chronicle of our happy married life, three days long--all
its happiness conscious of a dear background in those who are loving
us at Weybridge, at Thornhill, and at Ranby.
You are all inwoven into the pattern of my thoughts, which would have
a sad lack without you. I like to go over again in imagination all the
scene in the church and in the vestry, and to feel every loving look
from the eyes of those who were rejoicing for us. Besides Professor
Sellar's letter, which touched J. with grateful surprise, we have had
one to him from Mr. Frederic Harrison, saying everything affectionate,
and two very finely felt letters from Edith Simcox--one to him
enclosing the one to me. Certainly, she has a rare generosity and
elevation which find their easy channel in writing. My love to Henry
and to the gentle Berthe,[42] who was an invisible presence at our
wedding.
I think I must thank Florence, too, for her letter to J.; for we
accept to the full the principle of "what is mine is thine" on each
side. What most comforted him this morning was a letter from Albert
Druce about the Chelsea house. His usual exclamation over anything
from Albert is that his brother-in-law is the most satisfactory of
men!
Write us word about everything, and consider yourselves all very much
loved and spiritually petted by your loving sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 21st May, 1880, from Grenoble.]
This place is so magnificently situated, in a smiling valley, with the
Isère flowing through it, and surrounded by grand and various lines of
mountains, and we were so enraptured by our expedition yesterday to
the Grande Chartreuse that we congratulate ourselves greatly on our
choice of route. I think it unlikely that we shall want to wander
beyond the second week in July. We shall begin to long for home just
when the rest of the London world are longing for travel. We are
seeing nature in her happiest moment now--the foliage on all the
tremendous heights, the soft slopes, and the richly clad valleys on
the way to the Chartreuse is all fresh and tender, shone through by a
sunlight which cherishes and does not burn us. I had but one regret in
seeing the sublime beauty of the Grande Chartreuse. It was that the
Pater had not seen it. I would still give up my own life willingly if
he could have the happiness instead of me. But marriage has seemed to
restore me to my old self. I was getting hard, and if I had decided
differently, I think I should have become very selfish. To feel daily
the loveliness of a nature close to me, and to feel grateful for it,
is the fountain of tenderness and strength to endure.
Glorious weather always, and I am very well--quite amazingly able to
go through fatigue.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Florence Cross, 25th May, 1880.]
Our life since we wrote to you has been a chapter of
delights--Grenoble--Grande Chartreuse--Chambéry--paradisiacal walk to
Les Charmettes--roses gathered in Jean Jacques' garden--Mont Cenis
Tunnel and emergence into Italian sunshine. Milan, comfortable
_appartement_, delicious privacy, and great minds condescending to
relax themselves! We got here yesterday, and of course our first walk
was to the post, where we found your delightful budget and other
letters, which we took to a _café_ in the grand _galleria_ and read at
our ease to the accompaniment of tea.
Two of my letters yesterday touched me very gratefully. One was from
"Brother Jimmy"--the prettiest letter possible. The other letter that
moved me was one from my own brother. Then J. had a graceful letter of
congratulation from Mr. Henry James, who is still at Florence. I think
you did not send that letter of Mr. Edmund Gurney's which you mention.
I am fond of seeing the letters which put my friends in an amiable
light for my imagination. And now that I have had that charming letter
from my new brother in America, I feel that my family initiation is
complete. No woman was ever more sweetly received by brothers and
sisters than I have been; and it is a happy, new longing in my life
that I may return into their bosoms some of the gladness they have
poured into mine.
I have been uninterruptedly well, and feel quite strong with all sorts
of strength except strong-mindedness. We are going to hear the music
in the Duomo at eleven, and after that we intend to pay our first
visit to the Brera gallery. It is our present plan to stay here for
some days, and we enjoy the thought of a little stationary life such
as we have not had since we left Paris. We often talk of our sisters,
oftener think of them. You are our children, you know.
[Sidenote: Letter to Isaac P. Evans, 26th May, 1880.]
Your letter was forwarded to me here, and it was a great joy to me to
have your kind words of sympathy, for our long silence has never
broken the affection for you which began when we were little ones. My
husband, too, was much pleased to read your letter. I have known his
family for eleven years, and they have received me among them very
lovingly. The only point to be regretted in our marriage is that I am
much older than he; but his affection has made him choose this lot of
caring for me rather than any other of the various lots open to him.
Emily Clarke has lately sent me rather a sad account of Sarah's[43]
health. I trust that it is now better, for I think it is her lungs
that chiefly trouble her, and summer may act beneficently on them.
Please give my love to her, and tell her that I like the assurance of
her share in the good wishes you send me.
I have often heard of Frederick[44] through the admiration of those
who have heard him preach; and it has been a happy thought to me that
you and Sarah must feel it a great comfort to have him as well as
Walter settled near you.
Edith is the only one of your children whom I have seen since they
have been grown up, and I thought her a noble-looking woman.
We are going to remain abroad until some time in July, and shall then
return to the Heights, Witley, Surrey. Our home in London will be 4
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, looking on a very picturesque bit of the river.
I hope that your own health is quite good now, and that you are able
to enjoy the active life which I know you are fond of. Always your
affectionate sister.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 28th May, 1880.]
Many thanks for your delightful letter, which came to me yesterday,
with a loving though brief letter from Mrs. Congreve to keep it
company in making the day agreeable.
We arrived here on Monday, and have been induced by a nice quiet
apartment and pleasant attendance to carry out our plan of resting
here and deliberately seeing what is to be seen in this cheerful,
prosperous city. I am glad to find that the Luini pictures come up to
my remembrance, and that J. is much impressed by his introduction to
them. I continue remarkably well, and am every day surprising myself
by the amount of walking, standing, and looking that I can go through.
To-morrow or the next day we intend to go on to Verona, then, after a
sufficient pause to enjoy that glorious place, we shall move on to
Padua and Venice, where it will be best for you to send anything you
may have to send. I like to see the letters. They make one realize the
fact of one's home and little world there amid the dreaminess of
foreign travel. We take our meals in our own apartment and see nothing
of our fellow-guests in the hotel--only hear their British and
American voices when they air themselves in the _cortile_ after their
dinner.
The weather has hitherto been delicious, not excessively warm, always
with a pleasant movement in the air; but this morning there is a
decided advance in heat, and we shall both have our theory of great
heat being the best thing for us well tested in the next month.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 29th May and 1st June, 1880,
from Verona.]
The change I make in the date of this letter is a sign of the
difficulty you well know that one finds in writing all the letters one
wants to write while travelling. Ever since Charles forwarded to me
your dear letter while I was in Paris I have been meaning to write to
you. That letter was doubly sweet to me because it was written before
you received mine, _intended_ to inform you of my marriage before it
appeared in the newspapers. Charles says that my friends are chiefly
hurt because I did not tell them of the approaching change in my life.
But I really did not finally, absolutely, decide--I was in a state of
doubt and struggle--until only a fortnight before the event took
place, so that at last everything was done in the utmost haste.
However, there were four or five friends, of whom you were one, to
whom I was resolved to write, so that they should at least get my
letter on the morning of the 6th.
I had more than once said to Mr. Cross that you were that one of my
friends who required the least explanation on the subject--who would
spontaneously understand our marriage. But Charles sends me word that
my friends in general are very sympathetic, and I should like to
mention to you that Bessie[45] is one whose very kind words he has
sent to me, for you may have an opportunity of giving my love to her,
and telling her that it is very sweet to me to feel that her affection
is constant to me in this as it was in other crises of my life. I
wish, since you can no longer come in and out among us as you used to
do, that you already knew my husband better. His family welcome me
with the uttermost tenderness. All this is wonderful blessing falling
to me beyond my share, after I had thought that my life was ended, and
that, so to speak, my coffin was ready for me in the next room. Deep
down below there is a hidden river of sadness, but this must always be
with those who have lived long--and I am able to enjoy my newly
reopened life. I shall be a better, more loving creature than I could
have been in solitude. To be constantly, lovingly grateful for the
gift of a perfect love is the best illumination of one's mind to all
the possible good there may be in store for man on this troublous
little planet.
We leave Verona to-day, and stay a little at Padua on our way to
Venice. Hitherto we have had delightful weather, and just the
temperature we rejoice in. We are both fond of warmth, and could bear
more heat than we have the prospect of at present.
Yesterday we had a drive on the skirting heights of Verona, and saw
the vast fertile plain around, with the Euganean hills, blue in the
distance, and the Apennines just dimly visible on the clear margin of
the horizon. I am always made happier by seeing well-cultivated land.
We came into Italy by way of Grenoble (seeing the Grande Chartreuse),
Chambéry, and the Mont Cenis Tunnel; since then we have been staying
at Milan and enjoying the Luini frescoes and a few other great things
there. The great things are always by comparison few, and there is
much everywhere one would like to help seeing, after it has once
served to give one a notion of historical progression.
We shall stay at Venice for ten days or a fortnight; so if you have a
scribe, or would write yourself, to tell me that all is going on well
with you, the letter would not, as the Scotch say, "go amissing."
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 9th June, 1880, from Venice.]
We both enjoyed reading your letter on the morning after our arrival
at this enchanting city, where the glorious light, with comparative
stillness and total absence of dust, makes a paradise much more
desirable than that painted by Tintoretto on the wall of the Consiglio
Maggiore. Nothing but the advent of mosquitoes would make it easy for
us to tear ourselves away from this place, where every prospect
pleases, but also where one is obliged to admit that man is somewhat
vile. I am sadly disappointed in the aspect of the Venetian populace.
Even physically they look less endowed than I thought them when we
were here under the Austrian dominion. We have hardly seen a sweet or
noble woman's face since we arrived; but the men are not quite so
ill-looking as the women. The singing here (by itinerant performers in
gondolas) is disgraceful to Venice and to Italy. Coarse voices, much
out of tune, make one shudder when they strike suddenly under the
window.
Our days here are passed quite deliciously. We see a few beautiful
pictures or other objects of interest, and dwell on them sufficiently
every morning, not hurrying ourselves to do much; and afterwards we
have a _giro_ in our gondola, enjoying the air and the sight of
marvellous Venice from various points of view and under various
aspects. Hitherto we have had no _heat_, only warmth, with a light
breeze. To-day, for the first time, one thinks that violent exercise
must be terribly trying for our red-skinned fellow-mortals at work on
the gondolas and the barges. But for us it is only pleasant to find
the air warm enough for sitting out in the evening. We shall not soon
run away from Venice unless some plague--_e.g._, mosquitoes--should
arise to drive us. We edify ourselves with what Ruskin has written
about Venice, in an agreeable pamphlet shape, using his knowledge
gratefully, and shutting our ears to his wrathful innuendoes against
the whole modern world. And we are now nearly at the end of Alfieri's
autobiography, which is a deeply interesting study of character.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 10th June, 1880.]
It may well seem incredible to you, for it is hardly credible to
myself, that while I have been longing to write to you ever since I
received your dear letter, I have not found the time to satisfy my
longing. Perhaps you are more able than most people to conceive the
difficulty of getting a clear half-hour between the business of
travelling and the attention to little details of packing and toilet,
over and above the companionship of talk and reading. Certainly I have
thought of you all the more, but you have not known that, and I have
lost my claim to hear about you--a use and wont which I would not
willingly part with.
I wonder whether you have imagined--I believe that you are quick to
imagine for the benefit of others--all the reasons why it was left at
last to Charles to tell you of the great, once undreamed-of change in
my life. The momentous decision, in fact, was not made till scarcely
more than a fortnight before my marriage; and even if opportunity had
lent itself to my confiding everything to you, I think I could hardly
have done it at a time when your presence filled me rather with a
sense of your and Emily's trouble[46] than with my own affairs.
Perhaps Charles will have told you that the marriage deprives no one
of any good I felt bound to render before--it only gives me a more
strenuous position, in which I cannot sink into the self-absorption
and laziness I was in danger of before. The whole history is something
like a miracle-legend. But instead of any former affection being
displaced in my mind, I seem to have recovered the loving sympathy
that I was in danger of losing. I mean, that I had been conscious of a
certain drying-up of tenderness in me, and that now the spring seems
to have risen again. Who could take your place within me or make me
amends for the loss of you? And yet I should not take it bitterly if
you felt some alienation from me. Such alienation is very natural
where a friend does not fulfil expectations of long standing.
We have already been ten days at Venice, but we hope to remain as long
again, not fearing the heat, which has hitherto been only a false
alarm in the minds of English travellers. If you could find time to
send me word how you all are--yourself, Dr. Congreve after his
holiday, and Emily, with all her cares about removal--a letter sent to
the _Poste Restante_ here would reach me, even if we had left before
the next ten days were over. We shall hardly be at Witley before the
middle of July: but the sense of neighborhood to you at Witley is
sadly ended now.
We thought too little of the heat, and rather laughed at
English people's dread of the sun. But the mode of life at
Venice has its peculiar dangers. It is one thing to enjoy
heat when leading an active life, getting plenty of exercise
in riding or rowing in the evenings; it is another thing to
spend all one's days in a gondola--a delicious, dreamy
existence--going from one church to another--from palaces to
picture-galleries--sight-seeing of the most exhaustively
interesting kind--traversing constantly the _piccoli rei_,
which are nothing more than drains, and with bedroom-windows
always open on the great drain of the Grand Canal. The effect
of this continual bad air, and the complete and sudden
deprivation of all bodily exercise, made me thoroughly ill.
As soon as I could be moved we left Venice, on the 23d of
June, and went to Innspruck, where we stayed for a week, and
in the change to the pure, sweet, mountain air I soon
regained strength.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 7th July, 1880, from
Stuttgart.]
I was made very glad by Gertrude's letter, which assured me that
Witley had been enjoyed by you and the little ones. We stayed six days
at Innspruck, finding it more and more beautiful under the sunshine
which had been wanting to it during our first two days. Then we went
on to Munich, and yesterday we arrived here, as a temporary
resting-place on our way to Wildbad, which, we hope, will put the
finishing-touch to J.'s recovery of his usual health.
I wish I had been able to let you know in time that you could have
remained a little longer at Witley, as I think we shall hardly be at
home before the 20th if we find Wildbad what we want. Your _Mutter_ is
marvellously well and strong. It seems more natural to her to have
anxiety than to be free from it. Let us hope that she will not run
down like a jelly-fish now that her anxiety is over.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 13th July, 1880, from Wildbad.]
I received your welcome letter yesterday morning, and felt inclined to
answer it the next minute. J. is quite well again, but is inclined to
linger a little in the sweet air of the Schwarzwald, which comes to
one on gently stirred wings, laden with the scent of the pine
forests. We mean to drive from here to Baden, which is within easy
distance.
Yesterday we sallied forth for a walk over the mountain, to a place
where we could rest and lunch, returning in the afternoon. The sky was
brilliant. But in half an hour the clouds gathered and threatened a
storm. We were prudent enough to turn back, and by the time we were in
the hotel again the thunder was rolling and the rain pouring down.
This continued till about two o'clock, and then again the sky became
clear. I never saw so incalculable a state of weather as we have in
this valley. One quarter of an hour the blue sky is only flecked by
lightest cirrus clouds, the next it is almost hidden by dark rain
clouds. But we are going to start on our promised expedition this
morning, the sunshine flattering us that it is quite confirmed.
I think you had better address your next letter _Poste Restante_,
Strasburg, as I am uncertain how long we shall rest at Baden.
Left Wildbad on the 17th July, and had a delightful drive
through the Black Forest by Herrenalb to Baden, and thence by
Strasburg, Metz, Luxemburg, and Brussels, arriving at Witley
on Monday the 26th of July.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 1st Aug. 1880.]
We arrived here in all safety last Monday, and if I had not had your
welcome little note this morning I think I should soon have written to
you without any such extra stimulus.
Mr. Cross had a sharp but brief attack at Venice, due to the
unsanitary influences of that wondrous city in the later weeks of
June. We stayed a little too long there, with a continuous sirocco
blowing, and bad smells under the windows of the hotel; and these
conditions found him a little below par from long protracted anxiety
before our marriage. But ever since we left Venice (on the 23d of
June) he has been getting strong again, and we have enjoyed a
leisurely journey through Germany in constant warmth and sunshine,
save for an occasional thunderstorm. The climate in this beloved
country of ours is a sad exchange, and makes one think of a second bad
harvest, with all its consequences. Still, it is a delight to be at
home and enjoy perfect stillness, after the noisiness of foreign bells
and foreign voices indoors and out. It would be very pretty to pay you
a visit next April, if we are all alive, and I think Mr. Cross would
like it very much. He sends you, hoping you will accept them, his best
remembrances, which have been kept up by our often talking about you.
I have been amazingly well through all the exertion of our travels,
and in the latter half of the time have done a great deal of walking.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 2d Aug. 1880.]
How sweet of you to write me a little welcome as soon as you knew that
I was at home again.
Yes, we are both well now, and _glad_ to be at home again, though the
change of climate is not of the exhilarating sort. One is so sorry for
all the holiday-makers, whose best enjoyment of these three days would
have been in the clear air and sunshine.
Do not reproach me for not telling you of my marriage beforehand. It
is difficult to speak of what surprises ourselves, and the decision
was sudden, though not the friendship which led to the decision.
My heart thoroughly responds to your remembrance of our long--our
thirty-years' relation to each other. Let me tell you this once what I
have said to others--that I value you as one of the purest-minded,
gentlest-hearted women I have ever known, and where such a feeling
exists, friendship can live without much aid from sight.
We shall probably not be in town again till the beginning of November.
Our address then will be 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, where we shall have
an outlook on the river and meadows beyond. Just now we have the
prospect of going on family visits to married sisters, which prevents
us from feeling quite settled.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 12th Aug. 1880.]
I expected your letter, and expected, too, just the sort of letter I
have received, telling me everything delightfully. I can follow you
everywhere in your journeying except to Ober Wesel. I hope you will
have enjoyed St. Blasien and some of the walks there consecrated by
the beloved Pater's footsteps. We reversed your drive and went to
Freiburg, so that I can enter into your enjoyment of the Höllenthal. I
am glad that your weather has been temperate. Here we have now had
four sunny and really hot days, and this morning promises to be the
fifth. That is consolatory as to the harvest, and is very agreeable as
to our private life. The last two evenings we have walked in the
garden after eight o'clock--the first time by starlight, the second
under a vapory sky, with the red moon setting. The air was perfectly
still and warm, and I felt no need of extra clothing.
Our life has had no more important events than calls from neighbors
and our calls in return. To-morrow we pay our visit to the Druces at
Sevenoaks, where, you may remember, Mr. Druce has built a beautiful
house. At the beginning of September we are to visit Mr. and Mrs.
Otter at Ranby, and after that we shall go to Six-Mile Bottom for a
day or two. Then our wanderings will be over.
I went to the Priory the other day, and found a treatise on Blood
Pressure, by Dr. Roy, which he had sent me there, and which he has
published as the "George Henry Lewes Student." I imagine that he has
come to pursue his studies in England, as he intended to do. Delbeuf's
article on the last volume of the "Problems" (in the Belgian
_Athenæum_) is very nicely done. He has read the book.
I am pretty well, but find myself more languid than I was when abroad.
I think the cause is perhaps the moisture of the climate. There is
something languorous in this climate, or, rather, in its effects. J.
gets a little better every day, and so each day is more enjoyable.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 9th Sept. 1880.]
We have just come home after paying family visits in Lincolnshire and
Cambridgeshire, else I should have answered your letter earlier. The
former one reached me in Venice, when I was in great trouble on
account of Mr. Cross's illness. I had had reason to believe that my
letters, ordered to be posted on the 5th of May, had not been
delivered; so I asked Charles to inquire about the letter I wrote to
you--not because it demanded an answer, but because I wished you to
know that I had written.
I am so glad to know that you have been enjoying our brief English
summer. The good harvest makes the country everywhere cheerful, and we
have been in great, even districts where the fields, full of sheaves
or studded with ricks, stretch wide as a prairie. Now, we hope not to
leave this place again till November, when we intend to go to Chelsea
for the winter and earliest spring.
I almost envy you the opportunity of seeing Wombwell's Menagerie. I
suppose I got more delight out of that itinerant institution when I
was nine or ten years old than I have ever got out of the Zoological
Gardens. The smells and the sawdust mingled themselves with my
rapture. Everything was good.
It was very dear of you to write to me before you finished your
holiday. My love attends you all.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 14th Sept. 1880.]
Your letter this morning is a welcome assurance about you. We have
been away in Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire, paying visits to the
Otters and the Halls. The weather, which is now broken, was glorious
through all our wandering, which we made very interesting by pausing
to see Ely, Peterborough, and Lincoln cathedrals. The Otters have a
very pretty, happy household. He is a country gentleman now, acting as
a magistrate, and glancing towards Parliament. But he keeps up his
reading, and is delightful to talk to. Emily looks very pretty in her
matronly position, with three little children. The Halls, too, are
very pleasant to behold in their home life. He has done wonders in
building nice cottages and schools, and sinking wells where they were
wanted, and founding a co-operative store--and, in general, doing
whatever opportunity allows towards slowly improving this confused
world. We saw (at Six-Mile Bottom) Mr. and Mrs. Sidgwick. Perhaps you
know that they have had, and have, the admirable public spirit to let
their house and arrange to live for a year in the new Newnham House,
in order to facilitate matters for the double institution.
We are very well. Mr. Cross gets stronger and brighter every day. We
often mention you, because you are associated with so many of my
memories.
Our only bugbear--it is a very little one--is the having to make
preliminary arrangements towards settling ourselves in the new house
(4 Cheyne Walk). It is a quaint house; and a Mr. Armitage of
Manchester, of whom you may have heard, has been superintending the
decoration and furnishing, but not to the exclusion of old things,
which we must carry and stow, especially wallings of books. I am
become so lazy that I shrink from all such practical work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 23d Sept. 1880.]
I have been and am suffering under an attack of a comparatively mild
sort, but I expect to be well in two or three days, and am just going
to drive to Godalming to meet my husband. Hence I write this
hurriedly. We should like to see you and Gertrude from Saturday to
Monday some week next month if it would be pleasant to you.
This attack was a recurrence of the renal disorder of the
previous year. On the 29th September we went for ten days to
Brighton as the most accessible place for a bracing change.
The first effects of the sea breezes were encouraging, but
the improvement was not maintained. Shortly after our return
to Witley Dr. Andrew Clark,[47] "the beloved physician," came
down to consult with Mr. Parsons of Godalming--on 22d
October. From that time there was gradual but slow
improvement, and, during November, a decided recovery of
strength. But an English autumn was not favorable to the
invalid. Her sensibility to climatic influences was extreme.
It will have been noticed in the preceding letters how
constantly change of air and scene was required. I had never
seen my wife out of England, previous to our marriage, except
the first time at Rome, when she was suffering. My general
impression, therefore, had been that her health was always
very low, and that she was almost constantly ailing.
Moreover, I had been with her very frequently during her
long, severe illness at Witley in 1879. I was the more
surprised, after our marriage, to find that from the day she
set her foot on Continental soil till the day she returned to
Witley she was never ill--never even unwell. She began at
once to look many years younger. During the eleven years of
our acquaintance I had never seen her so strong in health.
The greater dryness and lightness of the atmosphere seemed to
have a magical effect. At Paris we spent our mornings at the
Louvre or the Luxembourg, looking at pictures or sculpture,
or seeing other sights--always fatiguing work. In the
afternoons we took long walks in the Bois, and very often
went to the theatre in the evening. Reading and writing
filled in all the interstices of time; yet there was no
consciousness of fatigue. And we had the same experience at
all the places we stayed at in Italy. On our way home she was
able to take a great deal of walking exercise at Wildbad and
Baden. Decrease of physical strength coincided exactly with
the time of our return to the damper climate of England. The
specific form of illness did not declare itself until two
months later, but her health was never again the same as it
had been on the Continent. Towards the middle of October she
was obliged to keep her bed, but without restriction as to
amount of reading and talking, which she was always able to
enjoy, except in moments of acute pain.
During her illness I read aloud, among other books, Comte's
"Discours Préliminaire," translated by Dr. Bridges. This
volume was one of her especial favorites, and she delighted
in making me acquainted with it. For all Comte's writing she
had a feeling of high admiration, intense interest, and very
deep sympathy. I do not think I ever heard her speak of any
writer with a more grateful sense of obligation for
enlightenment. Her great debt to him was always thankfully
acknowledged. But the appreciation was thoroughly selective,
so far as I was able to judge. Parts of his teaching were
accepted and other parts rejected. Her attitude towards him,
as the founder of a new religion, may be gathered from the
references and allusions in the foregoing correspondence, and
from the fact that for many years, and up to the time of her
death, she subscribed to the Comtist Fund, but never, so far
as I am aware, more directly associated herself with the
members of the Positivist Church. It was a limited adherence.
We generally began our reading at Witley with some chapters
of the Bible, which was a very precious and sacred book to
her, not only from early associations, but also from the
profound conviction of its importance in the development of
the religious life of man. She particularly enjoyed reading
aloud some of the finest chapters of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and
St. Paul's Epistles. With a naturally rich, deep voice,
rendered completely flexible by constant practice; with the
keenest perception of the requirements of emphasis, and with
the most subtile modulations of tone, her reading threw a
glamour over indifferent writing, and gave to the greatest
writing fresh meanings and beauty. The Bible and our elder
English poets best suited the organ-like tones of her voice,
which required, for their full effect, a certain solemnity
and majesty of rhythm. Her reading of Milton was especially
fine; and I shall never forget four great lines of the
"Samson Agonistes" to which it did perfect justice--
"But what more oft in nations grown corrupt,
And by their vices brought to servitude,
Than to love bondage more than liberty,
Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty."
The delighted conviction of justice in the thought--the sense
of perfect accord between thought, language, and
rhythm--stimulated the voice of the reader to find the
exactly right tone. Such reading requires for its perfection
a rare union of intellectual, moral, and physical qualities.
It cannot be imitated. It is an art, like singing--a personal
possession that dies with the possessor, and leaves nothing
behind except a memory. Immediately before her illness we had
read, together, the first part of "Faust." Reading the poem
in the original with such an interpreter was the opening of a
new world to me. Nothing in all literature moved her more
than the pathetic situation and the whole character of
Gretchen. It touched her more than anything in Shakespeare.
During the time that we were reading the "Faust" we were also
constantly reading, together, Shakespeare, Milton, and
Wordsworth: some of Scott's novels and Lamb's essays too, in
which she greatly delighted. For graver study we read through
Professor Sayce's "Introduction to the Science of Language."
Philology was a subject in which she was most deeply
interested; and this was my first experience of what seemed
to me a limitless persistency in application. I had noticed
the persistency before, while looking at pictures, or while
hearing her play difficult music; for it was characteristic
of her nature that she took just as great pains to play her
very best to a single unlearned listener as most performers
would do to a room full of critical _cognoscenti_. Professor
Sayce's book was the first which we had read together
requiring very sustained attention ("The Divina Commedia" we
had read in very short bits at a time), and it revealed to me
more clearly the depth of George Eliot's mental
concentration. Continuous thought did not fatigue her. She
could keep her mind on the stretch hour after hour: the body
might give way, but the brain remained unwearied.
Her memory held securely her great stores of reading. Even of
light books her recollections were always crisp, definite,
and vivid. On our way home from Venice, after my illness, we
were reading French novels of Cherbuliez, Alphonse Daudet,
Gustave Droz, George Sand. Most of these books she had read
years before, and I was astonished to find what clear-cut,
accurate impressions had been retained, not only of all the
principal characters, but also of all the subsidiary
personages--even their names were generally remembered. But,
on the other hand, her verbal memory was not always to be
depended on. She never could trust herself to write a
quotation without verifying it.
In foreign languages George Eliot had an experience more
unusual among women than among men. With a complete literary
and scholarly knowledge of French, German, Italian, and
Spanish, she _spoke_ all four languages with difficulty,
though accurately and grammatically; but the mimetic power of
catching intonation and accent was wanting. Greek and Latin
she could read with thorough delight to herself; and Hebrew
was a favorite study to the end of her life. In her younger
days, especially at Geneva, inspired by Professor de la
Rive's lectures, she had been greatly interested in
mathematical studies. At one time she applied herself
heartily and with keen enjoyment to geometry, and she thought
that she might have attained to some excellence in that
branch if she had been able to pursue it. In later days the
map of the heavens lay constantly on her table at Witley, and
she longed for deeper astronomical knowledge. She had a
passion for the stars; and one of the things to which we
looked forward on returning to London was a possible visit to
Greenwich Observatory, as she had never looked through a
great telescope of the first class. Her knowledge of
wild-flowers gave a fresh interest each day to our walks in
the Surrey lanes, as every hedgerow is full of wonders--to
"those who know;" but she would, I think, have disclaimed for
herself real botanical knowledge, except of an elementary
sort.
This wide and varied culture was accompanied with an
unaffected distrust of her own knowledge, with the sense of
how little she really knew, compared with what it was
possible for her to have known, in the world. Her standard
was always abnormally high--it was the standard of an expert;
and she believed in the aphorism that to know any subject
well we must know the details of it.
During our short married life our time was so much divided
between travelling and illness that George Eliot wrote very
little, so that I have but slight personal experience of how
the creative effort affected her. But she told me that, in
all that she considered her best writing, there was a "not
herself," which took possession of her, and that she felt her
own personality to be merely the instrument through which
this spirit, as it were, was acting. Particularly she dwelt
on this in regard to the scene in "Middlemarch" between
Dorothea and Rosamond, saying that, although she always knew
they had, sooner or later, to come together, she kept the
idea resolutely out of her mind until Dorothea was in
Rosamond's drawing-room. Then, abandoning herself to the
inspiration of the moment, she wrote the whole scene exactly
as it stands, without alteration or erasure, in an intense
state of excitement and agitation, feeling herself entirely
possessed by the feelings of the two women. Of all the
characters she had attempted she found Rosamond's the most
difficult to sustain. With this sense of "possession" it is
easy to imagine what the cost to the author must have been of
writing books, each of which has its tragedy. We have seen
the suffering alluded to in the letters on the "Mill on the
Floss," "Felix Holt," and "Romola."
For those who would know the length and the breadth of George
Eliot's intellectual capacity she has written her books. Here
I am only putting down some of my own personal impressions
or recollections, which must be taken for what they are
worth. In doing this I should like to dwell on the
catholicity of her judgment. Singularly free from the spirit
of detraction, either in respect of her contemporaries or her
predecessors, she was always anxious to see the best and the
most noble qualities of human beings or of books, in cases
where she felt some general sympathy notwithstanding
particular disagreements. And it was this wide sympathy, this
understanding of so many points of view, that gained for her
the passionate devotion not only of personal friends, but
also of literary admirers, from the most widely sundered
sections of society. Probably few people have ever received
so many intimate confidences from confidants of such diverse
habits of thought.
This many-sidedness, however, makes it exceedingly difficult
to ascertain, either from her books or from the closest
personal intimacy, what her exact relation was to any
existing religious creed or to any political party. Yet
George Eliot's was emphatically a religious mind. My own
impression is that her whole soul was so imbued with, and her
imagination was so fired by, the scientific spirit of the
age--by the constant rapid development of ideas in the
Western world--that she could not conceive that there was, as
yet, any religious formula sufficient nor any known political
system likely to be final. She had great hope for the future,
in the improvement of human nature by the gradual development
of the affections and the sympathetic emotions, and "by the
slow, stupendous teaching of the world's events," rather than
by means of legislative enactments. Party measures and party
men afforded her no great interest. Representative
government, by numerical majorities, did not appeal to her as
the last word of political wisdom. Generally speaking, she
had little patience with talk about practical politics, which
seemed to her under our present system to be too often very
unpractically handled by ignorant amateurs. The amateur was
always a "stone of stumbling, and a rock of offence." Her
wrath used often to be roused, in late years, by the
increased bitterness in the language of parties, and by the
growing habit of attributing, for political effect, the most
shameful motives to distinguished statesmen.
She was keenly anxious to redress injustices to women, and to
raise their general status in the community. This, she
thought, could best be effected by women improving their
work--ceasing to be amateurs. But it was one of the most
distinctly marked traits in her character that she
particularly disliked everything generally associated with
the idea of a "masculine woman." She was, and as a woman she
wished to be, above all things, feminine--"so delicate with
her needle, and an admirable musician." She was proud, too,
of being an excellent housekeeper--an excellence attained
from knowing how things ought to be done, from her early
training, and from an inborn habit of extreme orderliness.
Nothing offended her more than the idea that because a woman
had exceptional intellectual powers therefore it was right
that she should absolve herself, or be absolved, from her
ordinary household duties.
It will have been seen from the letters that George Eliot was
deeply interested in the higher education of women, and that
she was among the earliest contributors to Girton College.
After meeting Mr. and Mrs. Henry Sidgwick, in September,
1880, when they had gone to reside at the new hall of Newnham
College for a time, she was anxious to be associated in that
work also, but she did not live to carry out the plan
herself. The danger she was alive to in the system of
collegiate education was the possible weakening of the bonds
of family affection and family duties. In her view, the
family life holds the roots of all that is best in our mortal
lot; and she always felt that it is far too ruthlessly
sacrificed in the case of English _men_ by their public
school and university education, and that much more is such a
result to be deprecated in the case of women. But, the
absolute good being unattainable in our mixed condition of
things, those women especially who are obliged to earn their
own living must do their best with the opportunities at their
command, as "they cannot live with posterity," when a more
perfect system may prevail. Therefore, George Eliot wished
God-speed to the women's colleges. It was often in her mind
and on her lips that the only worthy end of all learning, of
all science, of all life, in fact, is, that human beings
should love one another better. Culture merely for culture's
sake can never be anything but a sapless root, capable of
producing at best a shrivelled branch.
In her general attitude towards life George Eliot was neither
optimist nor pessimist. She held to the middle term, which
she invented for herself, of "meliorist." She was cheered by
the hope and by the belief in gradual improvement of the
mass; for in her view each individual must find the better
part of happiness in helping another. She often thought it
wisest not to raise too ambitious an ideal, especially for
young people, but to impress on ordinary natures the immense
possibilities of making a small home circle brighter and
better. Few are born to do the great work of the world, but
all are born to this. And to the natures capable of the
larger effort the field of usefulness will constantly widen.
In her personal bearing George Eliot was seldom moved by the
hurry which mars all dignity in action. Her commanding brows
and deep, penetrating eyes were seconded by the sweet,
restrained, impressive speech, which claimed something like
an awed attention from strangers. But to those very near to
her there was another side of her nature, scarcely suspected
by outside friends and acquaintances. No one could be more
capable of enjoying and of communicating genuine, loving,
hearty, uncontrollable laughter. It was a deep-seated wish,
expressed in the poem of "Agatha"--"I would have young things
merry." And I remember, many years ago, at the time of our
first acquaintance, how deeply it pained her when, in reply
to a direct question, I was obliged to admit that, with all
my admiration for her books, I found them, on the whole,
profoundly sad. But sadness was certainly not the note of her
intimate converse. For she had the distinctively feminine
qualities which lend a rhythm to the movement of life. The
quick sympathy that understands without words; the capacity
for creating a complete atmosphere of loving interest; the
detachment from outside influences; the delight in
everything worthy--even the smallest thing--for its own sake;
the readiness to receive as well as to give impressions; the
disciplined mental habit which can hold in check and conquer
the natural egoism of a massive, powerful personality; the
versatility of mind; the varied accomplishments--these are
characteristics to be found more highly developed among
gifted women than among gifted men. Add to these the crowning
gift of genius, and, in such companionship, we may possess
the world without belonging to it.
The November days had come now--cold and clear. My wife was
able again to enjoy the daily drives and walks on which she
was very dependent for health. The letters continue.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 3d Nov. 1880.]
Since I wrote to you I have been much more ill, and have only, during
the last few days, begun to feel myself recovering strength. But I
have been cared for with something much better than angelic
tenderness. The fine, clear air, if it lasts, will induce us to linger
in the country; and, indeed, I am not yet quite fit to move; for,
though I appear to be quite cured of my main ailment, half my bodily
self has vanished. We are having deliciously clear days here, and I
get out for short drives and walks. I really have nothing to complain
of now except a little lack of strength. I play on the piano again,
and walk with perfect ease. There is a long chapter about myself!
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 7th Nov. 1880.]
Three weeks ago I had a rather troublesome attack, but I am getting
well now, though still reduced and comparatively weak. We shall
probably linger here till near the end of the month, for the autumnal
landscape is very beautiful, and I am not yet quite fit for the
exertion of moving. It is a comfort to think that you can be very
snug through the winter in your nice house. What a pity we are not
within an easy driving distance from you!
Mr. Hall is here to-day. He gave a lecture on Leclaire, the
house-painter in Paris who initiated an excellent plan of co-operative
sharing for his workmen. It has been printed, and when I have another
copy I will send it you. Leclaire is mentioned by John S. Mill in the
notes to his "Political Economy," but had not been otherwise taken
much notice of. Still, you may know all about him.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Burne-Jones, 18th Nov. 1880.]
Thanks for your loving remembrance of me. We have been kept in the
country by two sufficient causes: I have been ill, and the house at
Cheyne Walk has not been ready to receive us. I suppose we shall not
be there till the end of the month instead of the beginning. One of
the good things I look forward to is the sight of your dear face
again. You will see little more than half of me, for nearly half has
been consumed. But I have been nursed with supreme tenderness, and am
daily gaining some strength. Much love to both.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles L. Lewes, 23d Nov. 1880.]
We are lingering here for three reasons: the beauty of the weather,
the unreadiness of the house, and my unfitness to bear the hurry of
moving. I am getting better, but have not yet been able to bear much
exertion.
Thanks for your pretty letter. I do not think I shall have many
returns of Novembers, but there is every prospect that such as remain
to me will be as happy as they can be made by the devoted tenderness
which watches over me. Your years will probably be many, and it is
cheering to me to think that you have many springs of happiness in
your lot that are likely to grow fuller with advancing time.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 28th Nov. 1880.]
I have thought of you all the more because I have not even heard
anything of you for several months. You will wonder less why I have
not written, as a consequence of those thoughts, when I tell you that
I have been ill, and not allowed to do anything but indulge myself and
receive indulgence. I am very well now, and am every day consciously
gathering strength, so that, if I could like giving trouble, I should
look back on my illness as a great opportunity of enjoying the
tenderest watching and nursing. I kept my bed only about a week, and
have always been equal, except at short intervals, to much reading and
talking, so that there is no fair cause for any grumbling on my part.
It has not been so bad an illness as that of last summer. You see we
are not yet at Cheyne Walk, but we are to be settled there by the end
of next week. I have had no trouble, but have remained here on my
cushions while Mr. Cross has gone early for several mornings running
to superintend the removal. It is difficult to give you materials for
imagining my "world." Think of me as surrounded and cherished by
family love; by brothers and sisters whose characters are admirable to
me, and who have for years been my friends. But there is no excessive
visiting among us, and the life of my own hearth is chiefly that of
dual companionship. If it is any good for me that my life has been
prolonged till now, I believe it is owing to this miraculous affection
which has chosen to watch over me.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1880.]
_Dec. 3._--Came to 4 Cheyne Walk.
_Dec. 4._--Went to Popular Concert at St. James's Hall. Heard Madame
Neruda, Piatti, and Miss Zimmermann.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 6th Dec. 1880.]
Only on Friday evening did we get into this new house, and I had
deferred writing to you till I could say "Come and see me." I can say
so now, but on reflection I have come to the conclusion that you would
like yourself to fix a time beforehand, the journey here being rather
long. Perhaps you will like to choose a day on which you could go to
Emily also, her house being less formidably distant--across the park
and down Sloane Street would be an easy way to us. This week we shall
be much engaged in household matters, such as the reduction to order
of the chaos which still reigns in certain places least obvious to
visitors, and the procuring of small objects, either necessary or
desirable. But after this week I shall be most glad if you and Dr.
Congreve will come to see us just _as_ and _when_ you would find the
least inconvenience in doing so--either at lunch-time (half-past one)
or at a later hour.
I find myself in a new climate here--the London air and this
particular house being so warm compared with Witley. I hope that you
too find the air mild, for I know that suits you best.
Dr. and Mrs. Congreve paid their promised visit the week
after this letter was written; and Madame Belloc lunched with
us the following day. Order was beginning to reign in the new
house. The books had all been arranged as nearly as possible
in the same order that they had occupied at the Priory, Mr.
Radermacher of the Pantechnicon having given his personal
attention to this arrangement of some thousands of volumes,
for which George Eliot was particularly grateful.
Notwithstanding all this care, however, there were many
unforeseen details of furnishing still to be completed, which
caused a considerable expenditure of time. We continued
reading aloud Max Müller's "Lectures on the Science of
Language," and Duffield's translation of "Don Quixote;" we
were also reading "Hermann and Dorothea," Tennyson's last
volume of poems, just published, and Mr. Frederic Myers's
volume on Wordsworth. In the evenings we had always a little
feast of music, and were becoming in every way reconciled to
town life, notwithstanding the loss of country quiet, light,
and beauty. On the afternoon of Friday, the 17th December, we
went to see the "Agamemnon" performed in Greek by Oxford
undergraduates. The representation was a great enjoyment--an
exciting stimulus--and my wife proposed that during the
winter we should read together some of the great Greek
dramas. The following afternoon we went to the Saturday
Popular Concert at St. James's Hall. It was a cold day. The
air in the hall was overheated, and George Eliot allowed a
fur cloak which she wore to slip from her shoulders. I was
conscious of a draught, and was afraid of it for her, as she
was very sensitive to cold. I begged her to resume the cloak,
but, smiling, she whispered that the room was really too hot.
In the evening she played through several of the pieces that
we had heard at the concert, with all her accustomed
enjoyment of the piano, and with a touch as true and as
delicate as ever. On Sunday there was very slight trouble in
the throat, but not sufficient to prevent her from coming
down-stairs to breakfast as usual. In the afternoon she was
well enough to receive visits from Mr. Herbert Spencer and
one or two other friends. Afterwards she began the following
letter to Mrs. Strachey. It was left unfinished in her
writing-case, and is printed as it stands.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Strachey, 19th Dec. 1880.]
I have been thinking so much of Lady Colvile, and yet I shrank from
troubling even your more indirect sympathetic sorrow with a letter. I
am wondering how far her health is in a state to endure this loss--a
loss which extends even to me, who only occasionally saw, but was
always cheered by, the expression of a wise and sweet nature, which
clearly shone in Sir James Colvile's manner and conversation. One
great comfort I believe she has--that of a sister's affection.
Here the letter is broken off. The pen which had delighted
and comforted so many minds and hearts here made its last
mark. The spring, which had broadened out into so wide a
river of speech, ceased to flow.
Little more remains to be told. On Monday the doctor treated
the case as one of laryngeal sore throat; and when Dr. Andrew
Clark came for consultation on Wednesday evening the
pericardium was found to be seriously affected. While the
doctors were at her bedside she had just time to whisper to
me, "Tell them I have great pain in the left side," before
she became unconscious. Her long illness in the autumn had
left her no power to rally. She passed away, about ten
o'clock at night, on the 22d December, 1880.
She died, as she would herself have chosen to die, without
protracted pain, and with every faculty brightly vigorous.
Her body rests in Highgate Cemetery, in the grave next to Mr.
Lewes. In sleet and snow, on a bitter day--the 29th
December--very many whom she knew, very many whom she did not
know, pressed to her grave-side with tributes of tears and
flowers.
Her spirit joined that choir invisible "whose music is the
gladness of the world."
FOOTNOTES:
[35] Madame Belloc.
[36] Mrs. Charles Lewes.
[37] "The Ethics of George Eliot's Works," by J. C. Brown. Blackwood:
1879.
[38] Article on G. H. Lewes.--_New Quarterly Review_, Oct. 1879.
[39] "George Henry Lewes Studentship."--This studentship has been
founded in memory of Mr. George Henry Lewes, for the purpose of
enabling the holder for the time being to devote himself wholly to the
prosecution of original research in physiology. The studentship, the
value of which is slightly under £200 per annum, paid quarterly in
advance, is tenable for three years, during which time the student is
required to carry on, under the guidance of a director, physiological
investigations, to the complete exclusion of all other professional
occupations. No person will be elected as a "George Henry Lewes
Student" who does not satisfy the trustees and director, first, as to
the promise of success in physiological inquiry; and, second, as to
the need of pecuniary assistance. Otherwise all persons of both sexes
are eligible. Applications, together with such information concerning
ability and circumstances as the candidate may think proper, should be
sent to the present director, Dr. Michael Foster, New Museums,
Cambridge, not later than October 15, 1879. The appointment will be
made and duly advertised as soon as possible after that date.
[40] Mr. John Blackwood died on 29th October, 1879.
[41] Madame Belloc.
[42] Mrs. Hall.
[43] Mrs. Isaac Evans (since deceased).
[44] Rev. Frederick Evans, Rector of Bedworth.
[45] Madame Belloc.
[46] Mr. Geddes's death.
[47] Now Sir Andrew Clark.
INDEX.
"Abode of Snow," by Andrew Wilson, iii. 190.
A breezy common, iii. 108.
"Adam Bede," progress of, i. 338;
second volume finished in Dresden, ii. 42;
£800 offered for copyright for four years, 47;
its history, 48-52;
author's love of, 51;
subscription to, 59;
cheap edition suggested by working man, 66;
sale increasing, 67, 68;
quoted in House of Commons, 69;
French translation proposed, 73;
additional £400 from publishers, 80;
fourth edition (5000) sold in a fortnight, 88;
sixth edition, 96;
seventh edition (2000), 101;
Blackwoods propose to pay £800 above agreed price, 101;
16,000 copies sold in one year, 105;
copyright conceded, 111;
third volume written in six weeks, 113.
"Adam Bede, Junior," a sequel, advertised, ii. 104.
"Address to the Working Men," by Felix Holt, iii. 18.
Adler, Dr. Hermann, appreciation of Jewish character in "Deronda,"
iii. 207;
lecture on "Deronda" by, 215.
Æsthetic teaching the highest of all teaching, ii. 318.
Æsthetic, the, not a doctrinal teacher, iii. 237.
Afghanistan, effect of the sad news from, iii. 278.
"Agatha" sold to Fields & Osgood for _Atlantic Monthly_, iii. 63.
Aix to Vevey, journey to, iii. 205.
Allbut, Dr. Clifford, Leeds, iii. 41, 42.
Allingham, William, letter to, on Midland dialect, iii. 218;
on his poems, 226.
Altruism, the need of, iii. 178, 179.
Amalfi, grand drive, ii. 153.
America, interest in, i. 219;
the war in, anxiety regarding, ii. 242;
delight in descriptions of, iii. 115;
invited to visit, 118.
Amsterdam, Jewish synagogues in, ii. 317.
"An Inquiry concerning the Origin of Christianity," by Charles
Hennell, influence of, on George Eliot, i. 68;
read again with admiration, 119.
Anders, Mr., apologizes for the Liggins business, ii. 78.
Antwerp, pictures at, i. 239, 240.
Apennines, across the, ii. 168.
Application, persistence in, iii. 304.
Appreciation of Dickens's letter, ii. 6.
Ardennes, journey to the, iii. 176.
"Aristotle," by G. H. Lewes, ii. 271.
"Armgart," a dramatic poem, iii. 85.
Art, the function of, iii. 144;
purpose in, 144.
Articles written by Mr. Lewes, iii. 260, 261;
by military men, 265.
Ashantee War, the, iii. 157.
Asher's cheap editions of "George Eliot," iii. 124.
Atkinson, Mr., i. 193.
Australia, proposed visit to, i. 221.
Authors and booksellers, meeting of, i. 201.
Authorship acknowledged to the Brays and Miss Hennell, ii. 83.
Autobiography, repugnance to, iii. 221.
Autumn, love for, i. 67; ii. 263, 264.
"A Word for the Germans," ii. 288.
Aytoun, Professor, admiration of "Gilfil's Love-Story," i. 326;
on "Adam Bede," ii. 81.
Bâle, a morning in, ii. 87.
Ballot, dislike of the, iii. 49;
the first experiment of the, 161.
Balzac, a saying of, iii, 41.
Bancroft, American Minister, Berlin, on "Middlemarch," iii. 157.
Bank of England visited, iii. 176.
"Beata," by T. A. Trollope, ii. 239.
Bedworth, country about, i. 5-7.
Beesley, Professor Edmund Spencer, iii. 64.
Bellagio and the Splügen Pass, ii. 181.
Benisch, Dr., editor of _Jewish Chronicle_, iii. 216.
Berlin, popularity of "Middlemarch" in, iii. 157.
Berlin, visit to the _Charité_, iii. 77;
society and music at, 77;
increase in luxury in, 78.
Berlin recollections: meets Varnhagen, i. 251, 252;
impressions of the city, 251;
new acquaintances, 253;
portrait of Kleist, 253;
Fräulein Solmar's _salon_, 253;
General Pfuhl, 254;
Baron Sternberg, 254;
"Lisez les Chroniques," 254;
Professor Gruppe, 255, 263;
Waagen on Goethe, 256;
Edward Magnus, 257;
celebrities, 258;
Professor Stahr, 258, 263;
Schiller's portrait, 258;
Rauch the sculptor, 258;
his atelier, 259, 260;
Dessoir the actor, 260;
"Nathan der Weise," 261;
Johanna Wagner, 261;
Gluck's "Orpheus," 261;
Roger and Arabella Goddard, 264;
Vivier anecdotes, 264, 265;
works of art, 265;
evenings in, 266;
_table d'hôte_, reading between the courses, 266;
work at and books read, 268;
translating Spinoza's "Ethics," 268;
remarks on books read, 270;
return to England, 271.
Bethnal Green, pictures at, iii. 128.
Biarritz, its natural beauties, iii. 2;
the Chambre de l'Amour, 2;
journey to Barcelona from, 4.
Bible and the Liturgy of the English Church, ii. 226.
Bible reading, iii. 302.
Bickley, country-house at, iii. 152.
Birthday greetings, iii. 47.
Bishop Steignton, visit to, i. 185.
Blackie, Professor, Edinburgh, letter of sympathy from, ii. 111, 113.
_Blackwood's Magazine_ on "Adam Bede," ii. 70.
Blackwood, John, his favorable opinion of "Amos Barton," i. 302;
accepts it for "Maga," 304;
receives kind letter from author, 307;
cautions regarding "huddling up stories," 319;
not enthusiastic about "Janet's Repentance," 326;
calls on Lewes, and George Eliot reveals herself, ii. 10;
letter from George Eliot on artistic combination, 31;
offers £800 for copyright of "Adam Bede" for four years, 47;
letter to, regarding Liggins, 73;
his liberal treatment of George Eliot, 102;
proposals for "Mill on the Floss," 110;
concedes copyright of "Adam Bede," 111;
suggests title of "Mill on the Floss," 112;
letter from author on finishing "Mill on the Floss," 114;
letter to, from George Eliot at Berne, 182, 183;
do. from Florence, 218;
offers £5000 for "Felix Holt," 308;
letters to, about "Spanish Gypsy," iii. 16, 26;
about Scott Commemoration, 97;
"Middlemarch," 103;
his favorable impressions of "Middlemarch," 106;
letter to, from Homburg, 123;
New Year's greetings from George Eliot, 138;
letter on "Middlemarch," 153;
on another book simmering in her head, 157;
on corrected edition of "Spanish Gypsy," 161, 162;
letter to, with volume of poems, 164;
on printing of "Deronda," 190, 191, 197;
on re-reading "Romola," 217, 218;
offers for second ten-years' copyright, 230;
letter to, declining invitation to Strathtyrum, 237;
on her continued ill-health, 244;
his death, 276.
Blackwood, Major, his opinion of "Amos Barton," i. 306;
hopeful about the "Scenes," 342;
calls on Lewes, and suspects identity of George Eliot, 342;
letter regarding the Liggins affair, ii. 81;
letter from author on "Mill on the Floss," 167.
Blackwood, William, his favorable news of "Clerical Life," ii. 116;
letter to, on Mr. Lewes's illness, iii. 239;
on "Theophrastus Such," 254, 263, 271.
Blanc, Louis, anecdote of, i. 195.
Bodichon, Madame, discovers author of "Adam Bede," ii. 77;
letters to: on artistic combinations, 93;
on Mrs. Gaskell's letter, 107;
the rewards of the artist, 107;
on settling in London, 198;
on religious forms and ceremonies, 205;
on the necessity of sympathy, 268;
on her Spanish tour, iii. 4;
on cheerfulness, 172;
on "Deronda," 198;
on woman's work, 208;
on her illness, 225;
on improvement in health, 252;
letter regarding "Lewes Studentship," 267;
letter announcing her marriage, 283;
on sympathy with marriage, 289.
Bohn, Madame, visit from, ii. 293.
Bologna, its pictures and churches, ii. 169;
the leaning towers, 170.
Bonham-Carter, Miss, letter to, from Madame Bodichon, iii. 264.
Bonheur, Rosa, her pictures, i. 333.
Books belong to successive mental phases, ii. 211.
Books read at Malvern, 1861, ii. 228-230, 234-236.
Books read, with remarks on, i. 268-271, 322, 341, 344; ii. 58, 299;
iii. 25, 41, 68, 71, 72.
Booksellers and authors, meeting of, i. 201.
Bookstalls, literary taste at, iii. 51.
Brabant, Miss, i. 85.
Bracebridge, Mr., and Liggins, ii. 99.
Bray, Charles, his work, "The Philosophy of Necessity," i. 67;
influence of his opinions, 68;
words of affection in time of depression, 135;
letter to, on rumors of authorship, ii. 13.
Bray, Mrs., letters to: on favorite books, i. 86;
reading and music, 87;
poetry of Christianity, 93;
chameleon-like nature, 158;
orthodox friends, 162;
anxiety for letters, 164;
need of encouragement, 165;
life in Geneva, 169, 170;
Christmas wishes, 174;
severe winter, 175;
yearning for friends at home, 175;
a singular advertisement, 195;
_Westminster_ reviewers, 199;
love for music, 202;
feels well and "plucky," 207;
in Edinburgh again, 211;
pleasant travelling, 213;
a Saturday's work, 214;
work in the Strand, 215;
domestic grievances, 229;
view of union with Mr. Lewes, 235;
on careless cooking, 316;
on the charms of Richmond Park, 326;
unbelief in others' love, 337;
authorship acknowledged to, ii. 83;
recollections of journey of 1849, 191;
asking for music, 241;
on her "Physiology for Schools," 267;
on writing poetry instead of novels, iii. 31;
on happiness in recovery, 313.
Bremer, Frederica, i. 188, 190.
Brewing interest in Parliament, the, iii. 188, 189.
Brewster, Sir David, i. 190.
Bridges, Dr., Leeds, iii. 42.
Bright on Ireland, iii. 56.
Brittany, trip to, ii. 296.
Broadstairs, delight with, i. 205.
Brodie, Sir Benjamin, iii. 80.
Brontë, Charlotte, life of, i. 317.
Brooks, Shirley, delighted with "Adam Bede," ii. 70.
"Brother Jacob" written, ii. 199.
"Brother and Sister," sonnets, iii. 70.
Brougham, Lord, a delicious _non sequitur_, i. 214.
Brown, Dr. John, sends "Rab and his Friends" to author of "Adam
Bede," ii. 60;
kindly letter in reply, 60.
Brown, J. C., "Ethics of George Eliot's Works," iii. 266.
Browne, Dr., chemist, Edinburgh, i. 195.
Browning, first visit from, ii. 249;
"Elisha," iii. 56.
Browning, Mrs., her "Casa Guidi Windows", ii. 243.
Buchanan, Robert, his "David Grey," ii. 273.
Buckle, personal dislike to, ii. 47.
Buckle's "History of Civilization," i. 341, 345.
Buckle's ideal not George Eliot's, ii. 220.
Bulstrode, new view of, iii. 133.
Bunyan, reading again with pleasure, ii. 105.
Burne-Jones, Edward, letter to, on the function of art, iii. 144.