metamorphosis into the clerical form. Rather a paradoxical specimen, if
you observe him narrowly: a sort of cross between a sycophant and a
psalmist, a poet whose imagination is alternately fired by the "Last
Day" and by a creation of peers, who fluctuate between rhapsodic
applause of King George and rhapsodic applause of Jehovah. After
spending "a foolish youth, the sport of peers and poets," after being a
hanger-on of the profligate Duke of Wharton, after aiming in vain at a
parliamentary career, and angling for pensions and preferment with
fulsome dedications and fustian odes, he is a little disgusted with his
imperfect success, and has determined to retire from the general
mendicancy business to a particular branch; in other words, he has
determined on that renunciation of the world implied in "taking
orders," with the prospect of a good living and an advantageous
matrimonial connection. And no man can be better fitted for an
Established Church. He personifies completely her nice balance of
temporalities and spiritualities. He is equally impressed with the
momentousness of death and of burial fees; he languishes at once for
immortal life and for "livings;" he has a vivid attachment to patrons
in general, but on the whole prefers the Almighty. He will teach, with
something more than official conviction, the nothingness of earthly
things; and he will feel something more than private disgust if his
meritorious efforts in directing man's attention to another world are
not rewarded by substantial preferment in this. His secular man
believes in cambric bands and silk stockings as characteristic attire
for "an ornament of religion and virtue;" hopes courtiers will never
forgot to copy Sir Robert Walpole; and writes begging letters to the
King's mistress. His spiritual man recognizes no motives more familiar
than Golgotha and the skies; it walks in graveyards, or it soars among
the stars. His religion exhausts itself in ejaculations and rebukes,
and knows no medium between the ecstatic and the sententious. If it
were not for the prospect of immortality, he considers it would be wise
and agreeable to be indecent or to murder one's father; and, heaven
apart, it would be extremely irrational in any man not to be a knave.
Man, he thinks, is a compound of the angel and the brute; the brute is
to be humbled by being reminded of its "relation to the stalls," and
frightened into moderation by the contemplation of death-beds and
skulls; the angel is to be developed by vituperating this world and
exalting the next; and by this double process you get the
Christian--"the highest style of man." With all this, our new-made
divine is an unmistakable poet. To a clay compounded chiefly of the
worldling and the rhetorician, there is added a real spark of
Promethean fire. He will one day clothe his apostrophes and
objurgations, his astronomical religion and his charnel-house morality,
in lasting verse, which will stand, like a Juggernaut made of gold and
jewels, at once magnificent and repulsive; for this divine is Edward
Young, the future author of _Night Thoughts_.
She says, "One of the most striking characteristics of Young is his
_radical insincerity as a poetic artist_."
Indeed, we remember no mind in poetic literature that seems to have
absorbed less of the beauty and the healthy breath of the common
landscape than Young's. His images, often grand and finely presented,
lie almost entirely within that circle of observation which would be
familiar to a man who lived in town, hung about the theatres, read the
newspaper, and went home often by moon and star light. There is no
natural object nearer than the moon that seems to have any strong
attraction for him, and even to the moon he chiefly appeals for
patronage, and "pays his court" to her.... He describes nothing so well
as a comet, and is tempted to linger with fond detail over nothing more
familiar than the day of judgment and an imaginary journey among the
stars.... The adherence to abstractions, or to the personification of
abstractions, is closely allied in Young to the _want of genuine
emotion_. He sees Virtue sitting on a mount serene, far above the mists
and storms of earth: he sees Religion coming down from the skies, with
this world in her left hand and the other world in her right; but we
never find him dwelling on virtue or religion as it really exists--in
the emotions of a man dressed in an ordinary coat, and seated by his
fireside of an evening, with his hand resting on the head of his little
daughter, in courageous effort for unselfish ends, in the internal
triumph of justice and pity over personal resentment, in all the
sublime self-renunciation and sweet charities which are found in the
details of ordinary life.
In these essays there are various indications of her religious opinions,
and those of a decided character. In that on Dr. Cumming, she has this word
to say of the rationalistic conception of the Bible:
He seems to be ignorant, or he chooses to ignore the fact, that there
is a large body of eminently instructed and earnest men who regard the
Hebrew and Christian scriptures as a series of historical documents, to
be dealt with according to the rules of historical criticism, and that
an equally large number of men, who are not historical critics, find
the dogmatic scheme built on the letter of the scriptures, opposed to
their profoundest moral convictions.
This statement is suggestive of her position on religious subjects:
The best minds that accept Christianity as a divinely inspired system,
believe that the great end of the Gospel is not merely the saving but
the educating of men's souls, the creating within them of holy
dispositions, the subduing of egoistical pretensions, and the perpetual
enhancing of the desire that the will of God--a will synonymous with
goodness and truth--may be done on earth. But what relation to all this
has a system of interpretation which keeps the mind of the Christian in
the position of a spectator at a gladiatorial show, of which Satan is
the wild beast in the shape of a great red dragon, and two thirds of
mankind the victims--the whole provided and got up by God for the
edification of the saints?
She calls Dr. Cumming's teachings "the natural crop of a human mind where
the soil is chiefly made up of egoistic passions and dogmatic beliefs."
Then she deals with that belief in this trenchant fashion:
Happily, the constitution of human nature forbids the complete
prevalence of such a theory. Fatally powerful as religious systems have
been, human nature is stronger and wider than religious systems, and
though dogmas may hamper, they cannot absolutely repress its growth:
build walls around the living tree as you will, the bricks and mortar
have by and by to give way before the slow and sure operation of the
sap. But next to the hatred of the enemies of God which is the
principle of persecution, there perhaps has been no perversion more
obstructive of true moral development than this substitution of a
reference to the glory of God for the direct promptings of the
sympathetic feelings. Benevolence and justice are strong only in
proportion as they are directly and inevitably called into activity by
their proper objects; pity is strong only because we are strongly
impressed by suffering; and only in proportion as it is compassion that
speaks through the eyes when we soothe, and moves the arm when we
succor, is a deed strictly benevolent. If the soothing or the succor be
given because another being wishes or approves it, the deed ceases to
be one of benevolence, and becomes one of deference, of obedience, of
self-interest, or vanity. Accessory motives may aid in producing an
action, but they presuppose the weakness of the direct motive; and
conversely, when the direct motive is strong, the actions of accessory
motives will be excluded.
In writing of Young she says,--
The God of the _Night Thoughts_ is simply Young himself "writ large"--a
didactic poet, who "lectures" mankind in the antithetic hyperbole of
mortal and immortal joys, earth and the stars, hell and heaven, and
expects the tribute of inexhaustible applause. Young has no conception
of religion as anything else than egoism turned heavenward; and he does
not merely imply this, he insists on it.
She contrasts Young with Cowper, preferring the latter because he dwells
more on the things of a common and simple life.
In Young we have the type of that deficient human sympathy, that
impiety toward the present and the visible, which flies for its
motives, its sanctities, and its religion, to the remote, the vague and
unknown: in Cowper we have the type of that genuine love which
cherishes things in proportion to their nearness, and feels its
reverence grow in proportion to the intimacy of its knowledge.
This warm human sympathy is all she cares for in religion.
See how a lovely, sympathetic nature manifests itself in spite of creed
and circumstance! Where is the poem that surpasses the _Task_ in the
genuine love it breathes, at once toward inanimate and animate
existence--in truthfulness of perception and sincerity of
presentation--in the calm gladness that springs from a delight in
objects for their own sake, without self-reference--in divine sympathy
with the lowliest pleasures, with the most shortlived capacity for
pain? Here is no railing at the earth's "melancholy map," but the
happiest lingering over her simplest scenes with all the fond
minuteness that belongs to love; no pompous rhetoric about the
inferiority of the brutes, but a warm plea on their behalf against
man's inconsiderateness and cruelty, and a sense of enlarged happiness
from their companionship in enjoyment; no vague rant about human misery
and human virtue, but that close and vivid presentation of particular
deeds and misdeeds, which is the direct road to the emotions. How
Cowper's exquisite mind falls with the mild warmth of morning sunlight
on the commonest objects, at once disclosing every detail and investing
every detail with beauty! No object is too small to prompt his song--
not the sooty film on the bars, or the spoutless teapot holding a bit
of mignonette that serves to cheer the dingy town lodging with a "hint
that nature lives;" and yet his song is never trivial, for he is alive
to small objects, not because his mind is narrow, but because his
glance is clear and his heart is large.
Her contributions to the _Westminster Review_ indicate that Marian Evans
had read much and well, and that she was possessed of a thoroughly
cultivated mind and much learning. To their preparation she gave herself
diligently, writing slowly, after a careful study of her subject and much
thought devoted to a faithful thinking out of all its parts. It has been
many times suggested that these articles gave indication only of learning
and studious effort. They certainly give strong hint of these, but also of
much more. That on human life shows how much she had thought, and how
thoroughly and philosophically, on one of the largest problems; while the
one on Heine indicates her penetrating literary judgment and her capacity
for analysis and interpretation. These essays are not mere compilations,
mere digests of learned information; they are studies of large subjects
done in a large and inspiring manner. Her essays on the poet Young and Dr.
Cumming, and the two on lady novelists, as well as that on Heine, show many
indications of that subtle power and that true genius which were displayed
in her later work. There was genius displayed in these articles, without
doubt, and genius of a high order. It was genius not as yet aware of
itself, and not yet at the height of its power and capable of its truest
expression, but genius nevertheless. Many of the most striking
characteristics of her novel-writing were shown in these essays. Here was
the same love of common human life; the same interest in its humbler forms
and expressions; the like penetrating analysis and subtle portrayal of
character; a psychological method of the same probing and comprehensive
nature. Her main philosophical ideas were indicated here, though not given
that clear and incisive expression they afterwards received. When she wrote
of the natural history of German life she indicated in the very title of
her essay one of her main theories, and her conception of man as a social
being was brought out in it. These essays fully indicate that her opinions
were already formed, that the leading ideas she was to give expression to
in her novels had been arrived at by diligent study and thought, and that
she had equipped herself with ample reasons for the acceptance of the
opinions she held. Their chief defect is in their occasional arrogance of
expression, as if the writer had not yet wholly escaped the superior airs
of the young woman elated with the greatness of her knowledge, and a
certain rudeness and vehemence of statement not seen later. It is a defect
that is not very prominent, but one that is apparent enough to mar some of
the best of these pages. It was one she never wholly outgrew, though in her
novels her large information was usually so managed and subordinated as to
give little annoyance to the intelligent reader.
It must be quite evident to any reader of her _Westminster Review_
contributions, that Marian Evans would never have attained to any such high
literary eminence as an essayist as that which she has secured as a
novelist. Readable as are her essays,--and the five just named are
certainly worthy of a place in her complete works,--yet they are not of the
highest order. She could attain the highest range of her power only when
something far more subtile and intrinsic was concerned. That this is true
may be seen in these essays; for even here she writes the best only when
she has human motives, feelings and aspirations to weigh and explain. That
she could dissect and explain the inner man they made apparent enough; but
her genius demanded also the opportunity to create, to build up a life of
high beauty and purpose from materials of its own construction. Her
_Review_ articles gave her a high place in the eyes of her friends, and
their chief value seems to have been, that they caused these friends to see
that she could do other and better work, and led them to induce her to
apply her genius in a direction more congenial to its capacity.
III.
MARRIAGE.
In 1853 Marian Evans became the wife of George Henry Lewes. He had married
at an early ago a woman possessed of many charms of person. They went to
live in a large house at Kensington with five other young couples, keeping
house on a co-operative arrangement, with many attractions of social
entertainment therewith. One result was the desertion of her home by Mrs.
Lewes in connection with one of the men into whose company she was
constantly thrown by this manner of life. She soon repented, and Lewes
forgave her, receiving her back to his home. A second time, however, she
left him. His having condoned her fault made it impossible for him to
secure a divorce according to the laws of England at that time. He seems to
have done what he could to retain her faithful devotion to her marriage
relations, so long as that seemed possible.
When Lewes and Marian Evans met, on her going to live in London, and after
his wife had deserted him, there sprang up a strong attachment between
them, As they could not be legally married, she agreed to live with him
without that formality.
It is to be said of this affair that George Eliot was very far from looking
at such a problem as Goethe or, George Sand would have looked at it, from
the position of personal inclination. Yet we are told by Miss Blind that
she early entertained liberal views in regard to divorce, believing that
greater freedom in this respect is desirable. There could have been no
passionate individualistic defiance of law in her case, however. No one has
insisted more strongly than she on the importance and the sanctity of the
social regulations in regard to the union of the sexes. That her marriage
was a true one in all but the legal form, that she was faithful to its
every social obligation, has been abundantly shown. She was a most faithful
wife to Lewes, and the devoted mother of his three children by the previous
marriage, while she found in him that strong, self-reliant helpmate she
needed.
Her marriage under these circumstances required no little individualism of
purpose, and some defiance of social obligations. Her intimate friends were
unable to comprehend her conduct, and she was alienated from most of them.
Especially her friends in Coventry were annoyed at such a marriage, and
were not reconciled with her for a long time, and not until they saw that
she had acted with a conscientious purpose. She was excluded from society
by this act, and her marriage was interpreted as a gross violation of
social morality. To a sensitive nature, as hers assuredly was, and to one
who so much valued the confidence of her friends as she did, such exclusion
must have been a serious cross. She freely elected her own course in life,
however, and she never seems to have complained at the results it brought
her. That it saddened her mind seems probable, but there is no outward
evidence that she accepted her lot in a bitter or complaining spirit. No
one could have written of love and marriage in so high and pure a spirit as
everywhere appears in her books with whom passion was in any degree a
controlling influence. In _Adam Bede_ her own conception of wedded love is
expressed out of the innermost convictions and impulses of her own heart,
when she exclaims,--
What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they
are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on
each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be
one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the
last parting.
In _Felix Holt_ there is a passage on this subject which must have come
directly from her own experience, and it gives us a true insight into the
spirit in which she accepted the distrust of friends and the coldness of
the world which her marriage brought her.
A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life,
and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not
to be had when and how she will: to know that high initiation, she must
often tread where it is hard to tread, and feel the chill air, and
watch through darkness. It is not true that love makes all things easy;
it makes us choose what is difficult.
Throughout her novels she exalts marriage, never casts any slur upon it,
treats it as one of the most sacred of all human relations. She makes it
appear as a sacrament, not of the Church, but of the sublime fellowship of
humanity. It is pure, holy, a binding tie, a sacred obligation, as it
appears in her books. When Romola is leaving Florence and her husband, her
love dead and all that made her life seem worthy gone with it, she meets
Savonarola, who bids her return to her home and its duties. What the great
prophet-priest says on this occasion we have every reason to believe
expressed the true sentiments of George Eliot herself. He proclaims, what
she doubtless thoroughly believed, that marriage is something far more than
mere affection, more than love; that its obligation holds when all love is
gone; that its obligation is so sacred and binding as to call for the
fullest measure of renunciation and personal humiliation. As throwing light
on George Eliot's manner of looking at this subject, the whole chapter
which describes the meeting of Romola and Savonarola deserves to be read.
That portion of it in which Savonarola gives his views of marriage may here
be reproduced, not as giving the doctrine of the Church, but as presenting
the positivist conception of marriage as interpreted by George Eliot.
His arresting voice had brought a new condition into her life, which
made it seem impossible toiler that she could go on her way as if she
had not heard it; yet she shrank as one who sees the path she must
take, but sees, too, that the hot lava lies there. And the instinctive
shrinking from a return to her husband brought doubts. She turned away
her eyes from Fra Girolamo, and stood for a minute or two with her
hands hanging clasped before her, like a statue. At last she spoke, as
if the words were being wrung from her, still looking on the ground.
"My husband--he is not--my love is gone!"
"My daughter, there is the bond of a higher love. Marriage is not
carnal only, made for selfish delight. See what that thought leads you
to! It leads you to wander away in a false garb from all the
obligations of your place and name. That would not have been if you had
learned that it is a sacramental vow, from which none but God can
release you. My daughter, your life is not as a grain of sand, to be
blown by the winds; it is as flesh and blood, that dies if it be
sundered. Your husband is not a malefactor?"
Romola flushed and started. "Heaven forbid! No; I accuse him of
nothing."
"I did not suppose he was a malefactor. I meant that if he were a
malefactor your place would be in the prison beside him. My daughter,
if the cross comes to you as a wife, you must carry it as a wife. You
may say, 'I will forsake my husband,' but you cannot cease to be a
wife."
"Yet if--oh, how could I bear--" Romola had involuntarily begun to say
something which she sought to banish from her mind again.
"Make your marriage sorrows an offering, too, my daughter: an offering
to the great work by which sin and sorrow are being made to cease.
The end is sure, and is already beginning. Here in Florence it is
beginning, and the eyes of faith behold it. And it may be our
blessedness to die for it: to die daily by the crucifixion of our
selfish will--to die at last by laying our bodies on the altar. My
daughter, you are a child of Florence; fulfil the duties of that great
inheritance. Live for Florence--for your own people, whom God is
preparing to bless the earth. Bear the anguish and the smart. The iron
is sharp--I know, I know--it rends the tender flesh. The draught is
bitterness on the lips. But there is rapture in the cup--there is the
vision which makes all life below it dross forever. Come, my daughter,
come back to your place!" [Footnote: Chapter XL.]
Again, when Dorothea goes to see Rosamond to intercede in Dr. Lydgate's
behalf with his wife, we have an expression of the sacredness of marriage,
and the renunciation it demands of all that is opposed to its trust and
helpfulness. Dorothea says,--
"Marriage is so unlike everything else. There is something even awful
in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved some one else better
than--than those we were married to, it would be of no use"--poor
Dorothea, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize her language
brokenly--"I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving or
getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be very
dear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with us
like a murder--and everything else is gone. And then our husband--if he
loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in
his life--"
If Marian Evans rejected the sanctions which society has imposed on the
love of man and woman in the legal forms of marriage, it was not in a
wilful and passionate spirit. There are reasons for believing that she was
somewhat touched in her youth with the individualistic theories of the
time, which made so many men and women of genius reject the restraints
imposed by society, as in the case of Goethe, Heine, George Sand, Shelley
and many another; yet she does not appear to have been to more than a very
limited extent influenced by such considerations in regard to her own
marriage. The matter for surprise is, that one who regarded all human
traditions, ceremonies and social obligations as sacred, should have
consented to act in so individualistic a manner. She makes Rufus Lyon
say--and it is her own opinion--that "the right to rebellion is the right
to seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness." Her
marriage, after the initial act, had in it nothing whatever of lawlessness.
She believed there exists a higher rule than that of Parliament, and to
this higher law she submitted. To her this was not a law of self-will and
personal inclination, but the law of nature and social obligation. That she
was not overcome by the German individualistic and social tendencies may be
seen in the article on "Weimar and its Celebrities," in the _Westminster
Review_, where, in writing of Wieland as an educator, she says that the
tone of his books was not "immaculate," and that it was "strangely at
variance, with that sound and lofty morality which ought to form the basis
of every education." She also speaks of the philosophy of that day as "the
delusive though plausible theory that no license of tone, or warmth of
coloring, could injure any really healthy and high-toned mind." In the
article on "Woman in France," she touches on similar theories. As this
article was written just at the time of her marriage, one passage in it may
have a personal interest, and shows her conception of a marriage such as
her own, based on intellectual interest rather than on passionate love. She
is speaking of