impressed me," says this writer, "at first as exceedingly plain, with the
massive character of her features, her aggressive jaw and evasive blue
eyes. But as she grew interested and earnest in conversation, a great light
flashed over or out of her face, till it seemed transfigured, while the
sweetness of her rare smile was something quite indescribable. But she
seemed to me to the last lofty and cold. I felt that her head was among the
stars--the stars of a wintry night." Another American, Miss Kate Field, in
writing of the English authors to be seen in Florence half a dozen years
after George Eliot began her career, was the first to give an account of
this new literary star. "She is a woman of large frame and fair Saxon
coloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatly
resembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of Wordsworth,
judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is gentle and
amiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring. In
conversation Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in young
writers is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of this
class. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she addressed
a young girl who had just begun to handle a pen, how frankly she related
her own literary experience, and how gently she _suggested_ advice. True
genius is always allied to humility; and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the work
of a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman as
much as we had ever admired the writer. 'For years,' said she to us, 'I
wrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity.'"
These sketches by persons who only met her casually have an interest in the
illustration of her character; and they may be added to by still another
account, written by Mrs. Annie Downs, also an American, in 1879, and
describing a visit to George Eliot two years before her death. "Tall,
slender, with a grace most un-English, her face, instead of beauty,
possessed a sweet benignity, and at times flashed into absolute brilliancy.
She was older than I had imagined, for her hair, once fair, was gray, and
unmistakable lines of care and thought were on the low, broad brow. But
although a pang pierced my heart as I recognized that most of her life was
behind her, so intensely did I feel her personality that in a moment I lost
sight of her age; it was like standing soul to soul, and beyond the reach
of time. Dressed in black velvet, with point lace on her hair, and repeated
at throat and wrists, she made me think at once of Romola and Dorothea
Brooke. She talked of Agassiz, of his museum at Cambridge, of the great
natural-history collections at Naples, of Sir Edwin Landseer's pictures,
and with enthusiasm of Mr. Furnival's Shakspere and Chaucer classes at the
Working Men's College... She had quaint etchings of some of the monkeys at
the zoological gardens, and told me she was more interested in them than
any of the other animals, they exhibit traits so distinctly human. She
declared, while her husband and friends laughingly teased her for the
assertion, that she had seen a sick monkey, parched with fever, absolutely
refuse the water he longed for, until the keeper had handed it to a friend
who was suffering more than he. As an illustration of their quickness, she
told me, in a very dramatic manner, of a nurse who shook two of her little
charges for some childish misdemeanor while in the monkey house. No one
noticed the monkeys looking at her, but pretty soon every old monkey in the
house began shaking her children, and kept up the process until the little
monkeys had to be removed for fear their heads would be shaken off. I felt
no incongruity between her conversation and her books. She talked as she
wrote; in descriptive passages, with the same sort of humor, and the same
manner of linking events by analogy and inference. The walls were covered
with pictures. I remember Guido's Aurora, Michael Angelo's prophets,
Raphael's sibyls, while all about were sketches, landscapes and crayon
drawings, gifts from the most famous living painters, many of whom are
friends of the house. A grand piano, opened and covered with music,
indicated recent and continual use."
One of her intimate friends says that "in every line of her face there was
powder, and about her jaw and mouth a prodigious massiveness, which might
well have inspired awe had it not been tempered by the most gracious smile
which ever lighted up human features, and was ever ready to convert what
otherwise might have been terror into fascination!" We are told that "an
extraordinary delicacy pervaded her whole being. She seemed to live upon
air, and the rest of her body was as light and fragile as her countenance
and intellect were massive." One of the results of this large brain and
fragile body was, that she was never vigorous in health. Only her quiet,
simple life, and avoidance of all excitement in regular work, enabled her
to accomplish so much as she did. Her conversation was rich and attractive.
She talked much as she wrote, was a good listener, never obtruded her
opinions, and always had a noble moral purpose in her words.
An American lady has given an interesting account of her home and of her
conversation. "No one," says Mrs. Field, "who had ever seen her could
mistake the large head (her brain must be heavier than most men's) covered
with a mass of rich auburn hair. At first I thought her tall; for one could
not think that such a head could rest on an ordinary woman's shoulders.
But, as she rose up, her figure appeared of but medium height. She received
us very kindly. In seeing, for the first time, one to whom we owed so many
happy hours, it was impossible to feel towards her as a stranger. All
distance was removed by her courtesy. Her manners are very sweet, because
very simple and free from affectation. To me her welcome was the more
grateful as that of one woman to another. There is a sort of free-masonry
among women, by which they understand at once those with whom they have any
intellectual sympathy. A few words, and all reserve was gone. 'Come, sit by
me on this sofa,' she said; and instantly, seated side by side, we were
deep in conversation. It is in such intimacy one feels the magnetism of a
large mind informed by a true woman's heart; then, as the soul shines
through the face, one perceives its intellectual beauty. No portrait can
give the full expression of the eye any more than of the voice. Looking
into that clear, calm eye, one sees a transparent nature, a soul of
goodness and truth, an impression which is deepened as you listen to her
soft and gentle tones. A low voice is said to be an excellent thing in a
woman. It is a special charm of the most finely cultured English ladies.
But never did a sweeter voice fascinate a listener,--so soft and low that
one must almost bend to hear. You can imagine what it was thus to sit for
an hour beside this gifted woman and hear talk of questions interesting to
the women of England and America. But I should do her great injustice if I
gave the impression that there was in her conversation any attempt at
display. There is no wish to shine. She is above that affectation of
brilliancy which is often mere flippancy. Nor does she seek to attract
homage and admiration. On the contrary, she is very averse to speak of
herself, or even to hear the heartfelt praise of others. She does not
engross the conversation, but is more eager to listen than to talk. She has
that delicate tact--which is one of the fine arts among women--to make
others talk, suggesting topics the most rich and fruitful, and by a word
drawing the conversation into a channel where it may flow with broad, free
current. Thus she makes you forget the celebrated author, and think only of
the refined and highly cultivated woman. You do not feel awed by her
genius, but only quickened by it, as something that calls out all that is
better and truer. While there is no attempt to impress you with her
intellectual superiority, you naturally feel elevated into a higher sphere.
The conversation of itself floats upward into a region above the
commonplace. The small-talk of ordinary society would seem an impertinence.
There is a singular earnestness about her, as if those mild eyes looked
deep into the great, sad, awful truths of existence. To her, life is a
serious reality, and the gift of genius a grave responsibility."
Mrs. Lewes was in the habit for many years of receiving her friends on
Sunday afternoons from two to six o'clock. These gatherings came to be
among the most memorable features of London literary life. A large number
of persons, both men and women, attended her receptions, and among them
many who were well known to the scientific or literary world. Especially
were young men of aspiring minds drawn hither and given a larger
comprehension of life. She had no political or fashionable connections,
says Mr. F.W.H. Myers, "but nearly all who were most eminent in art,
science, literature, philanthropy, might be met from time to time at her
Sunday-afternoon receptions. There were many women, too, drawn often from
among very different traditions of thought and belief, by the unfeigned
goodness which they recognized in Mrs. Lewes's look and speech, and
sometimes illumining with some fair young face a _salon_ whose grave talk
needed the grace which they could bestow. And there was sure to be a
considerable admixture of men not as yet famous,--probably never to be
so,--but whom some indication of studies earnestly pursued, of sincere
effort for the good of their fellow-men, had recommended to 'that
hopeful interest which'--to quote a letter of her own--'the elder mind,
dissatisfied with itself, delights to entertain with regard to those
younger, whose years and powers hold a larger measure of unspoiled life.'
It was Mr. Lewes who on these occasions contributed the cheerful
_bonhomie_, the observant readiness, which are necessary for the facing of
any social group. Mrs. Lewes's manner had a grave simplicity, which rose in
closer converse into an almost pathetic anxiety to give of her best--to
establish a genuine human relation between herself and her interlocutor--to
utter words which should remain as an active influence for good in the
hearts of those who heard them. To some of her literary admirers, this
serious tone was distasteful; they were inclined to resent the prominence
given to moral ideas in a quarter from which they preferred to look merely
for intellectual refreshment. Mrs. Lewes's humor, though fed from a deep
perception of the incongruities of human fates, had not, except in intimate
moments, any buoyant or contagious quality, and in all her talk--full of
matter and wisdom, and exquisitely worded as it was--there was the same
pervading air of strenuous seriousness which was more welcome to those
whose object was distinctively to _learn_ from her, than to those who
merely wished to pass an idle and brilliant hour. To her, these mixed
receptions were a great effort. Her mind did not move easily from one
individuality to another, and when she afterward thought that she had
failed to understand some difficulty which had been laid before her,--had
spoken the wrong word to some expectant heart,--she would suffer from
almost morbid accesses of self-reproach." A further idea of these
conversations may be gathered from Mr. Kegan Paul's account. "When London
was full," he says, "the little drawing-room in St. John's Wood was now and
then crowded to overflowing with those who were glad to give their best of
conversation, of information, and sometimes of music, always to listen with
eager attention to whatever their hostess might say, when all that she said
was worth hearing. Without a trace of pedantry, she led the conversation to
some great and lofty strain. Of herself and her works she never spoke; of
the works and thoughts of others she spoke with reverence, and sometimes
even too great tolerance. But these afternoons had the highest pleasure
when London was empty, or the day was wet, and only a few friends were
present, so that her conversation assumed a more sustained tone than was
possible when the rooms were full of shifting groups. It was then that,
without any premeditation, her sentences fell as fully formed, as wise, as
weighty, as epigrammatic, as any to be found in her books. Always ready,
but never rapid, her talk was not only good in itself, but it encouraged
the same in others, since she was an excellent listener, and eager to
hear."
At these gatherings the most noted of the English disciples of Comte were
to be found, and among them Frederic Harrison, Prof. E.S. Beesley, Dr.
Congrove, the director of the London Church of Humanity, and Prof. W.K.
Clifford. The English positivists were represented by Herbert Spencer,
Prof. T.H. Huxley and Moncure D. Conway. The realistic school of poets and
artists came in the persons of its most representative men. Dante Rosetti
and Millais, Tourguénief and Burne Jones, DuMaurier and Dr. Hueffner
illustrated most of its phases. The great world of general literature sent
Sir Arthur Helps, Sir Theodore Martin, Anthony Trollope, C.G. Leland,
Justin McCarthy, Frederic Myers, Prof. Mark Pattison and many another. The
rarer guests included Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning. It was no
inconsiderable influence which could draw together such a company and hold
it together for many years. Of the part played in these gatherings by the
hosts, Miss Mathilde Blind has given an account. Lewes acted "as a social
cement. His vivacity, his ready tact, the fascination of his manners,
diffused that general sense of ease and _abandon_ so requisite to foster an
harmonious flow of conversation. He was inimitable as a _raconteur_, and
Thackeray, Trollope and Arthur Helps were fond of quoting some of the
stories which he would dramatize in the telling. One of the images which,
on these occasions, recurs oftenest to George Eliot's friends is that of
the frail-looking woman who would sit with her chair drawn close to the
fire, and whose winning womanliness of bearing and manners struck every one
who had the privilege of an introduction to her. Her long, pale face, with
its strongly marked features, was less rugged in the mature prime of life
than in youth, the inner meanings of her nature having worked themselves
more and more to the surface, the mouth, with its benignant suavity of
expression, especially softening the too prominent under lip and massive
jaw. Her abundant hair, untinged with gray, whose smooth bands made a kind
of frame to the face, was covered by a lace or muslin cap, with lappets of
rich point or Valenciennes lace fastened under her chin. Her gray-blue
eyes, under noticeable eyelashes, expressed the same acute sensitiveness as
her long, thin, beautifully shaped hands. She had a pleasant laugh and
smile, her voice being low, distinct, and intensely sympathetic in quality;
it was contralto in singing, but she seldom sang or played before more than
one or two friends. Though her conversation was perfectly easy, each
sentence was as finished, as perfectly formed, as the style of her
published works."
Among the persons who gathered at The Priory on Sunday afternoons there
came to be a considerable number of those who were Mrs. Lewes's devoted
disciples. They hung upon her words, they accepted her views of life, her
philosophy became theirs. That she would have admitted such discipleship
existed there is no reason to believe, and it is certain she did not
attempt to bring it about or even desire it. So great, however, was her
power of intellect, so noble her personal influence, it was impossible that
ardent young natures could refrain from devotion to such genius and speedy
acceptance of its teachings. The richness of her moral and intellectual
nature aided largely in this heroine worship, but she impressed herself on
other minds because she was so much an individual, because her personality
was of a kind to command reverence and devotion. It was not merely young
and impulsive natures who were thus attracted and inspired, for Edith
Simcox says that "men and women, old friends and new, persons of her own
age and of another generation, the married and the single, impulsive
lovers and hard-headed philosophers, nay, even some who elsewhere might
have passed for cynics, all classes alike yielded to the attractive force
of this rare character, in which tenderness and strength were blended
together, and as it were transfused with something that was all her
own--the genius of sweet goodness." Perhaps her influence was so great on
those it reached because it demanded high and noble life and thought of her
disciples. Her moral ideal was a high one, and she had literary and
artistic standards that demanded all the effort of both genius and talent,
while her culture was such as to be exacting in its requirements. So we
find Miss Simcox saying that Mrs. Lewes, in her friendships, "had the
unconscious exactingness of a full nature. She was intolerant of a vacuum
in the mind or character, and she was indifferent to admiration that did
not seem to have its root in fundamental agreement with those principles
she held to be most 'necessary to salvation.' Where this sympathy existed,
her generous affection was given to a fellow-believer, a fellow-laborer,
with singularly little reference to the fact that such full sympathy was
never unattended with profound love and reverence for herself as a living
witness to the truth and power of the principles thus shared. To love her
was a strenuous pleasure; for in spite of the tenderness for all human
weakness that was natural to her, and the scrupulous charity of her overt
judgments, the fact remained that her natural standard was ruthlessly out
of reach, and it was a painful discipline for her friends to feel that she
was compelled to lower it to suit their infirmities. The intense humility
of her self-appreciation, and the unfeigned readiness with which she would
even herself with any sinner who sought her counsel, had the same effect
upon those who would compare what she condemned in herself with what she
tolerated in them. And at the same time, no doubt, this total absence of
self-sufficiency had something to do with the passionate tenderness with
which commonplace people dared to cherish their immortal friend."
As has already been suggested, her womanliness is a more prominent
characteristic of Mrs. Lewes's mind than its great intellectual power. Her
sympathy was keen and most sensitive, her modesty and humility were almost
excessive, and her tenderness of nature was a woman's own. She gave her
sympathy readily and freely to the humble and unfavored. She had no taint
of intellectual aristocracy, says one of her friends. Faithful, devoted
love; the sacredness of simple duties and plain work; earnest help of other
souls,--these were among the daily lessons of her life and teaching. "How
strong was the current of her sympathy in the direction of all humble
effort," exclaims one of her friends, "how reluctantly she checked
presumption! The most ordinary and uninteresting of her friends must feel
that had they known nothing of her but her rapid insight into and quick
response to their inmost feelings she would still have been a memorable
personality to them. This sympathy was extended to the sorrows most unlike
anything she could ever by any possibility have known--the failures of life
obtained as large a share of her compassion as its sorrows. The wish to
console and cheer was indeed rooted in the most vital part of her nature."
Another of her friends has said that "she possessed to a marvellous degree
the divine gifts of charity, and of attracting moral outcasts to herself,
whose devils she cast out, if I may be permitted the expression, by
shutting her eyes to their existence. In her presence you felt wrapped
round by an all-embracing atmosphere of sympathy and readiness to make the
least of all your short comings, and the most of any good which might be in
you. But great as was her personality, she shrank with horror from
intruding it upon you, and, in general society, her exquisitely melodious
voice was, unhappily for the outside circles, too seldom raised beyond the
pitch of something not much above a whisper. Of the rich vein of humor
which runs through George Eliot's works there was comparatively little
trace in her conversation, which seldom descended from the grave to the
gay. But although she rarely indulged in conversational levity herself, she
was most tolerant of it, and even encouraged its ebullition, in others,
joining heartily in any mirth which might be going on."
She made her younger admirers feel the deeper influence of her great
personality by inspiring them with the largest moral purposes. To awaken
and to arouse the moral nature seems always to have been her purpose, and
to lead it to the highest attainable results. Earnest young minds never
"failed to feel in her presence that they were for the time, at all events,
raised into a higher moral level, and none ever left her without feeling
inspired with a stronger sense of duty, and positively under the obligation
of striving to live up to a higher standard of life." Hence her personal
influence was considerable, though she led the close life of a student, and
did not go into general society at all. This high moral earnestness made
her a prophet to her friends, as in her books it made her a great moral
teacher to the world at large. Those who had the privilege of an intimate
acquaintance with Mrs. Lewes have pronounced the woman greater than her
books. She was not only a great writer but a great woman. Human nature in
its largest capacities was represented in her, for she rose above the
limitations of sex; and she is thought of less as a great woman than as a
large human personality. Hers was a massive nature, emphatic, individual,
many-sided. Genius of a very high order, though not the highest, was hers,
while she was possessed of a broad culture and great learning. Seldom does
genius carry with it talents so varied and well-trained or a culture so
full and thorough. And her culture was of that kind which entered into
every fibre of her nature and became a part of her own personality. It was
thoroughly digested and absorbed into good healthy red blood, and became a
quickened, sustained motive to the largest efforts. How vital this love of
culture was, may be seen when we are told that "she possessed in an eminent
degree that power which has led to success in so many directions, of
keeping her mind unceasingly at the stretch without conscious fatigue. She
would cease to ponder or to read when other duties called her, but never
because she herself felt tired. Even in so complex an effort as a visit to
a picture gallery implies, she could continue for hours at the same pitch
of earnest interest, and outweary strong men. Nor was this a mere habit of
passive reception. In the intervals between her successive compositions her
mind was always fusing and combining its fresh stores."
She had culture, moral power and earnestness in a high degree, warmth of
sympathy and sensitiveness to all beauty, but she had no saintliness.
Profound as was her reverence for moral purity, and lofty as was her moral
purpose, she was not a saint, and holiness was not a characteristic of her
nature. This clear and high sense of moral truth everywhere appears in her
life and thought. "For the lessons most imperatively needed by the mass of
men, the lessons of deliberate kindness, of careful truth, of unwavering
endeavor,--for these plain themes one could not ask a more convincing
teacher than she. Everything in her aspect and presence was in keeping with
the bent of her soul. The deeply lined face, the too marked and massive
features, were united with an air of delicate refinement, which in one way
was the more impressive because it seemed to proceed entirely from within.
Nay, the inward beauty would sometimes quite transform the external
harshness; there would be moments when the thin hands that entwined
themselves in their eagerness, the earnest figure that bowed forward to
speak and hear, the deep gaze moving from one face to another with a grave
appeal,--all these seemed the transparent symbols that showed the presence
of a wise, benignant soul. But it was the voice which best revealed her, a
voice whose subdued intensity and tremulous richness seemed to environ her
uttered words with the mystery of a world that must remain untold. And then
again, when in moments of more intimate converse some current of emotion
would set strongly through her soul, when she would raise her head in
unconscious absorption and look out into the unseen, her expression was not
one to be soon forgotten. It has not, indeed, the serene felicity of souls
to whose childlike confidence all heaven and earth are fair. Rather it was
the look of a strenuous Demiurge, of a soul on which high tasks are laid,
and which finds in their accomplishment its only imagination of joy."