of that publishing house which gave her books to the world. "In addition to
the spell which bound the world to her by her genius, she had a personal
power of drawing to herself, in ties of sympathy and kindly feeling, all
who came under her influence. She never oppressed any one by her talents;
she never allowed any one to be sensible of the depth and variety of her
scholarship; she knew, as few know, how to draw forth the views and
feelings of her visitors, and to make their sympathies her own. There was a
charm in her personal character which of itself was sufficient to
conciliate deep and lasting regard. Every one who entered her society left
it impressed with the conviction that they had been under the influence of
a sympathy and tenderness not less remarkable than the force of her mental
power.... Her deep and catholic love for humanity in its broadest and best
sense, which was in itself the strongest quickening motive of her genius,
will maintain her influence in the future as in the present."
Hers was a somewhat sensitive, shrinking nature, with no self-assumption,
and without the taint of egotism. She had a modest estimate of her own
great literary creations, and shrank from all mention of them and from the
homage paid to her as an author. After the publication of _Romola_ she was
one day reading French to a girl companion in the garden of a Swiss hotel,
when a lady drew near to listen to the silvery tones of her voice. Noticing
this, she said, "Do you understand?" The lady answered, "I do not care for
the matter; I only came to listen to your voice." "Do you like it?" was
then inquired. When the lady expressed the pleasure it gave her, Mrs. Lewes
took her hand and warmly said, "I thank you. I would rather you would
compliment my voice than my _Romola_." [Footnote: This story is not
authenticated; it may be taken for what it is worth, though it appears to
be characteristic.]
It has been truly said of her that above all novelists, with the exception
of Goethe, she was supreme in culture. She had a passion for knowledge, and
zeal in the pursuit of learning. She was a lover of books, but not a
scholar in the technical and exact sense. Delighting in literature, art,
music, and all that appeals to the imagination, rather than in mere
information, yet she was a thinker of original powers, with a keen
appreciation of philosophy, and ability to tread its most difficult paths
with firm step. She had an intimate acquaintance with the literatures of
Germany, France, Italy and Spain, and she was well read in the classics of
Greece and Rome. She was "competently acquainted" with the different
systems of philosophy, and she had mastered their problems while thinking
out her own conclusions. Having no professional knowledge of the sciences,
she was a diligent reader of scientific books, and was familiar with all
the bearings of science on philosophy and religion. Her books show an
intimate knowledge of modern thought in many of its phases, as it bears
upon physical, economic, historical and intellectual science. With all her
learning, however, she retained a woman's sympathy with life, beauty and
poetry. Her knowledge was never dry and technical, but warm and imaginative
with genius and poetry. [Footnote: Her scholarly habits, and her realistic
tendencies, usually made George Eliot very painstaking and accurate, but an
occasional slip of pen or memory is to be noted in her books. In
Theophrastus Such she credited to the Apologia of Plato what is really
contained in the Phaedo. The motto to chapter seventeen of Daniel Deronda
was quoted, in the first edition, as from In Memoriam instead of Locksley
Hall. In an early chapter of Felix Holt she made the parson preach from the
words, "Break up the fallow ground of your hearts." The words of scripture
are, "Break up your fallow ground." In Adam Bede a clergyman is made to
take the words of the Prayer Book, "In the midst of life we are in death,"
for his text.]
Her culture may be compared with Mrs. Browning's, who was also an extensive
reader and widely informed. The poet as well as the novelist acquired her
learning because of her thirst for knowledge, and mainly by her own
efforts; but she preferred the classics to science, and literature to
philosophy. Mrs. Browning was the wiser, George Eliot the more learned. The
writings of Mrs. Browning are less affected by her information than George
Eliot's; and this is true because she was of a more poetical temperament,
because her imagination was more brilliant and creative.
Mrs. Lewes was an enthusiastic lover of art, and especially of music. She
never tired in her interest in beholding fine paintings, and music was the
continual delight of her life. She was a tireless frequenter of picture
galleries, and every fine musical entertainment in London was sure to find
her, in company with Mr. Lewes, an enthusiastic listener. Good acting also
claimed not a little of her interest, and she carefully studied even the
details of the dramatic art, so that she was able to give a critical
appreciation to the acting she enjoyed. Indeed, she had given to her mind
that rounded fulness of attainment, and developed all her faculties
with that due proportion, which Fichte so earnestly preached as the
characteristic of true culture. "Her character," says Edith Simcox, "seemed
to include every possibility of action and emotion; no human passion was
wanting in her nature, there were no blanks or negations; and the
marvellous thing was to see how, in this wealth of impulses and desires,
there was no crash of internal discord, no painful collisions with other
human interests outside; how, in all her life, passions of volcanic
strength were harnessed in the service of those nearest her, and so
inspired by the permanent instinct of devotion to her kind, that it seemed
as if it were by her own choice they spent themselves there only where
their force was welcome. Her very being was a protest against the opposing
and yet cognate heresies that half the normal human passions must be
strangled in the quest of virtue, and that the attainment of virtue is a
dull and undesirable end, seeing that it implies the sacrifice of most that
makes life interesting." She had her own temptations and her imperfections.
With these she struggled bravely, and set herself to the hard task of
correction and discipline. Her culture was not merely one of books, but it
was also one of moral discipline and of strenuous spiritual subjection. It
was one of stern moral requirements and duties, as well as one of large
sympathy with all that is natural and beautiful.
It was a quiet life of continuous study and authorship which Mrs. Lewes led
in The Priory, and it was varied from year to year only by her visits to
the continent and by her summer residence in Surrey. One of her summer
retreats, at the village of Shotter Mill, has been described, as well as
her life there. The most picturesque house in the place is known as
Brookbank, and here she spent a summer, that of 1871. It is described as
"an old two-storied cottage, the front of the house being half-covered with
trailing rose-trees. The rooms are low but pleasant, and furnished in a
simple, comfortable manner. We have often endeavored," says the writer of
this account, "to glean some information regarding George Eliot's life at
Shotter Mill, but she and Mr. Lewes lived in such seclusion that there was
very little to be told. They seldom crossed their threshold during the day,
but wandered over the commons and hills after sundown. They were very
anxious to lodge at the picturesque old farm, ten minutes' walk beyond
Brookbank, but all available room was then occupied. However, George Eliot
would often visit the farmer's wife, and, sitting on a grassy bank just
beside the kitchen door, would discuss the growth of fruit and the quality
of butter in a manner so quiet and simple the good country folks were
astonished, expecting very different conversation from the great novelist.
The farmer was employed to drive them two or three times a week. They
occasionally visited Tennyson, whose home is only three miles distant,
though a rather tedious drive, since it is up hill nearly all the way.
George Eliot did not enjoy the ride much, for the farmer told us that,
'withal her being such a mighty clever body,--she were very nervous in a
carriage--allays wanted to go on a smooth road, and seemed dreadful feared
of being thrown out.' George Eliot was writing _Middlemarch_ during her
summer at Brookbank, and the term for which they had the cottage expired
before they wished to return to London. The Squire was away at the time, so
they procured permission to use his house during the remainder of the
visit. In speaking of them he said, 'I visited Mr. and Mrs. Lewes several
times before they went back to town, and found the authoress a very
agreeable woman, both in manner and appearance; but her mind was evidently
completely absorbed in her work; she seemed to have no time for anything
but writing from morning till night. Her hand could hardly convey her
thoughts to paper fast enough. It was an exceptionally hot summer, and yet
through it all Mrs. Lewes would have artificial heat placed at her feet to
keep up the circulation. Why, one broiling day I came home worn out,
longing for a gray sky and a cool breeze, and on going into the garden I
found her sitting there, her head just shaded by a deodara on the lawn,
writing away as usual. I expostulated with her for letting the midday sun
pour down on her like that. 'Oh,' she replied, 'I like it. To-day is the
first time I have felt warm this summer.' So I said no more, and went my
way.' And thus nearly all we could learn about George Eliot was that she
loved to bask in the sun and liked green peas. She visited some of the
cottagers, but only those living in secluded places, who knew nothing of
her. Just such people as these she used in her graphic and realistic
sketches of peasant life. With regard to the surrounding country, George
Eliot said that it pleased her more than any she knew of in England."
In these summer retreats she continued steadily at her work, and she
greatly delighted in the quiet and rest. Other summers were spent at
Witley, in the same county, where the fine scenery, lovely drives and
wide-reaching views from the hill-tops were to her a perpetual delight.
At this place a house was bought, and there was a project of giving up the
London residence and of visiting the city only for occasional relaxation.
This project was not carried out, for soon after their return from Witley
in the autumn of 1878, Mr. Lewes was taken ill, and died in November. His
death was a great blow to Mrs. Lewes, and he was deeply mourned, so much so
as to seriously impair her health. The state of her mind at this trying
period is well indicated in a letter written to Prof. David Kaufmann.
THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, REGENT'S PARK,
April 17, '79.
MY DEAR SIR,--Your kind letter has touched me very deeply. I confess that
my mind has 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 taskworks.
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 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 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
grevious--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, and believe me
Yours with high regard,
M.E. LEWES.
Writing to a friend soon after Lewes's death, who had also lost her
husband, she said,--
There is but one refuge--the having much to do. Nothing can make the
burden to be patiently borne, except the gradual adaptation of your
soul to the new conditions.
The much to do she partly found in editing the uncompleted _Problems
of Life and Mind_, and in establishing a studentship for original
investigation in physiology, known as "The George Henry Lewes Studentship."
Its value is about two hundred pounds, and it is open to both sexes. These
labors enabled her to do honor to one she had trusted through many years,
whose name and fame she greatly revered, and to recover the even poise of
her life. She carefully managed the business affairs he had left in her
hands, and she provided for his children.
A year and a half after the death of Lewes, May 6, 1880, she was married at
the church of St. George's, Hanover Square, to John Walter Cross, the
senior partner in a London banking firm, whom she had first met in 1867,
and who had been a greatly valued friend both to herself and Lewes. Though
much younger than herself, he had many qualities to recommend him to her
regard. A visit to the continent after this ceremony lasted for several
months, a considerable portion of the time being spent in Venice. On their
return to London in the autumn after spending a happy summer in Surrey,
they went to live in the house of Mr. Cross at 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. The
old habits of her life were taken up, her studies were resumed, a new novel
was begun, her friends came as usual on Sunday afternoons, and many years
of work seemed before her, for her health had greatly improved. On Friday,
December 17, 1880, she attended the presentation of the _Agamemnon_ of
Aeschylus, in the original Greek, with the accompaniments of the ancient
theatre, by the undergraduates of Balliol College, Oxford. She was very
enthusiastic about this revival of ancient art, and planned to read anew
all the Greek dramatists with her husband. The next day she attended a
popular concert at St. James Hall, and listened with her usual intense
interest. Sitting in a draught, she caught cold, but that evening she
played through much of the music she had heard in the afternoon. The next
day she was not so well as usual, yet she met her friends in the afternoon.
On Monday her larynx was slightly affected, and a physician was called, but
no danger was apprehended. Yet her malady gained rapidly. On Tuesday night
she was in a dangerous condition, and on Wednesday the pericardium was
found to be seriously diseased. Towards midnight of that day, December 22,
after a period of unconsciousness, she quietly passed away. She was buried
on the 29th, in the unconsecrated portion of Highgate Cemetery, by the side
of George Henry Lewes. The funeral services were conducted by the Rev. Dr.
Sadler, a radical Unitarian minister, who spoke of her great genius, and
quoted her own words about a future life in the life of humanity. His
address contained many references to her personal characteristics, such as
could only come from an intimate friend. He said,--
"To those who are present it is given to think of the gentleness, and
delicate womanly grace and charm, which were combined with 'that breadth of
culture and universality of power which,' as one has expressed it, 'have
made her known to all the world.' To those who are present it is given to
know the diffidence and self-distrust which, notwithstanding all her public
fame, needed individual sympathy and encouragement to prevent her from
feeling too keenly how far the results of her labors fell below the
standard she had set before her. To those who are present too it may be
given--though there is so large a number to whom it is not given--to
understand how a nature may be profoundly devout, and yet unable to accept
a great deal of what is usually held as religious belief. No intellectual
difficulties or uncertainties, no sense of mental incapacity to climb the
heights of infinitude, could take from her the piety of the affections or
'the beliefs which were the mother-tongue of her soul.' I cannot doubt that
she spoke out of the fulness of her own heart when she put into the lips of
another the words, 'May not a man silence his awe or his love and take to
finding reasons which others demand? But if his love lies deeper than any
reasons to be found!' How patiently she toiled to render her work in all
its details as little imperfect as might be! How green she kept the
remembrance of all those companions to whom she felt that she owed a
moulding and elevating influence, especially in her old home, and of him
who was its head, her father! How her heart glowed with a desire to help to
make a heaven on earth, to be a 'cup of strength' to others, and when her
own days on earth should have closed, to have a place among those
"'Immortal dead who still live on
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude; in scorn
For miserable aims that end with sell;
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man's search
To vaster issues.'
"How she thus yearned 'to join the choir invisible, whose music is the
gladness of the world!' All this is known to those who had the privilege of
being near her."
The address was preceded by a simple burial service, and was followed by a
prayer, all being given in the chapel of the cemetery. The coffin, covered
with the finest floral tributes, was then borne to the grave, where the
burial service was completed, and was followed by a prayer and the
benediction. Although the day was a disagreeable one and rain was falling,
the chapel was crowded, and many not being able to gain admittance stood
about the open grave. Beside her personal friends and her family there were
present many persons noted for their literary or scientific attainments, On
the lid of the coffin was this inscription:
MARY ANN CROSS.
("George Eliot")
Born 22d Nov., 1819; died 22d Dec., 1880.
Quilla fonte
Che spande di parlay si largo flume.
[Footnote: From Dante, and has been rendered into English thus:
That fountain
Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech.]
The novel which had been begun was left a mere fragment, and in accordance
with what it was thought would have been her wish, was destroyed by her
family. Perhaps it was better that her dislike of unfinished work should be
so respected.
VI.
LITERARY TRAITS AND TENDENCIES.
George Eliot was a painstaking, laborious writer. She did not proceed
rapidly, so carefully did she elaborate her pages. Her subjects were
thoroughly studied before the pen was taken in hand, patiently thought out,
planned with much care, and all available helps secured that could be had.
She threw her whole life into her work, became a part of the scenes she was
depicting; her life was absorbed until the work of writing became a painful
process both to body and mind. "Her beautifully written manuscript," says
her publisher, "free from blur or erasure, and with every letter delicately
and distinctly finished, was only the outward and visible sign of the
inward labor which she had taken to work out her ideas. She never drew any
of her facts or impressions from second hand; and thus, in spite of the
number and variety of her illustrations, she had rarely much to correct in
her proof-sheets. She had all that love of doing her work well for the
work's sake which she makes prominent characteristics of Adam Bede and
Stradivarius."
When a book was completed, so intense had been her application and the
absorption of her life in her work, a period of despondency followed. When
a correspondent praised _Middlemarch_, and expressed a hope that even a
greater work might follow, she replied, "As to the 'great novel' which
remains to be written, I must tell you that I never believe in future
books." Again, she wrote of the depression which succeeded the completion
of each of her works,--
Always after finishing a book I have a period of despair that I
can ever again produce anything worth giving to the world. The
responsibility of writing grows heavier and heavier--does it not?--as
the world grows older and the voices of the dead more numerous. It is
difficult to believe, until the germ of some new work grows into
imperious activity within one, that it is possible to make a really
needed contribution to the poetry of the world--I mean possible to
one's self to do it.
Owing probably somewhat to this tendency to take a despondent view
concerning her own work, and to distrust of the leadings of her own
genius, was her habit of never reading the criticisms made on her books.
She adopted this rule, she tells one correspondent, "as a necessary
preservative against influences that would have ended by nullifying her
power of writing." To another, who had written her in appreciation of her
books, she wrote this note, in which she alludes to the same habit of
shunning criticism:
MY DEAR MISS WELLINGTON,--The signs of your sympathy sent to me across the
wide water have touched me with the more effect because you imply that you
are young. I care supremely that my writing should be some help and
stimulus to those who have probably a long life before them.
Mr. Lewes does not let me read criticisms on my writings. He always reads
them himself, and gives me occasional quotations, when be thinks that they
show a spirit and mode of appreciation which will win my gratitude. He has
carefully read through the articles which were accompanied by your kind
letter, and he has a high opinion of the feeling and discernment exhibited
in them. Some concluding passages which he read aloud to me are such as I
register among the grounds of any encouragement in looking backward on what
I have written, if not in looking forward to my future writing.
Thank you, my dear young friend, whom I shall probably never know otherwise
than in this spiritual way. And certainly, apart from those relations in
life which bring daily duties and opportunities of lovingness, the most
satisfactory of all ties is this effective invisible intercourse of an
elder mind with a younger.
The quotation in your letter from Hawthorne's book offers an excellent type
both for men and women in the value it assigns to that order of work which
is called subordinate but becomes ennobling by being finely done.
[Footnote: A reference to Hilda's ceasing to consider herself an original
artist in the presence of the great masters. "Beholding the miracles of
beauty which the old masters had achieved, the world seemed already rich
enough in original designs and nothing more was so desirable as to diffuse
these selfsame beauties more widely among mankind.'--So Hilda became a
copyist."] Yours, with sincere obligations,
M.E. LEWES.
By the way, Mr. Lewes tells me that you ascribe to me a hatred of blue
eyes--which is amusing, since my own eyes are blue-gray. I am not in any
sense one of the "good haters;" on the contrary, my weaknesses all verge
toward an excessive tolerance and a tendency to melt off the outlines of
things.
THE PRIORY,
21 North Bank, Regent's Park, Jan. 16, '73.
[Footnote: From The Critic of December 31, 1881. This letter was addressed
to Miss Alice Wellington, now Mrs. Rollins.]
Her sensitiveness was great, and contact with an unappreciative and
unsympathetic public depressing to a large degree. It was a part of that
shrinking away from the world which kept her out of society, and away from
all but a select few whose tastes and sympathies were largely in accordance
with her own. Besides, she distrusted that common form of criticism which
presumes to tell an author how he ought to have written, and assumes to
itself an insight and knowledge greater than that possessed by genius
itself. Concerning the value of such criticism she wrote these pertinent
words: