to write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that some
time or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of what
the novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to
another. But I never went further towards the actual writing of the
novel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire village
and the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed on
I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel, just as I
desponded about every thing else in my future life. I always thought
I was deficient in dramatic power, both of construction and dialogue,
but I felt I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts of a novel.
My “introductory chapter” was pure description, though there were good
materials in it for dramatic presentation. It happened to be among the
papers I had with me in Germany, and one evening at Berlin something
led me to read it to George. He was struck with it as a bit of concrete
description, and it suggested to him the possibility of my being able
to write a novel, though he distrusted--indeed, disbelieved in--my
possession of any dramatic power. Still, he began to think that I
might as well try some time what I could do in fiction, and by and by,
when we came back to England, and I had greater success than he ever
expected in other kinds of writing, his impression that it was worth
while to see how far my mental power would go towards the production of
a novel, was strengthened. He began to say very positively, “You must
try and write a story,” and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin
at once. I deferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that
does not present itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was
thinking what should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts
merged themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a
story, of which the title was ‘The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos
Barton.’ I was soon wide awake again and told G. He said, “Oh, what a
capital title!” and from that time I had settled in my mind that this
should be my first story. George used to say, “It may be a failure--it
may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps it may be
just good enough to warrant your trying again.” Again, “You may write
a _chef d’œuvre_ at once--there’s no telling.” But his prevalent
impression was, that though I could not write a _poor_ novel, my effort
would want the highest quality of fiction--dramatic presentation....
I did not begin my story till September 22. After I had begun it, as
we were walking in the park, I mentioned to G. that I had thought of
the plan of writing a series of stories, containing sketches drawn
from my own observation of the clergy, and calling them ‘Scenes from
Clerical Life,’ opening with ‘Amos Barton.’ He at once accepted the
notion as a good one--fresh and striking; and about a week afterwards,
when I read him the first part of ‘Amos,’ he had no longer any doubt
about my ability to carry out the plan. The scene at Cross Farm, he
said, satisfied him that I had the very element he had been doubtful
about--it was clear I could write good dialogue. There still remained
the question whether I could command any pathos; and that was to be
decided by the mode in which I treated Milly’s death. One night G. went
to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening for writing it. I wrote
the chapter from the news brought by the shepherd to Mrs. Hackit, to
the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside, and I read it to G.
when he came home. We both cried over it, and then he came up to me and
kissed me, saying, “I think your pathos is better than your fun.”
MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her pseudonym.]
I may mention that my wife told me the reason she fixed on this name
[George Eliot] was that George was Mr. Lewes’ Christian name, and Eliot
was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Genesis of “Adam Bede.”]
The germ of “Adam Bede” was an anecdote told me by my Methodist Aunt
Samuel (the wife of my father’s younger brother)--an anecdote from
her own experience. We were sitting together one afternoon during
her visit to me at Griff, probably in 1839 or 1840, when it occurred
to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned criminal--a very
ignorant girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; how
she had stayed with her praying through the night, and how the poor
creature at last broke out into tears and confessed her crime. My aunt
afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of execution; and
she described to me the great respect with which this ministry of hers
was regarded by the official people about the jail. The story, told by
my aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the
impression of that afternoon and our talk together; but I believe I
never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, till something
prompted me to tell it to George in December, 1856, when I had begun
to write the “Scenes of Clerical Life.” He remarked that the scene in
the prison would make a fine element in a story; and I afterwards began
to think of blending this and some other recollections of my aunt in
one story, with some points in my father’s early life and character.
The problem of construction that remained was to make the unhappy girl
one of the chief _dramatis personæ_, and connect her with the hero.
At first I thought of making the story one of the series of “Scenes,”
but afterward when several motives had induced me to close these with
“Janet’s Repentance,” I determined on making what we always called in
our conversation “My Aunt’s Story” the subject of a long novel, which I
accordingly began to write on the 22d October, 1857.
[Sidenote: Dinah.]
The character of Dinah grew out of my recollections of my aunt, but
Dinah is not at all like my aunt, who was a very small, black-eyed
woman, and (as I was told, for I never heard her preach) very vehement
in her style of preaching. She had left off preaching when I knew her,
being probably sixty years old, and in delicate health; and she had
become, as my father told me, much more gentle and subdued than she had
been in the days of her active ministry and bodily strength, when she
could not rest without exhorting and remonstrating in season and out of
season. I was very fond of her, and enjoyed the few weeks of her stay
with me greatly. She was loving and kind to me, and I could talk to
her about my inward life, which was closely shut up from those usually
round me. I saw her only twice again, for much shorter periods--once at
her own home at Wirksworth, in Derbyshire, and once at my father’s last
residence, Foleshill.
[Sidenote: Adam.]
The character of Adam and one or two incidents connected with him were
suggested by my father’s early life; but Adam is not my father any
more than Dinah is my aunt. Indeed, there is not a single portrait
in Adam Bede--only the suggestions of experience wrought up into
new combinations. When I began to write it, the only elements I had
determined on, besides the character of Dinah, were the character of
Adam, his relation to Arthur Donnithorne, and the mutual relation to
Hetty--_i. e._, to the girl who commits child-murder--the scene in the
prison being, of course, the climax toward which I worked. Everything
else grew out of the characters and their mutual relations. Dinah’s
ultimate relation to Adam was suggested by George, when I had read to
him the first part of the first volume: he was so delighted with the
presentation of Dinah, and so convinced that the reader’s interest
would centre in her, that he wanted her to be the principal figure at
the last. I accepted the idea at once, and from the end of the third
chapter worked with it constantly in view.
MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: ‘The Mill on the Floss’ not strictly autobiographical.]
[Sidenote: Labor of writing ‘Romola.’]
[Sidenote: Her sense of possession.]
[Sidenote: Dorothea and Rosamond.]
We must be careful not to found too much on _suggestions_ of character
in George Eliot’s books; and this must particularly be borne in mind
in the ‘Mill on the Floss.’ No doubt the early part of Maggie’s
portraiture is the best autobiographical representation we can have of
George Eliot’s own feelings in her childhood, and many of the incidents
in the book are based on real experiences of family life, but so mixed
with fictitious elements and situations that it would be absolutely
misleading to trust to it as a true history. The writing of ‘Romola’
ploughed into her more than any of her other books. She told me she
could put her finger on it as marking a well-defined transition in
her life. In her own words, “I began it a young woman--I finished it
an old woman.” 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.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her MSS.]
George Eliot was the most careful and accurate among authors. Her
beautifully written manuscript, 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 a prominent characteristic of ‘Adam Bede,’ and ‘Stradivarius.’
---- ----: ‘George Eliot,’ _Blackwood’s Magazine_, February, 1881.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Inscriptions on MSS.]
The manuscript of ‘Adam Bede’ bears the following inscription: “To
my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the MS. of a work which
would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has
conferred on my life.”
The manuscript of ‘The Mill on the Floss’ bears the following
inscription:
“To my beloved husband, George Henry Lewes, I give this MS. of my third
book, written in the sixth year of our life together, at Holly Lodge,
South Field, Wandsworth, and finished 21st March, 1860.”
The manuscript of ‘Romola’ bears the following inscription:
“To the Husband whose perfect love has been the best source of her
insight and strength, this manuscript is given by his devoted wife, the
writer.”
The manuscript of ‘Felix Holt’ bears the following inscription: “From
George Eliot to her dear Husband, this thirteenth year of their united
life, in which the deepening sense of her own imperfectness has the
consolation of their deepening love.”
The manuscript of ‘The Spanish Gypsy’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear--every day dearer--Husband.”
The manuscript of ‘Middlemarch’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, in this nineteenth year of our
blessed union.”
The manuscript of ‘Daniel Deronda’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes.
“Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
* * * * *
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising
Haply I think on thee--and then my state
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Depression after finishing each book.]
As to the “great novel,” which remains to be written, I must tell you
that I never believe in future books.... 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 the writer 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 oneself to do it.
[Sidenote: Attitude towards criticism.]
I hardly ever read anything that is written about myself--indeed, never
unless my husband expressly wishes me to do so by way of exception. I
adopted this rule many years ago as a necessary preservative against
influences that would have ended by nullifying my power of writing....
I hardly think that any critic can have so keen a sense of the
short-comings in my works as that I groan under in the course of
writing them, and I cannot imagine any edification coming to an author
from a sort of reviewing which consists in attributing to him or her
unexpressed opinions, and in imagining circumstances which may be
alleged as petty private motives for the treatment of subjects which
ought to be of general human interest.
GEORGE ELIOT: _Letters_, quoted by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, in ‘Last
Words from George Eliot,’ _Harper’s Magazine_, for March, 1882.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: George Eliot in 1864.]
It was at Villino Trollope, [the Florentine residence of Mr. T.
Adolphus Trollope] that we first saw ... George Eliot. She is a woman
of forty, perhaps, 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 began 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.”
KATE FIELD: ‘English Authors in Florence,’ _The Atlantic Monthly_,
December, 1864.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Mr. Cross’s first impression in 1869.]
I still seem to hear, as I first heard them, the low, earnest, deep,
musical tones of her voice; I still seem to see the fine brows, with
the abundant auburn-brown hair framing them, the long head, broadening
at the back, the gray-blue eyes, constantly changing in expression, but
always with a very loving, almost deprecating look at my mother, the
finely-formed, thin, transparent hands, and a whole _Wesen_ that seemed
in complete harmony with everything one expected to find in the author
of ‘Romola.’
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: The Priory.]
[Sidenote: Receptions.]
[Sidenote: Manner of life.]
[Sidenote: Recreations.]
In the course of the year 1865, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes moved from 16
Blandford Square to the Priory, a commodious house in North Bank, St.
John’s Wood, which has come to be intimately associated with the memory
of George Eliot. Here in the pleasant dwelling-rooms decorated by Owen
Jones might be met, at her Sunday afternoon receptions, some of the
most eminent men in literature, art and science. For the rest, her
life flowed on its even tenor, its routine being rigidly regulated.
The morning till lunch time was invariably devoted to writing; in the
afternoon she either went out for a quiet drive of about two hours, or
she took a walk with Lewes in Regent’s Park. There the strange-looking
couple--she with a certain weird, sibylline air, he not unlike some
unkempt Polish refugee of vivacious manners--might be seen, swinging
their arms as they hurried along at a pace as rapid and eager as
their talk. Besides these walks, George Eliot’s chief recreation
consisted in frequenting concerts and picture galleries. To music she
was passionately devoted, hardly ever failing to attend the Saturday
afternoon concerts at St. James’ Hall, besides frequenting various
musical reunions.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: A retired life.]
Perhaps no one filling a large portion of the thoughts of the public in
two hemispheres has ever been so little known to the public at large.
Always in delicate health, always living a student life, caring little
for what is called general society, though taking a genial delight in
that of her chosen friends, she very seldom appeared in public. She
went to the houses of but a few, finding it less fatiguing to see her
friends at home. Those who knew her by sight beyond her own immediate
circle did so from seeing her take her quiet drives in Regent’s Park
and the northern slopes of London, or from her attendance at those
concerts where the best music of the day was to be heard.
C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’ _Harper’s Magazine_, May, 1881.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Visits to the Zoological Gardens.]
[Sidenote: Interest in animals.]
Another favorite resort of George Eliot’s was the Zoölogical Gardens.
She went there a great deal to study the animals, and was particularly
fond of the “poor dear ratel” that used to turn somersaults. In fact
her knowledge of and sympathy with animals was as remarkable as that
which she showed for human nature. Thus she astonished a gentleman
farmer by drawing attention to the fine points of his horses. Her
intimate acquaintance with the dog comes out in a thousand touches in
her novels, and her humorous appreciation of the little pigs led her
to watch them attentively, and to pick out some particular favorite.
In her country rambles, too, she was fond of turning over stones to
inspect the minute insect life teeming in moist, dark places; and she
was as interested as Lewes himself in the creatures, frogs, etc., he
kept for scientific purposes, and which would sometimes, like the frog
in the fairy tale, surprise the household by suddenly making their
entrance into the dining-room. Her liking for the “poor brutes,” as she
called them, had its origin no doubt in the same source of profound
pity which she feels for “the twists and cracks” of imperfect human
beings.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Receptions at the Priory.]
[Sidenote: George Eliot’s conversation.]
When London was full, the little drawing-room in St. John’s Wood was
now and then crowded to overflowing by 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 those afternoons had the highest pleasure when London
was empty or the day 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.
C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Appearance.]
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, 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 eye-lashes, 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.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’
* * * * *
The entertainment at the Priory was frequently varied by music when
any good performer happened to be present. I think, however, that the
majority of visitors delighted chiefly to come for the chance of a
few words with George Eliot alone. When the drawing-room door opened
a first glance revealed her always in the same low arm-chair on the
left-hand side of the fire. On entering, a visitor’s eye was at once
arrested by the massive head. The abundant hair, streaked with gray
now, was draped with lace, arranged mantilla fashion, coming to a point
at the top of the forehead. If she were engaged in conversation, her
body was usually bent forward with eager, anxious desire to get as
close as possible to the person with whom she talked. She had a great
dislike to raising her voice, and often became so wholly absorbed in
conversation that the announcement of an incoming-visitor sometimes
failed to attract her attention; but the moment the eyes were lifted up
and recognized a friend they smiled a rare welcome--sincere, cordial,
grave; a welcome that was felt to come straight from the heart. Early
in the afternoon, with only one or two guests, the talk was always
genial and delightful. But her talk, I think, was always most enjoyable
_à deux_. Of evening entertainments there were very few. I think,
after 1870, I remember some charming little dinners--never exceeding
six persons; and one notable evening when the Poet Laureate read
aloud ‘Maud,’ ‘The Northern Farmer,’ and parts of other poems. It was
very interesting on this occasion to see the two most widely-known
representatives of contemporary English literature sitting side by side.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
* * * * *
[Sidenote: An inward beauty.]
[Sidenote: “A strenuous Demiurge.”]
Everything in her aspect 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 so 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
that best revealed her, a voice whose subdued intensity and tremulous
richness seemed to environ her uttered words with the mystery of a
world of feeling 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 had not, indeed, the serene felicity of souls to
whose child-like confidence all heaven and earth are fair. Rather it
was the look (if I may use a Platonic phrase) of a strenuous Demiurge,
of a soul on which high tasks are laid, and which finds in their
accomplishment its only imagination of joy.
FREDERICK W. H. MYERS: ‘George Eliot.’ _Century Magazine_, November,
1881.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her personal bearing.]
[Sidenote: Love of laughter.]
[Sidenote: Distinctively feminine qualities.]
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.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’