It fortunately happened that the Brays had planned a trip to
the Continent for this month of June, 1849, and Miss Evans,
being left desolate by the death of her father, accepted
their invitation to join them. On the 11th June they started,
going by way of Paris, Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles, Nice,
Genoa, Milan, Como, Lago Maggiore, Martigny, and Chamounix,
arriving at Geneva in the third week of July. Here Miss Evans
determined to remain for some months, the Brays returning
home. Before they went, however, they helped her to settle
herself comfortably _en pension_, and, as will be seen from
the following letters, the next eight months were quietly and
peacefully happy. The _pension_ selected in the first
instance was the Campagne Plongeon, which stands on a slight
eminence a few hundred yards back from the road on the route
d'Hermance, some ten minutes' walk from the Hôtel Métropole.
From the Hôtel National on the Quai de Mont Blanc one catches
a pleasant glimpse of it nestling among its trees. A
good-sized, gleaming white house, with a centre, and gables
at each side, a flight of steps leading from the middle
window to the ground. A meadow in front, nicely planted,
slopes charmingly down to the blue lake, and behind the
house, on the left-hand side, there is an avenue of
remarkably fine chestnut-trees, whence there is a magnificent
view of the Jura mountains on the opposite side of the lake.
The road to Geneva is very beautiful, by the lake-side,
bordered with plane-trees. It was a delightful, soothing
change after the long illness and the painful death of her
father--after the monotonous dulness, too, of an English
provincial town like Coventry, where there is little beauty
of any sort to gladden the soul. In the first months
following a great loss it is good to be alone for a
time--alone, especially amidst beautiful scenes--and alone in
the sense of being removed from habitual associations, but
yet constantly in the society of new acquaintances, who are
sufficiently interesting, but not too intimate. The Swiss
correspondence which follows is chiefly addressed to the
Brays collectively, and describes the life minutely.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 27th July, 1840.]
About my comfort here, I find no disagreeables, and have every
physical comfort that I care about. The family seems well-ordered and
happy. I have made another friend, too--an elderly English lady, a
Mrs. Locke, who used to live at Ryde--a pretty old lady with plenty of
shrewdness and knowledge of the world. She began to say very kind
things to me in rather a waspish tone yesterday morning at breakfast.
I liked her better at dinner and tea, and to-day we are quite
confidential. I only hope she will stay; she is just the sort of
person I shall like to have to speak to--not at all "congenial," but
with a character of her own. The going down to tea bores me, and I
shall get out of it as soon as I can, unless I can manage to have the
newspapers to read. The American lady embroiders slippers--the mamma
looks on and does nothing. The marquis and his friends play at whist;
the old ladies sew; and madame says things so true that they are
insufferable. She is obliged to talk to all, and cap their
_niaiseries_ with some suitable observation. She has been very kind
and motherly to me. I like her better every time I see her. I have
quiet and comfort--what more can I want to make me a healthy,
reasonable being once more? I will never go near a friend again until
I can bring joy and peace in my heart and in my face--but remember
that friendship will be easy then.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 5th Aug. 1849.]
I hope my imagination paints truly when it shows me all of you seated
with beaming faces round the tea-table at Rosehill. I shall be
yearning to know that things as well as people are smiling on you; but
I am sure you will not let me wait for news of you longer than is
necessary. My life here would be delightful if we could always keep
the same set of people; but, alas! I fear one generation will go and
another come so fast that I shall not care to become acquainted with
any of them. My good Mrs. Locke is not going, that is one comfort. She
is quite a mother to me--helps me to buy my candles and do all my
shopping--takes care of me at dinner, and quite rejoices when she sees
me enjoy conversation or anything else. The St. Germains are
delightful people--the marquise really seems to me the most charming
person I ever saw, with kindness enough to make the ultra-politeness
of her manners quite genuine. She is very good to me, and says of me,
"Je m'interesse vivement à mademoiselle." The marquis is the most
well-bred, harmless of men. He talks very little--every sentence seems
a terrible gestation, and comes forth _fortissimo_; but he generally
bestows one on me, and seems especially to enjoy my poor tunes (mind
you, all these trivialities are to satisfy your vanity, not
mine--because you are beginning to be ashamed of having loved me).
The gray-headed gentleman got quite fond of talking philosophy with me
before he went; but, alas! he and a very agreeable young man who was
with him are gone to Aix les Bains. The young German is the Baron de
H----. I should think he is not more than two or three and twenty,
very good-natured, but a most determined enemy to all gallantry. I
fancy he is a Communist; but he seems to have been joked about his
opinions by madame and the rest until he has determined to keep a
proud silence on such matters. He has begun to talk to me, and I think
we should become good friends; but he, too, is gone on an expedition
to Monte Rosa. He is expecting his brother to join him here on his
return, but I fear they will not stay long. The _gouvernante_ is a
German, with a moral region that would rejoice Mr. Bray's eyes. Poor
soul, she is in a land of strangers, and often seems to feel her
loneliness. Her situation is a very difficult one; and "_die Angst_,"
she says, often brings on a pain at her heart. Madame is a woman of
some reading and considerable talent--very fond of politics, a
devourer of the journals, with an opinion ready for you on any subject
whatever. It will be a serious loss to her to part with the St.
Germain family. I fear that they will not stay longer than this month.
I should be quite indifferent to the world that comes or goes if once
I had my boxes with all my books. Last Sunday I went with madame to a
small church near Plongeon, and I could easily have fancied myself in
an Independent chapel at home. The spirit of the sermon was not a whit
more elevated than that of our friend Dr. Harris; the text, "What
shall I do to be saved?" the answer of Jesus being blinked as usual.
To-day I have been to hear one of the most celebrated preachers, M.
Meunier. His sermon was really eloquent--all written down, but
delivered with so much energy and feeling that you never thought of
the book. It is curious to notice how patriotism--_dévouement à la
patrie_--is put in the sermons as the first of virtues, even before
devotion to the Church. We never hear of it in England after we leave
school. The good marquis goes with his family and servants, all nicely
dressed, to the Catholic Church. They are a most orderly set of
people: there is nothing but their language and their geniality and
politeness to distinguish them from one of the best of our English
aristocratic families. I am perfectly comfortable; every one is kind
to me and seems to like me. Your kind hearts will rejoice at this, I
know. Only remember that I am just as much interested in all that
happens to you at Rosehill as you are in what happens to me at
Plongeon. Pray that the motto of Geneva may become mine--"_Post
tenebras lux_."
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 20th Aug. 1849.]
I have no head for writing to-day, for I have been keeping my bed for
the last three days; but I must remember that writing to you is like
ringing a bell hung in the planet Jupiter--it is so weary a while
before one's letters reach. I have been positively sickening for want
of my boxes, and anxiety to hear of my relations. Your kind letter of
this morning has quieted the latter a little; but my boxes, alas! have
not appeared. Do not be alarmed about my health. I have only had a
terrible headache--prolonged, in fact, by the assiduities of the good
people here; for the first day I lay in my bed I had the whole female
world of Plongeon in my bedroom, and talked so incessantly that I was
unable to sleep after it; the consequence, as you may imagine, was
that the next day I was very much worse; but I am getting better, and
indeed it was worth while to be ill to have so many kind attentions.
There is a fresh German family from Frankfurt here just now--Madame
Cornelius and her children. She is the daughter of the richest banker
in Frankfurt, and, what is better, full of heart and mind, with a face
that tells you so before she opens her lips. She has more reading than
the marquise, being German and Protestant; and it is a real
refreshment to talk with her for half an hour. The dear marquise is a
truly devout Catholic. It is beautiful to hear her speak of the
comfort she has in the confessional--for our _têtes-à-tête_ have
lately turned on religious matters. She says I am in a "mauvaise voie
sous le rapport de la religion. Peut être vous vous marierez, et le
mariage, chère amie, sans la foi religieuse!..." She says I have
isolated myself by my studies--that I am too cold and have too little
confidence in the feelings of others towards me--that I do not believe
how deep an interest she has conceived in my lot. She says Signor
Goldrini (the young Italian who was here for a week) told her, when he
had been talking to me one evening, "Vous aimerez cette demoiselle,
j'en suis sûr"--and she has found his prediction true. They are
leaving for their own country on Wednesday. She hopes I shall go to
Italy and see her; and when I tell her that I have no faith that she
will remember me long enough for me to venture on paying her a visit
if ever I should go to Italy again, she shakes her head at my
incredulity. She was born at Genoa. Her father was three years
Sardinian Minister at Constantinople before she was married, and she
speaks with enthusiasm of her life there--"C'est là le pays de la
vraie poésie ou l'on sent ce que c'est que de vivre par le coeur." M.
de H---- is returned from Monte Rosa. He would be a nice person if he
had another soul added to the one he has by nature--the soul that
comes by sorrow and love. I stole his book while he was gone--the
first volume of Louis Blanc's "History of Ten Years." It contains a
very interesting account of the three days of July, 1830. His brother
is coming to join him, so I hope he will not go at present. Tell Miss
Sibree my address, and beg her to write to me all about herself, and
to write on thin paper. I hardly know yet whether I shall like this
place well enough to stay here through the winter. I have been under
the disadvantage of wanting all on which I chiefly depend, my books,
etc. When I have been here another month I shall be better able to
judge. I hope you managed to get in the black velvet dress. The people
dress, and think about dressing, here more even than in England. You
would not know me if you saw me. The marquise took on her the office
of _femme de chambre_ and dressed my hair one day. She has abolished
all my curls, and made two things stick out on each side of my head
like those on the head of the Sphinx. All the world says I look
infinitely better; so I comply, though to myself I seem uglier than
ever--if possible. I am fidgeted to death about my boxes, and that
tiresome man not to acknowledge the receipt of them. I make no apology
for writing all my peevishness and follies, because I want you to do
the same--to let me know everything about you, to the aching of your
fingers--and you tell me very little. My boxes, my boxes! I dream of
them night and day. Dear Mr. Hennell! Give him my heartiest
affectionate remembrances. Tell him I find no one here so spirited as
he: there are no better jokes going than I can make myself. Mrs.
Hennell and Mrs. C. Hennell, too, all are remembered--if even I have
only seen them in England.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 28th Aug. 1849.]
Mme. de Ludwigsdorff, the wife of an Austrian baron, has been here for
two days, and is coming again. She is handsome, spirited, and
clever--pure English by birth, but quite foreign in manners and
appearance. She, and all the world besides, are going to winter in
Italy. Nothing annoys me now; I feel perfectly at home, and shall
really be comfortable when I have all my little matters about me. This
place looks more lovely to me every day--the lake, the town, the
_campagnes_, with their stately trees and pretty houses, the glorious
mountains in the distance; one can hardly believe one's self on earth;
one might live here, and forget that there is such a thing as want or
labor or sorrow. The perpetual presence of all this beauty has
somewhat the effect of mesmerism or chloroform. I feel sometimes as if
I were sinking into an agreeable state of numbness, on the verge of
unconsciousness, and seem to want well pinching to rouse me. The other
day (Sunday) there was a _fête_ held on the lake--the _fête_ of
Navigation. I went out, with some other ladies, in M. de H----'s boat,
at sunset, and had the richest draught of beauty. All the boats of
Geneva turned out in their best attire. When the moon and stars came
out there were beautiful fireworks sent up from the boats. The
mingling of the silver and the golden rays on the rippled lake, the
bright colors of the boats, the music, the splendid fireworks, and the
pale moon looking at it all with a sort of grave surprise, made up a
scene of perfect enchantment; and our dear old Mont Blanc was there,
in his white ermine robe. I rowed all the time, and hence comes my
palsy. I can perfectly fancy dear Mrs. Pears in her Leamington house.
How beautiful all that Foleshill life looks now, like the distant Jura
in the morning! She was such a sweet, dear, good friend to me. My
walks with her, my little visits to them in the evening--all is
remembered. I am glad you have seen Fanny again; any attention you
show her is a real kindness to me, and I assure you she is worth it.
You know, or, you do not know, that my nature is so chameleon-like I
shall lose all my identity unless you keep nourishing the old self
with letters; so, pray, write as much and as often as you can. It
jumps admirably with my humor to live in two worlds at once in this
way. I possess my dearest friends and my old environment in my
thoughts, and another world of novelty and beauty in which I am
actually moving, and my contrariety of disposition always makes the
world that lives in my thoughts the dearer of the two, the one in
which I more truly dwell. So, after all, I enjoy my friends most when
I am away from them. I shall not say so, though, if I should live to
rejoin you six or seven months hence. Keep me for seven[26] years
longer, and you will find out the use of me, like all other pieces of
trumpery.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Houghton, 6th Sept. 1849.]
Have I confided too much in your generosity in supposing that you
would write to me first? or is there some other reason for your
silence? I suffer greatly from it--not entirely from selfish reasons,
but in great part because I am really anxious to know all about you,
your state of health and spirits, the aspect of things within and
without you. Did Mr. Bray convey to you my earnest request that you
would write to me? You know of my whereabouts and circumstances from
my good friends at Rosehill, so that I have little to tell you; at
least, I have not spirit to write of myself until I have heard from
you, and have an assurance from yourself that you yet care about me.
Sara (Mrs. Isaac Evans) has sent me word of the sad, sad loss that has
befallen poor Chrissey and Edward--a loss in which I feel that I have
a share; for that angelic little being had great interest for me; she
promised to pay so well for any care spent on her. I can imagine poor
Edward's almost frantic grief, and I dread the effect on Chrissey's
weak frame of her more silent suffering. Anything you can tell me
about them will be read very eagerly. I begin to feel the full value
of a letter; so much so that, if ever I am convinced that any one has
the least anxiety to hear from me, I shall always reckon it among the
first duties to sit down without delay, giving no ear to the
suggestions of my idleness and aversion to letter-writing. Indeed, I
am beginning to find it really pleasant to write to my friends, now
that I am so far away from them; and I could soon fill a sheet to you,
if your silence did not weigh too heavily on my heart. My health is by
no means good yet; seldom good enough not to be a sort of drag on my
mind; so you must make full allowance for too much egotism and
susceptibility in me. It seems to be three years instead of three
months since I was in England and amongst you, and I imagine that all
sorts of revolutions must have taken place in the interim; whereas to
you, I dare say, remaining in your old home and among your every-day
duties, the time has slipped away so rapidly that you are unable to
understand my anxiety to hear from you. I think the climate here is
not particularly healthy; I suppose, from the vicinity of the lake,
which, however, becomes so dear to me that one cannot bear to hear it
accused. Good-bye, dear Fanny; a thousand blessings to you, whether
you write to me or not, and much gratitude if you do.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 13th Sept. 1849.]
My boxes arrived last Friday. The expense was fr. 150--perfectly
horrible! Clearly, I must give myself for food to the fowls of the air
or the fishes of the lake. It is a consolation to a mind imbued with a
lofty philosophy that, when one can get nothing to eat, one can still
be eaten--the evil is only apparent. It is quite settled that I cannot
stay at Plongeon; I must move into town. But, alas! I must pay fr. 200
per month. If I were there I should see more conversable people than
here. Do you think any one would buy my "Encyclopædia Britannica" at
half-price, and my globes? If so, I should not be afraid of exceeding
my means, and I should have a little money to pay for my piano, and
for some lessons of different kinds that I want to take. The
"Encyclopædia" is the last edition, and cost £42, and the globes
£8 10_s._ I shall never have anywhere to put them, so it is folly to
keep them, if any one will buy them. No one else has written to me,
though I have written to almost all. I would rather have it so than
feel that the debt was on my side. When will you come to me for help,
that I may be able to hate you a little less? I shall leave here as
soon as I am able to come to a decision, as I am anxious to feel
settled, and the weather is becoming cold. This house is like a
bird-cage set down in a garden. Do not count this among my letters. I
am good for nothing to-day, and can write nothing well but bitterness,
so that I will not trust myself to say another word. The Baronne de
Ludwigsdorff seems to have begun to like me very much, and is really
kind; so you see Heaven sends kind souls, though they are by no means
kindred ones. Poor Mrs. Locke is to write to me--has given me a little
ring; says, "Take care of yourself, my child--have some tea of your
own--you'll be quite another person if you get some introductions to
clever people; you'll get on well among a certain set--that's true;"
it is her way to say "that's true" after all her affirmations. She
says, "You won't find any kindred spirits at Plongeon, my dear."
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 20th Sept. 1849.]
I am feeling particularly happy because I have had very kind letters
from my brother and sisters. I am ashamed to fill sheets about myself,
but I imagined that this was precisely what you wished. Pray correct
my mistake, if it be one, and then I will look over the Calvin
manuscripts, and give you some information of really general interest,
suited to our mutual capacities. Mme. Ludwigsdorff is so good to me--a
charming creature--so anxious to see me comfortably settled--petting
me in all sorts of ways. She sends me tea when I wake in the
morning--orange-flower water when I go to bed--grapes--and her maid to
wait on me. She says if I like she will spend the winter after this at
Paris with me, and introduce me to her friends there; but she does not
mean to attach herself to me, because I shall never like her long. I
shall be tired of her when I have sifted her, etc. She says I have
more intellect than _morale_, and other things more true than
agreeable; however, she is "greatly interested" in me; has told me her
troubles and her feelings, she says, in spite of herself; for she has
never been able before in her life to say so much even to her old
friends. It is a mystery she cannot unravel. She is a person of high
culture, according to the ordinary notions of what feminine culture
should be. She speaks French and German perfectly, plays well, and has
the most perfect polish of manner--the most thorough refinement, both
socially and morally. She is tall and handsome, a striking-looking
person, but with a sweet feminine expression when she is with those
she likes; dresses exquisitely; in fine, is all that I am not. I shall
tire you with all this, but I want you to know what good creatures
there are here as elsewhere. Miss F. tells me that the first day she
sat by my side at dinner she looked at me and thought to herself,
"That is a grave lady; I do not think I shall like her much;" but as
soon as I spoke to her, and she looked into my eyes, she felt she
could love me. Then she lent me a book written by her cousin--a
religious novel--in which there is a fearful infidel who will not
believe, and hates all who do, etc. Then she invited me to walk with
her, and came to talk in my room; then invited me to go to the
Oratoire with them, till I began to be uncomfortable under the idea
that they fancied I was evangelical, and that I was gaining their
affection under false pretences; so I told Miss F. that I was going to
sacrifice her good opinion, and confess my heresies. I quite expected,
from their manner and character, that they would forsake me in
horror--but they are as kind as ever. They never go into the _salon_
in the evening, and I have almost forsaken it, spending the evening
frequently in Mme. de Ludwigsdorff's room, where we have some
delightful tea. The tea of the house here is execrable; or, rather, as
Mrs. A. says, "How glad we ought to be that it has no taste at all; it
might have a very bad one!" I like the A.'s; they are very
good-natured. Mrs. A., a very ugly but lady-like little woman, who is
under an infatuation "as it regards" her caps--always wearing the
brightest rose-color or intensest blue--with a complexion not unlike a
dirty primrose glove. The rest of the people are nothing to me,
except, indeed, dear old Mlle. de Phaisan, who comes into my room when
I am ill, with "Qu'est ce que vous avez, ma bonne?" in the tone of the
kindest old aunt, and thinks that I am the most amiable douce
creature, which will give you a better opinion of her charity than her
penetration.
Dear creatures! no one is so good as you yet. I have not yet found any
one who can bear comparison with you; not in kindness to me--_ça va
sans dire_--but in solidity of mind and in expansion of feeling. This
is a very coarse thing to say, but it came to the end of my pen, and
_litera scripta manet_--at least, when it comes at the end of the
second page. I shall certainly stay at Geneva this winter, and shall
return to England as early as the spring weather will permit, always
supposing that nothing occurs to alter my plans. I am still thin; so
how much will be left of me next April I am afraid to imagine. I shall
be length without breadth. Cara's assurance that you are well and
comfortable is worth a luncheon to me, which is just the thing I am
generally most in want of, for we dine at six now. I love to imagine
you in your home; and everything seems easy to me when I am not
disturbed about the health or well-being of my loved ones. It is
really so; I do not say it out of any sort of affectation, benevolent
or otherwise. I am without carefulness, alas! in more senses than one.
Thank Sara very heartily for her letter. I do not write a special
sheet for her to-day, because I have to write to two or three other
people, but she must not the less believe how I valued a little
private morsel from her; and also that I would always rather she wrote
"from herself" than "to me"--that is my theory of letter-writing. Your
letters are as welcome as Elijah's ravens--I thought of saying the
dinner-bell, only that would be too gross! I get impatient at the end
of the ten days which it takes for our letters to go to and fro; and I
have not the least faith in the necessity for keeping the sheet three
or four days before Mr. Bray can find time to write his meagre bit. If
you see the Miss Franklins, give my love to them; my remembrances to
Mr. and Mrs. Whittem; love to Miss Sibree always. Hearty love to
Clapton[27] and Woodford;[28] and a very diffusive benevolence to the
world in general, without any particular attachment to A or B. I am
trying to please Mr. Bray. Good-bye, dear souls. _Dominus vobiscum._
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, Thursday, 4th Oct. 1849.]
I am anxious for you to know my new address, as I shall leave here on
Tuesday. I think I have at last found the very thing. I shall be the
only lodger. The _appartement_ is _assez joli_, with an alcove, so
that it looks like a sitting-room in the daytime--the people, an
artist of great respectability, and his wife, a most kind-looking,
lady-like person, with two boys, who have the air of being well
educated. They seem very anxious to have me, and are ready to do
anything to accommodate me. I shall live with them--that is, dine with
them; breakfast in my own room. The terms are fr. 150 per month, light
included. M. and Mme. d'Albert are middle-aged, musical, and, I am
told, have _beaucoup d'esprit_. I hope this will not exceed my means
for four or five months. There is a nice, large _salon_ and a good
_salle à manger_. I am told that their society is very good. Mme. de
Ludwigsdorff was about going there a year ago, and it was she who
recommended it to me.
I hope Sara's fears are supererogatory--a proof of a too nervous
solicitude about me, for which I am grateful, though it does me no
good to hear of it. I want encouraging rather than warning and
checking. I believe I am so constituted that I shall never be cured of
my faults except by God's discipline. If human beings would but
believe it, they do me the most good by saying to me the kindest
things truth will permit; and really I cannot hope those will be
superlatively kind. The reason I wished to raise a little extra money
is that I wanted to have some lessons and other means of culture--not
for my daily bread, for which I hope I shall have enough; but, since
you think my scheme impracticable, we will dismiss it. _Au reste_, be
in no anxiety about me. Nothing is going wrong that I know of. I am
not an absolute fool and weakling. When I am fairly settled in my new
home I will write again. My address will be--M. d'Albert Durade, Rue
des Chanoines, No. 107.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Houghton, 4th Oct. 1849.]
The blessed compensation there is in all things made your letter
doubly precious for having been waited for, and it would have inspired
me to write to you again much sooner, but that I have been in
uncertainty about settling myself for the winter, and I wished to send
you my future address. I am to move to my new home on Tuesday the 9th.
I shall not at all regret leaving here; the season is beginning to be
rather sombre, though the glorious chestnuts here are still worth
looking at half the day. You have heard of some of the people whom I
have described in my letters to Rosehill. The dear little old maid,
Mlle. de Phaisan, is quite a good friend to me--extremely prosy, and
full of tiny details; but really people of that calibre are a comfort
to one occasionally, when one has not strength enough for more
stimulating things. She is a sample of those happy souls who ask for
nothing but the work of the hour, however trivial; who are contented
to live without knowing whether they effect anything, but who do
really effect much good, simply by their calm and even _maintien_. I
laugh to hear her say in a tone of remonstrance--"Mme. de Ludwigsdorff
dit qu'elle s'ennuie quand les soirées sont longues: moi, je ne
conçois pas comment on peut s'ennuyer quand on a de l'ouvrage ou des
jeux ou de la conversation." When people who are dressing elegantly
and driving about to make calls every day of their life have been
telling me of their troubles--their utter hopelessness of ever finding
a vein worth working in their future life--my thoughts have turned
towards many whose sufferings are of a more tangible character, and I
have really felt all the old commonplaces about the equality of human
destinies, always excepting those spiritual differences which are
apart not only from poverty and riches, but from individual
affections. Dear Chrissey has found time and strength to write to me,
and very precious her letter was, though I wept over it. "Deep,
abiding grief must be mine," she says, and I know well it must be. The
mystery of trial! It falls with such avalanche weight on the head of
the meek and patient. I wish I could do something of more avail for my
friends than love them and long for their happiness.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 11th Oct. 1849.]
M. and Mme. d'Albert are really clever people--people worth sitting up
an hour longer to talk to. This does not hinder madame from being an
excellent manager--dressing scrupulously, and keeping her servants in
order. She has hung my room with pictures, one of which is the most
beautiful group of flowers conceivable thrown on an open Bible,
painted by herself. I have a piano which I hire. There is also one in
the _salon_. M. d'Albert plays and sings, and in the winter he tells
me they have parties to sing masses and do other delightful things. In
fact, I think I am just in the right place. I breakfast in my own room
at half-past eight, lunch at half-past twelve, and dine at four or a
little after, and take tea at eight. From the tea-table I have gone
into the _salon_ and chatted until bedtime. It would really have been
a pity to have stayed at Plongeon, out of reach of everything, and
with people so little worth talking to. I have not found out the
_desagrémens_ here yet. It is raining horribly, but this just saves me
from the regret I should have felt at having quitted the chestnuts of
Plongeon. That _campagne_ looked splendid in its autumn dress.
George Eliot retained so warm an admiration and love for M.
d'Albert Durade to the end of her life that it seems fitting
here to mention that he still lives, carrying well the weight
of eighty winters. He is _conservateur_ of the Athénée--a
permanent exhibition of works of art in Geneva; and he
published only last year (1883) a French translation of the
"Scenes of Clerical Life," having already previously
published translations of "Adam Bede," "Felix Holt," "Silas
Marner," and "Romola." The description of his personal
appearance, in the following letter, still holds good, save
that the gray hair has become quite white. He lost his wife
in 1873; and it will be seen from subsequent letters that
George Eliot kept up a faithful attachment to her to the
end. They were both friends after her own heart. The old
apartment is now No. 18, instead of No. 107, Rue des
Chanoines, and is occupied as the printing-office of the
_Journal de Genève_. But half of the rooms remain just as
they were five-and-thirty years ago. The _salon_, wainscoted
in imitation light-oak panels, with a white China stove, and
her bedroom opening off it--as she had often described it to
me; and M. d'Albert has still in his possession the painting
of the bunch of beautiful flowers thrown on an open Bible
mentioned in the last letter. He told me that when Miss Evans
first came to look at the house she was so horrified with the
forbidding aspect of the stairs that she declared she would
not go up above the first floor; but when she got inside the
door she was reconciled to her new quarters. Calvin's house
is close to the Rue des Chanoines, and she was much
interested in it. It will be seen that she did some work in
physics under Professor de la Rive; but she principally
rested and enjoyed herself during the stay at Geneva. It was
exactly the kind of life she was in need of at the time, and
the letters show how much she appreciated it.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 26th Oct. 1849.]
I languished for your letter before it came, and read it three times
running--judge whether I care less for you than of old. It is the best
of blessings to know that you are well and cheerful; and when I think
of all that might happen in a fortnight to make you otherwise,
especially in these days of cholera and crises, I cannot help being
anxious until I get a fresh assurance that at least five days ago all
was well. Before I say anything about myself, I must contradict your
suspicion that I paint things too agreeably for the sake of giving
you pleasure. I assure you my letters are subjectively true; the
falsehood, if there be any, is in my manner of seeing things. But I
will give you some _vérités positives_, in which, alas! poor
imagination has hitherto been able to do little for the world. Mme.
d'Albert anticipates all my wants, and makes a spoiled child of me. I
like these dear people better and better--everything is so in harmony
with one's moral feeling that I really can almost say I never enjoyed
a more complete _bien être_ in my life than during the last fortnight.
For M. d'Albert, I love him already as if he were father and brother
both. His face is rather haggard-looking, but all the lines and the
wavy gray hair indicate the temperament of the artist. I have not
heard a word or seen a gesture of his yet that was not perfectly in
harmony with an exquisite moral refinement--indeed, one feels a better
person always when he is present. He sings well, and plays on the
piano a little. It is delightful to hear him talk of his friends--he
admires them so genuinely--one sees so clearly that there is no reflex
egotism. His conversation is charming. I learn something every
dinner-time. Mme. d'Albert has less of genius and more of
cleverness--a really lady-like person, who says everything well. She
brings up her children admirably--two nice, intelligent boys;[29]--the
youngest, particularly, has a sort of Lamartine expression, with a
fine head. It is so delightful to get among people who exhibit no
meannesses, no worldlinesses, that one may well be enthusiastic. To me
it is so blessed to find any departure from the rule of giving as
little as possible for as much as possible. Their whole behavior to me
is as if I were a guest whom they delighted to honor. Last night we
had a little knot of their most intimate musical friends, and M. and
Mme. d'Albert introduced me to them as if they wished me to know
them--as if they wished me to like their friends and their friends to
like me. The people and the evening would have been just after your
own hearts. In fact, I have not the slightest pretext for being
discontented--not the shadow of a discomfort. Even the little
housemaid Jeanne is charming; says to me every morning, in the
prettiest voice: "Madame a-t-elle bien dormi cette nuit?"--puts fire
in my _chauffe-pied_ without being told--cleans my rooms most
conscientiously. There--I promise to weary you less for the future
with my descriptions. I could not resist the temptation to speak
gratefully of M. and Mme. d'Albert.
Give my love to Mrs. Pears--my constant, ever-fresh remembrance. My
love to Miss Rebecca Franklin--tell her I have only spun my web to
Geneva; it will infallibly carry me back again across the gulf, were
it twice as great. If Mr. Froude preach the new word at Manchester, I
hope he will preach it so as to do without an after-explanation, and
not bewilder his hearers in the manner of Mephistopheles when he dons
the doctor's gown of Faust. I congratulate you on the new edition,[30]
and promise to read it with a disposition to admire when I am at
Rosehill once more. I am beginning to lose respect for the petty
acumen that sees difficulties. I love the souls that rush along to
their goal with a full stream of sentiment--that have too much of the
positive to be harassed by the perpetual negatives--which, after all,
are but the disease of the soul, to be expelled by fortifying the
principle of vitality.
Good-bye, dear loves; sha'n't I kiss you when I am in England
again--in England! I already begin to think of the journey as an
impossibility. Geneva is so beautiful now, the trees have their
richest coloring. Coventry is a fool to it--but, then, you are at
Coventry, and you are better than lake, trees, and mountains.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 28th Oct. 1849.]
We have had some delicious autumn days here. If the fine weather last,
I am going up the Salève on Sunday with M. d'Albert. On one side I
shall have a magnificent view of the lake, the town, and the Jura; on
the other, the range of Mont Blanc. The walks about Geneva are
perfectly enchanting. "Ah!" says poor Mlle. de Phaisan, "nous avons un
beau pays si nous n'avions pas ces Radicaux!" The election of the
Conseil d'État is to take place in November, and an _émeute_ is
expected. The actual government is Radical, and thoroughly detested by
all the "respectable" classes. The vice-president of the Conseil and
the virtual head of the government is an unprincipled, clever fellow,
horribly in debt himself, and on the way to reduce the government to
the same position.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 28th Oct. 1849.]
I like my town life vastly. I shall like it still better in the
winter. There is an indescribable charm to me in this form of human
nest-making. You enter a by no means attractive-looking house, you
climb up two or three flights of cold, dark-looking stone steps, you
ring at a very modest door, and you enter a set of rooms, snug, or
comfortable, or elegant. One is so out of reach of intruders, so
undiverted from one's occupations by externals, so free from cold,
rushing winds through hall doors--one feels in a downy nest high up
in a good old tree. I have always had a hankering after this sort of
life, and I find it was a true instinct of what would suit me. Just
opposite my windows is the street in which the Sisters of Charity
live, and, if I look out, I generally see either one of them or a
sober-looking ecclesiastic. Then a walk of five minutes takes me out
of all streets, within sight of beauties that I am sure you too would
love, if you did not share my enthusiasm for the town. I have not
another minute, having promised to go out before dinner--so, dearest,
take my letter as a hasty kiss, just to let you know how constantly I
love you--how, the longer I live and the more I have felt, the better
I know how to value you.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 4th Dec. 1849.]
I write at once to answer your questions about business. Spinoza and I
have been divorced for several months. My want of health has obliged
me to renounce all application. I take walks, play on the piano, read
Voltaire, talk to my friends, and just take a dose of mathematics
every day to prevent my brain from becoming quite soft. If you are
anxious to publish the translation in question I could, after a few
months, finish the "Tractatus Theologico-Politicus" to keep it
company; but I confess to you that I think you would do better to
abstain from printing a translation. What is wanted in English is not
a translation of Spinoza's works, but a true estimate of his life and
system. After one has rendered his Latin faithfully into English, one
feels that there is another yet more difficult process of translation
for the reader to effect, and that the only mode of making Spinoza
accessible to a larger number is to study his books, then shut them,
and give an analysis. For those who read the very words Spinoza wrote
there is the same sort of interest in his style as in the conversation
of a person of great capacity who has led a solitary life, and who
says from his own soul what all the world is saying by rote; but this
interest hardly belongs to a translation.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 4th Dec. 1849.]
Your letter is very sweet to me, giving me a picture of your quiet
life. How shall I enable you to imagine mine, since you know nothing
of the localities? My good friends here only change for the better.
Mme. d'Albert is all affection; M. d'Albert all delicacy and
intelligence; the friends to whom they have introduced me very kind in
their attentions. In fact, I want nothing but a little more money, to
feel more at ease about my fires, etc. I am in an atmosphere of love
and refinement; even the little servant Jeanne seems to love me, and
does me good every time she comes into the room. I can say anything to
M. and Mme. d'Albert. M. d'A. understands everything, and if madame
does not understand, she believes--that is, she seems always sure that
I mean something edifying. She kisses me like a mother, and I am baby
enough to find that a great addition to my happiness. _Au reste_, I am
careful for nothing; I am a sort of supernumerary spoon, and there
will be no damage to the set if I am lost. My heart-ties are not
loosened by distance--it is not in the nature of ties to be so; and
when I think of my loved ones as those to whom I can be a comforter, a
help, I long to be with them again. Otherwise, I can only think with a
shudder of returning to England. It looks to me like a land of gloom,
of _ennui_, of platitude; but in the midst of all this it is the land
of duty and affection, and the only ardent hope I have for my future
life is to have given to me some woman's duty--some possibility of
devoting myself where I may see a daily result of pure, calm
blessedness in the life of another.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 4th Dec. 1849.]
How do you look? I hope that _bandeau_ of silvery locks is not
widening too fast on the head I love so well--that the eyes are as
bright as ever. Your letter tells me they will beam as kindly as ever
when I see them once more. Never make apologies about your letters, or
your words, or anything else. It is your soul to which I am wedded;
and do I not know too well how the soul is doubly belied--first, by
the impossibility of being in word and act as great, as loving, as
good as it wills to be; and again, by the miserable weaknesses of the
friends who see the words and acts through all sorts of mists raised
by their own passions and preoccupations? In all these matters I am
the chief of sinners, and I am tempted to rejoice in the offences of
my friends, because they make me feel less humiliation. I am quite
satisfied to be at Geneva instead of Paris; in fact, I am becoming
passionately attached to the mountains, the lake, the streets, my own
room, and, above all, the dear people with whom I live.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 23d Dec. 1849.]
A thousand Christmas pleasures and blessings to you--good resolutions
and bright hopes for the New Year! Amen. People who can't be witty
exert themselves to be pious or affectionate. Henceforth I tell you
nothing whatever about myself; for if I speak of agreeables, and say I
am contented, Mr. Bray writes me word that you are all trying to
forget me. If I were to tell you of disagreeables and privations and
sadness, Sara would write: "If you are unhappy now, you will be so _à
fortiori_ ten years hence." Now, since I have a decided objection to
doses sent by post which upset one's digestion for a fortnight, I am
determined to give you no pretext for sending them. You shall not know
whether I am well or ill, contented or discontented, warm or cold,
fat or thin. But remember that I am so far from being of the same mind
as Mr. Bray, that good news of you is necessary to my comfort. I walk
more briskly, and jump out of bed more promptly, after a letter that
tells me you are well and comfortable, that business is promising,
that men begin to speak well of you, etc. "I am comforted in your
comfort," as saith St. Paul to the troublesome Corinthians. When one
is cabined, cribbed, confined in one's self, it is good to be enlarged
in one's friends. Good Mr. Marshall! We wish to keep even unamiable
people when death calls for them, much more good souls like him. I am
glad he had had one more pleasant visit to Cara for her to think of.
Dear Sara's letter is very charming--not at all physicky--rather an
agreeable draught of _vin sucré_. Dear Mr. Hennell, we shall never
look upon his like.
I am attending a course of lectures on Experimental Physics by M. le
Professeur de la Rive, the inventor, among other things, of
electroplating. The lectures occur every Wednesday and Saturday. It is
time for me to go. I am distressed to send you this shabby last
fragment of paper, and to write in such a hurry, but the days are
really only two hours long, and I have so many things to do that I go
to bed every night miserable because I have left out something I meant
to do. Good-bye, dear souls. Forget me if you like, you cannot oblige
me to forget you; and the active is worth twice of the passive all the
world over! The earth is covered with snow, and the government is
levelling the fortifications.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 28th Jan. 1850.]
You leave me a long time without news of you, though I told you they
were necessary as a counteractive to the horrors of this terrible
winter. Are you really so occupied as to have absolutely no time to
think of me? I console myself, at least to-day, now we have a blue sky
once more after two months of mist, with thinking that I am excluded
by pleasanter ideas--that at least you are well and comfortable, and I
ought to content myself with that. The fact is, I am much of
Touchstone's mind--in respect my life is at Geneva, I like it very
well, but in respect it is not with you, it is a very vile life. I
have no yearnings to exchange lake and mountains for Bishop Street and
the Radford Fields, but I have a great yearning to kiss you all and
talk to you for three days running. I do not think it will be possible
for me to undertake the journey before the end of March. I look
forward to it with great dread. I see myself looking utterly
miserable, ready to leave all my luggage behind me at Paris for the
sake of escaping the trouble of it. We have had Alboni here--a very
fat siren. There has been some capital acting of comedies by friends
of M. d'Albert--one of them is superior to any professional actor of
comedy I have ever seen. He reads _vaudevilles_ so marvellously that
one seems to have a whole troupe of actors before one in his single
person. He is a handsome man of fifty, full of wit and talent, and he
married about a year ago.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Houghton, 9th Feb. 1850.]
It is one of the provoking contrarieties of destiny that I should have
written my croaking letter when your own kind, consolatory one was on
its way to me. I have been happier ever since it came. After mourning
two or three months over Chrissey's account of your troubles, I can
only dwell on that part of your letter which tells that there is a
little more blue in your sky--that you have faith in the coming
spring. Shall you be as glad to see me as to hear the cuckoo? I mean
to return to England as soon as the Jura is passable without
sledges--probably the end of March or beginning of April. I have a
little _Heimweh_ "as it regards" my friends. I yearn to see those I
have loved the longest, but I shall feel real grief at parting from
the excellent people with whom I am living. I feel they are my
_friends_; without entering into or even knowing the greater part of
my views, they understand my character and have a real interest in me.
I have infinite tenderness from Mme. d'Albert. I call her always
"maman;" and she is just the creature one loves to lean on and be
petted by. In fact, I am too much indulged, and shall go back to
England as undisciplined as ever. This terribly severe winter has been
a drawback on my recovering my strength. I have lost whole weeks from
headache, etc., but I am certainly better now than when I came to Mme.
d'Albert. You tell me to give you these details, so I obey. Decidedly
England is the most comfortable country to be in in winter--at least,
for all except those who are rich enough to buy English comforts
everywhere. I hate myself for caring about carpets, easy-chairs, and
coal fires--one's soul is under a curse, and can preach no truth while
one is in bondage to the flesh in this way; but, alas! habit is the
purgatory in which we suffer for our past sins. I hear much music. We
have a reunion of musical friends every Monday. For the rest, I have
refused _soirées_, which are as stupid and unprofitable at Geneva as
in England. I save all more interesting details, that I may have them
to tell you when I am with you. I am going now to a _séance_ on
Experimental Physics by the celebrated Professor de la Rive. This
letter will at least convince you that I am not eaten up by wolves, as
they have been fearing at Rosehill. The English papers tell of wolves
descending from the Jura and devouring the inhabitants of the
villages, but we have been in happy ignorance of these editors'
horrors.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 15th Feb. 1850.]
If you saw the Jura to-day! The snow reveals its forests, ravines, and
precipices, and it stands in relief against a pure blue sky. The snow
is on the mountains only, now, and one is tempted to walk all day,
particularly when one lies in bed till ten, as your exemplary friend
sometimes does. I have had no discipline, and shall return to you more
of a spoiled child than ever. Indeed, I think I am destined to be so
to the end--one of the odious swarm of voracious caterpillars soon to
be swept away from the earth by a tempest. I am getting better bodily.
I have much less headache, but the least excitement fatigues me.
Certainly, if one cannot have a malady to carry one off rapidly, the
only sensible thing is to get well and fat; and I believe I shall be
driven to that alternative. You know that George Sand writes for the
theatre? Her "François le Champi--une Comédie," is simplicity and
purity itself. The seven devils are cast out. We are going to have
more acting here on Wednesday. M. Chamel's talent makes maman's
_soirées_ quite brilliant. You will be amused to hear that I am
sitting for my portrait--at M. d'Albert's request, not mine. If it
turns out well, I shall long to steal it to give to you; but M.
d'Albert talks of painting a second, and in that case I shall
certainly beg one. The idea of making a study of my visage is droll
enough. I have the kindest possible letters from my brother and
sisters, promising me the warmest welcome. This helps to give me
courage for the journey; but the strongest magnet of all is a certain
little group of three persons whom I hope to find together at
Rosehill. Something has been said of M. d'Albert accompanying me to
Paris. I am saddened when I think of all the horrible anxieties of
trade. If I had children, I would make them carpenters and shoemakers;
that is the way to make them Messiahs and Jacob Boehms. As for us, who
are dependent on carpets and easy-chairs, we are reprobates, and shall
never enter into the kingdom of heaven. I go to the Genevese churches
every Sunday, and nourish my heterodoxy with orthodox sermons.
However, there are some clever men here in the Church, and I am
fortunate in being here at a time when the very cleverest is giving a
series of conferences. I think I have never told you that we have a
long German lad of seventeen in the house--the most taciturn and
awkward of lads. He said very naïvely, when I reproached him for not
talking to a German young lady at a _soirée_, when he was seated next
her at table--"Je ne savais que faire de mes jambes." They had placed
the poor _garçon_ against one of those card-tables--all legs, like
himself.
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 1st March, 1850.]
The weather is so glorious that I think I may set out on my journey
soon after the 15th. I am not quite certain yet that M. d'Albert will
not be able to accompany me to Paris; in any case, a package of so
little value will get along safely enough. I am so excited at the idea
of the time being so near when I am to leave Geneva--a real grief--and
see my friends in England--a perfectly overwhelming joy--that I can do
nothing. I am frightened to think what an idle wretch I am become. And
you all do not write me one word to tell me you long for me. I have a
great mind to elope to Constantinople, and never see any one any
more!
It is with a feeling of regret that we take leave of the
pleasant town of Geneva, its lake and mountains, and its
agreeable little circle of acquaintance. It was a peacefully
happy episode in George Eliot's life, and one she was always
fond of recurring to, in our talk, up to the end of her life.
_SUMMARY._
JUNE, 1849, TO MARCH, 1850.
Goes abroad with Mr. and Mrs. Bray--Geneva--Life at Campagne
Plongeon--Letters to Brays describing surroundings--Mrs.
Locke--The St. Germain family--Anxiety about her boxes with
books, etc.--Hears M. Meunier preach--Patriotism the first of
virtues--Mme. Cornelius--Mme. de Ludwigsdorff--"_Fête_ of
Navigation" on the lake--Demand for letters--Prophetic
anticipation of position seven years later--Wishes to sell
some of her books and globes to get music lessons--Letter to
Mrs. Houghton--Loss of Mrs. Clarke's child--Love of Lake of
Geneva--Letters to Brays--Mme. Ludwigsdorff wishes her to
spend winter in Paris--Mlle. de Phaisan--Finds apartment in
Geneva, No. 107 Rue des Chanoines, with M. and Mme.
d'Albert--Enjoyment of their society--Remarks on translations
of Spinoza--Hope of a woman's duty--Attachment to
Geneva--Yearning for friends at home--Alboni--Private
theatricals--Portrait by M. d'Albert--Remarks on education of
children--Leaves Geneva by Jura.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] It may be noted as a curious verification of this presentiment
that "Scenes of Clerical Life" were published in 1856--just seven
years later.
[27] Mrs. Hennell.
[28] Mr. and Mrs. C. Hennell.
[29] Mr. Charles Lewes tells me that when he went to stay with the
d'Alberts at Geneva, many years afterwards, they mentioned how much
they had been struck by her extraordinary discernment of the character
of these two boys.
[30] "Philosophy of Necessity," by Charles Bray.