[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 5th Jan. 1866.]
I have had it in my mind to write to you for many days, wanting to
tell you, yet feeling there might be some impertinence in doing so, of
the delight and gratitude I felt in reading your article on
"Industrial Co-operation." Certain points admirably brought out in
that article would, I think, be worth the labor of a life if one could
help in winning them thorough recognition. I don't mean that my
thinking so is of any consequence, but simply that it is of
consequence to me when I find your energetic writing confirm my own
faith.
It would be fortunate for us if you had nothing better to do than look
in on us on Tuesday evening. Professor Huxley will be with us, and one
or two others whom you know, and your presence would make us all the
brighter.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Jan. 9._--Professors Huxley and Beesley, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Spencer
dined with us. Mr. Harrison in the evening.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 12th Jan. 1866.]
The ample and clear statement you have sent me with kind promptness
has put me in high spirits--as high spirits as can belong to an
unhopeful author. Your hypothetical case of a settlement suits my
needs surprisingly well. I shall be thankful to let Sugden alone, and
throw myself entirely on your goodness, especially as what I want is
simply a basis of legal possibilities and not any command of details.
I want to be sure that my chords will not offend a critic
accomplished in thorough bass--not at all to present an exercise in
thorough bass.
I was going to write you a long story, but, on consideration, it seems
to me that I should tax your time less, and arrive more readily at a
resolution of my doubts on various points not yet mentioned to you, if
you could let me speak instead of writing to you.
On Wednesday afternoons I am always at home; but on any day when I
could be sure of your coming I would set everything aside for the sake
of a consultation so valuable to me.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Jan. 20._--For the last fortnight I have been unusually disabled by
ill-health. I have been consulting Mr. Harrison about the law in my
book, with satisfactory result.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 22d Jan. 1866.]
I had not any opportunity, or not enough presence of mind, to tell you
yesterday how much I felt your kindness in writing me that last little
note of sympathy.
In proportion as compliments (always beside the mark) are discouraging
and nauseating, at least to a writer who has any serious aims, genuine
words from one capable of understanding one's conceptions are precious
and strengthening.
Yet I have no confidence that the book will ever be worthily written.
And now I have something else to ask. It is that if anything strikes
you as untrue in cases where my drama has a bearing on momentous
questions, especially of a public nature, you will do me the great
kindness to tell me of your doubts.
On a few moral points, which have been made clear to me by my
experience, I feel sufficiently confident--without such confidence I
could not write at all. But in every other direction I am so much in
need of fuller instruction as to be constantly under the sense that I
am more likely to be wrong than right.
Hitherto I have read my MS. (I mean of my previous books) to Mr.
Lewes, by forty or fifty pages at a time, and he has told me if he
felt an objection to anything. No one else has had any knowledge of my
writings before their publication. (I except, of course, the
publishers.)
But now that you are good enough to incur the trouble of reading my
MS., I am anxious to get the full benefit of your participation.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 28th Jan. 1866.]
We arrived here on Tuesday, and have been walking about four hours
each day, and the walks are so various that each time we have turned
out we have found a new one. George is already much the better for the
perfect rest, quiet, and fresh air. Will you give my thanks to Mr.
Congreve for the "Synthèse" which I have brought with me and am
reading? I expect to understand three chapters well enough to get some
edification.
George had talked of our taking the train to Dover to pay you a
"morning call." He observes that it would have been a "dreadful sell"
if we had done so. Your letter, therefore, was providential--and
without doubt it came from a dear little Providence of mine that sits
in your heart.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 31st Jan. 1866.]
I have received both your precious letters--the second edition of the
case, and the subsequent note. The story is sufficiently in the track
of ordinary probability; and the careful trouble you have so
generously given to it has enabled me to feel a satisfaction in my
plot which beforehand I had sighed for as unattainable.
There is still a question or two which I shall want to ask you, but I
am afraid of taxing your time and patience in an unconscionable
manner. So, since we expect to return to town at the end of next week,
I think I will reserve my questions until I have the pleasure and
advantage of an interview with you, in which _pros_ and _cons_ can be
more rapidly determined than by letter. It seems to me that you have
fitted my phenomena with a _rationale_ quite beautifully. If there is
any one who could have done it better, I am sure I know of no man who
_would_. Please to put your help of me among your good deeds for this
year of 1866.
To-day we have resolute rain, for the first time since we came down.
You don't yet know what it is to be a sickly wretch, dependent on
these skyey influences. But Heine says illness "spiritualizes the
members." It had need do some good in return for one's misery.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 12th Feb. 1866.]
Thanks for your kind letter. Alas! we had chiefly bad weather in the
country. George was a little benefited, but only a little. He is too
far "run down" to be wound up in a very short time. We enjoyed our
return to our comfortable house, and, perhaps, that freshness of home
was the chief gain from our absence.
You see, to counterbalance all the great and good things that life has
given us beyond what our fellows have, we hardly know now what it is
to be free from bodily _malaise_.
After the notion I have given you of my health you will not wonder if
I say that I don't know when anything of mine will appear. I can never
reckon on myself.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_March 7._--I am reading Mill's "Logic" again. Theocritus still, and
English History and Law.
_March 17._--To St. James's Hall hearing Joachim, Piatti, and Hallé in
glorious Beethoven music.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 9th April, 1866.]
Don't think any evil of me for not writing. Just now the days are
short, and art is long to artists with feeble bodies. If people don't
say expressly that they want anything from me, I easily conclude that
they will do better without me, and have a good weight of idleness,
or, rather, bodily fatigue, which puts itself into the scale of
modesty. I torment myself less with fruitless regrets that my
particular life has not been more perfect. The young things are
growing, and to me it is not melancholy but joyous that the world will
be brighter after I am gone than it has been in the brief time of my
existence. You see my pen runs into very old reflections. The fact is,
I have no details to tell that would much interest you. It is true
that I am going to bring out another book, but just _when_ is not
certain.
[Sidenote: Letter to Madame Bodichon, 10th April, 1866.]
The happiness in your letter was delightful to me, as you guessed it
would be. See how much better things may turn out for all mankind,
since they mend for single mortals even in this confused state of the
bodies social and politic.
As soon as we can leave we shall go away, probably to Germany, for six
weeks or so. But that will not be till June. I am finishing a book
which has been growing slowly, like a sickly child, because of my own
ailments; but now I am in the later acts of it I can't move till it is
done.
You know all the news, public and private--all about the sad cattle
plague, and the reform bill, and who is going to be married and who is
dead--so I need tell you nothing. You will find the English world
extremely like what it was when you left it--conversation more or less
trivial and insincere, literature just now not much better, and
politics worse than either. Bring some sincerity and energy to make a
little draught of pure air in your particular world. I shall expect
you to be a heroine in the best sense, now you are happier after a
time of suffering. See what a talent I have for telling other people
to be good!
We are getting patriarchal, and think of old age and death as journeys
not far off. All knowledge, all thought, all achievement seems more
precious and enjoyable to me than it ever was before in life. But as
soon as one has found the key of life, "it opes the gates of death."
Youth has not learned the _art_ of living, and we go on bungling till
our experience can only serve us for a very brief space. That is the
"external order" we must submit to.
I am too busy to write except when I am tired, and don't know very
well what to say, so you must not be surprised if I write in a dreamy
way.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_April 21._--Sent MS. of two volumes to Blackwood.
_April 25._--Blackwood has written to offer me £5000 for "Felix Holt."
I have been ailing, and uncertain in my strokes, and yesterday got no
further than p. 52 of Vol. III.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 25th April, 1866.]
It is a great pleasure to me to be writing to you again, as in the old
days. After your kind letters, I am chiefly anxious that the
publication of "Felix Holt" may be a satisfaction to you from
beginning to end.
Mr. Lewes writes about other business matters, so I will only say that
I am desirous to have the proofs as soon and as rapidly as will be
practicable.
They will require correcting with great care, and there are large
spaces in the day when I am unable to write, in which I could be
attending to my proofs.
I think I ought to tell you that I have consulted a legal friend about
my law, to guard against errors. The friend is a Chancery barrister,
who "ought to know."
After I had written the first volume, I applied to him, and he has
since read through my MS.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 27th April, 1866.]
How very good it was of you to write me a letter which is a guarantee
to me of the pleasantest kind that I have made myself understood.
The tone of the prevalent literature just now is not encouraging to a
writer who at least wishes to be serious and sincere; and, owing to my
want of health, a great deal of this book has been written under so
much depression as to its practical effectiveness that I have
sometimes been ready to give it up.
Your letter has made me feel, more strongly than any other testimony,
that it would have been a pity if I had listened to the tempter
Despondency. I took a great deal of pains to get a true idea of the
period. My own recollections of it are childish, and of course
disjointed, but they help to illuminate my reading. I went through the
_Times_ of 1832-33 at the British Museum, to be sure of as many
details as I could. It is amazing what strong language was used in
those days, especially about the Church. "Bloated pluralists,"
"Stall-fed dignitaries," etc., are the sort of phrases conspicuous.
There is one passage of prophecy which I longed to quote, but I
thought it wiser to abstain. "Now, the beauty of the Reform Bill is
that, under its mature operation, the people must and will become free
agents"--a prophecy which I hope is true, only the maturity of the
operation has not arrived yet.
Mr. Lewes is well satisfied with the portion of the third volume
already written; and, as I am better in health just now, I hope to go
on with spirit, especially with the help of your cordial sympathy. I
trust you will see, when it comes, that the third volume is the
natural issue prepared for by the first and second.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 27th April, 1866.]
A thousand thanks for your note. Do not worry yourself so much about
those two questions that you will be forced to hate me. On Tuesday
next we are to go to Dorking for probably a fortnight. I wished you to
read the first hundred pages of my third volume; but I fear now that I
must be content to wait and send you a duplicate proof of a chapter or
two that are likely to make a lawyer shudder by their poetic license.
Please to be in great distress sometime for want of my advice, and
tease me considerably to get it, that I may prove my grateful memory
of these days.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th April, 1866.]
To-morrow we go--Mr. Lewes's bad health driving us--to Dorking, where
everything will reach me as quickly as in London.
I am in a horrible fidget about certain points which I want to be sure
of in correcting my proofs. They are chiefly two questions. I wish to
know,
1. Whether, in Napoleon's war with England, after the breaking-up of
the Treaty of Amiens, the seizure and imprisonment of civilians was
exceptional, or whether it was continued throughout the war?
2. Whether, in 1833, in the case of transportation to one of the
colonies, when the sentence did not involve hard labor, the sentenced
person might be at large on his arrival in the colony?
It is possible you may have some one near at hand who will answer
these questions. I am sure you will help me if you can, and will
sympathize in my anxiety not to have even an allusion that involves
practical impossibilities.
One can never be perfectly accurate, even with one's best effort, but
the effort must be made.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_May 31._--Finished "Felix Holt."
The manuscript 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."
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 5th June, 1866.]
My last hope of seeing you before we start has vanished. I find that
the things urged upon me to be done in addition to my own small
matters of preparation will leave me no time to enjoy anything that I
should have chosen if I had been at leisure. Last Thursday only I
finished writing, in a state of nervous excitement that had been
making my head throb and my heart palpitate all the week before. As
soon as I had finished I felt well. You know how we had counted on a
parting sight of you; and I should have particularly liked to see
Emily and witness the good effect of Derbyshire. But send us a word or
two if you can, just to say how you _all three_ are. We start on
Thursday evening for Brussels. Then to Antwerp, the Hague, and
Amsterdam. Out of Holland we are to find our way to Schwalbach. Let
your love go with us, as mine will hover about you and all yours--that
group of three which the word "Wandsworth" always means for us.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 5th June, 1866.]
I finished writing ("Felix Holt") on the last day of May, after days
and nights of throbbing and palpitation--chiefly, I suppose, from a
nervous excitement which I was not strong enough to support well. As
soon as I had done I felt better, and have been a new creature ever
since, though a little overdone with visits from friends and attention
(_miserabile dictu!_) to petticoats, etc.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 6th June, 1866.]
I can't help being a little vexed that the course of things hinders
my having the great delight of seeing you again, during this visit to
town. Now that my mind is quite free, I don't know anything I should
have chosen sooner than to have a long, long quiet day with you.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_June 7._--Set off on our journey to Holland.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 25th June, 1866, from Schwalbach.]
I wish you could know how idle I feel, how utterly disinclined to
anything but mere self-indulgence; because that knowledge would enable
you to estimate the affection and anxiety which prompt me to write in
spite of disinclination. June is so far gone, that by the time you get
this letter you will surely have some result of the examination to
tell me of; and I can't bear to deprive myself of that news by not
letting you know where we are. "In Paradise," George says; but the
Paradise is in the fields and woods of beech and fir, where we walk in
uninterrupted solitude in spite of the excellent roads and delightful
resting-places, which seem to have been prepared for visitors in
general. The promenade, where the ladies--chiefly Russian and German,
with only a small sprinkling of English and Americans--display their
ornamental petticoats and various hats, is only the outskirt of
Paradise; but we amuse ourselves there for an hour or so in the early
morning and evening, listening to the music and learning the faces of
our neighbors. There is a deficiency of men, children, and dogs,
otherwise the winding walks, the luxuriant trees and grass, and the
abundant seats of the promenade have every charm one can expect at a
German bath. We arrived here last Thursday, after a fortnight spent in
Belgium and Holland; and we still fall to interjections of delight
whenever we walk out--first at the beauty of the place, and next at
our own happiness in not having been frightened away from it by the
predictions of travellers and hotel-keepers, that we should find no
one here--that the Prussians would break up the railways, etc.,
etc.--Nassau being one of the majority of small states who are against
Prussia. I fear we are a little in danger of becoming like the Bürger
in "Faust," and making it too much the entertainment of our holiday to
have a
"Gespräch von Krieg und Kriegsgeschrei
Wenn hinten, weit, in der Türkei,
Die Völker auf einander schlagen."
Idle people are so eager for newspapers that tell them of other
people's energetic enthusiasm! A few soldiers are quartered here, and
we see them wisely using their leisure to drink at the Brunnen. They
are the only suggestion of war that meets our eyes among these woody
hills. Already we feel great benefit from our quiet journeying and
repose. George is looking remarkably well, and seems to have nothing
the matter with him. You know how magically quick his recoveries seem.
I am too refined to say anything about our excellent quarters and good
meals; but one detail, I know, will touch your sympathy. We dine in
our own room! It would have marred the _Kur_ for me if I had had every
day to undergo a _table d'hôte_ where almost all the guests are
English, presided over by the British chaplain. Please don't suspect
me of being scornful towards my fellow countrymen or women: the fault
is all mine that I am miserably _gênée_ by the glances of strange
eyes.
We want news from you to complete our satisfaction, and no one can
give it but yourself. Send us as many matter-of-fact details as you
have the patience to write. We shall not be here after the 4th, but at
Schlangenbad.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 3d Aug. 1866.]
We got home last night, after a rough passage from Ostend. You have
been so continually a recurrent thought to me ever since I had your
letter at Schwalbach, that it is only natural I should write to you as
soon as I am at my old desk again. The news of Mr. Congreve's
examination being over made me feel for several days that something
had happened which caused me unusual lightness of heart. I would not
dwell on the possibility of your having to leave Wandsworth, which, I
know, would cause you many sacrifices. I clung solely to the great,
cheering fact that a load of anxiety had been lifted from Mr.
Congreve's mind. May we not put in a petition for some of his time
now? And will he not come with you and Emily to dine with us next
week, on any day except Wednesday and Friday? The dinner-hour seems
more propitious for talk and enjoyment than lunch-time; but in all
respects choose what will best suit your health and habits--only let
us see you.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 4th Aug. 1866.]
We returned from our health-seeking journey on Thursday evening, and
your letter was the most delightful thing that awaited me at home. Be
sure it will be much read and meditated; and may I not take it as an
earnest that your help, which has already done so much for me, will be
continued? I mean, that you will help me by your thoughts and your
sympathy--not that you will be teased with my proofs.
I meant to write you a long letter about the æsthetic problem; but Mr.
Lewes, who is still tormented with headachy effects from our rough
passage, comes and asks me to walk to Hampstead with him, so I send
these hasty lines. Come and see us soon.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 4th Aug. 1866.]
We got home on Thursday evening, and are still feeling some unpleasant
effects from our very rough passage--an inconvenience which we had
waited some days at Ostend to avoid. But the wind took no notice of
us, and went on blowing.
I was much pleased with the handsome appearance of the three volumes
which were lying ready for me. My hatred of bad paper and bad print,
and my love of their opposites, naturally get stronger as my eyes get
weaker; and certainly that taste could hardly be better gratified than
it is by Messrs. Blackwood & Sons.
Colonel Hamley's volume is another example of that fact. It lies now
on my revolving desk as one of the books I mean first to read. I am
really grateful to have such a medium of knowledge, and I expect it to
make some pages of history much less dim to me.
My impression of Colonel Hamley, when we had that pleasant dinner at
Greenwich, and afterwards when he called in Blandford Square, was
quite in keeping with the high opinion you express. Mr. Lewes liked
the article on "Felix" in the Magazine very much. He read it the first
thing yesterday morning, and told me it was written in a nice spirit,
and the extracts judiciously made.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 10th Aug. 1866.]
I have had a delightful holiday, and find my double self very much the
better for it. We made a great round in our journeying. From Antwerp
to Rotterdam, the Hague, Leyden, Amsterdam, Cologne; then up the Rhine
to Coblentz, and thence to Schwalbach, where we stayed a fortnight.
From Schwalbach to Schlangenbad, where we stayed till we feared the
boats would cease to go to and fro; and, in fact, only left just in
time to get down the Rhine to Bonn by the Dutch steamer. From Bonn,
after two days, we went to Aix; then to dear old Liége, where we had
been together thirteen years before; and, to avoid the King of the
Belgians, ten minutes backwards to the baths of pretty Chaudfontaine,
where we remained three days. Then to Louvain, Ghent, and Bruges; and,
last of all, to Ostend, where we waited for a fine day and calm sea,
until we secured--a very rough passage indeed.
Ought we not to be a great deal wiser and more efficient personages,
or else to be ashamed of ourselves? Unhappily, this last alternative
is not a compensation for wisdom.
I thought of you--to mention one occasion among many--when we had the
good fortune, at Antwerp, to see a placard announcing that the company
from the Ober-Ammergau, Bavaria, would represent, that Sunday evening,
the _Lebensgeschichte_ of our Saviour Christ, at the Théatre des
Variétés. I remembered that you had seen the representation with deep
interest--and these actors are doubtless the successors of those you
saw. Of course we went to the theatre. And the Christ was, without
exaggeration, beautiful. All the rest was inferior, and might even
have had a painful approach to the ludicrous; but both the person and
the action of the Jesus were fine enough to overpower all meaner
impressions. Mr. Lewes, who, you know, is keenly alive to everything
"stagey" in physiognomy and gesture, felt what I am saying quite as
much as I did, and was much moved.
Rotterdam, with the grand approach to it by the broad river; the rich
red brick of the houses; the canals, uniformly planted with trees, and
crowded with the bright brown masts of the Dutch boats--is far finer
than Amsterdam. The color of Amsterdam is ugly; the houses are of a
chocolate color, almost black (an artificial tinge given to the
bricks), and the woodwork on them screams out in ugly patches of
cream-color; the canals have no trees along their sides, and the
boats are infrequent. We looked about for the very Portuguese
synagogue where Spinoza was nearly assassinated as he came from
worship. But it no longer exists. There are no less than three
Portuguese synagogues now--very large and handsome. And in the evening
we went to see the worship there. Not a woman was present, but of
devout men not a few--a curious reversal of what one sees in other
temples. The chanting and the swaying about of the bodies--almost a
wriggling--are not beautiful to the sense; but I fairly cried at
witnessing this faint symbolism of a religion of sublime, far-off
memories. The skulls of St. Ursula's eleven thousand virgins seem a
modern suggestion compared with the Jewish Synagogue. At Schwalbach
and Schlangenbad our life was led chiefly in the beech woods, which we
had all to ourselves, the guests usually confining themselves to the
nearer promenades. The guests, of course, were few in that serious
time; and between war and cholera we felt our position as health--and
pleasure--seekers somewhat contemptible.
There is no end to what one could say, if one did not feel that long
letters cut pieces not to be spared out of the solid day.
I think I have earned that you should write me one of those perfect
letters in which you make me see everything you like about yourself
and others.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Aug. 30._--I have taken up the idea of my drama, "The Spanish Gypsy,"
again, and am reading on Spanish subjects--Bouterwek, Sismondi,
Depping, Llorante, etc.
[Sidenote: Letter to Frederic Harrison, 15th Aug. 1866.]
I have read several times your letter of the 19th, which I found
awaiting me on my return, and I shall read it many times again. Pray
do not even say, or inwardly suspect, that anything you take the
trouble to write to me will not be valued. On the contrary, please to
imagine as well as you can the experience of a mind morbidly
desponding, of a consciousness tending more and more to consist in
memories of error and imperfection rather than in a strengthening
sense of achievement--and then consider how such a mind must need the
support of sympathy and approval from those who are capable of
understanding its aims. I assure you your letter is an evidence of a
fuller understanding than I have ever had expressed to me before. And
if I needed to give emphasis to this simple statement, I should
suggest to you all the miseries one's obstinate egoism endures from
the fact of being a writer of novels--books which the dullest and
silliest reader thinks himself competent to deliver an opinion on. But
I despise myself for feeling any annoyance at these trivial things.
That is a tremendously difficult problem which you have laid before
me; and I think you see its difficulties, though they can hardly press
upon you as they do on me, who have gone through again and again the
severe effort of trying to make certain ideas thoroughly incarnate, as
if they had revealed themselves to me first in the flesh and not in
the spirit. I think æsthetic teaching is the highest of all teaching,
because it deals with life in its highest complexity. But if it ceases
to be purely æsthetic--if it lapses anywhere from the picture to the
diagram--it becomes the most offensive of all teaching. Avowed Utopias
are not offensive, because they are understood to have a scientific
and expository character: they do not pretend to work on the emotions,
or couldn't do it if they did pretend. I am sure, from your own
statement, that you see this quite clearly. Well, then, consider the
sort of agonizing labor to an English-fed imagination to make out a
sufficiently real background for the desired picture--to get
breathing, individual forms, and group them in the needful relations,
so that the presentation will lay hold on the emotions as human
experience--will, as you say, "flash" conviction on the world by means
of aroused sympathy.
I took unspeakable pains in preparing to write "Romola"--neglecting
nothing I could find that would help me to what I may call the "idiom"
of Florence, in the largest sense one could stretch the word to; and
then I was only trying to give _some_ out of the normal relations. I
felt that the necessary idealization could only be attained by adopting
the clothing of the past. And again, it is my way (rather too much so,
perhaps) to urge the human sanctities through tragedy--through pity and
terror, as well as admiration and delight. I only say all this to show
the tenfold arduousness of such a work as the one your problem demands.
On the other hand, my whole soul goes with your desire that it should
be done; and I shall at least keep the great possibility (or
impossibility) perpetually in my mind, as something towards which I
must strive, though it may be that I can do so only in a fragmentary
way.
At present I am going to take up again a work which I laid down before
writing "Felix." It is--_but, please, let this be a secret between
ourselves_--an attempt at a drama, which I put aside at Mr. Lewes's
request, after writing four acts, precisely because it was in that
stage of creation--or _Werden_--in which the idea of the characters
predominates over the incarnation. Now I read it again, I find it
impossible to abandon it; the conceptions move me deeply, and they
have never been wrought out before. There is not a thought or symbol
that I do not long to use: but the whole requires recasting; and, as I
never recast anything before, I think of the issue very doubtfully.
When one has to work out the dramatic action for one's self, under the
inspiration of an idea, instead of having a grand myth or an Italian
novel ready to one's hand, one feels anything but omnipotent. Not that
I should have done any better if I had had the myth or the novel, for
I am not a good user of opportunities. I think I have the right
_locus_ and historic conditions, but much else is wanting.
I have not, of course, said half what I meant to say; but I hope
opportunities of exchanging thoughts will not be wanting between us.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 6th Sept. 1866.]
It is so long since we exchanged letters, that I feel inclined to
break the silence by telling you that I have been reading with much
interest the "Operations of War," which you enriched me with. Also
that I have had a pretty note, in aged handwriting, from Dean Ramsay,
with a present of his "Reminiscences of Scottish Life." I suppose you
know him quite well, but I never heard you mention him. Also--what
will amuse you--that my readers take quite a tender care of my text,
writing to me to tell me of a misprint, or of "one phrase" which they
entreat to have altered, that no blemish may disfigure "Felix." Dr.
Althaus has sent me word of a misprint which I am glad to know of--or,
rather, of a word slipped out in the third volume. "She _saw_ streaks
of light, etc. ... _and_ sounds." It must be corrected when the
opportunity comes.
We are very well, and I am swimming in Spanish history and literature.
I feel as if I were molesting you with a letter without any good
excuse, but you are not bound to write again until a wet day makes
golf impossible, and creates a dreariness in which even letter-writing
seems like a recreation.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 11th Sept. 1866.]
I am glad to know that Dean Ramsay is a friend of yours. His sympathy
was worth having, and I at once wrote to thank him. Another
wonderfully lively old man--Sir Henry Holland--came to see me about
two Sundays ago, to bid me good-bye before going on an excursion
to--North America!--and to tell me that he had just been re-reading
"Adam Bede" for the fourth time. "I often read in it, you know,
besides. But this is the fourth time quite through." I, of course,
with the mother's egoism on behalf of the youngest born, was jealous
for "Felix." Is there any possibility of satisfying an author? But one
or two things that George read out to me from an article in
_Macmillan's Magazine_, by Mr. Mozley, did satisfy me. And yet I
sicken again with despondency under the sense that the most carefully
written books lie, both outside and inside people's minds, deep
undermost in a heap of trash.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Sept. 15._--Finished Depping's "Juifs au Moyen Âge." Reading Chaucer,
to study English. Also reading on Acoustics, Musical Instruments, etc.
_Oct. 15._--Recommenced "The Spanish Gypsy," intending to give it a
new form.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d Nov. 1866.]
For a wonder I remembered the day of the month, and felt a delightful
confidence that I should have a letter from her who always remembers
such things at the right moment. You will hardly believe in my
imbecility. I can never be quite sure whether your birthday is the
21st or the 23d. I know every one must think the worse of me for this
want of retentiveness that seems a part of affection; and it is only
justice that they should. Nevertheless I am not quite destitute of
lovingness and gratitude, and perhaps the consciousness of my own
defect makes me feel your goodness the more keenly. I shall reckon it
part of the next year's happiness for me if it brings a great deal of
happiness to you. That will depend somewhat--perhaps chiefly--on the
satisfaction you have in giving shape to your ideas. But you say
nothing on that subject.
We knew about Faraday's preaching, but not of his loss of faculty. I
begin to think of such things as very near to me--I mean, decay of
power and health. But I find age has its fresh elements of
cheerfulness.
Bless you, dear Sara, for all the kindness of many years, and for the
newest kindness that comes to me this morning. I am very well now, and
able to enjoy my happiness. One has happiness sometimes without being
able to enjoy it.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Nov. 22._--Reading Renan's "Histoire des Langues Sémitiques"--Ticknor's
"Spanish Literature."
_Dec. 6._--We returned from Tunbridge Wells, where we have been for a
week. I have been reading Cornewall Lewis's "Astronomy of the
Ancients," Ockley's "History of the Saracens," "Astronomical
Geography," and Spanish ballads on Bernardo del Carpio.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 7th Dec. 1866.]
We have been to Tunbridge Wells for a week, hoping to get plenty of
fresh air, and walking in that sandy, undulating country. But for
three days it rained incessantly.
No; I don't feel as if my faculties were failing me. On the contrary,
I enjoy all subjects--all study--more than I ever did in my life
before. But that very fact makes me more in need of resignation to the
certain approach of age and death. Science, history, poetry--I don't
know which draws me most, and there is little time left me for any
one of them. I learned Spanish last year but one, and see new vistas
everywhere. That makes me think of time thrown away when I was
young--time that I should be so glad of now. I could enjoy everything,
from arithmetic to antiquarianism, if I had large spaces of life
before me. But instead of that I have a very small space. Unfeigned,
unselfish, cheerful resignation is difficult. But I strive to get it.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Dec. 11._--Ill ever since I came home, so that the days seem to have
made a muddy flood, sweeping away all labor and all growth.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Congreve, 22d Dec. 1866.]
Just before we received Dr. Congreve's letter we had changed our
plans. George's increasing weakness and the more and more frequent
intervals in which he became unable to work, made me at last urge him
to give up the idea of "finishing," which often besets us vainly. It
will really be better for the work as well as for himself that he
should let it wait. However, I care about nothing just now except that
he should be doing all he can to get better. So we start next Thursday
for Bordeaux, staying two days in Paris on our way. Madame Mohl writes
us word that she hears from friends of the delicious weather--mild,
sunny weather--to be had now on the French southwestern and
southeastern coast. You will all wish us well on our journey, I know.
But _I_ wish I could carry a happier thought about you than that of
your being an invalid. I shall write to you when we are at Biarritz or
some other place that suits us, and when I have something good to
tell. No; in any case I shall write, because I shall want to hear all
about you. Tell Dr. Congreve we carry the "Politique" with us. Mr.
Lewes gets more and more impressed by it, and also by what he is able
to understand of the "Synthèse." I am writing in the dark. Farewell.
With best love to Emily, and dutiful regards to Dr. Congreve.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1866.]
_Dec. 27._--Set off in the evening on our journey to the south.
_SUMMARY._
JANUARY, 1866, TO DECEMBER, 1866.
Letters to Frederic Harrison on Industrial
Co-operation--Consults him about law in "Felix Holt"--Asks
his opinion on other questions--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve--Visit to Tunbridge Wells--Reading Comte's
"Synthèse"--Letter to F. Harrison on "case" for "Felix
Holt"--Letter to Miss Hennell--Joy in the world getting
better--Letter to Madame Bodichon--"Felix Holt" growing like
a sickly child--Want of sincerity in England--Desire for
knowledge increases--Blackwood offers £5000 for "Felix
Holt"--Letters to John Blackwood renewing
correspondence--Thanks for encouragement--Painstaking with
"Felix Holt"--Letter to F. Harrison on legal points--The book
finished--Inscription--Letter of adieu to Mrs.
Congreve--Letter to Mrs. Bray--Excitement of finishing "Felix
Holt"--Journey to Holland and Germany--Letter to Mrs.
Congreve from Schwalbach--Return to the Priory--Letter to F.
Harrison asking for sympathy--Letter to John
Blackwood--Colonel Hamley--Letter to Miss Hennell describing
German trip--Miracle play at Antwerp--Amsterdam
synagogue--Takes up drama "The Spanish Gypsy" again--Reading
on Spanish subjects--Letter to F. Harrison--Need of
sympathy--Æsthetic teaching--Tells him of the proposed
drama--Letters to John Blackwood--Dean Ramsay--Sir Henry
Holland--Article on "Felix Holt" in _Macmillan's
Magazine_--"The Spanish Gypsy" recommenced--Reading Renan's
"Histoire des Langues Sémitiques" and Ticknor's "Spanish
Literature"--Visit to Tunbridge Wells for a week--Reading
Cornewall Lewis's "Astronomy of the Ancients"--Ockley's
"History of the Saracens," and Spanish Ballads--Letter to
Miss Hennell--Enjoyment of study--Depression--Letter of adieu
to Mrs. Congreve--Set off on journey to Spain.
END OF VOL. II.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious typographical errors were repaired.
Duplicate sidenotes (repeated at the top of continuation pages) were
deleted.
Latin-1 file: _underscores_ enclose italicized content.
Sidenote at the bottom of p. 215, and repeated on continuation p. 216,
"Letter to Miss Sara Hennell"--p. 215 sidenote (retained) shows "18th
April," but continuation sidenote on p. 216 (deleted) shows "13th
April."
Sidenote p. 227, "Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 12th Aug.
1861"--original reads "1860."