For S.J.D.
Contents
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PART TWO
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
FINALE
Afterword
Acknowledgements
A Note on the Author
THREE EPIGRAPHS
She is an object of great interest and great curiosity to society here. She is not received in general society, and the women who visit her are either so émancipée as not to mind what the world says about them, or have no social position to maintain. Lewes dines out a good deal, and some of the men with whom he dines go without their wives to his house on Sundays. No one whom I have heard speak, speaks in other than terms of respect of Mrs. Lewes, but the common feeling is that it will not do for society to condone so flagrant a breach as hers of a convention and a sentiment (to use no stronger terms) on which morality greatly relies for support. I suspect that society is right in this . . . I do not believe that many people think that Mrs. Lewes violated her own moral sense, or is other than a good woman in her present life, but they think her example pernicious, and that she cut herself off by her own act from the society of the women who feel themselves responsible for the tone of social morals in England.
Charles Eliot Norton to G.W. Curtis, 29th January 1869. Cited in Gordon S. Haight, George Eliot: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), p. 409.
It often astonished us what trash he would tolerate in the way of novels. The chief requisites were a pretty girl and a good ending.
George Darwin comments on his father’s reading. Cited in Janet Browne, Charles Darwin: The Power of Place, Vol. 2 of a biography (London: Jonathan Cape, 2002), p. 68.
What is the function of the epigraph? I always read them carefully. The writing which surrounds writing may well be written in code, but will also offer a key, a clue if you like, to the author’s intentions. And in this case the two quotations above are particularly revealing. Our author is one of those sentimental people who need to admire their chosen heroes and heroines. She cannot bear it if her appointed gods turn out to be made of flesh and blood – with personal vanities and frailties as disappointingly tedious as our own. I think she has scores to settle with Mr. Darwin and Mrs. Lewes, but she adores them both. And that is her weakness. Her vindictive little game is undermined by love.
The narrator of Sophie and the Sibyl comments on her author’s intentions.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
in which the Reader is introduced to two of the principal Characters in this History.
‘Gnädige Frau Lewes, may I introduce my younger brother Max? He is writing a great work on the monuments of antiquity. I trust that his efforts will eventually see the light of day, but I think you’re still stuck in the first volume, aren’t you, Max?’
The publisher bowed to his distinguished visitor with a merry smile, revealing an unexpected bald spot that gleamed with all the neatness of a recent tonsure. His smile included the somewhat embarrassed Max, who resorted to effortless good manners. He raised her hand to his lips and murmured, ‘Enchanté, Madame,’ in obsequious tones. Then he stood back to look at her. So this was the author of Adam Bede and Romola, the fame of whose Middlemarch was even then resounding through Europe like a triumphant drum. This was the woman considered too scandalous ever to be invited to dinner by respectable English families, all of whose members nevertheless read every word she wrote.
His first reaction was disappointment. She was old. Her liver-spotted hand and wrinkled skin smelt slightly of cinnamon mixed with an odd whiff of alcohol, that powerful preserving fluid sometimes used for scientific specimens. He raised his eyes to her face. A fragile veil was lifted away from her forehead, magnifying the long, thin countenance, the massive jaw and the vast, expressive eyes. The lady is old. The lady is ugly. The lady has wonderful eyes. Max met her unyielding gaze with a curious enquiry of his own. She represented a lucrative income for the family firm. Other writers chose their house and solicited their support because she was one of their authors. He glanced at his brother. Be polite, be charming. Impress this hideous, splendid dame. But he could think of nothing to say. The lady galloped unexpectedly to his rescue, giving him both the language in which the conversation was to be conducted (German), and the subject (his unfinished, indeed hardly begun, Geschichte des Altertums).
‘Your brother tells me that you have been reading Lucian. I was a great admirer both of his philosophy and his poetry when I was a very young woman. My family, I am afraid, concluded that his influence was pernicious.’
She smiled slightly. The row of revealed teeth gleamed like tusks, yellowing, gigantic and uneven. Max inclined towards her, amazed by the scale of her remaining fangs. One or two gaps appeared, giving the untoppled columns the tragic aspect of a ruined temple.
‘Yet I still regard his late lyrics and the famous Fragment as works that shaped my early thinking. The Fragment is really extraordinary. It has the power of a prophecy. We cannot read it now in any other light. How could he have known, in those early years of the first century, that this new religion, which he remained, nevertheless, pledged to exterminate, would rise and swell like a great wave, and that the destruction on its crest would sweep away all the gods he had so faithfully served? Lucian saw the terrible contours of the future; he grasped both the beauty of this new faith and the calamitous horrors trawling in its wake. Tell me, sir, what is your opinion of the Fragment?’
Max tortured his brains, still a little befuddled from a late night in Hettie’s Keller, where he had enjoyed himself immensely, but run up some quite serious gambling debts. As he strolled into his brother’s office, seeking immediate financial succour, his face carefully arranged in a smile of rueful penitence, he had not at first noticed the Sibyl, who was quietly seated by the fire, her ankle boots crossed, her umbrella neatly furled. Wolfgang’s immediate introduction had taken him by surprise. The history of the early Christian Church in Asia Minor refused to break the surface of memory. He could not conjure up any recollection of the famous Fragment. Either this great lady, who was waiting, all patience and benevolent interest, for his considered opinion, had no trivial conversation at all, or she never deigned to discuss matters less consequential than the decline and fall of world religions. How on earth did she buy clothes? He examined the sober burgundy brocade and black lace, very little jewellery, and that awful veil, perched in raised folds upon the colossal forehead. She looked like a decorated statue.
‘Ah yes, the Fragment . . .’
Had he ever read it? Max struck a thoughtful pose and stared at his brother’s shelves of classics. They had been his father’s books and he had known them all since boyhood, but now here they were, unhelpful, immobile, golden and embossed – Herodotus, Thucydides, Pliny, Livy, Tacitus – shouldn’t Lucian, the Latin Lucian, not the Greek one – be in there somewhere? Or was he classed among the poets? Had Wolfgang separated out the Romans and the Greeks? But the lady, clearly amused by his hesitation, bought him a little more time.
‘We cannot of course know what the Fragment would have been called, or how it would have developed. Perhaps it was originally conceived as a comparative study of religions in the ancient world? We know that Lucian was interested
in the cults surrounding Mithras, and even in his own local water nymphs, for he compiled a list of sacred wells. But the usual title, A Fragment Concerning the Origins of Early Christianity, was bestowed upon the work by its first editor, Professor Heinrich Klausner, in 1782.’
Oh God save us all, that thing! Max gave an involuntary shudder of horror and relief. Lucian’s rudimentary treatise, which he had immediately made every effort to forget, had given him a sleepless night. The Latin was elegant, indeed translucent, but the unfortunate encounter between history and what he had always enjoyed in church as a row of charming fairy tales had shaken him to the core. He looked straight at the great lady, ignored his hovering brother, and spoke from the heart.
‘I must be frank, Madame, I cannot comment upon the Fragment as a scholar. I was disturbed, profoundly disturbed, when I first read it, both as a man and as a Christian. I realise that it is the great claim of our faith that God intervenes in history, that He made that final noble gesture, the sacrifice of his Son, an act that stands for all time, and yet – and yet – when I read those words, those cold observations made by Lucian, that the Christians were a set of artisans, tradesmen and merchants, that their faith originated in a Jewish sectarian heresy, that their young Prophet was executed under Pontius Pilate, and his reflections on the future of that fledgling faith, destined only for the eyes of the Emperor, I realised that I was more comfortable with myths than history. Myths are eternal, everlasting, and history is finite, indeed contingent upon particular, temporary forces. I wanted to cherish my beliefs in safety, without consequences. For if Lucian is right, and Christianity evolved out of a peculiar set of historical circumstances, then it will find its end in history, as he hoped it would.’
Max had never made so long a speech while still suffering from a hangover. The Sibyl’s magnificent eyes widened in sympathy and surprise. His brother immediately intervened.
‘Heavens, Max, I had no idea your studies involved such disturbing reading. The Fragment isn’t on my shelves here, is it?’ He gazed accusingly at his father’s noble collection of classics. The great lady inclined towards her publisher, acknowledging his intervention, but never taking her eyes off Max.
‘Your brother, sir, has just proved himself to be a man who reads with all his faculties attentive and alert. Such passion and engagement are rare in men of letters. For he is prepared to recognise, in his own flesh and blood, that Lucian is no abstract voice, lost in antiquity, but a man as full of faith and doubt as we are ourselves.’
She bowed her massive head. The veil was attached to a black cap, which covered her hair and, barren of trimmings, resembled an executioner’s headwear. Wolfgang assumed a pious expression. Max shook himself, desperate to escape from his brother’s airless rooms, the boxes of translations still in manuscript, the roll-top desk stuffed with invoices and account books, the classical library that loomed in menacing towers above him. The office suddenly smelled like a mausoleum. The lady stood up, her back very straight. Max then realised that the more arresting smell of freshly turned earth arose from her boots; the lady’s footwear had left a little trail of muddy prints, from door to chair, and several clods, now drying in the firelight, had fallen from her heels. She had been traversing not streets, but fields. Max bent over her crisped hands, now encased in embroidered lace mittens.
‘We are at home on Sunday afternoons, sir. And we will be delighted to welcome you then.’ He did not mistake her tone. He was not being invited, but ordered to attend. ‘Your brother knows the way to my door. He and Mr. Lewes are in constant touch.’
Her smile, faint, gracious, frightening in that the uneven teeth appeared once more, revealed in a theatrical lifting of the upper lip, stunned both brothers into silence. When the outer door thumped shut behind her Wolfgang gripped Max by the shoulders.
‘Well done! Magnificent. She liked you. It’s usually Lewes who hands out the invitations. If all goes well we shall have her new work at the price of the last. Sunday afternoon, my dear – mark – Sunday. You must be there. We shall go together!’
END OF CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
takes place in the Sibyl’s lodgings. Max encounters the Extraordinary Herr Klesmer.
Be there by five. Max pummelled his way from his brother’s apartments in the Jägerstraße, through the afternoon crowds, to the Sibyl’s lodgings in the Dorotheenstraße, near the Neues Museum. Unter den Linden shimmered yellow and orange in the warm autumn sun. Babel towers of midges dithered in the milky air. The cobbles had blown dry, generating little puffs of dust beneath his boots. Did he look too funereal? Dark cravat, starched white shirt, coat brushed this morning before the early service, now becoming dusty. He paused at the corner to flick himself over with his new suede gloves. Elegance, sobriety and serious scholarship, this was the intended effect. He began to wonder if he did indeed look like an undertaker. Max harboured a satanic vision of the Sibyl’s salon, a Last Judgement overflowing with fiery radicals and lady poets. He saw himself reflected in the café windows, pressed, trimmed, inappropriate, and fairly menaced with social disaster. Could he avoid the occasion altogether? But his brother, haring off to be seen again at church, where he was conducting one or two business deals, had descended upon him. Be there by five.
The double windows of the first-floor apartment, thrown wide open to greet the sunshine, swung gently back against the shutters. He could hear an animated roar of voices, expectant and ferocious, billowing to and fro within. The street door also stood open; a nervous young man, the appointed porter, bobbed his head, clutching the heavy right wing of the main doors, and pointed helplessly up the staircase. Max bowed slightly as he stepped over the threshold and removed his hat. A small hairy creature, with an eager, buoyant step, that had been heading up the stairs, turned back and bounded down to shake his hand.
‘You must be Max! The Duncker brothers clearly duplicate each other right down to the moustache! You are most welcome, sir! Polly has been asking for you and your brother is already here.’
A huge bellow of shared laughter shook the building. This energetic ageing monkey must be the man himself, George Henry Lewes, the biographer of Goethe.
‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Max in English. Lewes burst out laughing, and with the brio of a much younger man, dragged him up the stairs.
Max feared the worst, murmured a little politeness and began planning his escape. Bow to the great lady, press her hand, drink one cup of tea or whatever is on offer, avoid all conversations with sculptors, musicians, actors and poets, and do a bunk as rapidly as decently possible. Don’t, don’t, don’t get drawn into political discussions or religious debates. Avoid bluestockings. Pray that, apart from Wolfgang, you don’t meet anyone you know.
The room bristled with joyous argument and knowing chuckles. Very few ladies, and two that he spotted, who announced that they were going on to a prestigious lecture followed by a concert, were of an age where their bare shoulders looked bulbous, wizened and unsuitable. The stove was lit; he could smell the coals beneath the mixed perfumes and heated bodies. Someone had pushed all the furniture back against the pale green-and-yellow-painted walls. A piano dominated the rug in the centre of the salon, and through the double doors, now folded back like an accordion, he saw yet another high-ceilinged space, and an untidy bookshelf, eight storeys high, packed with volumes, boxes and papers.
‘Dr. Puhlmann offered us the apartment,’ shouted Lewes, tugging Max’s sleeve as if they had known one another for years, and making himself heard above the excited surrounding discussions. The little man sank immediately into the midst of a disputatious circle where he was called upon to adjudicate on a point of philology. Max felt someone helping him off with his coat, snatching his hat, and then found himself besieged by a booming pair of genial grey whiskers.
‘Well, young man, here you are at last! Your brother’s already here, you know, deep in talk with the great lady. She has not yet finished that marvellous book
my girls have been reading in English. She intends to retire to the country to write the Finale. It’s marvellous, quite marvellous. Haven’t read it myself yet. I’m waiting for you Dunckers to bring out a decent translation.’
Max bowed, weakening at the knees, for here, full of jovial good humour, stood Graf August Wilhelm von Hahn, now something of a minor celebrity in Berlin and one of their authors. His military memoir, incorporating his own father’s heroic participation in the Battle of Jena, caused something of a sensation when published by their house earlier in the year. The Count’s critical stance towards the Prussian state apparatus transformed the gossip and general bravado into a distinctly chilly frisson when his publishers were visited by the intelligence services, who descended upon them, in plain clothes, unannounced, to inspect their autumn catalogue and boxes of stock. The Count, sanguine, optimistic and utterly fearless, pounded up the stairs to reassure them that he had visited everyone who matters, absolutely everyone, and there is no question of reprisals. We can contemplate a second edition with perfect equanimity. Wolfgang kept his nerve and Erinnerungen und Erlebnisse: Lebensweg eines Liberalen, 2 vols. (Berlin: Duncker und Duncker, 1872) went straight into a second, sell-out edition. According to Wolfgang, even the Sibyl – formidably well read in history, my dear, and remember the lady has met Mommsen himself, over dinner with the American Ambassador – well, she perused the work with astonishment.
The Count rattled on.
‘You must pop round to see the girls, you know. Remember little Sophie, who chased you round the garden? We haven’t seen you since the early summer and she was out at our old Jagdschloss then, bolstering herself up with fresh air and taking dreadful risks with those horses. Ready to jump anything! Goes straight at it! I think you’ll find her quite grown-up. Herr Klesmer is going to play for us later on. I must finish my quiz. There’s a good chap –’
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