In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  ‘I am writing to Isaac,’ she replied, without looking up.

  My dear Brother, she wrote, and she knew a steady, confident feeling of strength in herself, as she continued:

  You will be surprized, I dare say, but I hope not sorry, to learn that I have changed my name, and have someone to take care of me in the world. The event is not at all a sudden one, though it may appear sudden in its announcement to you. My husband has been known to me for several years, and I am well acquainted with his mind and character. He is occupied entirely with scientific and learned pursuits, is several years older than myself, and has three boys, two of whom are at school in Switzerland and one in England.

  The same day, she wrote to her sister, Chrissey, and her half-sister, Fanny, informing them also. Usually Lewes posted letters; this time Marian walked there alone at the end of that day, and, lightly kissing each envelope, stood still a moment — before dropping them one by one ceremoniously into the postal box.

  2

  The weeks went by. It was Lewes who went to pick up the letters. Each time he returned, Marian’s eyes were on him, but there was nothing from her family. Sometimes in the day, walking up the hill alone, the solitude became oppressive. It had lasted now for three years, even since going with Lewes to the continent.

  They had stayed on the continent for nine months, and, returning to England, she had been reclusive. She, the illegal Mrs Lewes, certainly didn’t go ‘in’ to society. She saw George, and more George. But they had each other and their work. And for over a year now, with George intent on becoming a marine biologist, they had been travelling to coastal spots — to Ilfracombe, Tenby, the Scilly Isles and now Jersey.

  But she missed women, and talking to women; especially her old friends from Coventry, Sara Hennell and Cara Bray, whom she hadn’t seen these last years.

  On the other hand, there was Barbara.

  Looking at the sea, she was reminded of the shore a year earlier, where she had walked with Barbara Leigh Smith, in Tenby, a small town in Wales. She and Lewes had been staying there, and a woman, no less, Barbara, had come to stay with her. And had changed from being an acquaintance to a great friend.

  It was Barbara herself who suggested the visit. Marian wouldn’t have dared. She could remember the day of Barbara’s arrival, standing by the White Lion Inn, waiting for the coach to arrive. Looking and looking down the road, unable to stop staring at the bend — empty. ‘Four in the after,’ the man had said. The clock struck four, there was no coach; each time she heard a noise, she was hopeful, then disappointed; finally, after half past, there it was, hoving into view, dirt spraying from the wheels, clattering to a halt. The door opened, an elderly gentleman and woman came down, ginger fashion, then two young serving-women. Then — nobody. Marian had drawn her breath in sharply.

  But then shoes and a skirt were descending from the coach, followed by gold-reddish hair, and Marian sprang to her feet. ‘Barbara!’ she said. They embraced each other, laughing. Barbara’s bags were carried by an older man with a weathered face; while her easel, paints, canvases — Barbara was a painter — were brought along by a great ruddy-faced boy, as they made their way to the Coburg Hotel, where Barbara was to stay.

  Marian couldn’t suppress her smile as they walked through the town. Barbara had come to visit her — travelled a long way, too.

  ***

  The first chance of private talk with Barbara only came the following afternoon. The two women had walked past the harbour: black tug-boats, dark stony shingle, smell of tar mixed with sharp creosote. There was no sun. The road wound down to the shingle; they walked in step, silently.

  Marian had wished the scene looked better for her friend, she knew Barbara was not in good spirits.

  ‘It has not been easy,’ confessed Barbara.

  ‘I can imagine!’ said Marian.

  Gladness and sympathy were filling Marian. It was inexpressibly soothing, after the last three years, to hear the confiding tone of a woman friend again.

  ‘I know you understand,’ said Barbara now, in a very low tone; almost, Marian had to lean sideways to catch her friend’s voice.

  Marian knew Barbara was still deeply upset about John Chapman, with whom she had had an intense affair. I shall say nothing of sorrows and renunciations, she had said tactfully, in her last letter to Barbara, about the latter’s impending visit; but I understand and feel what you must have to do and bear. Yes — I hope we shall know each other better.

  They had walked on, past a fisherman dragging his boat out to sea. The gulls were crying; soon they had walked so far that the quaint houses of Tenby, including the steeple, were out of sight. They sat down on a smooth rock that seemed to form a natural seat, the wild horizon open before them.

  ‘I understand his attractions,’ said Marian, feelingly, after a moment. ‘He is so charming to women. Now — no — I can’t see him as I did! But I remember. I do indeed,’ — and she took Barbara’s hand, pressing her fingers so that Barbara would feel her sympathy.

  Barbara hesitated. Then, mournfully, but half smiling: ‘He has tried in every possible way to bring us together.’

  Reaching inside her pocket, she passed a letter to Marian, who instantly recognised Chapman’s handwriting. Sex, she read, is certainly not a barrier to the most perfect intercourse of the soul. On the contrary, it ensures the fullest intercourse of all and reveals depths in our being which without it are never fathomed …

  ‘He is insistent,’ murmured Marian.

  ‘He says my health would benefit — and that we could have a child. Do you,’ said Barbara suddenly, ‘think you will have children?’

  Marian said it was unlikely. ‘George has three children of his own, and supports Mr Hunt’s, too. But even if it were not for that —’

  She was thinking of her sister Chrissey in Warwickshire, widowed, alone with six children. Staying with her, she had been woken by the baby’s cries in the next room — the sound urgent, unspeakably rasping in the pitch darkness. She had drawn the blanket over her head.

  ‘But how —’

  ‘We are very careful,’ said Marian, with a faint smile. ‘George is scientifically minded.’

  Barbara let the topic drop, and they sat in silence.

  Marian was glad the conversation stopped, but deeply pleased that Barbara had broached this intimate terrain. It was a sign of Barbara’s affection for her, and it made her hopeful. She glanced at her friend, admiring the statuesque slope and grace of her shoulders and bust, the way her thick, long beautiful hair was held in a single tortoise-shell clasp. Tonight, Barbara and George would start to become friends, though she was sure George had impressed Barbara the previous evening — he had told the funniest anecdote about Mr Tugwell, the fisherman who’d helped him, and Marian had basked in his wit, good humour, and, behind the light façade, his integrity. But then she remembered Barbara going silent. Perhaps she’d been upset by the contrast between their happiness, and her loss of Chapman.

  She must soothe her.

  Marian took a breath and said, ‘Your letter to me, when I first returned to London, was noble. Barbara, you will find someone to love you, who’s worthy of you. We human creatures are vulnerable, and breaking any attachment is painful.’

  They were both moved. She saw gratitude in Barbara’s face. It was a moment of power for Marian, of restoration.

  ‘I understand the attractions of John Chapman,’ went on Marian. ‘Unlike Mr Lewes, he is a Byron to look at! And at least he has in his own way loved you properly. With me —! I was too ugly for him.’

  Weakly, Barbara was demurring.

  Marian laughed. ‘When we visited Kenilworth Castle together, he told me how important beauty was to him. I could not fail to mistake his meaning.’

  And she turned modest, amused eyes on her friend, who clucked and shook her head as if she did not understand what Marian was saying. But Ma
rian knew she did.

  ‘And because I have money,’ admitted Barbara, ‘I think he had ideas about my helping the Review.’

  ‘I bet he did!’

  The Westminster Review was always verging on bankruptcy. Marian frowned. Chapman had a distinct opportunistic streak. Barbara was wealthy.

  Suddenly her arm was seized, Barbara turning to her with tears in her eyes, and hot red cheeks.

  ‘But I have to tell you, because the thought still torments me … he suggested we do as you and Mr Lewes! And it still torments me — surely we could! He said to me, “They are perfectly happy.” And I keep thinking, he might be right.’

  The sun had begun fitfully to shine, the scene in front of them became intermittently illumined with colour.

  ‘My dear Barbara,’ murmured Marian, and she pressed her friend’s hand again. But even as she spoke, she was mulling what she was seeing. It always struck her as an intriguing spectacle — the helplessness of the rational mind in the grip of strong emotion. It would be a disastrous move for Barbara to live openly with Chapman, who would not be faithful for one week. But Barbara knew this.

  ‘It is not an easy step,’ said Marion carefully.

  Her words were like a key. If Barbara chose to recognise the implications, she could do so. The filtered sunshine meanwhile had irradiated the water. Marian was struck by the greenish waves — a picture beautiful and unreal in its tints.

  ‘But you are happy!’ cried Barbara.

  ‘I am. But you see too how happy it makes me that you have come,’ — Marian broke off, and changed the subject. She didn’t like to talk about what she had given up.

  ***

  The following day, Barbara set up her easel, her paints, her sketchbook on the beach, while Marian read. Later, they went walking along the coast to find St Catherine’s Cave. At low tide, the beach was glorious — stretching seemingly for miles, the long smooth sand extending sheer and outwards, on and on, so that the sea seemed at a great distance.

  ‘You are very sure of the way,’ commented Barbara as they walked, following the coast round.

  ‘I came here thirteen years ago,’ admitted Marian. ‘I remember it well.’

  They could now see the cave, rising like an ancient structure out of the rock, surrounded by grand, strange-shaped pillars of stone. Inside the cave, the air was suddenly cold, and the new atmosphere made Marian instinctively lower her voice. ‘It’s surprising how dark it gets,’ said Marian, as they picked their way carefully over the wet slippery rocks, avoiding the little gleaming pools.

  ‘… gets … gets …gets …’ they heard.

  ‘An echo!’ said Barbara.

  ‘… o …o … o …’

  They played with their voices, exclaiming and hearing the sounds come back. When they emerged, they blinked in the light. It was a relief to be back in the sun, everything coloured a mellow, golden hue; there was the shushing sound of the surf again, and the warm air was welcoming after the queer damp of the cave. They walked quickly, as the tide was starting to come in.

  ‘Who did you come with, when you came here all that time ago?’ asked Barbara curiously, once they were nearer to the harbour, and could stroll at a more leisurely pace.

  ‘The Brays. Charles Bray, Cara Bray, and Sara Hennell.’

  As they walked on, Marian was remembering how she had shared a room with Sara Hennell, in the house they lodged in, not far from Bridge Street. They had had to share a bed; laughing in the morning about their hair, unbrushed and wild-looking.

  Barbara linked arms with her. ‘It must be a comfort,’ said Barbara, ‘to have such old friends. Especially in the last few years,’ she added, meaningfully.

  ‘It is’, said Marian. ‘Although,’ — she broke off.

  ‘Although what?’ said Barbara, turning to her with a smile.

  Marian shrugged as they walked.

  ‘Tell me Marian,’ she said, suddenly serious. ‘Were they not your true friends?’

  Marian hesitated. She did not feel like talking about Cara and Sara now.

  ***

  Each morning in Tenby, Marian watched Barbara: how she set out her paints and easel; the way she rolled back her sleeves with an intent, imperious gesture. Marian tried to read Beaumarchais, but she found herself repeatedly distracted. It was the way her friend glanced out and then looked steadily at the lines she was drawing — Marian scented happiness.

  Barbara had begun sketching, within two days she was painting.

  ‘My dear Barbara,’ said Marian softly, in wonder, on the third day, ‘already you have made something.’

  A landscape had rapidly formed in front of her eyes. Silently, Marian took her seat on the rug again, picked up her book, but after a few minutes she was drawn once more to look at her friend. Again and again, Marian admired the skill with which she held the brush, diluted paint, the way she would let it half dry and then use her finger to achieve an effect; the deliberateness with which she worked to realise what she saw in front of her, and in her mind.

  And a certain disconsolate feeling settled on Marian. What was it that she, Marian, had done? True, she had translated two difficult texts from the German into English. She had edited the Westminster Review, and her own essays for it were more than fine. She said to herself she had no reason to feel dissatisfied.

  After a time Barbara came to sit with her.

  ‘Tell me about your painting,’ said Marian, intently. She knew Barbara had been taught by Ruskin.

  ***

  On the last night, after supper, they sat by the fire. They discussed Barbara’s beautiful pencil sketch of the annelid that she had done for Lewes: the millipede of the sea, Lewes called it. After stoking up the fire, and adding a log, Lewes pointed to his own cross-section diagram: the main heart and the five offspring. The curious creature had five tiny hearts in addition to a main heart!

  ‘Not possible,’ protested Marian.

  ‘It’s true, Polly,’ said Lewes, puffing contentedly on his cigar. ‘They’re astonishing creatures. This has been a fruitful day for me. Thomas Huxley — look out!’

  ‘It has been fruitful for me, too,’ said Barbara.

  ‘You are an artist,’ said Marian with sudden gravity. She was tired. And Barbara — there was a certain complacency about her, she felt.

  The three sat silently. The fireside was crackling a little, making a comforting noise. Outside it had begun, in the way of changeable coastal weather, to rain and it sounded rhythmically on the pane.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Lewes, turning to Barbara, ‘I keep telling Polly to try her hand at fiction. I read a capital story she wrote when she was a girl.’

  ‘George,’ sighed Marian. To Barbara: ‘He is an optimist. I hope you have noted that about his character.’

  ‘Oh I have!’ laughed Barbara.

  ‘Polly, start tomorrow!’ urged Lewes, genial and completely unabashed. To Barbara, he inclined his head in Marian’s direction and said, sotto voce: ‘She had a dream, and it was as good as Coleridge’s.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Marian. Her tone was even.

  An hour later, the two women were alone. Marian had poured them both two small glasses of brandy. She was thinking she would miss Barbara, leaving the next day.

  Barbara said it had been a pleasure to get to know George, who was not debauched, as his reputation suggested.

  ‘No he is not,’ agreed Marian, steadily. ‘I am glad you can see him for who he is.’

  ‘And your brother, Isaac? He must be so glad of your happiness!’

  Marian cleared her throat. ‘Isaac? My entire family are in ignorance. They know nothing about Lewes.’

  Smiling, she leant forward. ‘It doesn’t concern me — it really doesn’t! I can’t let it.’

  Then, in a more stately tone: ‘George and I were separately very taken with Feuerbach’s views,
even before we met. “Love is God himself,” Feuerbach says — meaning that marriage is the free bond of love. I think of our relationship as sacred.’

  She had drawn herself up, she realised then, to sit very straight. She glanced at Barbara, but Barbara had dropped her eyes. Something outside her vision: as usual, she couldn’t catch it.

  3

  Marian knew that she had made a good friend in Barbara. And now here in Jersey, ten months later, when she walked with Lewes on the beaches, she was reminded of the walks on the Tenby shore. Marian and Lewes often walked to Grouville Bay, where they could see the castle of Mont Orgueil, silhouetted on the rocky promontory. Some days they wandered down the small narrow twisting streets to the harbour with its fishing boats, tug-boats, brightly coloured sailing boats. At low tide they walked on the sand, now washed clean, but often it was so wet they would start to laugh as their feet began to get stuck.

  Marian finished the first section of ‘Janet’s Repentance’, which she sent off to John Blackwood, publisher. Glory of glory, she’d done it. To celebrate, they took their favourite inland route along the Queen’s Farm Valley. Meadow and pasture lay between two high slopes of trees and ferns. For part of this walk, they stayed in contented silence: Marian absorbing the views each way, the different greens and browns in the May light. Better still, a letter had come from her sister Fanny, with no suspicious questions, auguring well for her brother Isaac and sister Chrissey.

  The summer weather had arrived — in the shade of the Castle, they lay down with a bottle of wine on a rug, read Sense and Sensibility aloud, taking it in turns. Marian liked to lie on her back, looking at the white clouds as they slowly passed, while George’s expressive voice sounded in her ears. They were both struck by the near-savage liveliness with which Austen lampooned the mercenary values of society.