In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  But waking up the following morning, she remembered more. Those remarks about Agnes … why had she said them? Probably, she admitted to herself, to remind the Brays of her own rectitude, in spite of her scandalous situation, by invoking Agnes’ faults as a contrast. Ah, how faulty she was.

  ‘What’s this glum face for?’ asked Lewes, munching his toast during breakfast, and eying her.

  ‘Nothing. Well — I was just remembering what we said about Agnes and Spencer,’ she admitted, colouring.

  ‘Marian, leave it alone! You don’t have to be perfect. Though of course you are,’ he added, with a twinkle. ‘Frankly, they deserve it.’

  Again, she didn’t work. Instead she took pen to notepaper.

  Dear Friend, she wrote to Charles.

  Pardon me for troubling you with a few words just to say that I am uneasy at having listened with apparent acquiescence to statements about poor Agnes which a little quiet reflection has convinced me are mingled with falsehood — I fear of a base sort. And I am also angry with myself for having spoken of her faults — quite uselessly — to you and Cara. All such talk is futile. And I always hate myself after such attempts to vindicate one person at the expense of another. Justice is never secured in that way — perhaps not in any other.

  Also, may I make a suggestion — not to regard the last thing Mr Lewes told you about Herbert Spencer …

  There. The weight began to roll off. Somehow that phrase — Justice is never secured in that way — perhaps not in any other — in its momentary achieved wisdom, reassured her. Giving voice to formulations about human nature, she felt as usual better — an image came to her mind, then, of the bleached white sheets being ironed in her childhood.

  Now she could resume her work.

  A letter came from Sara:

  Dear Marian,

  I have been fancying you, as ten years ago, still interested in what we then conversed together upon. I see now that I have lost the only reader in whom I felt confident in having secure sympathy with the subject — that she has floated beyond me in another sphere, and I remain gazing at the glory into which she has departed, wistfully and very lonely.

  How for ever remote we should have felt if you had made a pretense of being quite unchanged from your former self, and tried to converse as of former times!

  Marian read the letter twice, with close attention. Floated beyond me in another sphere was touching as well as gratifying, referring to the extraordinary scale of Marian’s achievement; but then she knew a stirring of discomfort. If she had made a pretense of being quite unchanged from her former self … how had she changed? Had she been — condescending? Was she too comfortable now in her secret position of achievement? Was she letting it tilt her perception of the world and people? Surely not. And if she had been, a little, wouldn’t her letter to Sara have put paid to that idea? She pushed the doubt out of her mind.

  A few days later, a letter came in the post, again in Sara’s handwriting. Another one! Slowly she opened the envelope, pulled out the small sheet of paper.

  Dear Friend, when all thy greatness suddenly

  Burst out, and thou wert other than I thought,

  At first I wept — for Marian, whom I sought,

  Now, passed beyond herself, seemed lost to me.

  A poem. By Sara.

  The sonnet gave her a strange little pain.

  Human happiness is never without its alloy, murmured Marian to herself. She began to feel better.

  ***

  In July, a glorious summer day, Lewes and Marian crossed the Channel, glassy and smooth. In Paris, they found themselves in a room with gold and white wallpaper, a small desk with cunningly fitted drawers, a bed with the smoothest whitest sheets, in the Hotel du Danube. They were on their way to Switzerland. The main reason for the trip was so that Lewes could see his sons at Hofwyl: Charles, the eldest; Thornton (‘Thornie’); and Bertie, the youngest. Lewes had finally persuaded Marian to come with him. She wasn’t going to meet the boys on this occasion — she had still not met them — but she would have a holiday with George.

  She was glad she came. Although sales were extraordinary — 5,000 copies in two weeks! — the rumours had reached a pitch of unpleasantness, even though the truth was also coming out: they had begun revealing her authorship to certain people, including Dickens, who could be counted on to spread the word as benignly as possible. But a piece in The Atheneaum had left a sour taste in Marian’s mouth. It suggested the whole identity of Liggins had been fabricated by Marian herself, on purpose to arouse interest in the book. The worst sentence referred to her as a rather strong-minded lady, blessed with abundance of showy sentiment and a profusion of pious words, but kept for sale rather than for use.

  The insinuation that she was an immoral woman given to mouthing moral sentiments was just the kind she feared most.

  But how lovely to be walking in the Tuileries, then spending time in the cavernous Louvre, in the pleasantly still silence, looking at the Poussins, Rubens, and Claude-Lorrains; driving through the elegant Boulevards and the Champs-Élysées. In fact, the moment she left English soil, Marian’s spirits improved. As the train rattled comfortably along to Strasbourg, great swathes of fields, dotted with short-shadowed haystacks flashed by, and she found herself smiling as she imagined her reunion with Maria, whom they would be meeting in Lucerne. The prospect was particularly pleasant after the bittersweet renunion with Cara and Sara. Having been out of England since April, the Congreves would not have heard the rumour about herself as author, and at the last moment she’d hurriedly packed a copy of Clerical Scenes to inscribe and give to them. She couldn’t help imagining their reaction when she told them the truth — she could just envisage their amazed, admiring faces. Maria Congreve had a habit when she listened to Marian, of keeping her mouth slightly open, irresistibly reminding Marian of a young bird waiting to be fed.

  In Lucerne, they went by cab, which stopped outside a long impressive many-tiered hotel directly overlooking the lake. Looking up, Marian saw the sign: Hotel Schweizerhof. ‘George!’ she said in astonishment.

  ‘Nothing but the best,’ he replied, with a grin. He had kept it as a surprise.

  Marian got out, stood back to survey it: a consummately stylish, neo-classical façade, that just now was catching the afternoon sun on its upper flank, turning it into gold. The air was warm but fresh from the water and the nearby pine trees. ‘Designed by Berri,’ murmured Lewes.

  They followed the porter who was deferentially loading their bags — still rather shabby, Marian noted with a slight twinge of nostalgia — towards the lobby.

  The suite with its parquet floor and Persian rugs overlooked the lake. What luxury! As soon as they were unpacked Marian drew an armchair up to the window, to sit and contemplate the lake, mirroring the sky, ringed by mountains. The Congreves would be arriving in two days. While Lewes went off to see his three boys, Marian enjoyed the solitude for a few days. She had the view, the soft feather-filled pillows, the attentive service, and by the time Lewes returned, she was well-rested and recovered from the journey.

  The following day the Congreves arrived at the Schweizerhof hotel for tea. Admitted by the uniformed hotel attendant, Maria Congreve came in with quick steps, smiling; suddenly stood stock-still, turning pale.

  ‘How lovely to see you,’ said Marian, and she went towards her and embraced her. But Maria Congreve was stiff in her arms. Marian stepped back awkwardly. She wondered if she had offended her. They took their seats in silence.

  ‘How have you been spending your days?’ asked Marian.

  ‘We have enjoyed ourselves,’ said Maria, in a subdued voice, looking at the floor.

  Marian’s next question met with a similar response. Marian looked across at Lewes, but he was in animated conversation with Richard. Now she could not think of what to say.

  Talk became more and more stilted, until finally
, when Marian looked at Maria in open bewilderment, and Maria didn’t meet her gaze, with a stifled cry Marian rose up, and rushed out of the room.

  Some forty minutes later, Marian returned composed, but with red eyes.

  ‘Ladies,’ Lewes said, ‘I suggest you go for a row on the lake. It’s the common practice here.’

  Ten minutes later Maria Congreve and Marian were indeed stepping into a small rowing boat, which a Swiss boy, who looked about fourteen, proceeded to drag noisily off the gravel shore, into the buoyant water. Suddenly there was silence, except for the odd very gentle, occasional slap of water on the boat. The water was smooth, gleaming — extraordinarily calm.

  Maria Congreve had reached out gravely to take the oars, saying, ‘Shall I begin? I have had a bit of practise,’ — and they rowed outwards.

  Now here they were, lifted suddenly by the occasional low-rising swell, buoyed, moving through water out into this vast lake under the sky. There was no sound except for the plash of oars. Marian’s mind couldn’t help turning to her Mill book. She had planned to end it with a flood — must recall this peculiar sensation of being afloat, water’s unpredictability.

  ‘Will you have supper at the hotel?’ Maria Congreve was asking her. Her tone sounded timid.

  ‘I imagine so.’

  Marian was silent. Then the old friendly feeling stirred, and she glanced at Maria’s face. But how strange! Maria was looking straight back at her, and she could at once see, the softness in her friend’s eyes was back.

  ‘I think we’ve gone far enough,’ Maria Congreve said, in her gentle voice.

  They could now just let the boat go where it wanted. There was no wind. Delightfully, the boat simply bobbed. The sun was making the water sheer and shining and brilliant all around them, the air warm.

  Marian couldn’t resist talking about the strange atmosphere when Maria Congreve had arrived. At the mention of this, the other’s face seemed to pale, then redden. ‘It meant too much to me,’ said Maria Congreve, in a low voice, looking downwards at the oars, ‘to see you again.’

  On seeing Marian, she had had palpitations, she said; so powerfully — that in order to achieve calm, she had had to avoid looking at Marian, or letting any expression at all enter her voice or face.

  From the end of the boat, Marian reached out to touch and hold fast Maria Congreve’s hand. All was well.

  By the time they returned to the suite at the Schweizerhof, the men were sitting sprawled comfortably at the table by the window — at least Lewes was sprawled, Richard Congreve seated in a more upright fashion. They were dining on smoked sausage and cheese, followed by lemon tea with apple cake. Lewes looked up as the door opened.

  The women came in, he noted, with a quite different air from before. Both were flushed from sun and water. They sat on the sofa beside each other, Marian made a humorous remark under her breath to the delightfully demure Mrs Congreve, who now laughed, a low gurgle. Thank goodness. He had noted before how Maria Congreve looked at Marian in a rather reverential way: that was to be encouraged. To his amusement, he saw Richard glance repeatedly in their direction, with a look of perplexed, not altogether pleased curiosity in his face.

  Now would be a good time, calculated Lewes. As soon as he could catch Marian’s eye, he indicated the book on the shelf.

  Marian rose to the occasion. At the end of five minutes, Mr and Mrs Congreve knew that they were in the presence of the author everyone was talking about in England, George Eliot.

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed!’ said Richard Congreve, looking in astonishment at Marian. His expression did not change for some minutes. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he kept saying.

  ‘Well, you better had,’ said Lewes, complacently, lighting his cigar, and stretching out his legs. Not only did he love Marian, not only had she brought happiness into his life, it was very pleasant being her custodian; he couldn’t help but feel that her emerging genius reflected agreeably on him. And even he was amazed at the book’s fame: when he had met up with his boys, he had said to them (without having mentioned anything, ever, about Marian writing) that he had brought them a present. ‘Is it Adam Bede?’, they had chorused excitedly — simply because the book was a universal talking point, even in Switzerland!

  Suddenly, Richard Congreve gave a hearty laugh, and advanced towards Marian. ‘My dear Mrs Lewes, I blame myself for the most appalling blindness! There was I, thinking you had lost your way — that the brilliant writer of the Review was buried in domesticity! I feel an idiot — a veritable dummkopf’.

  Lewes began to like Mr Congreve properly, for the first time.

  Smiling all over, Marian embraced him, and apologised for misleading them.

  Maria had risen with a tearful wide-eyed staring smile, saying that now she understood, understood everything — and the two women clasped each other; and stayed that way.

  Richard, having sat down again, began to drum his fingers on the small table beside him, every now and then turning to regard the women who remained in each other’s arms.

  ‘I say!’ he said, testily.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lewes, with a wave of his cigar, sanguinely. ‘It’s an excellent thing.’

  Richard muttered something. Lewes thought he caught the words ‘damned’ and ‘pandarus’; but perhaps he imagined it.

  They ended up dining together in the suite, Richard’s humour recovered. The table was set by the windows, where they had a grand view of the water in the setting sun: through the window they could see, above the tops of the trees, the vast Lake Lucerne glimmering in the paling, rosy light, below the uneven line of the distant mountains. After the main course, which featured a variety of Wurst, Richard stood up. This was the kind of view, he said, that made one think about a higher power. Many people no longer believed in God, and were searching for another system, another kind of spirituality.

  ‘I would like to quote,’ he said then, ‘a few lines written by an old teacher of mine at Rugby school, Mr Matthew Arnold:’

  Wandering between two worlds, one dead

  The other powerless to be born,

  With nowhere yet to rest my head

  Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.

  Red-faced with drink, hair unruly, cresting at the top of his head, he raised his glass.

  ‘A toast,’ he said, ‘to the incomparable author among us, whose work,’ — and here his tone dropped, became more serious — ‘may, alongside the writings of Auguste Comte, yet help provide that home.’

  Part Two

  1869

  Lewes called and asked us to come and see his wife, saying that she never made calls herself but was always at home on Sunday afternoons. 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 society is right in this: at least since I have been here I have heard of one sad case in which a poor weak woman defended her own wretched course, which had destroyed her own happiness and that of other persons also, by the example of Mrs Lewes. 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, 1869

  May I unceasingly aspire to unclothe all around me of its
conventional, human, temporary dress, to look at it in its essence and in its relation to eternity …

  Marian Evans, Diary, I, 70

  1

  In the rainy, gusty spring, Marian and Lewes travelled through Europe, along the Rhône and by the Riviera, and down to Naples. By April, they reached Rome, the Hotel Minerva, and the first good weather of their holiday.

  And so it was in the late Roman spring, on a hot, sunny April day in the Pamphili gardens, with clear blue skies, that Lewes ran into a beautiful, recently married young woman, Elizabeth Bullock, walking with her mother.

  The new light of the year, that strong spring light, was streaming over the umbrella pines on the surrounding hill, when Lewes and Elizabeth Bullock greeted each other with the pleasure and surprise people feel when they meet by chance in a foreign place. The day felt lucky, new green everywhere. Elizabeth Bullock reminded Lewes she had once come to the Priory to show Marian her poems. Anna Cross, her mother, came forward to be kissed and gallantly greeted.

  It was entirely as a result of this chance meeting that the same Mrs Anna Cross paid the Leweses a visit at the Minerva Hotel in Rome. Mrs Cross did not come alone, however; she brought with her a tall young man, with dark hair and a reddish beard, one of her sons.

  After the visitors left, Marian remarked to Lewes how much she had warmed to both mother and son. The son, particularly, stayed in her mind: his fine features including a broad, high brow; his air, that had seemed at once quiet and good-natured; he had been silent, but when an outing was mooted, he had at once volunteered to go downstairs and find a hansom cab in the street.

  ‘They seemed charming,’ said Marian, aloud, earnestly.

  ‘The family is delightful,’ pronounced Lewes. ‘I met the whole crew in Weybridge that time.’