In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  The journey had been a time of self-examination. On deck during the Channel crossing, she had gone over it in her mind again. The last work she’d published was the long dramatic poem, The Spanish Gypsy. The public hadn’t understood it, but if she was honest, she trusted herself less. Was she blind, half-sighted, like that old woman she’d glimpsed on the empty Munich train platform, feeling her way with that tap-tapping stick? Because when she contemplated her last works, The Spanish Gypsy, Romola, Felix Holt, she knew a thread of self-dissatisfaction.

  She reached for her diary — she was sure she’d started the year in high spirits.

  January 1. A bright frosty morning! she read. And we are both well. I have set myself many tasks for the year — I wonder how many will be accomplished? A Novel called Middlemarch, a long poem on Timoleon, and several minor poems.

  Only four months ago, but it was like reading words written by someone else. A knock on the door and Amelia was back, wanting to discuss meals, laundry, and cleaning.

  ‘It’s the same as before,’ said Marian, the colour rising in her cheeks.

  Amelia said things might have changed.

  ‘I assure you they have not,’ said Marian, with a fraught half smile she couldn’t control. She needed to know she would not be interrupted. In fact —

  Lewes was in the drawing room, Ben the terrier snoozing beside him.

  ‘George, I wanted to say —’

  ‘What did you want to say?’

  Cheerful man!

  ‘I wanted to say,’ said Marian, smiling in spite of herself, ‘that it might be politic, not to to tell people we are back. I thought we could have a quiet Sunday this weekend.’

  George agreed. Usually visitors crowded to the house on a Sunday afternoon.

  Back in her study, Marian looked at the books, checked the side table. Letters, books, and the child’s picture by Isaac she liked to display — sky, grass, tree. She opened her notebook to see what her jottings from the last year amounted to.

  The first thing she read was this:

  Timoleon. ‘Took Epaminondas for his model.’

  The aruspice, named according to some, Orthagoras; according to others, Satyrus. The brother-in-law named Aeschylus. Tragedies on the subject of the Fratricide by Alfieri, Chénier, La Harpe. ‘Hoc praeclarissimum ejus facinus.’

  C. Nepos

  She flicked backwards. On page 5 — she numbered the pages — she had written:

  Mean distance of the Earth from the Sun

  94,800,000 miles

  Greatest eccentricity may be

  102,256,873

  87,503,039

  making a difference of

  14,753,834

  Present eccentricity

  93,286,707

  96,331,707

  Cycle of precession

  25,686 years

  She suddenly felt tired. Why had she noted these giant distances down? Did she think this assemblage of facts could bring her closer to writing a novel? She could not even retrace the impulse. She gave up for the day.

  ***

  The following morning Marian opened her dark blue notebook again. Once more her neat, organised, black-inked handwriting, sloping to the right. This was what she read:

  Welcker calculates the weight of Dante’s brain from the data given by Nicolucci, & finds it very little above the average of mediocre men. Whereupon he remarks that such comparative deficiency of weight in gifted men he has observed to be present where there has been an inequality of skull owing to premature closing of the Sutures. He instances among other W. v. Humboldt, whose brain had a weight below the average.

  The Sicilian (Syracusan) Dioklês, author of a new code, having inadvertently violated one of his own enactments, falls on his own sword to enforce the duty of obedience.

  He does not creep along the coast but steers far out under the guidance of the stars.

  The emblem of the triangle Δ occurs on Punic basreliefs.

  The leading authorities (modern) for the history of the Phoenicians are Gesenius, Monumenta.

  Enough. She turns to her other notebook, in dark green. Her notes, in violet ink, on Lucretius. She lets her mind follow him. Drawing back and down into thought. And suddenly her mood changes. The sky outside moving pleasantly further away. At the edges, a moving object, almost in the visual field, yet just out of sight, configurations forming: the long tunnel-like corridor in the infirmary of Leeds, a coal-fire system of heating, Dr Allbutt’s new clinical thermometer, six inches only.

  Her hero a doctor. Dr Allbutt’s interest, vigour constant, flattering to her, but genuine. His sense of her receptivity; and, encouraged, the funnel of confidences. Handling superiors with deference, never humility. Perhaps a spark of too much pride, necessary in a hero. Her heartbeat settles. Sitting there, at her desk, she is aware with her eyes, but without having even to move from her thoughts, of the magnolia tree at the trellis below, holding up its pearly crimson-slitted outsized buds; movement of the ash tree in the long right corner; singing, thrush, no, blackbird; sky moving with the wind; and a sensation of the purest pleasure filling her. There is possibility, of course there is. The great theme of history’s form and meaning, and the deep pull of her idea: the ordinary heroic, the noble intentions that don’t reach fulfilment; as tragic as the greater heroic. Why not?

  She stayed in her study through the morning hours, and only at two o’clock did she find George. They ate bread and cheese, and as they strolled afterwards round Regent’s Park, Marian was struck by the beauty of the cut paths, the combination of nature and man’s organising hand. ‘George,’ she said, as they walked hand in hand, ‘I would like to come to see your mother. I have been worrying that I was — brusque — yesterday.’

  Lewes laughed. They’d see his mother for tea tomorrow.

  He had known better than to ask her about Middlemarch. Everything about her, the interest lighting up her beautiful grey-blue eyes, the way she had stopped at the first rose they came across in the park, to try to identify it, told him she was feeling more hopeful.

  She had a good morning the next day, then went with George to see his mother. On return, though, there was a bag in the hallway, a strange-looking trunk. It was a blistered dark red colour, weathered, beaten, straps, and a foreign-looking yellow and red label. A sound, and a young man in the doorway. A stranger. Sun-burned, with an emaciated face, skeletally thin arms, walking, — no, stumbling, but Lewes was catching him. Lewes was holding the man in his arms. Marian heard Lewes say, ‘You’re back.’ With a lurch in her chest, Marian realised. It was Thornie. It was Thornie, she could see him in the smile that was faintly appearing.

  She hadn’t expected him for several weeks.

  Thornie had made the journey back from Africa. He had injured his spine four years ago, after which pains had begun a year later, supposedly rheumatism. He had lost four stone. On that first night, Marian played the piano for him, at his request, Schubert’s waltzes. ‘Oh that’s lovely,’ said Thornie; but when she’d finished, and turned round, his features had fallen. Without cheer, his visage was again older-looking, hardly recognisable.

  5

  Dearest B.,

  Thornie is come home in a very precarious state, and we are absorbed by cares about him. Come and see him — in the intervals of pain, he likes to be amused. Thanks for the flowers.

  Yours ever, Marian.

  Barbara arrived on Thursday with refreshments for the invalid: a basket of cooked chicken, fresh cream, and strawberries from the country. Just to see her, in her dress of royal blue, with her strong smiling face, made Marian feel more hopeful. Thornie was in t
he garden — Amelia and Grace had brought his bed out because the day was fine. Barbara took him his food on a tray. Thornie picked at the chicken. It was warm, they wore hats, then when Marian’s eyes began to close — it was somehow so relaxing having Barbara here, taking charge — Barbara told her to go inside, leave her with Thornie.

  Marian rested her head back on the sofa, closed her eyes. With the doors open, she could hear them: Barbara’s tone playful, then speculative; they were both laughing. Barbara seemed to be talking with ease — about Algiers, where she lived for most of the year; how her husband was cultivating eucalyptus trees, though he still didn’t speak a word of English (faint, watery-sounding chuckle from Thornie). For a moment, Marian was jealous: she sounded so natural! She couldn’t help remembering how hard she’d found it to write to George’s three boys when they were at school in Switzerland — to her stepsons, she corrected herself. She would tell them to work harder, or remind them to be good; she could never think of what to say.

  Another gale of laughter — real belly laughter — reached her. What were they talking about, she wondered gloomily. She picked up Grote’s History of Greece.

  Thornie had always been difficult. Recently, she’d found an old letter from him, written from school, in which he described himself writing a story: Getting on at an intense rate, he’d written. Steam is up; high pressure express; and away we go! Does your feeble imagination twig the metaphors?

  Does your feeble imagination twig the metaphors. Marian did not want to live with either Thornie or the youngest, Bertie. After school, Thornie had gone straight to Edinburgh to study, and then to South Africa, to shoot big game and make his fortune. Later, to Marian’s intense relief, the youngest Bertie had followed him there.

  Did she regret becoming a stepmother? The question was ludicrous. She’d had no choice. She was fond of Charles, the oldest, a dear boy, and biddable, too. When they were away, he became their secretary, in effect, dealing with and forwarding their copious post. And there were other advantages. She used to enjoy writing to friends about our boys, our great tall boys. Each time she penned the phrase, there was something curative in the words, as if she were magically drawing a new outline of herself.

  ‘You were almost an hour with him!’ she said, when Barbara reappeared.

  ‘He’s a delightful young man,’ said Barbara, simply.

  For a split second, Marian thought she was being ironic.

  They left to stroll round Regent’s Park, while Thornie was watched by Amelia. Feeling the warm air on their faces, Barbara thrust her arm companionably through Marian’s, before asking about Thornie.

  ‘We both think he will get well again, as does Dr Paget. But, my dear Barbara, what will he do? How can he earn a living? And I confess,’ Marian added, with a twisted smile, ‘when he is well, he will not be the most peaceful young man to have in the house.’

  She hoped she did not sound unmotherly. She tried to make her face look tender.

  ‘But,’ said Barbara, more slowly, ‘will it not be — a comfort? To have him, I mean? I would dearly like Dr Bodichon to have had children.’

  ‘It is a question,’ said Marian, thoughtfully. She was thinking now of Silas Marner, and all that she’d tried to express through the character of Nancy Lammeter, who wanted children so much and remained childless.

  She couldn’t have had children, living openly with Lewes. And they were already supporting not just Lewes’ three boys, but Agnes’ children by her lover Thornton Hunt. She, Marian, was by far the main earner.

  ‘Do you not regret not having them?’ cried Barbara, stopping, turning to face Marian.

  ‘My position has never been — comparable to yours.’

  ‘But do you not regret them?’

  Marian did not know what to say. Thornie’s arrival was — frightful.

  ‘Not precisely. But you, my dearest Barbara, what of you?’

  ‘No — no,’ said Barbara, and she smoothed her reddish, golden hair, bright now in the sunlight, out of her eyes. She was biting her lip, saying quickly: ‘I have to give up. I am forty-two. All that I feel,’ — silently she gesticulated. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

  ‘We are animals, as well as humans!’ she burst out. ‘Don’t laugh, Marian. In my eyes, that takes nothing away from being human. It’s a miracle of life — that we breed like animals, gestate like animals, but we’re also capable of the finest feelings, the highest mental performance, artistic or scientific — have you read John Stuart Mill, by the way?’ she said abruptly.

  ‘I will. I will.’

  ‘Do so. I would like to know what you think. But yes, I feel like a breeding animal that has had its chance snatched away by some freak of fortune. Two years ago, night after night, I became hot as an oven — like some terrible fireside stoking up its own fire. I know what it means. I have given up.’

  Marian took Barbara’s hand and pressed it. She knew how much Barbara had wanted children. The loss was profound. But Barbara’s married life in Algiers made it harder. So isolated she was! Barbara’s husband would not even learn English — obstinate, odd character that he was! No wonder Barbara came to England when she could. Whereas, if she had had her own children to love and raise —

  ‘I know you understand,’ said Barbara in a low voice. ‘I painted it, you know.’

  Marian had seen the painting, a bleak landscape called ‘Solitude’, with a single stork flying overhead. As usual, she felt her own peculiarly self-tormenting brand of thinking lessened by another’s trouble. Yet she did not relish her friend’s unhappiness. ‘But you have Dr Bodichon,’ said Marian.

  ‘I do. And he is a fine man. Not perhaps the easiest,’ Barbara added, with a laugh.

  Marian gave a deprecatory shrug. She did not want to say that she had heard odd stories about Dr Bodichon.

  ‘Like most husbands,’ joked Marian, to help Barbara feel happier with her lot. ‘And Bessie? How is Bessie?’

  ‘Bessie had a baby last summer,’ said Barbara flatly.

  Marian clicked her tongue at her own forgetting. Bessie Parkes was now Bessie Belloc.

  ‘Ah — that was difficult. My oldest friend. I’d urged her not to get married, too. I felt it would be disastrous for her.’

  As they walked, Marian felt, as she often did with even her close friends, that she understood more than she should: Barbara was perturbed for her friend Bessie marrying a Frenchman and living away from England, because she had herself found her own life in exile so trying. And this human tendency, to map the subjective experience outwardly, to see it elsewhere, interested Marian. This is how people are, she thought to herself. They do not know themselves, they see it in others instead.

  ‘And has it been unhappy for Bessie, in France?’

  Barbara didn’t instantly answer. Then, with a rueful smile, she said she was remarkably well — much better than before her marriage.

  ‘Her happiness … when I heard about her baby, it was like a knife in my chest! I felt awful …’ laughed Barbara, shamefaced.

  ‘Dearest,’ said Marian, drawing her close for a moment. How she loved this friend! Who else was so honest?

  ‘Yes, when she told me she was pregnant — it was agonising. And when she came to England, I couldn’t stand to see her.’

  ‘Of course you could not,’ sympathised Marian. ‘The contrast must have felt unbearable! This is life — this is one of the hardest things in life.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Barbara, heaving a great sigh. ‘Please don’t think I’m as selfish as this usually.’

  Marian put out her arms and embraced her friend; with the slightly odd sensation of voluptuous softness, as she drew Barbara’s form towards her. Her free-thinking friend, she could tell, was as usual uncorseted. How soft, yielding she felt.

  They began walking back to the Priory.

  ‘I know, too,’ went on Marian, ‘that
you love Bessie.’

  ‘I do,’ said Barbara, hardly audible.

  ‘And I know,’ said Marian, ‘that after she had her child — a girl?’

  ‘A girl.’

  ‘After she had her little girl, you did invite them both to your house, did you not?’

  ‘I did,’ said Barbara, again hardly audible. She was smiling, tremulously; Marian saw tears at the end of her lashes.

  ‘Because you love her,’ said Marian, now taking Barbara’s arm in hers, and they moved on, walking in step. ‘These are the challenges life throws at us. What would it be if we had nothing with which to compare ourselves? These points of comparison,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘are the measures, and what power they have.’

  Marian was thinking, a little, of her travels earlier this year, when they had stayed in Florence with Tom Trollope. Genial and delightful host that he was, with her own new novel still a tantalising figment, she couldn’t help thinking of Anthony, his brother. Anthony was of course a dear friend, and in the last six months, his scope, his ability to handle the different threads of action on such a large scale, had impressed and worked as a reproach to her; an image of what she had not yet done, but felt she could do. Possibly better, she said to herself, more finely realised.

  Leaving the park behind, they could see the high wall of the garden — but a cry was breaking through the afternoon air. The two women quickened their step, round the house to the garden. Thornie — what a sight — moving like a strange creature — breathlessly the two women ran. Barbara asked if they had morphine. Marian said they did.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Marian. Barbara flashed her a strange glance; Marian blushed.

  Kneeling by the bed, Barbara was inserting a pillow under Thornie’s head, asking, ‘Where is it? Where is the pain?’

  Thornie said between his gasps that it was everywhere.

  ‘My dear boy,’ said Barbara helplessly, but with feeling, ‘we will do what we can as quickly as we can.’