In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  Silly Novels by Lady Novelists are a genus with many species, determined by the particular quality of silliness that predominates in them — the frothy, the prosy, the pious, or the pedantic. But it is a mixture of all these — a composite order of feminine fatuity — that produces the largest class of such novels, which we shall distinguish as the mind-and-millinery species.

  The novels lacked realism, she said, and she quoted from Rank and Beauty, where the heroine first sets eyes on her love object, who happens to be the Prime Minister. Perhaps, warned Marian, the words Prime Minister suggest to you a wrinkled or obese sexagenarian; but pray dismiss the image …

  “The door opened again, and Lord Rupert Conway entered. Evelyn gave one glance. It was enough; she was not disappointed. His tall figure, the distinguished simplicity of his air — it was a living Vandyke, a cavalier, one of his noble cavalier ancestors, or one to whom her fancy had always likened him, who long of yore had, with an Umfraville, fought the Paynim far beyond sea. Was this reality?”

  Very little like it, certainly.

  The last dry remark was her own, and a spontaneous smile lit her face as she read it. What fun she had writing this piece! And really, she couldn’t help admiring the skill with which she dissected pretensions. In Compensation:

  “Oh, I am so happy, dear gran’mamma,” prattles a child of four and a half. “— I have seen — I have seen such a delightful person; he is like everything beautiful — like the smell of sweet flowers, and the view from Ben Lomond; … and his forehead is like that distant sea … there seems no end — no end; or like the clusters of stars I like best to look at on a warm fine night …”

  The prodigy, says Marian, has a mother who is also a genius, extraordinarily learned and deep, who has from her great facility in learning languages, read the Scriptures in their original tongues.

  Of course! cackles Marian (the emphasis is hers). Greek and Hebrew are mere play to a heroine; Sanskrit is no more than abc to her; and she can talk with perfect correctness in any language except English. Poor men! There are so few of you who know even Hebrew …

  Reading the piece now, all these years later, Marian felt as if she were in a cage, peering out at her old self. How free she had been! Now she was conscious of watchful eyes.

  11

  On the last day of August they took the train to Weybridge, to visit the Cross family. It was a relief to be getting out of London.

  Having begun Middlemarch, and written forty pages, she was now stuck. Lewes and Marian sat in gloomy silence as the train rattled along. Each was absorbed. Marian was thinking of her own awkwardness as a stepmother.

  Thornie was in and out of pain, the diagnoses unclear; she sat with him in the afternoons, brought him books to read.

  ‘How was your night?’ Marian had asked yesterday.

  ‘It was excellent.’

  For a second she thought Thornie was teasing her. She said, bending forward, and in a feeling voice: ‘I hope it was.’

  What a bore she was.

  Lewes was also thinking about Thornie. They spent evenings in the drawing room, Thornie on pillows. Thornie often talked about Africa, last night he had described trekking for days, with the expectation that they would make their fortune — only to find that someone else had been there first, the deal already done. ‘So what was your worst experience then?’ said George, in an indulgent voice.

  ‘Being hungry,’ said Thornie, instantly.

  ‘Ah. Aha,’ said George, tone and face suddenly expressionless. He sucked on his cigar noisily.

  At Weybridge they were met by a pony and trap. Inside the large white house, in the Cross family drawing room with its French doors open, they began to feel better. They were made at once so comfortable; at the same time Marian was noticing the pictures above the fireplace, the good taste visible everywhere, in the unpretentious armchairs, tables, the lamps with their silken shades. They were given glasses of champagne. And it was not long before Lewes and Marian were admitting the difficulty of life at the moment, with Thornie being ill, pouring it all out into the ears of their kind hostess. ‘My dears,’ said Mrs Cross, taking a hand of each (she was sitting between them on the sofa). ‘I do sympathise so very much. We have our own fears just now. Zibbie is approaching her first confinement, and is exceptionally uneasy about it.’

  And at that moment the beautiful Zibbie walked in, her dark-blonde hair curling, her face sweating slightly and flushed. Though walked was not quite the word, as, her stomach projecting before her, her walk appeared to be a slow, rolling, side-to-side kind of step. And in fact Marian had the mysterious sense that Zibbie’s head had become smaller because of the distended body below.

  At lunch Marian sat beside Zibbie’s husband, Henry Bullock, war correspondent for the Daily News. He had a charming way of leaning back in his chair and taking time to think before he spoke; he talked un-self-consciously, modestly. He had advanced, liberal political views, partly as a result of what he had seen of the world. His literary interests (Turgenev was a personal friend) were genuine. He had reported in Mexico, Poland, even marched alongside Garibaldi into Naples.

  For Marian, it was the splendid couple, Zibbie and Henry Bullock, who dominated the afternoon. She watched them closely, almost jealous of their new married life, this felicitous pairing of talent and beauty on each side, in a lucky family setting. And her half-jealous feeling made her penetratingly interested in both of their doings, as if she could fillet them, know them so completely that she would no longer be jealous, she would be inhabiting them instead. She ended up talking to Zibbie, absorbing her beauty, her swollen form, her apprehensiveness about giving birth. She made Marian think of a sailor on the brink of a momentous journey to an unknown place. Zibbie admitted to being frightened about her confinement; she laughed at herself, but had tears in her eyes when she laughed. Finally Zibbie mentioned her poems, as Marian guessed she would. Almost certainly Zibbie hoped, in the curious way people did, that by contact with Marian, Zibbie’s own talent or genius might be helped to blossom, as if genius were a benign form of contagion.

  The day became emotional when Zibbie performed at the piano, singing two verses from Marian’s Spanish Gypsy that she had herself set to music. Marian cried as she embraced her. They had many things in common — had selected identical passages for their respective commonplace books, for instance. Zibbie even went to fetch hers, pale blue and frayed, to show Marian, as proof. For a moment Marian was sad: the younger woman presenting evidence of similar taste, as if this might indicate a similar artistic career for her — but she was about to have a child.

  Marian had an image of the women she knew who had children, a shoal of fish travelling down the same stream.

  Outside, Zibbie came to say goodbye, placing both her hands in Marian’s.

  ‘What a lovely family!’ Lewes said when they left, as they were rattling home on the train. ‘Perhaps we can borrow them.’

  Less than a month later, a letter arrived from Mrs Cross. Marian had to read the letter three times. The last few sentences especially — she found it hard to read the words. Zibbie had had a fine baby boy, but had died four days after childbirth.

  ***

  Upstairs at the Priory, at her desk, Marian plunged her mind down and into Middlemarch — and stopped. She had her idea, about a hero wanting to lead a life that counted, yet each time she went to her desk her neck stiffened, and as she tried to sink her mind into that fictional world, she was aware of half an entity in the corner of her vision, that she couldn’t quite see.

  12

  It was a difficult autumn. Thornie became more sick. In October, he died. On Christmas Day they visited Thornie’s grave in Highgate cemetery; the evening they spent quietly with Charles and Gertrude. The weather was cold, with a biting bright light that changed as the skies thickened and brought snow.

  Neither Marian nor Lewes could work.

&nb
sp; Lewes had headaches accompanied by ringing in the ears; he fainted; his hands and feet went numb. Trying to work on Problems of Life and Mind, in part an investigation of neurological illness, he wondered if he, ironically, was becoming neurologically ill.

  The doctors prescribed change of scene. In the spring, they went abroad, meeting neurologists Reichert and Westphal in Berlin. They strolled down the wide Lindengarten Strasse, every building clothed in the brilliant blue-white light. Marian enjoyed using her rusty German again, and in afternoons they stopped at the Konzert House cafe for apple strudel and a glass of the fiery local liquor made from pears. Back in England, neither could work; Dr Reynolds recommended sea air. They went to Cromer, reading aloud on the beach — Trollope, Balzac, Mendelssohn’s Letters, Rossetti’s Poems, Morris’ Earthly Paradise. They went to Harrogate in Yorkshire, where, walking the picturesque cobbled streets, they talked about the ominous new war between France and Prussia; and Dickens, who’d died last month. Lewes took the waters, Marian struggled with Middlemarch. But there were concerts, and one night they heard Grace Armytage sing, her rich contralto mesmerising the hall. During the second half, Marian found herself wondering what it was like singing to an audience — giving voice, literally. It seemed a magnificent idea. Returning to their rooms, the idea took on a dark twist: what if the singer lost her voice, just as she had lost hers? Here surely was an idea for a play — story — poem.

  Travelling on to Whitby, they met up with Georgiana Burne-Jones and her children. Marian hoped that finally her friend would break her silence about her husband’s infidelity, which she knew had caused so much suffering. Georgiana was composed, but her eyes showed fluctuations of feeling, and this combination of feeling and reserve intrigued Marian.

  On their first morning they climbed up to the Abbey, from where they had a tremendous view of the shining sea below. There, in the light and the wind, Marian thought of the strange woman who had, against all pattern of expectation, become so important — the seventh-century Saint Hilda, female founding saint of the Abbey, whose advice kings and princes had sought; who ran her Benedictine monastery along strict lines, men and women living separately but worshipping together.

  Later on the beach, while Lewes rested, Marian and Georgiana laid rugs beside a rock, so they were sheltered when the wind rose. While the children Margaret and Phil dug in the sand, Georgiana talked of her husband. She had been tidying Edward Burne-Jones’ clothes, when she’d found a letter in his pocket. She never read his post, but an instinct, fatal, strong, compelled her. Opening the letter, she had instantly seen words of love. They were from the woman who had been posing for him, the Greek heiress Maria Zambaco. ‘It was like a novel,’ Georgiana cried then, her mouth pursing in woe.

  Edward had agreed to give the woman up, but the heiress had threatened to kill herself, going with an overdose of laudanum to a canal in Little Venice. Edward intercepted her, the police were called, word spread round London.

  Edward had given her up, but now Georgiana, watching his canvas, hated seeing Edward at work. Bit by bit, the face and form materialising was always Maria Zambaco, coming to life once more as a sorceress, or temptress. Georgiana had become haunted by the woman’s lips, her fairy-tale face with its exquisitely pointed chin, the proud bewitching look of spoiled sensuality. ‘She is like a dream made real,’ confessed Georgiana; and, she cried, ‘I can’t control Edward’s mind!’

  ‘My dear Georgiana,’ murmured Marian.

  She felt pierced for her friend. To have to see the other woman’s features, produced not by physical sight, but by the power of memory, and by Edward’s artistry, too. Georgiana was leaning against the wall of the rock, a paradoxically beautiful spectacle of sorrow, features framed by the ascetically, medievally plain dress of dark grey, her habitual attire. Even the way she wore her hair — parted in the middle, braided at the back — had a beguiling simplicity to it. Marian ingested this image.

  ‘It is hard for you, to feel so impotent,’ said Marian, in a low voice, looking intently at her friend.

  ‘It is! That face,’ — and Georgiana shuddered.

  ‘But you do not give up Edward,’ said Marian tactfully. It was now her task gently to help Georgiana find her own strength, be clear about what she wanted to do.

  Through all this, Edward Burne-Jones had kept coming to the Priory on Sundays. There he sat, often transparently absorbed by his own inner world, like a self-forgetful child and artist both. Marian admired that indifference to the world’s opinion; yet self-absorption and selfishness: how close they must run, she thought.

  Now Georgiana returned to the moment of revelation, when she had found the letter from Edward’s pocket. Colouring, she had learned then that Edward was consumed by his need for this woman — which could not be healthy. He had become obsessed, lost to everything. Sometimes he couldn’t even paint.

  Marian knew the rumour that Georgiana and Edward did not have sex, to avoid having another child. She wanted to suggest forgoing abstinence, to practise birth control, to foster their intimacy, but feared intruding.

  ‘An obsession like this,’ said Marian instead, carefully, ‘cannot survive in my view. It feeds on a hectic atmosphere, and cannot fit around the relatively contented doings of ordinary life.’

  Georgiana’s eyes were either bright, or had tears in them.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, in a low voice. Georgiana’s daughter Margaret had come to find them, sliding under Georgie’s arm, to be tucked in, as under a bird’s wing, absently, sweetly; Marian noted it all.

  ‘Whereas you and Mr Lewes — your affection does fit around ordinary life.’

  ‘It is the luck,’ said Marian then, in a grave tone, ‘of perfect compatibility.’

  ***

  One afternoon, while Georgiana took the children back to her lodgings, Marian stayed on the beach on her own. She was still mulling over what Georgie had told her. But now, drawing her shawl closer, she thought over the last year: particularly the poignant sense she’d had last October, with Thornie dying, that life was at its fullest, was being most vividly lived, when she was helping him. All these months on, and it was still with her. The hole when he was gone — she had not been prepared for it. She wore, under her sleeve, the small African beaded bracelet he had given her; she wore it every day.

  Thornie had changed before he died. He had become different. Or rather, it had become different between them. A strange thing had happened in the last six weeks of Thornie’s life.

  Usually, when Marian sat with him for an hour or two, he asked rote questions about her work, and she gave rote answers. But one day he asked as usual and she said: ‘Going well, thank you.’

  ‘Is it?’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ she said then. She was tired.

  ‘Poor Mutter,’ came the words, half under his breath. He still wasn’t opening his eyes, but he stretched out a hand. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do — then she took it.

  ‘I’m sure it will be alright,’ he said, in his murmur.

  ‘I’m not,’ she said. His eyes looked closed, she detached her hand to leave.

  ‘Don’t go,’ — came his voice.

  She stayed another half an hour. This tiny exchange changed something — a small conduit had opened between them.

  She began to sit longer with him.

  The atmosphere changed. She was easy with him now; the old pressure to say things had gone. She began bringing him the peculiar dandelion concoctions Grace made for him in the kitchen, and taking a seat in the drawing room downstairs where his bed lived, to look for any sign of relief or pleasure in his face. When he was in pain she went as quickly as possible to find the dropper and the morphine, and waited to see the effect. She began sitting with him at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Late September, she didn’t go to see him, she was in her own bed with an aching head. ‘He’s asking for Mutter,’
said George, coming up to her room. She got out of bed. Does your feeble imagination twig the metaphors?, Does your feeble imagination twig the metaphors? she was repeating to herself, to remind herself of the impossible boy he was, she wanted to be strong. He was quieter day by day, thinner, and oddly wizened in the face.

  He was sleeping for longer periods of the day. Her concern for her book dropped. At the beginning of October, Thornie gave her a present of beads, a bracelet.

  ‘Why thank you Thornie. But maybe you should have it.’

  He shook his head, and said it would give her good thoughts.

  They sat in silence after that. ‘You can tell me how it goes tomorrow,’ he said, looking at her, with his tired, heavy-lidded smile. His eyes were closing, but they had told her everything — that he had always understood and forgiven her desire to leave him, to get on with her work, in the previous months.

  She got to her feet. ‘That’s very kind of you Thornie,’ she said, but her voice was not steady.

  When he died, she wrote to Barbara:

  Dearest Barbara,

  Thanks for your tender words. It has cut deeper than I expected — that he is gone and I can never make him feel my love any more. Just now all else seems trivial compared with the powers of delighting and soothing a heart that is in need.

  13

  It’s hard to find Thornton Lewes’ grave. Highgate Cemetery has unexpected slopes and byways, so many ivy-covered woody small hills and dells, 170,000 graves in total. Hans has gone to the cemetery office to see if they can help.

  I see him minutes later walking through the trees, pushing aside the ivy, before stopping to light a cigarette. ‘It’s not going to happen,’ he says. ‘They don’t know.’

  We give up the search for Thornie, and begin our return to Eliot’s grave, through the trees. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asks.

  It’s April, and though there are small signs of new green, there’s a chilly wind.