In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  The talks are less than thirty minutes long. I put on my jacket, the air conditioning is cold and dry. But the schedule is merciful, stopping at two o’clock, allowing time for sight-seeing in the afternoon. A group of us convene at the front of the building. The Chair and Hans’ friend, Bruno; two English academics I don’t know, from Nottingham and Sussex; a Swiss woman called Cornelia; an American called Marcia. We are blinking in the powerful sunlight. The sky has cleared completely. It is blue — sheer — hot, everyone clamps on sunglasses. We go to find lunch, heading not as I expect into the Dorsoduro, but east: round the back of the Accademia Gallery, over humped bridges, the dome of Santa Maria della Salute hoving into sight, suddenly above us. Then we are standing at the edge of the promontory. The heat has leapt up twenty degrees. In the newly clear sun, the lagoon is glittering, open before us, the Adriatic sea.

  ‘It’s something,’ says Hans. Everyone is exclaiming, getting out phones to take photos. Professor Gruber is using an old-fashioned camera, bending down in front of it, turning the lens, squinting and clicking.

  We retrace our steps in search of lunch. Hans and I, going slower, follow Bruno and the group down the second turning; after a hundred yards we arrive at a small campo, with five different streets leading off it. It’s empty. Hans calls Bruno, no reply. We give up, sit at one of the restaurants with outside shade; order salad, pasta.

  Waiting for the wine and water, we chat about Ann’s paper on Simcox. ‘I do think it’s very good,’ I say, meaningfully. It seems to me he half shuts his eyes, and winces. Though he could have been shutting his eyes from the sunlight. There is a curious layer of mist in the air above the paving stones of the campo, as if moisture is still being burned off.

  ‘It’s been days of rain,’ says Hans mechanically.

  The wine arrives. ‘I’m not very good with drink in the middle of the day,’ I say. It is an automatic remark. I shift in my seat.

  ‘So, tell me,’ he says. He moves his chair to sit in the sunshine, and he suddenly looks happy. His shirt is open at the neck. ‘Apart from Ann’s paper, how do you like Simcox?’

  ‘She’s great, she’s like a camera in the room!’

  ‘Go on,’ he says, ‘unless this is a gem going into your book that has to be secret.’ I smile. It’s a relief to hear him joke and look half sarcastic.

  ‘Ha ha. No — there are tons of moments that only Simcox’s beady eye catches. For instance, she’s visiting them, talking to Lewes, and Marian is just walking by in the drawing room, when Lewes seizes Marian’s hand to kiss it quickly. Simcox records it all.’

  Hans looks expectant.

  ‘It’s unusual in a marriage,’ I say, blushing for some reason. ‘To have that degree of sustained, ardent admiration and love —’

  Hans doesn’t reply. He drains the rest of his glass, asks if I mind if he smokes, reaching for the cigarettes before I say yes.

  ‘I don’t like to drink without a smoke.’

  He drinks, lights, inhales. I drink some more wine.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Much.’

  We sit in silence. The campo is golden. At the end is a church of white-blackened stone. Now we start talking about Simcox’s diary again. And again, Ann’s paper comes up, and in an absent way, Hans remarks on how it’s great that the paper was accepted at Venice, because he was worried Ann wasn’t going to pull it all together in time.

  I say: ‘Well she did.’

  After the pasta plates arrive, Hans says to me, his colour a little raised, ‘I don’t mean to — cause offence — but why do you — make that remark in that tone?’

  I wind spaghetti slowly round my fork.

  ‘I think it’s been difficult for Ann.’

  ‘That is true.’

  I put my fork down, and begin to fold my napkin into a neat rectangle.

  ‘I just — gathered from her — that you, you know, didn’t encourage her to apply for Venice.’

  ‘True. At a certain point.’

  He stubs out his cigarette, shrugs. ‘Her first piece for Venice was on Eliot. I thought it needed more work. I wasn’t saying, don’t send it ever. Just, she needed to work at it. I thought it might be rejected as it was.’

  He adds: ‘Her Simcox piece was good from the start.’

  After a while, I say, driven by I don’t know what — I feel like a gardener digging in the earth, searching with a spade for a stone somewhere — ‘But couldn’t you have encouraged, helped her on the Eliot piece?’

  ‘And you think I didn’t?’

  We walk after lunch over the Accademia bridge, then eastwards. The heat is now stupendous, even through my sandals I feel it. We go along the Riva degli Schiavoni, the lagoon on our right. Hans is sweating, hair damp where it meets his neck. I am thinking about what he said. As we walk back, I have my old sense of constriction. Finally I say, I imagine I jumped to assumptions.

  ‘I imagine you did.’

  1880

  15

  In early March Marian took the carriage, accompanied by Johnny Cross and his sister Eleanor to the South Kensington Museum. As they went through Hyde Park — trees still bare — she waited to catch sight of the Serpentine. The carriage swerved, all three thrust to the right, Eleanor crying, ‘I beg your pardon!’, and laughing breathily. Eleanor’s head had tumbled right across her and Marian could smell her scent, a light musk rose.

  ‘It is no one’s fault,’ said Marian, when they had steadied.

  Her voice was magisterial. The road becoming cobbles, now they were jogging up and down in undignified movement, Eleanor beginning to giggle, before laughing hysterically.

  ‘Nelly,’ Johnny was saying, on her right.

  Marian couldn’t help smiling.

  Inside, the room was crowded with stands, on which hung paintings, alabasters, bas-reliefs. Lost stray columns stood here and there, reminding Marian of a cemetery. ‘What do you make of this strange crowd?’ she asked Eleanor softly. Eleanor said it was remarkable.

  Marian wished Eleanor would brave an opinion.

  In the North Room, Marian asked to have a moment by herself. Now she was alone in front of this altar. It had been ripped from the Church of Santa Chiara in Florence. Two columns left and right, saints below, and above, two angels with buoyant knees raised in the air. Bending close, she thought she could smell the odour of incense. It had to be an illusion. She stood and waited. What was she waiting for? She had the lunatic idea that the insoluble muddle of her life could resolve itself into a clear shape, in front of this displaced altar. She could laugh at herself, if she weren’t so terrified.

  ***

  Since returning from Witley in November, Johnny had visited her at the Priory several evenings each week. Brett tacitly understood the situation. They took drives together, walked, visited the British Museum, the Grosvenor Gallery, The National Gallery, the Dulwich Gallery. Johnny was the family business manager, old family friend, his presence excited no comment at all.

  The last day of November had been the anniversary of George’s death. Marian took Lewes’ letters to the room she had lived in after his death, again disused, with a papery shut-up smell of wood, or linseed oil. She put her hands on the wall: here she had endured it all.

  She could not catch it as it was, though. It was a bit frightening.

  Lewes’ letters to her were utterly bittersweet. Then there were letters from him to other people, less familiar, sent to her after he died.

  If I cannot seduce Polly from her beloved Theocritus, I ramble among the fields, glens, or over the moors musing ‘on lovely things that conquer death’. If I can seduce her we both ramble and talk of the said lovely things. To be with her is a perpetual Banquet to which that of Plato would present but a flat rival.

  Momentarily she reeled. His light-depth, his love — there was no one to match him. What was she doing? She picked up a
nother — to Barbara, when Barbara had detected her as author of Adam Bede.

  You’re a darling, and I have always said so! I don’t know that I ever said it to you — but I say it now. You are the person on whose sympathy we both counted …

  What was it her niece had said, about never having met anyone so full of life?

  ‘What is it, Mutter? Can I help you in any way?’

  It was Charles.

  ‘I would like — his letters — to be buried with me.’

  Charles was taking her hand, leading her into the drawing room. ‘My dear Mutter, you are not well, you are entirely unwell, in fact. Come, sit. I will ask Brett to bring you tea. You are brave, you — are — surviving.’

  At Christmas she was alone except for the servants. She sat by the fire in her study, where she had moved the enlarged photograph of Lewes.

  Before leaving Witley, she had heard that John Blackwood, friend and publisher of so many years, had died. Now she received his nephew, William Blackwood, and in a faint echo of those Sundays before, had begun receiving guests. One by one, like so many supplicants. Herbert Spencer, Charles Pigott, Georgie and Edward Burne-Jones, Sir James Paget, Lady Bowen, the Darwins, Leslie Stephen, Mr and Mrs Beesly, Florence Hill, Frederick Myers … on and on they came. Half-shutting her eyes, imagining the stream of visitors, there followed like steps in an illness the knock-knock-knock of depression.

  On that Christmas Day, she had copied Emily Brontë’s poem into her diary:

  Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee

  Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

  Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

  Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?

  ***

  But now it was the next year, it was March, and Johnny had proposed to her for the third time. She could be open, she could be honest if only she dared. After the day spent in South Kensington Gallery, Marian had sat alone in her study. This was the room where she had written Middlemarch — at that desk, in front of the window, above the garden. What should she do? Neither way seemed possible. She remembered the dread emptiness of those days at Witley, without Johnny.

  And she remembered Mill on the Floss, Maggie Tulliver stuck. Now she was stuck, strange.

  What did she fear? She was not ambivalent about Johnny. No. She feared how she would be seen. She feared what people would think and say. Those Dodsons, those Gleggs. But not just! Those ordinary people, friends, close loving friends — she feared they would no longer recognise, and love her. She would drop in their regard. Even, a little, in her own.

  The following morning she wrote a note to Dr Paget.

  16

  Waiting for Dr Paget’s arrival, Marian could not stay seated. Should they be in the drawing room, full of George and their life together, or go to her study, where the enlarged photograph of George would look down at them as they talked?

  She led him to the study. They sat in chairs by the fire.

  ‘My dear Mrs Lewes,’ said Dr Paget. He had a long lean and sallow face, with a projecting forehead, and bushy eyebrows. ‘I am honoured to be contacted by you, on what you describe as — a private, and, yes, delicate matter.’

  How could she say it? Hopelessness flooded her. This was the beginning. She had told no one at all so far.

  She opened her mouth: ‘It is kind of you to come —’

  She must push on. Colouring, she said, ‘As you say, it is a private communication.’

  Dr Paget would say nothing to anyone.

  Was there, however, a flicker of unholy interest in those eyes?

  And if there was, so what, she thought next. It’s human nature to be curious.

  Still, she knew a creeping dismay inside herself.

  ‘I do not know,’ she began slowly, ‘if you are acquainted with a Mr John Cross. The family resides at Weybridge.’

  ‘I think … is he a tall fellow?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Is it possible I have met him on a Sunday?’

  ‘He was a regular visitor.’

  ‘In that case, I think I have met him.’

  A conscious look between them.

  ‘An agreeable, sensible man, I thought.’

  ‘I am glad you find him so.’

  She gave a sudden gaseous, utterly nervous smile.

  ‘Sir Paget, what I am about to say, might come — assuredly will come — as a surprise. Mr Cross has asked me to marry him.’

  Marian tried to see. His face. His face. She strained forward, as far as it was seemly. A fluctuating colour — small upward motion of surprise — reined in — superbly — and now, a look of goodwill.

  ‘For the third time,’ she added.

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Are you disposed to accept him?’

  Silence.

  ‘I have rejected him twice. If I do marry him, all my monies and property will go as previously to Mr Lewes’ children and relatives. But now — after an interminable struggle,’ — and she could not help giving a very deep sigh — ‘I am inclined to accept him. He is a decent man. He is independently wealthy. He proposes to dedicate the rest of his life to mine, now that I am alone.’

  Disconcertingly, she was hearing herself. The high seriousness of her tone, and the great primness of it, too.

  ‘He wishes to care for me.’

  ‘And why should he not fulfil that office?’ said Sir James, kindly, at once.

  Marian shot him a grateful look.

  ‘I understand your hesitation. But it is not necessary.’

  ‘My concern … is my legacy. My influence.’

  She turned a questioning look at him.

  ‘Your work, Mrs Lewes, will endure. You have much to say to people. What you say will not be lessened — or — or —’

  ‘Contaminated,’ she said.

  ‘Contaminated! — certainly not.’

  ‘You do not think.’

  ‘I do not think.’

  They sat in silence for some moments. Marian said: ‘I have a further question. I have passed my sixtieth birthday. Where — conjugal relations — are concerned —’

  ‘You are perfectly fit for them.’ (Briskly.) ‘There is nothing to suggest an unfitness. Mr Cross is —’

  ‘He just turned forty this month.’

  Did she note a flicker of surprise in his face?

  ‘He is in the prime of life. And you are not so far from the prime of life, my dear Mrs Lewes. It is my considered opinion that conjugal relations assist in the happiness of most unions. — Menstruation is — long past —’

  ‘Oh! — Yes.’

  ‘I wish you the very best, Mrs Lewes.’

  After Dr Paget’s visit, Marian stayed sitting. The fire glowed molten gold, crackled and spat. Everything was changing. Dr Paget had thought it a reasonable, a good thing to do, if she read his face right. He had dismissed the idea that her influence would be ruined. She got up, held on to the mantelpiece, it was strong, solid. Sir James was of the world, an intelligent, educated, canny, as well as humane man. She would go ahead. She would tell Johnny today. But she would have to hold her courage. There would be no going back. Even the thought of telling him — and now the line from Macbeth was running through her head, about screwing her courage to the sticking place, as if she were on the brink of murder … murdering — who? What?

  She took one of the sugar-plums from the bowl on the mantelpiece, a leftover from Christmas, and ate it. And why should she not have a happy life? Without loneliness, with Johnny near, and she Mrs Cross, a truly legal wife at last?

  The fire was burning her it was so hot. She stepped back. A fierce, new, happy sensation had her in its grip. The marriage would be small, secret. It would be in a proper church. Only Charles and Johnny’s family present, and then they would be
out. Out of England. No one would know until they were gone.

  17

  They would marry in three weeks’ time, on May 6. The very next day she went with Johnny to look for a house. It would be no good to stay in the Priory, so associated with her life with Lewes. They found exactly what they liked: 4 Cheyne Walk, a tall, gracious four-storey house, overlooking the Thames. Johnny had been surprised when he learned that she wanted to be married in a church, and a traditional Anglican one, but she explained she wanted the proprieties to be fully observed. They would leave the day of the marriage, spend the night in Dover, and honeymoon abroad. Johnny listened and took note. He would tell Robert the next day — the sooner he knew of the impending absence the better.

  ‘Robert?’

  Johnny smiled. Marian was liable to forget his work existed. Robert Benson was his business partner in Cornhill.

  ‘You cannot possibly tell him,’ said Marian, looking pale. ‘I am sorry — very sorry — if I did not make myself understood — but obviously, my dear Johnny! — No one, except for your family, and Charles, can be allowed to know of this event.’

  Her hand was clutching his arm.

  Marian’s emotions commanded his respect, in their intensity and strangeness, as the necessary accoutrements of a great writer. At the same time, sensations, like colours in the air, were passing, just out of view.

  Marian was soon busy going for fittings at Madame Victorine’s, close to Bond Street, commissioning a large lace mantilla as well as two hats; fittings at Mrs Garfields, for her wedding dress, of satin, muslin, and tulle, in a cream colour, suitable for her age. She ordered two travelling outfits. She wanted to buy an attractive nightgown, too; but would she be able to raise this with Mrs Herbert? Or would that small lady, from underneath her fringe of curls, give her a faux-sympathetic look, to hide secret mockery? And afterwards, would she gossip, to other favoured customers, in a private tone, about her famous client?

  The solution came to her. Edith. A silk night-shift from Hamilton’s. Perfect. Not that she would enlighten Edith as to her plans. A simple silk shift: she wanted to avoid at all costs something fussy, engineered, as it were, for the purpose of seduction.