MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Mrs. Bray_, 1855, in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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If I live five years longer the positive result of my existence on the side of truth and goodness will out-weigh the small negative good that would have consisted in my not doing anything to shock others, and I can conceive no consequences that will make me repent the past. Do not misunderstand me, and suppose that I think myself heroic or great in any way. Far enough from that! Faulty, miserably faulty I am--but least of all faulty where others most blame.
MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Miss Sara Hennell_, 1857, in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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[Sidenote: “George Eliot” and George Lewes.]
What a contrast the pair presented! He, _pétillant d’esprit_, as the French say, as brimful of life, geniality, and animation, as it was possible for any human being often oppressed with bodily ailments to be, ever able to shake off these for the sake of lively, engrossing talk, ever on the alert to discover intellectual qualities in others; she, grave, pensive, thoughtful, not disinclined for sportiveness and wit certainly, as ready as he to bring out the best in those around her, but equally devoid of his habitual gayety and lightheartedness, as was he of her own earnest mood. There was something irresistibly winning and attractive about Mr. Lewes. The heart warmed to him at once, he was so kindly, so ready to offer help or counsel, so pleased to be of use. George Eliot’s large-hearted, deep-souled benevolence took in all human kind, but could not so easily individualize. That commanding spirit, that loyal, much-tried nature, could not be expected to testify the same catholicity in personal likings as a man, who, despite his rare intellectual endowments and devotion to especial fields of learning, yet remained a man of the world.
Charles Lamb speaks somewhere of a woman’s “divine plain face,” and perhaps the same criticism might be passed on George Eliot. The plainness vanished as soon as she smiled, and the tone of the voice was singularly sympathetic and harmonious. As to Mr. Lewes’ looks or personal appearance, one never thought of the matter at all. Small, spare, sallow, much bearded, with brilliant eyes, he could neither be called handsome nor ugly. Delightful he ever was, kindness itself, always on the look-out to serve and to amuse. For he knew--none better--the value of a smile.
With George Eliot acquaintance ripened slower into friendship. In spite of her warm human sympathies and the keenness of her desire to enter into the feelings of others, her manner at first awed, perhaps even repelled. It was so much more difficult for her than for Mr. Lewes to quit her own world of thought and speculation, and enter into that of the common joys and sorrows and aspirations of humanity. Yet few delighted more in gathering her friends together. “From my good father I learned the pleasure of being hospitable,” she once said to me with a glow of feeling. “He rejoiced ever to receive his friends, and to my eyes now the pleasure wears the shape of a duty.”
I am not sure as to the precise words she used, but this was the sentiment.
It is pleasant to record their love of the good and the beautiful in the least little thing--George Eliot’s rapture at the sight of an exquisite flower, Mr. Lewes’ delight in a bright happy child; also the keenness of their sympathy with common joys and sorrows, and the unbounded kindliness and pitifulness of their nature.
---- ----: ‘A Week with George Eliot.’ _Temple Bar_, February, 1885.
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[Sidenote: First attempt at fiction.]
[Sidenote: “A capital title.”]
[Sidenote: ‘Scenes from Clerical Life.’]
[Sidenote: Last chapters of ‘Amos Barton.’]
September, 1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I began to write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that some time or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of what the novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to another. But I never went further towards the actual writing of the novel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire village and the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed on I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel, just as I desponded about every thing else in my future life. I always thought I was deficient in dramatic power, both of construction and dialogue, but I felt I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts of a novel. My “introductory chapter” was pure description, though there were good materials in it for dramatic presentation. It happened to be among the papers I had with me in Germany, and one evening at Berlin something led me to read it to George. He was struck with it as a bit of concrete description, and it suggested to him the possibility of my being able to write a novel, though he distrusted--indeed, disbelieved in--my possession of any dramatic power. Still, he began to think that I might as well try some time what I could do in fiction, and by and by, when we came back to England, and I had greater success than he ever expected in other kinds of writing, his impression that it was worth while to see how far my mental power would go towards the production of a novel, was strengthened. He began to say very positively, “You must try and write a story,” and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin at once. I deferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that does not present itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was thinking what should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts merged themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a story, of which the title was ‘The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton.’ I was soon wide awake again and told G. He said, “Oh, what a capital title!” and from that time I had settled in my mind that this should be my first story. George used to say, “It may be a failure--it may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps it may be just good enough to warrant your trying again.” Again, “You may write a _chef d’œuvre_ at once--there’s no telling.” But his prevalent impression was, that though I could not write a _poor_ novel, my effort would want the highest quality of fiction--dramatic presentation.... I did not begin my story till September 22. After I had begun it, as we were walking in the park, I mentioned to G. that I had thought of the plan of writing a series of stories, containing sketches drawn from my own observation of the clergy, and calling them ‘Scenes from Clerical Life,’ opening with ‘Amos Barton.’ He at once accepted the notion as a good one--fresh and striking; and about a week afterwards, when I read him the first part of ‘Amos,’ he had no longer any doubt about my ability to carry out the plan. The scene at Cross Farm, he said, satisfied him that I had the very element he had been doubtful about--it was clear I could write good dialogue. There still remained the question whether I could command any pathos; and that was to be decided by the mode in which I treated Milly’s death. One night G. went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening for writing it. I wrote the chapter from the news brought by the shepherd to Mrs. Hackit, to the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside, and I read it to G. when he came home. We both cried over it, and then he came up to me and kissed me, saying, “I think your pathos is better than your fun.”
MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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[Sidenote: Her pseudonym.]
I may mention that my wife told me the reason she fixed on this name [George Eliot] was that George was Mr. Lewes’ Christian name, and Eliot was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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[Sidenote: Genesis of “Adam Bede.”]
The germ of “Adam Bede” was an anecdote told me by my Methodist Aunt Samuel (the wife of my father’s younger brother)--an anecdote from her own experience. We were sitting together one afternoon during her visit to me at Griff, probably in 1839 or 1840, when it occurred to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned criminal--a very ignorant girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; how she had stayed with her praying through the night, and how the poor creature at last broke out into tears and confessed her crime. My aunt afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of execution; and she described to me the great respect with which this ministry of hers was regarded by the official people about the jail. The story, told by my aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the impression of that afternoon and our talk together; but I believe I never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, till something prompted me to tell it to George in December, 1856, when I had begun to write the “Scenes of Clerical Life.” He remarked that the scene in the prison would make a fine element in a story; and I afterwards began to think of blending this and some other recollections of my aunt in one story, with some points in my father’s early life and character. The problem of construction that remained was to make the unhappy girl one of the chief _dramatis personæ_, and connect her with the hero. At first I thought of making the story one of the series of “Scenes,” but afterward when several motives had induced me to close these with “Janet’s Repentance,” I determined on making what we always called in our conversation “My Aunt’s Story” the subject of a long novel, which I accordingly began to write on the 22d October, 1857.