KATE FIELD: ‘English Authors in Florence,’ _The Atlantic Monthly_, December, 1864.
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[Sidenote: Mr. Cross’s first impression in 1869.]
I still seem to hear, as I first heard them, the low, earnest, deep, musical tones of her voice; I still seem to see the fine brows, with the abundant auburn-brown hair framing them, the long head, broadening at the back, the gray-blue eyes, constantly changing in expression, but always with a very loving, almost deprecating look at my mother, the finely-formed, thin, transparent hands, and a whole _Wesen_ that seemed in complete harmony with everything one expected to find in the author of ‘Romola.’
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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[Sidenote: The Priory.]
[Sidenote: Receptions.]
[Sidenote: Manner of life.]
[Sidenote: Recreations.]
In the course of the year 1865, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes moved from 16 Blandford Square to the Priory, a commodious house in North Bank, St. John’s Wood, which has come to be intimately associated with the memory of George Eliot. Here in the pleasant dwelling-rooms decorated by Owen Jones might be met, at her Sunday afternoon receptions, some of the most eminent men in literature, art and science. For the rest, her life flowed on its even tenor, its routine being rigidly regulated. The morning till lunch time was invariably devoted to writing; in the afternoon she either went out for a quiet drive of about two hours, or she took a walk with Lewes in Regent’s Park. There the strange-looking couple--she with a certain weird, sibylline air, he not unlike some unkempt Polish refugee of vivacious manners--might be seen, swinging their arms as they hurried along at a pace as rapid and eager as their talk. Besides these walks, George Eliot’s chief recreation consisted in frequenting concerts and picture galleries. To music she was passionately devoted, hardly ever failing to attend the Saturday afternoon concerts at St. James’ Hall, besides frequenting various musical reunions.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’
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[Sidenote: A retired life.]
Perhaps no one filling a large portion of the thoughts of the public in two hemispheres has ever been so little known to the public at large. Always in delicate health, always living a student life, caring little for what is called general society, though taking a genial delight in that of her chosen friends, she very seldom appeared in public. She went to the houses of but a few, finding it less fatiguing to see her friends at home. Those who knew her by sight beyond her own immediate circle did so from seeing her take her quiet drives in Regent’s Park and the northern slopes of London, or from her attendance at those concerts where the best music of the day was to be heard.
C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’ _Harper’s Magazine_, May, 1881.
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[Sidenote: Visits to the Zoological Gardens.]
[Sidenote: Interest in animals.]
Another favorite resort of George Eliot’s was the Zoölogical Gardens. She went there a great deal to study the animals, and was particularly fond of the “poor dear ratel” that used to turn somersaults. In fact her knowledge of and sympathy with animals was as remarkable as that which she showed for human nature. Thus she astonished a gentleman farmer by drawing attention to the fine points of his horses. Her intimate acquaintance with the dog comes out in a thousand touches in her novels, and her humorous appreciation of the little pigs led her to watch them attentively, and to pick out some particular favorite. In her country rambles, too, she was fond of turning over stones to inspect the minute insect life teeming in moist, dark places; and she was as interested as Lewes himself in the creatures, frogs, etc., he kept for scientific purposes, and which would sometimes, like the frog in the fairy tale, surprise the household by suddenly making their entrance into the dining-room. Her liking for the “poor brutes,” as she called them, had its origin no doubt in the same source of profound pity which she feels for “the twists and cracks” of imperfect human beings.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot’
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[Sidenote: Receptions at the Priory.]
[Sidenote: George Eliot’s conversation.]
When London was full, the little drawing-room in St. John’s Wood was now and then crowded to overflowing by those who were glad to give their best of conversation, of information, and sometimes of music, always to listen with eager attention to whatever their hostess might say, when all that she said was worth hearing. Without a trace of pedantry, she led the conversation to some great and lofty strain. Of herself and her works she never spoke; of the works and thoughts of others she spoke with reverence, and sometimes even too great tolerance. But those afternoons had the highest pleasure when London was empty or the day wet, and only a few friends were present, so that her conversation assumed a more sustained tone than was possible when the rooms were full of shifting groups. It was then that, without any premeditation, her sentences fell as fully formed, as wise, as weighty, as epigrammatic, as any to be found in her books. Always ready, but never rapid, her talk was not only good in itself, but it encouraged the same in others, since she was an excellent listener, and eager to hear.
C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’
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[Sidenote: Appearance.]
One of the images which, on these occasions, recurs oftenest to George Eliot’s friends, is that of the frail-looking woman who would sit with her chair drawn close to the fire, and whose winning womanliness of bearing and manners struck every one who had the privilege of an introduction to her. Her long, pale face, with its strongly-marked features, was less rugged in the mature prime of life than in youth, the inner meanings of her nature having worked themselves more and more to the surface, the mouth, with its benignant suavity of expression, especially softening the too prominent under-lip and massive jaw. Her abundant hair, whose smooth bands made a kind of frame to the face, was covered by a lace or muslin cap, with lappets of rich point or Valenciennes lace fastened under her chin. Her gray-blue eyes, under noticeable eye-lashes, expressed the same acute sensitiveness as her long, thin, beautifully-shaped hands. She had a pleasant laugh and smile, her voice being low, distinct, and intensely sympathetic in quality; it was contralto in singing, but she seldom sang or played before more than one or two friends.
MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’
* * * * *
The entertainment at the Priory was frequently varied by music when any good performer happened to be present. I think, however, that the majority of visitors delighted chiefly to come for the chance of a few words with George Eliot alone. When the drawing-room door opened a first glance revealed her always in the same low arm-chair on the left-hand side of the fire. On entering, a visitor’s eye was at once arrested by the massive head. The abundant hair, streaked with gray now, was draped with lace, arranged mantilla fashion, coming to a point at the top of the forehead. If she were engaged in conversation, her body was usually bent forward with eager, anxious desire to get as close as possible to the person with whom she talked. She had a great dislike to raising her voice, and often became so wholly absorbed in conversation that the announcement of an incoming-visitor sometimes failed to attract her attention; but the moment the eyes were lifted up and recognized a friend they smiled a rare welcome--sincere, cordial, grave; a welcome that was felt to come straight from the heart. Early in the afternoon, with only one or two guests, the talk was always genial and delightful. But her talk, I think, was always most enjoyable _à deux_. Of evening entertainments there were very few. I think, after 1870, I remember some charming little dinners--never exceeding six persons; and one notable evening when the Poet Laureate read aloud ‘Maud,’ ‘The Northern Farmer,’ and parts of other poems. It was very interesting on this occasion to see the two most widely-known representatives of contemporary English literature sitting side by side.
J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
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[Sidenote: An inward beauty.]
[Sidenote: “A strenuous Demiurge.”]
Everything in her aspect was in keeping with the bent of her soul. The deeply-lined face, the too-marked and massive features, were united with an air of delicate refinement, which in one way was the more impressive because it seemed to proceed so entirely from within. Nay, the inward beauty would sometimes quite transform the external harshness; there would be moments when the thin hands that entwined themselves in their eagerness, the earnest figure that bowed forward to speak and hear, the deep gaze moving from one face to another with a grave appeal--all these seemed the transparent symbols that showed the presence of a wise, benignant soul. But it was the voice that best revealed her, a voice whose subdued intensity and tremulous richness seemed to environ her uttered words with the mystery of a world of feeling that must remain untold.... And then again, when in moments of more intimate converse some current of emotion would set strongly through her soul, when she would raise her head in unconscious absorption and look out into the unseen, her expression was not one to be soon forgotten. It had not, indeed, the serene felicity of souls to whose child-like confidence all heaven and earth are fair. Rather it was the look (if I may use a Platonic phrase) of a strenuous Demiurge, of a soul on which high tasks are laid, and which finds in their accomplishment its only imagination of joy.