‘The Mill on the Floss’ not strictly autobiographical.
Labor of writing ‘Romola.’
Her sense of possession.
Dorothea and Rosamond.
We must be careful not to found too much onsuggestionsof character in George Eliot’s books; and this must particularly be borne in mind in the ‘Mill on the Floss.’ No doubt the early part of Maggie’s portraiture is the best autobiographical representation we can have of George Eliot’s own feelings in her childhood, and many of the incidents in the book are based on real experiences of family life, but so mixed with fictitious elements and situations that it would be absolutely misleading to trust to it as a true history. The writing of ‘Romola’ ploughed into her more than any of her other books. She told me she could put her finger on it as marking a well-defined transition in her life. In her own words, “I began it a young woman—I finished it an old woman.” She told me that, in all that she considered her best writing, there was a “not herself,” which took possession of her, and that she felt her own personality to be merely the instrument through which this spirit, as it were, was acting. Particularly she dwelt on this in regard to the scene in ‘Middlemarch’ between Dorothea and Rosamond, saying that, although she always knew they had, sooner or later, to come together, she kept the idea resolutely out of her mind until Dorothea was in Rosamond’s drawing-room. Then, abandoning herself to the inspiration of the moment, she wrote the whole scene exactly as it stands, without alteration or erasure, in an intense state of excitement and agitation, feeling herself entirely possessed by the feelings of the two women. Of all the characters she hadattempted she found Rosamond’s the most difficult to sustain. With this sense of “possession” it is easy to imagine what the cost to the author must have been of writing books, each of which has its tragedy.
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
Her MSS.
George Eliot was the most careful and accurate among authors. Her beautifully written manuscript, free from blur or erasure, and with every letter delicately and distinctly finished, was only the outward and visible sign of the inward labor which she had taken to work out her ideas. She never drew any of her facts or impressions from second-hand; and thus, in spite of the number and variety of her illustrations, she had rarely much to correct in her proof-sheets. She had all that love of doing her work well for the work’s sake, which she makes a prominent characteristic of ‘Adam Bede,’ and ‘Stradivarius.’
—— ——: ‘George Eliot,’Blackwood’s Magazine, February, 1881.
Inscriptions on MSS.
The manuscript of ‘Adam Bede’ bears the following inscription: “To my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the MS. of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life.”
The manuscript of ‘The Mill on the Floss’ bears the following inscription:
“To my beloved husband, George Henry Lewes, I give this MS. of my third book, written in the sixth year of our life together, at Holly Lodge, South Field, Wandsworth, and finished 21st March, 1860.”
The manuscript of ‘Romola’ bears the following inscription:
“To the Husband whose perfect love has been the best source of her insight and strength, this manuscript is given by his devoted wife, the writer.”
The manuscript of ‘Felix Holt’ bears the following inscription: “From George Eliot to her dear Husband, this thirteenth year of their united life, in which the deepening sense of her own imperfectness has the consolation of their deepening love.”
The manuscript of ‘The Spanish Gypsy’ bears the following inscription: “To my dear—every day dearer—Husband.”
The manuscript of ‘Middlemarch’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, in this nineteenth year of our blessed union.”
The manuscript of ‘Daniel Deronda’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes.
“Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despisingHaply I think on thee—and then my stateLike to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
Depression after finishing each book.
As to the “great novel,” which remains to bewritten, I must tell you that I never believe in future books.... Always after finishing a book I have a period of despair that I can ever again produce anything worth giving to the world. The responsibility of the writer grows heavier and heavier—does it not?—as the world grows older and the voices of the dead more numerous. It is difficult to believe, until the germ of some new work grows into imperious activity within one, that it is possible to make a really needed contribution to the poetry of the world—I mean possible to oneself to do it.
Attitude towards criticism.
I hardly ever read anything that is written about myself—indeed, never unless my husband expressly wishes me to do so by way of exception. I adopted this rule many years ago as a necessary preservative against influences that would have ended by nullifying my power of writing....
I hardly think that any critic can have so keen a sense of the short-comings in my works as that I groan under in the course of writing them, and I cannot imagine any edification coming to an author from a sort of reviewing which consists in attributing to him or her unexpressed opinions, and in imagining circumstances which may be alleged as petty private motives for the treatment of subjects which ought to be of general human interest.
George Eliot:Letters, quoted by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, in ‘Last Words from George Eliot,’Harper’s Magazine, for March, 1882.
George Eliot in 1864.
It was at Villino Trollope, [the Florentine residenceof Mr. T. Adolphus Trollope] that we first saw ... George Eliot. She is a woman of forty, perhaps, of large frame and fair Saxon coloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatly resembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of Wordsworth, judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is gentle and amiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring. In conversation, Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in young writers is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of this class. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she addressed a young girl who had just began to handle a pen, how frankly she related her own literary experience, and how gently shesuggestedadvice. True genius is always allied to humility, and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the work of a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman as much as we had ever admired the writer. “For years,” said she to us, “I wrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity.”
Kate Field: ‘English Authors in Florence,’The Atlantic Monthly, December, 1864.
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 wholeWesenthat seemed in complete harmonywith everything one expected to find in the author of ‘Romola.’
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
The Priory.
Receptions.
Manner of life.
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.’
A retired life.
Perhaps no one filling a large portion of the thoughts of the public in two hemispheres has everbeen 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.
Visits to the Zoological Gardens.
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 wouldsometimes, 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’
Receptions at the Priory.
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.’
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 oncearrested 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 enjoyableà 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.’
An inward beauty.
“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 inwardbeauty 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.
Frederick W. H. Myers: ‘George Eliot.’Century Magazine, November, 1881.
Her personal bearing.
Love of laughter.
Distinctively feminine qualities.
In her personal bearing George Eliot was seldom moved by the hurry which mars all dignity in action. Her commanding brows and deep, penetrating eyes were seconded by the sweet, restrained, impressive speech, which claimed something like an awed attention from strangers. But to those very near to her there was another side of hernature, scarcely suspected by outside friends and acquaintances. No one could be more capable of enjoying and of communicating genuine, loving, hearty, uncontrollable laughter. It was a deep-seated wish, expressed in the poem of ‘Agatha’—“I would have young things merry.” And I remember, many years ago, at the time of our first acquaintance, how deeply it pained her when, in reply to a direct question, I was obliged to admit that, with all my admiration for her books, I found them, on the whole, profoundly sad. But sadness was certainly not the note of her intimate converse. For she had the distinctively feminine qualities which lend a rhythm to the movement of life. The quick sympathy that understands without words; the capacity for creating a complete atmosphere of loving interest; the detachment from outside influences; the delight in everything worthy—even the smallest thing—for its own sake; the readiness to receive as well as to give impressions; the disciplined mental habit which can hold in check and conquer the natural egoism of a massive, powerful personality; the versatility of mind; the varied accomplishments—these are characteristics to be found more highly developed among gifted women than among gifted men.
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
Type of her face.
The face was one of a group of four, ... all of the same spiritual family, and with a curious interdependence of likeness. These four are Dante, Savonarola, Cardinal Newman and herself.... In the group of which GeorgeEliot was one, there is the same straight wall of brow; the droop of the powerful nose; mobile lips, touched with strong passion kept resolutely under control; a square jaw, which would make the face stern were it not counteracted by the sweet smile of lips and eye.
We can hardly hope that posterity will ever know her from likenesses as those who had the honor of her acquaintance knew her in life. The two or three portraits that exist, though valuable, give but a very imperfect presentment. The mere shape of the head would be the despair of any painter. It was so grand and massive that it would scarcely be possible to represent it without giving the idea of disproportion to the frame, of which no one ever thought for a moment when they saw her, although it was a surprise, when she stood up, to see that, after all, she was but a little fragile woman who bore this weight of brow and brain.
C. Kegan Paul: ‘George Eliot.’
Her appearance described.
Conversation.
... Her face, instead of beauty, possessed a sweet benignity, and at times flashed into absolute brilliancy. She was older than I had imagined, for her hair, once fair, was gray, and unmistakable lines of care and thought were on the low, broad brow.... Dressed in black velvet, with point lace on her hair, and repeated at throat and wrists, she made me think at once of Romola and Dorothea Brooke.... She talked as she wrote; in descriptive passages, with the same sort of humor, and the same manner of linking events by analogy and inference.
Her surroundings.
The walls were covered with pictures. I remember Guido’s Aurora, Michael Angelo’s prophets, Raphael’s sibyls, while all about were sketches, landscapes and crayon drawings, gifts from the most famous living painters, many of whom are friends of the house. A grand piano, open and covered with music, indicated recent and continual use.
Mrs. Annie Downs: ‘A Visit to George Eliot.’The Congregationalist, May 28th, 1879.
Account of a visit to George Eliot.
Her gracious welcome.
Her voice.
No one who had ever seen her could mistake the large head (her brain must be heavier than most men’s) covered with a mass of rich auburn hair. At first I thought her tall; for one could not think that such a head could rest on an ordinary woman’s shoulders. But, as she rose up, her figure appeared but of medium height. She received me very kindly. In seeing, for the first time, one to whom we owed so many happy hours, it was impossible to feel towards her as a stranger. All distance was removed by her courtesy. Her manners are very sweet, because very simple, and free from affectation. To me her welcome was the more grateful as that of one woman to another. There is a sort of freemasonry among women, by which they understand at once those with whom they have any intellectual sympathy. A few words, and all reserve was gone. “Come, sit by me on this sofa,” she said; and instantly, seated side by side, we were deep in conversation. It is in such intimacy that one feels the magnetism of a large mind informed by a true woman’s heart; then, as thesoul shines through the face, one perceives its intellectual beauty. No portrait can give the full expression of the eye, any more than of the voice. Looking into that clear, calm eye, one sees a transparent nature, a soul of goodness and truth, an impression which is deepened as you listen to her soft and gentle tones. A low voice is said to be an excellent thing in woman. It is a special charm of the most finely-cultured English ladies. But never did a sweeter voice fascinate a listener—so soft and low, that one must almost bend to hear.
Conversation.
Tact.
Earnestness.
... I should do her great injustice, if I gave the impression that there was in her conversation any attempt at display. There is no wish to “shine.” She is above that affectation of brilliancy which is often mere flippancy. Nor does she seek to attract homage and admiration. On the contrary, she is very averse to speak of herself, or even to hear the heart-felt praise of others. She does not engross the conversation, but is more eager to listen than to talk. She has that delicate tact—which is one of the fine arts among women—to make others talk, suggesting topics the most rich and fruitful, and by a word drawing the conversation into a channel where it may flow with a broad, free current. Thus she makes you forget the celebrated author, and think only of the refined and highly-cultivated woman. You do not feel awed by her genius, but only quickened by it, as something that calls out all that is better and truer. While there is no attempt to impress you with her intellectual superiority, you feel naturally elevated into a higher sphere. The conversation of itself floats upward intoa region above the commonplace. The small-talk of ordinary society would seem an impertinence. There is a singular earnestness about her, as if those mild eyes looked deep into the great, sad, awful truths of existence. To her, life is a serious reality, and the gift of genius a grave responsibility.
Mrs. Henry M. Field: ‘Home Sketches in France, and other Papers.’ New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1875.
The character of Casaubon.
A confession.
Mr. Lewes and she were one day good-humoredly recounting the mistaken effusiveness of a too-sympathizing friend, who insisted on assuming that Mr. Casaubon was a portrait of Mr. Lewes, and on condoling with the sad experience which had taught the gifted authoress of ‘Middlemarch’ to depict that gloomy man. And there was indeed something ludicrous in the contrast between the dreary pedant of the novel and the gay self-content of the livingsavantwho stood acting his vivid anecdotes before our eyes. “But from whom, then,” said a friend, turning to Mrs. Lewes, “did you draw Casaubon?” With a humorous solemnity, which was quite in earnest, nevertheless, she pointed to her own heart. She went on to say—and this we could well believe—that there was one character, that of Rosamond Vincy, which she had found it hard to sustain; such complacency of egoism being alien to her own habits of mind. But she laid no claim to any such natural magnanimity as could avert Casaubon’s temptations of jealous vanity, of bitter resentment. No trace of these faults was ever manifest in her conversation. But much of hermoral weight was derived from the impression which her friends received that she had not been by any means without her full share of faulty tendencies to begin with, but that she had upbuilt with strenuous pains a resolute virtue—what Plato callsan iron sense of truth and right—to which others also, however faulty, by effort might attain.
F. W. H. Myers: ‘George Eliot.’
Anecdote of her parting with Tennyson.
She never tired of the lovely scenery about Witley, and the great expanse of view obtainable from the tops of the many hills. It was on one of her drives in that neighborhood that a characteristic conversation took place between her and one of the greatest English poets, whom she met as he was taking a walk. Even that short interval enabled them to get into somewhat deep conversation on evolution; and as the poet afterward related it to a companion on the same spot, he said, “Here was where I said good-bye to George Eliot; and as she went down the hill, I said, ‘Well, good-bye, you and your molecules,’ and she said to me, ‘I am quite content with my molecules.’” A trifling anecdote, perhaps, but to those who will read between the lines, not other than characteristic of both speakers.
C. Kegan Paul: ‘George Eliot.’
George Eliot’s reading aloud.
We generally began our reading at Witley with some chapters of the Bible, which was a very precious and sacred book to her, not only from early associations, but also from the profound conviction of its importance in the development of the religious life of man. She particularlyenjoyed reading aloud some of the finest chapters of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and St. Paul’s Epistles. With a naturally rich, deep voice, rendered completely flexible by constant practice; with the keenest perception of the requirements of emphasis, and with the most subtile modulations of tone, her reading threw a glamour over indifferent writing, and gave to the greatest writings fresh meanings and beauty. The Bible and our elder English poets best suited the organ-like tones of her voice, which required, for their full effect, a certain solemnity and majesty of rhythm. Her reading of Milton was especially fine; and I shall never forget four great lines of the ‘Samson Agonistes’ to which it did perfect justice—
“But what more oft in nations grown corrupt,And by their vices brought to servitude,Than to love bondage more than liberty,Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.”
The delighted conviction of justice in the thought—the sense of perfect accord between thought, language, and rhythm—stimulated the voice of the reader to find the exactly right tone. Such reading requires for its perfection a rare union of intellectual, moral, and physical qualities. It cannot be imitated. It is an art, like singing—a personal possession that dies with the possessor, and leaves nothing behind except a memory.
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’
Intense mental vitality.
Nothing was more remarkable in the last period of her life than her intense mental vitality, which failing health did not seem in the least to impair. She possessed in an eminent degree thatpower which has led to success in so many directions—which is ascribed both to Newton and to Napoleon—of keeping her mind unceasingly at the stretch without conscious fatigue. She would cease to read or to ponder when other duties called her, but never (as it seemed) because she herself felt tired. Even in so complex an effort as a visit to a picture-gallery implies, she could continue for hours at the same pitch of earnest interest, and outweary strong men.
F. W. H. Myers: ‘George Eliot.’
Her great stores of reading.
Her memory held securely her great stores of reading. Even of light books her recollections were always crisp, definite, and vivid. On our way home from Venice, after my illness, we were reading French novels of Cherbuliez, Alphonse Daudet, Gustave Droz, George Sand. Most of these books she had read years before, and I was astonished to find what clear-cut, accurate impressions had been retained, not only of all the principal characters, but also of all the subsidiary personages—even their names were generally remembered. But, on the other hand, her verbal memory was not always to be depended on. She never could trust herself to write a quotation without verifying it.
Wide culture: languages.
Mathematics.
In foreign languages George Eliot had an experience more unusual among women than among men. With a complete literary and scholarly knowledge of French, German, Italian, and Spanish, shespokeall four languages with difficulty, though accurately and grammatically; but the mimetic power of catching intonation and accent was wanting. Greek and Latin she could readwith thorough delight to herself; and Hebrew was a favorite study to the end of her life. In her younger days, especially at Geneva, inspired by Professor de la Rive’s lectures, she had been greatly interested in mathematical studies. At one time she applied herself heartily and with keen enjoyment to geometry, and she thought that she might have attained to some excellence in that branch if she had been able to pursue it. In later days the map of the heavens lay constantly on her table at Witley, and she longed for deeper astronomical knowledge. She had a passion for the stars; and one of the things to which we looked forward on returning to London was a possible visit to Greenwich Observatory, as she had never looked through a great telescope of the first-class.
Botany.
Her knowledge of wild-flowers gave a fresh interest each day to our walks in the Surrey lanes, as every hedgerow is full of wonders—to “those who know;” but she would, I think, have disclaimed for herself real botanical knowledge, except of an elementary sort.
Self-distrust.
This wide and varied culture was accompanied with an unaffected distrust of her own knowledge, with the sense of how little she really knew, compared with what it was possible for her to have known, in the world. Her standard was always abnormally high—it was the standard of an expert.
A religious mind.
Her many-sidedness makes it exceedingly difficult to ascertain, either from her books or from the closest personal intimacy, what her exact relation was to any existing religious creed or toany political party. Yet George Eliot’s was emphatically a religious mind. My own impression is that her whole soul was so imbued with, and her imagination was so fired by, the scientific spirit of the age—by the constant rapid development of ideas in the Western world—that she could not conceive that there was, as yet, any religious formula sufficient, nor any known political system likely to be final. She had great hope for the future, in the improvement of human nature by the gradual development of the affections and the sympathetic emotions, and “by the slow, stupendous teaching of the world’s events,” rather than by means of legislative enactments.
Views on the status of women.
She was keenly anxious to redress injustices to women, and to raise their general status in the community. This, she thought, could be best effected by women improving their work—ceasing to be amateurs. But it was one of the most distinctly marked traits in her character that she particularly disliked everything generally associated with the idea of a “masculine woman.” She was, and as a woman she wished to be, above all things, feminine—“so delicate with her needle, and an admirable musician.”
Interest in higher education.
The end of all life.
George Eliot was deeply interested in the higher education of women, ... and was among the earliest contributors to Girton College.... The danger she was alive to in the system of collegiate education was the possible weakening of the bonds of family affection and family duties. In her view, the family life holds the roots of all that is best in our mortal lot; and she always felt that it is far too ruthlessly sacrificed in thecase of Englishmenby their public school and university education, and that much more is such a result to be deprecated in the case of women. But, the absolute good being unattainable in our mixed condition of things, those women especially who are obliged to earn their own living must do their best with the opportunities at their command, as “they cannot live with posterity,” when a more perfect system may prevail. Therefore, George Eliot wished Godspeed to the women’s colleges. It was often in her mind and on her lips that the only worthy end of all learning, of all science, of all life, in fact, is, that human beings should love one another better. Culture merely for culture’s sake can never be anything but a sapless root, capable of producing at best a shrivelled branch.
A meliorist.
In her general attitude toward life George Eliot was neither optimist nor pessimist. She held to the middle term, which she invented for herself, of “meliorist.” She was cheered by the hope and by the belief in gradual improvement of the mass; for in her view each individual must find the better part of happiness in helping another. She often thought it wisest not to raise too ambitious an ideal, especially for young people, but to impress on ordinary natures the immense possibilities of making a small home circle brighter and better. Few are born to do the great work of the world, but all are born to this. And to the natures capable of the larger effort the field of usefulness will constantly widen.
J. W. Cross: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’