She has been compared to the portraits of Savonarola (who was frightful) and of Dante (who though stern and bitter-looking, was handsome). _Something_ there was of both faces in George Eliot's physiognomy. Lewes told us in her presence, of the exclamation uttered suddenly by some one to whom she was pointed out at a place of public entertainment--I believe it was at a Monday Popular Concert in St.

James's Hall. "That," said a bystander, "is George Eliot." The gentleman to whom she was thus indicated gave one swift, searching look and exclaimed _sotto voce_, "Dante's aunt!" Lewes thought this happy, and he recognised the kind of likeness that was meant to the great singer of the _Divine Comedy_. She herself playfully disclaimed any resemblance to Savonarola. But, although such resemblance was very distant--Savonarola's peculiarly unbalanced countenance being a strong caricature of hers--some likeness there was.

Her speaking voice was, I think, one of the most beautiful I ever heard, and she used it _conscientiously_, if I may say so. I mean that she availed herself of its modulations to give thrilling emphasis to what was profound in her utterances, and sweetness to what was gentle or playful. She bestowed great care too on her enunciation, disliking the slipshod mode of p.r.o.nouncing which is so common. I have several times heard her declare with enthusiasm that ours is a beautiful language, a n.o.ble language even to the ear, when properly spoken; and imitate with disgust the short, _snappy_, inarticulate way in which many people utter it. There was no touch of pedantry or affectation in her own measured, careful speech, although I can well imagine that she might have been accused of both by those persons--unfortunately more numerous than could be desired--who seem to take it for granted that _all_ difference from one's neighbour, and especially a difference in the direction of superiority, must be affected.

It has been thought by some persons that the influence of George Henry Lewes on her literary work was not a fortunate one, that he fostered too much the scientific bent of her mind to the detriment of its artistic richness. I do not myself hold this opinion. I am even inclined to think that but for his companionship and encouragement she might possibly never have written fiction at all. It is, I believe, impossible to over-estimate the degree to which the sunshine of his complete and understanding sympathy and his adoring affection developed her literary powers. She has written something to this effect--perhaps more than once; I have not her biography at hand at this moment for reference--in a letter to Miss Sara Hennell. And no one who saw them together in anything like intimate intercourse could doubt that it was true. As I have said before, Lewes worshipped her, and it is considered a somewhat unwholesome experience to be worshipped. Fortunately the process is not so common as to const.i.tute one of the dangers of life for the average human being! But in George Eliot's case I really believe the process was not deleterious. Her nature was at once stimulated and steadied by Lewes's boundless faith in her powers, and boundless admiration for their manifestation. Nor was it a case of sitting like an idol to be praised and incensed. Her own mental att.i.tude towards Lewes was one of warm admiration. She thought most highly of his scientific attainments, whether well foundedly or mistakenly I cannot pretend to gauge with accuracy. But she also admired and enjoyed the sparkling brightness of his talk, and the dramatic vivacity with which he entered into conversation and discussion, grave or gay. And on these points I may venture to record my opinion that she was quite right. I always used to think that the touch of Bohemianism about Lewes had a special charm for her. It must have offered so piquant a contrast with the middle-cla.s.s surroundings of her early life. I observed that she listened with great complacency to his talk of theatrical things and people. Lewes was fond of talking about acting and actors, and in telling stories of celebrated theatrical personages, would imitate--half involuntarily perhaps--their voice and manner. I remember especially his doing this with reference to Macready.

Both of them loved music extremely. It was a curious, and, to me, rather pathetic study to watch Lewes--a man naturally self-sufficient (I do not use the word in any odious sense), of a combative turn of intellect, and with scarcely any diffidence in his nature--so humbly admitting, and even insisting upon, "Polly's" superiority to himself in every department. Once when he was walking with my wife in the garden of their house in Surrey, she turned the conversation which had been touching other topics to speak of George Eliot. "Oh," said Lewes, stopping short and looking at her with those bright eyes of his, "_Your blood be on your own head_! I didn't begin it; but if you wish to speak of her, _I_ am always ready." It was this complete candour, and the genuineness of his admiring love for her, which made its manifestations delightful, and freed them from offence.

CHAPTER XVI.

I have a great many letters from G.H. Lewes, and from George Eliot.

Many of the latter are addressed to my wife. And many, especially of those from Lewes, relating as they do mainly to matters of literary business, though always containing characteristic touches, are not of sufficient general interest to make it worth while to transcribe them for publication. In no case is there any word in any of them that would make it expedient to withhold them on any other ground. I might perhaps have introduced them into my narrative as nearly as possible at the times to which chronologically they refer. But it has seemed to me so probable that there may be many readers who may be glad of an opportunity of seeing these letters without feeling disposed to give their time to the rest of these volumes, that I have thought it best to throw them together in this place.

I will begin with one written from Blandford Square, by George Eliot to me, which is of great interest. It bears no date whatever, save that of place; but the subject of it dates it with considerable accuracy.

"DEAR MR. TROLLOPE,--I am very grateful to you for your notes.

Concerning _netto di specchio_, I have found a pa.s.sage in Varchi which decides the point according to _your_ impression." [Pa.s.sages equally decisive might be found _pa.s.sim_ in the old Florentine historians.

And I ought to have referred her to them. But as she had altogether mistaken the meaning of the phrase, I had insinuated my correction as little presumptuously as I could.]

"My inference had been gathered from the vague use of the term to express disqualification [_i.e._ NON _netto di specchio_ expressed disqualification]. But I find from Varchi, b. viii. that the _specchio_ in question was a public book, in which the names of all debtors to the _Commune_ were entered. Thus your doubt [no doubt at all!] has been a very useful caveat to me.

"Concerning the Bardi, my authority for making them originally _popolani_ is G. Villani. He says, c. x.x.xix., '_e gia cominciavano a venire possenti i Frescobaldi e Bardi e Mozzi_ ma di piccolo cominciamento.' And c. lx.x.xi. '_e questi furono le princ.i.p.ale case de Guelfi che uscirono di Firenze. Del Sesto d' Oltr' Arno, i Rossi, Nerli, e parte de' Manelli, Bardi, e Frescobaldi de' Popoloni dal detto Sesto_, case n.o.bili _Canigiani_,' &c. These pa.s.sages corrected my previous impression that they were originally Lombard n.o.bles.

[It needs some familiarity with the Florentine chroniclers to understand that the words quoted by no means indicate that the families named were not of patrician origin. "There walked into the lobby with the Radicals, Lord ---- and Mr. ----," would just as much prove that the persons named had not belonged to the cla.s.s of landowners. But the pa.s.sage is interesting as showing the great care she took to make her Italian novel historically accurate. And it is to be remembered that she came to the subject absolutely new to it. She would have known otherwise, that the _Case_ situated in the Oltr'

Arno quarter, were almost all n.o.ble. That ward of the city was the Florentine _quartier St. Germain_.]

"Concerning the phrase _in piazza_, and _in mercato_, my choice of them was partly founded on the colloquial usage as represented by Sacchetti, whose dialogue is intensely idiomatic. Also _in piazza_ is, I believe, used by the historians (I think even by Macchiavelli), when speaking of popular _turn-outs_. The ellipse took my fancy because of its colloquial stamp. But I gather from your objection that it seems too barbarous in a modern Italian ear. Will you whisper your final opinion in Mr. Lewes's ear on Monday?

[I do not remember what the ellipse in question was. As regards the use of the phrase _in piazza_ she is perfectly right. The term keeps the same meaning to the present day, and is equivalent in political language to _the street_.]

"_Boto_ was used on similar grounds, and as it is recognised by the _Voc. della, Crusca_, I think I may venture to keep it, having a weakness for those indications of the processes by which language is modified.

[_Boto_ for _voto_ is a Florentinism which may be heard to the present day, though the vast majority of strangers would never hear it, or understand it if they did. George Eliot no doubt met with it in some of those old chroniclers who wrote exactly as not only the lower orders, but the generality of their fellow citizens, were speaking around them. And her use of it testifies to the minuteness of her care to reproduce the form and pressure of the time of which she was writing.]

"Once more thank you, though my grat.i.tude is in danger of looking too much like a lively sense of antic.i.p.ated favours, for I mean to ask you to take other trouble yet.

"Yours very truly,

"MARION E. LEWES."

The following letter, written from Blandford Square on the 5th July, 1861, is, as regards the first three pages, from him, and the last from her.

"MY DEAR TROLLOPE,--We have now read _La Beata_ [my first novel], and must tell you how charmed we have been with it. _Nina_ herself is perfectly exquisite and individual, and her story is full of poetry and pathos. Also one feels a breath from the Val d'Arno rustling amid the pages, and a sense of Florentine life, such as one rarely gets out of books. The critical objection I should make to it, apart from minor points, is that often you spoil the artistic att.i.tude by adopting a critical antagonistic att.i.tude, by which I mean that instead of painting the thing objectively, you present it critically, _with an eye to the opinions_ likely to be formed by certain readers; thus, instead of relying on the simple presentation of the fact of Nina's innocence you _call up_ the objection you desire to antic.i.p.ate by side glances at the worldly and 'knowing' reader's opinions. In a word I feel as if you were not engrossed by your subject, but were sufficiently aloof from it to contemplate it as a spectator, which is an error in art. Many of the remarks are delicately felt and finely written. The whole book comes from a n.o.ble nature, and so it impresses the reader. But I may tell you what Mrs. Carlyle said last night, which will in some sense corroborate what I have said. In her opinion you would have done better to make two books of it, one the love story, and one a description of Florentine life. She admires the book very much I should add. Now, although I cannot by any means agree with that criticism of hers, I fancy the origin of it was some such feeling, as I have endeavoured to indicate in saying you are often critical when you should be simply objective.

"We had a pleasant journey home over the St. Gothard, and found our boy very well and happy at Hofwyl, and our bigger boy _ditto_ awaiting us here. Polly is very well, and as you may imagine talks daily of Florence and our delightful trip, our closer acquaintance with you and yours being among the most delightful of our reminiscences.

"Yesterday Anthony dined with us, and as he had never seen Carlyle he was glad to go down with us to tea at Chelsea. Carlyle had read and _agreed_ with the West Indian book, and the two got on very well together; both Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle liking Anthony, and I suppose it was reciprocal, though I did not see him afterwards to hear what he thought. He had to run away to catch his train.

"He told us of the sad news of Mrs. Browning's death. Poor Browning!

That was my first, and remains my constant reflection. When people love each other and have lived together any time they ought to die together. For myself I should not care in the least about dying. The dreadful thing to me would be to live after losing, if I should ever lose, the one who has made life for me. Of course you who all knew and valued her will feel the loss, but I cannot think of anybody's grief but his.

"The next page must be left for Polly's postscript, so I shall only send my kindest regards and wishes to Mrs. Trollope and the biggest of kisses to _la cantatrice_" [my poor girl Bice!].

"Ever faithfully yours,

"G.H. LEWES."

"DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--While I am reading _La Beata_ I constantly feel as if Mr. Trollope were present telling it all to me _viva voce_. It seems to me more thoroughly and fully like himself than any of his other books. And in spite of our having had the most of his society away from you" [on our Camaldoli excursion] "you are always part of his presence to me in a hovering aerial fashion. So it seems quite natural that a letter addressed to him should have a postscript addressed to you. Pray reckon it amongst the good you do in this world, that you come very often into our thoughts and conversation.

We see comparatively so few people that we are apt to recur to recollections of those we like best with almost childish frequency, and a little fresh news about you would be a welcome variety, especially the news that you had quite shaken off that spine indisposition which was still clinging to you that last morning when we said our good-byes. We have enough knowledge about you and your world to interpret all the details you can give us. But our words about our own home doings would be very vague and colourless to you.

You must always imagine us coming to see you and wanting to know as much about you as we can, and like a charming hostess gratify that want. I must thank you for the account of Cavour in _The Athenaeum_, which stirred me strongly. I am afraid I have what _The Sat.u.r.day Review_ would call 'a morbid delight in deathbeds'--not having reached that lofty superiority which considers it bad taste to allude to them.

"How is Beatrice, the blessed and blessing? That will always be a history to interest us--how her brown hair darkens, how her voice deepens and strengthens, and how you get more and more delight in her.

I need send no separate message to Mr. Trollope, before I say that

"I am always yours, with lively remembrance,

"MARION E. LEWES."

It needed George Eliot's fine and minute handwriting to put all this into one page of note-paper.

The next letter that came from Blandford Square, dated 9th December, 1861, was also a joint one, the larger portion of which however is from her pen.

"DEAR GOOD PEOPLE,--If your ears burn as often as you are talked about in this house, there must be an unpleasant amount of aural circulation to endure! And as the constant _refrain_ is, 'Really we must write to them, that they may not altogether slip away from us,' I have this morning screwed my procrastination to the writing-desk.

"First and foremost let us know how you are, and what are the results of the bathing. Then a word as to the new novel, or any other work, will be acceptable. I lend about _La Beata_ in all good quarters, and always hear golden opinions from all sorts of people. Of course you hear from Anthony.

"Is he prosperous and enjoying his life? The book will have an enormous sale just now; but I fancy he will find more animosity and less friendliness than he expected, to judge from the state of exasperation against the Britisher, which seems to be general.

"We have been pursuing the even baritone--I wish I could say tenor--of our way. My health became seriously alarming in September, so we went off to Malvern for a fortnight; and there the mountain air, exercise, and regular diet set me up, so that I have been in better training for work than I had been for a long while. Polly has not been strong, yet not materially amiss. But as she will add a postscript to this I shall leave her to speak for herself.

"In your (T.A.T.) book huntings, if you could lay your hand on a copy of Hermolaus Barbarus, _Compendium Scientiae Naturalis_, 1553, or any of Telesio's works, think of me and pounce on them. I was going to bother you about the new edition of Galileo, but fortunately I fell in with the Milan edition cheap, and contented myself with that. Do you know what there is _new_ in the Florentine edition? I suppose you possess it, as you do so many enviable books.

"We heard the other day that Miss Blagden had come to stay in London for the winter, so Polly sent a message to her to say how glad we should be to see her. If she comes she will bring us some account of _casa_ Trollope. When you next pa.s.s Giotto's tower salute it for me; it is one of my dearest Florentines, and always beckoning to us to come back.