Part 5
“Ah, les livres, ils nous débordent, ils nous étouffent--nous périssons par les livres!” That cry of a distinguished French novelist (there is no harm in mentioning M. Alphonse Daudet), which fell upon the ear of the present writer some time ago, represents as little as possible the emotion of George Eliot confronted with literatures and sciences. M. Alphonse Daudet went on to say that, to his mind, the personal impression, the effort of direct observation, was the most precious source of information for the novelist; that nothing could take its place; that the effect of books was constantly to check and pervert this effort; that a second-hand, third-hand, tenth-hand, impression was constantly tending to substitute itself for a fresh perception; that we were ending by seeing everything through literature instead of through our own senses; and that in short literature was rapidly killing literature. This view has immense truth on its side, but the case would be too simple if, on one side or the other, there were only one way of finding out. The effort of the novelist is to find out, to know, or at least to see, and no one, in the nature of things, can less afford to be indifferent to sidelights. Books are themselves, unfortunately, an expression of human passions. George Eliot had no doubts, at any rate; if impressionism, before she laid down her pen, had already begun to be talked about, it would have made no difference with her--she would have had no desire to pass for an impressionist.
There is one question we cannot help asking ourselves as we close this record of her life; it is impossible not to let our imagination wander in the direction of what turn her mind or her fortune might have taken if she had never met George Henry Lewes, or never cast her lot with his. It is safe to say that, in one way or another, in the long run, her novels would have got themselves written, and it is possible they would have been more natural, as one may call it, more familiarly and casually human. Would her development have been less systematic, more irresponsible, more personal, and should we have had more of _Adam Bede_ and _Silas Marner_ and less of _Romola_ and _Middlemarch_? The question, after all, cannot be answered, and I do not push it, being myself very grateful for _Middlemarch_ and _Romola_. It is as George Eliot does actually present herself that we must judge her--a condition that will not prevent her from striking us as one of the noblest, most beautiful minds of our time. This impression bears the reader company throughout these letters and notes. It is impossible not to feel, as we close them, that she was an admirable being. They are less brilliant, less entertaining, than we might have hoped; they contain fewer “good things” and have even a certain grayness of tone, something measured and subdued, as of a person talking without ever raising her voice. But there rises from them a kind of fragrance of moral elevation; a love of justice, truth, and light; a large, generous way of looking at things; and a constant effort to hold high the torch in the dusky spaces of man’s conscience. That is how we see her during the latter years of her life: frail, delicate, shivering a little, much fatigued and considerably spent, but still meditating on what could be acquired and imparted; still living, in the intelligence, a freer, larger life than probably had ever been the portion of any woman. To her own sex her memory, her example, will remain of the highest value; those of them for whom the “development” of woman is the hope of the future ought to erect a monument to George Eliot. She helped on the cause more than any one, in proving how few limitations are of necessity implied in the feminine organism. She went so far that such a distance seems enough, and in her effort she sacrificed no tenderness, no grace. There is much talk to-day about things being “open to women”; but George Eliot showed that there is nothing that is closed. If we criticise her novels we must remember that her nature came first and her work afterwards, and that it is not remarkable they should not resemble the productions, say, of Alexandre Dumas. What _is_ remarkable, extraordinary--and the process remains inscrutable and mysterious--is that this quiet, anxious, sedentary, serious, invalidical English lady, without animal spirits, without adventures or sensations, should have made us believe that nothing in the world was alien to her; should have produced such rich, deep, masterly pictures of the multiform life of man.
1885.
III
DANIEL DERONDA
A CONVERSATION
Theodora, one day early in the autumn, sat on her verandah with a piece of embroidery, the design of which she made up as she proceeded, being careful, however, to have a Japanese screen before her, to keep her inspiration at the proper altitude. Pulcheria, who was paying her a visit, sat near her with a closed book, in a paper cover, in her lap. Pulcheria was playing with the pug-dog, rather idly, but Theodora was stitching, steadily and meditatively. “Well,” said Theodora, at last, “I wonder what he accomplished in the East.” Pulcheria took the little dog into her lap and made him sit on the book. “Oh,” she replied, “they had tea-parties at Jerusalem--exclusively of ladies--and he sat in the midst and stirred his tea and made high-toned remarks. And then Mirah sang a little, just a little, on account of her voice being so weak. Sit still, Fido,” she continued, addressing the little dog, “and keep your nose out of my face. But it’s a nice little nose, all the same,” she pursued, “a nice little short snub nose and not a horrid big Jewish nose. Oh, my dear, when I think what a collection of noses there must have been at that wedding!” At this moment Constantius steps upon the verandah from within, hat and stick in hand and his shoes a trifle dusty. He has some distance to come before he reaches the place where the ladies are sitting, and this gives Pulcheria time to murmur, “Talk of snub noses!” Constantius is presented by Theodora to Pulcheria, and he sits down and exclaims upon the admirable blueness of the sea, which lies in a straight band across the green of the little lawn; comments too upon the pleasure of having one side of one’s verandah in the shade. Soon Fido, the little dog, still restless, jumps off Pulcheria’s lap and reveals the book, which lies title upward. “Oh,” says Constantius, “you have been finishing _Daniel Deronda_?” Then follows a conversation which it will be more convenient to present in another form.
_Theodora._ Yes, Pulcheria has been reading aloud the last chapters to me. They are wonderfully beautiful.
_Constantius_ (after a moment’s hesitation). Yes, they are very beautiful. I am sure you read well, Pulcheria, to give the fine passages their full value.
_Theodora._ She reads well when she chooses, but I am sorry to say that in some of the fine passages of this last book she took quite a false tone. I couldn’t have read them aloud myself; I should have broken down. But Pulcheria--would you really believe it?--when she couldn’t go on it was not for tears, but for--the contrary.
_Constantius._ For smiles? Did you really find it comical? One of my objections to _Daniel Deronda_ is the absence of those delightfully humorous passages which enlivened the author’s former works.
_Pulcheria._ Oh, I think there are some places as amusing as anything in _Adam Bede_ or _The Mill on the Floss_: for instance where, at the last, Deronda wipes Gwendolen’s tears and Gwendolen wipes his.
_Constantius._ Yes, I know what you mean. I can understand that situation presenting a slightly ridiculous image; that is, if the current of the story don’t swiftly carry you past.
_Pulcheria._ What do you mean by the current of the story? I never read a story with less current. It is not a river; it is a series of lakes. I once read of a group of little uneven ponds resembling, from a bird’s-eye view, a looking-glass which had fallen upon the floor and broken, and was lying in fragments. That is what _Daniel Deronda_ would look like, on a bird’s-eye view.
_Theodora._ Pulcheria found that comparison in a French novel. She is always reading French novels.
_Constantius._ Ah, there are some very good ones.
_Pulcheria_ (perversely). I don’t know; I think there are some very poor ones.
_Constantius._ The comparison is not bad, at any rate. I know what you mean by _Daniel Deronda_ lacking current. It has almost as little as _Romola_.
_Pulcheria._ Oh, _Romola_ is unpardonably slow; it is a kind of literary tortoise.
_Constantius._ Yes, I know what you mean by that. But I am afraid you are not friendly to our great novelist.
_Theodora._ She likes Balzac and George Sand and other impure writers.
_Constantius._ Well, I must say I understand that.
_Pulcheria._ My favourite novelist is Thackeray, and I am extremely fond of Miss Austen.
_Constantius._ I understand that too. You read over _The Newcomes_ and _Pride and Prejudice_.
_Pulcheria._ No, I don’t read them over now; I think them over. I have been making visits for a long time past to a series of friends, and I have spent the last six months in reading _Daniel Deronda_ aloud. Fortune would have it that I should always arrive by the same train as the new number. I am accounted a frivolous, idle creature; I am not a disciple in the new school of embroidery, like Theodora; so I was immediately pushed into a chair and the book thrust into my hand, that I might lift up my voice and make peace between all the impatiences that were snatching at it. So I may claim at least that I have read every word of the work. I never skipped.
_Theodora._ I should hope not, indeed!
_Constantius._ And do you mean that you really didn’t enjoy it?
_Pulcheria._ I found it protracted, pretentious, pedantic.
_Constantius._ I see; I can understand that.
_Theodora._ Oh, you understand too much! This is the twentieth time you have used that formula.
_Constantius._ What will you have? You know I must try to understand; it’s my trade.
_Theodora._ He means he writes reviews. Trying not to understand is what I call that trade!
_Constantius._ Say then I take it the wrong way; that is why it has never made my fortune. But I do try to understand; it is my--my--(He pauses.)
_Theodora._ I know what you want to say. Your strong side.
_Pulcheria._ And what is his weak side?
_Theodora._ He writes novels.
_Constantius._ I have written _one_. You can’t call that a side. It’s a little facet, at the most.
_Pulcheria._ You talk as if you were a diamond. I should like to read it--not aloud!
_Constantius._ You can’t read it softly enough. But you, Theodora, you didn’t find our book too “protracted”?
_Theodora._ I should have liked it to continue indefinitely, to keep coming out always, to be one of the regular things of life.
_Pulcheria._ Oh, come here, little dog! To think that _Daniel Deronda_ might be perpetual when you, little short-nosed darling, can’t last at the most more than nine or ten years!
_Theodora._ A book like _Daniel Deronda_ becomes part of one’s life; one lives in it, or alongside of it. I don’t hesitate to say that I have been living in this one for the last eight months. It is such a complete world George Eliot builds up; it is so vast, so much-embracing! It has such a firm earth and such an ethereal sky. You can turn into it and lose yourself in it.
_Pulcheria._ Oh, easily, and die of cold and starvation!
_Theodora._ I have been very near to poor Gwendolen and very near to that sweet Mirah. And the dear little Meyricks also; I know them intimately well.
_Pulcheria._ The Meyricks, I grant you, are the best thing in the book.
_Theodora._ They are a delicious family; I wish they lived in Boston. I consider Herr Klesmer almost Shakespearean, and his wife is almost as good. I have been near to poor grand Mordecai----
_Pulcheria._ Oh, reflect, my dear; not too near!
_Theodora._ And as for Deronda himself I freely confess that I am consumed with a hopeless passion for him. He is the most irresistible man in the literature of fiction.
_Pulcheria._ He is not a man at all.
_Theodora._ I remember nothing more beautiful than the description of his childhood, and that picture of his lying on the grass in the abbey cloister, a beautiful seraph-faced boy, with a lovely voice, reading history and asking his Scotch tutor why the Popes had so many nephews. He must have been delightfully handsome.
_Pulcheria._ Never, my dear, with that nose! I am sure he had a nose, and I hold that the author has shown great pusillanimity in her treatment of it. She has quite shirked it. The picture you speak of is very pretty, but a picture is not a person. And why is he always grasping his coat-collar, as if he wished to hang himself up? The author had an uncomfortable feeling that she must make him do something real, something visible and sensible, and she hit upon that clumsy figure. I don’t see what you mean by saying you have been _near_ those people; that is just what one is not. They produce no illusion. They are described and analysed to death, but we don’t see them nor hear them nor touch them. Deronda clutches his coat-collar, Mirah crosses her feet, Mordecai talks like the Bible; but that doesn’t make real figures of them. They have no existence outside of the author’s study.
_Theodora._ If you mean that they are nobly imaginative I quite agree with you; and if they say nothing to your own imagination the fault is yours, not theirs.
_Pulcheria._ Pray don’t say they are Shakespearean again. Shakespeare went to work another way.
_Constantius._ I think you are both in a measure right; there is a distinction to be drawn. There are in _Daniel Deronda_ the figures based upon observation and the figures based upon invention. This distinction, I know, is rather a rough one. There are no figures in any novel that are pure observation, and none that are pure invention. But either element may preponderate, and in those cases in which invention has preponderated George Eliot seems to me to have achieved at the best but so many brilliant failures.
_Theodora._ And are _you_ turning severe? I thought you admired her so much.
_Constantius._ I defy any one to admire her more, but one must discriminate. Speaking brutally, I consider _Daniel Deronda_ the weakest of her books. It strikes me as very sensibly inferior to _Middlemarch_. I have an immense opinion of _Middlemarch_.
_Pulcheria._ Not having been obliged by circumstances to read _Middlemarch_ to other people, I didn’t read it at all. I couldn’t read it to myself. I tried, but I broke down. I appreciated Rosamond, but I couldn’t believe in Dorothea.
_Theodora_ (very gravely). So much the worse for you, Pulcheria. I have enjoyed _Daniel Deronda because_ I had enjoyed _Middlemarch_. Why should you throw _Middlemarch_ up against her? It seems to me that if a book is fine it is fine. I have enjoyed _Deronda_ deeply, from beginning to end.
_Constantius._ I assure you, so have I. I can read nothing of George Eliot’s without enjoyment. I even enjoy her poetry, though I don’t approve of it. In whatever she writes I enjoy her intelligence; it has space and air, like a fine landscape. The intellectual brilliancy of _Daniel Deronda_ strikes me as very great, in excess of anything the author has done. In the first couple of numbers of the book this ravished me. I delighted in its deep, rich English tone, in which so many notes seemed melted together.
_Pulcheria._ The tone is not English, it is German.
_Constantius._ I understand that--if Theodora will allow me to say so. Little by little I began to feel that I cared less for certain notes than for others. I say it under my breath--I began to feel an occasional temptation to skip. Roughly speaking, all the Jewish burden of the story tended to weary me; it is this part that produces the poor illusion which I agree with Pulcheria in finding. Gwendolen and Grandcourt are admirable--Gwendolen is a masterpiece. She is known, felt and presented, psychologically, altogether in the grand manner. Beside her and beside her husband--a consummate picture of English brutality refined and distilled (for Grandcourt is before all things brutal), Deronda, Mordecai and Mirah are hardly more than shadows. They and their fortunes are all improvisation. I don’t say anything against improvisation. When it succeeds it has a surpassing charm. But it must succeed. With George Eliot it seems to me to succeed, but a little less than one would expect of her talent. The story of Deronda’s life, his mother’s story, Mirah’s story, are quite the sort of thing one finds in George Sand. But they are really not so good as they would be in George Sand. George Sand would have carried it off with a lighter hand.
_Theodora._ Oh, Constantius, how can you compare George Eliot’s novels to that woman’s? It is sunlight and moonshine.
_Pulcheria._ I really think the two writers are very much alike. They are both very voluble, both addicted to moralising and philosophising _à tout bout de champ_, both inartistic.
_Constantius._ I see what you mean. But George Eliot is solid, and George Sand is liquid. When occasionally George Eliot liquefies--as in the history of Deronda’s birth, and in that of Mirah--it is not to so crystalline a clearness as the author of _Consuelo_ and _André_. Take Mirah’s long narrative of her adventures, when she unfolds them to Mrs. Meyrick. It is arranged, it is artificial, _ancien jeu_, quite in the George Sand manner. But George Sand would have done it better. The false tone would have remained, but it would have been more persuasive. It would have been a fib, but the fib would have been neater.
_Theodora._ I don’t think fibbing neatly a merit, and I don’t see what is to be gained by such comparisons. George Eliot is pure and George Sand is impure; how can you compare them? As for the Jewish element in Deronda, I think it a very fine idea; it’s a noble subject. Wilkie Collins and Miss Braddon would not have thought of it, but that does not condemn it. It shows a large conception of what one may do in a novel. I heard you say, the other day, that most novels were so trivial--that they had no general ideas. Here is a general idea, the idea interpreted by Deronda. I have never disliked the Jews as some people do; I am not like Pulcheria, who sees a Jew in every bush. I wish there were one; I would cultivate shrubbery. I have known too many clever and charming Jews; I have known none that were not clever.
_Pulcheria._ Clever, but not charming.
_Constantius._ I quite agree with you as to Deronda’s going in for the Jews and turning out a Jew himself being a fine subject, and this quite apart from the fact of whether such a thing as a Jewish revival be at all a possibility. If it be a possibility, so much the better--so much the better for the subject, I mean.
_Pulcheria._ _A la bonne heure!_
_Constantius._ I rather suspect it is not a possibility; that the Jews in general take themselves much less seriously than that. They have other fish to fry. George Eliot takes them as a person outside of Judaism--æsthetically. I don’t believe that is the way they take themselves.
_Pulcheria._ They have the less excuse then for keeping themselves so dirty.
_Theodora._ George Eliot must have known some delightful Jews.
_Constantius._ Very likely; but I shouldn’t wonder if the most delightful of them had smiled a trifle, here and there, over her book. But that makes nothing, as Herr Klesmer would say. The subject is a noble one. The idea of depicting a nature able to feel and worthy to feel the sort of inspiration that takes possession of Deronda, of depicting it sympathetically, minutely and intimately--such an idea has great elevation. There is something very fascinating in the mission that Deronda takes upon himself. I don’t quite know what it means, I don’t understand more than half of Mordecai’s rhapsodies, and I don’t perceive exactly what practical steps could be taken. Deronda could go about and talk with clever Jews--not an unpleasant life.
_Pulcheria._ All that seems to me so unreal that when at the end the author finds herself confronted with the necessity of making him start for the East by the train, and announces that Sir Hugo and Lady Mallinger have given his wife “a complete Eastern outfit,” I descend to the ground with a ludicrous jump.
_Constantius._ Unreal, if you please; that is no objection to it; it greatly tickles my imagination. I like extremely the idea of Mordecai believing, without ground of belief, that if he only wait, a young man on whom nature and society have centred all their gifts will come to him and receive from his hands the precious vessel of his hopes. It is romantic, but it is not vulgar romance; it is finely romantic. And there is something very fine in the author’s own feeling about Deronda. He is a very liberal creation. He is, I think, a failure--a brilliant failure; if he had been a success I should call him a splendid creation. The author meant to do things very handsomely for him; she meant apparently to make a faultless human being.
_Pulcheria._ She made a dreadful prig.
_Constantius._ He _is_ rather priggish, and one wonders that so clever a woman as George Eliot shouldn’t see it.
_Pulcheria._ He has no blood in his body. His attitude at moments is like that of a high-priest in a _tableau vivant_.
_Theodora._ Pulcheria likes the little gentlemen in the French novels who take good care of their attitudes, which are always the same attitude, the attitude of “conquest”--of a conquest that tickles their vanity. Deronda has a contour that cuts straight through the middle of all that. He is made of a stuff that isn’t dreamt of in their philosophy.
_Pulcheria._ Pulcheria likes very much a novel which she read three or four years ago, but which she has not forgotten. It was by Ivan Turgénieff, and it was called _On the Eve_. Theodora has read it, I know, because she admires Turgénieff, and Constantius has read it, I suppose, because he has read everything.
_Constantius._ If I had no reason but that for my reading, it would be small. But Turgénieff is my man.
_Pulcheria._ You were just now praising George Eliot’s general ideas. The tale of which I speak contains in the portrait of the hero very much such a general idea as you find in the portrait of Deronda. Don’t you remember the young Bulgarian student, Inssaroff, who gives himself the mission of rescuing his country from its subjection to the Turks? Poor man, if he had foreseen the horrible summer of 1876! His character is the picture of a race-passion, of patriotic hopes and dreams. But what a difference in the vividness of the two figures. Inssaroff is a man; he stands up on his feet; we see him, hear him, touch him. And it has taken the author but a couple of hundred pages--not eight volumes--to do it.
_Theodora._ I don’t remember Inssaroff at all, but I perfectly remember the heroine, Helena. She is certainly most remarkable, but, remarkable as she is, I should never dream of calling her as wonderful as Gwendolen.
_Constantius._ Turgénieff is a magician, which I don’t think I should call George Eliot. One is a poet, the other is a philosopher. One cares for the aspect of things and the other cares for the reason of things. George Eliot, in embarking with Deronda, took aboard, as it were, a far heavier cargo than Turgénieff with his Inssaroff. She proposed, consciously, to strike more notes.
_Pulcheria._ Oh, consciously, yes!
_Constantius._ George Eliot wished to show the possible picturesqueness--the romance, as it were--of a high moral tone. Deronda is a moralist, a moralist with a rich complexion.