In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  I nod.

  ‘Eliot and Simcox …’ he muses, as the telegraph poles flick by. ‘That is one — odd — relationship! Why does Eliot let her kiss her feet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Eventually I say: ‘I mean, I think they got on. And she liked the admiration, being loved. And, you know —’ I shrug ‘— her self-esteem. It was good for it.’

  After a bit, I can’t resist adding, ‘Not a problem for you, right?’

  ‘No,’ he says, non-committal.

  Then he goes on: ‘Well! Well — not all of the time! But … sure … everyone knows self-doubt.’

  ‘Even Hans Meyerschwitz.’

  He says, with a half smile, ‘I must manage better than I think.’

  ‘So when do you experience self-doubt?’

  ‘When? Every time I give a bloody lecture! I’m nervous. Every time. Aren’t you?’

  He turns, the same instant I do, so that we’re both looking at each other, and I realise we’re both smiling.

  ‘I’m still sceptical,’ I say. ‘For me, it’s a lot of the time. I sympathise with Eliot.’

  ‘Ahhh … haaaa … I see. It’s all personal is it?’

  I say, very. I ask him which part of Germany he’s from. He grew up in Hamburg. He goes back; his mother lives there still. She brought them up, he and his brother, on her own. His father left when they were young.

  The train is speeding up, and the countryside is beginning to take on a richer, deeper hue. The sun is in the west. The low rays stream across us. ‘So you had a ring here did you?’ he says as, to my surprise, he takes my hand and runs his fingers along my fourth finger as if feeling for an indentation. ‘Yes,’ I’m saying, half blushing, when the train careers round a sharp bend, we are thrown to the left, and I rescue my hand. And as the train steadies, I can feel my heart beating, and it feels suddenly very sweet, the view, the passing hedges, houses; the sky has turned pinkish.

  ‘Where exactly are we?’ I say.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he says. I look out of the window again. What I see are two long wide flat fields, a church spire, low modern houses, a cluster of dark trees. We could be anywhere. Somewhere in France, going south, with weeks ahead.

  The train is slowing. We’re nearly at Euston.

  Downstairs, I take Billy in my arms, which I haven’t done before. She’s only a small spaniel, but she’s heavier than I expect. In my flat she scampers everywhere, racing in her usual circles. I have a cooker now, a bath; Benny has exposed the fireplace.

  With the window open, and my peculiar restiveness, I drag the bag of coal over, cut it open, put the coal in the grate. I break up firelighters, add kindling from a plastic bag, light it. I wait, then add a log. The fire is burning, and seems to draw.

  When it’s down to its embers, I check my email. There is one from Hans.

  That was a good day. I enjoyed it very much.

  Here’s the diary entry I wanted to send you. What do you make of that sentence about ‘mental efficiency’?

  I thought it might amuse you.

  Talk over coffee? Thursday?

  H

  George Eliot’s diary:

  Jan 1874

  The happy old year in which we have had constant enjoyment of life notwithstanding much bodily malaise, is gone from us forever. More than in any former year of my life, love has been poured forth to me from distant hearts, and in our own home we have had that finish to domestic comfort which only faithful, kind servants can give. Our children are prosperous and happy — Charles evidently growing in mental efficiency; we have abundant wealth for more than our actual needs; and our unspeakable joy in each other has no other alloy than the sense that it must one day end in parting.

  A second email comes.

  Here’s another letter, in case you haven’t seen it — a sad one, from Bertie.

  H

  Unfinished posthumous letter from Bertie Lewes to George Henry Lewes, June 1874, arriving after Bertie’s death:

  Dearest Pater,

  I was obliged to draw upon you for £50. I have been here a month and my own money has been down some time. I am better than when I last wrote. All my glands are swollen. My ankels and feet have been swollen so that I could not get my boots on. The Doctor attends me about every other day. He says I progress too slowly so has changed Medecines.

  I forgot to thank you in my last for — It has been touch and go with me. I feel it will take some time to get back my old strengtht. I have been expecting a letter from you every mail. Did you get mine of last month?

  1878

  8

  On a cold day in March, Marian and Lewes were climbing St George’s Hill in Weybridge. They kept thinking they were nearing the top, when they weren’t. Each wore a heavy coat, their breaths smoked. From where they were, it was hard to see the exact shape of the land because of the fir trees. Finally it became level, the trees cleared. They were at the summit. All around — below — were hills, fields, a small wood, copses. They had a full, glorious, 360-degree view.

  On the bench, Marian put her arm through Lewes’. The silence seemed to be imperceptibly deepening. She could see everything — the pattern of the fields, even the defining patchwork lines of the hedgerows.

  She took a long, satisfying breath. It was a splendid view. But in fact, she thought, with a touch of complacency, it was no better than their own. They finally had their own country house. They had found it fourteen months ago. Or rather, Johnny had. The Heights, at Witley. It was perfect: with a garden, fields, even a wood.

  They had gone there from London this morning to check the progress of the new cottage for the coachman, and then had travelled on to see the Cross family at Weybridge.

  Marian looked again at those clear patterns below. The last few years had been fruitful. Deronda had come out to critical acclaim, confirming her status, if she was honest with herself, as England’s reigning novelist, even though it was a more demanding book than Middlemarch. Now she was embarked on Theophrastus Such: a strange endeavour, but it cost her less to write, that was for sure.

  Lewes took his arm from Polly’s, thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

  Freezing air was sneaking under his scarf to his neck, and he drew it tighter. Polly was exclaiming about the splendid view, and it was, it was; but he could not stop thinking of the letter he had come across last night. He had been going through his post before preparing for the trip today, and glimpsed, deep in his drawer, an old envelope, with different rich-coloured African stamps, and many postal markings, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he pulled the letter out. It was from the Sandersons, the couple who had looked after Bertie when he was dying.

  Lewes tried not to think about it now. He tried to take in the view. Even that seemed oppressive: everywhere he looked were fir trees, great massed regiments of them, with their straight dark trunks. Inside his coat pockets he made fists of his hands to try to warm them. Bertie was dead. But it was past, nearly three years ago.

  As they sat, the silence seemed still to be deepening. Then Lewes saw a snowflake, and another. He watched as they came down in threes and fours. He drew his coat tighter around him. Snow began to come in a slow silent constant fall, from the pale sky above. The silence was total, the view partially obscured.

  They began walking down carefully, holding on to each other.

  They were welcomed back at the Cross family house, though the mood was quieter than usual, because of Anna Cross being ill. Eleanor and Florence showed them in. The rich, warm light of the dining room contrasted with the snowy light outside. Willie Cross was there, Johnny’s oldest brother. Kippers, ham, toast, gingerbread cake too, and tea were served. Johnny finally appeared, from his mother’s sickbed. ‘Ah, difficult,’ he said at first, gesturing in the direction of his mother’s bedroom. But he was pleased to see his guests. He had pressed
them to stay.

  ***

  ‘Are you wrapped up, Nephew?’ said Lewes, as they left the house next day. They had stepped into the freezing morning.

  Snow had fallen again overnight, but the sky was clear; the world was brilliant white and blue. Lewes, with a shaky, red hand, lit a match, lighting first Johnny’s cigar, then his own.

  ‘I have a particular fondness,’ said Lewes, ‘for the cigar in the open air.’ Willie had produced a box of Havanas. ‘Ahhh!’ breathed out Lewes, watching the smoke rise, though the exhalation nipped him in the stomach. Lewes wore an enormous amount of scarves; Johnny wore a single scarf looped more elegantly around his throat, and a good overcoat (not for the first time, Lewes wondered where Johnny bought his clothes). They walked, the snow new, crisp yet soft underfoot in the dazzling light. Gradually they left the house behind, going over stiff, frosty stiles into new terrain of fields and more fields, stray trees offering long dark shadows on the glittering white. They left the fields to go down a winding lane, surrounded by smooth-capped hedges. Lewes paused to smoke.

  ‘Damn good.’

  ‘Willie has good taste, and cigars are his passion,’ said Johnny. ‘But how is Mrs Lewes?’

  ‘For her,’ Lewes confided, ‘she is well, yet there are melancholy moments. But she really has no reason! Do you know, Nephew,’ — he derived pleasure from addressing the noticeably tall, well-built, younger man this way — ‘I have come to the conclusion that only the queen is more celebrated than her. The extra-orrrrrrrdinary tributes she receives! You know Mrs Elma Stuart who sent her the wood carvings? She has kept a handkerchief as a relic ever since Marian wet it with her tears! It’s the truth, Nephew, it’s the truth.’ He paused and added, thoughtfully, ‘She always wants more, that’s the problem.’

  Johnny listened to Lewes’ gleeful, boastful, loving voice, the sound carrying in the thin quiet air of the morning. And he heard the rhythmic sound of their feet, that precise fluttering sound of the snow compacting underfoot, that reminded him of cards shuffling through the air. The softness, the beauty of the snow, were ravishing. He was in the mood for Lewes’ voice, relieved to forget his mother’s illness for two hours. (How small were Lewes’ footprints, compared to his.) His business, with offices in Cornhill in the city, was going well. And the Lewes’ portfolio was splendid, with railway investments yielding twenty-six per cent.

  And this morning, walking with Lewes, he was reminded that it was only he, of his family, who knew the stellar friends intimately. Life with the Leweses felt like an enhanced existence, somehow, where the quantity of pleasure per hour was squared or cubed: similar, all things being equal, to joy. (Was it Lewes’ quick-fire vivacity, generosity, his endless anecdotes? Or her quieter richness of thought? Or the half-conscious idea that he was with people who would be remembered? His closeness to them, certifiable proof of his — his —)

  As they walked, the fluttering crunching sound of the snow was beginning to remind him, if he paid really close attention, of a cat purring, or was it the sound of a million wings? The greatest genius of the country — or rather, her spouse, as it were — confiding in him.

  ‘She is an exception to the rule,’ said Johnny, boldly.

  At the stile, Johnny waited for Lewes to go first. Lewes gave him a little push in the back, as he said, no, go ahead. The younger man’s tone had annoyed him. They were walking on the flat now, and he suggested to Johnny to go on, he would follow directly. He wanted just to idle and reflect, he said, for a minute or so.

  Alone, Lewes walked the last stretch more slowly. He needed to complete Problems this year, he said to himself.

  Blackwood had been keen to publish it. In their correspondence, the Scottish publisher developed a flattering habit of referring to Lewes’ ‘Great Work’. Lewes wrote self-deprecatingly in return of his Key to all Psychologies; even joking that ‘his Dorothea’ would finish it after his death. The affectionate correspondence continued until, as it was going to press, Blackwood just turned round and said he didn’t like it. In fact, he couldn’t publish it — he found it gratingly atheist.

  Trübners took it instead.

  Blackwood remained their friend, of course, and Lewes was in constant correspondence with him about Polly’s work, but the episode had stung him.

  ***

  In the drawing room they played cribbage, then roasted chestnuts. From her armchair Marian regarded Johnny fondly. When Bertie had died, he was the one person she had written to in full about it. Lewes, fearing condolences, hadn’t wanted to tell anyone.

  Johnny was eating chestnuts, one and then another. He was just dreamily splitting the warm outer skin with his thumb, to find the soft nut within, when he realised he was being spoken to.

  ‘I said,’ Lewes was saying, ‘when are you getting spliced, Nephew? We were wondering about Miss Simcox. We know you buy your shirts at Hamiltons.’

  An unfair joke, thought Johnny. He only bought his shirts there because the Leweses had suggested it to him, as they did to all their free-thinking friends. Hamiltons was the all-women shirtmaking cooperative set up by Miss Simcox, in Soho.

  Johnny was not sure what to make of Miss Simcox. He could not like her, he had to admit. She was consistently rude to him.

  He remembered the time when, entering the Priory, he had thought there was a cat on Marian’s lap. With a shock, he realised it was a woman’s dark head — Miss Simcox, in fact. She was kneeling, her head resting against the upper part of Marian’s thigh. Then she had shuffled round on her knees, taken Marian’s hand and kissed it, repeatedly. Lewes had laughed away, like a depraved monkey!

  Johnny had heard stories about how debauched Lewes had been in his youth, a follower of Shelley, hanging round older debauchees like Leigh Hunt. Apparently he had espoused the principles of Free Love, condoning his wife and his best friend. Johnny had heard tales of more than two in a bed.

  He picked up another chestnut, but instantly put it down, as it was rather too hot.

  9

  Upstairs in No. 1 Douro Place, Edith Simcox was doing her accounts. But she kept stopping, picking up her pen to turn it round in her hands. She was wondering about visiting Marian. Should she? She looked out of the window. After some minutes, she pushed the accounts away — she had seen two magpies, that was enough. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy,’ she said aloud, as she began to get ready.

  She took her reticule, and another larger, more serviceable bag. In the corner of the hallway she found the flowers she had bought this morning, and inspected them. The last pansies of the season, they were already wilting, yet the grey tint in the violet-blue was just right. They were, she judged, the colour of Marian’s eyes.

  She walked up Gloucester Road, crossed into Kensington Gardens; proceeded in a northeast direction through the park, heading north on Gloucester Place. Regent’s Park appeared on her right, she quickened her speed. At the Priory, she pulled the bell. The gate clicked open, then the front door was opening and there was Brett, the new parlour maid.

  ‘Is Mrs Lewes in?’

  Edith had just noticed that the drawing room shutters were closed. She held her breath.

  Brett said that Mr and Mrs Lewes were in Oxford for the weekend.

  Edith stayed standing.

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Ma’am?’ asked Brett, after a moment.

  ‘Can I leave these for her?’

  Brett, regarding the flowers, said she did not know if they would last.

  ‘Do please give them to her,’ said Edith, matter-of factly. Edith said goodbye, but near the gate she turned. ‘You will say who they are from?’

  ‘Yes Ma’am.’

  Edith walked back towards Kensington. Her spectacles were misting up, blank white clouds were covering the sky with amazing speed, the light was chilly. The walk home was slow. In her room, from her drawer, she pulled out a teak box and took out the bundle of letters. They
were from Marian. She read one, then another, then another. Then she put them down.

  Each note expressed intense, fond, careful care for her. At one moment the tone was anxious, the next humorous. No one else wrote to Edith like that. At the end of each letter, Marian signed herself, Your Loving Mother.

  Perhaps it was the fact that Marian had been out, or that Edith had just re-read those sweetly worded enquiries — asking in one about Edith’s earache, in another, years before, about negotiations for premises in Dean Street — but Edith’s spectacles were misting up again. She kissed each envelope in turn. She had smudged the ink with her tears. Hers — she, who had written her first book; who lectured at working men’s clubs, walked the poorest streets in London, managed her cooperative, translated German for Max Müller, attended Trades Union meetings, yes, she was crying. She washed and dried her face.

  Some time later, she took a book from the drawer of her desk. It was bound in green Moroccan leather, with a brass lock. She felt for the tiny key that lived in the far right corner of the drawer and unlocked the book.

  It contained her handwriting, on the right-hand page: very small, compressed, blue-ink handwriting. She wrote mostly about Marian, which meant her own experience of Marian, in great detail. This was her secret diary. In it, she was free to write whatever she liked. No one would ever see it.

  She closed it with a snap. She would not write today.

  ***

  Two days later, outside Smithfield Market, Edith bought sweet pea flowers. The seller couldn’t have been more than twelve, she wore a tattered, bruised once-elegant lady’s hat, that was slipping off. After which Edith made her way to Paternoster Row and Trübners. Climbing the stairs rapidly, she bumped straight into Lewes.

  ‘Miss Simcox! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Trübners are my publishers.’

  ‘Of course they are. I probably suggested them.’