In Love with George Eliot

by Kathy O'Shaughnessy

  Dearest Nephew,

  I do need your affection. Every sign of care for me from the beings I respect and love is a help to me. And I did not mean that I should prefer you or my dear nieces not to call. Only I fear it takes up valuable time to make this out of the way round.

  In a week or two I think I shall want to see you. Sometimes even now I have a longing, but it is immediately counteracted by a fear. The perpetual mourner — the grief that can never be healed — is innocently enough felt to be wearisome by the rest of the world. And my sense of desolation increases. Each day seems a new beginning — a new acquaintance with grief.

  I have written this just on receiving your kind answer. Love to them all at home.

  Your affectionate Aunt

  ***

  The next day, she ordered the carriage. She wanted to go out.

  It was strange indeed, walking out of the house onto the drive, on her own. The horse shaking his head in that dipping frantic way, larger than she remembered. Strange having Robert open the door for her, hand her in to the carriage — and go inside, alone. It was as if she had never seen the interior before. Never noticed the wadding on the ceiling, the criss-cross pattern of lines. The door clicked shut. The carriage jolted but the ride became smoother and automatically she reached, just as she used to, for the fur rug, and put it over her lap. They went along the Kilburn Road, past the new houses with their squalid fronts, and then they were in country. The carriage stopped.

  Peering out of the window, she saw grass, denuded trees, boughs black; she wrapped her shawl around her more tightly. Robert helped her out.

  It was cold, but better than a month ago. She walked down the lane. How tremendously pointless it all was, this cold air, this lane, the trees. But she continued. After a while the motion of walking, and the sensation of air on her face, and the birds, although there weren’t many, faintly roused her — it was like a dim waking, and she became a little glad that she had come out. Four hundred yards down the lane, she turned round. On the way home she began to feel queasy.

  Turning in at the Priory. What a sight — the empty silent building, windows blank.

  But she was able to eat more of her supper that night, and she read in Lewes’ study, in his chair, the first article he had written on Goethe, the very beginning of his long interest.

  ***

  Each day was difficult. The third part of George’s manuscript was flummoxing her. But again she went out in the carriage, again she walked. She repeated the outing, walking farther. A letter arrived with a Nuneaton postmark. She tore it open quickly. It was a letter of condolence, but only from Isaac’s wife, Sarah. There was no mention at all of Isaac. Marian wrote back, rather slowly, to Sarah, ending:

  Give my love to my Brother and believe me always —

  Your affectionate Sister M.E. Lewes.

  The following day, a letter arrived from Natal. Just setting eyes on the postmark, she knew a ripple of disturbance. It was a bill of accounts from Bertie’s widow, Eliza. A little panicked, she wrote to Johnny, saying, If you happen to be at liberty tomorrow, or the following Friday, or tomorrow week, I hope I shall be well enough to see you. Let me know which day.

  4

  Johnny came the next day. At the sight of him, as he entered the drawing room, Marian’s stomach contracted: the sheer familiarity of his tall figure, his face, was associated so much with George. She could not rise to the occasion — couldn’t smile, stand, speak. It was all dreadfully familiar — his jacket of navy wool — his regular, slightly immobile cast of features forming an instant, lacerating contrast with George’s beloved features, George’s animation.

  Johnny was the first friend to visit her. She had only seen Brett and Charles and the doctors.

  A minute later, and she realised he had seated himself, he had not come to kiss her hand, it was as if he understood. He was speaking to her now, asking how she was, saying how pleased he was to see her. She was noticing his face: he was thinner, his face more angular — gaunt. His air of restraint was not, she realised then, because of her; he had his own grief.

  Anna Cross had died nine days after George.

  As Brett set out the tea, they began to speak more easily. He told her of Eleanor’s and Florence’s grief, his brother’s and Mary’s. It was easier for Emily and Anna, because they were married.

  ‘Whoever knew your mother, loved her,’ said Marian. He nodded without speaking. His eyes were shining. He cleared his throat as he said, she was a wonderful mother — and then he looked away, towards the window.

  Yes, you are grieving too, thought Marian.

  ‘I am glad you said I could come,’ he said then. ‘We have been all of us worried about you. We thought you might die.’

  His voice was level, he didn’t meet her eyes as he said this.

  ‘I haven’t much to live for.’

  She would finish Lewes’ work as best as she could; then correct her own Theophrastus Such proofs. Aside from that —

  ‘— this house!’ she sighed.

  She gestured to the room, which used on Sundays to be so crowded with people.

  Johnny said he feared for her, subject to painful reminders all the time.

  ‘Would it not be better for you to go away? My dear Aunt — so difficult to be beholding this,’ — and his gesture echoed hers, towards the room.

  She followed his gaze. Every part of the room had its association with George. She turned to Johnny, but nausea rose in her like gall. This man in George’s seat.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, bleakly. No, it was too soon to see anyone. She was not fit.

  ‘You have not been out. But when you do feel — feel that it would be beneficial, I hope you will come to see us. No one would be more welcome.’

  His tone faintly pleased her — though her pleasure was as shallow as the surface indentations made by a duck-and-drake stone across the pond.

  ‘Why do you not come and live at Weybridge?’ he said suddenly. ‘There is space. It would be a comfort to you.’

  ‘At Weybridge,’ she repeated, slowly.

  She thought of that house she knew so well, where they had so often stayed. There would be associations, but it would be mercifully different to this, where every inch was saturated: there was the rug they chose for Wandsworth; there the little clay statue of a dog they found in Florence. She wondered if it would be rude now to mention her financial worries, the whole problem of managing it all, and Eliza’s bill. She didn’t trust Eliza’s letters, which she considered conniving. ‘That is a very kind thought,’ she said, slowly.

  ‘There is no one we would rather have stay with us.’

  ‘That is very kind,’ she repeated.

  After Johnny left, she went upstairs to her room. She could do this. She could stay at Weybridge.

  The doorbell went. She heard Charles coming up the stairs.

  ‘Mr Spencer would like to see you,’ said Charles. She heard hope in his tone. He was a kind boy.

  ‘No thank you dear,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to see him. I don’t really,’ she added, ‘want to see anyone.’

  The next morning, she wrote to Johnny:

  A transient absence of mind yesterday made me speak as if it were possible for me to entertain your thoughtful, kind proposal that I should move to Weybridge for a short time. But I cannot leave this house for the next two months — if for no other reason, I should be chained here by the need of having all the books I want to refer to.

  ***

  In March, Henry Sidgwick came to discuss the possible studentship; a few days later, so did Dr Foster. At a meeting it was decided: it would be called the George Henry Lewes Studentship in Physiology, and the Trustees were selected: Francis Balfour, W. T. T. Dyer, Pye Smith, Huxley, Sidgwick. After, she was aware that she had gone through the list of concerns efficiently, directed the conversation, discussed the issues with c
larity, and written her cheque for £5,000. She had begun dressing as she used to, with a degree of care, though in black; she wore a black velvet ribbon in her hair, and her black widow’s cap. She used a small amount of paste on her face, very discreetly, under her eyes, because the circles were so dark — one morning, in the glass, they seemed the colour of pitch.

  She arranged to have supper with Charles.

  ‘I want to ask your advice,’ said Marian, as Brett ladled the pea soup into the bowls. She had corrected the proofs of her book, Theophrastus Such, and Blackwood wanted to publish it in May.

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘Yes … yes. But I am concerned,’ went on Marian, suddenly contemplating her napkin, ‘that I do not injure my influence. I finished the book before George died, as you know. But if it comes out … so soon, in May — it might, ah, seem as if I wrote my book … in my grieving state.’

  ‘You are concerned you will seem callous.’

  ‘Well,’ smiled Marian thinly, trying to hide her displeasure at this bald description, ‘I suppose you could put it that way.’

  ‘You want people to understand the extent of your grief,’ went on Charles, warmly. ‘But if the book comes out in May, people will naturally assume you wrote it before the Pater died.’

  ‘I will have to urge Blackwood to delay publication,’ she said abruptly. ‘You have more trust in the reaction of the public than I do. It is my view that people do not readily arrive at sympathetic interpretations of others. The pleasure to be had,’ she said sardonically, ‘lies elsewhere.’

  ‘But Mutter!’

  His face was wreathed with good-natured pity.

  ‘I have seen you suffer …’ he began; and he swallowed. Marian had a strange idea that he might be about to cry. ‘The love between you and the Pater was —’

  He was unable to speak.

  ‘Thank you Charles,’ murmured Marian. She closed her eyes.

  ***

  Maria Congreve was the first woman friend she saw after Lewes’ death. ‘My dear Marian,’ Maria was murmuring, in her soft voice, as she held Marian close. ‘So much for you to bear. I have been feeling for you — every day. But so many feel for you. I have heard concern expressed, as to whether you will be able to go on living, without him.’

  It was comforting to hold Maria’s hand, see again her intelligent eyes, under those arched brows, and those small attentions to dress that made Marian wish to look at Maria more — Maria’s crocheted shawl, woven in soft-looking pale wool, which Marian had found herself stroking half unconsciously.

  Georgiana came three days later, in her medieval-looking grey cloak, her simply parted hair braided at the back of her head. ‘I would not have wished,’ Georgiana whispered in Marian’s ear, as they embraced, ‘this separation on any two people who love each other. But most of all, you two.’

  For the first time since George’s death, she walked into the bedroom they had shared. She had asked Brett to clean it and put down fresh bedding. One by one, she put George’s periodicals and books into the bookroom closet; stored his dusty microscope; removed his photographs and prints. She was back in their bedroom, alone. Felt beaten with sadness, she wrote in her diary.

  And now, in the dining room, she drew out the boxes of letters, assiduously sorted by Charles. All those that evoked George particularly, or paid special tribute to him and to their life together, she put to one side.

  Spencer came. They embraced, though Spencer rather quickly detached himself. It was Spencer who had introduced her to George all those years ago. Having sat down, Spencer hitched up his trousers and said: ‘My dear Mrs Lewes, I have certain matters to discuss at the moment, which are really rather pressing: my autobiography.’

  Marian listened to him. She could imagine George’s jokes.

  Shortly after that she had an unexpected visitor: Vivian Lewes, George’s nephew, asking her for £100. Marian stared. For twenty-five years now she had been supporting Agnes Lewes and her family, and was continuing to do so. Yet this ruddy-faced young man, though he had requested the money with an apologetic smile, sat there with an air of simple confidence. Marian got up, walked around — what would George have done? She wrote a cheque for £50. ‘Here, to start with,’ she said helplessly, as she handed it to him.

  The next day, a letter arrived from Vivyan, returning the cheque and apologising. Marian read it with relief. Going through the rest of the post, she recognised Bessie Belloc’s handwriting; eagerly she opened it. After she read it, she put it down.

  ‘An egg, Ma’am,’ Brett was saying.

  Marian said she wasn’t hungry. Bessie, her old friend, had asked her to lend her £500. So this was the start. Upstairs in the bedroom, her headache mounted. She must calm down. She must face the fact that she was a woman on her own, she would be targeted with demands like this. She was a widow, and rich. This was the future.

  She got up, called out over the banister: ‘Charles — Charles!’

  Her voice echoed in the hallway. There was only silence. ‘He’s gone out, Ma’am,’ said Brett, appearing downstairs.

  She went back into the bedroom, sat down, and had a shooting pain in her shoulder.

  ‘Brett,’ she called out over the banister, louder this time. ‘Did Mr Charles say what time he would be back?’

  Charles was out the whole day.

  She wrote to Bessie then, describing her own confusion. When she read through what she had written, it sounded accusing. She had another spasm in her shoulder.

  She took up another piece of paper. Who could she turn to?

  Dearest N.,

  I am in dreadful need of your counsel. Pray come to me when you can — morning, afternoon, or evening. I shall dismiss anyone else.

  Your very much worried Aunt

  5

  Johnny arrived that evening.

  She was in the drawing room, cold in spite of the fire, in a thunderous depression. She had been writing out a list of her dependants, including the relatives of Agnes Lewes, and the charitable donations she made.

  Johnny walked in swiftly, sat down beside her. ‘What is it?’

  She heard full concern in his voice.

  ‘Money,’ she said, with a faint smile, yet she knew she was radiating sadness. She felt cold, her hands freezing yet damp.

  ‘My dear Aunt,’ he said, taking her hand. His hand was large, warm and dry. ‘You must let me help you.’

  She told him about Vivian and the cheque, and Bessie’s request; tried to explain how exposed she felt. ‘She is my great friend — it bothered me that she should ask me this just now.’

  ‘I understand why it bothers you.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘She should not have asked you, certainly not now. Refuse her immediately. Write the letter tonight, and banish it from your mind.’

  He had conviction. She took his advice. As he left, he said he would call tomorrow to make sure she was easy in her mind.

  She slept a little better that night. She had written to Bessie and said no. And somehow it was no surprise when Johnny appeared before noon the next day.

  ‘Last night,’ said Marian, as they had tea in the drawing room, ‘you helped me greatly. I was so distressed — and I want you to know that I feel better.’

  ‘Are you eating?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes — yes.’ It seemed an odd question, so personal, so practical. But she wasn’t displeased. ‘Not perhaps quite enough —’

  ‘It is important. I meant to give this, by the way, to Brett —’

  He took out a brown-paper package, small, about three inches square. ‘Tea,’ he said. ‘From Ceylon. Held in some estimation, I’m told. There is an excellent little shop at the bottom of Cornhill. If you drink enough of this, you might be strong enough for visitors.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you! But what of you?’ said Ma
rian. ‘How have you been faring?’

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed, and gloom returned to his face. ‘With Mother gone, it has not been — marvellous. What can I say? I was very close to her, my life was very bound up with hers. I think I can safely say that I did everything for her.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  ‘And with her death — I can say it now! — at first I couldn’t even say those words. But with “her death” — there has been …’ He stopped. ‘I have time on my hands.’

  ‘Is that not a good thing?’

  ‘I sink into gloom! But I’ve started reading Dante,’ he said with a slightly self-deprecating laugh. He was a modest kind of man. ‘I’ve never read the Divine Comedy before.’

  ‘What a good idea … what a good idea. I’ve also been reading for distraction. Homer.’

  She paused to sip her tea. Then she said slowly, ‘But Dante is an even better idea. In the original?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! I have my translation with me all the time. It’s here, in fact,’ he said, patting his pocket; and he drew it out.

  Longfellow’s translation. Marian read a few lines, then put it down. Longfellow — what a choice. Still, the idea of reading Dante stirred her — Dante, who went to the heart of everything.

  ‘I could read it with you,’ she said suddenly.

  Once the words were out, she half regretted them; she knew Johnny’s obliging nature.

  ‘Please do!’ he said, at once.

  She smiled sadly.

  ‘My dear Nephew … you are … good-natured to a fault. Do not let me take advantage of you. You might, understandably, prefer to read it alone.’

  She was looking at him in a pleading way. It was, in fact, a glance of the utmost seriousness. Almost, she wanted him to say no. She could not have said why.

  ‘I would love nothing better,’ he said, and his face had mysteriously cleared. ‘When shall we start?’