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GEORGE ELIOT
(
thought and perseverance to a high degree: it was “The Essence of
Christianity,' by the German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach. These
works, which stand on the border line between philosophy and reli-
gion, led her by a natural development into the domain of pure phi-
losophy; so that the next more extensive task which she undertook,
but to our knowledge never completed, was a translation of Spinoza's
Ethics.
She was now fairly, at the age of twenty-seven, launched in her
literary career; though as yet it was on the side of science and
religion and not of art. The essays which belong to the following
period, together with her editorial occupation, again formed a transi-
tion from the more scientific character of her writing to the domain
of pure literature. And though these works belong to the field of
criticism, it was criticism as applied to pure literature, fiction, and
biography, and thus brought her inherently ponderous and theoretical
mind, by natural stages, from analysis and speculation to the more
imaginative sphere of synthesis and creation. This early theoretical
and scientific direction of her occupation and thought may have pro-
duced that fault in her later writing with which she has often been
reproached, - it may have made her style and diction clumsy and
pedantic. On the other hand, it was a most excellent training for
the future writer of even fiction. For it exercised the mind in gain-
ing full mastery over thought; in recognizing and defining the nicest
and most delicate shadings of meaning and of expression; in insisting
upon their logical sequence, and thus impressing upon the author the
rudiments of exposition and composition; in extending and enriching
the domain of knowledge and fact; and finally, in producing and
training the force of intellectual sympathy, which sharpens as well as
intensifies insight into life and character, and gives to the mind that
pliancy which directs the feeling heart to beat in sympathy with all
forms of experiences, desires, and passions, - however far the lives
and personalities may be removed from the author who constructs or
describes them.
In 1849 the death of her father threw her into a state of deepest
depression. It was then that her kind friends the Brays took her for
a tour on the Continent, to Italy and Switzerland. She remained at
Geneva in the family of the artist D’Albert for eight months, where
she no doubt found congenial local associations; for the shores of the
Lake of Geneva, haunted by the spirits of Calvin, Rousseau, Voltaire,
Madame de Staël, Gibbon, Byron, and Shelley, seem bound up with
world-stirring thought as no other place in Europe. Upon her return
to England she made her home with the Brays at Rosehill for about
a year, and then accepted the offer of Dr. John Chapman to become
sub-editor of the Westminster Review and to make her home in his


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GEORGE ELIOT
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family. She here entered a circle of the most prominent literary
men and women of the day, and among these she became an inti-
mate friend of Herbert Spencer, John Oxenford, James and Harriet
Martineau, George Henry Lewes, and others. Emerson she had met
before at Rosehill. Besides her arduous sub-editorial work, she con-
tributed several remarkable papers to the Review. Among these are:
(Carlyle's Life of Sterling' and Margaret Fuller' in 1852; Women
in France: Madame de Tablé, 1854; Evangelical Teaching: Dr.
Cumming,' 1855; (German Wit: Heinrich Heine, (Silly Novels by
Lady Novelists,' (The Natural History of German Life,' 1856; (World-
liness and Otherworldliness: the Poetry of Young' in 1857.
It was in 1854 that occurred the great event in her life; she joined
George Henry Lewes as his wife, though the latter's wife was still alive.
Lewes was separated from his first wife, though circumstances inade
it impossible for him to get a divorce. From that moment George
Eliot remained the most faithful and devoted wife to Lewes and
mother to his children, until his death in 1878. She united her life
with that of Lewes after due and full deliberation, and with a thor-
ough weighing of consequences and duties. But that she felt the
deepest regret in that her complete union was not in accordance with
the established laws of the society in which she lived, is evident
from all her letters and writings; and though it need not have led
to her marriage with her late husband Mr. Cross, the opportunity
afforded of showing her respect to the established rules of matri-
monial life must certainly have made it easier for her to form a new
alliance, after the death of her first husband.
With Lewes she went to Germany, living for some time at Berlin
and Weimar, while he was writing his Life of Goethe) and she was
working at her translation of Spinoza's Ethics and was contributing
some articles on German literature. Upon their return they settled
in London, finally in the Priory, North Bank, in the northwest of the
metropolis, which was for many years a salon of the London literary
world. The Sunday afternoons of this remarkable couple united all
the talent and genius, residents or foreign visitors. One might meet
in one and the same afternoon Charles Darwin, Robert Browning,
Tennyson, Richard Wagner, Joachim the violinist, Huxley, Clifford,
Du Maurier, and Turgénieff. Lewes, the most brilliant and versatile
conversationalist of his day, gave life and freedom to these meetings;
but the intellectual and moral centre always remained George Eliot,
with her soft, sweet voice, her clear intonation, her friendly and
encouraging smile, lighting up as by a contrast the earnestness of
her serious and large features, which resembled those of Savona-
rola, whose character she has drawn in such strong lines in Romola. '
But the quality of searching sympathy and benignant humor, so


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5364
GEORGE ELIOT
1
remarkable in her writings, gave the warmth of kindness and cordial.
ity to these formidably intellectual meetings. The present writer re-
members with grateful piety how, when he was a very young man
struggling to put a crude thought into presentable form before these
giants of thought and letters, she would divine his meaning even in
its embryonic uncouthness of expression, and would give it back to
him and to them in a perfect and faultless garb; so that in admiring
and worshiping the woman, he would be pleased with his own
thoughts and would think well of himself. It is this sympathetic and
unselfish helpfulness of great and noble minds, which gives confidence
and increases the self-esteem of all who come in contact with them.
No wonder that one often saw and heard of a great number of peo-
ple, young girls or young men, who by letter or in person sought
help and spiritual guidance from her, and went away strengthened by
her sympathy and advice.
Her first attempt at fiction was made when in her thirty-seventh
year, in September 1856. The account of this is best shown in her
own words here given among the extracts from her writings. Her
first story was a short one, called “The Sad Fortunes of the Rev.
Amos Barton. ' This was followed by Mr. Gilfil's Love Story' and
Janet's Repentance, and soon there was that remarkable volume
called (Scenes of Clerical Life. ) Lewes and she and the world all
realized that she was a true novelist, and from that moment she
directed all her energies to the production of those works which will
ever live, in spite of all changes of fashions and modes of story-
telling, classical specimens of English fiction. In rapid succession
now followed Adam Bede' in 1858; (The Mill on the Floss) in 1860;
(Silas Marner) in 1861; Romola' in 1863; Felix Holt, the Radical,
in 1866; the poem “The Spanish Gypsy) in 1868; Jubal and Other
Poems) in 1870; Middlemarch' in 1872; Daniel Deronda' in 1876;
and her last work, “The Impressions of Theophrastus Such,' which
was not published till after the death of Lewes, which occurred in
1878. She married Mr. Cross in May, 1880. She died on December
22d, 1880.
To lead to the fuller understanding of George Eliot's works, it was
necessary to sketch in broad outlines the growth of her life and per-
sonality. As a writer she was not only a novelist but also a poet,
and above all a social philosopher. Her ethical bias is so strong,,
moreover, that one cannot understand her as a novelist or a poet
unless one has grasped her social philosophy and the all-pervading
and ever-present influence it has upon her mind and writing.
In her delineation of character and depiction of scenes, especially
those of rural and domestic life, truthful rendering is to her the
supreme duty; and one need but open the Scenes of Clerical Lire,
i
1
-
2


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GEORGE ELIOT
5365
Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss,' (Silas Marner,' and Middle-
march,' on any page, to realize the fullness of truth with which she
has painted. At the time of their appearance, not only were the per-
sons and the environment identified with the originals she had in her
mind, but as lasting types they tallied exactly with people and local
life known to each English reader. This truthful rendering was also
conceived by her as a primary duty of the novelist. We would refer
the reader to what, in an essay, she says of the English peasant in
fiction, and would recall her own words in the same essay:
«A picture of human life, such as a great artist can give, surprises even
the trivial and the selfish into that attention to what is apart from them-
selves, which may be called the raw material of sentiment. . . Art is
the nearest thing to life; it is a mode of amplifying experience and extending
our contact with our fellow-men beyond the bounds of our personal lot. All
the more sacred is the task of the artist when he undertakes to paint the life
of the people. Falsification here is far more pernicious than in the more
artificial aspects of life. ”
Another interesting passage is one containing an estimate of Dick-
ens, in which she considers the Oliver Twists, Joes, and Nancys
terrible and pathetic pictures of London life:
«And if Dickens had been able to give us their psychological character,
their conception of life, and their emotions, with the same truth as their
idiom and manners, his books would be the greatest contribution to art
ever made to the awakening of social sympathies. ”
George Eliot might thus be classified as one of the greatest if not
the greatest realist of the analytical or psychological order. But this
would, to our mind, be a one-sided and incomplete estimate of the
chief character in her writing and genius. Truthful rendering of life
and character may have been one of the chief motives to composi-
tion, and a fundamental requisite to the art of her fiction; but it
remained a means to a further end - the ultimate end-of her writ-
ing, as it no doubt was the fundamental stimulus to her imagination
and design. And this end and motive make her an idealist and not
a realist in fiction. The direction in which this idealism goes we
have indicated in the lines we have italicized in the passages we
quote from her, and is to be found in the ethical motive below and'
beyond all her thought and composition, the predominance of the
social philosophy in her fiction and poetry, to which we have already
referred.
We will dismiss the coarse and caricatured distinction between
realism and idealism, in which the one is supposed to render truth-
fully whatever is, without any principle of selection or composition;


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5366
GEORGE ELIOT
while the other starts with preconceived notions of the ought to be,
be it from the point of view of formal beauty or spiritual harmony,
and proves the facts that are. Art, and the novel above all, — which
deals with life at once so clear and familiar to us, and so perplex-
ingly manifold and varied as constantly to elude choice and design,
can neither forego truth nor unity of design.
But in the novelist's attitude towards human life there are two
distinct points of view from which a new classification of novelists
might be inade: the position given to ethics, the moral laws in the
presentation of life. The laws of human conduct are so essential to
the relation of man to man, that the fundamental question as to
what position ethics holds in our narrative cannot be ignored. The
novelist must have decided whether he is going to consider its
claims in the primary structure of his novel, and in the creation and
development of characters, or not. Is he going to prepare the
groundwork of artistic labor with a view to ethical design, or pure
artistic design? It may be said that the best work requires both.
But still, in so far as the one is heeded more than the other, will
the writer be an idealist or a realist in this sense.
The idealist will focus his_view of the characters, their experi-
ences and sufferings and surroundings, from a view of moral fitness
and design; the realist will find the design and composition, the har
mony which all art needs, in the characters, in the scenes, in the
life itself, and the inner organic relation of the parts to the whole.
The one leads to the best idealism, the other to the best realism.
The one produces a George Eliot, the other a Guy de Maupassant.
This realist ignores the general fitness of things, the moral law, and
says:–« This character is interesting in itself, this situation is amus-
ing, curious, striking, or terrible, — they are worth depicting, without
any question as to their relation to social or moral ideals. ) Guy de
Maupassant takes characters and situations and depicts them with
consummate art; he never troubles himself about general moral fit-
ness, never know what his moral and social ideals are,
whether he has any at all. Jane Austen is interested in her charac-
ters, in the tone and range of ideas of the period and the society in
which she lives, the types of life, and she draws them with consum-
i
mate art; but though we are left in no doubt in her case as to the
good and the bad, and though the good generally prevails and the bad
is defeated, these are not subordinated to a clear conception of an
ideal social order, without which the characters and the story could
not have been conceived and developed - as is always the case with
George Eliot. Gwendolen Harleth, Felix Holt, Maggie, Dorothea,
Lydgate, the life and surroundings of these figures, all bear a fixed
relation to the social ideals of the author; and it is in this relation
we
nor


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GEORGE ELIOT
5367
that she conceives and develops them. Nay, it is for the purpose
of illustrating and fixing this that she creates them at all. Strange
as it may sound, in so far Jane Austen might be called a realist and
be classed with Guy de Maupassant; while George Sand, with whom
she has so much similarity of spirit, is by contrast an idealist. It is
a difference in the initial methods of dealing with life in fiction.
It is not enough for George Eliot to present an interesting char-
acter, to follow up its fate and growth, to force the reader into sym-
pathy, to make him hope for success or fear failure; nor even to
show the struggle with the surroundings, to depict interesting and
complex situations and centres. Her writings always depend upon a
primary postulate, and to this postulate all characters, scenes, and
situations are ultimately subordinated. This postulate is: The ideal
social order as a whole, the establishment of sane and sound social
relations in humanity, the development and progress of human society
towards such an ideal of general human life. All characters and sit-
uations, all scenes of life, whether clerical or provincial, whether of
the present or of the past (and this may here be a grave fault), are
developed and viewed by her in their relation to this general stand-
ard of ideal society; how far they fit into this general harmony, and
failing this, how far they can in her stories be made to fit more fully;
or they are left to a more tragic end which emphasizes the facts
of their unfitness. Herein lies her distinctive character as a novelist,
a point in which her delineation differs from most of the other great
novelists — from a Balzac and a Flaubert, a George Sand, a Thackeray,
and a Dickens, a Turgénieff and an early Tolstoy. I do not mean to
say that these novelists had not a social ideal at the foundation of
their constructive imagination; but it did not play that essential part
in their conception and working out of characters and plots, it was
not ever present in their minds while they were describing charac-
ters, feelings, incidents, and situations, as it appears to have been
with George Eliot. Her philosophical and ethical bias thus manifests
itself, in that there was an idea of general social fitness and happi-
ness modifying and directing her representation of individual life and
character.
To understand this social ideal of a rational and essentially sane
world, we must conceive her as an expression of the spirit of the age
out of which she grew. And she will thus hold a place not only as
a novelist, but as a pregnant and significant exponent of the thought
of the third quarter of the nineteenth century.
The time in which her mind was formed is marked on the side of
social ethics, in that a broad and powerful humanitarian wave spread
over English life and thought. Negatively it manifested itself in that
it was a period of storm and stress toward the birth of tolerance -
r


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5368
GEORGE ELIOT
tolerance with all forms of belief and even unbelief. In the English
Church itself, it was the period of clear accentuations of shades of be-
lief that differed to a very marked degree from one another. The
Church of Rome was brought nearer to the Anglican believer, and was
robbed of its Apocalyptic horrors by a Newman and a Manning: a
definite political act was the Irish Church Act. But an especial feature
of this tolerance was the social recognition of agnosticism, in its scien- '
tific aspect through a Darwin, and in its more ethical aspect through
a Mill, a Herbert Spencer, and a Matthew Arnold; while divines of
the English Church itself, like Stanley, Maurice, Kingsley, and Jowett,
bridged over the gaps between dogmatism and agnosticism. The
repeal of the Test Act (according to which the signing of the Thirty-
nine Articles was a condition for obtaining a scholarship or fellow-
ship) abolished all disqualifications from freethinkers at the great
universities. Quakers and Jews had before been admitted to Parlia-
ment, and now took prominent and leading places.
But more positively, the philosophy of Auguste Comte with its
English exponents, especially Mill, impressed the religious feeling of
humanitarianism. There had been a wave of this before, a wave the
commotion of which was felt even in our days. It was the humani-
tarianism of Rousseau, under which George Sand stood. But this
differs in a marked manner from that of our friend. With Rousseau
it was deductive, based upon the inalienable rights of man, of the indi-
vidual, -a deductive sociology. In our times it was essentially guided
by the prevailing spirit and methods of thought of Charles Darwin,
Mill, Herbert Spencer, Huxley, Clifford, and Matthew Arnold, with the
regenerated and refined sense of truth which they have given to the
world. It has thus led to an inductive sociology and inductive humani-
tarianism, freed from all romantic character and admixture, essentially
sober and sane, though none the less passionate and deep-seated.
The last wave of Rousseauesque feeling filtered through German
sources to us in Carlyle and Ruskin. But this mode of thought was
foreign to George Eliot. She disliked all forms of exaggeration.
She has always clear in her mind the sane and sober ideals of a
society based upon the truthful observation and recognition of its
wants and needs. The claims of truth, the claims of charity and
unselfishness, are supreme. To this ideal the individual must sub-
ordinate himself if he wishes to be happy and noble, beloved and
honored; must have "that recognition of something to be lived for
beyond the mere satisfaction of self, which is to the moral life what
the addition of a central ganglion is to animal life. ”
Pure applied psychology and knowledge of the cæur humain, which
have actuated so many great novelists, – the careful and studied
development of an individual life and character as such within its


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GEORGE ELIOT
5369
surroundings, - were not enough to absorb the desires of George
Eliot's efforts in fiction; still less mere striking incidents, and the
engrossing consequences and sequences as they push on in the plot
of a story; but the caur humain and incidents in life are viewed in
their relation to society as a whole, to social ideals. She is thus an
idealistic and an ethical novelist.
Even in her poetry this bias manifests itself; and here, from an
artistic point of view, the effect is often more disturbing than in her
novels. For in poetry the purely artistic, emotional, and lyrical as-
pect is more important and essential; and any general and impers
sonal ideal counteracts the reality of the characters, the mood, and
the passion. Thus in her longest and greatest poem, The Spanish
Gypsy,' the feelings and expressions put into the mouth of Fedalma
and Zarca are the nineteenth-century thoughts and feelings of a
George Eliot, and lose their immediate truthfulness and convincing
power from being thus expressed by fictitious persons; while the per-
sonalities themselves, their thoughts and feelings, do not strike one
with a sense of reality, because they express views which sound
anachronistic and have not their proper local coloring. In spite of
some beautiful shorter poems, passages, and lines, she fails when
criticized as a lyrical poetess; nor will her poems stand faultless
when judged from the epic point of view. But if there be any justi-
fication (which we hold there is) for didactic poetry,— poetry which
calls in artistic emotion to impress truths and moral laws, – then she
will always hold a prominent place in this sphere. Stradivarius)
and the Positivist Hymn will, together with Matthew Arnold's (Self-
Dependence,' rank among the finest types of didactic poems of our
age.
Though at times her ethical bias has obtruded itself out of place,
and may have counteracted her certainty of touch in drawing lifelike
character (as for instance in the construction of Daniel Deronda's
personality), it has, on the whole, not prevented her from giving full
play to her marvelous power of clear and deep insight into life and
of sensuous description.
In studying life she had learned observation in the scientific in-
ductive school, and had thus acquired, with minuteness of perception,
the clear-sighted and unprejudiced intellectual justice of vision which
enabled her to appreciate fully and to grasp the inner core of all
the characters, motives, and passions which her command over her
thoughts and language and her docile pen enabled her to fix in so
masterly a manner. But these faculties would not have been enough
to lead to her creation of human types, had she not possessed to
that intense and exalted degree the power of feeling which gave
the initial stimulus to her penetration of the human heart and its


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GEORGE ELIOT
motives and passions, and which her intellectual control converted
into all-encompassing and all-pervading sympathy. She was, after all,
what Elizabeth Browning expressed in the pregnant phrase — “a
large-brained woman and a large-hearted man. ”
Nay, this sympathy was so intense and leading a feature of her
genius that it again serves to establish a distinct general classifica-
tion of novelists. Like great actors, great writers of fiction may be
classified, according to their mode of rendering the life they study,
as subjective and objective interpreters. The former are intellect-
ually so wide and emotionally so responsive, that their great souls
and minds grasp and assimilate, absorb for the time being, all the
different natures which they portray; they thrill with them — they
become them. The objective artists possess more the painter's and
sculptor's attitude of mind; they eliminate self completely during the
period of observation, and enter, through the fullness and delicacy of
their perceptions, into the lives and characters they depict. For the
time they see only the object of their study, and reproduce it with
clear and dispassionate touch. This is the case with Balzac, Turgén-
ieff, Thackeray, and Dickens. The objective method is the safest
and least likely to produce faults in drawing which make the charac-
ters at times inconsistent and fall out of their parts; the sub-
jective method may at times attain depth of insight, and fullness
of passion and veracity, which lies hidden from the dispassionate
draughtsmen and impersonators. The Brontés had this subjective
penetration to the highest degree; but they had not, on the other
hand, the inductive and scientific training of George Eliot, which
sobered down and made more objective, as it made more humorous,
the sympathetic impersonations in her stories. Above all, the purely
emotional subjectivity of George Eliot was counteracted by the pas-
sion for the general ethical and the social ideal which we have
already considered as playing so essential a part in her mind. Upon
this we must take our stand in order to appreciate her leading
method of composition, which can be traced, we venture to believe,
through all her novels.
Starting with a well-defined ideal of social fitness for this world,
the harmony in life towards which all action, effort, and individuality
must tend, the problem which each novel . sets itself to solve is the
reconciliation of the conflict arising out of the unfitness of the lead-
ing characters (the “hero” or “heroine,” as we may call them) as
measured by this ideal — the want of harmony between their charac-
ters, aspirations, and ambitions, their views of life, and on the other
hand the surroundings in which they live. The Greek tragedians,
Shakespeare, and all great dramatists, have ever dealt with this cen-
tral struggle between man and society. But they started with this


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GEORGE ELIOT
5371
fact, and had merely the artistic aim of evoking sympathy and pity
in the audience because of this tragic struggle, the powerful and per-
fect representation of which became the final aim of their artistic
endeavor. With George Eliot the process of adaptation, the resolun
tion of the discord, and if not the establishment of harmony, then)
the clear and impressive indication of the best way to its establish,
ment, is the real motive and end of her writing. There is in her noi
great trágic fatalism, which makes the art of the Greek dramatist
deeply and overwhelmingly tragic. Each one of her leading charac-
ters is at fault, when viewed in the light of the healthy social ideal.
In the exposition of the character the fault will be shown up strongly :
the hero will either be developed into greater social perfection, or
the' tragic end will impress upon the reader the disease and its
remedy, the bane and its antidote.
:) The social failings and shortcomings which stand in the way of
this harmony. are grouped by her into two leading faults of a general
nature: the discord between the individual and selfish and the gen-)
eral and altruistic; between thoughtless social materialism and con-
formity, and questioning originality and spiritual revolt; between
conventionality and originality; between common-sense and prophetic
far-sightedness; between the Philistine and the artistic, the humdrum
worker 'and the world-reformer, the materialist and the dreamer)
The one looks down before him on the ground and ignores the
heights beyond and the clear sky above, and in his heavy-footed
advance shoves the sky-gazer aside and walks over him when he has
fallen; the other gazes at the heights and the stars, and spurns the
clod and soil, tripping over them,- nay, slipping in the mud. They
each ignore one another and the world in which each lives, or they
despise each other and their respective goals and aims.
Now, in all her novels this problem is repeated and a solution is
attempted. Over and over again she presents this situation as the
central point in the composition of her novels, in different layers of
society, in most varied characters. And the understanding of this is
the key to the understanding of George Eliot's works. She either
brings it out in presenting two central figures as the contrasts which
represent either faulty extreme, or one figure as opposed to the sur-
roundings, or both these means are used to impress the central fact.
We shall take one pregnant instance to illustrate this: Daniel
Deronda' has been estimated and criticized chiefly as a novel in
which the Jewish question has been discussed by her in a dramatic
manner. That it deals powerfully with this question is no doubt
true; but the Jewish question is but a side issue - no doubt appealing
to her deep sympathies and sense of justice; but it is not the cen-
tral motive to the story nor the artistic keystone of the novel as


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5372
GEORGE ELIOT
constructed. The central figure in that story is Gwendolen Harleth
(who ought properly to have given her name to the novel). The
contrasting figure at the other extreme is Mordecai the Jew, and
Daniel is the intermediary figure (almost figure-head) between these
two extremes. The personality which, I am sure, set her sympa-
thetic intellect and imagination throbbing into artistic creation was
Gwendolen. As an ordinary though beautiful young lady of English
society (in her rank what Hetty Sorrel and Rosamond Vincy are
in theirs), she is the clod-born, materialistic, and hopelessly selfish
representative of the unsocial member of a society in which ideas
and ideals are unknown, and in which blind impulse, feebly directed
by prejudice and tradition, petty vanity and greed, at most per-
sonal ambition, are the motives to action, and produce the discord
and misery which surround even those who live in affluence. Her
beauty, her position in her family, her whole education, have kept
from her every higher ideal, all semblance of an ideal, and all
altruism and feeling for or with her fellow-men. Her world in the
opening of the story is the most contracted world of a small self,
with a pervading passion out of all proportion to its extent, in
which the desires whirl round and round this little circle in hideous
compression. Now the fundamental problem of the story is: How
can this little, selfish, and materialistic nature, which only realizes
the things before its desiring eyes and grasping touch, be made
large, unselfish, and idealistic, so that it reaches out beyond and
above the world of self into the regions of great ideas, in which the
individual is completely submerged; and that through this whole-
some straining of the heart and of sympathetic power, through this
realization and love of the ideal, it may learn to love and pity, and
think for and in, mankind and all men and women ? And this pro-
cess of artistic development of character is sensuously and convin-
cingly represented in this novel. The reader enters sympathetically
into the little soul of that beautiful girl at the very beginning of the
story, and in her he passes through all the phases, until without any
forced hiatus he sees before him at the end the purified and en-
larged Gwendolen, who has learnt her ennobling lesson in the great
school of suffering. It is perhaps the greatest achievement in her art.
The more definite question is: How can such a girl realize the
great world of ideas? The answer is: It must come through the
heart, through the emotions and not the intellect, — the intellect will
be widened and matured after her personality has been thrilled. She
must fall in love with a man who is the impersonation of an idea,
whose whole existence centres round a great desire far removed
from the petty world of self in which she has lived, — nay, opposed
to it, in direct contrast to it.


## p. 5373 (#549) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5373
This impersonation is presented in Daniel Deronda; and the fault
in the book is that George Eliot's theoretical bias has been too strong
for her, and in her eagerness to make him the bearer of an idea to
the central figure of the story she has sacrificed the realistic drawing
of Daniel, who is an impersonation at the cost of flesh and blood.
Given the fact that Daniel must in his personality represent some
unselfish idea, the question was: What actual idea, great in extent
and enough to fill a man's mind and soul, should be chosen ? The
difficulty here arose, that if George Eliot had chosen some purely im-
aginary topic it would have lacked reality, and would have moved
neither Gwendolen nor the reader into sympathy. If on the other
hand she had taken some stirring question of the day, the question
as such would have engrossed the interest and attention of the reader,
and would no longer have been subordinated to the chief artistic pur-
pose it has in the story. As it is, to many, the Jewish question as
treated and suggested in the novel has itself engrossed the atten-
tion of readers, and has diverted their minds from the main artistic
gist of the story. But to the ordinary English reader the subject of
Jewish social life and aspirations was sufficiently remote. Nay, so
narrow are the sympathies and the intellectual horizon of many cul-
tivated Englishmen, that though they can be interested in the lives
of gipsies and farm laborers, they cannot « screw up an interest in
those Jews. ”
To Daniel however it was a real, stirring, and great idea to
which he wished to devote his life. Now, in order that Gwendolen
should realize in herself such a great impersonal idea, she had to fall
in love with the man whose life they filled, and through her heart
and her love for him it would reach her mind and raise her thoughts.
Daniel, again, the man she loves, is contrasted with the narrow and
selfish man, the hardened and crystallized type of another social
world, consuming itself in its own self-love.
A11 Gwendolen's experiences directly or indirectly tend to bring
about this development of her soul. A striking scene in this sense
is her interview with Klesmer, the genuine and thorough musician
devoted to his art and work. And when she comes out of the final
soul's tragedy we feel that the woman has stood the test of fire, and
has realized the greatness and overwhelming vastness of the spiritual
world. G. H. Lewes, to whom the writer communicated this concep-
tion of Daniel Deronda,' assured him that he had grasped the cen-
tral idea which George Eliot had in her mind, and the actual history
in the story's construction.
Gwendolen's counterpart (and there are many in George Eliot's
books) is Dorothea in Middlemarch. ' She starts with great and
extraordinary ideas, and must, through life and suffering, realize the


## p. 5374 (#550) ###########################################

5374
GEORGE ELIOT
moral justification of the simple and commonplace in life.
The con-
trasting types illustrating this central point can be found in every
work: Dorothea and Rosamond on the one side,-original, spiritual,
striving as commonplace selfishness, — and Dorothea and Ladislaw as
heavy, serious, intellectual morality, and light, playful, artistic free-
dom, on the other; Lydgate with his great reformatory ideas, slowly
enfeebled and annihilated in his Samson-like vigor by the pretty,
selfish, shallow-souled Rosamond of provincial worldliness. Gwendolen
is also contrasted with Mirah. In Adam Bede,' again, Dinah and
Hetty present the same contrasts as do Tito Melema and Romola,
Esther and Felix Holt. Maggie Tulliver and her brother Tom, the
spirit of revolt in Maggie and the hard conventionality of respecta-
bility in her brother Tom, are strongly marked types of this kind.
Maggie's conflict with her narrow and commonplace surroundings and
their conventional respectability are typified in the Mill. It is a
wonderful touch of artistic suggestion that she and her brother are
finally submerged in the Miil, carried away by the flood. This novel
reflects more thoroughly the spirit of Greek tragedy than any other
work of modern fiction. The Mill, and the part it plays in the life
of the Tulliver family and in Maggie's sorrows, are like great Fate in
the Greek tragedy.
It is an embodiment of the hard and unrelenting
tyranny of the powers that are. Even in (Silas Marner,' the most
artistic and least doctrinaire of her novels, the moral promess of
X remedying Silas's social unfitness and misanthropy is the central
idea. Space will not allow us to give further illustrations of this idea
in her novels; but enough has been said to enable the reader to test
it and follow it up for himself.
The two most striking qualities in George Eliot as a writer are
her humor and her sympathy. They are really connected with one
another. The power of intellectual observation, when coupled with
the power of feeling sympathy, produces humor; the purely intellect-
ual or objective cast of mind produces wit; while the purely subject-
ive habit of mind is unable to produce either.
But with all her wide range of sympathy, upon which we have
been dwelling, its limitations can still be discerned. The careful
observer will recognize that the subjective attitude of the woman can-
not wholly be hidden from view. The chief women into whom she
projects herself are after all those that are nearest to herself, and she
cannot help treating them as favorites and bestowing the greater
attention upon them: Daniel only exists as a creation to develop
Gwendolen; nay, Savonarola is really constructed for Romola's spirit-
ual development, Casaubon for Dorothea, and so on. A still more
marked and important limitation in her sympathies, arising out of her
ethical bias, is her pronounced dislike to all morbid art, all that is


## p. 5375 (#551) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5375
fantastic. The poetry of Byron, the music of Chopin, all forms of
morbid sentiment, are so repulsive to her nature that she cannot treat
them with tolerance or even with humor. Remarks on Esther in
(Felix Holt' bear this out. Probably this is an autobiographical
touch, and having freed herself from these morbid tendencies in her
youth, she could never look back upon them with tolerance.
Her seriousness and ethical bias may at times also have impaired
her style. Her extensive studies in science and philosophy often
make her ponderous in thought and in expression. The fondness with
which she takes her similes from science is often confusing to the
reader who is unfamiliar with the facts and thoughts that are used
as illustrations. She never quite overcame the temptation to insert
what was new and striking to herself; so that her science and phi-
losophy never reached that mature stage of mental assimilation in
which they manifest themselves merely in the general fullness of
thought, without ever asserting themselves as science or as philoso-
phy. Still, no writer of fiction has ever introduced reflections and epi-
sodes in propria persona which are so striking and well worth reading
in themselves. When her imitators attempt this they fail signally,
and one need but compare such passages with those of George Eliot
to realize her greatness as a writer and as a thinker.
To sum up the estimate of George Eliot as a novelist, we would
say that she is the greatest representative of the analytical and
psychological school, fixing with truth and sensuousness the types
of English provincial life; with a final purpose, which she achieved, of
illustrating by them the ideals of social ethics for the wider life of
humanity.
Cha Srecklin
THE FINAL RESCUE
From The Mill on the Floss)
A"
T THAT moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden
cold about her knees and feet; it was water flowing under
her. She started up; the stream was flowing under the
door that led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an
instant; she knew it was the flood !
The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last
twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her; without


## p. 5376 (#552) ###########################################

5376
GEORGE ELIOT
screaming, she hurried with the candle up-stairs to Bob Jakin's
bedroom. The door was ajar; she went in and shook him by the
shoulder
“Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house! let us see if we
can make the boats safe. ”
She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her
baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to
see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down into
the room at the door leading from the staircase; she saw that
the water was already on a level with the step. While she was
looking, something came with a tremendous crash against the
window and sent the leaded panes and the old wooden frame-
work inwards in shivers, the water pouring in after it.
"It is the boat! ” cried Maggie. "Bob, come down to get the
boats! ”
And without a moment's shudder of fear she plunged through
the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glim-
mering light of the candle she had left on the stairs she mounted
on to the window-sill and crept into the boat, which was left
with the prow lodging and protruding through the window. Bob
was not long after her, hurrying without shoes or stockings, but
with the lantern in his hand.
«Why, they're both here,— both the boats,” said Bob, as he
got into the one where Maggie was. “It's wonderful this fast-
ening isn't broke too, as well as the mooring. ”
In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening
it, and mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger
Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless when
we are companions in their danger, and Bob's mind was absorbed
in possible expedients for the safety of the helpless in-doors.
The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had
taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impression of her
as one who would help to protect, not need to be protected.
She too had got possession of an oar and had pushed off, so as
to release the boat from the overhanging window frame.
“The water's rising so fast,” said Bob, "I doubt it'll be in
at the chambers before long,— th' house is so low. I've more
mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat,
if I could, and trusten to the water, — for th' old house is none
so safe. And if I let go the boat - but you! ” he exclaimed, ,
suddenly lifting the light of his lantern on Maggie, as she


## p. 5377 (#553) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5377
stood in the rain with the car in her hand and her black hair
streaming
Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept
along the line of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to
the wide water with a force that carried them far past the
meeting current of the river.
In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing,
but that she had suddenly passed away from that life which she
had been dreading; it was the transition of death without its
agony,- and she was alone in the darkness with God.
The whole thing had been so rapid, so dream-like, that the
threads of ordinary association were broken; she sank down on
the seat clutching the oar mechanically, and for a long while had
no distinct conception of her position. The first thing that
waked her to fuller consciousness was the cessation of the rain,
and a perception that the darkness was divided by the faintest
light, which parted the overhanging gloom from the immeasur-
able watery level below. She was driven out upon the flood,
that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk of,
which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And
with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old home,
and Tom, and her mother, they had all listened together.
"O God, where am I? Which is the way home? ” she cried
out, in the dim loneliness.
What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had
once nearly destroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress,
- her mother and her brother, alone there, beyond reach of
help! Her whole soul was strained now on that thought; and
she saw the long-loved faces looking for help into the darkness,
and finding none.
She was floating in smooth water now,- perhaps far on the
over-flooded fields. There was sense of present danger to
check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained
her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the
first sight of her whereabouts, – that she might catch some faint
suggestion of the spot towards which all her anxieties tended.
Oh, how welcome the widening of that dismal watery level,
the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defin-
ing blackness of objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must
be out on the fields; those were the tops of hedgerow trees.
Which way did the river lie ? Looking behind her, she saw the
no
IX-337


## p. 5378 (#554) ###########################################

5378
GEORGE ELIOT
lines of black trees; looking before her, there were none; then
the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle
the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope; the dawning
seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and she
could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a
mound where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and
rowed by turns in the growing twilight; her wet clothes clung
round her, and her streaming hair was dashed about by the
wind, but she was hardly conscious of any bodily sensations, -
except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion.
Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those
long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined
sense of reconcilement with her brother: what quarrel, what
harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the pres-
ence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life
is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal
needs ? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love
towards her brother that swept away all the later impressions of
hard, cruel offense and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,
underlying, unshakable memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and
near to her Maggie could discern the current of the river. The
dark mass must be yes, it was - St. Ogg's. Ah, now she
knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known
trees -- the gray willows, the now yellowing chestnuts - and above
them the old roof! But there was no color, no shape yet; all
was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed
to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-
up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any
future.
She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she
would never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house:
this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with
more and more vividness the state of things round the old home.
But then she might be carried very far down, and be unable to
guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time dis-
tinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no
choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the
current. Swiftly she went now, without effort; more and more
clearly in the lessening distance and the growing light she began
to discern the objects that she knew must be the well-known
H
1
1


## p. 5379 (#555) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5379
see
trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing muddy cur-
rent that must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash
against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon.
What were those masses ?
For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony
of dread. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being
floated along, more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash.
But the horror was transient; it passed away before the oncom-
ing warehouses of St. Ogg's. She had passed the mouth of the
Ripple, then; now, she must use all her skill and power to man-
age the boat and get it if possible out of the current. She could
now that the bridge was broken down; she could see the
masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field.
But no
boats were to be seen moving on the river, — such as had been
laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution Maggie seized her oar, and stood up
again to paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness
of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She
could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if
the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had
passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of
the current. Then with one yearning look towards her uncle
Deane's house that lay farther down the river, she took to both
her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery fields,
back towards the Mill. Color was beginning to awake now, and
as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints
of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right; and
the home chestnuts,- oh, how deep they lay in the water, - deeper
than the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill —
where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Rip-
ple, - what had they meant? But it was not the house, - the
house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but still firm;-
or was it broken in at the end towards the Mill ?
With panting joy that she was there at last, -joy that over-
came all distress, – Maggie neared the front of the house. At
first she heard no sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat
was on a level with the up-stairs window. She called out in a
loud piercing voice: -
« Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is
Maggie! ”


## p. 5380 (#556) ###########################################

5380
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she
heard Tom's voice: -
“Who is it? Have you brought a boat ? »
"It is I, Tom,- Maggie. Where is mother ? »
“She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yester-
day. I'll come down to the lower window. ”
"Alone, Maggie? ” said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish-
ment, as he opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.
“Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you.
Get in quickly. Is there no one else ? ”
"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat, "I fear the man is
drowned; he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part
of the Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it;
I've shouted again and again, and there has been no answer.
Give me the oars, Maggie. ”
It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were
on the
wide water,— he face to face with Maggie, - that the full mean-
ing of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with
so overpowering a force,- it was such a new revelation to his
spirit of the depths in life that had lain beyond his vision, which
he had fancied so keen and clear,—that he was unable to ask a
question. They sat mutely gazing at each other,- Maggie with
eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face; Tom
pale, with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy
though the lips were silent; and though he could ask no ques-
tion, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, Divinely protected
effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and
the lips found a word they could utter,— the old childish Mag-
sie!
Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that
mysterious, wondrous happiness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said:—“We will go to Lucy,
Tom; we'll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the
rest. »
Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed
from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the
river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.
Park House stands high up out of the flood,” said Maggie.
"Perhaps they have got Lucy there. "
Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards
them by the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way


## p. 5381 (#557) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5381
on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated
along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery
desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness around them;
in dreadful clearness floated onward the hurrying, threatening
masses. A large company in a boat that was working its way
along under the Tofton houses observed their danger, and shouted,
Get out of the current!
But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before
him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging
together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the
stream.
“It is coming, Maggie! ) Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice,
loosing the oars and clasping her.
The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water,
and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.
But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on
the golden water.
The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down
in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one
supreme moment the days when they had clasped their little
hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.
NATURE repairs her ravages, — repairs them with her sunshine,
and with human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood
had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years
The fifth autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in
thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and
warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager
voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.
And
every man and woman mentioned in this history was
still living, except those whose end we know.
Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees
are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is
a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the
hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past
rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no
thorough repair.
Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote church-yard -- where
the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found
with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood — had recov-
ered all its grassy order and decent quiet.


## p. 5382 (#558) ###########################################

5382
GEORGE ELIOT
Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon
after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace;
and it was visited at different moments by two men who both
felt that their keenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever
buried there.
One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside
him; but that was years after.
The other was always solitary. His great companionship was
among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed
still to hover, like a revisiting spirit.
The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and
below the names it was written :-
“In their death they were not divided. ”
THE VILLAGE WORTHIES
1
1
From (Silas Marner)
TE
He conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when
Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, had as usual
been slow and intermittent when the company first assem-
bled. The pipes began to be puffed in a silence which had an
air of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits
and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were
depending on the first man who winked; while the beer-drinkers,
chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids
down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their
draughts of beer were a funeral duty attended with embarrassing
sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral
disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences
as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke
silence by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher:-
“Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yester-
day, Bob? »
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not dis-
posed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat,
and replied, “And they wouldn't be fur wrong, John. ”
After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely
as before.
«Was it a red Durham ? » said the farrier, taking up the
thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.


## p. 5383 (#559) ###########################################

GEORGE ELIOT
5383
The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at
the butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of
answering
“Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humored husky
treble,– "and a Durham it was. ”
« Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of,” said the
farrier, looking round with some triumph: “I know who it is has
got the red Durhams o’ this country-side. And she'd a white
star on her brow, I'll bet a penny ? The farrier leaned forward
with his hands on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes
twinkled knowingly.
“Well, yes — she might,” said the butcher, slowly, consider-
ing that he was giving a decided affirmative.
« I don't say
contrairy. ”
"I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing himself
backward again, and speaking defiantly; "if I don't know Mr.
Lammeter's cows, I should like to know who does — that's all.
And as for the cow you've bought, bargain or no bargain, I've
been at the drenching of her - contradick me who will. ”
The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversational
spirit was roused a little.
« I'm not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I'm for peace
and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs — I'm for cutting
'em short myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's
a lovely carkiss — and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring
tears into their eyes to look at it. ”
“Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pursued the
farrier, angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told
a lie when you said it was a red Durham. ”
“I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huski-
ness as before; (and I contradick none not if a man was to
swear himself black; he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bar-
gains. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say I'll
stick to; but I'll quarrel wi' no man. ”
"No," said the farrier with bitter sarcasm, looking at the
company generally; "and p'raps you aren't pig-headed; and p'raps
you didn't say the cow was a red Durham; and p'raps you didn't
say she'd got a star on her brow — stick to that, now you're
at it. ”
« Come, come,” said the landlord, “let the cow alone. The
truth lies atween you; you're both right and both wrong, as I


## p. 5384 (#560) ###########################################

5384
GEORGE ELIOT
allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say
nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow.
And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters,
you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem-
ber when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and
took the Warrens ? »
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which func-
tions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-
featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency,
slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer
to the landlord's appeal, and said:
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid
by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been
to school at Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up
since my day. ”
"If you're pointing at me, Mr.