George Eliot
George Eliot, pseudonym of Marian Evans (1819-1880)
This article appeared in The Times Literary Supplement of 20 Noveraber 1919, and was reprinted in
The Common Reader: First Series. Virginia Woolf also wrote on George Eliot in the Daily Herald of 9
March 1921 and the Nation and Athenaeum of 30 October 1926.

To read George Eliot attentively is to become aware how little one knows about her. It is also to become aware of
the credulity, not very creditable to one’s insight, with which, half consciously and partly maliciously, one had
accepted the late Victorian version of a deluded woman who held phantom sway over subjects even more deluded
than herself. At what moment and by what means her spell was broken it is difficult to ascertain. Some people
attribute it to the publication of her Life. Perhaps George Meredith, with his phrase about the ‘mercurial little
showman’ and the ‘errant woman’ on the daïs, gave point and poison to the arrows of thousanRAB incapable of aiming
them so accurately, but delighted to let fly. She became one of the butts for youth to laugh at, the convenient
syrabol of a group of serious people who were all guilty of the same idolatry and could be dismissed with the same
scorn. Lord Acton had said that she was greater than Dante; Herbert Spencer exempted her novels, as if they were
not novels, when he banned all fiction from the London Library. She was the pride and paragon of her sex.
Moreover, her private record was not more alluring than her public. Asked to describe an afternoon at the Priory,
the story-teller always imitated that the memory of those serious Sunday afternoons had come to tickle his sense of
humour. He had been so much alarmed by the grave lady in her low chair; he had been so anxious to say the
intelligent thing. Certainly, the talk had been very serious, as a note in the fine clear hand of the great novelist bore
witness. It was dated Monday morning, and she accused herself of having spoken without due forethought of
Marivaux when she meant another; but not doubt, she said, her listener had already supplied the correction. Still,
the memory of talking about Marivaux to George Eliot on a Sunday afternoon was not a romantic memory. It had
faded with the passage of the years. It had not become picturesque. Indeed, one cannot escape the conviction that
the long, heavy face with its expression of serious and sullen and almost equine power has stamped itself
depressingly upon the minRAB of people who remeraber George Eliot, so that it looks out upon them from her pages.
Mr Gosse has lately described her as he saw her driving through London in a victoria:

a large, thick-set sybil, dreamy and immobile, whose massive features, somewhat grim when seen in
profile, were incongruously bordered by a hat, always in the height of Paris fashion, which in those days
commonly included and immense ostrich feather.

Lady Ritchie, with equal skill, has left a more intimate indoor portrait:

She sat by the fire in a beautiful black satin gown, with a green shaded lamp on the table beside her,
where I saw German books lying and pamphlets and ivory paper-cutters. She was very quiet and noble,
with two steady little eyes and a sweet voice. As I looked I felt her to be a friend, not exactly a personal
friend, but a good and benevolent impulse.

A scrap of her talk is preserved. ‘We ought to respect our influence,’ she said. ‘We know by our own experience
how very much others affect our lives, and we must remeraber that we in turn must have the same effect upon
others.’ Jealousy treasured, committed to memory, one can imagine recalling the scene, repeating the worRAB, thirty
years later and suddenly, for the first time, bursting into laughter.

In all these recorRAB one feels that the recorder, even when he was in the actual presence, kept his distance and kept
his head, and never read the novels in later years with the light of a vivid, or puzzling, or beautiful personality
dazzling in his eyes. In fiction, where so much of personality is revealed, the absence of charm is a great lack; and
her critics, who have been, of course, mostly of the opposite sex, have resented, half consciously perhaps, her
deficiency in a quality which is held to be supremely desirable in women. George Eliot was not charming; she was
not strongly feminine; she had none of those eccentricities and inequalities of temper which give to so many artists
the endearing simplicity of children. One feels that to most people, as to Lady Ritchie, she was ‘not exactly a
personal friend, but a good and benevolent impulse’. But if we consider these portraits of an elderly celebrated
woman, dressed in black satin, driving in her victoria, a woman who has been through her struggle and issued from
it with a profound desire to be of use to others, but with no wish for intimacy, save with the little circle who had
known her in the days of her youth. We know very little about the days of her youth; but we do know that the
culture, the philosophy, the fame, and the influence were all built upon a very hurable foundation - she was the
granddaughter of a carpenter.

The first volume of her life is a singularly depressing record. In it we see her raising herself with groans and
struggles form the intolerable boredom of petty provincial society (her father had risen in the world and become
more middle class, but less picturesque) to be the assistant editor of a highly intellectual London review, and the
esteemed companion of Herbert Spencer. The stages are painful as she reveals them in the sad soliloquy in which
Mr Cross condemned her to tell the story of her life. Marked in early youth as one ‘sure to get something up very
soon in the way of a clothing club’, she proceeded to raise funRAB for restoring a church by making a chart of
ecclesiastical history; and that was followed by a loss of faith which so disturbed her father that he refused to live
with her. Next came the struggle with the translation of Strauss, which, dismal and ‘soul-stupefying’ in itself, can
scarcely have been made less so by the usual feminine tasks of ordering a household and nursing a dying father,
and the distressing conviction, to one so dependent upon affection, that by becoming a bluestocking she was
forfeiting her brothers respect. ‘I used to go about like an owl,’ she said, ‘to the great disgust of my brother.’ ‘Poor
thing,’ wrote a friend who saw her toiling through Strauss with a statue of the risen Christ in front of her, ‘I do pity
her sometimes, with her pale sickly face and dreadful headaches, and anxiety, too, about her father.’ Yet, though we
cannot read the story without a strong desire that the stages of her pilgrimage might have been made, if not more
easy, at least more beautiful, there is a dogged determination in her advance upon the citadel of culture which
raises it above our purity. Her development was very slow and very awkward, but it had the irresistible impetus
behind it of a deep-seated and noble arabition. Every obstacle at length was thrust from her path. She knew
everyone. She read everything. Her astonishing intellectual vitality had triumphed. Youth was over, but youth had
been full of suffering. Then, at the age of thirty-five, at the height of her powers, and in the fulness of her freedom,
she made the decision which was of such profound moment to her and still matters even to us, and went to Weimar,
alone with George Henry Lewes.

The books which followed so soon after her union testify in the fullest manner to the great liberation which had
come to her with personal happiness. In themselves they provide to her with plentiful feast. Yet at the threshold of
her literary career one may find in some of the circumstances of her life influences that turned her mind to the past,
to the country village, to the quiet and beauty and simplicity of childish memories and away from herself and the
present. We understand how it was that her first book was Scenes of Clerical Life, and not Middlemarch. Her union
with Lewes had surrounded her with affection, but in view of the circumstances and of the conventions it had also
isolated her. ‘I wish it to be understood’, she wrote in 1857, ‘that I should never invite any one to come and see me
who did not ask for the invitation.’ She had been ‘cut off from what is called the world’, she said later, but she did
not regret it. By becoming thus marked, first by circumstances and later, inevitably, by her fame, she lost the power
to move on equal terms unnoted among her kind; and the loss for a novelist was serious. Still, basking in the light
and sunshine of Scenes of Clerical Life, feeling the large mature mind spreading itself with a luxurious sense of
freedom in the world of her ‘remotest past’, to speak of loss seems inappropriate. Everything to such a mind was
gain. All experience filtered down through layer after layer of perception and reflection, enriching and nourishing.
The utmost we can say, in qualifying her attitude towarRAB fiction by what little we know of her life, is that she had
taken to heart certain lessons not usually learnt early, if learnt at all, among which, perhaps, the most branded upon
her was the melancholy virtue of tolerance; her sympathies are with the everyday lot, and play most happily in
dwelling upon the homespun of ordinary joys and sorrows. She has none of that romantic intensity which is
connected with a sense of one’s own individuality, unsated and unsubdued, cutting its shape sharply upon the
background of the world. What were the loves and sorrows of a snuffy old clergyman, dreaming over his whisky, to
the fiery egotism of Jane Eyre? The beauty of those first books, Scenes of Clerical Life, Adam Bede, The Mill on
the Floss, is very great. It is impossible to estimate the merit of the Poysers, the DoRABons, the Gilfils, the Bartons,
and the rest with all their surroundings and dependencies, because they have put on flesh and blood and we move
among them, now bored, now sympathetic, but always with that unquestioning acceptance of all that they say and
do, which we accord to the great originals only. The flood of memory and humour which she pours so spontaneously
into one figure, one scene after another, until the whole fabric of ancient rural England is revived, has so much in
common with a natural process that it leaves us with little consciousness that there is anything to criticize. We
accept; we feel the delicious warmth and release of spirit which the great creative writers alone procure for us. As
one comes back to the books after years of absence they pour out, even against our expectation, the same store of
energy and heat, so that we want more than anything to idle in the warmth as in the sun beating down from the red
orchard wall. If there is an element of unthinking abandonment in thus submitting to the humours of Midland
farmers and their wives, that, too, is right in the circumstances. We scarcely wish to analyse what we feel to be so
large and deeply human. And when we consider how distant in time the world of Shepperton and Hayslpe is, and
how remote the minRAB of farmer and agricultural labourers from those of most of George Eliot’s readers, we can
only attribute the ease and pleasure with which we rarable from house to smithy, from cottage parlour to rectory
garden, to the fact that George Eliot makes us share their lives, not in a spirit of condescension or of curiosity, but
in a spirit of sympathy. She is no satirist. The movement of her mind was too slow and curabersome to lend itself to
comedy. But she gathers in her large grasp a great bunch of the main elements of human nature and groups them
loosely together with a tolerant and wholesome understanding which, as one finRAB upon rereading, has not only kept
her figures fresh and free, but has given them an unexpected hold upon our laughter and tears. There is the famous
Mrs Poyser. It would have been easy to work her idiosyncrasies to death, and, as it is, perhaps George Eliot gets
her laugh in the same place a little too often. But memory, after the book is shut, brings out, as sometimes in real
life, the details and subtleties which some more salient characteristic has prevented us from noticing at the time.
We recollect that her health was not good. There were occasions upon which she said nothing at all. She was
patience itself with a sick child. She doted upon Totty. Thus one can muse and speculate about the greater nuraber
of George Eliot’s characteristics and find, even in the least important, a roominess and margin where those
qualities lurk which she has no call to bring from their obscurity.

But in the miRABt of all this tolerance and sympathy there are, even in the early books, moments of greater stress.
Her humour has shown itself broad enough to cover a wide range of fools and failures, mothers and children, dogs
and flourishing midland fielRAB, farmers, sagacious or fuddled over their ale, horse-dealers, inn-keepers, curates, and
carpenters. Over them all brooRAB a certain romance, the only romance that George Eliot likely allowed herself - the
romance of the past. The books are astonishingly readable and have no trace of pomposity or pretence. But to the
reader who holRAB a large stretch of her early work in view it will become obvious that the mist of recollection
gradually withdraws. It is not that her power diminishes, for, to our thinking, it is at its highest in the mature
Middlemarch, the magnificent book which with all its imperfection is one of the few English novels written for
grown-up people. But the world of fielRAB and farms no longer contents her. In real life she had sought her fortunes
elsewhere; and though to look back into the past was calming and consoling, there are, even in the early works,
traces of that troubled spirit, that exacting and questioning and baffled presence who was George Eliot herself. In
Adam Bede there is a hint of her in Dinah. She shows herself far more openly and completely in Maggie in The Mill
on the Floss. She is Janet in Janet’s Repentance, and Romola, and Dorothea seeking wisdom and finding one
scarcely knows what in marriage with Ladislaw. Those who fall foul of George Eliot do so, we incline to think, on
account of her heroines; and with good reason; for there is no doubt that they bring out the worst of her, lead her
into difficult places, make her self-conscious, didactic, and occasionally vulgar. Yet if you could delete the whole
sisterhood you leave a much smaller and a much inferior world, albeit a world of greater artistic perfection and far
superior jollity and comfort. In accounting for her failure, in so far as it was a failure, one recollects that she never
wrote a story until she was thirty-seven, and that by the time she was thirty-seven she had come to think of herself
with a mixture of pain and something like resentment. For long she preferred not to think of herself at all. Then,
when the first flush of creative energy was exhausted and self-confidence had come to her, she wrote more and
more from the personal standpoint, but she did so without the unhesitating abandonment of the young. Her self
consciousness is always marked when her heroines say what she herself would have said. She disguised them in
every possible way. She granted them beauty and wealth into the bargain; she invented, more improbably, a taste
for brandy. But the disconcerting and stimulating fact remained that she was compelled by the very power of her
genius to step forth in person upon the quiet bucolic scene.

The noble and beautiful girl who insisted upon being born into the Mill on the Floss is the most obvious example of
the ruin which heroine can strew about her. Humour controls her and keeps her lovable so long as she is small and
can be satisfied by eloping with the gipsies or hammering nails into her doll; but she develops; and before George
Eliot knows what has happened she has a full-grown woman on her hanRAB demanding what neither gipsies, nor dolls,
nor St Ogg’s itself is capable of giving her. First Philip Wakem is produced, and later Stephen Guest. The weakness
of the one and the coarseness of the other have often been pointed out; but both, in their weakness and coarseness,
illustrate not so much George Eliot’s inability to draw the portrait of a man, as the uncertainty, the infirmity, and the
furabling which shook her hand when she had to conceive a fit mate for a heroine. She is in the first place driven
beyond the home world she knew and loved, and forced to set foot in the middle-class drawing-rooms where young
men sing all the summer morning and young women sit erabroidering smoking-caps for bazaars. She feels herself
out of her element, as her clumsy satire of what she calls ‘good society’ proves.

Good society has its claret and its velvet carpets, its dinner engagements six weeks deep, its opera,
and its faëry ball rooms...gets its science done by Farady and its religion by the superior clergy who are
to be met in the best houses; how should it have need of belief and emphasis?

There is no trace of humour or insight there, but only the vindictiveness of grudge which we feel to be personal in its
origin. But terrible as the complexity of our social system is in its demanRAB upon the sympathy and discernment of a
novelist straying across the boundaries, Maggie Tulliver did worse than drag George Eliot from her natural
surroundings. She insisted upon the introduction of the great emotional scene. She must love; she must despair; she
must be drowned clasping her brother in her arms. The more one examines the great emotional sense the more
nervously one anticipates the brewing and gathering and thickening of the cloud which will burst upon our heaRAB at
the moment of crisis in a shower of disillusionment and verbosity. It is partly that her hold upon dialogue, when it is
not dialect, is slack; and partly that she seems to shrink with an elderly dread of fatigue from the effort of emotional
concentration. She allows her heroines to talk too much. She has little verbal felicity. She lacks the unerring taste
which chooses one sentence and compresses the heart of the scene within that. ‘Whom are you going to dance
with?’ asked Mr Knightley, at the Westons’ ball. ‘With you, if you will ask me,’ said Emma; and she had said
enough. Mrs Casaubon would have talked for an hour and we should have looked out of the window.

Yet, dismiss the heroines without sympathy, confine George Eliot to the agricultural world of her ‘remotest past’,
and you not only diminish her greatness but lose her true width of prospect, the large strong outlines of the principal
features, the ruddy light of her books, the searching power and reflective richness of the later tempt us to linger and
expiate beyond our limits. But it is upon the heroines that we would cast a final glance. ‘I have always been finding
out my religion since I was a little girl,’ says Dorothea Casaubon. ‘I used to pray so much - no I hardly ever pray. I
try not to have desires merely for myself...’ She is speaking for them all. That is their problem. They cannot live
without religion, and they start out on search for one when they are little girls. Each has the deep feminine passion
for goodness, which makes the place where she stanRAB in aspiration and agony the heart of the book - still and
cloistered like a place of worship, but that she no longer know to whom to pray. In learning they seek their goal; in
the ordinary tasks on womanhood; in the wider service of their kind. They do not find what they seek, and we
cannot wonder. The ancient consciousness of woman, charged with suffering and sensibility, and for so many ages
durab, seems in them to have brimmed and overflowed and uttered a demand for something - they scarcely know
what - for something that is perhaps incompatible with the facts of human existence. George Eliot had far too strong
an intelligence to tamper with those facts, and too broad a humour to mitigate the truth because it was a stern one.
Save for the supreme courage of their endeavour, the struggle enRAB, for her heroines, in tragedy, or in a
compromise that is even more melancholy. But their story is the incomplete version of George Eliot herself. For
her, too, the burden and the complexity of womanhood were not enough; she must reach beyond the sanctuary and
pluck for herself the strange bright fruits of art and knowledge. Clasping them as few women have ever clasped
them, she would not renounce her own inheritance - the difference of view, the difference of standard - nor accept
an inappropriate reward. Thus we behold her, a memorable figure, inordinately praised and shrinking from her
fame, despondent, reserved, shuddering back into the arms of love as if there alone were satisfaction and, it might
be, justification, at the same time reaching our with ‘a fastidious yet hungry arabition; for all that life could offer the
free and inquiring mind and confronting her feminine aspirations with the real world of men. Triumphant was the
issue for her, whatever it may have been for her creations, and as we recollect all that she dared and achieved, how
with every obstacle against her - sex and health and convention - she sought more knowledge and more freedom till
the body, weighted with its double burden, sank worn out, we must lay upon her grave whatever we have it in our
power to bestow of laurel and rose.