Feb. 21.—Ill and very miserable. George has taken my drama away from me.
The sun shone through my window on your letter as I read it, adding to its cheeriness. It was good of you to write it. I was ill last week, and had mental troubles besides—happily such as are unconnected with any one's experience except my own. I am still ailing, but striving hard "not to mind," and not to diffuse my inward trouble, according to Madame de Vaux's excellent maxim. I shall not, I fear, be able to get to you till near the end of next week—towards the 11th. I think of you very often, and especially when my own malaise reminds me how much of your time is spent in the same sort of endurance. Mr. Spencer told us yesterday that Dr. Ransom said he had cured himself of dyspepsia by leaving off stimulants—the full benefit manifesting itself after two or three months of abstinence. I am going to try. All best regards to Mr. Congreve and tenderest sisterly love to yourself.
March 1.—I wrote an article for the Pall Mall Gazette—"A Word for the Germans."
March 12.—Went to Wandsworth, to spend the Sunday and Monday with Mr. and Mrs. Congreve. Feeling very ailing; in constant dull pain, which makes all effort burdensome.
I did not promise, like Mr. Collins, that you should receive a letter of thanks for your kind entertainment of me; but I feel the need of writing a word or two to break the change from your presence to my complete absence from you. It was really an enjoyment to be with you, in spite of the bodily uneasiness which robbed me of half my mind. One thing only I regret—that in my talk with you I think I was rather merciless to other people. Whatever vices I have seem to be exaggerated by my malaise—such "chastening" not answering the purpose of purification in my case. Pray set down any unpleasant notions I have suggested about others to my account—i.e., as being my unpleasantness, and not theirs. When one is bilious, other people's complexions look yellow, and one of their eyes higher than the other—all the fault of one's own evil interior. I long to hear from you that you are better, and if you are not better, still to hear from you before too long an interval. Mr. Congreve's condition is really cheering, and he goes about with me as a pleasant picture—like that Raphael the Tuscan duke chose always to carry with him.
I got worse after I left you; but to-day I am better, and begin to think there is nothing serious the matter with me except the "weather," which every one else is alleging as the cause of their symptoms.
I believe you are one of the few who can understand that in certain crises direct expression of sympathy is the least possible to those who most feel sympathy. If I could have been with you in bodily presence, I should have sat silent, thinking silence a sign of feeling that speech, trying to be wise, must always spoil. The truest things one can say about great Death are the oldest, simplest things that everybody knows by rote, but that no one knows really till death has come very close. And when that inward teaching is going on, it seems pitiful presumption for those who are outside to be saying anything. There is no such thing as consolation when we have made the lot of another our own. I don't know whether you strongly share, as I do, the old belief that made men say the gods loved those who died young. It seems to me truer than ever, now life has become more complex, and more and more difficult problems have to be worked out. Life, though a good to men on the whole, is a doubtful good to many, and to some not a good at all. To my thought it is a source of constant mental distortion to make the denial of this a part of religion—to go on pretending things are better than they are. To me early death takes the aspect of salvation; though I feel, too, that those who live and suffer may sometimes have the greater blessedness of being a salvation. But I will not write of judgments and opinions. What I want my letter to tell you is that I love you truly, gratefully, unchangeably.
March 25.—I am in deep depression, feeling powerless. I have written nothing but beginnings since I finished a little article for the Pall Mall, on the Logic of Servants. Dear George is all activity, yet is in very frail health. How I worship his good humor, his good sense, his affectionate care for every one who has claims on him! That worship is my best life.
March 29.—Sent a letter on "Futile Lying," from Saccharissa to the Pall Mall.
I have begun a novel ("Felix Holt").
We are wondering if, by any coincidence or condition of things, you could come to us on Thursday, when we have our last evening party—wondering how you are—wondering everything about you, and knowing nothing. Could you resolve some of our wonderings into cheering knowledge? It is ages since you made any sign to us. Are we to be blamed or you? I hope you are not unfavorably affected by the sudden warmth which comes with the beautiful sunshine. Some word of you, in pity!
If the sun goes on shining in this glorious way, I shall think of your journey with pleasure. The sight of the country must be a good when the trees are bursting into leaf. But I will remember your warning to Emily, and not insist too much on the advantages of paying visits. Let us hear of you sometimes, and think of us as very busy and very happy, but always including you in our world, and getting uneasy when we are left too much to our imaginations about you. Tell Emily that Ben and I are the better for having seen her. He has added to his store of memories, and will recognize her when she comes again.
May 4.—Sent an article on Lecky's "History of Rationalism" for the Fortnightly. For nearly a fortnight I have been ill, one way or other.
May 10.—Finished a letter of Saccharissa for the Pall Mall. Reading Æschylus, "Theatre of the Greeks," Klein's "History of the Drama," etc.
This note will greet you on your return, and tell you that we were glad to hear of you in your absence, even though the news was not of the brightest. Next week we are going away—I don't yet know exactly where; but it is firmly settled that we start on Monday. It will be good for the carpets, and it will be still better for us, who need a wholesome shaking, even more than the carpets do.
The first number of the Review was done with last Monday, and will be out on the 15th. You will be glad to hear that Mr. Harrison's article is excellent, but the "mull" which George declares to be the fatality with all first numbers is so far incurred with regard to this very article that, from overwhelming alarm at its length, George put it (perhaps too hastily) into the smaller type. I hope the importance of the subject and the excellence of the treatment will overcome that disadvantage.
Nurse all pleasant thoughts in your solitude, and count our affection among them.
We have just returned from a five days' holiday at the coast, and are much invigorated by the tonic breezes.
We have nothing to do with the Fortnightly as a money speculation. Mr. Lewes has simply accepted the post of editor, and it was seemly that I should write a little in it. But do not suppose that I am going into periodical writing. And your friendship is not required to read one syllable for our sakes. On the contrary, you have my full sympathy in abstaining. Rest in peace, dear Sara, and finish your work, that you may have the sense of having spoken out what was within you. That is really a good—I mean, when it is done in all seriousness and sincerity.
May 28.—Finished Bamford's "Passages from the Life of a Radical." Have just begun again Mill's "Political Economy," and Comte's "Social Science," in Miss Martineau's edition.
June 7.—Finished Annual Register for 1832. Reading Blackstone. Mill's second article on "Comte," to appear in the Westminster, lent me by Mr. Spencer. My health has been better of late.
June 15.—Read again Aristotle's "Poetics" with fresh admiration.
June 20.—Read the opening of my novel to G. Yesterday we drove to Wandsworth. Walked together on Wimbledon Common, in outer and inner sunshine, as of old; then dined with Mr. and Mrs. Congreve, and had much pleasant talk.
June 25.—Reading English History, reign of George III.; Shakespeare's "King John." Yesterday G. dined at Greenwich with the multitude of so-called writers for the Saturday. He heard much commendation of the Fortnightly, especially of Bagehot's articles, which last is reassuring after Mr. Trollope's strong objections.
July 3.—Went to hear the "Faust" at Covent Garden: Mario, Lucca, and Graziani. I was much thrilled by the great symbolical situations, and by the music—more, I think, than I had ever been before.
July 9 (Sunday).—We had Browning, Huxley, Mr. Warren, Mr. Bagehot, and Mr. Crompton, and talk was pleasant.
Success to the canvassing! It is "very meet and right and your bounden duty" to be with Mr. Taylor in this time of hard work, and I am glad that your health has made no impediment. I should have liked to be present when you were cheered. The expression of a common feeling by a large mass of men, when the feeling is one of good-will, moves me like music. A public tribute to any man who has done the world a service with brain or hand has on me the effect of a great religious rite, with pealing organ and full-voiced choir.
I agree with you in your feeling about Mill. Some of his works have been frequently my companions of late, and I have been going through many actions de grâce towards him. I am not anxious that he should be in Parliament: thinkers can do more outside than inside the House. But it would have been a fine precedent, and would have made an epoch, for such a man to have been asked for and elected solely on the ground of his mental eminence. As it is, I suppose it is pretty certain that he will not be elected.
I am glad you have been interested in Mr. Lewes's article. His great anxiety about the Fortnightly is to make it the vehicle for sincere writing—real contributions of opinion on important topics. But it is more difficult than the inexperienced could imagine to get the sort of writing which will correspond to that desire of his.
July 16.—Madame Bohn, niece of Professor Scherer, called. She said certain things about "Romola" which showed that she had felt what I meant my readers to feel. She said she knew the book had produced the same effect on many others. I wish I could be encouraged by this.
July 22.—Sat for my portrait—I suppose for the last time.
July 23.—I am going doggedly to work at my novel, seeing what determination can do in the face of despair. Reading Neale's "History of the Puritans."
I received yesterday the circular about the Mazzini Fund. Mr. Lewes and I would have liked to subscribe to a tribute to Mazzini, or to a fund for his use, of which the application was defined and guaranteed by his own word. As it is, the application of the desired fund is only intimated in the vaguest manner by the Florentine committee. The reflection is inevitable that the application may ultimately be the promotion of conspiracy, the precise character of which is necessarily unknown to subscribers. Now, though I believe there are cases in which conspiracy may be a sacred, necessary struggle against organized wrong, there are also cases in which it is hopeless, and can produce nothing but misery; or needless, because it is not the best means attainable of reaching the desired end; or unjustifiable, because it resorts to acts which are more unsocial in their character than the very wrong they are directed to extinguish; and in these three supposable cases it seems to me that it would be a social crime to further conspiracy even by the impulse of a little finger, to which one may well compare a small money subscription.
I think many persons to whom the circular might be sent would take something like this view, and would grieve, as we do, that a proposition intended to honor Mazzini should come in a form to which they cannot conscientiously subscribe.
I trouble you and Mr. Taylor with this explanation, because both Mr. Lewes and I have a real reverence for Mazzini, and could not therefore be content to give a silent negative.
I fear that my languor on Saturday prevented me from fairly showing you how sweet and precious your presence was to me then, as at all times. We have almost made up our minds to start some time in this month for a run in Normandy and Brittany. We both need the change, though when I receive, as I did yesterday, a letter from some friend, telling me of cares and trials from which I am quite free, I am ashamed of wanting anything.
Aug. 2.—Finished the "Agamemnon" second time.
When I wrote to you last I quite hoped that I should see you and Emily before we left home, but now it is settled that we start on Thursday morning, and I have so many little things to remember and to do that I dare not set apart any of the intervening time for the quiet enjoyment of a visit from you. It is not quite so cheerful a picture as I should like to carry with me, that of you and Emily so long alone, with Mr. Congreve working at Bradford. But your friends are sure to think of you, and want to see you. I hope you did not suffer so severely as we did from the arctic cold that rushed in after the oppressive heat. Mr. T. Trollope came from Italy just when it began. He says it is always the same when he comes to England, people always say it has just been very hot, and he believes that means they had a few days in which they were not obliged to blow on their fingers.
When you write to Mr. Congreve pray tell him that we were very grateful for his Itinerary, which is likely useful to us—indeed, has already been useful in determining our route.
Sept. 7.—We returned home after an expedition into Brittany. Our course was from Boulogne to St. Valéry, Dieppe, Rouen, Caen, Bayeux, St. Lô, Vire, Avranches, Dol, St. Malo, Rennes, Avray, and Carnac—back by Nantes, Tours, Le Mans, Chartres, Paris, Rouen, Dieppe, Abbeville, and so again to Boulogne.
We came home again on Thursday night—this day week—after a month's absence in Normandy and Brittany. I have been thinking of you very often since, but believed that you did not care to have the interruption of letters just now, and would rather defer correspondence till your mind was freer. If I had suspected that you would feel any want satisfied by a letter I should certainly have written. I had not heard of Miss Bonham Carter's death, else I should have conceived something of your state of mind. I think you and I are alike in this, that we can get no good out of pretended comforts, which are the devices of self-love, but would rather, in spite of pain, grow into the endurance of all "naked truths." So I say no word about your great loss, except that I love you, and sorrow with you.
The circumstances of life—the changes that take place in ourselves—hem in the expression of affections and memories that live within us, and enter almost into every day, and long separations often make intercourse difficult when the opportunity comes. But the delight I had in you, and in the hours we spent together, and in all your acts of friendship to me, is really part of my life, and can never die out of me. I see distinctly how much poorer I should have been if I had never known you. If you had seen more of me in late years, you would not have such almost cruel thoughts as that the book into which you have faithfully put your experience and best convictions could make you "repugnant" to me. Whatever else my growth may have been, it has not been towards irreverence and ready rejection of what other minds can give me. You once unhappily mistook my feeling and point of view in something I wrote à propos of an argument in your "Aids to Faith," and that made me think it better that we should not write on large and difficult subjects in hasty letters. But it has often been painful to me—I should say, it has constantly been painful to me—that you have ever since inferred me to be in a hard and unsympathetic state about your views and your writing. But I am habitually disposed myself to the same unbelief in the sympathy that is given me, and am the last person who should be allowed to complain of such unbelief in another. And it is very likely that I may have been faulty and disagreeable in my expressions.
Excuse all my many mistakes, dear Sara, and never believe otherwise than that I have a glow of joy when you write to me, as if my existence were some good to you. I know that I am, and can be, very little practically; but to have the least value for your thought is what I care much to be assured of.
Perhaps, in the cooler part of the autumn, when your book is out of your hands, you will like to move from home a little and see your London friends?
Our travelling in Brittany was a good deal marred and obstructed by the emperor's fête, which sent all the world on our track towards Cherbourg and Brest. But the Norman churches, the great cathedrals at Le Mans, Tours, and Chartres, with their marvellous painted glass, were worth much scrambling to see.
I have read Mr. Masson's book on "Recent Philosophy." The earlier part is a useful and creditable survey, and the classification ingenious. The later part I thought poor. If, by what he says of Positivism, you mean what he says at p. 246, I should answer it is simply "stuff"—he might as well have written a dozen lines of jargon. There are a few observations about Comte, scattered here and there, which are true and just enough. But it seems to me much better to read a man's own writing than to read what others say about him, especially when the man is first-rate and the "others" are third-rate. As Goethe said long ago about Spinoza, "Ich zog immer vor von dem Menschen zu erfahren wie er dachte als von einem anderen zu hören wie er hätte denken sollen."[41] However, I am not fond of expressing criticism or disapprobation. The difficulty is to digest and live upon any valuable truth one's self.
Nov. 15.—During the last three weeks George has been very poorly, but now he is better. I have been reading Fawcett's "Economic Condition of the Working Classes," Mill's "Liberty," looking into Strauss's second "Life of Jesus," and reading Neale's "History of the Puritans," of which I have reached the fourth volume. Yesterday the news came of Mrs. Gaskell's death. She died suddenly, while reading aloud to her daughter.
Nov. 16.—Writing Mr. Lyon's story, which I have determined to insert as a narrative. Reading the Bible.
Nov. 24.—Finished Neale's "History of the Puritans." Began Hallam's "Middle Ages."
Dec. 4.—Finished second volume of Hallam. The other day read to the end of chapter nine of my novel to George, who was much pleased and found no fault.
We send to-day "Orley Farm," "The Small House at Allington," and the "Story of Elizabeth." The "Small House" is rather lighter than "Orley Farm." "The Story of Elizabeth" is by Miss Thackeray. It is not so cheerful as Trollope, but is charmingly written. You can taste it and reject it if it is too melancholy. I think more of you than you are likely to imagine, and I believe we talk of you all more than of any other mortals.
It is worth your while to send for the last Fortnightly to read an article of Professor Tyndall's "On the Constitution of the Universe." It is a splendid piece of writing on the higher physics, which I know will interest you. À propos of the feminine intellect, I had a bit of experience with a superior woman the other day, which reminded me of Sydney Smith's story about his sermon on the Being of a God. He says, that after he had delivered his painstaking argument, an old parishioner said to him, "I don't agree wi' you, Mr. Smith; I think there be a God."
Dec. 11.—For the last three days I have been foundering from a miserable state of head. I have written chapter ten. This evening read again Macaulay's Introduction.
Dec. 15.—To-day is the first for nearly a week on which I have been able to write anything fresh. I am reading Macaulay and Blackstone. This evening we went to hear "The Messiah" at Exeter Hall.
"A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" is a sort of hieroglyph for I love you and wish you well all the year round. Christmas to me is like a great many other pleasures, which I am glad to imagine as enjoyed by others, but have no delight in myself. Berried holly and smiling faces and snap-dragon, grandmamma and the children, turkey and plum-pudding—they are all precious things, and I would not have the world without them; but they tire me a little. I enjoy the common days of the year more. But for the sake of those who are stronger I rejoice in Christmas.
Dec. 24.—For two days I have been sticking in the mud from doubt about my construction. I have just consulted G., and he confirms my choice of incidents.
Dec. 31.—The last day of 1865. I will say nothing but that I trust—I will strive—to add more ardent effort towards a good result from all the outward good that is given to me. My health is at a lower ebb than usual, and so is George's. Bertie is spending his holidays with us, and shows hopeful characteristics. Charles is happy.
SUMMARY.
JANUARY, 1862, TO DECEMBER, 1865.
Begins "Romola" again—Letter to Miss Hennell—Max Müller's book—"Orley Farm"—Anthony Trollope—T. A. Trollope's "Beata"—Acquaintance with Mr. Burton and Mr. W. G. Clark—George Smith, publisher, suggests a "magnificent offer"—Depression about "Romola"—Letter to Mrs. Bray asking for loan of music—Pantomime—First visit to Dorking—Letter to Madame Bodichon—Impatience of concealment—Anxiety about war with America—Sympathy with queen—Mr. Lewes begins "History of Science"—Mrs. Browning's "Casa Guidi Windows"—Depression—George Smith offers £10,000 for "Romola" for the Cornhill—Idea given up—Visit to Englefield Green—Working under a weight—Second visit to Dorking for three weeks—Delight in spring—Accepts £7000 for "Romola" in Cornhill—Regret at leaving Blackwood—Palsy in writing—Visit to Littlehampton and to Dorking third time—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Mr. Lewes at Spa—George Eliot in better spirits—Letter to Miss Hennell—Joachim's playing—New Literary Club—Reading Poliziano—Suggestion of Tennyson's "Palace of Art"—Visit from Browning—Depression—Letter to Madame Bodichon—No negative propaganda—Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor—"The Messiah" on Christmas day—Letter to Miss Hennell—St. Paul's "Charity"—The Poetry of Christianity—The Bible—Adieu to year 1862—Letter to Miss Hennell—Encouragement about "Romola"—Literary Club dissolves—Miss Cobbe—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Depression—Fourth visit to Dorking for fortnight—Letter to Charles Lewes on Thackeray's Lectures—The effect of writing "Romola"—Letter to Madame Bodichon—Odiousness of intellectual superciliousness—Letter to Mrs. Bray—Thinking of the Priory—"Romola" finished—Inscription—Visit to Isle of Wight—Ristori—Letter to Miss Hennell—Thornton Lewes—London amusements—Opera—Reading Mommsen, Liddell's "Rome," and "Roba di Roma"—Letter from Frederick Maurice referred to as most generous tribute ever given—Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor—Renan's "Vie de Jésus"—Visit to Worthing—Mrs. Hare—Return to London—Depression—Letter to R. H. Hutton on "Romola"—The importance of the medium in which characters move—Letter to Madame Bodichon—Effect of London on health—Letter to Mrs. Bray—Delight in autumn—Mommsen's History—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—The "Discours Préliminaire"—Removal to the Priory—Mr. Owen Jones decorates the house—Jansa the violinist—Letter to Mrs. Bray—"Physiology for Schools"—Letter to Madame Bodichon—Enjoying rest, and music with Jansa—Letter to Miss Hennell—Renan—Letter to Mrs. Bray—Enjoyment of Priory—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Mr. Lewes's "Aristotle" finished—Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor—Compensation—Letter to Mrs. P. A. Taylor—Effect of sunshine—Death of Mrs. Hare—"David Gray"—Letter to Miss Hennell—Dislike of note-writing—Visit to Glasgow—Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor—Joy in Federal successes—Crystal Palace to see Garibaldi—Mr. Burton's picture of a Legendary Knight in Armor—Third visit to Italy with Mr. Burton for seven weeks—Return to London—Charles Lewes's engagement to Miss Gertrude Hill—Pleasure in Mr. Burton's companionship in travel—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Present of mats—Depression—Reading Gibbon—Gieseler—Letter to Miss Hennell—Reading Max Müller—Reference to the "Apologia"—Newman—Reading about Spain—Trying a drama—Letter to Miss Hennell—Harrogate—Development of Industries—Scarborough—Letters to Mrs. Congreve—Pleasure in her visit—Letter to Miss Hennell—Learning Spanish—Two acts of drama written—Sticking in construction of remainder—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Christmas greeting—Retrospect of year 1864—Letter to Mrs. Congreve, first payment to Positivist Fund—Comparison with "small upper room" 1866 years ago—Mrs. Congreve staying at the Priory—Poem "My Vegetarian Friend" written—Visit to Paris—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Visit to Comte's apartment in Paris—Finished poem on "Utopias"—Letter to Miss Sara Hennell—Delight in dual solitude—Fortnightly Review—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Charades—Depression—Mr. Lewes takes away drama—Article for the Pall Mall, "A Word for the Germans"—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—Visit to Wandsworth—Depression—Letter to Mrs. Congreve after visit—Letter to Mrs. Bray on a young friend's death—Deep depression—Admiration of Mr. Lewes's good spirits—"Felix Holt" begun—Article on Lecky's "History of Rationalism" in Fortnightly—Reading Æschylus, "Theatre of the Greeks"—Klein's "History of the Drama"—Letter to Mrs. Congreve—First number of the Fortnightly—Frederic Harrison's article—Reading Mill, Comte, and Blackstone—Aristotle's "Poetics"—Dine with Congreves at Wandsworth—"Faust" at Covent Garden—Sunday reception—Browning, Huxley, and Bagehot—Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor on J. S. Mill—The Fortnightly Review—Mr. Burton's portrait finished—Mazzini subscription—Letter of adieu to Mrs. Congreve—Expedition to Brittany for month—Letter to Miss Hennell—"Pretended comforts"—Recollection of early feelings—Delight in her friendship—Masson's "Recent Philosophy"—Comte—Goethe on Spinoza—Reading Fawcett's "Economic Condition of Working Classes"—Mill's "Liberty"—Strauss's second "Life of Jesus"—Neale's "History of the Puritans"—Hallam's "Middle Ages"—Letter to Miss Hennell on Tyndall's article on "The Constitution of the Universe"—View of Christmas day—Retrospect of 1865.
I have had it in my mind to write to you for many days, wanting to tell you, yet feeling there might be some impertinence in doing so, of the delight and gratitude I felt in reading your article on "Industrial Co-operation." Certain points admirably brought out in that article would, I think, be worth the labor of a life if one could help in winning them thorough recognition. I don't mean that my thinking so is of any consequence, but simply that it is of consequence to me when I find your energetic writing confirm my own faith.
It would be fortunate for us if you had nothing better to do than look in on us on Tuesday evening. Professor Huxley will be with us, and one or two others whom you know, and your presence would make us all the brighter.
Jan. 9.—Professors Huxley and Beesley, Mr. Burton, and Mr. Spencer dined with us. Mr. Harrison in the evening.
The ample and clear statement you have sent me with kind promptness has put me in high spirits—as high spirits as can belong to an unhopeful author. Your hypothetical case of a settlement suits my needs surprisingly well. I shall be thankful to let Sugden alone, and throw myself entirely on your goodness, especially as what I want is simply a basis of legal possibilities and not any command of details. I want to be sure that my chords will not offend a critic accomplished in thorough bass—not at all to present an exercise in thorough bass.
I was going to write you a long story, but, on consideration, it seems to me that I should tax your time less, and arrive more readily at a resolution of my doubts on various points not yet mentioned to you, if you could let me speak instead of writing to you.
On Wednesday afternoons I am always at home; but on any day when I could be sure of your coming I would set everything aside for the sake of a consultation so valuable to me.
Jan. 20.—For the last fortnight I have been unusually disabled by ill-health. I have been consulting Mr. Harrison about the law in my book, with satisfactory result.
I had not any opportunity, or not enough presence of mind, to tell you yesterday how much I felt your kindness in writing me that last little note of sympathy.
In proportion as compliments (always beside the mark) are discouraging and nauseating, at least to a writer who has any serious aims, genuine words from one capable of understanding one's conceptions are precious and strengthening.
Yet I have no confidence that the book will ever be worthily written. And now I have something else to ask. It is that if anything strikes you as untrue in cases where my drama has a bearing on momentous questions, especially of a public nature, you will do me the great kindness to tell me of your doubts.
On a few moral points, which have been made clear to me by my experience, I feel sufficiently confident—without such confidence I could not write at all. But in every other direction I am so much in need of fuller instruction as to be constantly under the sense that I am more likely to be wrong than right.
Hitherto I have read my MS. (I mean of my previous books) to Mr. Lewes, by forty or fifty pages at a time, and he has told me if he felt an objection to anything. No one else has had any knowledge of my writings before their publication. (I except, of course, the publishers.)
But now that you are good enough to incur the trouble of reading my MS., I am anxious to get the full benefit of your participation.
We arrived here on Tuesday, and have been walking about four hours each day, and the walks are so various that each time we have turned out we have found a new one. George is already much the better for the perfect rest, quiet, and fresh air. Will you give my thanks to Mr. Congreve for the "Synthèse" which I have brought with me and am reading? I expect to understand three chapters well enough to get some edification.
George had talked of our taking the train to Dover to pay you a "morning call." He observes that it would have been a "dreadful sell" if we had done so. Your letter, therefore, was providential—and without doubt it came from a dear little Providence of mine that sits in your heart.
I have received both your precious letters—the second edition of the case, and the subsequent note. The story is sufficiently in the track of ordinary probability; and the careful trouble you have so generously given to it has enabled me to feel a satisfaction in my plot which beforehand I had sighed for as unattainable.
There is still a question or two which I shall want to ask you, but I am afraid of taxing your time and patience in an unconscionable manner. So, since we expect to return to town at the end of next week, I think I will reserve my questions until I have the pleasure and advantage of an interview with you, in which pros and cons can be more rapidly determined than by letter. It seems to me that you have fitted my phenomena with a rationale quite beautifully. If there is any one who could have done it better, I am sure I know of no man who would. Please to put your help of me among your good deeds for this year of 1866.
To-day we have resolute rain, for the first time since we came down. You don't yet know what it is to be a sickly wretch, dependent on these skyey influences. But Heine says illness "spiritualizes the members." It had need do some good in return for one's misery.
Thanks for your kind letter. Alas! we had chiefly bad weather in the country. George was a little benefited, but only a little. He is too far "run down" to be wound up in a very short time. We enjoyed our return to our comfortable house, and, perhaps, that freshness of home was the chief gain from our absence.
You see, to counterbalance all the great and good things that life has given us beyond what our fellows have, we hardly know now what it is to be free from bodily malaise.
After the notion I have given you of my health you will not wonder if I say that I don't know when anything of mine will appear. I can never reckon on myself.
March 7.—I am reading Mill's "Logic" again. Theocritus still, and English History and Law.
March 17.—To St. James's Hall hearing Joachim, Piatti, and Hallé in glorious Beethoven music.
Don't think any evil of me for not writing. Just now the days are short, and art is long to artists with feeble bodies. If people don't say expressly that they want anything from me, I easily conclude that they will do better without me, and have a good weight of idleness, or, rather, bodily fatigue, which puts itself into the scale of modesty. I torment myself less with fruitless regrets that my particular life has not been more perfect. The young things are growing, and to me it is not melancholy but joyous that the world will be brighter after I am gone than it has been in the brief time of my existence. You see my pen runs into very old reflections. The fact is, I have no details to tell that would much interest you. It is true that I am going to bring out another book, but just when is not certain.
The happiness in your letter was delightful to me, as you guessed it would be. See how much better things may turn out for all mankind, since they mend for single mortals even in this confused state of the bodies social and politic.
As soon as we can leave we shall go away, probably to Germany, for six weeks or so. But that will not be till June. I am finishing a book which has been growing slowly, like a sickly child, because of my own ailments; but now I am in the later acts of it I can't move till it is done.
You know all the news, public and private—all about the sad cattle plague, and the reform bill, and who is going to be married and who is dead—so I need tell you nothing. You will find the English world extremely like what it was when you left it—conversation more or less trivial and insincere, literature just now not much better, and politics worse than either. Bring some sincerity and energy to make a little draught of pure air in your particular world. I shall expect you to be a heroine in the best sense, now you are happier after a time of suffering. See what a talent I have for telling other people to be good!
We are getting patriarchal, and think of old age and death as journeys not far off. All knowledge, all thought, all achievement seems more precious and enjoyable to me than it ever was before in life. But as soon as one has found the key of life, "it opes the gates of death." Youth has not learned the art of living, and we go on bungling till our experience can only serve us for a very brief space. That is the "external order" we must submit to.
I am too busy to write except when I am tired, and don't know very well what to say, so you must not be surprised if I write in a dreamy way.
April 21.—Sent MS. of two volumes to Blackwood.
April 25.—Blackwood has written to offer me £5000 for "Felix Holt." I have been ailing, and uncertain in my strokes, and yesterday got no further than p. 52 of Vol. III.
It is a great pleasure to me to be writing to you again, as in the old days. After your kind letters, I am chiefly anxious that the publication of "Felix Holt" may be a satisfaction to you from beginning to end.
Mr. Lewes writes about other business matters, so I will only say that I am desirous to have the proofs as soon and as rapidly as will be practicable.
They will require correcting with great care, and there are large spaces in the day when I am unable to write, in which I could be attending to my proofs.
I think I ought to tell you that I have consulted a legal friend about my law, to guard against errors. The friend is a Chancery barrister, who "ought to know."
After I had written the first volume, I applied to him, and he has since read through my MS.
How very good it was of you to write me a letter which is a guarantee to me of the pleasantest kind that I have made myself understood.
The tone of the prevalent literature just now is not encouraging to a writer who at least wishes to be serious and sincere; and, owing to my want of health, a great deal of this book has been written under so much depression as to its practical effectiveness that I have sometimes been ready to give it up.
Your letter has made me feel, more strongly than any other testimony, that it would have been a pity if I had listened to the tempter Despondency. I took a great deal of pains to get a true idea of the period. My own recollections of it are childish, and of course disjointed, but they help to illuminate my reading. I went through the Times of 1832-33 at the British Museum, to be sure of as many details as I could. It is amazing what strong language was used in those days, especially about the Church. "Bloated pluralists," "Stall-fed dignitaries," etc., are the sort of phrases conspicuous. There is one passage of prophecy which I longed to quote, but I thought it wiser to abstain. "Now, the beauty of the Reform Bill is that, under its mature operation, the people must and will become free agents"—a prophecy which I hope is true, only the maturity of the operation has not arrived yet.
Mr. Lewes is well satisfied with the portion of the third volume already written; and, as I am better in health just now, I hope to go on with spirit, especially with the help of your cordial sympathy. I trust you will see, when it comes, that the third volume is the natural issue prepared for by the first and second.
A thousand thanks for your note. Do not worry yourself so much about those two questions that you will be forced to hate me. On Tuesday next we are to go to Dorking for probably a fortnight. I wished you to read the first hundred pages of my third volume; but I fear now that I must be content to wait and send you a duplicate proof of a chapter or two that are likely to make a lawyer shudder by their poetic license. Please to be in great distress sometime for want of my advice, and tease me considerably to get it, that I may prove my grateful memory of these days.