A House of Air

He also has to show his subject as frequently sunk in melancholy, constipated, a heavy drinker and addicted (as he had been since the winter of 1801) to opium. Coleridge went to Malta in 1804 partly on account of his health, partly to escape from his marriage and perhaps from his long-term infatuation with Wordsworth’s sister-in-law Sara Hutchinson, partly—since Malta was a wartime base for the British fleet—in hope of getting some kind of administrative post. He did get employment, as diplomatic secretary to the Governor, for whom he wrote what are now called position papers on Britain’s strategic situation in the Mediterranean. As a hardened journalist, quick to seize the main points of any situation, Coleridge, as long as he was sober, had no difficulty with the work.

On his return to England he made it clear that he was not coming back to his wife, although he always did his erratic best to support her and their three children. Lecturing seemed the ideal occupation for the great talker who rarely paused for an answer, and he lectured, on and off, for almost the whole of the rest of his life—at Bristol (where he was an hour late for his first appearance, having been secured by his friends and deposited on the platform), at the Royal Institution (where he collapsed into opium and missed five engagements), at the Philosophical Institution, at the Surrey Institution, at the Crown and Anchor, at the Royal Society of Literature (on Prometheus). Organizers were always ready to book him, audiences almost always ready to hear him. What did he look like? Like a wildly dishevelled Dissenting minister. What did he sound like? Sometimes he was unintelligible, but when he caught fire (as for instance in his celebrated lecture on Hamlet) it was agreed that he talked as no man had talked before him.

In 1809 he was taken with the idea of writing and publishing his own journal, The Friend. This, he thought, could be done from the Lake District. He stayed there at first with Wordsworth, whose household, with its dutiful womenfolk, was always under good control. But The Friend lasted for only twenty-seven numbers.

It was at this point, when Wordsworth saw little or no hope of his recovery, that Coleridge absconded to London and began what started as a fortnight’s stay (it turned into six years) with the Morgans, whom he had known in Bristol. John Morgan took down whatever Coleridge could be persuaded to dictate; his wife and daughter put in order Coleridge’s papers and notebooks. In January 1813 a play, which he had written many years earlier and now renamed Remorse, was put on at the Drury Lane Theatre. It was an unexpected success, and he received £400 (although in a few months he was penniless). Meanwhile, news came that the Wordsworths’ dearly loved little son Tom had died. Coleridge dithered, delayed, and did not go to Grasmere. Can he be forgiven? On the other hand, during one of his worst periods of opium overdose and suicidal depression he rallied himself, Heaven knows how, to write five articles in praise of the paintings of his old friend Washington Allston. His manic energy and generosity have to be set against his recurrent paralysis of the will, when he could be becalmed like the Mariner on his stagnant sea.

Remorse had been put on partly at the request of Lord Byron, who, however impatient he might be with Coleridge’s metaphysics (‘I wish he would explain his explanation’), shared the impulse felt by so many that he was worth saving at all costs. Charles Lamb, who had been at school with him at Christ’s Hospital, continued a faithful friend; so did the publisher Joseph Cottle, who attributed Coleridge’s ills not to alcohol and opium but to satanic possession; so did the young De Quincey and Daniel Stuart, the sage editor of The Courier. He had, of course, plenty of unsparing enemies who couldn’t forgive him for deserting the radical cause. But for forty disorganized years Coleridge was never at a loss for someone to give him a home. Would the twentieth or the twenty-first century take him in so generously?

In his Notebooks Coleridge is a witness, often deeply remorseful, to his own life, creating a double viewpoint. Holmes is perfectly attuned to this, and in addition creates what he calls a ‘downstage voice’ in his footnotes, ‘reflecting on the action as it develops.’ Anything less than this would not represent the multiplicity of STC. This often unexpected downstage commentary is particularly valuable when Holmes comes to discuss the Biographia Literaria, which Coleridge wrote while he was with the Morgans and which he described to Byron as ‘a general Preface’ to his collected poems, ‘on the Principles of philosophic and genial criticism relative to the Fine Arts in general; but especially to Poetry.’ In fact, it began as a dialogue, or rather an argument at a distance, with Wordsworth. But that was not enough. He had much more to say on his own personal philosophical journey from the materialism of Locke to the perception that faith in God is not only beyond reason but a continuation of it. He produced forty-five thousand words in six weeks, anxiously watched by the faithful Morgan. Hard pressed, he borrowed passages wholesale from the German philosopher Friedrich Schelling. Holmes admits the plagiarism, but you can rely on him for a spirited defence. The plagiarisms, he claims, ‘form a kind of psychodrama within the heart of the Biographia.’ We have to wait for the true Coleridge to free himself and emerge.

Coleridge’s last years were spent in Highgate, then a hill village just north of London, with the humane Dr James Gillman and his motherly wife, Ann. Gillman regulated the opium taking, tactfully overlooking the extra supplies secretly bought from the local chemist, and arranged for Coleridge something quite new, holidays by the seaside. The Gillmans’ fine house and garden was a retreat where he could receive visitors—Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James Fenimore Cooper. A familiar figure by now in the village, Coleridge, looking twenty years older than he was, had become a ‘white-haired, shuffling sage,’ walking, according to young John Keats, like an after-dinner alderman but, as he talked, casting the same enchantment still.

‘At 6.30 a.m. on 25 July 1834 he slipped into the dark.’ I could wish that Richard Holmes hadn’t felt that here, at the very end, ‘dark’ was the right word. But it’s impossible to describe the extraordinary quality of this biography, felt on every page. ‘There is a particular kind of silence which falls after a life like Coleridge’s,’ Holmes says, ‘and perhaps it should be observed.’

New York Times Book Review, 1999

SARAH ORNE JEWETT The News from Dunnet Landing (#ulink_eb448846-ab6b-5721-8320-1de97f1a5ccb)

Sarah Orne Jewett: Novels and Stories, edited by Michael Davitt Bell

The author of the novel The Country of the Pointed Firs, Sarah Orne Jewett, born in 1849, was widely read at the turn of the century, much less after the First World War. Now that a selection of her works is in the Library of America series, perhaps she will be read again.

Sarah Orne Jewett was a New Englander, descended from a well-to-do merchant family in South Berwick, Maine. Her father was a doctor with a local practice (although he later became Professor of Obstetrics at Bowdoin), and she was brought up as one of an extended family in the ‘great house’ of her grandfather Jewett in South Berwick. It was a place of hospitality where she could listen to the stories told at leisure by visitors, among them superannuated sea captains and ship owners and relatives from the lonely inland farms.

As a child she was not a great scholar, preferring hopscotch and skating and her collections of woodchucks, turtles, and insects. ‘In those days,’ she wrote, ‘I was given to long childish illnesses, to instant drooping if ever I were shut up in school,’ so that her father, trusting in fresh air as a cure, took her with him on his daily rounds, teaching her at the same time to keep her eyes open, and telling her the names of plants and animals. He recommended her to read (in her teens) Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, Milton’s L’Allegro, and the poetry of Tennyson and Matthew Arnold. Her mother and grandmother advised Pride and Prejudice, George Eliot’s Scenes of Clerical Life, and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Pearl of Orr’s Island.

In 1867, Jewett graduated from Berwick Academy with serious thoughts of studying medicine. The echo of her debate with herself can be heard in her novel A Country Doctor (1884). Nancy Price, ‘not a commonplace girl,’ has been left alone in the world. Her guardian is the beloved country practitioner Dr Leslie, whose principle is ‘to work with nature and not against it.’ He believes the wild, reckless little girl is born to be a doctor, and he turns out to be right. Although on a visit away from home she meets a young lawyer to whom she is in every way suited, she gives him up. In the face of criticism from nearly everyone in her small-town community, she goes back to her medical training.

Jewett herself never had to face the test of society’s disapproval. She gave up the idea of becoming a doctor simply because she was not well enough. Rheumatism became a familiar enemy, tormenting her all her life long. A legacy from her grandfather meant that she would never have to earn a living, and she decided against marriage, perhaps because she felt she was not likely to meet anyone to match her father. But her writing, which had begun with small things—stories for young people, occasional poems, and so forth—had become by 1873 ‘my work—my business, perhaps; and it is so much better than making a mere amusement of it, as I used to.’

Like so many great invalids of the nineteenth century, Jewett continued, with amazing fortitude, to travel, to make new friends, to move according to the seasons from one house to another. Wherever she went she answered letters in the morning and wrote in the afternoons. For twenty years she spent the summer and winter months with Mrs Annie Fields (it was one of those close friendships known as ‘Boston marriages’) and spring and autumn in ‘the great house’ in South Berwick, making time, however, for trips to Europe to meet pretty well everyone she admired. In July 1889 she visited Alice Longfellow (the daughter of the poet) at Mouse Island, in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. This was her first visit to the district of the ‘pointed firs.’ She made several more before 1896, when her novel The Country of the Pointed Firs appeared, first as a serial in The Atlantic Monthly and then in November from the publisher Houghton Mifflin.

This short novel is her masterpiece, no doubt about that, but it is difficult to discuss the plot because it can hardly be said to have one. Dunnet Landing is ‘a salt-aired, white-clapboarded little town’ on the central coast of Maine, more attractive than the rest, perhaps, but much like them. ‘One evening in June, a single passenger landed upon the steamboat wharf.’ She is a writer who has taken a lodging in the town, in search of peace and quiet. Her landlady, Mrs Almira Todd, is the local herbalist, being a very large person, majestic almost, living in the last little house on the way inland. In a few pages Jewett establishes forever the substantial reality of Dunnet Landing. We know it, we have been there, we have walked up the steep streets, we taste the sea air. Now we have got to get to know the inhabitants, slowly, as the narrator does herself, and, in good time, to hear their confidences. Jewett knew all about fishing and small-holding and cooking haddock chowder, about birds, weather, tides, and clouds. She had a wonderful ear for the Maine voice, breaking the immense silences. She quotes, more than once, what her father said to her: ‘Don’t write about things and people. Tell them just as they are.’ And she understood the natural history of small communities, where you will find impoverished, lonely people, often old but proud, self-respecting and respected.

The narrator of The Country of the Pointed Firs rents the local schoolhouse, for fifty cents a week, as her study. Here her first visitor, apart from the bees and an occasional sheep pausing to look in at the open door, is Captain Littlepage, an ancient retired shipmaster. His reminiscences are not what we expect: he tells a story of the unseen—a voyage west of Baffin Island which fetched up ‘on a coast which wasn’t laid down or charted’ where the crew saw, or half-saw, the shapes of men through the sea-fog ‘like a place where there was neither living nor dead.’ These were men waiting between this life and the next. Captain Littlepage offers no further explanation, and, indeed, it’s generally felt in Dunnet Landing that he has overset his mind with too much reading, but Mrs Todd, with a sharp look, says that ‘some of them tales hangs together tolerable well.’

Loneliness and hospitality are the two extremes of the hard existence on the coast of Maine. Elijah Tilley, one of the old fishermen, thought of as a ‘plodding man,’ has been a widower for the past eight years. ‘Folks all kept repeating that time would ease me, but I can’t find it does. No, I just miss her the same every day.’ It is his habit to lapse into silence. What more is there to say? Towards the end of her life, Sarah Orne Jewett gave some words of advice to the young Willa Cather: ‘You must write to the human heart, the great consciousness that all humanity goes to make up.’ Otherwise it may remain unexpressed, as it often does in Dunnet Landing.

Joanna, Mrs Todd’s cousin, whose young man threw her over, withdrew to live alone on tiny Shell-heap Island, ‘a dreadful small place to make a world of.’ She had some poultry and a patch of potatoes. But what about company? She must have made do with the hens, her one-time neighbours think: ‘I expect she soon came to making folks of them.’ But Joanna maintained the dignity of loss. She lived, died, and was buried on Shell-heap Island. We are in a world where silence is understood.

When the time comes for the narrator to leave, Mrs Todd, who has become a true friend, hardly speaks all day, ‘except in the briefest and most disapproving way.’ Then she resolutely goes out on an errand, without turning her head. ‘My room looked as empty as the day I came…and I knew how it would seem when Mrs Todd came back and found her lodger gone. So we die before our own eyes; so we see some chapters of our lives come to their natural end.’

Jewett is an expert in the homely and everyday who gives us every now and then a glimpse of the numinous. (That, perhaps, is why Rudyard Kipling wrote to her about The Country of the Pointed Firs, ‘I don’t believe even you know how good that work is.’) She does this, for instance, in a short story, ‘Miss Tempy’s Watchers.’ Upstairs lies the outworn body of kindly Miss Temperance Dent, while in the kitchen, two of her old friends, keeping vigil before the next day’s funeral, gradually nod off. ‘Perhaps Tempy herself stood near, and saw her own life and its surroundings with new understanding. Perhaps she herself was the only watcher.’ In one of the later Dunnet Landing stories, ‘The Foreigner,’ Mrs Todd observes: ‘You know plain enough there’s something beyond this world: the doors stand wide open.’ There are moments, too, of communication or empathy between friends that go beyond understanding. Friendship, for Sarah Orne Jewett, was the world’s greatest good.

On 3 September 1902, her fifty-third birthday, she was thrown from her carriage when the horse stumbled and fell. She suffered concussion of the spine and never entirely recovered. ‘The strange machinery that writes,’ as she described it, ‘seems broken and confused.’ For long spells she was in fact forbidden by her doctors to read or write, which must have been a cruel deprivation. In 1909 she was back in South Berwick, where she had the last of a series of strokes, and died in the house where she was born.

Books and Company, Winter 1999

GEORGE ELIOT The Will to Good (#ulink_20f93f5b-274f-522e-b0d0-32493786d122)

An Introduction to Middlemarch

George Eliot began what is now Book Two of Middlemarch early in 1869. She wrote slowly, because for her it was a year of illness and trouble, and in the winter of 1870 she put this work aside and began a new story that is now Book One, ‘Miss Brooke.’ She made a note in her journal that the ‘subject…has been recorded among my possible themes ever since I began to write fiction.’ What is this subject?

Middlemarch is set in the years just before the Reform Bill of 1832. In Chapter 10 Mr Brooke, the uncle and guardian of Dorothea and her sister Celia, gives a dinner party at his house, Tipton Grange. Maddening, vacillating, kindhearted Mr Brooke is a local magistrate and a countryman—so too, of course, is the Rector, Mr Cadwallader, with his magnificently sharp-tongued wife. The Reverend Mr Casaubon, scholarly, withering into dry old age, is also a man of property, as is Sir James Chettam, Brooke’s guileless neighbour. But to meet these gentry Mr Brooke has rather enterprisingly invited guests from Middlemarch itself: the upper ranks, that is, of the townspeople—Mr Vincy, the mayor, Mr Chicheley, the coroner, and the Evangelical banker, Mr Bulstrode. They are talking about Dorothea and about Lydgate, the new doctor. These two have also been talking to each other, discussing model housing and the proposed fever hospital, and we get Lydgate’s first impression, as he leaves the party, of Dorothea: ‘She is a good creature—that fine girl—but a little too earnest.’ She would not do, therefore, for Lydgate, who wants relaxation after his work, and smiling blue eyes. This is George Eliot’s particular method of turning an incident around, so that we can look at it with her, and from different angles. In this way we have been introduced to the field of action and the beginning of what she calls ‘the stealthy convergence of human lots.’

George Eliot’s living creed—painfully arrived at—was meliorist (a word she believed she had invented). We should do all we can, during a short human lifetime, to achieve ‘some possible better,’ and the ‘should’ is all the more binding because we cannot have a direct knowledge of God. But the individual will to good is affected by social and natural forces—by the kind of society we are born into and the kind of temperament we are born with. In Middlemarch Eliot is considering a money-making professional society, based on Coventry, where she lived from 1841 to 1850.

Middlemarch is a manufacturing town—‘the people in manufacturing towns are always disreputable,’ says Mrs Cadwallader—with a corruptible local paper, electioneering for and against a reforming parliament, professional charities, and deeply distrusted advances in medicine and hygiene. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. What is to be hoped for from this thriving borough, where nearly all are loudly certain of their own opinion? ‘I know the sort,’ cries Mr Hawley, the town clerk, hearing that Casaubon’s cousin, Ladislaw, is of foreign extraction; ‘some emissary. He’ll begin with flourishing about the Rights of Man and end with murdering a wench. That’s the style.’ At the Tankard in Slaughter Lane it is ‘known’ to Mrs Dollop, the landlady, that people are allowed to die in the new hospital for the sake of cutting them up, ‘a poor tale for a doctor, who if he was good for anything should know what was the matter with you before you died.’ To be ‘candid’ in Middlemarch means that you are about to let a man know the very worst that is being said about him. ‘The gossip of the auction room, the billiard room, the tea table, the kitchen,’ as Frank Kermode puts it, ‘is the more or less corrupt blood of the organism.’ The challenges to Middle-march come from young Dr Lydgate and young Miss Brooke.

Lydgate has the impulse to mercy and healing and the ambition to research. But he is impatient and too self-confident and does not mind it being known that he is better born than other country surgeons. He is drawn, by fatal degrees, into the evil secret of Bulstrode’s past (a favourite theme of George Eliot’s and as old as fiction itself). And yet his only real error is his marriage to Rosamond Vincy. He is overwhelmed by the ‘terrible tenacity of this mild creature.’ She is, what is more, one of the world’s unteachables. Whatever George Eliot’s scheme of moral effort and retribution may be, Rosamond is quite exempt from it. Through all vicissitudes she quietly keeps her self-esteem. Her dream of existence is shocked, then rights itself, and she will continue, blonde and imperturbable. The world as it is seems created for Rosamonds.

Dorothea, on the other hand, never comes into direct conflict with Middlemarch. Her faults, like Lydgate’s, are put to us very clearly, since George Eliot’s methods are analytic. Having set herself, as she said, to imagine ‘how ideas lie in other minds than my own,’ she begins ironically, with Dorothea and sensible Celia dividing the jewellery their mother left them. Dorothea, who has renounced finery, feels an unexpected wish to keep one set of emeralds (a delicate premonition of her passion for Will Ladislaw). We are shown that she doesn’t know her own nature, doesn’t know life, certainly doesn’t know ‘lower experience such as plays a great part in the world,’ is ruthless to Sir James and, of course, to herself, and hopelessly astray in her search for ‘intensity and greatness.’ But Dorothea is noble. On her honeymoon visit to Rome, for instance, she is so much the finest spirit there, seen in contrast not only with those around her but with the motionless statuary of the Vatican Museum. She doesn’t know this. She has ‘little vanity.’ She says: ‘It is surely better to pardon too much than to condemn too much.’ We would give anything to be able to step into the novel and join Celia and Sir James in trying to stop this rare spirit from making her disastrous choice.

But why can’t Dorothea aim at something greater? Why is she left, as the Finale puts it, to lead a ‘hidden life,’ and be buried in an ‘unvisited tomb’? Florence Nightingale, among many others, asked this question, giving as an example not herself, but Octavia Hill, the pioneer of public-housing management. It is true that Dorothea (born about 1812) was too early to have been, for instance, a student at Girton College, Cambridge (founded in 1869). But George Eliot’s attitude to the position of women was, in any case, perplexing. In October 1856 she signed a petition for women to have a legal right to their own earnings, and in 1867 she told a friend that ‘women should be educated equally with men, and secured as far as possible with every other breathing creature from suffering the exercise of any unrighteous power.’ She was, however, resolutely opposed to women’s suffrage. But these questions are not stressed in Middlemarch, and Dorothea is not shown as a great organizer, but as having ‘the ardent woman’s need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul.’ The drawback here is that the other soul turns out, in the end, to be Will Ladislaw’s; and what are we to make of Ladislaw? Critics usually consider him to be, like Stephen Guest in The Mill on the Floss, one of George Eliot’s failures. But perhaps she intended him to be exactly what he appears—that is, at the best, ‘a bright creature full of uncertain promises.’ He becomes, of course, a Radical MP, but ‘in those times’—as she reminds us—‘when reforms were begun with a young hopefulness of immediate good which has been much checked in our days.’

George Eliot’s point, however, made both in the Prelude and the Finale of her book, delivers us from having to think of Dorothea as nothing more than a noble woman who loses her head over a questionable young man. Dorothea’s decisions were not ideal, George Eliot tells us, and conditions are not right for a nineteenth-century St Theresa, but her life was not wasted: ‘the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive.’ This is part of the book’s great diminuendo, not tragic but majestic, drawing back, after all its vast complications, into itself, the characters’ prospects narrowing as the story closes. But we have actually seen the effect of Dorothea’s being on those around her, in her generous gift to Lydgate and—in a superb chapter—her yet more generous visit to Rosamond. On these ‘unhistoric acts’ in an undistinguished ribbon-manufacturing town in the Midlands, the growing good of the world may partly depend. We must believe this, if we can.

There was nothing in Middlemarch, George Eliot assured her long-suffering publisher, John Blackwood, ‘that will be seen to be irrelevant to my design, which is to show the gradual action of ordinary causes rather than exceptional.’ This, however, suggests a deliberate, even mechanical method of construction that is quite at odds with the intensely human effect of her great novel. One of the advantages of its sheer length is that there is room in it for hesitations, even moments of relenting, which give the story another dimension, like music heard at a distance. At the end of Book Four, for instance, Dorothea has not only admitted to herself the misery of her marriage to Mr Casaubon but has glimpsed that his lifetime’s work, the ‘Key to all Mythologies,’ is a meaningless accumulation of references. She has gone to her room, and waits for him in the darkness to come upstairs from his library.

But she did hear the library door open, and slowly the light advanced up the staircase without noise from the footsteps on the carpet. When her husband stood opposite to her, she saw that his face was more haggard. He started slightly on seeing her, and she looked up at him beseechingly, without speaking.

‘Dorothea!’ he said, with a gentle surprise in his tone. ‘Were you waiting for me?’

‘Yes, I did not like to disturb you.’

‘Come, my dear, come. You are young, and need not to extend your life by watching.’

When the kind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea’s ears, she felt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us if we had narrowly escaped hurting a lamed creature. She put her hand into her husband’s, and they went along the broad corridor together.

The possibility is there, for long enough for us to think about it, of perhaps not happiness between them, but peace. The moment passes, as it does for Mary Garth, who has never realized that Mr Farebrother cared anything for her, and still doesn’t, fully, when he comes to see her to plead Fred Vincy’s cause. But ‘something indefinable, something like the resolute suppression of a pain in Mr Farebrother’s manner, made her feel suddenly miserable, as she had once felt when she saw her father’s hands trembling in a moment of trouble.’ Here Mary herself can’t define her sensation. There is time in Middlemarch, as in life itself, for these echoes or intimations of paths not taken. Another one, which remains just under the surface but is never put into words, is: what if Dorothea had married Lydgate?

There is another complication in Middlemarch, which runs very deep. Meliorism looks cautiously forward, and indeed George Eliot agreed with Gladstone that there was no use in fighting against the future. But she was always true to her own past, her rural childhood when she had been a ‘little sister,’ running through green fields. All around Middlemarch stretches northeast Loamshire, ‘almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty, and to spread out coral fruit for the birds…These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls.’ (This recalls the passage from The Mill on the Floss, ‘We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it…’) It is noticeable that although 1830 saw the height of England’s agricultural distress and, in consequence, of rioting and rick burning—the Cambridgeshire fires could be seen at a distance of eight miles against the night sky—Loamshire, in this novel, is relatively tranquil. (Unrest is represented by Mr Brooke’s visit to Dagley’s smallholding, where he is defied by the drunken Dagley and behaves in a way much less dignified than his own dog, the sagacious Monk.) The reason for this, surely, is that George Eliot needs to indicate an ideal experience and existence. In Middlemarch the country represents work, steadiness, harmony, peace. If we ask ourselves, or let ourselves feel, how human happiness is measured, we have to turn to Fred Vincy. Fred’s love for Mary, in spite of his shortcomings, is the truest emotion in the book, and it is as an expert on the cultivation of green crops and the economy of cattle-feeding that he steadies down to a happy life: ‘On enquiry it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabit Stone Court—that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their blossoms over the fine stone walls…’ Their marriage is a pastoral. Then again, late on in the book, Dorothea has a moment of vision that is in the nature of an epiphany. It is after her sleepless night of extreme misery over Will Ladislaw.

She opened her curtains, and looked out towards the bit of road that lay in view, with fields beyond, outside the entrance-gates. On the road there was a man with a bundle on his back and a woman carrying her baby; in the field she could see figures moving—perhaps the shepherd with his dog. Far off in the bending sky was the pearly light; and she felt the largeness of the world and the manifold wakings of men to labour and endurance…

What she would resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clear, but something that she could achieve stirred her as with an approaching murmur which would soon gather distinctness.

Dorothea’s inspiration, at this late stage, comes from the early-morning sight of the labourer and the wayfarer. This, too, is pastoral. George Eliot, of course, did not deceive herself. If her Warwickshire childhood had been an Eden, it was one that she had lost. But it remained as her surest way of judging life as it hurried forward through the unpeaceful, expanding nineteenth century.

Introduction to the Folio Society edition

of Middlemarch, 1999

Not Herself

George Eliot, Voice of a Century: A Biography, by Frederick R. Karl