George Eliot – how a novelist shared her wisdom

Some great novelists are there in their novels. None is more present than George Eliot. Take a small example from The Mill on the Floss. Mr Tulliver, the mill owner, has well-nigh ruined himself by pursuing a doomed legal suit against a cleverer rival. Now he must get his wife to borrow some money from her affluent brother-in-law.
Mr Tulliver would never have asked for anything from so poor-spirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do so if she liked.
 It is precisely the proudest and most obstinate men who are the most liable to shift their position and contradict themselves in this sudden manner …
The first sentence inhabits Tulliver’s self-deluding thoughts; in the second (separated by that chasm of a paragraph break), the narrator discovers a psychological pattern that any of us might recognise. 

The narrator offering this reflection is Eliot. Over and over again in her fiction a precise description of a character’s thought processes generates, in the next sentence, a generalisation about some paradox of human behaviour. She steps into her narratives not to hector or exclaim, as Dickens will do, nor to nudge and tease, like Fielding or Thackeray, but tolerantly to unravel the contradictory motivations and ready self-deceits of ordinary men and women. So admirers of her novels have always felt that they were in touch with its author – with her wisdom and her solace. Philip Davis, a notable scholar of Victorian literature, feels so, too. Wise critics warn against finding the experiences of the author in his or her fiction, but this is precisely what Davis sets out to do: “I look for the use of her life in her work,” he writes.

Thus his peculiar title. “It was to her work that she transferred and dedicated her life”: her novels were where she (and therefore her readers) could realise all that she had seen and all that she had understood. They were the means by which Eliot invited the reader to share her life and what it had taught her. Davis seizes on her experiences of suffering, delight or disillusion in passages of passionately appreciative close reading that are the meat of his book. As well as tackling all her novels in turn, he brilliantly analyses some of her early letters, which are as subtle and psychologically astute as her fiction.

Eliot also “transferred” her life into her novels in a narrower sense. She took material from her life and from the memories of those she knew. The prototypes of leading characters in her earliest fiction, Scenes of Clerical Life, were real people from the Nuneaton area of the West Midlands. Adam Bede, her first completed novel, used the experiences of her Methodist aunt Elizabeth Evans for the characterisation of Dinah Morris and took many of the facts of Adam’s life from her own father’s. In The Mill on the Floss, which followed, Tom Tulliver’s repudiation of his sister Maggie after her apparent elopement with Stephen Guest allowed Eliot to fictionalise her own terrible rejection by her brother Isaac when she began cohabiting with the married George Henry Lewes.

Yet any reader expecting a conventional biographical narrative will be disappointed. Certain episodes from Eliot’s life – her conflict with her father over Christian observance, her unrequited tendresse for the austere intellectual Herbert Spencer – are prominent, but only because they have their “transferred life” in her novels. There are threads of intellectual biography, detailing her engagement with the religious scepticism of first Feuerbach, and then Spinoza, or with the nascent sociology of Auguste Comte. But even here it is to show how theories fare in “the unsettling presence of human psychology”. Her novels were created not just to display her knowledge of human nature, but also to test and stretch the sympathies of her readers.

It is clear that, for her friends, the power of the fiction was due to a special facility in their author, shown as much in her dealings with people as her writing of novels. The young psychologist James Scully, a slightly awed attendee at the Sunday afternoon intellectual soirees at the Priory, her home near Regent’s Park, recalled that she displayed “a clairvoyant insight into mind and character, which enabled her to get at once into spiritual touch with a stranger, fitting her to talk to his special tastes and needs”. (The male pronoun is appropriate, as her irregular domestic affairs restricted the company to men of liberal principles.) Her capacity for sympathy was that of her novels.

Read more >>>

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Péter Nádas - Interview

Anne Brontë: the sister who got there first

Diego Rivera: The Flower Carrier