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He shook off the touch of fear and steadied himself. Again Eliot gave a signal, and again he nodded.
The words dropped clear through her stillness, vibrating. His eyes went from her, evading the issue. Her voice came with a sharper stress. "I must know. Do you care for her?" "Yes." "And that's why she's going?" "Yes. That's why she's going. Did Eliot say anything?" "No. He only told me to ask you. He said you'd tell me the truth." "I have told you the truth. I'm sorry, Maisie."
Mill, being free from the exaltations that make the artist, kept a truer balance. This sentiment and conviction never took richer or more mature form than in the best work of George Eliot, and her stories lighted up with a fervid glow the truths that minds of another type had just brought to the surface.
Eliot taught me the old rhyme: "'Four tokens must the bridescake hold: A silver shilling and a ring of gold, A crystal charm good luck to symbol, And for the spinster's hand a thimble. "Eliot firmly believes that the tokens are a prophecy, for years ago, at her cousin's wedding in England, she got the spinster's thimble.
And so on and so on, for he was still so young that he wanted Anne to be excited by the things that excited him. And Anne told him all about her Ilford farm and what she meant to do on it. Eliot didn't behave like Aunt Adeline, he listened beautifully, like Uncle Robert and Jerrold, as if it was really most important that you should have a farm and work on it.
He had so dreadfully wanted to be an intellectual, to be able to rail at the base imbecile public in exquisitely select Bloomsbury coteries, he had so resolutely determined to be a martyr, to sacrifice himself on the altar of pure art, and somehow Mr. T.S. Eliot and martyrdom were as far off as ever. After all, he had given up 5,000 pounds a year and V.C.'s and happy endings.
The Berri peasant has no monopoly in ignorance of beauty, and intimate knowledge of toil and extreme poverty, but not many of us feel with the peasant's fate, as George Sand felt it. She never ceased to care for the cause of social progress, just as she was always heart and soul an artist. George Eliot has written words "to the reader" about the ruined villages on the Rhone.
Complaints of this as a seditious book came out to New England, and John Eliot was forced to appear before the court, when he owned the authorship, but disowned the publication, and retracted whatever might have declared the Government of England, by King, Lords, and Commons, to be anti-Christian, avowing it to be "not only a lawful but eminent form of government, and professing himself ready to conform to any polity that could be deduced from Scripture as being of Divine authority."
That is the dream of visionaries and young men," he added with a melancholy smile. "May we not dream nobler dreams than political independence? For, after all, political independence is only a means to an end, not an end in itself, as it might easily become, and as it appears to other nations. To be merely one among the nations that is not, despite George Eliot, so satisfactory an ideal.
Later Forster lost this agreeable touch, and issued a series of ponderous historical treatises, enlargements of his old "Statesmen." These were dreary things, pedantic, solemn and heavy; they might have been by the worthy Rollin himself. Such was the Life of Sir John Eliot, the Arrest of the Five Members, and others. No one had been so intimate with Savage Landor as he had, or admired him more.
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