Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (985 page)

In wonderfully drawn and finished yet never obtruded contrast to this beautiful creation comes before us Rosamond Vincy.  Outwardly even more characterised by every personal charm, save that one living and crowning charm which outshines from the soul within; to the eye, therefore — such eyes as can penetrate no deeper than the surface — prettier, more graceful, more accomplished and fascinating, than Dorothea Brooke; — it is difficult to conceive a more utterly unlovable example of womanhood, whether as maiden or wife.  Hard and callous of heart and dead of soul, incapable of one thought or emotion that rises above or extends beyond self, insistent on her own petty claims and ambitions to the exclusion of all others, ever aiming to achieve these, now by dogged sullen persistence, now by mean concealments and frauds, no more repellent portraiture of womanhood has ever been placed before us.  The fundamental character of her entire home relations is, on her first appearance, drawn by a single delicate touch — her objecting to her brother’s red herring, or rather to its presence after she enters the room, because its odour jars on her sense of pseudo-refinement.  In her relation to her husband there is not from first to last one shadow of anything that can be called love, no approach to sympathy or harmony of life.  She looks on him solely as a means for removing herself to what she considers a higher social circle, securing to her greater ease, freedom, and luxury of daily life, and ultimately withdrawing her to a wider sphere of petty and selfish enjoyment.  Seeking these ends, she resorts to every mean device of deceit and concealment.  Utterly callous and impenetrable to his feelings, to every manlier instinct within him, as she is utterly insensible of, and indeed incapable of, entering into his higher and wider professional aims, she not only ignores these, but in her dull and hard insensibility runs counter to, and tramples on them all.

Even toward Mary Garth there is nothing approaching true friendship or affection; no power of recognising her honesty, unselfishness, and earnestness of nature.  She is nothing to her but a tool and
confidante
, the recipient of her own petty hopes and desires, worries and cares.

All Dorothea’s gentle, unobtrusive attempts to soothe, to win her back to truer and better relations with her husband, and to awaken to active life and exercise the true womanhood, which she in her sweet instinct believes to be inherent in all her sex, are met by hard indifference or dull resistance.  And in the one act of apparent friendliness or rather explanation toward Dorothea, she is actuated far less by sympathy or desire to clear away what has come between her and Ladislaw, than by sullen resentment against the latter for his rejection of her unseemly and unwifely advances to him.

In the position she at last takes up toward Ladislaw, there is no approach to anything in the very least resembling love — even illicit and overmastering passion.  Of that her very nature is incapable.  She is influenced solely by resentment against her husband, and his failure to fulfil her vain and self-absorbed dreams; by the hope that he will remove her to a sphere which will give wider scope to her heartless selfishness, and take her away from the social disappointments and humiliations into which that selfishness has mainly plunged her.  In every relation of life near or far, important or trivial, amid all environments, under all impulsion toward anything purer and better, Rosamond Vincy is ever the same; as consistent and unvarying in her hard unwomanliness and impenetrable, insistent self-seeking, as is Dorothea in every opposite characteristic.  And even while the picture in one way fascinates the reader, it is the fascination of ever-increasing contempt and loathing where the extremest charity can hardly even pity; and from it we ever turn to that of St Theresa with the more intense refreshment alike of mind and heart, and the deeper sense of its elevating and refining influence.

Among the many clearly defined and vividly drawn portraits in this great work, it would be easy, did space permit, to select others well worthy of detailed examination, and illustrative of the salient aim and tendency of all George Eliot’s works.  The homely yet beautiful family groups of the Garths, Celia and Sir James Chettam, the Bulstrodes,
 
even the wretched old Featherstone, and the crowd of vultures “waiting for death around him,” all more or less illustrate the fundamental principle of the highest ethics — that self-abnegation is life, elevation, purity, uplifting our humanity toward the Divine; that self-seeking and self-isolation tend surely toward moral and spiritual death.  Two, however, stand out so delicately yet clearly defined and contrasting, that they claim brief consideration before passing from this great work — Lydgate and Farebrother.

The whole character and career of Lydgate are brought before us with the skill of the consummate artist.  At first he appears as a man of massive and energetic proportions, of high professional impulses and aims, resolute to carry these through against all difficulty and amid all indifference and opposition, and apparently seeking through these aims the general good of humanity — the alleviation of suffering, and the arrestment, it may be, of death.  But even then there are signs of inherent weakness, and all but certain decline and fall.  There are indications of arrogant self sufficiency and supercilious contempt for others; of undue deference for Bulstrode, not from respect or esteem, but as a tool to further his views; and a tendency to treat patients not as human beings but as cases — objects to experiment on, and verify hypotheses regarding pathology and disease, all which betray a nature not attuned to the highest and noblest pitch, and that cannot be expected to stand in the hour of trial.  His first direct lapse is when, against his secret conviction, he supports Tyke as hospital chaplain in opposition to Farebrother; but mainly in mere defiance and resentment of the general style of his reception at the Board meeting, and the opposition he encounters there.  Anon comes his marriage to Rosamond Vincy, — a marriage prompted by no true affection, but solely by the fascination of her prettiness, her external grace and accomplishments.  Led on mainly by his own taste for luxury and external show, he plunges into extravagances of every kind.  Debt inevitably follows, crippling his resources, cramping his energies, fettering him as regards all his higher professional aims and efforts.  To his wife he looks in vain for sympathy or aid.  She only aggravates the difficulties and harassments of his life by her callous selfishness, her dull obdurate insistance on all her own claims, her mean deceits and concealments.  Embarrassments of every kind thicken around him; and at last in the all but universal estimation of his fellows, and nearly in his own, in the hope of temporary relief he becomes accessory to murder.  His end is as sad a one for his character, and in his circumstances, as can well be conceived: falling from all his high if somewhat arrogant professional aims, his hopes of elevating the general practitioner, and of raising medicine from an art to a science, into the fashionable London lady’s doctor.

Though Mr Farebrother occupies a somewhat less 0prominent place in the narrative, he is delineated with not less consummate skill.  He comes before us at first a man of genial kindly sympathies, frankly alive to, and frankly acknowledging, his own deficiencies.  There is an utter absence of pretence and affectation about him, a graceful and engaging simplicity and frankness of whole nature, that can hardly fail to win the heart.  All his home relations — toward mother and sisters — are singularly touching.  Feeling all his defects as a clergyman, half laughing, half apologetic over his devotion to his favourite Coleoptera, and admitting that which is so far a necessity to him, not of choice, but of actual external need in his narrow circumstances — admitting, too, the comparatively inferior and uncongenial society into which he is drawn — the full revelation of his nobler and higher nature begins.  His true and deep appreciation of Mary Garth, and tender, devoted, and unselfish love for her, more clearly reveal his innate manliness, self-denial, and simplicity of character.  This revelation is still further unfolded before us in his entire relations with Fred Vincy.  That firm persistent interview in the billiard-room, is actuated by the one absorbing and self-abnegating desire that he may still be saved from the moral and spiritual decay impending over him: and when, in answer to Fred’s appeal for his intercession, we discover the blighting of his own hopes, the shattering of his love, the tender heart stricken to the core should Fred prove, as he 1suspects, his successful rival, we discern in him a nature of the finest capabilities, and surely tending on and up toward the noblest ends; and we part from him as from a dear and valued friend, whose society has cheered and elevated us, whose pure simplicity of nature has refuted our vain pretensions, and whose memory clings to us as a fragrance and refreshment.

There now only remains the last yet published, and in the estimation of many, the greatest, of George Eliot’s works — ‘Daniel Deronda.’  In it the author takes up — not a new scope, but extends one that has all along been present, and that indeed was inevitably associated with her great ethical principle, — the bringing of that principle definitely and directly to bear upon not only every domestic but every social and political relation of human life.  This tendency may be briefly expressed in the old and profound words: “No man liveth to himself; no man dieth to himself.”  As we aim toward the true and good and pure, or surrender ourselves the slaves of self and sense, we live or die to God or to the devil.

Before, however, proceeding to detailed examination of this remarkable work, it seems necessary to draw attention to one objection which has been urged against it — the prominent introduction of the Jewish element into its scheme.  Such objection could scarcely have been put forward by any one who considers what the Jew has been in the past — what an enormous factor 2his past and present have been and are, in the development and progress of our highest civilisation.  Historically, we first meet him coming forth from the Arabian desert, a rude unlettered herdsman, in intelligence, cultivation, and morality far below the tribes among whom he is thrown.  A terrible weapon arms him — a theism stern, hard, and pitiless, beyond, perhaps, all the world has ever seen.  To the bravest and best of his race — a Moses and a Joshua, a Deborah and a Jephtha — this presents ruthless massacre, the vilest treachery, offering up a sacrifice the dearest and most loved, not as mere permissible acts, but as deeds of religious homage solemnly enjoined by his Most High.  This theism has one central thought in which it practically stands alone, and which it was the aim of all its supposed heads and legislators to keep inviolate amid all surrounding antagonisms — the intense assertion of the Divine unity.  “Hear, O Israel! the Lord thy God is
one
Lord.”  In these brief words lies the very core of Judaism.  So long as he holds fast by this central truth, the Jew is exhibited to us as practically omnipotent.  Seas and floods divide before him; hosts numberless as the sands are scattered at his appearance; cyclopean walls fall prone at his trumpet-blast.

And this thought of the Divine unity, thus intensely pervading the national life, upfolds within capacity of indefinite development.  No long time in the life of a nation elapses ere “The Lord thy God is a 3jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children,” became “As a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.”  “Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb?  Yea, she
may
forget; yet will not
I
forget thee.”

In no sense of the word was the Jew a creature of imagination.  The stern and hard realities of his life would seem to have crushed out every trace of the æsthetic element within him.  Yet from among these people arose a literature, especially a hymnology, which has never been approached elsewhere; and it arose emphatically and distinctly out of the great central and animating thought of the Divine unity.  To the Psalms so-called of David, the glorious outbursts of sacred song in their mythico-historical books, as in Isaiah
 
and some of the minor prophets, the finest of the Vedic or Orphic hymns or the Homeric ballads are cold and spiritless.  These address themselves to scholars alone, or chiefly to a cultivated few, and address themselves to them eloquently and gloriously.  The hymns of the Jews have so interpenetrated the very heart of humanity, 4so identified themselves with the best longings, the noblest aspirations, the purest hopes, and the deepest sorrows of man, that still, after more than twenty centuries, that wonderful hymnology breathes up day after day, week after week, from millions of households and hearts.  They outbreathe its fervid aspirations toward a purer and diviner life.  They give expression to its profound wailings over degradation and fall.  They give utterance on all the inscrutable mysteries of existence; and ever and anon as the clouds and darkness break away from the Infinite Love, — they burst forth into the exultant cry, “God reigneth, let the earth be glad. . . . Give thanks at remembrance of His
holiness
.”

But important as is this factor of Judaism, there is another generally considered which has perhaps exercised a still more profound and cumulative influence on the civilisation especially of the West.  This lies in the intense indestructible nationality of the race.  Eighteen centuries have passed since they became a people, “scattered and peeled,” their “holy and beautiful house” a ruin, their capital a desolation, their land proscribed to the exile’s foot.  During these centuries deluge after deluge of so-called barbarians has swept over Asia and Europe: Hun and Tartar, Alan and Goth, Suev and Vandal, — we attach certain vague meanings to the names, but can the most learned scholar identify one individual of the true unmingled blood?  All have disappeared, merged in 5the race they overran, in the kingdoms they conquered and devastated.  The Jew alone, through these centuries, has remained the Jew: proscribed, persecuted, hunted as never was tiger or wolf, he is as vividly defined, as unchangeably national, as when he stood alone, everywhere without and beyond the despised and hated Gentile.  And this intense and conservative nationality springs essentially out of the central conception of Judaism, “God is
one
.”  Be He the incarnation of pitiless vengeance, hardening Pharaoh’s heart that He may execute sevenfold wrath on him and his people; be He the Good Shepherd, who “gathers the lambs in His arms,” and for their sakes “tempers His rough wind in the day of His east wind;” — to the Jew He has been and is, “I am the Lord; that is My name; and My glory will I not give to another.”