George Eliot, Pseudonym of Marian Evans

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George Eliot, Pseudonym of Marian Evans

George Eliot, pseudonym of Marian Evans (1819-1880)

This article appeared in The Times Literary Supplement and was reprinted in

The Common Reader: First Series. Virginia Woolf also wrote on George Eliot in the Daily Herald of 9

To read George Eliot attentively is to become aware how little one knows about her. It is also to become aware of

the credulity, not very creditable to one’s insight, with which, half consciously and partly maliciously, one had

accepted the late Victorian version of a deluded woman who held phantom sway over subjects even more deluded

than herself. At what moment and by what means her spell was broken it is difficult to ascertain. Some people

attribute it to the publication of her Life. Perhaps George Meredith, with his phrase about the ‘mercurial little

showman’ and the ‘errant woman’ on the daïs, gave point and poison to the arrows of thousands incapable of aiming

them so accurately, but delighted to let fly. She became one of the butts for youth to laugh at, the convenient

symbol of a group of serious people who were all guilty of the same idolatry and could be dismissed with the same

scorn. Lord Acton had said that she was greater than Dante; Herbert Spencer exempted her novels, as if they were

not novels, when he banned all fiction from the London Library. She was the pride and paragon of her sex.

Moreover, her private record was not more alluring than her public. Asked to describe an afternoon at the Priory,

the story-teller always imitated that the memory of those serious Sunday afternoons had come to tickle his sense of

humour. He had been so much alarmed by the grave lady in her low chair; he had been so anxious to say the

intelligent thing. Certainly, the talk had been very serious, as a note in the fine clear hand of the great novelist bore

witness. It was dated Monday morning, and she accused herself of having spoken without due forethought of

Marivaux when she meant another; but not doubt, she said, her listener had already supplied the correction. Still,

the memory of talking about Marivaux to George Eliot on a Sunday afternoon was not a romantic memory. It had

faded with the passage of the years. It had not become picturesque. Indeed, one cannot escape the conviction that

the long, heavy face with its expression of serious and sullen and almost equine power has stamped itself

depressingly upon the minds of people who remember George Eliot, so that it looks out upon them from her pages.

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