Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 26-29 December 1880
Title
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 26-29 December 1880
Title
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 26-29 December 1880
Sender
Edith Simcox
Recipient
U
Date(s)
- 1880-12-26–<br /> 1880-12-29
Place
London
Letter Content
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 26-29 December 1880
MS: Bodleian. Published: Haight, George Eliot, pp. 550-551.
Sunday 26 December 1880
This morning I ventured to look again at some of her letters -- all dear and gracious and full of sweet acknowledgment of all my love. Mrs. Anderson 566 came to see me this morning -- was very kind: wished to know when the funeral would be -- spoke of people having spoken of Westminster Abbey; she seemed to understand about the dear one -- thought she must have had Bright's disease and would have suffered more if she had lived. She asked if I was going to the house today, and on that instance I did -- hoping for some chance to save me from ringing that bell again. I met Florence coming from the house: she could hardly speak; her brother had gone out for a walk with Mr. Druce. He loved the house where she had lived just 3 weeks. I turned back with her -- we exchanged few words -- I learnt their address (3 Percy Villas) -- later Miss Helps called to ask Charles Lewes's address and also about the funeral. This reminded me to write to Charles.
Wednesday 29 December 1880
This day stands alone. I am not afraid of forgetting, but as heretofore I record her teaching while the sound is still fresh in my soul's ears. This morning at 10 when the wreath I had ordered -- white flowers bordered with laurel leaves -- came, I drove with it to Cheyne Walk, giving it silently to the silent cook. Then, instinct guiding -- it seemed to guide one right all day -- I went to Highgate, stopping on the way to get some violets -- I was not sure for what purpose. In the cemetery I found the new grave was in the place I had feebly coveted -- nearer the path than his and one step further south. 567 Then I laid my violets at the head of Mr. Lewes's solitary grave and left the already gathering crowd to ask which way the entrance would be. Then I drifted towards the chapel -- standing first for a while under the colonnade where a child asked me "Was it the late George Eliot's wife was going to be buried?" -- I think I said Yes. Then I waited on the skirts of the group gathered in the porch between the church and chapel sanctuaries. Then some one claimed a passage through the thickening crowd and I followed in his wake and found myself without effort in a sort of vestibule past the door which kept back the crowd. Mrs. Lankester was next the chapel -- I cannot forget that she offered me her place. I took it and presently every one else was made to stand back, then the solemn procession passed me. The coffin bearers paused in the very doorway, I pressed a kiss upon the pall and trembled violently as I stood motionless else, in the still silence with nothing to mar the realization of that intense moment's awe. Then -- it was hard to tell the invited mourners from the other waiting friends -- men many of whose faces I knew -- and so I passed among them into the chapel, entering a forward pew. White wreaths lay thick upon the velvet pall -- it was not painful to think of her last sleep so guarded. I saw her husband's face, pale and still; he forced himself aloof from the unbearable world in sight. The service was so like our own I did not know it apart till afterwards when I could not trace the outlines that had seemed so almost entirely in harmony with her faith. Dr. Sadler quoted -- how could he help? -- her words of aspiration, 568 but what moved me most was the passage -- in the Church Service lesson -- it moved me like the voice of God -- of Her: "But some man will say, How are the dead raised up? and with what body do they come? . . . As we left the chapel Miss Helps put her arm in mine, but I left her at the door, to make my way alone across the road to the other part where the grave was. I shook hands silently with Mrs. Anderson and waited at the corner where the hearse stopped and the coffin was brought up again. Again I followed near, on the skirts of the procession, a man -- Champneys 569 I thought -- had a white wreath he wished to lay upon the coffin and as he pressed forward those behind bore me on, till I was standing between his grave and hers and heard the last words said: the grave was deep and narrow -- the flowers filled all the level space. I turned away with the first -- Charles Lewes pressed my hand as we gave the last look. Then I turned up the hill and walked through the rain by a road unknown before to Hampstead and a station. Then through the twilight I cried and moaned aloud.
MS: Bodleian. Published: Haight, George Eliot, pp. 550-551.
Sunday 26 December 1880
This morning I ventured to look again at some of her letters -- all dear and gracious and full of sweet acknowledgment of all my love. Mrs. Anderson 566 came to see me this morning -- was very kind: wished to know when the funeral would be -- spoke of people having spoken of Westminster Abbey; she seemed to understand about the dear one -- thought she must have had Bright's disease and would have suffered more if she had lived. She asked if I was going to the house today, and on that instance I did -- hoping for some chance to save me from ringing that bell again. I met Florence coming from the house: she could hardly speak; her brother had gone out for a walk with Mr. Druce. He loved the house where she had lived just 3 weeks. I turned back with her -- we exchanged few words -- I learnt their address (3 Percy Villas) -- later Miss Helps called to ask Charles Lewes's address and also about the funeral. This reminded me to write to Charles.
Wednesday 29 December 1880
This day stands alone. I am not afraid of forgetting, but as heretofore I record her teaching while the sound is still fresh in my soul's ears. This morning at 10 when the wreath I had ordered -- white flowers bordered with laurel leaves -- came, I drove with it to Cheyne Walk, giving it silently to the silent cook. Then, instinct guiding -- it seemed to guide one right all day -- I went to Highgate, stopping on the way to get some violets -- I was not sure for what purpose. In the cemetery I found the new grave was in the place I had feebly coveted -- nearer the path than his and one step further south. 567 Then I laid my violets at the head of Mr. Lewes's solitary grave and left the already gathering crowd to ask which way the entrance would be. Then I drifted towards the chapel -- standing first for a while under the colonnade where a child asked me "Was it the late George Eliot's wife was going to be buried?" -- I think I said Yes. Then I waited on the skirts of the group gathered in the porch between the church and chapel sanctuaries. Then some one claimed a passage through the thickening crowd and I followed in his wake and found myself without effort in a sort of vestibule past the door which kept back the crowd. Mrs. Lankester was next the chapel -- I cannot forget that she offered me her place. I took it and presently every one else was made to stand back, then the solemn procession passed me. The coffin bearers paused in the very doorway, I pressed a kiss upon the pall and trembled violently as I stood motionless else, in the still silence with nothing to mar the realization of that intense moment's awe. Then -- it was hard to tell the invited mourners from the other waiting friends -- men many of whose faces I knew -- and so I passed among them into the chapel, entering a forward pew. White wreaths lay thick upon the velvet pall -- it was not painful to think of her last sleep so guarded. I saw her husband's face, pale and still; he forced himself aloof from the unbearable world in sight. The service was so like our own I did not know it apart till afterwards when I could not trace the outlines that had seemed so almost entirely in harmony with her faith. Dr. Sadler quoted -- how could he help? -- her words of aspiration, 568 but what moved me most was the passage -- in the Church Service lesson -- it moved me like the voice of God -- of Her: "But some man will say, How are the dead raised up? and with what body do they come? . . . As we left the chapel Miss Helps put her arm in mine, but I left her at the door, to make my way alone across the road to the other part where the grave was. I shook hands silently with Mrs. Anderson and waited at the corner where the hearse stopped and the coffin was brought up again. Again I followed near, on the skirts of the procession, a man -- Champneys 569 I thought -- had a white wreath he wished to lay upon the coffin and as he pressed forward those behind bore me on, till I was standing between his grave and hers and heard the last words said: the grave was deep and narrow -- the flowers filled all the level space. I turned away with the first -- Charles Lewes pressed my hand as we gave the last look. Then I turned up the hill and walked through the rain by a road unknown before to Hampstead and a station. Then through the twilight I cried and moaned aloud.
Citation
Edith Simcox, Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 26-29 December 1880, Complete George Eliot Letters(2026), George Eliot Archive, edited by Beverley Park Rilett. https://GeorgeEliotArchive.org, Accessed September 7, 2026. https://www.georgeeliotarchive.org/items/show/91799