Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 9 March 1880
Title
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 9 March 1880
Title
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 9 March 1880
Sender
Edith Simcox
Recipient
U
Date(s)
- 1880-03-09
Place
London
Letter Content
Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 9 March 1880
MS: Bodleian. Extract published: McKenzie, p. 97; Haight, George Eliot, pp. 535-536.
Tuesday 9 March 1880
March 9. . . . I got there a little before 5; she had just come in from her drive and came down after a few minutes. She was looking well and I began to talk about the Bretts' children 538 -- her recollection of them was as "fit to eat." Then Mrs. Lankester 539 and a daughter were announced. The former was appallingly voluble and I felt for my darling, and indeed did her some service later, when she turned to me, apropos of a mention of Miss Bevington -- the latter was said to take a melancholy view of life and Mrs. Lewes referred to me as despising all prospective consolations as "a gambling speculation." It was questioned whether Miss Bevington would be consoled by marriage or if it was too late. Mrs. Lankester was comparatively reserved while the conversation wandered among abstract themes -- they stayed a good while, then the daughter moved slightly and I rose to encourage them, but the darling said graciously to me to wait a little longer.
I said presently it was hard at the end of 7 years to feel I had not yet explained what I meant by the "gambling speculation." I recurred to what I had meant by the "danger" of referring young people to the satisfaction of emotional affections -- I said all ones normal appetites were sane and lawful in themselves, but just as she insists on the danger of seeking for pleasantness in the outer life -- I hold it to be a danger to seek first for pleasantness in the inner life. She said one could not empty oneself of all desires and impulses. I said, was it not better to attack the objective sources of evil, rather than await in patience their possible diversion or drying up. At last she was content to leave it as a matter of temperament -- that some may be more cheered by words of fortitude than hope.
She moved to a low chair opposite the fire to warm her feet and I ventured to kneel by her side. She was a little tired by the discussion and said I had taken it up too seriously, she only spoke in play. I said it was ungrateful to complain of one thing she had said when all the rest had been full of consolation. She answered, Nay, she had given up all thought of consoling me. I kissed her again and again and murmured broken words of love. She bade me not exaggerate. I said I didn't -- nor could, and then scolded her for not being satisfied with letting me love her as I did -- as in present reality -- and proposing instead that I should save my love for some imaginary he. She said -- expressly what she has often before implied to my distress -- that the love of men and women for each other must always be more and better than any other and bade me not wish to be wiser than "God who made me" -- in pious phrase. I hung over her caressingly and she bade me not think too much of her; -- she knew all her own frailty and if I went on, she would have to confess some of it to me. Then she said -- Perhaps it would shock me -- she had never all her life cared very much for women -- it must seem monstrous to me. I said I had always known it. She went on to say, what I also knew, that she cared for the womanly ideal, sympathised with women and liked for them to come to her in their troubles, but while feeling near to them in one way, she felt far off in another; the friendship and intimacy of men was more to her. Then she tried to add what I had already imagined in explanation, that when she was young, girls and women seemed to look on her as somehow "uncanny" while men were always kind. I kissed her again, and said I did not mind -- if she did not mind having holes kissed in her cheek. She said I gave her a very beautiful affection. -- and then again she called me a silly child, and I asked if she would never say anything kind to me. I asked her to kiss me. Let a trembling lover tell of the intense consciousness of the first deliberate touch of the dear one's lips. I returned the kiss to the lips that gave it and started to go -- she waved me a farewell.
MS: Bodleian. Extract published: McKenzie, p. 97; Haight, George Eliot, pp. 535-536.
Tuesday 9 March 1880
March 9. . . . I got there a little before 5; she had just come in from her drive and came down after a few minutes. She was looking well and I began to talk about the Bretts' children 538 -- her recollection of them was as "fit to eat." Then Mrs. Lankester 539 and a daughter were announced. The former was appallingly voluble and I felt for my darling, and indeed did her some service later, when she turned to me, apropos of a mention of Miss Bevington -- the latter was said to take a melancholy view of life and Mrs. Lewes referred to me as despising all prospective consolations as "a gambling speculation." It was questioned whether Miss Bevington would be consoled by marriage or if it was too late. Mrs. Lankester was comparatively reserved while the conversation wandered among abstract themes -- they stayed a good while, then the daughter moved slightly and I rose to encourage them, but the darling said graciously to me to wait a little longer.
I said presently it was hard at the end of 7 years to feel I had not yet explained what I meant by the "gambling speculation." I recurred to what I had meant by the "danger" of referring young people to the satisfaction of emotional affections -- I said all ones normal appetites were sane and lawful in themselves, but just as she insists on the danger of seeking for pleasantness in the outer life -- I hold it to be a danger to seek first for pleasantness in the inner life. She said one could not empty oneself of all desires and impulses. I said, was it not better to attack the objective sources of evil, rather than await in patience their possible diversion or drying up. At last she was content to leave it as a matter of temperament -- that some may be more cheered by words of fortitude than hope.
She moved to a low chair opposite the fire to warm her feet and I ventured to kneel by her side. She was a little tired by the discussion and said I had taken it up too seriously, she only spoke in play. I said it was ungrateful to complain of one thing she had said when all the rest had been full of consolation. She answered, Nay, she had given up all thought of consoling me. I kissed her again and again and murmured broken words of love. She bade me not exaggerate. I said I didn't -- nor could, and then scolded her for not being satisfied with letting me love her as I did -- as in present reality -- and proposing instead that I should save my love for some imaginary he. She said -- expressly what she has often before implied to my distress -- that the love of men and women for each other must always be more and better than any other and bade me not wish to be wiser than "God who made me" -- in pious phrase. I hung over her caressingly and she bade me not think too much of her; -- she knew all her own frailty and if I went on, she would have to confess some of it to me. Then she said -- Perhaps it would shock me -- she had never all her life cared very much for women -- it must seem monstrous to me. I said I had always known it. She went on to say, what I also knew, that she cared for the womanly ideal, sympathised with women and liked for them to come to her in their troubles, but while feeling near to them in one way, she felt far off in another; the friendship and intimacy of men was more to her. Then she tried to add what I had already imagined in explanation, that when she was young, girls and women seemed to look on her as somehow "uncanny" while men were always kind. I kissed her again, and said I did not mind -- if she did not mind having holes kissed in her cheek. She said I gave her a very beautiful affection. -- and then again she called me a silly child, and I asked if she would never say anything kind to me. I asked her to kiss me. Let a trembling lover tell of the intense consciousness of the first deliberate touch of the dear one's lips. I returned the kiss to the lips that gave it and started to go -- she waved me a farewell.
Citation
Edith Simcox, Edith Simcox, Autobiography, 9 March 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/91815