GE to Sara Sophia Hennell, London, 2 January 1871
Title
GE to Sara Sophia Hennell, London, 2 January 1871
Title
GE to Sara Sophia Hennell, London, 2 January 1871
Sender
George Eliot
Recipient
Sara Sophia Hennell
Date(s)
- 1871-01-02
Place
London
Letter Content
GE to Sara Sophia Hennell, London, 2 January 1871
MS: Yale. Extracts published: Cross, III, 127-129.
North Bank | January 2. 71.
My dear Sara
A blessed New Year to the world in general and to you in particular, not merely in gratitude for your thought of me, but in expression of what I have been often tacitly feeling at this season of commemoration.
This black edged paper is for Mr. Lewes's Mother, who died three weeks ago, very placidly, just turning her head aside in her chair after she had been chatting with her servant about the sweeping-up of the snow. She was 84, and wished to go to rest, so that this death has had none of the bitterness that belonged to the parting with Thornie.
We spent our Christmas in the Isle of Wight, and on Christmas Day I went to a ritualist Church and heard some fine intoning of the service by a clear strong tenor voice, sweet singing from boys' throats, and all sorts of Catholic ceremonial in a miniature way. The church was only a few steps from our door, for we were at Swanmore Parsonage, a beautiful house which our friend Madame Bodichon was inhabiting for a time in exchange for her town house. It is good to see what our neighbours are doing. To live in seclusion with one's own thoughts is apt to give one very false notions as to the possibilities of the present time in the matter of conversion either to superstition or anti-superstition.
I don't know which of those two words may be considered the most of an 'e0 propos for Mr. Atkinson, but while I think of Mr. Bray's question, let me say that I never hear him mentioned and have not seen him for at least five or six years.
I am so sorry to hear of Mr. Rands' 245 troubles. I never saw him, but I should imagine from the little I have read of his writings that he is a man of acute sensibility, and that blow would have been heavy even to an average man. In this cruel time I no sooner hear of an affliction than I see it multiplied in some one of the endless forms of suffering created by this hellish war. In the beginning I could feel entirely with the Germans, and could say of that calamity called "Victory" -- "I am glad." But now I can be glad of nothing. No people can carry on a long fierce war without being brutalized by it, more or less, and it pains me that the educated voices have not a higher moral tone about national and international duties and prospects. But, like every one else, I feel that the war is too much with me, 246 and am rather anxious to avoid unwise speech about it than to utter what may seem to me to be wisdom. The pain is that one can do so little!
We can sympathize with Mr. Bray's rheumatism, having both known that undesirable sign of belonging to a family where the constitution promises (threatens) longevity. Mr. Lewes has twice had lumbago, 247 and I have chronic pains in my thumbs and wrists -- not very bad, however. Mr. Call came to our door the other day, but did not stay, on Amelia's telling him the we had just returned from the country. I have not seen him or Mrs. Call since the death of Mrs. Brabant 248 which I observed announced in the papers. This weather does not encourage anything but a disposition to sit close to the fire and do everything on one's lap in a make-shift way, just as I am now writing to you, I fear rather unintelligibly.
I have not read Sir Harry Hotspur, 249 but as to your general question I reply that there certainly are some women who love in that way, but "Their sex as well as I, may chide them for it." 250 Men are very fond of glorying that sort of dog-like attachment. It is one thing to love because you falsely imagine goodness -- that belongs to the finest natures -- and another to go on loving when you have found out your mistake. But married constancy is a different affair. I have seen a grandly heroic woman who out of her view as to the responsibilities of the married relation condoned everything, took her drunken husband to her home again and again, and at last nursed and watched him into penitence and decency. They are now (or were when I last heard) living comfortably together in Wales. But there may be two opinions even about this sort of endurance i.e. about its ultimate tendency, not about the beauty of nature which prompts it. This is quite distinct from mere animal constancy. It is duty and human pity.
Mr. Lewes is come to carry away my letter. Farewell. Love to Cara.
Ever your
Pollian.
MS: Yale. Extracts published: Cross, III, 127-129.
North Bank | January 2. 71.
My dear Sara
A blessed New Year to the world in general and to you in particular, not merely in gratitude for your thought of me, but in expression of what I have been often tacitly feeling at this season of commemoration.
This black edged paper is for Mr. Lewes's Mother, who died three weeks ago, very placidly, just turning her head aside in her chair after she had been chatting with her servant about the sweeping-up of the snow. She was 84, and wished to go to rest, so that this death has had none of the bitterness that belonged to the parting with Thornie.
We spent our Christmas in the Isle of Wight, and on Christmas Day I went to a ritualist Church and heard some fine intoning of the service by a clear strong tenor voice, sweet singing from boys' throats, and all sorts of Catholic ceremonial in a miniature way. The church was only a few steps from our door, for we were at Swanmore Parsonage, a beautiful house which our friend Madame Bodichon was inhabiting for a time in exchange for her town house. It is good to see what our neighbours are doing. To live in seclusion with one's own thoughts is apt to give one very false notions as to the possibilities of the present time in the matter of conversion either to superstition or anti-superstition.
I don't know which of those two words may be considered the most of an 'e0 propos for Mr. Atkinson, but while I think of Mr. Bray's question, let me say that I never hear him mentioned and have not seen him for at least five or six years.
I am so sorry to hear of Mr. Rands' 245 troubles. I never saw him, but I should imagine from the little I have read of his writings that he is a man of acute sensibility, and that blow would have been heavy even to an average man. In this cruel time I no sooner hear of an affliction than I see it multiplied in some one of the endless forms of suffering created by this hellish war. In the beginning I could feel entirely with the Germans, and could say of that calamity called "Victory" -- "I am glad." But now I can be glad of nothing. No people can carry on a long fierce war without being brutalized by it, more or less, and it pains me that the educated voices have not a higher moral tone about national and international duties and prospects. But, like every one else, I feel that the war is too much with me, 246 and am rather anxious to avoid unwise speech about it than to utter what may seem to me to be wisdom. The pain is that one can do so little!
We can sympathize with Mr. Bray's rheumatism, having both known that undesirable sign of belonging to a family where the constitution promises (threatens) longevity. Mr. Lewes has twice had lumbago, 247 and I have chronic pains in my thumbs and wrists -- not very bad, however. Mr. Call came to our door the other day, but did not stay, on Amelia's telling him the we had just returned from the country. I have not seen him or Mrs. Call since the death of Mrs. Brabant 248 which I observed announced in the papers. This weather does not encourage anything but a disposition to sit close to the fire and do everything on one's lap in a make-shift way, just as I am now writing to you, I fear rather unintelligibly.
I have not read Sir Harry Hotspur, 249 but as to your general question I reply that there certainly are some women who love in that way, but "Their sex as well as I, may chide them for it." 250 Men are very fond of glorying that sort of dog-like attachment. It is one thing to love because you falsely imagine goodness -- that belongs to the finest natures -- and another to go on loving when you have found out your mistake. But married constancy is a different affair. I have seen a grandly heroic woman who out of her view as to the responsibilities of the married relation condoned everything, took her drunken husband to her home again and again, and at last nursed and watched him into penitence and decency. They are now (or were when I last heard) living comfortably together in Wales. But there may be two opinions even about this sort of endurance i.e. about its ultimate tendency, not about the beauty of nature which prompts it. This is quite distinct from mere animal constancy. It is duty and human pity.
Mr. Lewes is come to carry away my letter. Farewell. Love to Cara.
Ever your
Pollian.
Signature
Pollian.
Citation
George Eliot, GE to Sara Sophia Hennell, London, 2 January 1871, 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/94010