Lord Lytton to GE, Calcutta, 22 February 1880
Title
Lord Lytton to GE, Calcutta, 22 February 1880
Title
Lord Lytton to GE, Calcutta, 22 February 1880
Sender
Lord Lytton
Recipient
F
Date(s)
- 1880-02-22
Place
Calcutta
Letter Content
Lord Lytton to GE, Calcutta, 22 February 1880
MS: Lady Hermione Cobbold. It was sent to Lady Lytton by Mrs. C.L. Lewes, 30 September 1892.
Calcutta | 22 February 1880.
My very dear Friend
It is a failure, not of affection, but of courage, that has witheld me from writing to you sooner. We grow familiar with our dearest friends by light approaches, and a careless interchange of life's commonest trifles. And then suddenly -- without warning -- the grave opens between us and them. We see them caught within an awful circle -- the dear familiar presences have grown supernatural. Yearn as we may toward them, what can we do? I have hushed and hidden myself till now. I know that this is not always best. When I lost my dear father, I felt so stunned that it was not sympathy but distraction that I craved, and even a tradesman's letter was a relief. But I dared not write to you, dared not speak of what I felt; still less, of what I knew you were feeling. Turn which way I will the shadow of your sorrow still lies darkly on me. I measure it by my knowledge of the magnitude of your own great nature, and his worth, who was the last of the few friends wiser than myself, to whom from boyhood I have looked up. I shall honour his memory, and mourn his loss, and love and thank him as long as I live. But I cannot offer consolations I have never found, and do not feel. Your strength, your wisdom, and insight are immeasurably greater than mine. I am comforted by the consciousness that fine souls like yours know how to turn great griefs to best account. But I cannot comfort you. If there be any personal compensation for the death of those we love -- and need -- it is unknown to me. The only mitigating consequence of such bereavements that I have ever experienced is one which you yourself once predicted to me, and which I therefore know you will not miss. Certainly, since my dear father died I have been in closer and more constant intercourse with him, and have seemed to understand him better than when he was alive. But even this comes slowly. And Oh, the difference! All intercourse with the dead is so shadowy, so indistinct -- so like twilight -- after daylight.
I have for months been longing to write to you, but lacked the encouragement now taken from two recent stimulants. First a line I had a few weeks ago from Mrs. Richard Strachey, telling me she had seen and talked with you. I cannot bear that I, who feel bound to you by that long chain of memories which links my childhood with your widowhood, should be the only one of your friends whose intercourse with you still awaits renewal. And next, the perusal of Theophrastus Such. There is so much that I wished to say to you about that book -- and would have said had I ventured to write sooner -- but cannot well say now. Partly because I have left the book behind me -- at Simla -- and cannot refer to the particular parts and passages which have most impressed or delighted me -- partly too because, since I began this letter I have been interrupted twenty times, and I fear that if I do not finish it quickly I may never finish it at all.
Theophrastus is a great book, eminently wise. I wonder how many of the exquisite subtleties have by this time penetrated the coarse cuticle of that snorting Behemoth the British public. To me it is a tantalising book only from what is perhaps one of its chief merits -- as a work of art. It opens and indicates so many avenues of reflection which one would wish to penetrate further in the company of and under the guidance of its Author. The chapter I most value is on the debasement of the moral currency. I would have it, if I could, written in letters of gold -- or better, fire -- over Downing Street, Westminster Hall, all the newspaper offices -- and every provincial hustings. The chapter of which I most enjoy the humour is on How we treat original research.
But I must bring this letter to an end. My Edith sends you her lovingest love. We have, as a lesser evil than sending them to England left our children at Simla, where they are snowed up, and we are impatient to rejoin them. But I must bring out our budget before I can close the Calcutta Session. It will be an astonishingly satisfactory budget -- and for that reason I suppose the Liberals will denounce it as "another of Lord Lytton's lies."
I know not what more I can tell you of myself that is in any wise worth telling. My life now is one of unceasing activity nor could my chronicling keep pace with the movements of it, even were I your [special correspondent.] But when I look into myself I know not what has become of my ego -- my individuality -- if it ever existed. I seem to find in that self, when inspected, an incongruous assemblage of different beings -- one who thinks, another who feels, a third who acts, a fourth who eats and drinks etc. Many who are now put upon the shelf and are at present out of employment, -- like other discharged functionaries pertinaciously craving compensations and personal allowances which cannot be given them. Some who have quite lately come into the Science of my Existence, and are still quite raw to their work. In the midst of all these, an idle non-descript sort of Gentleman, who pretends to be at home, and calls himself [I.] His function, or raison d'etre, I am unable to discover. He seems to be a rather tired, and quite useless spectator of all the others and their doings. He yawns more and more and snores frequently. Latterly I find him constantly pulling out his watch, and glancing at the door, like a gentleman who is waiting for the carriage he has ordered round to take him . . . Where? Has he anywhere a home? I wish I knew the address . . . or even [What the devil he is doing here.] 537
Adieu Dear and great friend
Your affectionate
Lytton.
As I am not sure of your present address I send this to the care of Mrs. Strachey.
MS: Lady Hermione Cobbold. It was sent to Lady Lytton by Mrs. C.L. Lewes, 30 September 1892.
Calcutta | 22 February 1880.
My very dear Friend
It is a failure, not of affection, but of courage, that has witheld me from writing to you sooner. We grow familiar with our dearest friends by light approaches, and a careless interchange of life's commonest trifles. And then suddenly -- without warning -- the grave opens between us and them. We see them caught within an awful circle -- the dear familiar presences have grown supernatural. Yearn as we may toward them, what can we do? I have hushed and hidden myself till now. I know that this is not always best. When I lost my dear father, I felt so stunned that it was not sympathy but distraction that I craved, and even a tradesman's letter was a relief. But I dared not write to you, dared not speak of what I felt; still less, of what I knew you were feeling. Turn which way I will the shadow of your sorrow still lies darkly on me. I measure it by my knowledge of the magnitude of your own great nature, and his worth, who was the last of the few friends wiser than myself, to whom from boyhood I have looked up. I shall honour his memory, and mourn his loss, and love and thank him as long as I live. But I cannot offer consolations I have never found, and do not feel. Your strength, your wisdom, and insight are immeasurably greater than mine. I am comforted by the consciousness that fine souls like yours know how to turn great griefs to best account. But I cannot comfort you. If there be any personal compensation for the death of those we love -- and need -- it is unknown to me. The only mitigating consequence of such bereavements that I have ever experienced is one which you yourself once predicted to me, and which I therefore know you will not miss. Certainly, since my dear father died I have been in closer and more constant intercourse with him, and have seemed to understand him better than when he was alive. But even this comes slowly. And Oh, the difference! All intercourse with the dead is so shadowy, so indistinct -- so like twilight -- after daylight.
I have for months been longing to write to you, but lacked the encouragement now taken from two recent stimulants. First a line I had a few weeks ago from Mrs. Richard Strachey, telling me she had seen and talked with you. I cannot bear that I, who feel bound to you by that long chain of memories which links my childhood with your widowhood, should be the only one of your friends whose intercourse with you still awaits renewal. And next, the perusal of Theophrastus Such. There is so much that I wished to say to you about that book -- and would have said had I ventured to write sooner -- but cannot well say now. Partly because I have left the book behind me -- at Simla -- and cannot refer to the particular parts and passages which have most impressed or delighted me -- partly too because, since I began this letter I have been interrupted twenty times, and I fear that if I do not finish it quickly I may never finish it at all.
Theophrastus is a great book, eminently wise. I wonder how many of the exquisite subtleties have by this time penetrated the coarse cuticle of that snorting Behemoth the British public. To me it is a tantalising book only from what is perhaps one of its chief merits -- as a work of art. It opens and indicates so many avenues of reflection which one would wish to penetrate further in the company of and under the guidance of its Author. The chapter I most value is on the debasement of the moral currency. I would have it, if I could, written in letters of gold -- or better, fire -- over Downing Street, Westminster Hall, all the newspaper offices -- and every provincial hustings. The chapter of which I most enjoy the humour is on How we treat original research.
But I must bring this letter to an end. My Edith sends you her lovingest love. We have, as a lesser evil than sending them to England left our children at Simla, where they are snowed up, and we are impatient to rejoin them. But I must bring out our budget before I can close the Calcutta Session. It will be an astonishingly satisfactory budget -- and for that reason I suppose the Liberals will denounce it as "another of Lord Lytton's lies."
I know not what more I can tell you of myself that is in any wise worth telling. My life now is one of unceasing activity nor could my chronicling keep pace with the movements of it, even were I your [special correspondent.] But when I look into myself I know not what has become of my ego -- my individuality -- if it ever existed. I seem to find in that self, when inspected, an incongruous assemblage of different beings -- one who thinks, another who feels, a third who acts, a fourth who eats and drinks etc. Many who are now put upon the shelf and are at present out of employment, -- like other discharged functionaries pertinaciously craving compensations and personal allowances which cannot be given them. Some who have quite lately come into the Science of my Existence, and are still quite raw to their work. In the midst of all these, an idle non-descript sort of Gentleman, who pretends to be at home, and calls himself [I.] His function, or raison d'etre, I am unable to discover. He seems to be a rather tired, and quite useless spectator of all the others and their doings. He yawns more and more and snores frequently. Latterly I find him constantly pulling out his watch, and glancing at the door, like a gentleman who is waiting for the carriage he has ordered round to take him . . . Where? Has he anywhere a home? I wish I knew the address . . . or even [What the devil he is doing here.] 537
Adieu Dear and great friend
Your affectionate
Lytton.
As I am not sure of your present address I send this to the care of Mrs. Strachey.
Signature
Lytton.
Citation
Lord Lytton, Lord Lytton to GE, Calcutta, 22 February 1880, Complete George Eliot Letters(2026), George Eliot Archive, edited by Beverley Park Rilett. https://GeorgeEliotArchive.org, Accessed September 7, 2026. https://georgeeliotarchive.org/items/show/95527