11 JUNE 1983, Page 28

Two Georges

Bel Mooney

Mr George Eliot David Williams (Hodder and Stoughton £12.95)

George Henry Lewes began his career as actor and journalist; he ended it as biographer, philosopher, novelist (of sorts), critic, and scientific investigator of repute. He wrote and adapted plays as 'Slingsby Lawrence' and wrote notices for those same plays in the 'The Leader' as 'Vivian.' No specialist, he elevated dilettantism into a virtue. Pushy, conceited, vulgar, over- energetic, and with one eye for the main chance: Lewes seems like a Victorian Clive James.

It is, however, his fate to be remembered more for his twenty-five year 'association' (why not call it a common-law marriage?) with Mary Ann Evans, than for his own work. Talented enough, he fostered greatness, and 'George Eliot' can fairly be seen as his most valuable creation. It was he who suggested she write fiction, he who made suggestions, he who chose pseud- onym and publisher, he who negotiated, he who protected her from adverse criticism, though not (unfortunately) from the devo- tion of acolytes.

Yet (in what is sadly his last book) the late David Williams has set out to give Lewes credit for even more than that. He hints that Lewes was collaborator on the early novels, that such a dour person as James's 'great, horse-faced bluestocking' could never have written Mrs Poyser's sparkling dialogue, but that Lewes the actor could. Attacking the Leavisite veneration of George Eliot, Mr Williams declares his 'more modest, and perhaps not wholly foolish intention .. to suggest that Lewes had a somewhat larger share of talent than is normally allowed him, and Marian a somewhat smaller'. The pity of it is that in attempting a reassessment of Lewes there is no need to denigrate George Eliot's per- sonality or her work. After all, there is no natural law which apportions genius within one relationship.

Envy and astonishment were — and still are — the chief responses to this marriage of true minds. When they left for Germany, unmarried, George and Marian placed themselves outside the pale of respectable society, and it was by sheer effort and achievement that they ended up lionised by the people who had rejected them. Even Queen Victoria wanted both autographs. It was a partnership of love, energy and mutual dependence, and to try to unweave warp from weft, is to destroy the fabric of their life together. Would he have achieved seriousness without her? Would she have written novels without him? My answer to both questions is 'probably'. Iconoclasm is refreshing, but it is sad that it leads David Williams into error. He remarks that George Eliot 'had written something notably tedious of her own about Feuerbach', when she actually translated his Essence of Christianity. to Lewes's own phrase, her translation was 'a bombshell thrown into the camp of orthodoxy'. Despite these flaws, it is clear that Mr Williams likes the mercurial Lewes, which makes a change from the condescension (John Chapman — 'a bread scholar') or hostility (Marghanita Laski — 'vulgar and imperceptive') with which he has been view- ed. He has done a service to students of George Eliot by researching the poorly- documented early life of Lewes, and quoting from his inaccessible novels. It is ironic that his title deprives Lewes of the autonomy Mr Williams sees as desirable. Yet in restoring 'the little man' to his posi- tion at centre stage beside his leading lady, and in emphasising the tragi-comic elements in their drama, David Williams writes a role for Lewes which the vivacious man of the theatre would have appreciated.