The Lure of the Camera. Charles S. Olcott
She—good woman—was not only obedient, but possessed a sense of humor as well, for she promptly removed the articles, but later took advantage of her lord’s absence to leave their “counterfeit presentment” in such permanent form that there they have remained for more than a century.
The opposite wing of the mansion contains the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that in the library. The walls are decorated with a series of long narrow panels, united at the top by intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole building. It was curious to note how well George Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel “standing with one arm akimbo,” exactly as described. How did the novelist happen to remember that “arm akimbo,” if, as is quite likely, she had not seen the room for more than twenty years?
It was in this room that Catarina sat down to the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played—her name was Sally Shilton—is now upstairs in the long gallery, and here we saw not only that interesting instrument, but also the “queer old family portraits … of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses—of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.”
Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Colvin, informed us that he had invited the Reverend Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, but an engagement had interfered. We were invited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various mementoes of her husband’s distinguished relative, including a lace cap worn by George Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess Czerlaski of “The Sad Fortune of the Reverend Amos Barton.” I can still hear the ring of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, “And here is Aunt Glegg!” There she was, sure enough, with the “fuzzy front of curls” which were always “economized” by not wearing them until after 10.30 A.M. At this point the canon suddenly asked, “Have you seen the stone table?” I had been looking for this table. It is the one where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically told in “Middlemarch.” I had expected to find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home of George Eliot’s girlhood, but the arbor at the end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us into his garden and there showed us the original table of stone which the novelist had in mind when she wrote the incident.
Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had busied himself in writing, while we sat in his library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, Dr. N——, who, he said, knew more about George Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We accordingly stopped our little coupé at the doctor’s door, as we drove back to town. He insisted upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and told the driver to follow. In this way we were able to identify nearly all the localities of “Amos Barton” and “Janet’s Repentance.” He also pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. We arrived just as school was dismissed and a crowd of modern school children insisted upon adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. They looked so fresh and interesting that I made no objection.
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A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON |
On the next evening we were entertained by the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. The doctor explained that the artist, when a young girl, had known George Eliot’s father and mother, and had been interested to paint various scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What was my astonishment when, upon returning to London a few weeks later, I found a letter from this same good lady, expressing regret that she had not met us, and stating that she was sending me twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the bogus countess. These dear people seemed determined to make our quest a success.
We now turned our attention to “Adam Bede,” traveling into Staffordshire and Derbyshire, where Robert Evans, the novelist’s father and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and spent the years of his young manhood. Here again we were assisted by good-natured English people. The first was a station agent. Just as the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, the only person in sight was the station agent, who looked with some surprise at the pile of luggage.
In reply to our question, he recommended walking as the best and only way to reach Ellastone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no such conveniences. It began to look as though we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on the station platform. But the good-natured agent, whose day’s work was now done, and who was anxious to go home to his supper, placed the ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our disposal, and a boy was found who was willing to go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether the inn was open (the agent thought not), and if so, whether any one there would send a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour ensued, during which we congratulated ourselves that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, it would at least be dryer than the platform. At last the boy returned with the news that the inn was not open, but that a carriage would be sent for us! After another seemingly interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had arrived! It was a butcher’s cart. When the baggage was thrown in, there was but one seat left—the one beside the driver. Small chance for two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was only one solution. I climbed in and took the only remaining seat, while my knees automatically formed another one which my companion in misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, twisting and turning through a wet and muddy lane, so dark that the only visible part of the horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces from one direction and the rain from another, but happy in the hope and expectation that if the cart did not turn over and throw us into the hedges, we should soon find a better place for a night’s lodging than a country railway station.
In due time we reached the inn, the very one before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and invited Adam Bede to “step in an’ tek somethink.” We were greeted with equal hospitality by the landlord’s wife, who ushered us into the “best parlor,” kindled a rousing fire in the grate (English fires are not usually “rousing”), and asked what we would have for supper. By the time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. It disappeared with such promptness as to bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook—none other than the hospitable landlady herself. We then found ourselves settled for the night in a large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the best chamber in the house. “Oh, no, sir, the inn is not open,” explained our good Samaritan, “but we ’re always glad to make strangers comfortable.” These words indicate the spirit of the remark, which we comprehended because helped by the good lady’s eyes, her smile, and her gestures. I cannot set down the exact words for the reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot’s landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to Adam: “They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em; I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ‘hev n’t you’?—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hev n’t you’—well, the people about here says, ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what