Mr. Lewes offered tea himself, because the worshippers surrounded the Idol so closely that they kept her a prisoner within a double circle, and they were so eager for a few words from her lips that as soon as she moved a step or two they crowded about her in a way to make me think that, in a small way and in her own drawing-room, she was mobbed like a queen at some public ceremony.
The next time we called upon George Eliot she had heard of our meeting with Mr. Tennyson, and said,—
"So you have seen the great man—and did he talk?"
"Talk?" answered my husband; "he talked the whole time, and was in high spirits."
"Then you were most fortunate."
We understood what was implied, for Mr. Tennyson had the reputation of not being always gracious. However, we had learned from himself that nothing short of rudeness could keep his intrusive admirers at a distance, so as to allow him some privacy. He told us of a man who so dogged his steps that he was afraid of going out of his own garden gates, for even in front of those locked gates the man would stand and pry for hours together, till the poet's son was sent to him with a request that he would go elsewhere.
In the case of his meeting with Mr. Hamerton it was totally different, for he had himself expressed a wish for it to Mr. Woolner. Of course my husband was greatly flattered when he heard of it, and readily accepted an invitation to lunch with Mr. Woolner's family, and to meet the poet whom he so much admired. I sat by Mr. Tennyson, and endeavored to suppress any outward sign of the interest and admiration so distasteful to him. Nevertheless, I was greatly impressed by the dignity of his simple manners and by the inscrutable expression of the eyes, so keen and yet so calm, so profound yet so serene. His was a fine and noble face, even in merriment, and he was very merry on that day, for the string of humorous anecdotes he told kept us all laughing, himself included. I am sorry now not to remember them, the more so as they generally concerned himself. Several were connected with his title of "Lord of the Manor," but the only one I can remember in its entirety is the following, because he was addressing himself to me—a Frenchwoman—the scene of the story being the Hôtel du Louvre, in Paris.
Mr. Tennyson began by remarking that there were a good many stories current about him; some of them were true, but most of them apocryphal.
"And is the one you are going to relate true?" I asked.
He smiled, and answered:—