In October of 1856, Mary Ann Evans, a successful English essayist and editor, wrote a scathing essay in The Westminster Review entitled “Silly Novels by Lady Novelists,” criticizing the majority of novels written by and for women for being permeated with “the frothy, the prosy, the pious, or the pedantic.” At the same time, Evans—soon to become George Eliot—was struggling to begin her first foray into fiction, a long-held ambition.
So far, she’d been discouraged by the philosopher George Lewes, her spiritual, intellectual, and romantic soulmate, her “husband” in every way except legally, who claimed she was “without creative power.” Yet, that summer, Lewes relented, urging her to write a short story, her “wit, description, [and] philosophy” lending itself well to the genre. He was transparent about his change of mind—he needed to pay off the huge debts of his legal wife, Agnes, and fiction was more lucrative than nonfiction. Eliot, desirous that their “marriage” in every way mirror a real one, had insisted her earnings be deposited directly into Lewes’s bank account.
