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    The Lifted Veil
    The Lifted Veil
    The Lifted Veil
    Ebook66 pages1 hour

    The Lifted Veil

    By George Eliot

    3.5/5

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    The Lifted Veil’s sickly narrator, Latimer, believes himself to be cursed with the ability to see the future and sense the thoughts and feelings of those around him. Disgusted by what he sees in the minds of others, he accepts that he will lead an unobtrusive life, constantly overshadowed by his more vigorous elder brother. That is, until he meets and becomes fascinated with Bertha, his brother’s beautiful and coquettish fiancée.

    The Lifted Veil sits alongside works such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as a definitive piece of Victorian-era horror fiction, and was a departure for author George Eliot who generally focused on realism in her writing. Nonetheless, through The Lifted Veil Eliot proves skilled at incorporating the mysterious themes of the horror fiction genre into her distinctive writing style.

    HarperPerennialClassics brings great works of literature to life in digital form, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperPerennial Classics collection to build your digital library.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMay 7, 2013
    ISBN9781443425421
    Author

    George Eliot

    George Eliot was the pseudonym for Mary Anne Evans, one of the leading writers of the Victorian era, who published seven major novels and several translations during her career. She started her career as a sub-editor for the left-wing journal The Westminster Review, contributing politically charged essays and reviews before turning her attention to novels. Among Eliot’s best-known works are Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, in which she explores aspects of human psychology, focusing on the rural outsider and the politics of small-town life. Eliot died in 1880.

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    Reviews for The Lifted Veil

    3.5/5

    155 ratings11 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Apparently this novel was not only unusual for George Elliot, but for the time. The author presents Latimer - a young man from a wealthy self-made family who is not raised to carry on the family business - that is left to his stronger and lustier older brother. Whilst in Switzerland studying in a healthy atmosphere where he is thriving, he has a clairvoyant moment that leads to a dead faint. As the blurb from the book states: Latimer, a sensitive and intellectual man, finds he has clairvoyant powers. Then he has a vision of a woman, 'pale, fatal-eyed', whom he later meets: she in Bertha Grant, his brother's fiancee. Entranced, bewildered, Latimer falls under her spell, unwilling to take heed of the warning visions which beset him. In this edition, there is an excellent essay on George Elliot and this novella's publication history. At the time of writing, the concept of being able to change your fate was little considered - fate was fate and the fact that you could see into your future or that of others was unfortunate but unchangeable. It is only is later years that the concept of changing your fate has been presented although not all novels and other media such as plays and movies allow us to get off so easily, as there is a common theme of running away from the known fate, only to reach it in another quite different manner. The Twilight Zone made much of this theme in its shows - so too Alfred Hitchcock's TV Theater plays.
    • 4/5
      A novella about a troubled young man, the son and heir to a wealthy banker (or some such). A great exercise if you want to think about "the reliability of the narrator," because he's clearly mad as a hatter but doesn't know it; but it's mercifully short. George Eliot's writing is superb as usual, though the story is very odd and gets especially weird towards the end.
    • 4/5
      This is the only book I read on the train that I actually brought with me to read on the train. One of Melville House Books' Art of the Novella series, I was drawn to it as soon as I saw the author. I read Middlemarch a year or so back and absolutely loved it, but I hadn't yet read anything else by Eliot. As I am given to understand, this work both is and is not representative of her novel writing. It of course features her empathetic characterizations and high-minded idealism, but in this novella these traits are interwoven with supernatural suspense.

      A pleasing, old-fashioned yet somehow modern page-turner, this story seems both to praise and condemn the veils of privacy that shield each person's heart and mind from any other. How much misery could be avoided if each couple perhaps knew each other a little better before committing to spend their entire lives together? And yet how much misery to know everything -- every thought and judgement and disappointment in another's mind?

      Highly recommended. In fact, I have a friend who I may have to buy a copy for.
    • 4/5
      A deep dark psycho-depressive Victorian horror novella from Eliot, with a good ambiguous touch--we never know if Latimer really has the clairvoyant sight he claims, and therefore if the veil that lifts is the one between man and true sight, or madness. It's psychologically skilled on a more mundane level as well, with the treatment of a loveless cold war of a relationship between a narcissist and a histrionic--the fear of others and yet the fear of isolation. It's minor Eliot, but it's Eliot, and that means quality.
    • 5/5
      I did not find this to be a lovely book, but I do find that my opinion of this book remains drastically different from most L.T. readers of the book.I thought The Lifted Veil to be quite brilliant. As I read, I felt myself looking into the man's mind and found myself to be momentarily taking on his mental persona as well. I was not bored. I was not piqued. I was not grossed out. The book did not depress me nor did it make me nervous or anxious. I was nothing but a person within another person's ill mind. There was very little within the book that was literal and not simply in his mind.Yes, I thought it very different and as I said rather brilliant; much as I found Dracula when I read it.Sorry ladies and gentleen of the jury. I shall, most likely, be the only one here with this opinion. But then too, I am probably the only one here who has been on a psyche ward for depression, anxiety and panic attack as well. I cannot say if that colored my reading of this book.
    • 3/5
      A mini-book containing a short story about a man whose life is blighted by his ability to foresee the future and read other people's thoughts.
    • 3/5
      [The Lifted Veil] is a rather anamolous novella by George Eliot as it deals with the supernatural and seems to be Eliot's foray into Gothic experimentation.Latimer, the protagonist, is a rather neurasthenic young man who becomes obsessed with Bertha Grant, his robust brother's fiancee. After his brother dies in an accident, he marries Bertha although he has a premonitory vision of their miserable life together.I found the narrator somewhat intriguing, but I don't think the other characters were at all well developed. Eliot built the suspense well, but I thought the payoff was pretty anti-climactic. Up until that point, I thought the book was very Poe-like, but Poe usually manages to "thrill" the reader in a more satisfying way. Her exploration was more philosophical than Gothic -- more interested in the horrors of a life lived outside of meaningful social contacts than creating terror or horror in her readers.
    • 5/5
      Gorgeous short story. Really beautifully written, and an intense read.
    • 3/5
      More of a short story than a novel (at only 60+ pages plus an afterwards by a modern writer), this was a fast, enjoyable read. Eliot's style and tone here reminded me of Frankenstein and a number of Poe's short stories.
    • 3/5
      Moderately interesting supernatural Victorian short story with clairvoyance and raising dead.
    • 4/5
      *This is a review of the Penguin Little Black Classics edition of "The Lifted Veil"*This short volume includes two texts: The essay "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists", which was published in the Westminster Review, and the novella "The Lifted Veil". I read the essay first although in the book it comes second.In her essay, George Eliot cleverly analyzes the different kinds of 'silly novels' written by contemporary female writers. She criticizes them for various reasons, her main points being the following:- These writers only write about the upper classes and either completely ignore ordinary people, or if they do include them, they depict them badly or falsely because they do not know anything about their lives.- They do a disservice to 'serious writers' (Eliot names Charlotte Brontë and Elizabeth Gaskell as examples) because on the one hand they take up much of the spotlight that the others also need, and on the other hand, because they provide more fodder to those men who are of the opinion that women are not able to write.There are many more aspects in the essay, but these were the ones that stood out most to me. I am not going to write more because then I will just repeat the whole essay. The novella "The Lifted Veil" is fundamentally gothic. I have not a lot of experience with gothic texts - I have read a few, but without realizing what they really were, and have not read any for a long time - but I did like it.The narrator, Latimer, a sickly young man and younger son of a wealthy banker and land owner, falls in love with a beautiful woman when he discovers that he has the gift of foresight. It turns out, though, that it is not a gift at all, but it troubles him with no end.Again, I will not write more because otherwise all the surprises would be gone. It is a very short novella, but it has a few turning points and different parts to it. The underlying suspense and unease is strong and makes for a chilling and depressing read. I was intrigued but of course it is unusual for George Eliot.

    Book preview

    The Lifted Veil - George Eliot

    Chapter I

    The time of my end approaches. I have lately been subject to attacks of angina pectoris; and in the ordinary course of things, my physician tells me, I may fairly hope that my life will not be protracted many months. Unless, then, I am cursed with an exceptional physical constitution, as I am cursed with an exceptional mental character, I shall not much longer groan under the wearisome burthen of this earthly existence. If it were to be otherwise—if I were to live on to the age most men desire and provide for—I should for once have known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can outweigh the miseries of true provision. For I foresee when I shall die, and everything that will happen in my last moments.

    Just a month from this day, on September 20, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o’clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and foresight, without delusions and without hope. Just as I am watching a tongue of blue flame rising in the fire, and my lamp is burning low, the horrible contraction will begin at my chest. I shall only have time to reach the bell, and pull it violently, before the sense of suffocation will come. No one will answer my bell. I know why. My two servants are lovers, and will have quarrelled. My housekeeper will have rushed out of the house in a fury, two hours before, hoping that Perry will believe she has gone to drown herself. Perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. The little scullery-maid is asleep on a bench: she never answers the bell; it does not wake her. The sense of suffocation increases: my lamp goes out with a horrible stench: I make a great effort, and snatch at the bell again. I long for life, and there is no help. I thirsted for the unknown: the thirst is gone. O God, let me stay with the known, and be weary of it: I am content. Agony of pain and suffocation—and all the while the earth, the fields, the pebbly brook at the bottom of the rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the morning through my chamber-window, the warmth of the hearth after the frosty air—will darkness close over them forever?

    Darkness—darkness—no pain—nothing but darkness: but I am passing on and on through the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, but always with a sense of moving onward . . .

    Before that time comes, I wish to use my last hours of ease and strength in telling the strange story of my experience. I have never fully unbosomed myself to any human being; I have never been encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow-men. But we have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some tenderness, some charity, when we are dead: it is the living only who cannot be forgiven—the living only from whom men’s indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind. While the heart beats, bruise it—it is your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unanswering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious affectation of indifference; while the creative brain can still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning for brotherly recognition—make haste—oppress it with your ill-considered judgements, your trivial comparisons, your careless misrepresentations. The heart will by and by be still—ubi saeva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit [1]; the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well as from all work. Then your charitable speeches may find vent; then you may remember and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenuation for errors, and may consent to bury them.

    That is a trivial schoolboy text; why do I dwell on it? It has little reference to me, for I shall leave no works behind me for men to honour. I have no near relatives who will make up, by weeping over my grave, for the wounds they inflicted on me when I was among them. It is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my friends while I was living.

    My childhood perhaps seems happier to me than it really was, by contrast with all the after-years. For then the curtain of the future was as impenetrable to me as to other children: I had all their delight in the present hour, their sweet indefinite hopes for the morrow; and I had a tender mother: even now, after the dreary lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompanies the remembrance of her caress as she held me on her knee—her arms round my little body, her cheek pressed on mine. I had a complaint of the eyes that made me blind for

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