Spot the Feminist In Middlemarch

I would like to continue Matt's discussion of Dorothea as the feminist figure in Middlemarch. After concluding the novel, I have an overwhelming sense of frustration with Dorothea. Before even introducing us to the characters in her own novel, Eliot prefaces her narrative with a short discussion on St. Theresa. It is no coincidence that the following chapter's title (the first chapter) is "Miss Brooke," nor is it coincidental that there are parallel plot devices and similarities between the two women. In short, I expect a contrived connection between the women to unfold throughout the course of the novel; I anticipated Dorothea's evolvement into a saint-like figure.

I recognize that the parameters of Dorothea's freedom and possibilities were highly constrained by her role in society and also by her subservient position as "wife" in marriage; however, I cannot help but be disappointed by her ultimate lack of involvement throughout the course of a 600 page book. When the reader is introduced to Dorothea, we learn that she has an abundance of ideas on how to reconstruct the town in order to prevent homelessness. Though not an explicitly "feminist" act, but rather, a charitable action, this would prove to the Middlemarchers that women are capable of being the agents and undertakers of their own ideas. Eventually, this could lead to the possibility of women maintaining a number of different occupations. My frustration is a result of Dorothea's ultimate passivity. Though the Middlemarchers infer that Dorothea is responsible for the majority of Will Ladislaw's actions, she does nothing under her own name or her own persona.

What I failed the realize, the first time I read the prelude to the novel, was the line, "Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centering in some long-recognisable deed" (page 3). Upon completion of the novel, I returned to this passage to realize the complete despondency surrounding the role of Victorian women: though, according to Eliot, she may have virtuous intentions, her capability to make a difference is minimal without the mask of a male persona. It is no coincidence, after all, that Eliot herself went under a male pseudonym.

Containment and the Bulstrodes

The interaction between Mr. and Mrs. Bulstrode stands separate from those of the rest of the couples in Middlemarch. Whereas the relationship between couples such as Dorothea and Casaubon or Rosamond and Lydgate turned ugly because each found fault with the other as it clashed with their expectations, the Bulstrodes had a more straightforward and well-verbalized relationship.

Speaking of Mrs. Bulstrode, Eliot writes “Mrs. Bulstrode was vindicated from any resemblance to her husband. Harriet's faults were her own” (458). The separation of her own faults from her husbands allows for her ability to work on herself rather than criminalize her husband for her own faults. Further, such an outlook on her own faults allows her to be less dependant on her husband for her happiness than the other ladies in the novel, leading to less problems.

Mr. Bulstrode, due to the rumors going around about his wrongs, was concerned that his wife might leave him:

“Bulstrode, who knew that his wife had been out and had come in saying that she was not well, had spent the time in an agitation equal to hers. He had looked forward to her learning the truth from others, and had acquiesced in that probability, as something easier to him than any confession. But now that he imagined the moment of her knowledge come, he awaited the result in anguish. His daughters had been obliged to consent to leave him, and though he had allowed some food to be brought to him, he had not touched it. He felt himself perishing slowly in unpitied misery. Perhaps he should never see his wife's face with affection in it again. And if he turned to God there seemed to be no answer but the pressure of retribution” (463-464).

This fear, shown afterwards to be incorrectly placed, reveals some aspect of accountability: that Mr. Bulstrode acknowledged his own faults and mistakes, and understood that his wife might react accordingly. By this, Eliot shows Mr. Bulstrode to be taking his problems onto himself and understanding the subsequent actions of others, rather than displacing his mistakes into frustration with another.

The interaction that followed when the couple finally met up demonstrates the mutual understanding the two share:

“He raised his eyes with a little start and looked at her half amazed for a moment: her pale face, her changed, mourning dress, the trembling about her mouth, all said, "I know;" and her hands and eyes rested gently on him. He burst out crying and they cried together, she sitting at his side. They could not yet speak to each other of the shame which she was bearing with him, or of the acts which had brought it down on them. His confession was silent, and her promise of faithfulness was silent. Open-minded as she was, she nevertheless shrank from the words which would have expressed their mutual consciousness, as she would have shrunk from flakes of fire. She could not say, "How much is only slander and false suspicion?" and he did not say, "I am innocent” (464).

Mrs. Bulstrode begins by verbalizing her concerns over the rumors, and even without answering, there is a sense of unspoken communication; even in silence, both came to understand the situation as it was. This sort of relationship was able to stand strong because each took his own responsibility for his actions and thoughts and was completely straightforward about his views and his partner. By realistically regarding himself, each was able to look out for the other.

Dorothea and Rosamond's Roles

Through the progression of the novel, there is practically a role reversal regarding the female roles in the couples as they are first introduced and viewed by their husbands, and as they are further in the novel. To focus in particular on Dorothea and Rosamond’s relationships with Casaubon and Lydgate, Dorothea and Casaubon wound up together through their seeking of ideals: a “great soul” for Dorothea – someone she could learn from and help in his endeavors, she possessing ideas of her own she might like to put into action, meanwhile considering herself to be far separated from “those people” – and Casaubon seeking someone to support him in his work and generally be subordinate. In Lydgate’s case, we are told that “adornment” was considered “the first place among wifely functions” (61). Thus, he came upon Rosamond, the woman he felt viewed matters from the “proper feminine angle” (61).

And so, at first, we see Dorothea as a strong-minded woman, perhaps naïve and condescending, whereas Rosamond appears to be more of a stereotypical woman of the period.

As the novel progresses, however, these roles seem to swap. Despite her unhappiness with Casaubon, she does take on quite the submissive role, waiting outside of the library for him after an argument even. At the end of the novel, where she eventually winds up with Will Ladislaw, she seems to continue this submissive role, aiding him in his work but having little impact of her own.

Then there’s Rosamond: she outrightly defied her husband after he asked her not to ride when pregnant, and wound up miscarrying as a result. Upon initially being told that there was always a chance of accident with horses, she merely responded, “But there is the chance of accident indoors” (361), asserting her refusal to submit. Later in the novel, this independence again asserts itself, when Rosamond sends a letter to Godwin Lydgate requesting money. After Lydgate finds out, receiving a letter back from Godwin, the two begin to quarrel:

"Will you only say that you have been mistaken, and that I may depend on your not acting secretly in future?" said Lydgate, urgently, but with something of request in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. She spoke with coolness.

"I cannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such words as you have used towards me. I have not been accustomed to language of that kind. You have spoken of my `secret meddling,' and my `interfering ignorance,' and my`false assent.' I have never expressed myself in that way to you, and I think that you ought to apologize. You spoke of its being impossible to live with me. Certainly you have not made my life pleasant to me of late. I think it was to be expected that I should try to avert some of the hardships which our marriage has brought on me" (412).

Certainly this would not be considered “the proper feminine angle” that Lydgate first sought. For whatever reason, first impressions seem to stick, though, and possibly because of the way Dorothea speaks about herself, continuing to insist that she’s different than most people even after Casaubon died, I can’t help but want to conform Dorothea to an idea of a different, progressively thinking woman.

Sisters

"That is nice," said Celia, comfortably. Only I would rather you had such a sort of husband as James is, with a place very near, that I could drive to." (pg. 505)

This exchange between two sisters enables the plot of Middlemarch to come full circle. The book began with the relationship with two sisters and now concludes as they are settling into new roles. This comment Celia makes represents a timeless difference between the two sisters.

Not much is written by Eliot about Celia's marriage, and part of this is Celia discovers less (or was wiser initially). Dorthea was ambitions and in a unique way, had high expectations for her husband. Celia, on the other hand, expected to live a life of a traditional woman she knew. James, as well, seems satisfied in his own marriage. Even though James initially displayed interest in Dorthea, he never displays anything but brotherly concern towards his sister-in-law her. Both Celia and James viewed marriage as a societal responsibility and followed through with their expectations.

The statement above reveals Celia's feelings towards Dorthea. Although Dorthea could often be condescending towards her sister, Celia does not resent her. It almost seems as if Celia is so content with her own position that she feels that Dorthea should want to live her life.

Dorthea was miserable married to Casaboun, but also experiences a passionate affair and then a loving and intellectual relationship with Will. When Celia begs to hear the story, which readers have followed for several pages, Dorthea responds "If you knew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you." I think Dorthea is correct. The actions of Dorthea would seem imcomprehensible to Celia, and the Dorthea does even try to emotional battle Dorthea has undergone would be hard t

Eliot does not make it clear which sister she prefers. Celia seems satisfied, but her feeling towards James are no where as intense as the love Dorthea feels towards Will. Perhaps this an example a character hierarchy, but in this case, I think Dorthea actually experiences more. Although both sisters eventually end up happy, there is no clear answer as to which sister had taken the better route.

Is Dorothea a feminist?

The final ten chapters or so offer a huge incite into the world of Dorothea. Her character, as the reader has come to learn about her from the earliest parts of the novel, is someone interested in charity projects and helping the weak. It is significant that the first project she is truly involved in comes by way of taking on Lydgate’s debt to Bulstrode. In the beginning of the novel Dorothea was unable to administer such tasks due to her husband wishes. Some would say during these chapters, Dorothea’s feminist nature comes out. However, on second look it seems that her need to employ charity somehow comes from the rest of the men in the novel. For instance, the three major men in her life all work into her particular form of compassion. In Casaubon, Dorothea does not marry the man she will have the most freedom to mold and change (i.e. Sir. James) instead she marries the older more practiced man that she feels can teach her. In the case of Lydgate, she has inherited money from Casaubon and the first act of charity she feels is dutiful is to take over the debts of a man. She is literally taken on the burden of the opposite gender. While it could be argued that this proves her to be an equal or better than Lydgate, it is surely important to note that her charity comes in the form of a check, money that belonged to her old husband. Her ideas to reform her Uncle’s actions were much loftier. In the end, Dorothea throws away her one chance at serving the public good in order to stand behind Will. Not exactly the feminine fervor one would expect from her.

Favortism in Middlemarch

George Eliot does not pretend to write about her characters equally. As we have read and established, there are major and minor characters and also characters Eliot writes much more sympathetically than others. The difference in which Eliot writes about the Garths and Vincys allows Eliot to make an interesting comment on social class.
George Eliot likes the Garths. The very ending of the novel in which, “Fred surprised his neighbors in various ways. He became rather distinguished in his side of the country as a theoretic and practical farmer” (pg. 511) represents Fred’s success as a professional middle class man. Moreover, Eliot establishes a happy ending for the Garths, “All who have cared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know that these two made no such failure, but achieved a mutual happiness” (pg. 511). This happy ending is a usual outcome for a marriage in Middlemarch, but only comes after Eliot has shown the Garths to be sincere, hard-working and honest about their place in society.
The Vincy’s are continuously trying to move up in society. They are already wealthy, but attempt to live even beyond their means. Mr. Vincy even drives his family into debt- a similar choice Lydgate will make later on. The Vincy children epitomize a stereotype of wealthy children who are not taught values of responsibility. Rosamond and Fred do not work hard and continue to spend frivolously even when they do not have the means to. Rosamond especially, cannot accept the debt Lydgate encounters, and fail to act proactively in that situation.
Rosamond, as opposed to Fred, had a more suitable marriage in the eyes of the Vincy family. Lydgate is a professional and comes from a very wealthy family. Fred, on the other hand, marries a family below his social ranking. The situation looks to the Vincys as a step-down. Readers know, however, that the Garths have gone out of their way to help Fred grow up and become a respectable man. Caleb, in particular, gave Fred opportunities to prove himself after almost everyone else had given up on him.
As a reader, I appreciated the sympathy Eliot had towards the Garths that she did not have towards the Vincys. The different attitudes towards her characters created a sort of situational irony in which readers perceived Fred’s success as a farmer to be very different than Mr. Vincy's view of Fred’s life. The irony of the situation allows reader to be more all-knowing than the characters themselves and also enables readers to understand the critique of society Eliot makes.
The critique on society can be seen throughout the novel. A dependence on societal approval is introduced early in the novel through Casaboun. Although he is academic and constantly he writing, Casaboun is too scared to publish his work because of fear that the book will induce much criticism. Later on, Rosamond sabotages her husband’s attempt to sell their house because it would be too embarrassing. The Garth’s, on the other hand, are honest about their class and work hard to provide their children an education. By favoring the Garths throughout the novel, Eliot makes it explicit that the Garth’s values lead to a more successful and satisfying life.

Final words

Eliot chooses to reiterate a 'moral' of the novel within the concluding paragraphs on Dorothea. Fittingly, the intermittent idea carried throughout the book, that one person, or the act of one person, can have terrific, wide-spreading results, is identified with most impact in the life of Dorothea. Firstly, her life was "the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in which great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it" (Eliot 514). The people of Middlemarch could have protested her first marriage to Casaubon at many points. She was young, too young to be married to someone twice her age, too young to know what she would want forever. Mr. Brooke, Celia, James, James's family, could have protested or voiced concerns, made an impact, but no one did. (Similarly, Rosamund's father could have told her about Lydgate's financial troubles before the marriage but chose not to). Eliot voices to the reader "We insignificant people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas" (Eliot 515). Between all the historical and cultural changes and revolutions that occur in Middlemarch, or between the time period the novel is set to when Eliot actually wrote it (railroads, the telegraph, the political reform movement...), was the idea of one, the accomplishment of a few, that impacted many. Eliot continues, "Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength" (Eliot 515). Although imperfect, it was the idealism and disillusionment of Dorothea that was broken by society. A society who would not interfere with who she should marry, but enforced one they deemed she couldn't. It was this that compelled Dorothea out of Middlemarch to London (and what compelled Rosamund to consistently dream for it). Dorothea left a lasting impression in Middlemarch however, not just the occasional rumors of what had been there (similar to the lasting rumors with the exiled Will's mother), but in loaning money to Lydgate or not marrying James (thus enabling his marriage to her sister) or talking to her father about improving the cottages on his estate... Eliot's final words aptly concludes that "... the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs" (Eliot 515).

The Finale

The epilogue of Middlemarch reveals a lot about the theme of the web. First, we asked who is the spider of this web? Who exactly weaves these strings of lives? In the finale of the novel, the narrator makes a prominent appearance. The narrator reveals that the entire novel took place quite a while ago in the lives of the characters. It seems as if the narrator knows Middlemarch intimately, but also knows everything about the lives of each citizen. For me, I still find it hard to accept that the narrator shifts according to the plot line, especially in the epilogue. There is an obvious presence in this finale, who knows everything and all. I would argue that Eliot makes it obvious that she is the spider weaving a web of stories. This is typical in a Victorian novel, but Eliot illustrates it more subtly. Also, the web is constructed carefully and purposefully. This is illustrated with how the Garths' future is told and Dorothea's fate is last. Eliot demonstrates to the reader how she has control with these characters. She chooses to emphasize Dorothea's fate even though as the protagonist, we are more interested in how she ends up rather than the Garths and the Lydgates.

Lydgate, An Echo of Casaubon

Lydgate to Rosamond: "...To say that you love me without loving the medical man in me, is the same sort of thing as to say that you like eating a peach but don't like its flavour. Don't say that again, dear, it pains me" (Eliot, page 284).

As opposed to Fred Vincy, as the reader learns only shortly before this scene, Lydgate feels a vested interest in his occupation; his life's achievements are defined and marked by his accomplishments in the medical field. This is in sharp contrast to Fred, who is willing, after completion of his training, to drop his future as a clergyman, for love. Lydgate's identity is deeply connected to his career.

This statement of Lydgate's marks the moment at which his relationship with Rosamond figuratively links to the marriage between Casaubon and Dorothea. Unlike the other suitor of the novel, Fred, these two men are more emotionally vested in their occupations than in their marriages. Lydgate's passion for medicine makes him almost a younger Casaubon-esque figure; ultimately, their fates are comparable as neither successfully achieves their ambitious academic goals while their marriages decline.

I believe there is a foreshadowing of their paralleled stories when Rosamond asks Lydgate whether Dorothea is beautiful. Rosamond's inquiries provide the beginnings to a process in which the reader also creates a link between the two marriages.

Weak ties and Will Ladislaw

Victorian novels love the 'weak' ties to a plot structure, developing their presence and significance throughout the course of the story. In Middlemarch, this is exemplified most definitively in the character of Will Ladislaw. His first appearance in Book I doesn't seem significant, as most characters shake his introduction off. Despite being introduced to him finally in Chapter 9, it is some time and after some description before we are even given his name.

"His bushy light brown curls, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at once with Celia's apparition... The cousin was so close now, that, when he lifted his hat, Dorothea could see a pair of grey eyes rather near together, a delicate irregular nose with a little ripple in it, and hair falling backward; but there was a mouth and chin of a more prominent, threatening aspect than belonged to the type of the grandmother's miniature" (Eliot 50).

There is nothing too remarkable about this description and his appearance is fleeting in the beginning of the novel. It is with time, that both his relationship in the novel is strengthened and his place in the town of Middlemarch created. Eliot uses time and the formidable length of the novel as tools or tactics. It is over time that the reader is able to develop history with the characters, form personal attachments. It is over a long lengthy novel that one is able to prolong plot twists as in the case of Bulstrode's secret or finally, the pull between Will and Dorothea.

"...Will followed [Dorothea], seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children. looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down. Then they turned their faces towards each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not loose each other's hands" (Eliot 497).

Although Middlemarch is clearly not typical in its portrayal of marriage as romantic and the true source of happiness, it hasn't quite given up hope in the idea. It is the progression from their first interaction to the first alignment of love that exemplifies the essence of Victorian storytelling. Seemingly weak ties may transform into pure, formidable love with time.

The Irony of Rosamond

"'The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy,'...Those words of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how far he had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband's mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored wisdom alone. He had begun to distinguish between that imagined adoration and the attraction towards a man's talent because it gives him prestige, and is like an order in his buttonhole or an Honourable before his name" (Eliot 479).

Rosamond and Lydgate's marriage is just as unhappy a marriage as Dorothea and Casaubon's. However, where Dorothea sought to please her husband, Rosamond does the very opposite. Lydgate asks her to refrain from riding horses during her pregnancy, but "...the discussion ended with his promising Rosamond, and not with her promising him" (480).

Rosamond, as a woman and a wife, has two primary responsibilities as defined by society: to obey her husband and to bear him children. She fails on both counts, and one failure results from the other. By defying Lydgate's desire, Rosamond faces a miscarriage and thus looses her unborn child. She has, as a Victorian woman, failed to fulfill her role in society.

Yet, as a woman, she is woefully restricted in an ironic way. Rosamond is socially ambitious; she wishes to climb the social ladder. However, she is restricted by her role as a woman. Unlike Lydgate, she has no possibilities to channel her energies outside the home, who is privileged to enter the public sphere. Therefore, her husband becomes the only outlet for her ambition. But it is Captain Lydgate that represents the world she wishes to enter. So when her husband forbids her to go riding again (a demand that only exacerbates her frustration), Rosamond's only reaction can be direct defiance. Lydgate just represents another male voice telling her what to do, thus highlighting her useless role as female in a patriarchal society where her ambition can only meet dead ends.

However, as Lydgate's wife, Rosamond has a duty to obey her husband's wishes, just like Dorothea listened to her husband. By defying Lydgate, Rosamond transgressed her socially accepted gender role. This can result in two ways: either a complete social breakdown of gender roles or a direct punishment for such defiance. The miscarriage represents the latter, and thus the maintenance of established gender roles. Rosamond's position as a woman and a wife ends up being her biggest downfall.

(Some of) The Men of Middlemarch

Today when we discussed the similarities between Bulstrode and Casaubon, it occurred to me that the goal they had in common-- trying throughout their entire lives to create something lasting-- is one that many of the other men in Middlemarch share. We were originally introduced to the futile striving for a legacy with Casaubon, whose Key to All Mythologies ended up as nothing more than a waste of a lifetime of effort. And as we discussed earlier, Bulstrode spent his entire life trying to cover up his lie to his first wife; he tried to craft a persona to convince himself, as well as those around him, that he was living a virtuous and honest life. Like Casaubon, though, Bulstrode fell short of his one goal in life, and all of his work was for naught.

Those two aren't the only characters who are concerned with their legacies, however; it seems like most of the men are focused on creating lasting impressions that will survive after their deaths. Peter Featherstone, for example, lives his life with the desire to manipulate others after his death; all of his interactions with the people closest to him take place with his will in mind.

Lydgate loves his work because he wants to improve science and change medicine, and his inability to do so leaves him feeling worthless. He tells Dorothea in Chapter 76, "I had some ambition. I meant everything to be different with me. I thought I had more strength and mastery. But the most terrible obstacles are such as nobody can see except oneself." He tells Rosamond earlier in the work that he wants to be an innovator, and the rest of the town sees him as a reformer upon his first arrival. But by the end of the novel, the reader learns that Lydgate "was what is called a successful man," but because he is unable to meet his goal of effecting real change, he considers himself a failure.

Caleb Garth, meanwhile, loves his work because he sees the impact that it will have on the generations that follow him. I can't find the passage I'm thinking of (I'll add it as a comment if I can find it later), but he talks about how proud he is to do work every day that will be visible for years to come. He doesn't see payment as the reward for his work; he takes pride in doing lasting good. Taking Fred under his wing and training him so that Fred can provide for Mary is a measure of Caleb's success, because he is both passing along his skills and ensuring that Fred and Mary's family will be able to sustain itself in the years to come.

Interestingly, the one woman who seems to show the same interest in preserving a legacy is Dorothea. But Dorothea differs from the men in one important way: she doesn't care about attaching her name to the work she does. Dorothea wants to improve the world, and she is always looking for ways to use her influence in a way that it will make Middlemarch a better place. She doesn't require recognition, and her happiness is not dependent on how her actions or her reputation are received by others. Instead, Dorothea is fulfilled by the prospect of others' happiness.

Bulstrode's Sordid Past

I was really interested by Eliot's presentation of Bulstrode's secret. Time after time, she made comments that implied a deep, dark, secret; constantly foreshadowing the future reveal. For example, Eliot said, "It was not that he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary..." (Page 380). This affirmation of the legality of Bulstrode's actions is something that could have come straight from Bulstrode's own mouth - and something that does.

With all the build-up Eliot presents for the secret, the actual reveal (to the reader, at least) is somewhat anti-climactic. While I was certainly taken aback by the deceit Bulstrode employed in purposefully lying to his first wife about the location of a daughter who would prevent Bulstrode's inheritance, it seemed like the repeated affirmations of the legality would require something much much worse.

However, something much worse does in fact happen - as a result of Bulstrode's original secret. Bulstrode, in his determination to protect his secret, kills the man who would threaten to tell it. It is interesting that it is Bulstrode's fear for his original "dark" secret that forces him to do some real damage. It almost seemed like a soap-opera - every plot twist imaginable seemed to come about as a result of Bulstrode's fear of Mr. Raffles: deceit, murder, problems within family relationships. And yet, I can't help but wonder if Bulstrode might have been better off if he were just upfront about the whole ordeal. In my mind, at least, the truly damning evidence against Bulstrode is not the secret in itself, but the means that he employs to keep the secret hidden.

You Can't Outrun Your Fate

As we talked about earlier in class, there is always “something” going on in Middlemarch. Eliot consistently describes “something” happening within her characters that changes their perceptions of their lives and those lives around them. In particular, I noticed that Eliot writes, “And yet he felt as if something had happened to him with regard to her” (123). This quotation explains how Will begins to feel attached to Dorothea. Later in the novel, Eliot writes, “Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left to conjecture what was in the other,” in regards to Will and Dorothea (337). What is this something that Eliot keeps writing about? How is it that a narrator that can penetrate the minds of characters cannot pinpoint this something?

A character or theme that we tend to overlook is Fate. Eliot delicately balances self-determination and fate. She represents this balance through the theme of gambling throughout the novel, especially with Fred, who loses everything, and Farebrother, who gambles but still makes an honest living. Each character has their own motivations, but Eliot illustrates that not everything can be planned. This something that keeps drawing Will and Dorothea together is fate. Their paths inevitably intertwine although they cannot bring themselves to be honest with each other. They try to stay away based on their own reasoning, but Eliot proves that fate has different plans for them.

Lydgate's Introduction and an Echo of Dorothea

When I was first introduced to Lydgate, I initially thought Lydgate was unlike any other character in the novel Middlemarch. I was especially interested in thinking and pursuing the idea of the strange in novel as we talked about in class. His presentation into the world of Middlemarch is far from the unknown we see when most characters are introduced in novels. He did not feel like the stranger some would cast him as. The questions (what makes a stranger? how do we distinguish the stranger from the regular cast of characters?) did not seem to relate to him. However, as I dug deeper into the novel I came to the realization that events and the characters in the world of Middlemarch are not as straightforward as they may seem. However, if the reader looks at Lydgate’s character introduction as a mirror of Dorothea the arch he takes in the novel starts to make some more sense.

Lydgate’s character is not unlike Dorothea in that he has moral ideals and the belief that things should and could change. He is an altruistic character that comes from a higher social class, but does not care about money the way other characters in the novel do. In essence, while there is a social hierarchy present in the story, and he could be one of the gentry, he would rather accept a role as someone fighting for the common good.

Lydgate’s character mirrors the maturation of Dorothea in some instances. They are both moralistic characters that want to make change in Middlemarch and they both are interested in finding relationships. In both instances the characters pursuit of their romantic interests send them into the dark downward spiral. What is interesting is the comparison of these two characters. Dorothea knows this community and befalls the same emotional darkness that Lydgate will later in the novel. Once Lydgate engages in his romantic entanglements he loses the shield of the stranger. He is very much in the world of Middlemarch and thus privy to the same gloom that all the characters in the novels feel.

The change from initial introduction of Lydgate to what befalls him later in Eliot’s novel is striking. When somebody as good and morally strong as Lydgate is thrust into the dire circumstances he will be, the reader understands nobody is safe.

What does Dorothea see in Casaubon?

The more I read about Dorothea and Casaubon's relationship, the easier I find it to forget how they got there in the first place. I keep wondering how Dorothea found herself married to someone who treats her so coldly, someone who she doesn't really seem to love. When I went back to look at Chapter 3 with the events from the later chapters and books in mind, though, it all kind of fell into place for me.

When Dorothea falls in love with Casaubon, she doesn't fall in love with him, the man. She falls in love with the potential he brings-- potential for her own personal growth beyond what has been made available to her up until this point. "The union which attracted her," we read, "was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide who would take her along the grandest path."

So it shouldn't be altogether surprising to Dorothea that there isn't any substantial amount of tenderness or affection in her marriage; it wasn't what she was looking for in the first place. Throughout the first few books, I've been finding myself comparing Casaubon to Sir James Chettham and wondering how Dorothea could in her right mind choose someone who seems so dull and cold in comparison (he brought her a puppy!). But when I think about her motives, it really does make sense. Marrying a man who would listen to all of her suggestions, who would build cottages that she plans even if those plans aren't particularly well informed, isn't going to "deliver her" into enlightenment. Dorothea, like Rosamond, isn't content with the normal ways of Middlemarch; the two women are just looking for different ways to escape what they perceive as that province's mediocrity.

Dorothea sees her own education as a way to get away from what she feels are the trivialities of her day-to-day existence. In the absence of an opportunity to perform charitable deeds or come up with lofty plans for more cottages, she wants to work to make a difference in the world around her. The fact that Casaubon leaves her to make footnotes (and later, that he is unable to work and leaves her without anything meaningful to do) takes away exactly what she thought would be gratifying about her marriage. She and Casaubon wanted different things from the get-go: where he wanted someone to fill his empty rooms and take over the domestic portion of his life that he had ignored for so long, she earnestly wanted to improve herself.

In Chapter 3, we see Dorothea go to the library to better prepare herself to talk with her new potential suitor; we see her amazed that in his mind she sees "reflected there in vague labyrinthine extension every quality she herself brought." After reading through more of the book and looking back at this chapter, I really sympathized with her (reading uncritically, I know): she wasn't really thinking about the man in front of her, but she was using the potential for a relationship to consider all of the possibilities that she hoped would come about in her life. Dorothea had never before come across someone who she thought could show her the intellectual world she didn't know how to be a part of. She was looking for a teacher, and she found one in the man whose life experience was "a lake compared with [her] little pool!"

Dorothea's engagement to Casaubon seemed unconventional to me at first. The courtship didn't appear to be like any other I had seen before; it seemed so dispassionate. But I realized that I shouldn't have been looking at Dorothea's interactions with Casaubon to find the excitement that is usually present between new lovers. Dorothea fell in love with the idea of what the future could hold for her-- she was finally going to be able to rise above the restrictions put upon her by her position in society and her gender, and that idea was more romantic than the gestures of affection that Sir James Chettam could offer her. It's sad to think about how those aspirations don't come to be when thinking about her honeymoon and the months that follow, but looking back at this chapter at least gave me a better idea of how she got there.

The Jewelry Box

Within the first chapter of Middlemarch, we are introduced to Dorothea Brooke, who seems to be the main subject. She is described as an ideal Puritan who is beautiful, but plainly dressed. Her religious fervor, while focused on bringing good to the world, is seen as a potential hindrance to her marriage opportunities, at least according to her uncle, Mr. Brooke. However, men find her bewitching.

The novel starts off with Dorothea's move to Middlemarch and the subsequent effect she has on some of the men who live there. Her Puritan ways do not seem to be a problem here. Yet, within the first couple of pages, we see one of the first interactions Dorothea engages in within the novel, which subsequently is the first interaction between Dorothea and her sister, Celia.

Celia approaches Dorothea to ask her to split the jewelry from their mother's jewelry box. Celia timidly asks her sister to try on some of the jewelry, and perhaps even take some. Dorothea ends up taking a ring and matching bracelet and leaves the rest for her sister. Celia, again timidly, asks Dorothea if she will wear the jewelry in public, which sparks Dorothea's temper.

What does this scene mean? It is clearly an insight into Dorothea's character, as we later find out that Celia plays little to no role in the rest of the novel. Dorothea is initially described as beautiful, despite her plain attire, and perfectly Christian. She is, in every way, the ideal woman. She is from a decent background with all the right values and morals. However, this initial interaction really shows the discrepancy between Dorothea-described and Dorothea in reality. Celia's timid attitude in approaching her sister illustrates that Dorothea is perhaps not as perfect as the audience is initially is meant to believe, which can be seen later, when she actually loses her temper. Additionally, by taking the ring and bracelet for her own, Dorothea demonstrates a sort of vanity that is direct contradiction to the Puritan values she so vehemently upholds. Beyond this, the question of whether she will wear the jewelry out in public foreshadows a pattern in Dorothea's character that we see throughout the novel. There is a gap between the ideal Dorothea and the real Dorothea. The ideal Dorothea is the one that falls in love with Casaubon, lectures her uncle on his lack of participating in socially responsible projects, who, simply put, has lofty ideals; this is the way we are introduced to Dorothea and also the way she views herself. In reality, Dorothea has a short temper, finds herself superior to others, and is the Dorothea that Celia sees (and the audience also sees after their interaction). It is the Dorothea that becomes more exposed as her marriage with Casaubon continues. The mask of ideal-Dorothea slips away to reveal not the societal image that she (and others) have created, but an inner reality that hides itself from the public eye of Middlemarch.

Lydgate and Rosamond's Engagement

I hope I'm doing this correctly... Anyway, I was really interested by the haste I felt was employed to Rosamond and Lydgate's engagement - a haste that is pretty uncommon in a book as long as Middlemarch. While one could make the argument that the engagement was, in actuality, somewhat prolonged, considering the reader finds out about Lydgate's admiration of Rosamond in Chapter 11, in the course of Chapter 31, Lydgate completely changes his mind as to his feelings about Rosamond and marriage.

The Chapter starts off with a conversation between Mrs. Plymdale and Mrs. Bulstrode, who are speaking about the supposed engagement between Rosamond and Lydgate (which was, at the time, completely false). After Mrs. Bulstrode speaks to Rosamond and ascertains that Rosamond has ignored all other suitors for Lydgate while she was still unsure of his intentions, Mrs. Bulstrode immediately sets out to set Lydgate straight.

While Lydgate avoids Rosamond for a time, the first time he sees her again, he is suddenly overcome by the realization that he loves her and walks away from the encounter engaged to Rosamond.

What changed? What happened to cause Lydgate to be open to marriage, which he had completely denounced just a few pages earlier? I don't know that there is an answer, but I think it's an example of how Eliot doesn't really go into the details of how the happy couples of the novel are made, such as Celia and Sir John. Instead, Eliot is concerned with the undoing of couples, such as Dorothea and Casaubon.

Lydgate and Rosamond's engagement, to Eliot, would then be nothing more than a necessary plot twist. While Eliot elaborately describes their courtship so that the reader understands that the intentions towards marriage are one-sided, when the courtship comes to fruition, Eliot rushes to get the plot point out.

Indeed, Eliot only says, "In half an hour he left the house an engaged man, whose soul was not his own, but the woman's to whom he had bound himself" (pg. 190). However, in the same chapter (a strikingly small chapter), Eliot writes that Mrs. Bulstrode asked Mr. Bulstrode "to find out in conversation with Mr Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a decided negative" (pg. 187).

The reader sees no true change of heart in Lydgate, but is just supposed to accept the fact that one moment Lydgate has no intentions of marrying and the next is engaged to Rosamond. My guess is that to Eliot it doesn't matter, because it is the less interesting plot point than the sympathy unrequited love can invoke.

Prelude

OK, I’m going to start this off with a somewhat pedantic though heartfelt post.

I want to make a key disclaimer, though: I’ve been orbiting this novel for almost a decade now; there’s no need to respond to it in the same vein. In other words, I’m being honest by bringing in a range of outside thoughts that this novel triggers—but other folks in this blog will be equally honest (and likely more entertaining) if their responses come from their own relationship to the text as first-timer readers (I don’t think Eliot would have liked the term “newbies).

So: it’s fascinating to me that that a novel called “Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Middlemarch.jpg; for some reason the Norton edition omits that crucial subtitle) would begin not inside the world of Middlemarch itself (“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into belief by poor dress” is a very respectable country-house beginning) but off in Spain, with St. Theresa of Avila (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teresa_of_Ávila). The opening sentence is flat-out demanding:

Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors?

It almost dares the reader to say, “uh, not me…” I read it as serving notice from the beginning that even though you want to throw yourself into the romantic story you see unfolding (within three chapters the beautiful heroine is engaged) you are also going to be asked to think, well, deep thoughts about Spain, the Crusades, and medieval passions. (interestingly in the American first edition, published in Harper's magazine, which we have here in the Brandeis archives--ask Sarah Shoemaker, sshoemak@brandeis.edu and she'll pull it out--the Prelude is omitted, which gives awhole different feel to the novel, I believe.)

The reader also realizes early on that the novel demands some thinking about women’s work in the world: because the passage makes clear that like or hate her, Theresa was able to do solid work in the world: “she found her epos in the reform of a religious order.” By contrast—and here the real story of the novel starts to sneak in—there are later Theresas who had no such luck:

Many Theresas have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. With dim lights and tangled circumstance they tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement; but after all, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ardently willing soul.

In other words, there is in modern life a misfit, in which many are at once like and unlike Theresa; so the story we are about to hear concerns not only struggling to do one’s work, but also perhaps struggling even to find a mechanism and a framework within which that work can get done (and you can bet that the traditional domestic role for a middle-class woman of the mid 19^th century is not it…)

Finally, the Prelude ends in a way that Foucault would have appreciated: touching sex and desire without quite spelling it out. Theresa herself may be a heroic figure for the Spanish struggle for nationhood (and in fact in “The Spanish Gypsy” later in her career Eliot proved herself very sympathetic to the nation-building of minor European peoples) but it’s impossible to ignore another side of who she was: the subject of a famous and famously erotic statue by Bernini from 1652, one that Eliot herself very likely saw in her 1860-1 travels in Italy (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e4/Teresabernini.JPG).

It’s a doozy of a statue, and like a lot of devotional work, it leaves it very unclear whether you’re seeing someone who is devoted to a “higher cause” or overcome by physical desires. I think that’s a fascinating way to think about what Dorothea herself later has to discover about herself.

The final two sentences offer us the chance to think abot Dorothea as a starved Theresa—or a misplaced water-fowl. But both possibilities are tinged with a physical yearning that is made stronger by not being explicitly spelled out:

Here and there a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed

Well, that’s what I think of when I (for the 100^th time) read this tiny chapter. Looking forward to hearing what others think of subsequent ones…….

Welcome to the Blog

Hi Everyone. Chapter by chapter, let's make our way through the novel, tracking the actions and the characters we care about as we go....Everybody posts! I'm taking on the persona of the (doomed and cranky) old scholar Casaubon....