Hello Victorians,
On Thursday we will be discussing Book II, “Old and
Young.” In your responses, you might
consider the various things and people to which this title refers. Perhaps most directly it suggests the
relatively old Casaubon and the relatively young Dorothea whose marital union
will come back into focus mid-way through Book II. After all, the narrator and other characters
often describe Dorothea in terms of her blooming youth while Casaubon is
continually depicted as if extremely old or even dead (he looks like a “death’s
head skinned over” in Mrs. Cadwallader’s colorful expression). And yet, in point of fact, Casaubon is merely
middle-aged, and Dorothea, even from the opening sentence, appears to have
affinities with a distant past.
Moreover, Casaubon is no less naïve than his wife in the illusions he
cherishes about marriage and marital partnership. To what extent, then, is their relationship
defined by their difference in age? Or
does the title in fact apply equally to other characters? In general, what do the young people of the
novel have in common; what separates them from the old?
Alternatively, we might take “Young and Old” in a broader
sense, applying to generations or historical progression. Notice how frequently Eliot shifts between
the individual histories of her particular characters and a larger, cultural
history. Lydgate, for example,
understands his identity in direct reference to medical innovators who have
come before him. Further, this book is
filled with oscillations between the present moment of the narrative (1829-32)
and distant moments in history. Dorothea
and Casaubon voyage to Rome on their honeymoon, for example, where Dorothea
struggles to comprehend the fragmented vision of ancient worlds she encounters,
and to feel any kinship with that lost culture.
What is the function of such large historical narratives in relation to the
stories Eliot is telling?
Happy reading,
Prof. M.
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| Roman statue, called Sleeping Ariadne, Vatican Museums; the statue to which Dorothea is compared in the opening of Chapter 19. |
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| Melancolia I, Albrecht Durer. This is the most iconic representation of the pose that indicated melancholy in Renaissance culture, the pose referred to in the Dante epigraph to Chapter 19 and in Eliot's description of Dorothea. |
A brief attention to “Old and Young”: I read the title not so much as class or age distinction, although that is certainly a factor here, but more as to how all of the younger cast seem to have problems that weigh on them and mentally or emotionally age them. The only one outside of this mould might be Casaubon, as we’re not in his head as much as in other characters, yet he is blatantly immersed in “Old World” meaning Roman and religious historical study. Will is like… not a Romantic poet, perhaps, but he has the artist’s lament which has been around for who-knows-how-long; Dorothea is dealing with the dawning idea that she has an unsuitable marriage, which is very taxing on her; Fred’s in debt, and money matters are always stressful; Lydgate has suffered for love (ish) and is now mired in politics. Yet all of these people are relatively young: say late teens to ~forty? (I’m trying to pinpoint Casaubon, because he’s the outlier again; just as his old-immersion isn’t necessarily as painful [as of now], his age might not fit the generalization either.)
ReplyDeleteAnd there’s a passage that I bookmarked in Ch21, in a conversation with Dorothea and Will about art. Dorothea admits that her appreciation for art… deflates? And she talks about ignorance in a way that seems a bit off. She says that she can walk into an art gallery and feel overwhelmed and awed/uplifted by what she sees, but upon looking at the details of each piece, she “deflates” and becomes disappointed. She describes this whole process in the end as one which makes her feel stupid.
I don’t know if tacking these words to her marriage decision is appropriate, because it seems to be a huge statement that is capable of being applied to a number of different places (like the paintings in the gallery), but seeing that that’s what at the forefront of her mind, I think it’s safe? Her concept of “future” and “marriage” and “faith/fate” had seemed big and grand when she was single and was in the prospects of something that she thought would elevate her by “becoming Casaubon’s wife” (and I really hesitate to even use the term “marry” here, because is this a marriage? But then again, for Eliot, being “married” and being a “wife” were two different things, so maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot, oh well), but now she’s seeing the detailing of it--and only the first few weeks, perhaps even months--and she’s already feeling dull, stupid, and even somewhat attacked, and it’s beginning to bleach out any sense of infatuation with Casaubon.
I have a feeling that this sentiment is just going to bleed through every interaction in this novel… oops.
After reading Jane Eyre I subconsciously began looking for parallels in this novel. Both Lydgate and Will are orphans. This was an interesting choice as it enabled them to embody the new and the modern fully, without being tied up in familial traditions. Lydgate is a self-made man. This is a new idea, (and the people had yet to warm to him) he comes with no family title (not in the gentry sense of but in the ‘oh your so-and-so’s son sense). He uses his freedom to embody monetary modernity. He wants to build himself up independently.
ReplyDeleteWill, the other hand, though independent as well, is more focused on freedom of expression. He, although a heavily Romantic character, is interested in new and fresh ideas of aestheticism. He can only let people in by this way, and therefore when his friend begins to aestheticize Dorothea he starts to fall in love with her.
Will both hates and loves the old, he struggles to find a hint of her childhood in Dorothea. He uses an image of a Minotaur. Both childlike and monstrous, old mythology, but a new revival. This balance is foreign to Dorothea who is entrenched in the old.
Old and young. The obvious connotation is referring to casaubon and Dorothea and how one is old and slow, and one is young and more energetic. How can old and young refer to a broader sense? I have one theory that perhaps old and young is actually comparing Casaubon and Ladislaw. Their whole interaction launches us into a kind of alternate reality of what life would have been like if Dorothea married a young man (or anyone but Casaubon). I feel like Eliot is almost inviting us to compare them, which I am sure I would have done Even without her invitation. Will this lead to further trouble in the book? Perhaps this question of alternate reality will continue to haunt us at the book progresses.
ReplyDeleteIn addition old and young can be juxtaposing Dorothea and , like you mentioned, the old roman art. Dorothea feels removed from all of it, while Casaubon literally seems to be consumed by the walls of the Vatican and hardly emerges from the libraries. Not only is there literal old and young, but age reminds of wisdom, and Dorothea is clearly the young one in ways: she doesn't understand the art, and doesn't know all of the languages that Casaubon does. Yet, when it comes to marriage and relationships, Dorothea is the old one. She understands more what a real marriage should look like, and feels the void in her own matrimony. As opposed to Casaubon, who may be the wise one when it comes to ancient texts, but is very young and naive/immature when it comes to his views on marriage and how to treat a wife.
Love: one grows into it -- as Fred "had grown in love with his old playmate"; one falls into it -- as Will hysterically manages; one questions it -- as poor Dodo; one shrugs at it or is wary -- as wonderful Mary; one is goddamn bad at it, making a contemptible sham of it -- as goddamn Causabon, with his purposefully chilly, false "my love" (goddamn him). Eliot is offering up these outgrowths of stereotypes, writing characters that manage to emphatically be the classic chivalric hero or the money-wasting pseudo-dandy while then each developing into incredibly real people. Symptomatic of this approach are these many varietals of love that Eliot examines by imbuing a specific romantic approach into a particular individual. None of this is particularly insightful, but her skill is just astonishing in bandying a philosophy or theory about while retaining that elusive element of immensely readable storytelling.
ReplyDeleteOne of the most enjoyable aspects of her style are the parenthetical comments, especially those of Causabon's, that are often so deliciously snarky. But more than that Eliot's cast is a bunch of wonderfully strange and different people who all manage to sweep me into their personal loop in this epic. Each one, besides Causabon who I unequivocally detest and cannot wait to see offed - as one can only assume occurs - is given these moments where they say, think, or feel something so intensely relatable. Like Fred on the "swamp of awkwardness." This is a pretty rambling post. It is something though to see how tightly structured this novel is. There is such recall, to the prologue when Will descends into the classic lovesick lover, nearly sonnet-spewing by the end of book 2, and soft rise in Dorothea's agitation.
It would be great to talk about the verses that head the chapters, particularly those that are not attributed to an author (notes say those are Eliot's?).
I particularly liked the attention paid to Lydgate in Chapter 15. In general, I like how the narrator always reminds the reader not to evaluate people by the opinions of the neighbors, since those are usually superficial and false. It was also interesting how much of the “I” or the narrator’s opinion was given all of a sudden. The voice of the narrator is always there, coloring the description of events, but here suddenly the narrator directly refers to her/himself (its unclear to me if the narrator is meant to be equivalent to the author or not). I also noticed two things in the description of his motivations and aspirations which are related to the title of Book Two, “Old and Young.”
ReplyDeleteLydgate is compared to two sets of people. The first is to the “multitude of middle aged men…who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little.” Here we see the comparison of old and young – the old men who were once young like Lydgate, and whom he might end up joining. One can’t help but be reminded of the failed Theresas mentioned in the Prelude, who wanted to achieve so much but failed tragically. These men are not as Icarus-like as the Theresas; they haven’t shot for the stars and missed. They simply faded, gradually, into oblivion. And therefore we have the second comparison – of Lydgate to the great men of the past, who were misunderstood or misjudged by their contemporaries before they achieved greatness. These two templates of the past are given to Lydgate – middle-aged mediocrity or greatness. Yet it does not seem that Lydgate is headed in the direction of the middle-aged men. He certainly does not intend to. If anything, he seems more likely to embark on a Theresa trajectory – greatness or bust - for better or worse.
The wider-lens view which these comparisons provide also allow the reader a sense of wisdom and foreboding. One gets the feeling that nothing is new, that the same mistakes that have been made before will be made again. The presentiments which the narrator gives ever so often add to this impression. Before the characters even suffer the consequences of their actions, the reader has attained disillusionment.