On Thursday we will draw to a close our discussion of Middlemarch. Speaking in the broadest possible terms, western literary tradition allows for two main types of narrative ending. Comedies resolve the romantic and erotic tensions of their narratives in the closure of marriage; tragedies end in epic failure and irretrievable loss. Middlemarch seems to want to end both comically and tragically.
Both marriages
and tragic failures abound in the final books.
Mary and Fred finally overcome the obstacles to marriage, while Dorothea
and Rosamond remarry, getting a chance to revise their initial choices. You might examine one passage describing one
of the marital relationships. To what
extent does the marriage create closure?
How is it like and unlike other marriages in the text? Does marriage indicate, as it is often expected
to, a successful end of struggles?
Alongside the
marriages, remarriages, and renewed marriages (think Harriet and Nicholas
Bulstrode) at the end of the novel, we find also a series of failures. As Casaubon never completed his Key, Lydgate
never finds his primal tissue. Moments
when characters recognize this failure are agonizing. Bulstrode nearly collapses under the “quick
vision that his life was after all a failure” (726) when his dark past and his
role in Raffles’ death are revealed. Rosamond,
though a very different figure, experiences a similar “collapse” of her hopes
and visions. After Will’s speech, “her
little world was in ruins, and she felt herself tottering in the midst as a
lonely bewildered consciousness” (780).
You might
examine a single passage that discusses one character’s failure(s). What has caused the failure? Is there any recompense? Does the failure leave us with the classical
sense of catharsis? Or does the failure
deny us relief and closure?
For your visual enjoyment, some images of marriage and failure from a 1910 edition of the novel:
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| Dorothea and Will |
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| Rosamond and Lydgate |
Happy reading,
Prof. M.
Throughout Book 8, "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" was popping into my head. Questions of names, the implications of what we call ourselves and others, seem to frame each couple's ending. Mary choosing Fred as Fred is, and insisting that for her to give him up, for her feelings to change, "all the old place [would have to be] altered, and changing the name for everything." Bulstrode, his name ruined, of course, tries to effectively disappear in giving his land up to the name and title of wife. Dorothea is willing to not something entirely dissimilar, though she acts voluntarily out of love and not out of disgrace, in finally making a choice and rebranding herself as Mrs. Ladislaw. Middlemarch functions by the descent or rise of names. All put great emphasis on the label one places on a thing, only the characters defines differently what makes that important: Elinor Cadwallader tells her husband that she would not have married such an insufferable man if not for his last name; Rosamond's whole life policy is title-based; Dorothea lives by her own Name/conviction, out of concert with convention. But this pursuit of what is at the core of something through labeling it seems to be refuted in Eliot's crushing of Causabon and Lydgate's universal identification projects. There is the totality of failure in these men's intention to put the name to something. Eliot completes the novel with a return to the name of new Theresa, but is it spectered or blessed? Who the hell knows. In the same way, is Middlemarch tragedy or comedy? Maybe it's "just" life. Eliot seems to be constantly invested in this illusion of giving and emphatically disintegrating easy labels, categorizations, names. We receive a "Finale" - how grand and theatrical! - where she promises not to leave loose ends to nag at her fans. While the Jane Austen-like Wrap Up is appreciated, being my weird mind, I always sort of resent a last chapter "sequel"; they are never as good as the original. But, on a second reading, Eliot's Finale is actually a revelation of cheeky poking at the provision of a neat, closed package. She insists, Eliot, that every object must necessarily have a beginning and an end, but what are we left really knowing about these people with whom we've spent so much time? This one has babies, that one has a second marriage (oh, Rosamond...),but underlying the clean ending are musings that disrupt the neatness. And, again, the rest in the fallibility of names: Mary's work regarded as Fred's and vice versa; Rosamond, the basil plant (fantastic!), swapping her Lydgate for Unnamed Old Rich Man, and in the process showing that she has become nothing at all; our new Theresa, our Dodo bird, seemingly, strangely and against all likelihood, perfectly contented, but no longer at all resembling the Dorothea of Ideas and Actions that we first met (Though, I must take issue with Eliot's disparagement of Dorothea's choice of wife-dom and motherhood as somehow a degeneration; it seems very possible that after all the crap, this is the Choice that makes Dorothea happiest. Why is it that being a stay at home mother is to automatically to be less than who one can fully be?)
ReplyDeleteGood-bye, Middlemarch. It's been epic.
Whenever I am drawing towards the end of a book, I often find myself slowing down, in order to remain in the universe for as long as I can. I think that Eliot was aware of this, because it felt like she slowed down as I did. After, the burning ‘will they won't they’ question was answered the last chapters felt like a gradual distancing from the MIddlemarchers. The epilogue itself did this beautifully. First Eliot gives us Chettam’s reaction to Dodo’s marriage, and then the town’s reaction to the marriage, and then she concludes with a big picture look at Dorothea’s life. It feels as if Eliot is slowly distancing the reader from Dorothea to ease the parting. Even when Dorothea leaves us, Eliot still allows the narrator’s voice to keep expanding to include the readers. This is the opposite of the way she narrated the rest of the book in which she worked from large to small. It’s almost as if, until the epilogue, the reader was not ready for the small-scale. As if Eliot knew we wouldn’t appreciate it until she worked with us to show us that small lives are just as important as the big ones.
ReplyDeleteWhen I first shut the book, I was heartbroken, the line “Many who knew her thought it a pity that so substantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the life of another,” destroyed me (as the kids say). However, Eliot does not express this sentiment in the voice of the narrator, but in the voice of the town. So I was left wondering, was Dorothea wasted?
I don’t think so. One of the most obvious themes in the book is coming to terms with your ordinariness, and Eliot spends a lot of the novel showing the reader the different models of life. The Lydgate/Casaubon model including self-aggrandizement, capitulation (at least for Lydgate), and the inability to allow other people into one’s life. Because to them, the only things worth living for is glory and respect. (At one point Lydgate even wonders what Rosamond has to live for at all). This model obviously ends in failure. Then there is the Mary/ Fred model. Work. Work. Work. The only thing that can truly save you from a life of the ordinary is to work and allow the extraordinary to come to you organically (their relationship).
Then there is the Dorothea model. She is special from the beginning. She is kind, and smart, and beautiful. She can save people when no one else will. She could have been St. Theresa!!!!!! However, we end with her a wife and mother. For me, this can be explained by means of the other major idea in the book. Entrapment. Entrapment in a town, relationship, scenario, this book has it all. The few people in the book who manage to escape include Fred and Dodo, Fred by fighting for Mary and Dodo by choosing Ladislaw. I’m going to embrace all the clichés and say that love does set us free. Perhaps it isn’t a historic life, but she is free. And really, that was all I wanted for the characters I love.
Additionally: "But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for 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." Put that on a tee-shirt (or cufflink).
The opening examples brought in at the finale are all bittersweet: Adam and Eve’s exile from Eden is pretty obvious, and the crusades were ultimately unsuccessful. In their religiosity, they parallel the opening to St Theresa. What’s interesting is that the most “functional” new relationship that is formed and introduced here is mentioned first after these historical failures. Furthermore, Adam and Eve are brought up again quite quickly in reference to the Vincy-Garths and their children. The connection would imply that their marriage failed, or that they failed in marrying each other, or perhaps even that their lack of female children is a failure (?? a shocking conclusion, but one should include all possibilities of meaning, of course (: ). Regardless of reason, the Fall + Fred/Mary is odd. Casaubon/Dodo (or anyone and Dodo due to her Milton obsession) might be better, or even Lygate/Rosamund due to him blaming her for everything but especially for riding and losing the baby.
ReplyDeleteHowever… the terms on which Adam and Eve are brought up concerning Fred/Mary is on points of equality between man and woman. Noted: it’s Letty, a girl, who makes the observation that Adam and Eve have the same clothes. So although the Original Couple is associated with failure in this finale, they are also associated with equality, thus one is not blamed over the other for the downfall (as opposed to Eve getting all the flack). Both Mary’s and Fred’s publications are thought to have been written by their spouse, which insinuated gender norms but also interchangeability and therefore equality in their marriage. And ironically, this is more along the lines of what Milton wanted: a fulfilling partnership, and not a ~little wife~ who’s admire his intellect and otherwise sit pretty.
The problem is that although the equality of Adam and Eve/boys and girls is somewhat acknowledged, it’s as subject of argument and that peters off without resolution. That is to say that the way in which the novel ends is by describing relationships from the outside looking in and discussing the pros and cons without any dialogue or sharing of head-space with the spotlighted characters. The failure also exists on our part, in that we can’t (or Eliot doesn’t let us) see absolutely everything.
I also intended to write up on the parallel to the Crusaders’ comparison, but I can’t find one in my skim? So either I overlooked it (in which case, oops), or it’s left unresolved-- but that is kind of… unlike the Eliot we know, who gives reasons and backstories for things. So maybe the missing piece here is another failure.
I didn't get to the end yet, and would like to post my comments when I have what to say! I will be back soon! Sorry for the delay!!!
ReplyDeleteThe passage where Rosemond and Lydgate make peace (end of Chapter 81, page 800) was fascinating in the way it combined a tragic fall and a reconciliation at the same time. The crushing of Rosemond’s hopes leads her to return to her husband, and he accepts her for the weak thing she is. On the surface, this would be a happy, comedic ending to their tale (disregarding the finale). But Elliot doesn’t let us off that easy. Instead, interwoven into the reconciliation is the bitter, resigned acceptance of their tragic mistakes. Rosemond finally has a wake-up call - that not everyone loves her, and that anything “other” is not necessarily better. But that doesn’t make her marriage any better – it just means that she is defeated enough to accept the “despised shelter” of her husband. More tragically (in my opinion), Lydgate’s resolve to care for the “fragile creature” necessitates that he accept a “narrowed lot” – that he abandon all his ambition. In his case, it’s hard to remember what tragic flaw led to his downfall, making his “sad resignation” acutely painful. His fate seems more the result of tragedy of circumstance, coupled with naiveté, than the traditional hubris of fallen heroes. For me, the tragedy and reconciliation taken together produced a feeling similar to catharsis - sadness, mixed with relief.
ReplyDeleteOK, now that I have read for the past 3 hours non-stop, I have what to say on the matter! *Gasp*.
ReplyDeleteI think one of the most striking examples of a mixture of comedy and tragedy in one plot is how Eliot resolves Dorothea's life. As we have seen in many publications, a marriage makes a woman complete, "tames" her, and returns the world of chaos to an acceptable norm.
Dorothea, being such a strong, ambitious woman on her own, gives up her fortune for marriage, and to become a housewife. Eliot doesn't seem to pleased with this decision of hers "Many who knew her, thought it a pity that so substantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the life of another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother." Does this marriage offer closure? Does this marriage resolve the struggles?
Perhaps Eliot was stuck in a corner. We can examine the possible options and see if any of them could resolve the issues at hand. We must also explore the issues, because my issues with the "society" will be different than the issues that Eliot's society will have.
Was it problematic to have Dorothea never marry again? Was she too bold in her actions of architecture, charity, and business? Then her marriage definitely returned her to the norm of "housewife." Yet, if society was upset at the fact that she was wasting her talents on her marriage to Ladislaw, then perhaps for the Victorian society this was not a comedic ending. (Perhaps a tragi- comedy?)
Maybe her ending is a tragic one. Dodo has lost her fortune, stature, ambitions, and lives in a poor, non-prestigious society. She married below her level to a man not so well regarded in Middlemarch, and is a housewife. When put like that it doesn't sound so great, yet Dodo gets the guy, Ladi gets the girl, and they are both HAPPY! Is her happiness enough to make this a comedic ending? The only traditional comedic ending is the fact that she marries, and becomes a housewife (but society doesn't approve of her housewife-ness, and the cycle continues).
I suppose the ending for Dodo is whatever you want it to be. I will admit it does pain me a but that she gave up on all of her wonderful talents to marry Will. Yet, what would her life be like separated from her lover? And if she is happy and fulfilled as a wife and mother, who am I to step in and tsk tsk at her life choices? (dipping a bit into modern day feminism.)
I think, if you are reading the book with the happiness of Dodo in mind, then this will be a comedy for you. If you read the play with what you WANTED for Dodo in mind, or what you expected of her, then this could be a tragedy for you.
*communal mic-drop*
ReplyDelete