CORINNENOTES
Conflict or Conspiracy?: George Eliot’s Fractured Feminism
Ellen Moers emphatically stated that “George Eliot…was no feminist”, whilst Kate Millett thought that while Eliot may have lived the feminist revolution this was not reflected in her novels. Despite this an anonymous reviewer in the Saturday Review was alarmed at the prospect that “our young ladies” may “take to be Dorotheas”. These seemingly incompatible views on Eliot’s feminism (or lack of it) are no doubt due to the fact that her writing is both critical of, and complicit with, the dominant patriarchal culture. At once conservative and rebellious, repressed and full of rage, a product of patriarchy and a product of feminism, Eliot’s writing transcends traditional definitions.
This conflict in Eliot’s writing is clearly shown in the character of Dorothea in Middlemarch. Dorothea is beautiful, intelligent and has a desire to achieve something in life. Yet she is trapped by a series of men (and her own submissiveness), and ultimately her potential is never fulfilled (though it should be noted that the failure to achieve potential is a problem for the men in the novel as well as the women – from Lydgate to Casaubon they fail to do what they “once meant to do”). The first of these men to trap her is her uncle Brooke – she is “struggling in the bands of a narrow teaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in-maze of small paths”. Brooke constantly, all be it unconsciously, belittles Dorothea and her intelligence, and indeed all women, as “young ladies don’t understand political economy” and he will not “let young ladies meddle with [his] documents” as “young ladies are too flighty”. The derogatory implications of “young ladies” echo through the early part of the novel, through a man who Eliot will show to be lacking in knowledge himself. From the start Dorothea exists in a world of uninformed misogyny – the beliefs of which Eliot strongly questions in the form of the inept Brooke.
From this metaphorical prison Dorothea enters her second stage of confinement – marriage to Casaubon. In one of his few moments of clarity, though without realising the implications, Brooke states that marriage “is a noose, you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be master”. J. S. Mill in “The Subjection of Women” argued that the “wife’s position under the common law of England is worse than that of slaves in the laws of many countries” and this is what Dorothea has to face, being a slave while Casaubon is master. As Gubar and Gilbert note the fact that Casaubon sits for a picture of St. Thomas Aquinas who rejected the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception – linking Mary to the original sin – means that Casaubon “incarnates patriarchal belief in feminine evil, and thereby demonstrates the inextricable link between male culture and misogyny”. In this respect the symbolism of Rome is important. Filled with this masculine culture to Dorothea it is like a “disease of the retina” (my italics) which spreads, infecting femininity. This is one of the factors which link Dorothea to Henry James’s Isabel Archer, who, through her despotic husband Gilbert Osmond, becomes infected by the “disease” of patriarchy in Rome. Osmond wants Isabel “to have no freedom of mind” just as Casaubon wants Dorothea to be merely a secretary, totally subservient to him and his allegedly superior masculine intellect. Isabel also believes that Osmond wishes to “[lock] her into her room” which connects with the symbolism of keys in Middlemarch. Casaubon is writing, or planning to write, “The Key to All Mythologies”, Featherstone keeps his money and his will locked up with his literal keys and it is a set of keys which leads to the death of Raffles. Keys, all of which are owned by the male characters in the novel, denote confinement, imprisonment and, noticeably, death. It is this death of femininity, this death of self, which Osmond and Casaubon want to impose on their respective wives. This links both of these characters with the Duke in Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess” (who, coincidentally, also lives in Italy). The Duke detests the “smiles” of his wife, and therefore silences her. Whether he silences her through literal death or through imprisonment in a convent is unclear, but it makes little difference for, as Pansy shows in The Portrait of a Lady, to enter a convent is to be made “blank” and as Charlotte Bronte’s Villette shows, to be a nun is to lose sexual identity. Casaubon does not, cannot, force Dorothea to be a nun in the literal sense but, as Ladislaw notes, does manage to “shut [her] up in that stone prison…buried alive”, and this links to the buried nun, and the buried emotions, of Lucy Snowe. Dorothea’s marriage causes her to “shut her best soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty enough to please him” and decides that it is better to “quell emotion”. Yet though Dorothea claims that she wants “something better than anger” her outward silence simply masks her inward anger and contempt for Casaubon and Casaubon himself recognises that silence is “suppressed rebellion”. After Casaubon’s rather providential death (which stands in contradiction to Eliot’s realism) Dorothea does rebel against the standards which he imposed on her and attempts to free herself from her prison, and finally to bury the culture of misogyny which she exists in.
To see Eliot’s intention in the character of Casaubon to be merely to create a picture of patriarchal belief incarnate, as Gilbert and Gubar do, is, however, to overstate Eliot’s feminism. If this representation is true it is impossible that Rosemary Ashton in her introduction to Middlemarch could consider that Eliot induces “us [the reader] to pity him”. From a feminist viewpoint it is impossible to sympathise with such a character, and yet Eliot’s narrator asks “why always Dorothea?”, inducing the reader to see events from Casaubon’s perspective. Yet Casaubon is manipulative, condescending and despotic. He and his belief system almost destroy Dorothea and yet Eliot attempts to manipulate the reader to sympathise with him. This aim can hardly be considered feminist. The character of Dorothea also suggests Eliot’s ambivalence to feminism. Until a long time after Casaubon’s death Dorothea submits to his desires, she moulds herself into whatever shape Casaubon wants, simply “to please him”. This in stark contrast to Charlotte Bronte’s overt feminism in Jane Eyre where Jane refuses to allow Rochester control over her – her reaction to her wedding veil and being “Mrs Rochester” shows her desire to maintain her own identity. Dorothea is a much more malleable character. Eliot’s narrator even highlights that Dorothea may be considered “weak”, something which could never be said of Jane. Dorothea is beautiful, intelligent and, crucially, wealthy. In 19th Century literature to be wealthy, and in particular to be a wealthy woman, is to have power – as shown by Jane’s acquisition of money at the end of Bronte’s novel and by Margaret’s money at the end of Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South. Dorothea therefore has opportunities which the other women in Middlemarch simply do not have, and noticeably she chooses to marry Casaubon (just as Isabel chooses to marry Osmond). Once married however she does nothing to assert her will or show her rage. She is trapped in a prison, and appears unwilling, as well as unable, to escape from it. In this respect the novel is as unsatisfying for feminists as is the ending of James’s The Portrait of a Lady when Isabel returns to Osmond and oppression, rather than leaving him and freeing herself. Eliot also parallels Dorothea’s submission with the submission of Lydgate, suggesting that the issue transcends gender. This perspective means that Dorothea’s situation is not so much the result of her being a woman, but of her being a human. Another factor which complicates Eliot’s feminism is her portrayal of Celia. Unlike her sister Celia accepts the barriers placed upon her by society, indeed she has no desire to be more than a wife and mother and is therefore happy. In making Celia one of the few characters in the novel that is fulfilled Eliot counters the idea that patriarchy and the confinement to the domestic is destructive for all women.
The final man who confines Dorothea and questions Eliot’s feminism is Will Ladislaw. Henry James considered Ladislaw to be “a woman’s man”, and in as much as Ladislaw shares traditional female characteristics he is correct. As Gilbert and Gubar note he is “an outsider in his society” and he is even described as being a “slim young fellow with his girl’s complexion”. He is also descended from a series of women who have rebelled against society and its expectations – and have subsequently been economically dispossessed. For all this however he is not an equal with Dorothea any more than she was with Casaubon. In her relationship with Casaubon Dorothea saw him as being the teacher to her pupil, however untrue this may have been in reality, it shaped the disparity in their relationship. In her relationship with Ladislaw she sees herself as the “mother” and him as the “child”. This links her to Lydgate who has “taken the burden of her [Rosamond’s] life upon his arms. He must walk as he could, carrying that burden pitifully”. Both of these visions link with Jane Eyre and Jane’s dream when she is “burdened” with an “unknown little child”. The difference is, however, that Jane’s burden is, in Gilbert and Gubar’s words, “her orphaned alter-ego”, her own nature rather than Rochester. Jane continues her journey for self and looses her “burden”, just as her dream indicated she would. Dorothea and Lydgate are forced to continue carrying theirs. Ladislaw becomes “an ardent public man” and although the narrator states that “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” Eliot does not unequivocally state that Dorothea is unfulfilled, there is the possibility that she is content in serving Ladislaw, just as she would have been when married to Casaubon if his work had been of value. In contrast Lydgate’s future is one filled with obvious regret and disappointment – “he always regarded himself as a failure” – even though he takes on essentially the same role as Dorothea. The emphasis here from Eliot appears to be that women can be content with serving their husband, even if they have other apsirations for themselves, while men need to follow their own desires.
Rosamond also complicates any interpretation of Eliot’s feminism. She is vain, as Ashton notes, she frequently looks in the mirror, and is obstinate, she will “never give up anything [she] chooses to do”. Yet she successfully rebels against the constraints placed upon her by society and Lydgate, and in this respect is a positive character. Lydgate sees Rosamond as being “perfect womanhood” who would admire his “high musings” and who is “instructed to the true womanly limit and not a hair’s-breadth beyond”. When Rosamond wants to express her view on their debts Lydgate’s reaction is to inform her “You must learn to take my judgement on questions you don’t understand”, silencing her in the way that Brooke and Casaubon attempt to silence Dorothea. Like Dorothea Rosamond’s rebellion is largely silent, but unlike her it is not incorporated behind a façade of subservience. In her marriage she is hugely out of her depth and her attempts to assert her will, for example in writing to Lydgate’s family and asking her father for assistance, are acts of desperation. Lydgate may be right in his opinion that Rosamond does not understand the implications of their troubles but this is made worse by the fact that he never makes any effort to help her understand. Lydgate wanted an ideal for his wife, something which Rosamond could never possibly live up to. Rosamond misjudges Lydgate and Lydgate misjudges Rosamond, and they both trap each other in a cycle of despair. That Rosamond is imprisoned by her marriage is made clear in the Finale as “instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street” (my italics) Rosamond received one which was “all flowering and guilding”. However Rosamond’s ambitions are different to those of Dorothea, and there is even the possibility that she would have been content to be in Celia’s position. In this respect her rebellion is only partly feminist.
In George Eliot Gillian Beer claims that in Eliot’s writing “the key bond is that between the sexes”. This may be true but the key event in Middlemarch is when Dorothea visits Rosamond after having previously seen her with Ladislaw, indeed Gilbert and Gubar see this as being the “climax” of the novel. There is a new solidarity between the two women who have both experienced “feelings of disappointment” in regard to their marriages. This solidarity is shown by the fact that they hold hands, something highly important in a novel which is noticeable for its lack of physical contact between its characters. Unlike the women in Bronte’s Villette who are divided by their pursuit of Dr John, Ladislaw brings Dorothea and Rosamond together. This compassion between women is one of the most feminist aspects of Middlemarch.
Eliot’s fractured feminism is shown in Maggie Tulliver in The Mill on the Floss. Through Maggie’s exclusion from the education system, despite her obvious intelligence, Eliot shows the need to educate women. Tom believes that, simply because Maggie is a girl, she is “too silly” to learn Latin. This is the view of patriarchy – that there is no point in educating women as they “would not understand” and Eliot undermines this by having Tom, who is clearly not suited to such an education, act as the spokesperson for the view which condemns his more able sister to remain uneducated. This lack of education links Maggie to Dorothea and Rosamond who would not know “Homer from slang”. Eliot’s view of education contrasts with that shown by Dickens in Hard Times. For Dickens education, and in particular the teaching of “facts” at the expense of the imagination, turns people into identical machines and it is the uneducated Sissy Jupe who is the ideal of the story. Eliot, unlike Dickens, realises the importance of education in allowing progression and power over one’s life.
Commenting on Charlotte Bronte, Matthew Arnold criticised her “hunger, rebellion and rage” and this is also a fitting description of the character of Maggie. Maggie retreats to the attic (the symbol of female confinement and madness, which links her to Bertha and Jane in Jane Eyre), her “favourite retreat”, to drive nails into a doll, a symbol of her rejection of traditional femininity (this is also shown in her cutting of her hair). Eliot however emphasises how Maggie’s rage turns her in to a monster – she is described as being “like a small Medusa” and a “pythoness”. Unlike Jane whom Bronte allows to control her rage and therefore escape the confines of the red room Maggie’s rage colours her life. The relationship between Maggie and Tom can be connected to that of Cathy and Heathcliff in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, which is also coloured by extremes of emotion. Like Heathcliff Maggie is “half wild”, though the crucial difference between these characters is the world in which they exist. Heathcliff and Cathy are isolated, seemingly removed from society and its confinements. Maggie and Tom however exist in a world where feminine and masculine are rigidly defined – Maggie must be subservient and Tom must be in control. This results in the fact that it is only in death that they are not divided. Before death however Maggie has to be rejected by society for the fact that she is “never satisfied with a little of anything”. Eliot questions society’s treatment of Maggie and its role in her rebellion and yet promptly, as Beer notes, sets this question aside. Maggie chooses to reject Phillip and Steven but having made this choice is given the freedom of being given no choices – “There was no choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the current”. Eliot effectively condemns Maggie to such a fate from the beginning of the novel – Maggie comments that in books it is always “the blond haired women [who] carry away all the triumphs”. Equally prophetic is Maggie’s attraction to a picture in which a woman is drowned: “if she swims she’s a witch, if she’s drowned - and killed you know – she’s innocent”. Maggie is no witch, but nevertheless she is still dead, not a triumphant feminist survivor but a martyr.
One of most positive aspects of femininity, and conversely, one of the most conservative features of Eliot’s writing, is her portrayal of the community as feminine. Middlemarch is made of “fresh threads of connection” which links to sewing, which is defined as a feminine activity through its association with Rosamond. In The Mill on the Floss “public opinion…is always of the feminine gender”. It is women, through their private roles, rather than men through their public roles, who hold the community together. As Gilbert and Gubar note “such a characterisation of women is conservative” and possibly even “a way of fending off the advocates of feminism”. This factor expresses the deeply divided nature of Eliot’s feminism.
Classifying Eliot’s novels as being either feminist or anti-feminist is practically impossible. They are a hybrid of resignation and rebellion, passivity and passion, repression and rage. Where we may expect feminism it is absent and where we least expect it it appears. The reason for the problematic nature of Eliot for feminist critics is neatly expressed by Beer when she stated that for Eliot “writing as a woman must mean writing as a human”. It is for this reason that it is a fractured feminism which lies at the heart of her novels.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
Middlemarch, George Eliot, Penguin Classics ed. Rosemary Ashton.
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot, Penguin Classics ed. A. S. Byatt.
The Portrait of a Lady, Henry James, Penguin Classics ed. Geoffrey Moore.
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte, Penguin Classics ed. Michael Mason.
Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte, Penguin Classics ed. Pauline Nestor.
“The Subjection of Women”, John Stuart Mill in John Stuart Mill: On Liberty and Other Essays, World’s Classics, ed. John Gray.
George Eliot, Gillian Beer, (1986)
“Captivity and Consciousness in George Eliot’s Fiction: George Eliot as the Angel of Destruction” in The Madwoman in the Attic, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar. (2000).