Book II: Old and Young

 Ch. 13 

Here we are primarily concerned with the banker, Nicholas Bulstrode. He first meets with the new doctor, Lydgate, and it's slightly significant that neither is native to Middlemarch. We don't yet know much about the origin of either, but we will later.

Lydgate wants to know that Bulstrode will continue to fund the new hospital wing, but Bulstrode's interest is almost entirely the result of his spiritual rather than medical convictions. The key point of disagreement here is that Bulstrode wants to ensure that his preferred clergyman be given the role of chaplain in the new hospital. That man is Tyke, who is more traditional/conservative than Farebrother, whom we'll get to know later. Lydgate doesn't care about this side of things—he's driven by science—but he recognizes that it could jeopardize progress/funding if he opposes Bulstrode, who is obsessed with "sacred accountableness." Note that whenever Bulstrode (or Eliot, describing him) uses the word worldly, it is meant to demean any pursuit connected to money; note also uses of words like commerce, manufacturing, even banking. Which makes it ironic that Bulstrode is a banker, of course. More on that later.

The second part of the chapter revolves around Mr. Vincy's visit. He's the new mayor, and father to Fred and Rosamond, remember. He's also Bulstrode's brother-in-law. Everything that happens here should be pretty clear, so I'm commenting on their interactions only to make note of all the zingers we get to enjoy—neither of them holds back. What's noteworthy is how this disagreement reveals deeper character traits in each of them. Bulstrode is judgmental and a bit holier-than-thou, of course, but he's also an ascetic (pushing Vincy at the start of the meeting to eat less, as he does). Vincy, a relatively simple and seemingly honest man who is not overly religious, appears to win this battle of wills (and values).

Ch. 14

This isn't an overly difficult chapter, so I'll just mention what stands out to me. Obviously, Mr. Featherstone is a pretty odious character—can you imagine any scenario where he earns our sympathy or compassion?

In stark contrast to Mr. Featherstone's thoroughly unlikeable presence, we have Mary Garth—maybe my favorite character in the novel. I'll say more about why later, but I'll note that in this scene we learn that she is not only honest and direct, but also not lacking in intellect—as seen through her analysis of characters in various literary works at the bottom of page 129. 

One of my favorite lines comes a little higher on that same page, when Mary is simultaneously flirting (mildly) with Fred and needling him; she is described as "provokingly mistress of the situation," which is followed by this observation of Eliot's:

When a conversation has taken a wrong turn for us, we only get farther and farther into the swamp of awkwardness.

Who hasn't been there??

Ch. 15

Medicine! We may as well call this the Lydgate chapter.

To begin Eliot is again in intrusive-author mode. That's not a critique—I love these "intrusions" and find them artful and compelling. Maybe I should pick a different word. (Need to brush up on my narrative theory terminology, I guess. But I have better things to do at the moment.)

The first two pages here are challenging, and I would suggest that you not let them slow you down. We may want to return to the opening, particularly the way Eliot describes herself as a "belated historian." Naomi mentioned to me that Eliot was perhaps imitating (?) the historical novel in Middlemarch becuase that was a respected form practiced by prominent male writers. 

The story of Lydgate's life up to this point should be clear enough, so I won't examine it—though again we may need to return to some of the details later.

One authorial intrusion is of interest to me; on page 135, Eliot writes the following:

We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. 

I wonder if this is a little swipe at what later came to be called the "marriage plot" novel. What I'm slightly confused by is where she goes from here, shifting the meaning of "makdom and fairenesse" from phsyical attributes (form and beauty) to stand-ins for something closer to passion for exploration and purpose. I think I get it, but it's a subtle move, not easy to follow (at least for me). 

I know, though, where she ends up: Making the point that Lydgate resolved early in life not to be one of those men who drifted into mediocrity. Here's a question for more astute readers: Am I crazy to think there's an echo of Casaubon's "key to all mythologies" in Eliot's description of Lydgate being "fired with the possibility that he might work out the proof of an anatomical conception and make a link in the chain of discovery" (137)? I'm thinking, too, of the question "What was the primitive tissue?" (139).

Jay, if you're interested in questions related to medicine in the novel, this is a chapter we'll want to come back to.

Ch. 16

This chapter opens with some slightly new insights into Bulstrode; mainly, it becomes clear that he is far from universally well liked. We shift then into a scene in the Vincy's home, where a few men (including Lydgate) first debate a couple of medical controversies. Slightly noteworthy that one of them gets in a dig at The Lancet, soon to become (and remain, to this day) one of the leading medical journals in the world. 

The remainder of the chapter is largely focused on the possibility of romance between Rosamond and Lydgate. He is impressed by her musical abilities (playing moreso than singing), though upon leaving he returns home and becomes obsessive about questions of knowledge rather than Rosamond. She, by contrast, is smitten. Since I talked about the word ardent in an early post, I'll return to it here since it appears in a very different context, here regarding Lydgate:

He was an ardent fellow, but at present his ardour was absorbed in love of his work and in the ambition of making his life recognized as a factor in the better life of mankind. (155)

Again, the contrast to Rosamond is almost comical, for she represents what Jay and I this morning self-mockingly referred to as the "teeny-bopper" romance side of things; "poor" Rosamond had nothing

to divert her mind from that ruminating habit, that inward repetition of looks, words, and phrases, which makes a large part in the lives of most girls. (155)

Hey, Eliot said it, not me!

Ch. 17

Here we get to know the Reverend Camden Farebrother through his meeting with Lydgate at Farebrother's home. I still find numerous moments in this scene unclear, but I'll do my best to make sense of them—and Naomi or Jennifer (or you, Jay!) can tell me what I'm getting wrong. 

My recollection of Farebrother is that he's honest and good, reliable. So I'm using that knowledge (which will come through later in the novel) to inform my reading of this scene. On the surface, he might seem a little prickly, but I choose to read this more as playfulness and self-deprecation than hostility or superiority. Still, he can seem a bit sharp-tongued in this scene, so I'll suggest that you cut him some slack. More than anything, we see here that he is passionate about his entomology, and that maybe he is something of a realist when it comes to his professional role as clergy. He's a bit earthier than others, particularly Bulstrode (who's not clergy but is certainly a pious moralist). 

I think what matters most here is that Farebrother and Lydgate appear to be forging something of a bond. Farebrother would like Lydgate's support but he also sees the value in remaining "independent." 

Ch. 18

I almost fell asleep reading this chapter! Which maybe tells you all you need to know, Jay. It's not vital. Mostly small-town politics and alliances, though of course there are some interesting morsels in connection with intersection of medicine and religion in the town. The most important part comes at the beginning, where it becomes clear that Lydgate definitely thinks of Farebrother as a friend; so he's torn about whether he should vote for him as chaplain (if it comes to a vote, which he hopes it won't), but mainly he's irked that his focus is diverted into this insignificant (to him) topic and away from his work.

The vote itself is a bit of a surprise, at least to me. 

Ch. 19

Finally, we're back to Dorothea! Though aslant, in this case through the eyes of Will Ladislaw and his friend, a young German painter who has seen Dorothea and is so taken by her plain beauty that he wants to paint her. Will is annoyed with his friend, and maybe also by the reality that Dorothea has actually married Casaubon. (I won't be calling her "Mrs. Casaubon"; it just feels wrong.) Clearly, Will is already smitten. This is a chapter you'll likely want to come back to later. 

Ch. 20

Holy macaroni (it's Eye-talian) what a brilliant chapter. How does Eliot do it? Let this occasional "author" play at this question for a moment. Thinking like a writer: Okay, next I'll write a chapter about how Dorothea is sad because she suddenly sees that something is, um, missing in her marriage; and maybe starting to wonder if she's made a teensy-weensy mistake (though she never voices this, even to herself). Yes, writer-self, that is my mission. It's fun to think how inadequately we mere mortals would write that scene. 

My point is, obviously, it's one hell of a chapter. We get inside Dorothea's head (and heart, WHICH IS THE WHOLE POINT) in such deep, subtle, and affecting ways. I start to mark one great sentence or image, and then I need to keep marking and noting and admiring. 

Well, little explanation is needed, though I should mention that Eliot's treatment of Mr. Casaubon (seen anew through Dorothea's eyes) is remarkable too. 

I'll leave it here, with one of my favorite lines in the book:

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat; and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

 

Ch. 21

The tension! In the first part of the scene, we see Dorothea and Will interact for the first time apart from others. He seems, of course, quite taken with her, but she appears to play a role that's almost a stand-in for Mr. Casaubon—she's relatively formal, reserved, and seems to be channeling her husband when she mildly suggests that Will should make more of an effort to find a career, or at least be less of a free spirit. But he has the soul of an artist (in some ways, at least) while Casaubon has the soul of a scholar. I don't think it comes out much in this scene, but I'm thinking about the difference being rooted in sense experience (for the artist / explorer / romantic) vs. texts (for the scholar). 

And here we arrive at epistemology. Sorry for the big word, but it's one that will likely come up in the scholarship about the book. Simply: the study of how we acquire (and trust, or not) our sources of knowledge. (That's off the top of my head; consult a dictionary for something better.) I've been sensing more on this reading that Eliot is concerned with epistemology, and I see a strong contrast here between Will and Mr. Casaubon; that's all for now, but I'll continue to look for it as we move along.

Things get more interesting in this scene, of course, when Casaubon enters unexpectedly. I love how the show of manners so completely veils all the real feelings of each character—particularly the two men, who are just at the beginning of what will become something of a rivalry. Not necessarily a romantic one, but more in the sense of revealing to Dorothea two very different ways of leading one's life. She's been sold on the scholarly mode, but here she seems to have her first doubts. 

And, once Will has gone, Mr. and Mrs. C. revisit the unpleasantness from breakfast (when Dorothea basically said: What the hell are all those damn notes actually FOR???); I find it meaningful that she apologizes for her role in that disagreement, but his response is essentially, Well, it's good that you see how wrong you were. 

To end the chapter, Eliot lets us know that Dorothea will look back on this day as one when "some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born" (197). 

Ch. 22

Will persuades Casaubon to take Dorothea on a small tour of artists' studios, and Will accompanies them. Will seems to be in on the ploy to have Naumann begin by having Casaubon himself sit as a model for a painting, appealing to his ego by portraying him as Aquinas. Naumann then (seemingly) idly suggests that he take a few minutes to sketch Dorothea; this is agreed to, and when Naumann "positions" her, Will "was divided by the inclination to fall at the Saint's [Dorothea's] feet and kiss her robe, and the temptation to knock Naumann down while he was adjusting her arm" (202). Clearly, Will has become not only infatuated with Dorothea, but protective of her. These tendencies are further developed as the scene continues. 

Insult of the chapter: When Will and Naumann speak privately later, Will says of Casaubon, "He's a cursed white-blooded pedantic coxcomb." Coxcomb = a conceited, foolish person. (Yes, I had to look it up.)

Will visits Dorothea again the next day, purposefully timing his visit so that Casaubon will not be present. We know that Casaubon is none too pleased about Will's previous visit to Dorothea when the two of them were alone. In this scene, Will risks going too far on at least one occasion, as when he says to Dorothea, "I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom" (205). And even moreso when he says what we're all thinking: "And now you will go and be shut up in that stone prison at Lowick; you will be buried alive."

Later she tentatively asks Will his opinion about Casaubon's research. It's all the opening he needs to launch into a brief but pointed take-down of Casaubon's work. This time, Dorothea does take offense, though they're able to smooth things over enough for now. 

Will leaves, but sees Casaubon on his way out. Eliot doesn't show us their interaction, but it seems that Casaubon has made clear that Will is not to return the next day, their last in Rome. 

At the end of the scene—and the end of Book II—Casaubon leaves no doubt that he wants to hear no more about Will from Dorothea. And the book ends with a rare single-sentence paragraph: "Dorothea did not mention Will again."