Book III: Waiting for Death

Ch. 23 

We come to know Fred Vincy much better in this chapter, following along as he attempts to make some money in horse-trading. We also learn more about Caleb Garth (Mary's father, and, some critics have suggested, a man modeled on Eliot's own father). You can move quickly through this chapter, focusing your attention mainly on Fred's ability to delude himself (at which he is expert).

Ch. 24

I find this chapter painful to re-read. The plot turn (Fred facing the Garths with his unfortunate news) is clear enough, but I'm more interested in the character portraits of Caleb and (wife) Susan Garth. Eliot holds them both in high regard, it seems, though she does let Caleb have his flaws. Interestingly, his most significant flaw appears to be his generosity, feckless though it may be. Jay, when you finish this chapter, I wonder what you might predict for the future relationship between Fred and the Garths. And, more specifically, how do you think Fred's next visit with Mary will go?

Brief interlude

Before you read on, let's pause for a moment to have a look at the first passenger train service—between Liverpool and Manchester, not far from the Midlands setting of Middlemarch. This image is from 1930.

Be sure to read Ch. 25 before you read what I've written below.

Ch. 25 

Back to our story. I have to say—I think Mary is a bit too easy on Fred in this scene. Maybe this is an indication of how deep her feeling for him already is, but I'm still surprised at how quickly she shifts from what appears to be severe disappointment (bordering on anger) to poking light-hearted fun at Fred, at which moment "her face had its full illumination of fun" (240). Maybe one of the few false notes in the novel for this reader. 

The Garths are proud and self-reliant people. In spite of their relatively close connection to old Featherstone, neither Mary nor Caleb will ask the old man for help with money.

I do love that Mary forcefully stands her own when the bitter and mean-spirited Featherstone has a little dig at Caleb; Mary's response to him: "'I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir,' said Mary, coldly" (243).

Can any of you shed light on Featherstone's reply to this? Is he trying to communicate that he thinks Fred to be better than Mary, and that she shouldn't be talking with Fred when Fred is there to see him? Or is it something more simple: You're a simple, "useful" girl and no more; you deserve no pleasure in life (like talking with Fred).

Ch. 26 

Fred gets sick. How convenient for him! How could anyone stay mad at him when he's delirious?

Anyway, his illness leads to two important outcomes in this chapter and the next. The first is that Lydgate is given the opportunity to check on Fred after the first doctor (Wrench) appears to pay insufficient attention to Fred's condition, thinking it merely a minor illness. Lydgate detects something more serious and treats Fred, and in the process alienates himself further from the medical establishment there. 

Ch. 27 

The second consequence of Fred's illness presents itself in this chapter, in which Lydgate's visits lead to repeated interactions with Rosamond. This includes a scene where Lydgate shows up Plymdale, one of Rosamond's suitors (who has not sufficient chin to be thinking hopeful thoughts about the town beauty). 

What's important here is that Lydgate believes himself to be engaging merely in a bit of harmless flirtation—merely for the sake of amusing himself rather than feeding his ego. Rosamond, on the other hand, is already picking out the furniture for their new home in her daydreams. 

The chapter ends with Lydgate being called to Lowick Manor . . . .

Ch. 28 

We see Dorothea at first by herself, and Eliot lingers over her interior thoughts—dominated by the recognition, now newly home at Lowick Manor from Rome, that life has "shrunk." She also feels the reality of the "gentlewoman's oppressive liberty" (257); Naomi and/or Jennifer, I wonder if this was explored by other writers (particularly women) of that era? She wants purpose, and reminds herself that assisting Casaubon will have to suffice. 

Her desires are also more ordinary, as she hopes her "gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad of her presence" (259). 

The big news of the chapter is that Celia is engaged to be married to, who else, Sir James Chettam.

Ch. 29 

I love how Eliot opens this chapter: ". . . but why always Dorothea?" (261). Here Eliot again takes control as author reminding us to step outside our inclination to see things from a single perspective. It's as if she's caught herself doing it and stops herself abruptly, with my beloved em-dash for emphasis!

And so we turn our attention to Casaubon, "spiritually a-hungered like the rest of us" (261). The shift in perspective is striking—now we must feel this marriage through his desires, doubts, misgivings. Whatever he expected from marriage to a young, ardent woman, "the new bliss was not blissful to him" (263). But he will apply himself to the project of marriage, "fulfilling unimpeachably all requirements" (263). I guess that's more than can be said for plenty of men, but still. Sheesh.

Part of delving into Casaubon's mind, unfortunately, also means a brief foray into his meditations on his key to all mythologies. Yawn. But I get it—Eliot has to show us this sizable corner of his mind as it's the only corner that really matters to him. 

After this, we see Casaubon and Dorothea quarrel—again in relation to Will, whom Casaubon does not want in his home (are we a bit jealous/insecure, Edward??); he lumps Will in with "guests whose desultory vivacity makes their presence a fatigue" (265). [Desultory = lacking a plan or purpose.] I'm interested in this word vivacity: "the quality of being attractively lively and animated." In this chapter and the previous one (and in plenty of other places in the novel), much of the setting connected to Casaubon is described as dimly lighted, dark, and absent of life. So it's no coincidence that he uses this word to pinpoint the thing he finds most objectionable about his young cousin: the fact that in this key regard he is the antithesis to his uncle.

In any case, here again Dorothea stands her ground, becoming noticeably irritable with Casaubon, asking him pointedly, "Why do you attribute to me a wish for anything that would annoy you?" (265). A moment later, Dorothea thinks (but does not say) that she deserves an apology.

Notably, though, she is more perturbed by her husband's directive to end the conversation—because it's unpleasant to him. (Selfish bastard!) Eliot sums it up well, and reminds me of how infuriating it must have been for many women in this period to have to put up with men like this:

. . . to have a discussion cooly waived when you feel that justice is all on your own side is even more exasperating in marriage than in philosophy.

Dorothea can't hold onto her justifiable anger, though, because Casaubon conveniently decides to have a "fit" (a mild heart attack?) a few minutes later. And Dorothea is again full of compassion and feeling for her man. 

[I jest, of course; he didn't "decide" to have a fit. Eliot tried to get me to see the world through his eyes (and be sympathetic), but the fucker really makes it hard to do so.]

Ch. 30 

Thank god for Mr. Brooke and his comic relief—he starts this chapter by suggesting the Casaubon should take up fishing or woodworking. Can you imagine Casaubon whiling away an afternoon at the local trout stream or turning wood into toys? 

We learn shortly after this exchange that Lydgate believes Casaubon to have maybe 15 years to live. Maybe. He also notes that in cases like this one, "death is sometimes sudden" (271). They agree to keep these guesses at the prognosis from Casaubon (okay, now I'm offended on Casaubon's behalf) in order to spare him the stress.

After this, alone, Dorothea's "tears gushed forth" (272), which I perceive as barely connected to the poor health of her husband—to me it is catharsis for all that she is experiencing. 

To protect Casaubon from further upset, she decides to get the letters from Will (including the one she hadn't read before, in protest of her husband's rudeness?). She reads them, detecting "an outpouring of his young vivacity" (273). She asks her uncle to write to Will telling him not to come to Lowick Manor, and Mr. Brooke does so, but along the way also decides to invite Will to stay with him. He thinks he'll enjoy the young man's company.

Ch. 31: Town gossip leads to engagement.

There it is. Lydgate has put no great thought into his flirtations with Rosamond, but everyone else has. Starting with Mrs. Bulstrode (sister to Mr. Vincy). She learns the key gossip from Mrs. Plymdale, whose son, Ned, was clearly of no interest to Rosamond. Recall the scene in Chapter 27 with both Lydgate and Ned—Lydgate shows him up in various ways, and the contrast couldn't be stronger (particularly for Rosamond) between the two men.

Obviously, Ned has communicated some of this to his mother, who then tells it to Mrs. Bulstrode (wife to the moralistic banker), which then causes Mrs. B to have a little chat with Rosamond to try to find out if the young woman is in fact engaged to Lydgate. Rosamond is ashamed to have to confront this question—her pride is at stake because, of course, Lydgate hasn't proposed to her. 

All this (in some form) gets back to Lydgate, who resolves to avoid Rosamond's house. Problem solved! Rosamond despairs at the 10 days with no visit from Lydgate, but the doctor is eventually called to deliver a message to Mr. Vincy, and he decides (because he really can't resist the ego gratification of seeing her, despite his misgivings) to go to the Vincy home with the message. He tries to be formal with the message, she gets hurt and begins to cry—and he promptly embraces her and proposes marriage. Rosamond in these moments is not manipulative—this is genuine feeling in her, it seems, and Lydgate is touched by it. He experiences an "outrush of tenderness at the sudden belief that this sweet young creature depended on him for her joy" (283). 

At the end of the chapter we learn that Featherstone may be near death, and that this—along with Rosamond's engagement—brings Mr. Vincy real pleasure. 

Ch. 32

If you're short on time (or patience), you can read this chapter very quickly. To be clear: I'm a big believer in reading every word and trying to untangle every single sentence. I read every end note. BUT this is not necessarily the best way to get through this novel the first time. I don't want you, Jay, to lose steam here.

Relatives of Mr. Featherstone hang around the house, waiting for him to die—I mean, waiting respectfully to visit with him and shower him with love. They don't know what's in his will, but they seem to hope that making a final show of familial connection might influence him to adjust the will accordingly. I'm reminded of the waiter/bartender who ignores you for an hour and then is all smiles and personality when they deliver the bill.

The only relatively important detail in the chapter is that Mary Garth is the only one Featherstone is willing to have around consistently—and she is responsible for deciding who gets to come up to see the old man and who doesn't. This will have some bearing on the events of the next chapter.

Ch. 33

Featherstone dies. But not before attempting to change his will(s). We don't know what he has in mind, but we do see that Mary repeatedly refuses to open the iron chest containing the will(s), which enrages Featherstone, who is too enfeebled to get to the chest himself. All that exertion does him in. 

What I appreciate most here (other than Featherstone's death, which felt long overdue to this reader) is the lengthy description of Mary that opens the chapter. I'm generally not a fan of reading novels biographically and/or psychoanalytically (looking for bits and pieces of the author's life in the characters), but I make an exception here because I find George Eliot to be such a fascinating person. In short, I wonder to what degree Eliot is investing Mary Garth with qualities Eliot felt in herself. I'm sure the scholars have examined this, but I haven't read them so I'm not sure how far this line of inquiry goes.

At the end of the chapter, Mary seems to question herself, wondering if she's done the right thing by refusing Featherstone's request to get the wills so he can burn one of them. I respect her instinct to be above reproach—imagine the questions that would be put to her if she had burned one of the wills—but I also see the frustration in Featherstone: He's clear-minded in that moment and knows what he wants in terms of the inheritance. And he doesn't get to make his choice at the end. Now I'm actually sympathetic to him.

And thus we end Book III.