Middlemarch: Victorian Education for Women

First Edition

With dim light and tangled circumstance they tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement; but, after all, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness, for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for their ardently willing soul” (Middlemarch 1).

      Middlemarch is one of my most beloved novels, one I have read half a dozen times or so. The rich prose and complex characters can never be exhausted, regardless of the number of readings. Perhaps because I am an educator, I tend to read the novel in terms of Dorothea's education. Over the next few blogs, I will write about the key facets of her education.

The Victorian Woman's Insufficient Education

     We learn about Dorothea's paltry education prior to the temporality of the novel. Although England’s education system was undergoing changes, women’s education was certainly inferior to the schooling available to men. According to Keith Evans, in The Development and Structure of the English Education Systems:

The main concern [of female education] was for those female accomplishments considered important for the marriage market—dancing, singing, instrumental music, deportment, embroidery, painting, and French, Italian and German. This was combined with a smattering of general knowledge obtained from catechisms of historical and geographical facts and some English and arithmetic (50). 

      Dorothea, we learn, has received some formal education within the home of a British family (4), before moving to Lausanne, Switzerland where she was educated under Swiss Puritanism, and “fed on meager Protestant histories” (176). Although Eliot does not elucidate all the particulars of her learning, we know that this time period—the 1820s and 1830s—was a time when women were expected to have weak opinions” (5). Any subject of educational importance would have only been taught superficially. Dorothea considers that “the toy-box history of the world adapted to young ladies . . . had made the chief part of her education” (76). While most women in the novel are content to accept the inferior standard of education available to them, the narrator tells us that Dorothea, “the poor child, [wished] to be wise herself” (56). In addition to any formal education she received, she takes responsibility for her own learning. Cardinal Newman, in his seminal work on liberal education--The Idea of a University--credits efforts to self-teach: “Self-education in any shape, in the most restricted sense, is preferable to a system of teaching which, professing so much, really does so little for the mind”(149). Dorothea turns to the one viable option for receiving an education—self-education.

     It is useful to consider Newman's The Idea of a University which expresses his viewpoints of education, published only two decades prior to Middlemarch's publication. One could argue that Eliot endorses many of Newman's ideas in her novel. Newman maintains that the purpose of a university education, is “on the one hand, intellectual, not moral; and, on the other, that it is the diffusion and extension of knowledge rather than the advancement” (ix). Newman claims that a quality education will include a range of disciplines and subject matters. He argues that, although students cannot study every course, they will benefit from being a part of an institution that houses all the courses. He explains: “Thus is created a pure and clear atmosphere of thought, which the student also breathes . . . He profits by an intellectual tradition, which is independent of particular teachers . . . He apprehends the great outlines of knowledge, the principles on which it rests, the scale of its parts, its lights and its shades, its great points and its little, as he otherwise cannot apprehend them (102). An education which highlights several disciplines and exposes us to many epistemologies is most conducive to intellectual and philosophical growth. Newman argues that under this system of education a “habit of mind is formed which lasts through life, of which the attributes are, freedom, equitableness, calmness, moderation, and wisdom” (102). Eliot’s views on education, as expressed through the narrator of Middlemarch, resonate with Newman’s discourses. Eliot, an advocate for liberal education, endorses the use of a range of theoretical ideas and practices. The narrator says: “It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view” (58). It is through a liberal education—outside of an institution, of course, for women did not have the privilege to attend university—that Dorothea is transformed.

      Next post, I will focus on Mr. Brooke's contribution to Dorothea's education.

Who's your favourite fictional defense lawyer? Fetyukovich

Who is your favourite fictional defense lawyer?

Atticus Finch? Harper Lee's defense lawyer is too-good-to-be-true. He's the southern gentleman who wears integrity in every situation. He performs no theatrics in the court room, nor does he demean those he's cross examining. He demonstrates respect to all the witnesses, even the Ewells. When the African Americans on the balcony stand in respect of him, every reader must be moved in some way. And, today, as I write this, we commemorate Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech and I recall Atticus' compelling case for equality. I embedded a YouTube clip of Atticus Finch delivering his closing arguments.



Chicago's Billy Flynn is the suave, sexy lawyer who has power to persuade anyone to do anything. Unlike, Atticus Finch, Flynn has no scruples: he charges exorbitant amounts of money, tampers with evidence, and pulls out every trick in his bag of theatrics. Here's a clip of Billy Flynn (played by Richard Gere) doing his tap dancing routine.



These two defense lawyers have charming qualities, but I think the finest defense lawyer in all fiction is Fetyukovich from The Brothers Karamazov. Fetyukovich, like Billy Flynn, defends only the most celebrated defendants and, like Billy Flynn, his defense merits him widespread fame. He is an "enigma" to the people because everyone believes that Mitya is guilty and they can't understand why Fetyukovich would waste his time on a "lost case." The narrator describes Fetyukovich's approach to the witnesses he cross-examines:

People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he had “taken down” all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and, what's more, had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than any one, having some idea of his own in the background, some concealed weapon of defense, which he would suddenly reveal when the time came. But meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be diverting himself (861).

The narrator provides a few details about Fetyukovich's cross-examination of the so-called "dangerous witnesses" in which he "[casts] a slur on all of them, and [dismisses] them with a certain derision" (870). He systematically discredits witnesses and raises questions about all the facts. He is brilliant in his closing arguments (three chapters long). He builds up to a climactic ending, but not before demonstrating his oratory prowess. He demands of the jury: "Find the error in my reasoning; find the impossibility, the absurdity. And if there is but a shade of possibility, but a shade of probability in my propositions, do not condemn him. And is there only a shade?" (962). In his final words, he appeals to Russia's "glorious history":

“Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man! Do you hear, do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal! Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law, we will cling to the spirit and the meaning—the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer! Do not try to scare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it, you will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that it is in good hands! (971).

Fetyukovich plays off of the prosecutor's remarks about the troika.(quite amusing). At the conclusion of his speech, the narrator says that "the enthusiasm of the audience burst like an irresistible storm" (971). It is such an incredible scene. People are weeping; they are awed. The president is moved. Fetyukovich, the "great magician" (871), casts a spell on the courtroom.

 Dostoevsky is masterful in his depiction of the entire trial scene, in which he evokes tension and pathos and he paints the character of witnesses and of the attorneys with incredible detail and life. Having grown up with Law and Order and other court room dramas, I have watched my share of fictional trials, but Dostoevsky does something that these others don't do: he writes beautiful prose.

The Telegraph,31, August 2013

Note: In case you were like me and had no idea what a troika is, I have included a link to dictionary.com: 
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/troika?s=t







Although I read the Pevear/Volokhonsky translation, I copied and pasted these passages from the Garnett translation on Project Gutenberg. 

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. (1880)Trans. Constance Gardner. New York: Lowell Press. Project Gutenberg. 12 Feb 2009. <http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28054/28054-pdf.pdf>

The Brothers Karamazov: Sincere Narrator

Over the next few blogs, I will highlight a few reasons why I view TBK to be such a fine novel. This blog will focus on the narrator. As a writer, I am interested in narrative voices; when I read fiction, I pay close attention to narrators, to their perspectives, interpretations, idiosyncrasies, and so on.  Dostoevsky's narrator is a writer and his narration provides insight into the very question of what it means to write narrative, to record narrative events, to reduce people to narrative.
 

Impressionism, sunrise (Monet)

I'm not trying to be contemptuous but it is true that narrative cannot possibly wholly represent a person. That's why I prefer impressionistic writing, because it's phenomenological which seems consistent with experiencing reality.

Karamazov Family Photo?--Perhaps

 His hesitations, his equivocations, his prefaces--all demonstrate his feelings of inadequacy. For example, in the opening chapter, he admits that he doesn't fully understand why the aristocratic Adelaida Ivanovna Miusov would marry Fyodor who is so obviously beneath her class. The narrator says, "Precisely how it happened . . . I cannot begin to explain" (7) and then he makes a conjecture: "Perhaps she wanted to assert her feminine independence" (8). Throughout the novel, the narrator reinforces that he doesn't know everything. His modes of awareness range from  absolute confidence to utter doubt.   He is more than willing to accept multiple versions of events as the closing of chapter one reveals. Fyodor's first wife dies of either typhoid or starvation according to the two versions the narrator has heard and Fyodor reacts to this news in one of two ways: "the story goes that he ran down the street, lifting his hands to the sky and joyfully shouting . . . Others say that he wept and sobbed like a little child" (9). Finally, the narrator offers this disclaimer: "In most cases, people, even wicked people, are far more naive and simple-hearted than one generally assumes. And so are we" (9). Indeed. Dostoevsky reveals the complexity of character through his narrator's versions of events. I accept that Fyodor both celebrated and cried and that some people saw his former response and others saw the latter. The narrator is recounting historical events from memory and no memory or personal testimony can be authoritative except that it is true to the person who remembers.

 One last example of the narrator's explanation of his limitations in narrating authoritatively comes at the beginning of Book XII when he opens the trial scene. I like this passage because he is so transparent.

I hasten to emphasize the fact that I am far from esteeming myself capable of reporting all that took place at the trial in full detail, or even in the actual order of events. I imagine that to mention everything with full explanation would fill a volume, even a very large one. And so I trust I may not be reproached, for confining myself to what struck me. I may have selected as of most interest what was of secondary importance, and may have omitted the most prominent and essential details. But I see I shall do better not to apologize. I will do my best and the reader will see for himself that I have done all I can (656).

The narrator explains that for every event there are a multiplicity of viewpoints and interpretations. I see this as paralleling with the Gospels in the New Testament: the three synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) deal with the same events, but they offer unique views on those events. And in John 21: 25, John makes a similar statement to Dostoevsky's narrator: "Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written." Indeed, how can we possible represent the wholeness of an event?

During the trial, the narrator offers his interpretation of the trial lawyers' approach to the truth. Of the prosecutor, he says: "Ippolit Kirillovich, who had evidently chosen a strictly historical method of accounting, which is a favourite resort of all nervous orators who purposely seek a strict framework in order to restrain their own impatient zeal" (715). And of the defense lawyer, he explains: " He spoke somehow scatteredly at the beginning, as if without any system, snatching up facts at random, but in the end it all fell together" (725). The assessments of the lawyers signify the ways in which narrative is constructed and The Brothers Karamazov is replete with multiple modes of narrative construction.

Much more can be said about the narrator, but I want at least to emphasize that this, for me, this narrator is, perhaps, the paragon of narrators. (Although, Toni Morrison's narrator of Jazz is one of my most memorable and endeared narrators of fiction.)

In subsequent posts, I want to spend some time talking about the trial and about the dialectic between existentialism and Christianity.

Preparing to read The Brothers Karamazov

Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky Translation

A good friend of mine was reading The Brothers Karamazov which prompted me to pick up this Dostoevsky classic. I have long admired Russian writers, especially Tolstoy and Chekhov, but I was little acquainted with Fyodor Dostoevsky. I have learned that a quality translation is key to experiencing such fine writing, so I researched the translations available and chose the 1990 translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. 



Often when I'm reading a beefy novel like this one, I will also download an audio version so that I can fully immerse myself in the text. I listen to it while I'm cleaning, cooking, driving, etc. I will have already read a particular section and then I will listen to it as a way to further my understanding of the novel. (This also makes domestic tasks less dreadful.) Through Audible, I downloaded an abridged version of the Pevear/Volokhonsky text, but it cuts out too much and I felt I was being cheated. Also, it is read by Debra Winger whose dramatization doesn't parallel with the voices I "hear" in the text. 

Then, through Overdrive (via my local library), I downloaded a different version, which is also abridged but more than twice the length of the Audible audiobook. Simon Vance, the reader/performer, does a fine reading. The translation/production is done by a Russian scholar, named Thomas Beyer. His translation isn't as idiomatic as the Pevear/Volokhonsky translation; however, this audiobook is more comprehensive and the dramatic reading is quite compelling. I listened to some parts over and over because Vance does such a beautiful performance, especially his reading of the father.


 When I began reading the novel, I searched The Brothers Karamazov on Goodreads to update my  "Currently Reading" bookshelf. I read the description of the novel posted on Goodreads: 

The award-winning translation of Dostoevsky's last and greatest novel. When brutal landowner Fyodor Karamazov is murdered, the lives of his sons are changed irrevocably: Mitya is placed under suspicion, Ivan's mental tortures drive him to breakdown, Alyosha tries to heal the family's rifts, and there is always the shadow of their bastard half-brother, Smerdyakov.

This is an incredibly insufficient and misleading description of the novel. The description suggests that the murder of Fyodor is the central event of the novel; it is important, but a novel as complex and intricate as this has so much more going on than the sons reeling from the father's murder. Also, the murder, which isn't explicitly depicted, occurs halfway through the novel, but I kept expecting it and anticipating it and I feel that the expectation/anticipation may have clouded my reading. While the narrator notifies us on page one that Fyodor dies a tragic death, I, in no way, expect the event to dominate and there are so many other ideas the narrator brings forth. I guess I feel that the above description slightly skewed my approach to the novel.

I had also searched my local library to see if I could borrow this translation and, among the categories assigned to The Brothers Karamazov, it listed "Didactic Fiction." Is it just me or does such a label repel the reader? I don't want to read didactic fiction, if it is, as I understand it, intended to instruct or moralize.  Again, I was approaching the novel in a problematic way: in this case I was a little defensive or on guard lest I be moralized.

This is my first blog entry and I have already prefaced my review of the novel with the pragmatics of reading the book. Alas, I will leave this entry at just that: how I prepared to read the novel. The next post (or posts) will examine characteristics of the novel that I find most compelling. In addition, I will offer a more formal review of the novel.