Happy 200th Birthday, George Eliot

by Edith Critchley

George Eliot
(November 22, 1819 - December 22, 1880)

I was probably about 14 when I first discovered George Eliot. Unfortunately, for this article, I can’t give you an exact date; but I can give a probable estimation: beyond all likelihood, I was sat in the basement of G block, in Ms Hart’s classroom, confronted with two years’ worth of GCSE subjects to study and Ms’s sturdy purple statue of Buddha which sat, somewhat judgmentally, opposite my seat on her bookshelf and behind her reading ‘nook’. I can see myself staring at his calm meditative eyes, which tended to pierce through the cloudy classroom chatter, my own filled with excitement, and frankly naivety, about the start of the year. Although being a fan of English and an avid reader, I had always felt somewhat restricted and barred from the subject, my dyslexia seemingly telling me that it would never be an option to study beyond GCSE, and in all likelihood getting an A in my exams would be a long shot. 

It was presumably in this room that I found out I was studying Silas Marner, a George Eliot classic, and that I was first confronted with the illustration of Silas himself (an image I would become very familiar with) above the large black Penguin Classics border on the front of our books. In all honesty, the image of Silas Marner on the book of this novel was terrifying. He seemed distant, somehow: cold, withdrawn and many years older than anyone in the classroom could possibly imagine themselves being. He seemed confusing and abstract, therefore, a feeling mirrored by the first few pages of the novel, which, in true Victorian style, were crowded with long, twisting sentences and complex imagery. However, after the first few pages, the Victorian cipher seemingly decoded, I can only describe myself as being entranced.

I found myself in awe of Eliot’s style and imagery; every sentence, word and character was seemingly rife with deeper contextual meaning, religious or cultural. It continued to shock me how someone could so intelligently create such complex connections and such subtle implications within so expertly crafted a plot and narrative; Silas Marner was unlike any novel I had considered before. Eliot’s discussion of nature, humanity, community and religion all combined to form a compelling and satisfying narrative the likes of which I had never really read before – or, at least, studied before; she had unlocked a whole new realm of literature, of which I was in awe.

Learning about George Eliot herself only added to my appreciation for her work and for her extraordinary life. Indeed, ‘George Eliot’ was a pseudonym; she was born Mary Ann Evans on 22 November, 1819, in Warwickshire. Despite being allowed the luxury (for a woman of her era) of an education, Mary had to leave school aged 17 when her mother died; she had to run her father's household. When he died five years later, she spent some time travelling in Europe before moving to London, where she began to make a name for herself in literary circles, eventually becoming editor of the prestigious Westminster Review. It was in these circles that she met and began a relationship with George Henry Lewes – however, he was already married. Their relationship caused a considerable scandal; shunned by friends and family, George and Mary nonetheless continued their relationship, living together until Lewes's death in 1878. It was partly to placate society that Mary adopted the pseudonym, ‘George Eliot’, both to increase her chance of getting published and to help her be seen as a more ‘respectable’ author. She herself was plagued by a contemporary belief in the inferiority of women writers, penning an essay, ‘Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’.

The use of the pseudonym worked. Eliot went on to publish multiple novels, many now ranked among the greatest works of fiction in the English language: Mill on the Floss (1860), Silas Marner (1861), Romola (1863), and Middlemarch (1876). Eliot's background creates the sense of a determined woman with depth of feeling, someone who, in some ways, did not seem to feel pressured by the constraints of society but, in other ways, did. It is hard to label her either as a feminist or as an anti-feminist, because she both contested and abided by contemporary societal norms that today would be considered sexist. She donated many books to the women's college at Cambridge, Girton, yet still expressed concerns over women being allowed to have further education. She also remained aloof from women's rights campaigns around this time, for example not believing that women needed the vote. However, she still chose to live her own life with Lewes in a way that completely broke any unspoken ‘rules’ about women at the time. 

Dorothea Brooke (played by Juliet Aubrey, in the BBC adaptation of Middlemarch)

The paradoxical nature of her character is frustrating – but it also reflects the complex and sometimes contradictory characters she created within the pages of her novels. Many of her female characters end up with quiet and seemingly insignificant endings, despite having lived lives that diverged from the norm. Even Dorothea Brooke, the main protagonist of Middlemarch, one of her most ardent and feminist heroines, struggles with her identity and reaches an ‘unhistoric’ end, despite having had such a significant and profound effect upon the lives of all of those within her social circle. However, it is fair to say that many of Eliot’s male characters also struggle with the same fate. In this sense, she helped to redefine the meaning of tragedy: not a dramatic fall from a position of great power, but circumscribed lives of frustrated ambition.

Indeed, she did not focus on kings or aristocrats, nor even, for the most part, Jane Austen’s gentry. Instead, most of Eliot’s novels explore the lives of ordinary people: the middle and working classes. My favourite moment in Middlemarch is when the socially aspirational Rosamond says to her brother, Fred, '"There is correct English: that is not slang" and he replies cheerfully, "I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets.” I love this direct and witty dig at authors and poets who use their profession to depict images that are so fanciful they neglect to reflect humanity as a whole, creating a language-born hierarchy when in reality they are no better than those who speak provincially. A brilliant example of this provincial wisdom is the character of Dolly Winthrop in Silas Marner.

I think that is the key to understanding why George Eliot’s work is so profound and why, in its time, it was so revolutionary. She aimed to understand and dissect the whole culture and society she lived in, despite (or perhaps because of) being somewhat shunned from it. In an age when industrial and technological change was transforming Britain, particularly the rural areas that she had grown up in, she tried to address what she called ‘spider web-like circumstances’ and how they affect us as humans. Silas Marner takes place against a backdrop of industrial change, impacting weavers such as Silas himself; he himself retreats into a depressive state until his own sense of humanity and his connection to society are reawaken by an innocent child.

These themes still resonate with readers nearly two hundred years later, because, in another age of technological, cultural and social transformation, we, too, are trying to work out who we are and how we fit into society. Therefore, on George Eliot's 200th birthday, I would strongly encourage you to go pick up one of her novels. Don't be put off by the language or by the seemingly stern figures on some of the front covers. Hidden within the pages of her novels is a witty and wise commentary on life and on humanity, beautifully crafted through narrative. She has taught me to have a deeper appreciation for what literature can achieve.  Reading Eliot has helped me to explore the ambiguities, complexities and sometimes contradictions of the human psyche. It has inspired me to live in the way I want to live and not necessarily how others want. It has allowed me to appreciate the importance of having some missing pieces in the jigsaw that is life. Like Dorothea, I want to live a life that has a positive effect on those around me - even if it remains an ‘unhistoric’ one.