The end of Middlemarch (and the beginning of the Federalist Papers)

I finished up Middlemarch a few days ago. Here's what I want to remember about it:

[...] for the majority, who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer’s desire to make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be another’s, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide calamity.

Now that you've read that excerpt, I'll give you both the context and the preceding paragraph, which form the first major thesis in the book:

Naturally, the merry Christmas bringing the happy New Year, when fellow-citizens expect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have smilingly bestowed on their neighbors, had so tightened the pressure of sordid cares on Lydgate’s mind that it was hardly possible for him to think unbrokenly of any other subject, even the most habitual and soliciting. He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectual activity, the ardent kindness of his heart, as well as his strong frame, would always, under tolerably easy conditions, have kept him above the petty uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper. But he was now a prey to that worst irritation which arises not simply from annoyances, but from the second consciousness underlying those annoyances, of wasted energy and a degrading preoccupation, which was the reverse of all his former purposes. “This is what I am thinking of; and that is what I might have been thinking of,” was the bitter incessant murmur within him, making every difficulty a double goad to impatience.

Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate’s discontent was much harder to bear: it was the sense that there was a grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears. His troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordid, and beneath the attention of lofty persons who can know nothing of debt except on a magnificent scale. Doubtless they were sordid; and for the majority, who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer’s desire to make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be another’s, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide calamity.

Why does Lydgate end up so miserable? Because he commits the original sin – acting against what he believes to be true specifically and solely to please Rosamond (who, by the way, is never pleased). He loses the ability to choose what he thinks about, falls into debt, and instead of taking Rev. Farebrother's good advice and assistance, begins serving the sordid wealthy in in order to survive.

Before he dies, Lydgate accuses Rosamond of murdering him – but Eliot makes it clear that Lydgate's faults are his own.

Dorothea, on the other hand, learns that she must choose her own thoughts and her own actions. She does in fact go from nonsense to sense, crossing paths with Lydgate at two distinct junctions. At the first intersection, he saves her by recognizing her unique human soul; at the second, she saves him by recognizing his. If Lydgate had been able to leave Rosamond, he might have survived. Instead, because he is nice (and because he cares about his reputation [remember that he always wanted to become famous for his work]), he decides that he will bear the rest of his life as if he were permanently and irrevocably broken. He does not live long.

Eliot does not specify the length of Dorothea's life, but she does write about its breadth. This brings me to the second major thesis of the piece, stated in its closing paragraphs:

Certainly those determining acts of her life were not ideally beautiful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in which great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother’s burial: the medium in which their ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But we insignificant people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know.

Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

Once Dorothea learns to think and act for herself, she begins to improve the lives of everyone around her. First, she establishes a position and income for Farebrother, which enables him to teach and learn without having to pick up a side hustle playing games and wagers. Then, she renounces the burdens of the Brooke and Casaubon estates, which enables her to marry Will and live on her own income (this, by the way, is slightly problematic [as the kids say] because it represents the savings set aside for Dorothea by her parents, not anything she earned herself). Then, she helps Will become elected to Parliament. Then, Dorothea works with Celia to reconcile their extended families, giving Dorothea and Will's son the opportunity to inherit the Brooke estate (ummmmmmmm), and she lives the rest of her life following her heart and helping the people she loves.

The trouble with this ending, and the part that I can't stop thinking about, is that all of this happiness hinges on work done by the preceding generations – which implies that generational wealth is a good thing and that more of us should work to create it – and that only two of our three romantic couples do anything to improve the generation that comes after them. I may have this wrong, so I'd like a better understanding if I missed something, but here's what I believe to be true:

• Fred and Mary live happily together at Stone Court after Mary's father secures the property for them (which only happens because Bulstrode kinda-sorta murders a guy and needs to unload Stone Court fast so he can flee the country, but whatevs). They raise three undistinguished but happy children, writing Substacks (or the equivalent thereof [no, seriously, read the last chapter of the book]) and losing money just slowly enough to make it to retirement without having to give up the family home.
• Sir James works with Caleb Garth (our beautiful unemotional genius, the one person who understands structure and systems [and music] and successfully avoids whims) to improve the Freshitt estate both in terms of agricultural capacity and in terms of tenant rights and living conditions. Celia has many children. These two produce, for better or worse, and it would be interesting to learn how much of the Middlemarch economy depends on this production.
• Dorothea and Will live without the need to earn money or manage land, thanks to the one part of Dorothea's inheritance she feels comfortable spending because it came from her parents instead of her uncle or former husband. Will enters Parliament and helps to implement the Reform Act of 1832 (and/or the reforms immediately thereafter). Dorothea helps her neighbors to understand their own souls. They have two children, the older of which inherits the extended family fortune and refuses to enter politics because he prefers to control his own thoughts. He'll work on Dorothea's uncle's estate; whether he improves it is yet to be seen.

You see where I'm going with this, right?

Honestly, I think where I'm going with this is balance.

You need James+Celia as much as you need Dorothea+Will, and I suspect George Eliot understood that [EDIT: On further reading it seems like Eliot has respect for landowners like Sir James who want to improve their estates but might prefer Will and Dorothea's reforms to ultimately take the place of the estate system].

You also need Caleb Garth, who stands outside the system, and Reverend Farebrother, who remains within it even though he does not believe in his own God.

You don't need Bulstrode, with his greedy philanthropy achieved by manipulating human poverty; you don't need the Plymdales, with their cheap dyes that ruin fabric; you don't need Raffles, who carries our lies so that he may feast on them.

You're going to say that we don't need James and Celia, in the end; that all of us could in fact produce just as well without the benefit of the corporation or estate [EDIT: This could be based on a misunderstanding of how English country estates work, and whether the economic value they bring to the community is greater than the wealth they generate for the landowners, and I need to do more research into all of this].

But if you say that, you might as well say that we don't need Dorothea and Will either; we can progress just as well without the benefit of a strong central government.

Which brings me to the Federalist Papers, which I started reading as soon as I finished Middlemarch.

They are astounding. Larry and I are going over them together and asking ourselves why we've never studied these before – but we're studying them now, and that's all that matters.

More soon.