Source of book: I own this
Well, this is getting to be an official sort of online book club with my friends K and B - this is our fourth. (List is in footnote below.)
I read Silas Marner for the first time back in high school - it was our full-length novel for 12th grade English, if my memory serves. I loved it then, re-read it in my early 20s, and since then haven’t read it. But I did read The Mill on the Floss in my 20s, and both Daniel Deronda and Middlemarch since starting this blog. I really love George Eliot, and consider her to be up there with Anthony Trollope as the best of the Victorian novelists.
It is always interesting to read a book at different times of life. What strikes you as a teen isn’t always the same as what you see as an adult. This book definitely holds up, though. I may have seen different things this time around, but it is every bit as good as I remember.
For me, I think the biggest change in perspective was that I was better able to appreciate how great of a character Godfrey Cass really is. That the titular character, Silas, is good, was more obvious earlier - but his character is formed by his own naivety and the trauma of betrayal. His ultimate redemption is satisfying, but also a bit of its time - he is redeemed by the love of his adopted child Eppie.
Godfrey, on the other hand, is a flawed man, who eventually works to grow up, to face responsibility, and to do the right thing. His delay, however, means he never can have what he wants. He isn’t a horrible person, but he is weak, impulsive, and unable to fully face his one truly bad decision in his youth.
For a Victorian novel, particularly a British one, Silas Marner is notable for centering the lives of working-class people, and relegating the upper class to a secondary role. This too is disconcerting to Godfrey - as the son of the local squire, he is used to having his way, and being the center of everything. To find that, instead, it is Silas the socially awkward weaver who finds fulfillment, is unexpected for him.
I suppose a bit of a summary might help. Godfrey has made a bad early marriage to a woman who turns out to be an opium addict. They have an infant child together after the split up. Meanwhile, Godfrey would like to move on and marry the beautiful and classy Nancy, but cannot in good conscience do so. And also, his blackguard of a brother, Dunstan, is blackmailing him about the marriage.
Silas, in the meantime, grew up Methodist, but was betrayed by his best friend, who falsely accused him of a theft the friend in fact committed, and stole Silas’ fiancee. He flees the only community he has ever known, and settles in the small town of Raveloe - the setting for the story. He supports himself by weaving, but also gains a reputation for being eccentric and antisocial. His knowledge of herbal remedies also makes him a bit of a suspect.
With no human connection, Silas hoards his small earnings, eventually accumulating a hoard of gold coins.
Dunstan, having stolen the rents, blackmailed Godfrey into selling his horse to cover the debt, then riding recklessly during the hunt causing said horse to be killed before delivery, he decides to steal Silas’ money. He does so, then disappears without a trace.
Silas is devastated by the loss of his money, and puzzled by the lack of evidence as to who took it or where they went.
Meanwhile, Godfrey’s wife decides to show up and demand her rights and those of her child, but she overdoses on opium, freezing in the snow a few yards from Silas’ home. Her toddler girl staggers into Silas’ home (he has left the door open during some sort of an epileptic episode - he comes to and finds a child sleeping by his fire.)
Silas decides that Eppie (short for Hephzibah) is God’s way of returning his gold, and, as Godfrey decides to keep quiet about who the mother was, insists on raising her as his own.
Since it has been over 20 years since I read the book, I had a good knowledge of the plot, remembered many (but not all) of the incidents, but generally had forgotten the really great lines. Eliot is so perceptive of human motives, and gets to the heart of things.
One of the other things I love about Eliot’s writing is that every character, villains included, are thoroughly believable. And strikingly modern. There is a lot less of the dated feel about Eliot’s books, compared to most Victorian - or even Edwardian - literature. Despite the older technology, you feel like you know people like these characters.
I’ll start with the opening lines of the book, describing Silas Marner himself.
In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses - and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak - there might be seen, in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race.
And then, there is the description of the friend who would betray him - in theological terms.
One of the most frequent topics of conversation between the two friends was Assurance of Salvation: Silas confessed that he could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder when William declared that he had possessed unshakeable assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words “calling and election sure” standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible.
I have mentioned this before, but my experience (and that of other observant people I know) is that Calvinists who have this unshakeable certainty about their salvation are the most unethical people I have ever met. Something about believing you are God’s favorite no matter what you do tends to lead to the abuse of others, just as it did in William’s case in this book.
Here is another astonishing passage, about the abrupt transition for Silas from his small fundamentalist community to a village based around the Church of England.
Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible - nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas - where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old faith and love have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have vanished, and the present too dreamy because it is linked with no memories.
For Silas, who also may be what we today consider autistic, he is unable to make a transition to a new way of being, and instead withdraws inwardly.
So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the mere functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of an end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from faith and love - only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas, they have some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some well-knit theory.
Don’t we all know someone like that? Or maybe even are related to one or more?
Eliot’s witty description of the two families of the minor gentry in town is hilarious.
The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red house, with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among several landed parishioners, but he alone was honored with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood’s family was also understood to be of timeless origin - the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods - still, he merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord.
Another favorite line comes when we are introduced, first to Godfrey, and then to the loathsome Dunstan. (Who reminds me in multiple ways of Trump.)
It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred.
The Cass family has its issues, all of them. Eliot snarks a bit at the old squire as well.
The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his sons’, but it was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm.
The generation gap is nothing new, really. The Squire is also described, “whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified by detail.” That’s a great line.
When Silas’ money is stolen, the way the villagers try to give comfort, while just making things worse, is also perceptive.
I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbors with our words is, that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavor of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary and hypocritical.
The one exception to this is Dolly Winthrop, who is truly good-hearted in an earthy sort of way, and who becomes Silas’ only real friend in town. She later becomes Eppie’s godmother, and eventually her mother-in-law.
Dolly encourages Silas to come to church, but not in the usual proselytizing way we Evangelicals (or ex-Evangelicals) tend to. One particularly memorable conversation involves the sound of the church bells, and the rhythm they give to life. For Dolly, theology is always secondary to community, and her wish for Silas is not that he convert, but that he become part of the community again.
There is a later conversation, after Silas has finally opened up to Dolly about his tragic past. Dolly insists that the C of E uses the same bible he is used to. But that book is still a source of trauma to him - the casting of lots that got him exiled is in there, after all.
For Dolly, in the end, what it comes down to is that she isn’t really sure of what her theology is in terms of words, but that she feels she lives it when she is out caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, and doing what she can to love her neighbor. She too is puzzled by the seeming lack of justice from the Divine, but finds her balance in living out her faith.
In my opinion, Godfrey is the most fascinating character, though. He is not a villain. But he isn’t a hero either, not even a tragic one. He is a man who grew up entitled, and never truly comes to peace with the reality that the universe doesn’t revolve around him. As my friend B put it, “I've met plenty of dudes like Godfrey--basically well intentioned but not good at actually denying themselves anything.”
There are several lines that I think are just outstanding regarding Godfrey. First up is this one, after he has breathed a sigh of relief that his wife had died, and he has dodged that bullet.
And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune.
I should also mention Nancy, who is not a central character, but who has a depth and a strength to her which is unusual for a Victorian female character. When things come to light - Dunstan’s body and the gold are discovered, leading Godfrey to reveal Eppie’s identity to Nancy - she shows more moral fiber than he does. He assumes that, had she known, she would have refused to marry him. And maybe so. But he makes the error of assuming that she would have rejected Eppie - which she would not have.
At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not measured this wife with whom he had lived so long.
For Godfrey and Nancy, there is their own tragedy - the death of their infant and her subsequent infertility - and now compounded by the discovery that they misunderstood each other for years.
Godfrey also completely underestimates both Silas and Eppie. When he offers to take responsibility for Eppie as his child, Silas is willing to do whatever is best for her, but Eppie is clear that Silas is her father, and that she has no interest in being upper class. This is devastating to Godfrey, who realizes he has no control over the situation.
Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him; he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into other people’s feelings conteracting his virtuous resolves.
Ultimately, though, it is Nancy who sees the way forward. They can’t have what they want, but they can accept what they do have - and embrace each other. After all, Godfrey did get Nancy, and she is an admirable woman. Godfrey has lived his life with her as a decent man, a worthy and kind husband.
One final thought: as these quotes make clear, Eliot is uninterested in simply passing judgment on Godfrey. Rather, she indicts us all, herself included. These are universal human responses, human frailties, and human tragedies. We are all Godfrey, just like we are all Silas, just like we are all Nancy.
And, if we choose, we can also be Dolly. Eliot’s gentle satire is intended to be instructive. As a woman who was judged harshly for her own sexual choices, she encourages us to see things in a different light - the complexities of human relationships and the challenges of mistakes made early in life.
It was, as always, fun to discuss this with literary friends. (And also, to meet K in person last month, after over a decade of online friendship.)
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Other books we have discussed together.
That Hideous Strength by C. S. Lewis
The Shining by Stephen King
The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne
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