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by Marilyn Green Faulkner

  Source: Dickens, by Peter Ackroyd. Harper Perennial, 1992.

  A Little Child Shall Lead Them:

  Silas Marner, by George Eliot

  “In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put in theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a little child’s.” (p?)

  The man taken by the hand is Silas Marner, a miserable miser saved by the love of an abandoned child, and the fictional creation of a remarkable woman named George Eliot. Actually, her name was Mary Anne Evans; the nom de plume she adopted for her writing allowed her to be taken seriously in a time when women, if they wrote at all, wrote only what she derisively termed “silly novels.” Born in 1819 in Warwickshire, England, Mary Anne’s philosophical quest mirrored that of her society, which was undergoing a crisis of faith in the wake of the scientific discoveries that seemed to undermine traditional Christian dogma.

  From the start Mary Anne was a brilliant and emotional idealist, and she eagerly embraced the Evangelical Christianity of one of her favorite teachers at school, only to make a complete turnaround when she read the highly influential “The Origins of Christianity,” which claimed that Christianity was not a revealed religion. At twenty-two years of age she dismayed her family by refusing to accompany them to church, and from then on developed her own philosophy of secular humanism, based on a belief in the natural goodness of the individual. This little novel, Silas Marner, is an examination of a similar crisis of faith in the life of a simple weaver.

  Synopsis

  Silas Marner, raised in one of the dissenting religious sects prevalent in the England of the early 19th century, loses his faith when he is betrayed by his dearest friend and misjudged by his brethren. An outcast from his tribe, Silas wanders alone until he finds a home in Raveloe, a little village where he plies his trade as a weaver. The townspeople are suspicious of this newcomer, since his trade is associated with the devil, and in addition because he suffers from epilepsy, a malady that causes him to freeze in a trance-like state now and then. Again the subject of social ostracism, Silas gradually forms an attachment to the money generated by his craft. His gold becomes his god and his only friend, and he hoards it carefully in his tiny shack on the edge of the Raveloe stone pits.

  The life of this unhappy weaver becomes intertwined with the lives of his wealthy landlords, Squire Cass and his sons. One night Silas is robbed of his hoard of gold. At the same time, a woman who has been abandoned by one of the Squire’s sons stumbles toward the cabin and dies in the snow. Her little daughter wanders into the cabin, drawn by the firelight, and attaches herself to Marner. He takes the child and raises her as his own, and his life is changed by this loving relationship. The lives of Marner and his neighbors are touched and transformed by their shared part in the raising of this little girl.

  What Makes it Great?

  George Eliot was a thoughtful, compassionate observer of human nature, and her portrayal of this lonely outcast is a masterpiece of character creation. We see it all come together when the lonely miser returns to his shack one day to find that his precious gold has been stolen from under the hearth of his home, and his world is shattered. Eliot understands that a loss of faith in God is often precipitated by a loss of faith in those whom we have trusted on earth. Since the betrayal of his friends and the decline of his faith, the hoarding of gold has become Silas’s reason for being, and the loss of his treasure literally paralyzes him. Standing at the door of his cabin pondering the theft, he is seized with a fit of epilepsy and for a crucial moment remains frozen in the “chasm of his consciousness; holding open his door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that might enter there.” (110) In the moment that the door of his home, and his soul, stand wide open, the miracle enters that changes his life forever.

  A miracle is defined as “a wonder, or a supernatural event.” George Eliot strove to redefine traditional Christianity for herself, and she examined the concept of miracles through the story of Silas and his treasure. Great pains are taken to build a scenario that illustrates the “natural” quality of miracles. Silas is nearsighted and cannot see the woman struggling toward his door with a child. He has epilepsy, which causes a lapse of consciousness at a moment when his fire beckons the cold child, stranded in the snow as her mother sinks equally unconscious to the ground.

  Did You Know?

  In the romantic novels of the Eliot’s time (mostly written by women) the poor were treated as a species apart from “real people.” Eliot wrote, “They (the poor) are so many subjects for experimenting on, for reclaiming, improving, being anxious about, and relieving. They have no existence apart from the presence of a curate; they live in order to take tracts and broth.” Eliot greatly admired Wordsworth and attempted, like him, to look closely at the lives of people who lacked all of the advantages she enjoyed, sympathetically recording their forms of speech, their customs, superstitions and struggles.

  It is only natural that a cold, hungry child should be drawn to the little cabin’s bright warmth, and the child toddles to the hearth and falls asleep in front of the fire. As Silas regains his sensibility he sees something glowing on his hearth, and thinks for a moment it is his precious gold:

  “Gold!—his own gold—brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been taken away! He felt his heart begin to beat violently; he leaned forward at last, and stretched forth his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child—a round, fair thing with soft yellow rings all over its head.” (110)

  Years later, as Silas tries to understand the marvelous gift that was left on his hearth that night, he refers to the fifteen dark years between the loss of his religious faith and the birth of his love for the child: “Since the time the child was sent to me and I’ve come to love her as myself, I’ve had light enough to trusten by; and now she says she’ll never leave me, I think I shall trusten till I die.” (180)

  The shabby little cabin where Silas dwells symbolizes the man himself. As the gold is taken from the hearth (or heart) and replaced by a child, Silas turns from miser to a father. The home itself undergoes changes that reflect the changes in the inner man. Eliot was disgusted by the unrealistic portrayal of children in novels, and gives us here a very practical picture of life with a toddler. From our unique vantage point we can see how the daily routine of service to a little child, so familiar to most of us, gradually works its magic on Silas’s soul. It is no surprise that over time the shabby cottage transforms itself into a neat, happy home.

  The fifteen dark years of spiritual famine are followed by fifteen years of spiritual feasting, and Silas and Eppie form a happy circle of love that draws the other members of the community to them in fellowship. Later, Eppie’s future hangs in the balance as two men step forward to claim her—her natural father and her future husband—and Silas realizes he must be willing to share his treasure with another.

  An Outsider Looking Inward

  Eliot understood a life as a social outcast. As editor of the controversial Westminster Review, she enjoyed a rare place for a woman, at the center of intellectual life in society, accepted in many circles. All that changed when she met and fell in love with George Henry Lewes, a prominent literary figure of the time. Lewes was married (though estranged from his wife) and after two years of close companionship they decided to share a life together. This move caused a scandal that turned even the more radical members of society against them. She and Lewes were referred to publicly as “the stinkpots of humanity.” Of this ostracism Eliot wrote, “I have counted the cost of the step I have taken and am prepared to bear, without irritation or bitterness, renunciation by all my friends.” Her bel
oved brother Isaac never spoke to her again and Eliot was excluded, for the rest of her life, from “respectable” homes.

  It was Lewes who first persuaded Mary Anne to write fiction, and who provided the encouragement and emotional support she desperately craved. (He even hid unfavorable reviews of her novels from her, so she wouldn’t become discouraged.) Eliot referred to herself as “Mrs. Henry Lewes” throughout her life, and they remained faithful companions for twenty-five years until his death in 1878.

  Like the artisan in her tale, Eliot takes the strands of religious faith, peasant life, aristocratic pride and family love and weaves them into a perfect tapestry. We are drawn into the dilemmas that Silas faces and see them through his myopic vision (symbolically, he can only see up close). Eliot’s moments of crisis are often so subtle they slip by us. Consider, for example, the turning point of the novel, when Godfrey Cass confronts his illegitimate daughter, who has wandered onto Silas’s hearth. The child simply looks into his face, then, when Cass says nothing, turns her blue eyes to the weaver and clings to him.

  The moment passes quickly, and Cass has the illusion of having escaped the consequences of his actions, since his child cannot condemn him for his sins. It appears as if nothing has happened, yet it is this moment that will haunt Godfrey Cass ever after. Eliot believes in the law of the harvest. Each of her novels feature protagonists who cannot escape the consequences of their actions. There are no great villains, no spotless heroes; only, as she called them, “mixed people.”

  The imagery of weaving and spinning give this tale the dreamy quality of a fairy tale, and the connection to such stories as Sleeping Beauty and Rumplestilskin is deliberate. Eliot is attempting a new kind of fairy tale here, complete with such stock elements as the weaver, the woods, the rich landowner, the poor girl who is really an heiress, and the strange turns of fate that signal an order in the universe unknown to man. She combines these elements with a realistic portrayal of English village life unparalleled in fiction. This unlikely combination of the real with the mythical caused the book to be less popular than some of her other works, yet it has endured as a unique creation by a great and virtuous mind, who believed in the goodness of the human soul even as she searched in vain for a resolution to her own crisis of faith.

  Quotations taken from Silas Marner. Modern Library Classics, New York. 2001.

  Talk About It

  Silas Marner’s life turns on one remarkable experience. Do you believe in that kind of miraculous “change of heart?” Do people ever really change?

  About the Author: George Eliot

  Mary Anne Evans was born in Warwickshire, England in 1819. Her father managed the Arbury Hall Estate where his gifted daughter had access to the library and received a classical education. Visiting the estate allowed her to compare the wealth of the local landowner with the impoverished living of those who lived and worked on the estate. She boarded at schools until her mother died in 1836; Evans returned home to keep house for her father until he died in 1849. She immediately moved to Geneva, and then to London to write. Here, she became assistant editor of the left-wing journal, The Westminster Review, which profession some considered scandalous for an unmarried young woman, as her colleagues were predominantly male.

  In 1954, she and the philosopher and critic George Henry Lewes moved in together, creating quite a scandal, as Lewes was married. To avoid prying eyes, the couple distanced themselves from the London literary society. At this point, Evans vowed to write novels that were realistic, unlike most of the ladies of her era. She hoped her pen name, George Eliot, would ensure her works were taken seriously. Her first complete novel, Adam Bede (1859), was an instant success. She continued to write popular novels for the next fifteen years, including The Mill on the Floss (1860), Silas Marner (1861), and Middlemarch (1871). After Lewes died in 1878, Eliot met and married a man twenty years her junior in 1880, and died the same year.

  Sources: victorianweb.org, Wikipedia

  Through the Eyes of a Child:

  Take it Personally

  For many readers a book becomes a touchstone; an event that marks a change in perspective or even direction. One reader describes how rereading Silas Marner gave her a new perspective on her own life:

  “When I read Silas Marner the first time I must not have been able to appreciate what he went through because I had not yet experienced anything that he went through. I had never experienced a trial of faith or the loss of something treasured; my world at that time was very small and untainted. My world and life did not remain innocent. Like Silas I have now experienced periods of times when I questioned my belief in teachings that I had just accepted all my life. I have experienced loss and heartache, but like Silas through that loss I grew and changed, and found peace and love through small miracles in my life. Reading the book again gave me the opportunity remember that sometimes the greatest trials bring the greatest blessings.”

  Certain experiences in my life are inextricably linked to the book I was reading at the time. I read The Old Curiosity Shop when I was bedridden before the birth of our last child. One morning I received word that a dear friend had died, leaving several children motherless. That was a difficult morning, with grief for my friend compounded by my fears for our unborn child. I was comforted by this passage, regarding the sudden death of a little boy:

  “There is nothing,’ cried her friend, ‘no, nothing innocent or good, that dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it; and play its part, through them, in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the Host of heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten! Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautifully would even death appear; for how much charity, mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves!” (503)

  Chapter Eight

  Nobody’s Perfect

  What is wonderful about great literature is that it transforms the man who reads it towards the condition of the man who wrote.

  ~E.M. Forster

  We are all full of weakness and errors; let us mutually pardon each other our follies—it is the first law of nature.

  -Voltaire

  Heroes are easy to love, but most of us aren’t heroes; we’re just people. Reading about flawed, failing characters can be strangely uplifting. Yes, maybe we feel better because we are not as deceptive as Becky Sharp, as terrified as Jeremy Pauling or as bitter as Heathcliff, but perhaps it’s more than that. It is in the generous acceptance of the frailties and weaknesses of others that we become truly human, and worthy of similar grace at the hands of others.

  Each of these novels brings us a soul in shambles. Yet each steadfastly continues to strive, keeps trying to make sense of things, and attempts to reach out to others. In the end this may be the definition of the hero that is most meaningful; one who keeps trying in the face of overwhelming odds. This is what millions of “ordinary” people do every day, and these authors celebrate their tiny, yet significant victories.

  Hewn in a Wild Workshop:

  Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte

  Where would English literature be without the Yorkshire moors? These wild, mostly uninhabited lands that stretch across the north of England have provided the setting for some of the greatest stories ever told. They formed the backdrop for Jane Eyre’s wanderings and Heathcliff’s ravings. It was there that poor intrepid Dr. Herriott made his veterinary rounds, the hound of the Baskervilles howled, and little Mary found her secret garden. Several years ago, while in York on business, we had occasion to drive up to Edinburgh, Scotland for some meetings. On the way up we enjoyed a breathtaking view of the moors, with beautiful patches of heather dotting the craggy hills. That night, as we returned, the same scenery looked entirely different: eerie, forb
idding and enshrouded in thick fog.

  Clutching our new baby in my arms I peered through the window into the dark night and tried to imagine what it would be like to be raised in that wild, cold country. I thought of the four Bronte children, growing up in virtual isolation on those very moors, creating imaginary characters to fill their lonely existence, and it made sense that the characters they created would be as stormy and forbidding as the moors themselves. It was in this setting that quiet, serious Emily Bronte crafted the remarkable Wuthering Heights. Her sister Charlotte said of the book:

  “It is rustic all the way through. It is moorish, and wild, and knotty as a root of heath. Nor was it natural that it should be otherwise; the author being herself a native and nursling of the moors.”

  Synopsis

  The title of Emily Bronte’s classic comes from a Yorkshire word, “withering,” which refers to stormy and changeable weather. There is indeed a great deal of “wither” in this book, most of it bad. The novel’s curious structure is laid out in the first three chapters, where a Mr. Lockwood comes as a tenant in a cottage attendant to Wuthering Heights, a great house on the Yorkshire moors. When he hikes up to the main house to meet his new landlord, Heathcliff, he is trapped there by a snowstorm and ends up spending the night in the haunted room of the doomed Catherine, Heathcliff’s great love. He meets and is both confused and rather frightened by the strange inhabitants of the house.

  By the time he escapes from the various ghosts, dogs, and grumpy old men that inhabit Wuthering Heights, poor Mr. Lockwood is very ill. Safe in his little cottage, he turns to his housekeeper, Mrs. Dean, for entertainment. He persuades her to tell him the story of the weird inhabitants of the infamous hall, and as a result we receive the tale “twice-removed,” from Mrs. Dean through Lockwood to us.