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Why would a 21st-century Dominican friar describe a 900-page Victorian novel written by an agnostic as the book that changed his life? For Father Jonah Teller, George Eliot’s Middlemarch is more than a study of provincial life in 19th-century England; it is a profound examination of the human soul. While the sheer length of the novel often intimidates modern readers, those who persevere discover a literary masterpiece that serves as a remedy for the feeling of insignificance. It is a story about how our private choices ripple outward, affecting the world in ways we may never see.
Key Takeaways
- The power of the "hidden life": Eliot argues that ordinary lives, lived faithfully without fame or grandeur, are essential to the growing good of the world.
- Character drives destiny: Unlike novels where plot dictates action, Middlemarch demonstrates how the internal landscape of a person determines their external reality.
- Intellect requires social prudence: The character of Dr. Lydgate illustrates that being "right" or scientifically advanced is useless if one lacks the character to build trust within a community.
- Mercy in the face of betrayal: The marriage of the Bulstrodes offers a stark, redemptive example of choosing faithfulness and compassion over abandonment during a crisis.
- Fiction as moral formation: While bad media can corrupt, great literature allows us to "keep company" with virtuous characters, shaping our own moral imagination.
The Infinite Value of the Provincial Life
The central thesis of Middlemarch tackles a struggle that is intensely relevant in the digital age: the fear that an ordinary life is a meaningless life. We live in a culture that often equates value with visibility, leading to a pervasive sense of despair among those who do not hold a massive public platform.
Father Jonah argues that Middlemarch acts as a cure for this specific modern anxiety. The novel illustrates that the specific scale of one’s life does not limit the depth of one’s impact. Eliot begins the book by referencing Saint Teresa of Avila, a woman of massive historical consequence, but contrasts her with the novel’s protagonist, Dorothea Brooke. Dorothea possesses a similar spiritual grandeur and idealism but lacks the historical stage on which to perform great deeds.
However, Eliot does not frame this as a tragedy. Instead, she reframes our understanding of influence. The novel suggests that the tiny, private decisions we make—to be honest, to wake up early, to hold our tongues—create a domino effect that touches neighbors, spouses, and community members in calculatingly diffusive ways.
"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."
The Ripple Effect of Character
The narrative structure of Middlemarch reinforces this theme. It functions as a microcosm of the universe, where multiple plotlines—involving doctors, clergy, laborers, and aristocrats—intersect. Eliot shows that you cannot drop a stone into the "pool of your soul" without the ripples hitting those around you. Whether it is Dorothea saving a marriage through a single conversation or a clergyman stepping aside to allow a rival to find happiness, the book champions the idea that a well-ordered soul is a gift to the entire community.
Character First, Plot Second
In many novels, the plot is an occasion to develop a character; things happen to people so that we can see how they react. In Middlemarch, the dynamic is reversed: the characters are the occasion for the plot. The story emerges organically from the virtues, vices, and psychological idiosyncrasies of the people living in the town.
Eliot serves as a master psychologist, providing what could be described as a "director’s cut" with commentary. She breaks the fourth wall, offering witty, ironic, and sometimes devastating insights into her creations. She exposes the interior landscape of her characters with a precision that gives words to feelings readers have always had but could never articulate.
The Pathology of the Scholar
One of the most striking examples of character driving plot is Edward Casaubon, the dry, pedantic scholar whom the 19-year-old Dorothea mistakenly marries. Casaubon represents the "pathology of the scholar"—a man so obsessed with his magnum opus, "The Key to All Mythologies," that he becomes cold, jealous, and unable to love the vibrant woman right in front of him. He believes his niche work will explain the universe, yet he misses the life actually happening around him. This mismatch provides the friction that drives a significant portion of the novel’s drama, proving that character flaws are the true engines of tragedy.
Intellect, Prudence, and the Failure of Science
Middlemarch is set during a time of great transition, involving the Reform Act and the rise of modern medicine. This friction is embodied in Dr. Tertius Lydgate, a young, brilliant doctor bringing cutting-edge science to the provincial town. Lydgate represents progress and enlightenment, yet his story is a cautionary tale about the insufficiency of intellect.
Lydgate fails not because his science is wrong, but because he lacks social prudence. He is arrogant, dismissing the "fools" of the town and failing to cultivate relationships with the existing power structures. He binds himself to the unpopular banker Nicholas Bulstrode for funding, not realizing that being right is not enough; one must also be trusted.
This narrative arc offers a timeless lesson for experts and academics: you cannot bypass the need to be a likeable, trustworthy human being. Without the "social capital" built through kindness and respect, even the most brilliant ideas will fail to take root.
A Study in Marriage and Mercy
If Middlemarch is a study of provincial life, it is primarily a study of marriage. The novel presents a wide variety of unions, dispelling the romanticized notion that there is only one "perfect" type of relationship. From the tragic mismatch of Dorothea and Casaubon to the functional but tested love of Fred Vincy and Mary Garth, Eliot explores the reality that marriage is a long discipline of character.
The Standard of Honor
The relationship between Fred Vincy and Mary Garth stands out as a model of healthy restraint. Fred is a well-meaning but somewhat foolish young man, while Mary is a woman of sterling character. Though she loves him, she refuses to pledge her hand to him until he proves he has the character to be a worthy husband. This dynamic challenges the modern sentiment of "follow your heart" and replaces it with a call to honor. It suggests that one should not compromise their principles for emotional attachment, and that true love sometimes requires waiting for maturity.
The Redemption of the Bulstrodes
Perhaps the most poignant moment in the novel—and Father Jonah’s favorite scene—involves the "villain" of the story, Nicholas Bulstrode, and his wife, Harriet. Bulstrode is a wealthy, hypocritical religious man whose dark past is eventually exposed, ruining his reputation and social standing.
When Harriet discovers the depth of her husband's deception, she faces a choice. She could leave him, preserving her own dignity and social capital. Instead, Eliot depicts her changing from her ostentatious clothing into a simple dress and entering the room where her shattered husband sits.
"She said solemnly but kindly, 'Look up, Nicholas.' ... He burst out crying and they cried together, she sitting at his side."
In this scene, Eliot allows a character who has been deceived to become an agent of profound mercy. It demonstrates that a catastrophe need not destroy a marriage or a life. By choosing to say, "your lot is my lot," Harriet offers a powerful counter-example to a culture of disposal, proving that mercy can heal even the deepest wounds.
Conclusion: Fiction as Spiritual Medicine
It is often noted that George Eliot lost her Christian faith, yet Middlemarch remains deeply saturated with Christian morality. Critics like Nietzsche argued this was an inconsistency—trying to keep the morality without the God. However, for a reader like Father Jonah, the novel functions as a testament to natural virtue.
There is a longstanding religious critique that novels can corrupt the soul by exposing innocent minds to vice and scandal. Father Jonah acknowledges this reality—"bad company corrupts good morals"—but flips the script. If bad books are bad company, then great books are good company. Reading Middlemarch is an opportunity to spend time with great souls, to witness the consequences of vice, and to see the beauty of hidden virtue.
Ultimately, Middlemarch is a book about the necessity of cultivating an interior life. It teaches us that the small, uncelebrated decisions we make today determine who we will be in the future. Whether we are priests, mechanics, or parents, the novel reminds us that our "unhistoric acts" are the invisible threads holding the world together.
