As Book V of Daniel Deronda opens, George Eliot describes the wintery scene at
Topping Abbey. A
“splendid fall of snow” had just blanketed Sir Hugo’s residence just days
after Christmas.* The guests and inhabitants of the Abbey, eager to take in the
architecture of building, set out on a walk through the grounds. When they come
upon the stables, the narrative pace slows, offering an expansive description
of the choir-turned-stables. With its broken limestone and “touches of snow…on
every ledge,” the exterior of the stables gives a “startling effect” to the
interior (419). Inside, “each finely-arched chapel was turned into a stall,”
light falling inside and shining upon the many faces of the horses. Gwendolen’s
response to the scene bursts out, “Oh, this is glorious!” The stables caused
Gwendolen to forget “everything but the immediate impressions, and she promptly
regrets having voiced her preference for the Abbey’s stables over those she has
at Diplow.
This singular moment, leaving so
strong an impact on Gwendolen, paints the portrait of an antique building
re-appropriated for a use far different from its original purpose. A blending
of interior and exterior gives the stables the forcible impression that prompts
Gwendolen’s outburst. Throughout the novel, setting often has more force than
mere background. If the “discrete representation of any specific individual is
intertwined with the narrative’s continual apportioning of attention to
different characters who jostle for limited space within the same fictive
universe” (Woloch 13),
then the literal space these characters occupy must similarly “jostle” for
attention within this fictional space. Gwendolen’s response to physical space
does not comprise the only interaction between characters and place. The
fitting comparisons of Gwendolen’s and Daniel’s lives continue in comparing
their interaction with and occupation of spaces within the novel. Daniel’s
penchant for rowing brings him into contact with important epoch-shaping
moments in his life.
The
tendency toward reading setting as “mere backdrop for the human drama
that really count[s]” can sometimes distract from the way that place shapes the
unfolding of a character (Buell
3).** Gwendolen herself exhibits this tendency when she first arrives at Offendene.
While Eliot’s narrator offers a detailed physiognomy of Offendene a few pages earlier,
Gwendolen reduces the estate to a backdrop: she says that it is “charming” and
a “romantic place; anything delightful may happen in it; it would
be a good background for anything” (26). Gwendolen offers no agency or
influence to place, but as the novel continues, place becomes increasingly
important for Gwendolen and Daniel.
Daniel’s river excursions offer the
setting for two important moments in his interaction with Mirah and Mordecai. Both
of these moments depend on Daniel’s poetic sensibilities, his “fervor
which made him easily find poetry and romance among the events of everyday life.”
While rowing on the Thames in Book II, Daniel first sees Mirah on the
riverbanks, but it is only later that evening, on his return trip, that he
engages with Mirah. With the approach of Daniel’s “favorite hour— with its deepening
stillness and darkening masses of tree and building between the double
glow of the sky and the river,” Daniel settles down in his boat to watch
the water. He places himself in such a
way that none but the nearest passerby could observe him looking out. While
thus reclined, he sees Mirah preparing her coat as a “drowning shroud.” Yet
does the setting merely remain as setting? Does this twilight hour have any
deeper significance within the narrative of Daniel’s character? Later, at the close
of Book V, Daniel again rows along the Thames, this time encountering Mordecai
near a different bridge. As Daniel rows,
the
gray day was dying gloriously, its western clouds all broken into narrowing
purple strata before a wide-spreading saffron clearness, which in the sky had a
monumental calm, but on the river, with its changing objects, was reflected as
a luminous movement, the alternate flash of ripples or currents, the sudden
glow of the brown sail, the passage of laden barges from blackness into color,
making an active response to that brooding glory.
The juxtaposition of sky and water,
of calm and movement offers a tension that leads naturally into Daniel’s
unexpected meeting with Mordecai. When they seek a place to converse, Mordecai
worries that finding some unfamiliar spot will hamper his prophetic mind,
admitting that “In
new places the outer world presses on me and narrows the inward vision.” Gwendolen’s
experience at the Abbey’s stables shows a clear moment of the outer world overpowering
the inward vision, whereas Daniel’s poetic sensibilities open himself up to
receive what interpretations the world around him may offer for understanding
the many figures that populate those spaces.
Setting and place within Daniel Deronda offers fertile ground for
literary interpretation. The cultivated natural spaces of Offendene, Diplow,
and Topping Abbey function in direct relation to those more constructed spaces
within built places. The Abbey’s library in which Gwendolen seeks Daniel’s advice,
the “new
and striking scene” of the Philosophers club in which Daniel sees Mordecai
preach to unreceptive ears, even the Meyrick’s home bedecked with images and
portraits represent spaces that function as more than “mere backdrops” for
“human drama.” The ebb and flow between characters and place extend the
connections made between the interiority and exteriority of individual
characters. So much of the novel concerns itself with showing what characters
are thinking and feeling while exposing the inability of others to accurately
interpret that interiority. In much the same way, setting enters the novel with
an irrelevant degree of what Woloch calls “minorness,” functioning as much as a
character through which to see into central figures as any other “minor”
character within the novel.
*Perhaps contemporary readers of the novel’s serialization
had to make an imaginative leap, as this installment appeared in June 1876.
** While Buell may argue for even greater agency and
centrality of setting and environment within ecocritical readings of texts, I
focus here on developing an awareness of how place and setting may inform
interpretations of characters.
Your observation that Daniel's two important moments happen while he is rowing on the Thames is so interesting, especially in light of Grandcourt's drowning.
ReplyDeleteZemka reads this as part of the text’s temporal distinctions - Grandcourt’s drowning while Gwendolen stands by frozen in “tortured equivocation” parallels “the lack of haste and impetuosity in” Daniel’s spying on Mirah, revealing their “temporal conditioning…Daniel can never be in the moment, and Gwendolen, to her great loss, can never be out” (171-2).
But if we read this parallel from Gwendolen's prospective, is there any significance that the two men she is "torn" between have these radically different experiences with water? Is there something to be said for the distinctions in the bodies of water they interact with? Grandcourt’s yachting trip, and his decision to go out rowing that day are at least in part motivated by wanting to physically separate (alienate) Gwendolen. He then drowns “out of the port—into the deep”, or in other words, in the ocean: a body of water so vast that it separates people (continents). Whereas Daniel attempts to awaken and connect Gwendolen to the people and world around her. His “‘momentous’ events” (in Zemka’s use of the term) in part happen on the Thames, a river that connects people and towns throughout southern England. He is also the character whose sympathies draw radically different individuals together (for example, the Cohens and the Meyricks), and the character through whom many of the disparate novel characters are connected.
Like Samantha, I think your emphasis on place points us to important dimensions that we overlook if we're too focused on either temporality or on character-space (as distinct from character-*in*-space. Place is tremendously important in this novel: in both cases that you isolate the detailed description of setting not only sets the tone but also provides crucial insights into what characters are experiencing and under what conditions. While it's true that such descriptions have the effect of slowing down pace (by forestalling the narration of events, actions, decision-making, and so forth), I don't think we should leap to thinking of description as a deliberately slowing just for slowing's sake. (It's distinct in other words from the kind of deliberate slow motion, which was not entirely achieved via description) that we saw in the Trollope Ullathorne chapters. Very nice analysis.
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