This is the great realist, George Eliot’s, one and only attempt at Gothic fantasy/Sensation Fiction. It is the story of a young man named Latimer who develops clairvoyant abilities and becomes sexually infatuated with his brother’s fiancée, Bertha, because she is the only person whose mind he cannot read. The older brother conveniently dies and Latimer marries Bertha, only to find that when her mind is finally revealed to him (the veil lifted): “I saw myself in Bertha’s thought […] a miserable ghost seer, surrounded by phantoms in the noon-day, trembling under a breeze when the leaves were still, without appetite for the common objects of human desire, but pining after moonbeams’ “(32). Unsurprisingly, Bertha and Latimer becomes increasingly estranged and it all builds towards a very melodramatic ending.
In recent years this novella has attracted a lot of attention, especially from feminist literary critics, who argue that it has great significance in Eliot’s canon. Gilbert and Gubar give it an entire chapter in The Madwoman in the Attic. I’m afraid I don’t buy that argument and I think there was a good reason why she didn’t generally write this kind of fiction – she just wasn’t that good at it. The story has no tension, which is an essential component of gothic and sensation fiction — and the selfish, whining Latimer is so repellent that you really hope Bertha will get away with poisoning him before the end. I’m with Terry Eagleton when he exclaims “If only we could hear Bertha’s side of the story”. I think the story in an interesting curiosity and tells us something about Eliot’s lesser known interests in mesmerism, phrenology, clairvoyance and revivication, as well as the gothic and fairy stories. It also contains interesting nineteenth-century anxieties about gender — are men being emasculated by a wealthy consumer society? Are women becoming harder and more competitive? In some ways, Bertha seems like a less well-developed model for that other dangerous blonde with snake-like coils of hair — Rosamund Vincey in Middlemarch.
Maybe I’m not getting something, but I just don’t see the deep meaning in this story that some critics have ascribed to it; to me, it seems all surface, which is fine such as it is, but Middlemarch, or The Mill on the Floss, it is not.
Cross posted to Flaming Culture