The Victorian City: Everyday Life in Dickens’ London, by Judith Flanders

My obsession with Victorian London and Dickens rears its head again, this time in the form of Judith Flanders book The Victorian City: Everyday Life in Dickens’ London. It is a fascinating and well written account of nineteenth century London. The book is dense, and at times academic enough that it is probably only for those who have a genuine interest. I did think the link to Dickens was rather tenuous, I doubt that she referred to him any more than she did other well-known Victorians. She does shed light on moments in his novels that I had ill-understood as I read them, so perhaps here her connection is on safer ground.

A full sense of the city’s life – both good and bad – are depicted here. The scope of what Flanders covers, as well as the detail, is impressive. Ranging from how streets were paved, and how this changed over the course of the era, to entertainment and eating houses, and even what produce would be available from street sellers at particular times of day. She vividly describes the chaos of trying to move around busy London streets, the mud, the crowds - traffic jams today have nothing on these. Of course no account would be complete without discussing the sewers, cholera, and The Great Stink, when parliament smelt so bad the rich could no longer ignore the (oh, the unsanitary!) conditions many lived in, and finally cleaned up London. A particularly gruelling chapter deals with the failure to properly dispose of the dead. Dickens memorably describes the pitiful burial of Nemo in Bleak House; I had little appreciation of how literally we should take his description of bones breaking through the soil in the graveyards. Not for the faint of heart! Also appalling was the account of life in the slums. This was such a concern to the upper classes that slum quarters were often destroyed, without provision of new housing, forcing more and more of the poor to cram into the slums that did remain.

Crime and punishment is unsurprisingly an interesting section; women in Victorian London are almost synonymous with prostitution, but Flanders makes a good case for how inaccurate this is. Figures for vast amounts of prostitutes are well known, yet the sources for these are, frankly, laughable. One problem is what we would term a prostitute has changed, Flanders quotes a paper writing about dancers who prostitute themselves ‘either for money, or more frequently for their own gratification’. Nowadays we would only class the former as prostitution! Estimates of numbers were reached by extrapolating from the number of births to unwed mothers, assuming that every mother would become a prostitute and work for five years, so 42 000 births annually meant 210 000 prostitutes at any given time. The man who came up with this estimate is known to have been aware that police estimates were just under 10 000 women. Nor was prostitution the bleak road to ruin we often assume, as many woman were known to have saved up enough money to go into respectable trade, and even make good marriages.

Flanders opens each section with well-known events from London’s history. The most fascinating of these was the Tooley Street fire in 1861, in which an enormous fire burned in the warehouses down by the Thames. It was so big that it was three weeks before it was declared fully contained. The warehouses contained cotton, sugar, tea, spices such as cayenne and pepper, saltpetre, sulphur and oil. Not only did the winds blow this noxious combination about in huge smoke clouds, but the burning oil leaked onto the Thames, setting even the river on fire. Despite this huge crowds packed the streets, pubs stayed open all night for spectators and some even hired boats to take them out onto the Thames. It is hard to see a modern crowd glorying in a sulphurous smoke! I suppose we would still watch, but from the comfort of our living rooms.

Flanders is a research fellow at the University of Buckingham, and clearly knows her subject area well. More to the point she is articulate - this book is clear and concise. It is well-indexed too. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the colour-plates; here Flanders is badly let down by the book’s editors. Frequently Flanders points out details that can be seen in the plates, such as details of clothing, and in not a single case that I found was the correct plate number given. On all occasions I managed to work out which plate Flanders was referring to, but this situation shouldn’t have arisen.

For anyone with an interest in the subject I cannot recommend this book enough. It is a fantastic reference book that is both well written and researched. Hopefully editorial quibbles will be dealt with in future print runs. It challenged many of my preconceptions of life in Victorian London. It is striking, but perhaps not surprising how little we have changed; technology is different, but we still judge women on reproductive choices, judge the poor as ‘deserving’ or not, and seek out spectacle in catastrophe. An interesting and illuminating read.

Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens

I think I have already mentioned on this blog that I have a little tradition of reading a Dickens novel for Christmas, which started when I read my first (Bleak House) over the holidays some years ago. This year I reread one of my favourites, Little Dorrit, which is also one of Dickens’s lesser known novels. It is one of his later novels, and is one of the heftier tomes. In it Dickens tells a deeply personal story, and produces some of his best satire. He set the novel in the late 1820s and centred the story around the Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison. Dickens own father was imprisoned here, a part of his childhood he was deeply ashamed of. Although the Marshalsea was closed by the time Dickens was writing, he still wished to address the injustice of locking up debtors at the whim of their creditors regardless of the size of their debt.

The titular character Amy, or Little, Dorrit, lives with her father in London’s Marshalsea Prison, where he has languished for decades. Once a rich man of property, he ruined his family, and his children have been brought up in prison; the youngest, Amy, was even born there. Elsewhere we meet the Clennam family: Arthur Clennam has recently returned to London from China where he and his late father were working for the family firm. His stern mother represents the firm in London, though she is housebound, never leaving her wheelchair. She is aided by the creepy Mr Flintwinch, her servant and eventual business partner. Arthur Clennam has been led to believe by his father that the family fortune may have been built upon someone else’s misfortune. When he comes home to find Amy Dorrit employed as a seamstress by his mother he suspects a connection. But he is not the only person on the trail - the villainous Rigaud is infiltrating their society, and blackmail is on the agenda.

As you can see, Little Dorrit is another example of a labyrinthine Dickens plot. It is also an excellent example of how Dickens at his best used plot to explore various ideas. Along with social inequalities and injustices, Dickens is particularly concerned with prisons: the Marshalsea, a jail cell in Europe, Mrs Clennam imprisoned in her wasted body, her chair and her house, but also those prisons that are entirely the constructs of our minds. Even if the walls are removed, Mr Dorrit can never be free of the effects of years of incarceration. Even the highest forms of society, Dickens shows, can be a form of prison - trapping its inhabitants in expectations.

I have already mentioned on my blog Dickens’s penchant for writing his heroines as dutiful, perfect housekeeping, self-sacrificing annoying little things. Little Dorrit is the epitome of these traits, devoting herself to her father way beyond the call of duty. For some reason I find her less annoying. I think partly because he also gives her a bit more substance than some of the other examples (like Little Nell, ugh). Once or twice she is able to make a selfish decision, i.e. the decision that is best for her, not her father. She is also so taken for granted by her family that I genuinely feel for her.

One of Dickens‘s cruellest, but also funniest characters is Flora, Arthur’s childhood sweetheart. They were deliberately separated by their families, and then by the twenty years or so Arthur has been in Asia. Flora is now a widow, and not quite the woman Arthur remembers

Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath; but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had became a peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much.

As Arthur recoils from Flora, she is more than willing to throw herself at the man she once loved. It is cringe-worthy, and made worse by Dickens giving her just enough of genuine good meaning, especially in her behaviour towards Little Dorrit, to take the edge off caricature. Her character is beautifully conjured in her long ungrammatical speeches - a breathless gallop of thoughts, sorely lacking in punctuation.

Ask me not…if I love him still or if he loves me or what is to be or when, when we are surrounded by watchful eyes and it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray is all must be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!

The cruelty in this fabulous creation of Dickens's is that she wasn’t entirely a fabrication. As soon she appeared in print a Mary Winter (who had once been Mary Beadnell, Dickens’s first love from whom he was separated by family), recognised herself. It was not the first time she had inspired Dickens; she also appears in the youthful guise of Dora in David Copperfield. She had recently been reunited with Dickens and he obviously found her something of a disappointment. Dickens may be have been a great writer, but he could be savage to those who failed to live up to his expectations.

It may be 150 years since Little Dorrit first appeared in print, but much of it seems startlingly relevant today. After all, this Victorian London revolves around bureaucracy and money. The rich get richer, while those without are condemned to desperate lives, scrabbling to make ends meet. Dickens depicts what must be the first Ponzi scheme to appear in print, run by Mr Merdle. Merdle is the man of the moment, sought after by the fawning society glitterati, even as he desperately paddles to stay afloat, in a prison of his own making. The entirety of London is swept up in this ruthless pursuit of money. Mr Merdle’s bank is a sure bet, right up until the moment it collapses, revealing its customers have nothing more than castles in the air. In this post GFC world it seems we have not learned much; Greed rules eternal.

And what of the end? Oh yes, everything gets wrapped up nicely and neatly, with unexpected twists, coincidences, and a fair bit of schmaltz. If you like your conclusions neat, Dickens will give you that, but you have to put realism aside. The plot is only the bone, and around it Dickens gives us plenty of meat: memorable characters, metaphor and social critique. I have long been a fan of Dickens; despite his flaws, he deserves his reputation as one of the great novelists.

Vanity Fair, by William Makepeace Thackeray

A couple of months ago I joined an imaginary book club through a friend. I say ‘imaginary’ as we have never met to discuss the book; in fact I’ve not met the other participants - I begin to suspect Marie made them all up. Too late! As, in hope of some literary discussion over tea and biscuits, I have ploughed my way through a hefty tome: Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray.

Thackeray was a contemporary of Dickens and, like Dickens, he first made his name as a journalist before becoming a famous novelist. In their own time Thackeray was second only to Dickens in popularity. However he is much less read these days, and is known almost exclusively for Vanity Fair. The book is undeniably intimidating in size - my copy has just under a thousand pages. In comparison to other similar novels though, I do not think it is too complicated. It helps that it has a smaller cast than many. While it takes place over a period of many years, including the Napoleonic wars, history is only a backdrop, requiring no in depth historical knowledge to make sense of it.

What makes this book so successful is one of its main characters: Becky Sharp, the orphaned daughter of an artist, determined to claw her way up through English society. The novel has the subtitle ‘A Novel Without A Hero’ as, over the course of the story, every main character is shown to be flawed. At the start of the novel Becky is with her friend Amelia Sedley, another main character. While Becky can be spiteful and artful, her feelings for the naïve Amelia, at least, appear to be somewhat genuine. Becky’s scheming eventually lands her with a husband, a buffoonish soldier with aspirations to wealth. Amelia marries her childhood sweetheart, but soon finds herself widowed, pregnant and impoverished. From here the two women go their separate ways. Amelia becomes ever more insipid, wasting away, caring only for her son and unable to recognise the love offered to her by her late husbands friend, Captain Dobbin. While Dobbin seems an admirable enough character he too becomes a slightly pathetic figure by the end of the novel, as he is unable to get out from under Amelia’s thumb.

In contrast Becky and her husband Rawdon Crawley are enjoying life, living in style in London with no real income. Their portion of the book is where Thackeray’s satire and wit shine. Two particularly witty chapters concerning these two are entitled ’How to Live on Nothing a Year’ and ’The Subject Continued’ in which Thackeray details how by relying on a good family name one can exist entirely off credit. The creditors, for fear that the meagre payments might stop, continue to furnish you with goods, until they themselves are declared bankrupt, while you continue merrily with your lavish, unpaid for lifestyle. It is amusing, but also not entirely inaccurate - young men of the time were continuously in extravagant debt, and the higher your income, well, the more you could borrow. So Rawdon and Becky get by on nothing, presenting whichever face to whoever most suits their purpose. Becky is demure and gracious to Rawdon’s family; meanwhile she is prostituting herself to a rich landowner (not in so many words though, it is after all a Victorian novel). Like any good thing, it’s great while it lasts, but inevitably Becky’s duplicity gets the better of her, and she finds herself in difficulty.

Thackeray’s critique of high society is really quite savage, particularly his treatment of the marriage market. As awful as Becky’s behaviour can be, it all stems from the way society treated women. Not content to be poor, Becky must marry well, as she has no means to make her own money. When that doesn’t quite work out, well, there are other ways. Men too come in for their fair share of Thackeray’s contempt. Money and respectability reign supreme, friends are cast aside when down on their luck, and anything can be ignored as long as it is behind closed doors. Sir Pitt Crawley is a wonderful character: disgusting and miserly to the extreme, he alone refuses to play by society’s rules. His real transgression though is not his behaviour, it is the transparency of it. Ultimately this novel is about the veneer society paints over itself.

Thackeray is a knowing writer; his omniscient narrator directly addresses, and challenges, the reader a number of times.

a polite public will no more bear to read an authentic description of vice than a truly refined English or American female will permit the word “breeches” to be pronounced in her chaste hearing. And yet, Madam, both are walking the world before our faces everyday, without much shocking us. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you would have!

Thackeray is merciless in his exposure of society; all within the confines of what could be acceptably published. Perhaps this is part of why the book hasn’t dated badly: what was shocking then, isn’t so shocking now. By not lecturing us on morality Thackeray gives the book a universality and timelessness - although society has changed since this book was published we all know people like Becky Sharp and Captain Dobbin. The characters are vivid and realistic, breathing life into this classic novel.

Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy

I have never liked Tess of the D’Urbervilles, but seem unable to give up on classic authors because of one book. While this is a much earlier work, and therefore considered less mature, I found Far From The Madding Crowd a more enjoyable read. I think both the excellent title (madding means frenzied) and the main character’s excellent name (Bathsheba) helped, though I doubt Thomas Hardy is an author who will ever inspire passion in me as a reader.

The novel takes place in a village in the fictional county of Wessex, England. Wessex stands in for the counties of south and southwest England, in this case specifically Dorset - Hardy’s home county. Bathsheba is a newcomer to the village, having inherited a farm from her uncle. Against society’s expectations Bathsheba plans to run the farm herself, and fails even to appoint a bailiff to help her out, thus introducing her independent and wilful nature. She becomes romantically entangled to various degrees with three men: Gabriel Oak, a solid, dependable bloke, intelligent but far below her social standing; Farmer Boldwood, much older, but a respectable man; and the dashing young Sergeant Troy. It is clear from the start who the right choice for Bathsheba would be, but this wilful young woman sets about making all the wrong decisions. This eventually leads to the destruction of two men’s lives, and, almost, the ruin of Bathsheba.

The name Bathsheba comes from the biblical character, mother of King Solomon, but more generally known as the ‘seducer’ of King David. Like Tess of the D’Urbervilles the sexual purity of the main character is of paramount importance to the novel. And, like Tess of the D’Urbervilles, to our modern eyes the punishment inflicted on her for transgressions from the norm are excessive. While I understand that Hardy wants to draw attention to a social problem, it grates, perhaps because Hardy is just a bit heavy handed. Early in the novel, on a thoughtless whim, Bathsheba sends a valentine to Boldwood as a joke. This awakens an obsessive, frankly stalkerish, side in the previously respectable farmer. Throughout the rest of the novel Bathsheba is under pressure to agree to marry him, because she led him on to believe she had feelings for him. Despite repeatedly making it clear to him she does not love him, and that this takes place over years, not weeks or months, Bathsheba is unable to jilt Boldwood. Disturbingly she clearly thinks that it is her fault, and that she in someway owes it to Boldwood to submit to marriage to him. Instead she marries Troy, an unhappy choice for which Bathsheba suffers greatly. Troy is also in love with a poor young maid, whom he has already seduced and jilted, as he cannot marry her for lack of money. Punished for her lustful actions, Bathsheba ends up alone; but don’t worry, there is still the dependable Gabriel Oak lurking around the farm, and the possibility of a somewhat happy ending.

Far From the Madding Crowd is not a miserable novel as some of the above might suggest. The minor characters, especially the labourers, provide plenty of light relief without being patronising portrayals of the poor. The book brings to life this village, and a way of life very different to what we know now. Still, for all the pastoral realism, Hardy’s writing is, for me at least, the epitome of Victorian melodrama. The ending of this novel relies on events that would leave a soap opera writer happy. There is also something about the strictly formalised relations between the sexes at the time that seems to create unhealthy romantic entanglements. One wonders if half the problems in the novel could be solved if Bathsheba and Boldwood went out on a date one evening and were able to discover if they, you know, liked each other. Since this wasn’t the way of the world, Victorian literature seems full of ill-suited marriages. The passions invoked seem disproportionate to true appreciation of the others character. The relationship between Oak and Bathsheba is treated with a sincerity that implies Hardy recognises what a healthy relationship might look like. But the fact that Oak falls so steadfastly in love with a woman he cannot spend any meaningful time with is perhaps a bit pathetic, and a blight on an otherwise, comparatively, well rounded character.

Hardy’s novels may be a bit melodramatic at times for my taste, but he does lack the slightly purple prose that so often puts people off other Victorian writers. His evocation of time and place is strong, and the language of his books reflect this; notes are probably necessary as modern readers are unlikely to understand the rural terminology widely used in this novel. It is an enjoyable book, but at times silly enough that it was hard to really feel engrossed in the story. As for society’s need to punish women for lustful feelings? Thank god for feminism.

Martin Chuzzlewit, by Charles Dickens

I was a late-comer to Dickens. My first was Bleak House, read over Christmas in 2006. Over the intervening years I have read my way through most of his oeuvre, and am now down to rereading, or to reading his less well loved novels, hence Martin Chuzzlewit as my summer reading choice. As much as I love Dickens, his novels can be a challenge. Martin Chuzzlewit is a good example of this; at the end I was glad to have read it, but it was a hard slog at times.

Martin Chuzzlewit centres on three members of the Chuzzlewit family, both young and old Martins and a Jonas. The latter, along with a Chuzzlewit cousin Mr Pecksniff, is one of this novel’s villains. Thematically the book is about selfishness and most of these characters embody this trait in spectacular fashion. Virtue is represented by Pecksniff’s employee, Tom Pinch, a wholesome and kind young man who is naively devoted to Pecksniff at the novel’s beginning. It is a huge relief, and helps to inject some energy into the novel, when three quarters of the way through he finally grows some balls and realises Pecksniff’s true nature. Throughout the book Pecksniff projects such assuredness in his own virtue that few suspect the depths of greed beneath, and much of the novel is taken up with the events that will lead to his exposé.

As fantastic as his villains can be, Dickens’s characterisation of women is often deeply troubling. Many of his female heroines are paper-thin, idealistic characters, lacking the idiosyncrasies that bring the rest of his creations to life. This book is a particularly bad example of this. The female heroines Mary Gregory and Ruth Pinch epitomise everything Dickens thought a young woman should be: slim, pretty, modest, demure and interested in little other than the men in their lives and running a household. In other words, not like real woman at all. The introduction of my edition of Martin Chuzzlewit (written by Simon Callow) puts it well, calling it ‘fetishistic’ and ‘dehumanising’. I cannot think of better words myself. Dickens writes some fantastic female characters too, the third villain of this novel Mrs Gamp being a good example of his grotesques. Some of his most famous characters are troubled women: Nancy in Oliver Twist, Lady Dedlock in Bleak House, and of course, Miss Havisham. During the course of this novel Jonas Chuzzlewit marries Pecksniff’s youngest daughter, Mercy. Initially she is a callous, flighty girl, but once married she is subjugated by a brutal husband and is portrayed sympathetically as a woman living in real fear. This contrast between his characterisation of women is symptomatic of his relationships with women in real life; he was cruel in later life to his wife, rejecting her and keeping her from her children, even though he was a social campaigner, writing of the plight of fallen women in his papers, and helping to fund and run homes to look after women in desperate circumstances. I’m looking forward to reading more about this in Claire Tomalin’s Dickens: A Life, one of my Christmas presents (although I think I need a wee break from Dickens first).

The story itself begins when the older Martin has cast off his nephew, the young Martin who now has to make his own way in the world, without the promise of a vast inheritance. After some time with Pecksniff, where he befriends Tom Pinch, Martin heads to America to make his fortune. He is accompanied by Mark Tapley, who begins as comic relief, but who soon develops into a generous hearted individual from whom Young Martin will learn many important, and predictable, lessons. Considering this is often referred to as Dickens’s American novel, I was surprised how little of the time was spend in America. However, what it lacks in length it makes up for in spite. Dickens’s loathing of the United States is apparent on every page. He mocks the manners of its people, their belief in their country, and he takes a stab at the practice of slavery. In short it is not a very flattering portrait, and at the time was greeted with outrage in America. It is quite funny though, with nearly every man introduced by someone else as ’one of the most remarkable men in the country’. Dickens would be horrified that his portrayal of the American press is now most prescient in the case of the British tabloids; his account of the New York Sewer with such headlines as ‘the Sewer’s own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies’ and ‘the Sewer’s exclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the Secretary of State when he was eight years old’ could be in a piece of modern satire.

Dickens’s razor sharp wit is only one of the reasons I love his books. When he breathes life into a character they rate amongst some of the finest characters in literature. None of the characters in Martin Chuzzlewit quite make that grade - Mrs Gamp comes the closest. His ability to bring Victorian England to life is another reason. I think I was sold from the opening paragraphs of Bleak House with its description of the muddy foggy streets; incidentally this is the original appearance of now clichéd urban fog. In this book Dickens describes a character out for a walk in the country side; we follow him down paths, through fields, and into a copse. However, when we reach the other side, no figure emerges, and we realise that something insidious has happened out of our view. It is beautiful writing, with an almost cinematic quality in the movement Dickens uses to paint the scene. When I read passages like that, I fall in love with Dickens all over again.

Once Young Martin has returned home, a suitably reformed character, and reunited with Tom Pinch, all that remains is to see our villains punished and heroes rewarded. This is done in typical Dickensian fashion, with astounding coincidences and improbable turns of events, leading to a satisfying conclusion. The book ends stronger than it begins, with a clear sense of purpose. The tying up of loose ends here is done no more ridiculously than in other Dickens’s novels. After hauling myself through the middle few hundred pages I enjoyed the final chapters as everything came to a speedy conclusion, with only the mildest sense of relief that it was indeed finishing.

Felix Holt, by George Eliot

Anyone who takes a look at my bookshelves will know how much I love the Victorian novel. The nineteenth century was a period of huge social change; with the expansion of manufacturing towns and introduction of the railway, Britain’s population exploded and ’new money’ became a force to be reckoned with. It provides a backdrop for some of the most iconic English language writers: Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and a personal favourite, George Eliot. Born Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans, the daughter of a farmer, she was lucky to receive an excellent education, largely because she was considered such an unattractive child she would never marry well. Her early life was respectable enough, taking over as her father’s house keeper at the age of 16 after her mother’s death; she remained with him until his death when she was thirty. At this stage her life takes a more unconventional turn; Evans moved to London, became a literary editor and fell in love with a married man. Although George Lewes was estranged from his wife, he was unable to divorce her, so Evans and he decided to live together openly as a couple. When she began to publish as an author Marian Evans adopted the male name George Eliot not just to avoid stereotyping as a female novelist, but also to avoid the scandal associated with her home life.

Many of Eliot’s novels are in fact historical novels, set during the years of her childhood, and Felix Holt is no exception. Set in 1832 this was an important year for British history, as it was the year the first Reform Bill was passed. This event forms a backdrop for much of the novel’s action. Before I had read George Eliot I had never heard of said bill, but it changed the electoral landscape of Britain dramatically. Way back in 1430 laws were passed establishing that male owners of land worth more than forty shillings were able to vote in county elections. Amazingly this rule did not change for four hundred years, until the passing of the Reform Bill, which increased the eligible voters by 50%. The Reform Bill also created new seats of parliament in the industrial towns such as Manchester. It is interesting stuff, but Eliot writing in 1866 assumes a level of familiarity with this history that I think most modern readers will struggle with. But that, in my opinion, is what Wikipedia was made for.

The political landscape of this novel may be dense, but her depiction of English country life and its people is as accessible as ever. The novel begins with a coach ride through southern rural England into the industrial midlands, depicting the shift from the agrarian lifestyle in tune with the earth to the smoky cities with workers up all night. The story itself begins at Transome Court, where a coach is expected. Eliot paints a picture of the whole estate in anticipation, but includes details that lead us to understand this is an estate in decline. We read a whole page before we are introduced to Mrs Transome, and two more before we learn it is her son, Harold Transome whom she awaits. Mrs Transome is a sad creature; she puts me in mind of Miss Havisham without the craziness, only the heartbreak. Eliot describes her beautifully with ‘She was far beyond fifty; and since her early gladness in this best-loved boy, the harvest of her life had been scanty.’. Harold has been overseas for fifteen years and has now returned to run the estate ruined by his now deceased elder brother. The Transomes represent the old families of England, clinging on to respectability and class, even though scandal is knocking at their door.

Into this we introduce Esther Lyon, adopted daughter of the local Dissenting minister. Esther is of humble origin, but has developed taste for the high life working as a governess in fashionable families. It would be easy for her to be a flighty Victorian female, but in the hands of Eliot, Esther is a rounded human being, aware of her faults, and capable of deep love and compassion. Esther’s father is friends with Felix Holt, a young craftsman of strong political opinion and high ideals. Holt is the least successful character in this novel; unusually for Eliot he never comes across as a person, only an idea, and unfortunately, a plot device.

Holt and Harold Transome are drawn together by the destabilising effects of the county elections. But it is in their love of Esther that they are truly rivals. Temptation lies in Esther’s way when she is invited to spend time at the Transome estate. This allows Elliot to explore a new relationship, that between Esther and Mrs Transome. The care that develops between the two is lightly depicted and believable. Mrs Transome is lonely and yearns for the affection Esther can give her; she haunts the manor like a living ghost. Esther on the other hand, in her youth and vitality, embodies a possible future for England, and in conjunction with Felix Holt, a new politically vocal middle class.

Eliot always writes convincing female characters and here she has succeeded again. Unlike many contemporary writers, Eliot can be unkind to her characters, allowing them to make bad marriages, so there is genuine tension as to whether Esther will end up like Mrs Transome. Some of the political machinations are convoluted but Eliot brings the rapid change Britain was experiencing to life within the scale of one village. While I enjoyed this book I would have to say it is probably of most interest to those who have already enjoyed George Eliot’s work. While it is a shorter novel than some, the plot meanders more. In short, it isn’t her best work. But, at the risk of sounding like a snob I think ‘not as good as Middlemarch’ is a criticism that can be made of every other novel ever written.