In George Eliot's Daniel Deronda, the theme of submission through observation becomes a unifying bond between Jews and women, two main categories of characters in the novel. Eliot's female characters provide a complex commentary on the performance required of women in their public life, a quality of society that crosses boundaries of race and religion. The direct use of acting and singing as career choices for Jewish women illuminates this idea and inspires a natural comparison to the behavior expected of women in English culture. In 1876, when the book was published, critics and the public were scandalized by Eliot's attempt to draw the Jewish element (including these female performers) into fine English literature. Eliot's critique of her society is clear in the novel's attempt to consider the Jewish woman beyond the stereotypical role of interpreter. In fact, the role of professional actress is starting to defend itself. As an art form, it is an honest level of posing, in contrast to the false premises of married life offered to English women. In its language and mode of description, the novel manages to draw even more unique conclusions about these two groups. Essentially, Eliot shows us English wives petrified in statues, disillusioned with a world that demands a public stand. Meanwhile, the Jewish characters show the same ability to express their emotions when off stage, which is required of English women in their relationships. The relationship between authenticity and performance varies across the wide range of female characters, constantly relying on the ability to submit to circumstances, to embrace reality, to succumb to the unequal conditions of society. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay The choice to feature three of the genre's most important female characters is certainly significant. Eliot insists that her readers keep the role of interpreter in mind when considering women's lives, across cultural or racial barriers. Deronda's Jewish mother, Alcharisi, turns out to be a retired singer who was once quite famous. And Mirah was raised by her father for the stage. Gwendolen is one step away from these two as she wants to become an actress but instead chooses marriage, approaching this new life as a role to play. The continued presence of this performative theme is extremely important, as it draws our attention to the similarities between the politeness of the drawing room and the nature of the theater. But there are not only parallels between these two worlds. There is a clear differentiation buried deep in Gwendolen's and Mrs. Glasher's descriptions, a quality not included in Alcharisi or Mirah's presentations. Both of these English characters remain transfixed by tragedy and hardship, rather than enlightened by it. They become angry when forced to submit, using performance to mask their true emotions and hardening stony representations of their failures. Where Mirah's pose is imbued with natural talent, Gwendolen's seems full of solid determination. These subtle contrasts help create the discrepancy at the heart of Eliot's criticism: trained performance before the gaze of the audience and professional performance on a stage have objectification in common, but acting for money and acting for social leverage are not the same What. Gwendolen defines herself as a statuesque figure as much as Eliot defines her as such. Gail Marshall suggests that "Gwendolen is from the beginning absorbed and contained by her desire toto be seen", a desire that makes her voluntarily transform into an object to be examined. From the beginning of the novel, in the famous gambling scene, we are introduced to Gwendolyn through Deronda's eyes. The first lines of the book are the Deronda's first impression of her (although we don't know this until the second paragraph). This choice for an entry into Gwendolen's story certainly fixes her in the gaze of others. work of art, in the sense that the high aesthetic quality inspires deep reflection and naturally requires a personal judgment on the part of its viewers: "Was it beautiful or not beautiful? And what was the secret of the form or expression" that gave the dynamic quality to his gaze? Was it the good or the bad genius dominant in those rays? Probably evil; otherwise why was the effect that of disquiet rather than that of of undisturbed charm? not as a desire to which the whole being consents?". Before she even knows her name, Gwendolen is frozen in time, her physical presence an object of inspiration for a man's gaze. For all the reader knows, these questions could be inspired by a fascinating painting or sculpture of a woman, since it is not specified that what is being considered is a human being. The rays of his eyes are apparently static enough to be considered firmly, weighed in the concrete terms of good and evil. And descriptions such as "the secret of the form", "gave the dynamic quality" and "the desire to look again", allude to a desired effect, carefully and expertly achieved by art. The moral quality of the questions, in contrasting "good genius or bad genius", creates a sort of paradoxical state. Although the language insists on an internal depth in question, Eliot proceeds to demonstrate that one is simply questioning the surface. The question isn't "is she?" but "how does it look to you?", and the male gaze is thus fixed in this aesthetic sphere, despite its noble intentions. The gambling scene, which remains as an important memory throughout the story, continues to present Gwendolen as a statuesque figure. Eliot also shows us how willingly, even on purpose, she occupies this role. The second paragraph provides the reader with crucial twists to the ambiguous opening questions, while also granting the authority of Deronda's gaze by describing it further. Eliot tells us who is looking and what exactly the object is by beginning: "She who raised these questions in the mind of Daniel Deronda was occupied in gambling: not in the open air under a southern sky, throwing coins of money on a ruined wall, with rags around his limbs; but in one of those splendid places which the enlightenment of the centuries has prepared for the same kind of pleasure at the high cost of golden moldings, dark toned colors and plump nudity.. ." (DD, 7). Note that we learn the male observer's name, but the person in question remains the ambiguous "she." Indeed, Eliot will continue to guide the reader through Deronda's long and careful examination of Gwendolen's person, and she will even consider her presence (DD, 7-10) before Eliot provides the name Gwendolen. This name decision not only aligns the reader's gaze with that of Deronda, but, like introductions at a party, tells us who is most important to respect and know as equals. The placing of the action in "she who raised these questions" implies the intent to provoke questions from "her", as if that were her inevitable function in his presence. Eliot goes further, showing us how Gwendolen fails to introduce herself by suggesting where she truly belongs, by mentioning where she couldto be. Her being brings to Deronda's mind the image of a beggar and shows us how her pose failed. The skeptical tone of the "high cost of gold moldings", along with the choice of "dark-toned" and "plump nudity", especially next to the open air of the girl dressed in rags, suggests a conscious attempt to disguise the truth. . Aesthetics is therefore failing on two levels right now. Space itself lies about its own purpose, with its shoddy attempt at donning a clumsy costume of gilded, generic art. On top of all this, there is a woman who is not what she tries to appear to be and uses the performance (unsuccessfully) to try to hide the truth about herself and her situation. Gwendolen's inability to play her ideal part is revealed in a series of disappointments, as it will be in her consciousness throughout the narrative. Her excessive self-consciousness in posing, an embarrassing element that will later separate her from Mirah, is betrayed both by Deronda's conclusions and by her own apprehensions. It is not immediately recognizable as artificial as the space around it, but as alive and vibrant as it intends. Indeed, Deronda initially chooses to stare at this creature because it appears to contain more movement than its painting-like environment. After his eyes scan the gambling crowd in “this scene of gas-poisoned dull absorption,” he stops on Gwendolen because he “…suddenly [feels] the moment becoming dramatic” (DD, 9). He watches her win, the reader follows her every perception, until suddenly she turns to meet his gaze. The effect of his regard overrides his own agency: "...his eyes met Deronda's, and instead of averting them as he would have liked to do, he was uncomfortably aware that they had been arrested - for how long?" (DD, 10). It is clear that Gwendolen is not only affected, but actually controlled by Deronda's gaze. He's staring at her, so she has to stare back. Here, the creature that stood out as dramatic has been frozen by the male gaze. In the (correct) conclusion on this look he betrays a profound awareness of its artifice. "The unbridled sense that he was sizing her up and considering her inferior, that she was of a different quality from the human waste that surrounded her, that he felt himself to be in a region outside and above her, and was examining her as a specimen of lower order, aroused a tingling resentment that lengthened the moment with conflict” (DD, 10). her immediate doubts about herself when subjected to a penetrating gaze, the novel begins the process of differentiating between what she is and what she wants to be penetrates her, as Eliot turns her into marble before her eyes moment "[does] not bring the blood to her cheeks, but [sends] it away from her lips... with no other sign of emotion than this paleness of the lips turned to her game" (DD, 10). true statue, and tries to show the minor emotion possible, deciding to «continue playing as if he were indifferent to loss or gain» (DD, 11). Not only does Gwendolen freeze under this gaze, she loses because she is totally aware of it and determined to win it over, mistaking her self-objectification for defiance. Eliot's careful differentiation between the authentic self and the represented self becomes a critique because it expands to include other female characters. This characteristic of deliberate self-objectification is not at all specific to Gwendolen Harleth. It appears quite prominently in the scenes with Mrs. Glasher, who comestragically frozen in time and space by a deliberately malicious Grandcourt. She personifies Gail Marshall's idea that "sculpture can defy and constrain time. It presents an image that can persist as long as its concrete form lasts, despite the transience of the sculptor and perpetually condemned to repeat that same moment." Lydia Glasher is locked into Grandcourt's false promise of an eventual marriage and therefore an inheritance for their son. The scene in her house certainly contains a sense of doom: she is practically imprisoned in a moment of hope and patience, and Eliot shows her carefully trapped in this emotion. When Grandcourt arrives, she is "seated in the pleasant room where she usually spent her mornings with her children about her. It had a square projecting window and looked out over a wide gravel and grass, sloping down to a little stream which entered the pool" (DD, 343 ). Lydia's symmetrical placement in a circle (specified by "round") of children, then framed by a square containing a small, picturesque background, is certainly just like a painting or plastic pose awaiting her entrance. Almost like actors on stage, the proscenium effect suggested by the "protruding" aspect of the window, these characters, expertly positioned, will remain here, moving just a little to suggest reality: "The children were all there. The three girls, sitting around them by the window, were miniature portraits of her: dark-eyed, delicate-featured brunettes, with a rich blossom on the cheeks, small nostrils and eyebrows singularly trimmed as if they were tiny women, the eldest had just nine-year-old sitting on the carpet at a distance, bowing his blond head over the animals of Noah's ark... Josephine, the eldest, was following the French lesson and the others, with their dolls on their laps, sat quite modestly for images of the Madonna" (DD, 343-344). Here the children are small statues of the mother or posed images that are recognizable from classical paintings. This is a recognizable tableau scene of quiet domesticity, symmetrical and visually cohesive . The effect of the tableau created by Mrs. Glasher becomes dramatic, or alive, only when Grandcourt enters. The scene depends entirely on his gaze, a symbol of the power he has in choosing whether to come or not, to contain the tragic potential he intends. As readers, we know that he is standing in the doorway and the dramatic effect of a scene about to happen is skillfully achieved. The statue's sense of condemnation, of imprisonment in time, is not only suggested by the opposition to Grandcourt's freedom of decision. It is also quite evident in Lydia's merciful, determined preparation for this very moment: "Mrs. Glasher's dressing-table had been very carefully prepared - every day now she told herself that Grandcourt might come in. Her head, which, despite the emancipation, she had an indelible beauty in her beautiful profile, in the curves of her frizzy hair and in her clearly marked eyebrows, she stood out impressively around her bronze-colored silk and velvet, and the gold necklace that Grandcourt had first put on her around my neck years before" (DD, 344) . Here we have a woman who every morning puts on her costume, stage makeup or mask for this particular scene. She spent more time frozen, waiting, than she would have spent alive, acting. Once again, Eliot introduces us to the statue metaphor by placing linguistic clues throughout the passage. The words “ineffable,” “crisp,” and “clearly marked” all suggest the presence of careful, hardened artistry. Even his clothes, defined as bronze, recall a material traditionally used in sculpture. It's more of a symbol of its ownfossilization that a real human being, crafted with care down to the smallest details of his necklace. There is a dark cynicism in Eliot's inclusion of "despite emancipation," which suggests that Lydia is fighting something inevitable and greater than herself. The reader must take note that circumstances have changed, but she has not. This only solidifies the feeling that a horrible, stagnant quality defines his life. She is beautiful in defiance, but tragically struggles into another cycle of helplessness. As powerful as his created presence may be, it is totally dependent on Grandcourt. His gaze, and only his gaze, will decide whether his being will occupy a statue or a human life. Without ever explicitly saying it, Eliot shows us the horrible Medusa effect that Grandcourt has on both women in his life. Gwendolen, too, will be frozen in an instant, condemned to repeat her expression forever (or at least until she is freed from marriage, a period that is largely outside the scope of the novel). This moment is her wedding night, when Lydia exerts her haunting power over Gwendolen and petrifies the new Mrs. Grandcourt into self-hatred through guilt. Eliot draws strong parallels between their two situations. The presence of significant necklaces is certainly not hidden: Lydia wears the gold one, while discussing the diamond one, which is precisely the object she will use as a symbolic yoke on Gwendolen's emotional freedom. The diamond necklace will be a crucial detail in the statuesque figure of Mrs. Grandcourt that Gwendolen will become, the story of Lydia Glasher thus inserted into this role. The language of the scene proposes the concept of a statue, connecting the two women through this pose. This doubling shows us a shared fate among the novel's English women, silently waiting to be destroyed by the inevitable disappointments of their lives. Gwendolen makes small movements between tragic poses, moving from one representation of desperation to another." At first it seemed that Gwendolen's eyes were enchanted as she read over and over again the horrible words of the letter as a sentence of penance; but suddenly a new spasm of terror made her bend forward and hold out the paper towards the fire, lest accusation and proof should meet all eyes at once. It flew like a feather from her trembling fingers, and was caught in the great current of fire at its movement the casket fell to the floor and the diamonds rolled out. She didn't notice, but she fell back into the chair, helpless. Then she couldn't see the reflection of herself: they were like so many petrified but approaching women. She herself could have seen. the tremor in her lips and hands. She remained like this for a long time, knowing little more that she felt bad and that those written words continued to repeat themselves in her." (DD, 359) At last Gwendolen can submit to the moment. She releases all the power as paper, diamonds and even repeated words move more than she does. He just leans and trembles, trying to find his balance in the pose that will occupy the rest of his married life. This is truly an expository moment in the novel. Gwendolen teeters on the edge of her own ideal in a flawless and poignant aesthetic composition that reflects great drama with little movement. It is a fluid part of a perfectly placed painting; The letter burns in the fire, she succumbs to the unpretentious moment, and the diamonds representing her ideal life symbolically roll away from her. Eliot makes this allusion very clear, with “so many white petrified women,” reminding us that Gwendolen inhabits a collective identity in her suspended tragedy, thus aligning herself with the Lydia Glashers of the world. This is also a place devoid of any gaze,even of introspection, as we are reminded that she "didn't notice" and "couldn't see the reflection of herself." This momentary result will be interrupted and then essentially controlled by Grandcourt once again. Gwendolen fails to maintain aesthetic perfection in the demand of the male gaze. She is no longer reified in statuary tragedy, as he enters to find her "pale, screaming as she seemed with terror, her jewels scattered on the floor around her" (DD, 359). Gwendolen is finally stripped of her supposed power, unable to create a solid position for this situation. Eliot has now led the reader to the height of Gwendolen's success, to the near attainment of her ideal, and left him to collapse on the floor. The novel is exhaustive in considering the nature of performance in all its female characters. Gwendolen's inability to perform adequately is not only highlighted through comparison to Jewish women, but is subject to criticism of their relative success. Eliot places Mirah and Alcharisi in similar situations, where their performance style is far removed from the static postures assumed by Lydia and Gwendolen. When Deronda first sees Mirah attempt suicide by the river, she is absolutely paralyzed, yet another woman subjected to his demanding gaze. As he rows and sings, "Deronda... turns his head towards the riverbank and [sees] a few meters away from him a figure that might have been an impersonation of the misery he was unconsciously giving voice to: a little girl more than eighteen, of short, slender figure, with a very delicate little face, dark curls tucked behind her ears under a large black hat, a long woolen cloak over her shoulders. Her hands hung clasped in front of her, and her eyes were fixed on the river with a look of motionless, statuesque desperation” (DD, 187). uses the statue metaphor directly and once again presents a woman through the eyes of her male protagonist as opposed to her own, the female author the Glashers waiting on stage, or Gwendolen with the diamonds, for the Grandcourt entrance, c 'is the sense that Mirah is frozen here, waiting to be activated by the arrival of the male gaze. However, he is not posing to get anything,. but rather effectively inhabit one's emotional state. In examining the changing relationship between authenticity and performance, Eliot considers more than the effectiveness of performance. In the same way that Gwendolen's statuesque submission is clarified by the presence of an extreme version (in Lydia Glasher). , Alcharisi serves to illuminate the nature of Mirah's abilities. Eliot offers a brief glimpse of a character that goes far beyond Mirah in performance. The Alcharisi shows us a state in which the connection between emotions and acting has become seamless. The nature of her scene obviously helps to draw the parallel, in its basic setting: it will also be described for the first time through Deronda's gaze, in an apprehensive posture awaiting his arrival to begin his role. Deronda enters and "[finds himself] in the presence of a figure who at the other end of the large room was awaiting his approach," (DD, 624) at yet another moment in which we wait ready for his first reaction, which objectify immediately. Deronda sees that “She was covered, except for her face and part of her arms, with black lace hanging loosely from the top of her bleached hair to the long train that extended from her tall figure” (DD, 624). The language here has subtle implications, not as explicit as the tableau effectdescribed in scenes involving English women: Eliot calls her “figure” twice, as opposed to a more vivid term such as “woman,” “person,” or “person.” "being". She is not dressed, but "covered", like furniture in a dusty room. Even her pose adapts perfectly to the scene that she is preparing to represent, the grand finale, the family reunion: "Her arms, bare from the elbow, except for some rich bracelets, were crossed in front of her, and the fine poise of her his head made him seem more beautiful than he really was" (DD, 624). She is both proud and tragic, beautiful and old, real but destroyed broader, with more nuance than achieved by the simplistic pose of Gwendolen and Lydia. The scene between Deronda and his mother continues to be artificial and slow, somewhere between statuesque and dramatic. The authentic quality of his emotions is enhanced by a level of truth and submission lack of challenge and the effectiveness it achieves, brings to mind Mirah's honest attitude, demonstrating their similarity in the author's mind Eliot continues to connect Mirah and Alcharisi, the two Jewish women, infusing them an honesty of performance. which remains absent elsewhere. The fluidity of Alchirisi's manner does not exist in Gwendolen's pose, or in Mrs. Glasher's obvious intention for effect. Although he barely moves in the scene, the theatrical nature of his behavior is constantly referenced (in contrast to the frozen effect of the tableau). Eliot describes his explanation, after Alcharisi calmly told Deronda the story of her life and admitted the pain she caused him and herself, without flinching: "The various transitions of tone with which he was delivered this speech were as perfect as the most accomplished actress could have made them. The speech was in fact a piece of what can be defined as sincere acting: the nature of this woman was one in which every feeling - and even more so when it was tragic. as well as real - immediately became a matter of conscious representation: the experience was immediately transformed into drama, and he acted according to his emotions" (DD, 629). The immediacy of the representation here has a liveliness that distinguishes it from Gwendolen's more convoluted efforts. Mirah, on the other hand, makes this same involuntary art in Deronda's eyes. Mirah can become the living statue without any effort or effort. Like Alcharisi, she always seems to be playing herself. When she is happy, her aesthetic presentation reflects it perfectly: "The delicate cleanliness of her hair and dress, the quiet happiness radiance in a face that a painter would not have had to change anything if he wanted to put it before the guest singing "peace on earth and benevolence to men"" (DD, 369). This frank admission of his inner state is somehow communicated but without pretension or art. Mirah and Alchirisi also do not perform to mask their feelings, but rather to express them cleverly. Gwendolen is most often seen acting to hide or repress her instincts. Although both roles require performance, these details clearly differentiate them as very different. There may be a strong connection between the acting motivations and the relative level of success. Since both Lydia and Gwendolen are fighting their feelings, and both betray a more obvious effort, their frozen appearance may be due to greater difficulty. The struggle to suppress seems to require more effort than simply expressing the truth. In Gwendolen, Eliot certainly describes a greater effort in performance than one perceives in either of thesepersonages. In the gambling scene he had to actively try (with difficulty), whether he wanted to win or lose, to do so in a "surprising" way (DD, 11). During Grandcourt's marriage proposal, we are acutely aware of how "she had to concentrate all her energies in that self-control which made her appear gravely gentle as she shook hands with him," setting the scene so meticulously that "anyone seeing them as a painting would it would have been concluded that they were in a phase of amorous suspense" (DD, 299). We are constantly reminded of Gwendolen's intentional pose and her awareness of the difficulties involved. According to Gail Marshall's assessment of the statuary, this intense concentration could distract Gwendolen enough to paralyze the outcome of her efforts. Marshall states that "The statuary may be approved on an initial register of visual appreciation, but an overemphasis on spectacle militates against the absorption of both the moment and the actress into the interrupted narrative of the play." Gwendolen is too busy playing the part to understand the context. Her poses freeze her and trap her in her own narrative. The existence of this awareness is absent in the characters who seamlessly exude their inner selves. Where Gwendolen, "with all that trouble plaguing her conscience...hardly abandons for a moment the feeling that it was her business to behave with dignity and appear what is called happy," (DD, 425) Mirah is never visibly conscious of this obligation. It places almost no emphasis on its role as a sculpture but, or for that matter, seems to occupy it naturally. Eliot shows us again and again that Mirah's poses are presumably involuntary, though entirely effective. He tells us this directly, when Mirah inspires in Deronda the feeling that it would be "impossible to see a creature more free at the same time from embarrassment and audacity." His theatrical training had left no recognizable trace; his manner probably hadn't changed much since he was acting. the little girl abandoned at nine years old; and had grown in its simplicity and sincerity like a small flower seed that absorbs the casual confusion of the surrounding environment into its own defined model of beauty" (DD, 225). Interestingly, to betray affectation one must be trained precisely in that art. When Mirah has suicidal tendencies, she appears artistically so, just as when she is happy she appears a perfect image of happiness. Acceptance of reality, or at least a conscience that is not too egocentric to perceive it, is an element that manifests itself in a way different in the four women. No matter what the reason, any form of denial tends to paralyze a performance. In the spectrum of authentic performance proposed by Eliot, the woman who submits is successful of Mirah and Alcharisi which is clearly not a personality trait found in Gwendolen or Lydia Unlike Gwendolyn, Mirah freezes in pitiful desperation rather than fierce defiance. Furthermore, in these moments, he willingly submits to reality or his situation, however cruel it may be. This flexible submission is exactly the opposite of the type of reaction seen in Gwendolen when faced with difficult situations. Both English women are presented as stubborn, often proud characters, struggling with something. Mirah's cooperative tenderness, among other crucial qualities, softens her enough to let the statuesque hardness seen in the other women dissolve into a more fluid performance. She is more an actress than a statue: still defined by the outward gaze, but alive in her fixed place, and embraces mannerisms and not