Notes on Threshold

Introductory Thoughts

Chaos theory examines how small variations in initial conditions can bring about vastly different outcomes in complex systems. A branch of mathematics and physics, chaos theory challenges the initial notion that complex systems are, by nature, predictable, instead revealing the inevitability of variability, even when original conditions are known. The butterfly effect, brought into mainstream culture by meteorologist Edward Lorenz, is a salient illustration of chaos theory, suggesting that minor disturbances, as subtle as a butterfly flapping its wings, can influence large systems. The metaphor of the “butterfly effect” poignantly encapsulates the sensitive dependence on initial conditions, a fundamental principle of chaos theory, highlighting the intricate and interconnected nature of dynamic systems. 

Whether or not we choose to acknowledge it, the butterfly effect can be applied to each decision we make in our lives, illustrating a threshold of some kind. After we cross this threshold, there is no way to change what has been done—what is behind us—but this thought can be empowering, as we soon learn that every choice we make, no matter how small, contributes to the big picture in an incredibly significant and complex way. In Victorian literature, chaos theory gains additional weight as each subtle change builds systematically toward the novel’s conclusion, highlighting the impact of butterfly-like details, as each microscopic step builds toward a cohesive whole. Throughout their novels, George Eliot and Charlotte Brontë take on this phenomenon, emphasizing the existence of change so as to empower their heroines to navigate the events in their lives, albeit on their own terms. Just as our experiences with making decisions and reaching conclusions represent the butterfly effect, the respective literary finales of Middlemarch and Jane Eyre recharacterize the feminine protagonist, shifting prior paradigms to accommodate a new frontier of heroism.

Lofty Ambitions, Cunning Intuitions 

Both Jane and Dorothea share lofty ambitions, albeit not without acknowledging the looming class distinctions and external limitations, respectively, that they must overcome. Because she understands the structural makeup of her environs, Dorothea’s internal projections of living for a greater purpose serve to shield her from the reality of her situation. Indeed, Middlemarch is a microcosm of any insular society, characterized by a need to assimilate outsiders to its pace of life, as evidenced by an attempt to “swallow” Lydgate.¹ As Eliot characterizes Dorothea at the beginning of the novel, the young Miss Brooke is a fiery, intelligent adolescent unswayed by the trivialities surrounding her. Consequently, Dorothea must arrive at the realization that, just as the butterfly effect proposes, change exists from the microcosm to the macro, and by enacting small changes in her own life, Dorothea really is working toward the bigger purpose she hopes to achieve, even if it is not readily apparent to her limited perspective. 

Similarly, Jane Eyre navigates difficult interpersonal circumstances as a child, but this fact only motivates her to seek the ideal situation for a woman of her class. Once at Thornfield, however, Jane seems to revel in self-effacement, almost gaslighting herself; Jane discourages herself from acting on her affections toward Rochester, going so far as to talk herself out of the potential attraction he shows her, especially in the presence of the handsome and comely Blanche, who exists as a foil to Jane as a traditionally feminine Victorian character.² Later on, and due to her self-denial, Jane is inclined to asceticism, asserting, “I care for myself, the more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.”³ Jane’s futile attempts to distract herself by learning German and fashioning herself in the company of her erudite new friends only leads her to recall with bitter yearning the life she could have, and feels fated to possess, in eternal union with Rochester. When called to Ferndean to be with Rochester, Jane hearkens to her sense that

 . . . joy soon effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours’ duration, [she] experienced no fear and little awe . . . and that was comfort, that was strength for anything.⁴

Despite the relational expectations for young Victorian women that dampen aspirations and present unique challenges, Eliot and Brontë include moments at which their protagonists’ fierce femininity overpowers their judgments, as evidenced through Jane’s propensity to cry out and take flight and Dorothea’s quality as a “woman not to be spoken of as other women are.”⁵ In their young lives, Jane and Dorothea demonstrated the “unrefined” qualities of a heroine—unafraid to confront social expectation and constantly determined to strive for a better world, beginning with the betterment of themselves. Indeed, in thinking back to chaos theory, even the most predictable systems, such as Victorian society, are not immune to the risk of upheaval. Dorothea and Jane’s penchants for rebellion, however implicit, distinguish them as intrepid feminine protagonists, stalwartly breaking patterns so as to weave new textures into their traditional societies.

Betrothing and Self-Loathing 

Together, Jane Eyre and Middlemarch reconstruct the literary institution of marriage, laying the groundwork for a realized feminine autonomy both within and without nuptial engagement. In many ways, Dorothea’s marriage to Casaubon mirrors Jane’s asceticism, in which case both protagonists chose to surrender a kind of pleasure, justifying their decision by subscribing to the belief that their actions served a bigger purpose. While these choices were not necessarily incorrect, the authors navigate the expectation of a woman to, once married, reorganize her life such that she bows to the winds of her husband, and sculpt this archaic design into a reckoning on feminine power and autonomy in the wake of a marriage. As Dorothea imagines her future relationship with Casaubon, she 

 . . . should learn everything then,” she said to herself, still walking quickly along the bridle road through the wood. “It would be my duty to study that I might help him the better in his great works. There would be nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would mean the greatest things. It would be like marrying Pascal.⁶

Dorothea’s attempted justification of marrying Casaubon evokes empathy from the reader, as her decision is another outward manifestation of a desire to create a better world, beginning by abandoning trivialities in search of a deeper purpose. When talking to Will, Dorothea often “felt a pang at the thought that the [labor] of her husband’s life might be void, which left her no energy to spare . . . absorbed in the piteousness of that thought.”⁷ Ultimately, Dorothea’s intellectual relationship with Will—and his ability to widen her scope of knowledge and thought, whether in the context of Casaubon or otherwise—superceded the social advantages that Casaubon provided her, completing her arch of development. Dorothea had to learn that her first marriage would not be a worthwhile next step in avoiding indulgence in the way she thought, and by engaging her intellectual curiosities and pursuing a fulfilling love with Will, Dorothea’s character really flourished. 

For Jane, the threshold of marriage becomes especially relevant when considering Bertha Mason’s presence in lifting the veil of the utopian façade of Rochester’s original marriage proposal, when on the altar Jane’s “nerves vibrated to . . . low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder,” causing Jane finds herself in a spiral, flashing back to how each seemingly insignificant decision landed her in a mess orchestrated entirely by Rochester.⁸ As a result, Jane has no choice but to flee, to perform intense self-reflection aided by a comprehensive shedding of her perceived self, as she begs through towns on the way to Moor House, but each of these increments brings her to the day where she can choose to marry Rochester when it is objectively and unequivocally her choice to do so, when she knows that she could be “still [Rochester’s] right hand,” that the two could love each other “so truly . . . that to yield to [each other’s] attendance” was to “indulge [their] sweetest wishes.”⁹ Additionally, once Dorothea dismisses her inheritance and breaks free from the bitter shackles of betrothal to Casaubon, she recognizes that her own happiness can restore happiness in the world at large—that marrying Will is not an indulgence, but rather a service, both to herself and to humanity, as “no life would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion, and she had now a life filled with also a beneficent activity which she had not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for herself.¹⁰ Dorothea and Jane find themselves in ideal marital situations, a function of Eliot and Brontë’s revolutionarily feminine literary construction.

Sophisticated Subversives

Furthermore, Eliot and Brontë emphasize the feminine social expectation in the Victorian Era, but faultlessly provide their protagonists with the opportunity to subvert such expectations and construct their own conclusion. Jane’s physiognomy causes her to read as unattractive, and therefore, much of the time, she is overlooked, atypical of a female protagonist. Dorothea’s unconventional worldviews parallel Jane’s unsightly appearance. Dorothea’s disinterest in superficial aspects of life, and her unwavering conviction to avoid hedonistic or epicurean temptations. The stereotypically unattractive superficial aspects of the two protagonists, though, in fact serve a greater purpose: both characters showcase a subversive kind of womanhood that allows the feminine literary construction to evolve. Moreover, when met with their rightful suitors, the feminine power that the protagonists exude causes a chain reaction in those whom they touch, as Rochester espouses to Jane that “women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor hearts . . . but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break.”¹¹ Rochester recognizes that Jane is special beyond superficial aspects.

Jane and Dorothea mirror each other, dismantling traditional notions of womanhood to construct a never-before-seen, indefatigable feminine paradigm. To do justice to Eliot’s successful restructuring of the protagonistic femme, as well as to shed light on Dorothea’s development, I offer the final sentence of the Middlemarch tour de force, such that the 

. . . effect of Dorothea’s being on those around her was incalculable diffusive: 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.¹² 

These very “unhistoric acts” of which Eliot speaks are akin to the butterfly wings Lorenz called upon, citing the most seemingly insignificant event as playing a vital role in a more noticeable and consequent natural phenomenon. Insofar as Dorothea noticed that her own joy allowed the world around her to flourish, as her surroundings fed off of the energy she awarded herself, perhaps a “hidden life” is nothing to be afraid off, nor ashamed of, after all, and instead both books rewrite the expectation and redefines the sophistication of a legitimate heroine.

Final Remarks

Anecdotally, this is the last paper I will ever write as an undergraduate. I find myself identifying candidly with both Dorothea and Jane in this moment, more sure of anything now, because I have endured the hollowness of uncertainty. I, too, have surrendered the idea of simple pleasures in search of some greater purpose, ignoring the obvious truth before me: each small change I make in my life can serve my higher purpose, subliminally directing me to the ending I have desired all along. If Eliot and Brontë leave any message behind in their work, it is that no ending is ever perfect, but that each means, however small, contributes to the full picture at the end. Dorothea recognized her inability to save the world, and Jane’s marriage with lame and blind Rochester had no shortage of shortcomings. But both Jane and Dorothea arrived at a sustained kind of happiness, a eudaimonia, to borrow the term from Aristotle’s Greek, worth rejoicing in, not because of its perfection but because of each threshold, each flapping of a butterfly’s wings, that brought about a satisfying ending.

A true feminine conclusion is contingent not upon how many boxes are checked, nor how many lives of others are fulfilled. For no matter what she has done, and no matter how she has done it, by developing her own character, the female protagonist has triumphed over tradition, fashioned individuality over expectation, and demonstrated the nuance and beauty that comes, simply, as a result of living for herself.

1. George Eliot, Middlemarch (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition, 2015).
2. Charlotte Brontë, “Chapter 17,” Jane Eyre (Oxford University Press, 1969).
3. Brontë, “Chapter 27,” Jane Eyre.
4. Brontë, “Chapter 37,” Jane Eyre.
5. Eliot, Middlemarch, 8.
6. Eliot, 27.
7. Eliot, 199.
8. Brontë, Chapter 26.
9. Brontë, Chapter 37.
10. Eliot, 782.
11. Brontë, Chapter 14.
12. Eliot, 785.