Author: Charlotte Hayden

The Picture of Dorian Gray and A.C. Swinburne’s “Before the Mirror” both obsess over objects, exposing fin de siècle anxieties and coping mechanisms. Both works stuff an incredible amount of physical, beautiful things into a small space. Dorian’s house is filled with books and trinkets and paintings, all either a distraction from unhappiness and anxiety over a fleeting utopian moment in society, or an outlet for those anxieties, a way to project something onto the art that we ourselves cannot process. As Dorian’s painting grows more grotesque, perhaps this signals that he stores his anxieties in the painting; it acts as Pandora’s box.

Swinburne’s “Before the Mirror” similarly provides a structured form onto which we can project fin de siècle anxieties. Or, perhaps it acts as a way to preserve a way of thinking that a new century may destroy. The poem is aurally pleasing, describes visually beautiful images, etc.; maybe readers fear that those images will be sullied as the new century dawns?

Swinburne’s poem employs a rhyme scheme that repeats ABABCCB, or a variation on that form, throughout each stanza, but the scheme becomes more unexpected with each stanza. By the end of the poem, the last stanza is MNMNO, and O has nothing to rhyme with, nothing to appease the uneasiness the reader feels at ending the line abruptly. In this way, Swinburne structures his poem to provide peace and comfort to his readers, yet he makes them uneasy just in undoing that structure without explicitly telling them. The rhyme scheme becomes a hidden source of anxiety.

“Before the Mirror” is about surreptitious emotions, ones that people can hide, making them that much more anxiety producing. The first stanza shows, for want of a less cliché phrase, that things are not what they seem. “White rose in red rose-garden/Is not so white” (lines 1-2). The most innocent image known to society – a white (meaning virginal) rose (meaning love) flower (meaning woman) – “is not so white,” is not as virginal as it appears. It cannot be trusted. Swinburne undoes idyllic images, shattering the safe cage society has locked itself into, showing that we cannot escape inevitable changes. That, I think, is the ultimate fin de siècle anxiety.

The Picture of Dorian Gray can help us understand this phenomenon. Dorian’s chief anxiety is that someone will see his portrait and discover his sinful nature. But maybe the larger cultural anxiety there is that beautiful things can change, that we cannot place faith in their permanence because even objects can prove fallible. Perhaps we cannot rely on anything, and we cannot even trust ourselves to obey the law or remain model citizens. If Dorian starts out as an example of the best in Victorian England’s society (white, male, rich, young, beautiful), and even he becomes severely flawed, how can the rest of society hope to save themselves?

The Picture of Dorian Gray can be interpreted in many ways, but when compared with Swinburne’s “Before the Mirror,” both works seems to feed on the same societal worry that even the structure we rely on can fail us. Swinburne’s poetry is very structured, but even that sometimes changes. Dorian believes objects will prove perfect while humans prove fallible, but his portrait turns against him. Both works expose the fin de siècle anxiety that perhaps the very structure of society, which we rely on for stability as we negotiate other issues, undermines our attempts to salvage the remains of a fleeting moment.

Dracula and The Portrait of Dorian Gray have a lot in common. They share a fear of the outsider. Our discussion of vampires and werewolves made me think about how the fear of the outsider operates in Wilde’s novel. Given Wilde’s later trial and his sexuality, I think a lot of The Portrait of Dorian Gray exposes the fear of the outsider, or uses it to generate interest in the plot. As with Dracula and the feeling that “vampires walk among us,” perhaps in Wilde’s novel the fear is that “gay men walk among us,” or that murderers/people who look harmless but are dangerous go unnoticed in our society.

If fin de siècle fears revolved around the worry that regardless of modernization, things still fell through the cracks, then perhaps Dorian Gray re-expresses that. Everyone praises Dorian for his beauty and assumes his character is pristine and “innocent” because of his “youth” and “beauty.” But as the novel progresses, Dorian becomes more of a criminal. At the end of the novel, he has killed someone and covered up the murder. According to law, he should be in jail. But Henry continues to praise Dorian’s unblemished character, making Dorian feel unbearably guilty. “I am so glad that have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself. Life has been your art” (Wilde 207).

Vampires, homosexual men, and murderers are all illegal members of Victorian society. In Dracula and The Portrait of Dorian Gray, it is difficult to catch the outsider and tease out who deviates from society, because everyone fits in, whether by looking human but being a vampire, or by being extremely beautiful. These both represent the fear of overlooking clandestine threats to a stable society.

Another way The Portrait of Dorian Gray is another iteration of “missing” something is that fact that Oscar Wilde was accused of illegal homosexual behavior, and people used this novel as evidence in court. I believe a lot of Wilde’s feelings hide behind Dorian’s guilt. There are moments when Wilde writes something that is more of a pondering, unrelated to the story, and it feels confessional. Throughout the novel, Dorian struggles with trying to confess or unburden himself, but his friends silence him because they already believe he is so good. Perhaps Wilde’s guilt for living contrary to England’s law made its way into the character of Dorian Gray. Henry says, “The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame” (208). Is this a moment when Wilde speaks directly to his reader, hoping they will understand that this book is a form of confession, exposing “shame[ful]” aspects of society and Wilde himself? Later, Dorian ponders his life. “He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?” (209). I view this passage as a desperate outcry from Wilde, trying to atone for his “sins” under the guise of Dorian’s character.

To me, Dorian represents Wilde’s guilt, and Wilde used Dorian’s character to try tell the world his sins, as well as to think through them himself. The book represents a fear that we cannot see what is right under our nose: people overlook Dorian’s sins and he walks free; Wilde wrote a book in which he seemingly hints at his feelings for men. The Picture of Dorian Gray is another iteration of fearing what we can’t “catch.”

Dracula and the Harry Potter series share eerie similarities: Dracula features an antagonist who was within society and became evil, just as Voldemort was on track to become a wizard, and decided to instead declare war on his society. Dracula and Mina are psychically connected and Dracula can control Mina, just as Harry and Voldemort can read each other’s thoughts and Voldemort can control Harry (Stoker 344). Mina has a wafer burn on her forehead, a mark of Dracula’s influence on her; Harry has a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort attempted to kill him. Voldemort and Harry have wands whose core came from the same exact phoenix, showing they are inherently connected; Dracula’s blood runs through Mina’s veins.

Both novels also expose a fear of pollution or contamination within society. Harry worries that he will turn bad like Voldemort since his life resembles Voldemort’s and he contains some of Voldemort’s soul. Likewise, Van Helsing notes changes in Mina after Dracula bites her, including “her eyes are more hard” (Stoke 344). Both books contain an anxiety that the evil will overtake the good, and that we can see warning signs of this, whether the person is becoming a vampire or an evil wizard. All these concerns show that perhaps there is a pattern to societal anxieties that has not changed much since the 1890’s. Dracula and Harry Potter are so popular because they are relevant to culture; their messages really do represent some of our cultural anxieties. Perhaps they have so much in common because there is a pattern to cultural anxieties, one that changes little regardless of era or world (real or wizarding).

Considering the similarities the novels share, especially in how the villain affects the “hero,” we can glean insight into cultural anxieties. The villain and the hero are irrevocably connected by something we cannot even see, and therefore have no control over. Harry and Voldemort’s wands share a core connection, and Dracula’s blood circulates through Mina’s body, indistinguishable from her “pure” blood (another Harry Potter reference). Perhaps society’s inability to separate the good from the bad represents an anxiety over reverse invasion and its undetectable qualities. We cannot pry apart Mina’s blood from Dracula’s, so we never know if Mina is purely herself, or if she operates under Dracula’s influence. Similarly, Harry has some of Voldemort’s qualities (the ability to speak parseltongue, legilimency, etc.), and we learn that Voldemort actually implanted some of his powers into Harry when he tried to kill Harry. Thus, the two are intrinsically connected, and “one cannot live while the other survives.” This obsession with penetration and planting a seed in someone is prevalent in both novels because it is so irreversible and intimate, making it a major cultural anxiety.

This uncontrollable, permanent connection terrifies 1890’s England and the 1990’s wizarding world. It represents reverse invasion because it presents a case in which it is impossible to determine who is “supposed” to be in the society and who is a “foreigner.” Because we cannot determine who is stained with the enemy’s influence, we risk invasion by allowing “good” people to operate within society even though they have been contaminated. Authorities do not banish Mina or Harry from society, but in doing that they risk giving the enemy access to society through presumed “good” people.

            Dracula and Harry Potter share many similarities, all of which show that villains present a threat to society’s health. Van Helsing even describes Dracula as, “only [a] body groping his so small measure in darkness and not knowing,” (Stoker 340), which is exactly how Voldemort’s body was after he tried to kill baby Harry. These similarities show that 1890’s England and the wizarding world (and perhaps any society) were scared of the outsider coming in and upsetting the balance. Both stories end, too, with a restoration of order. Dracula dies and Harker notes that, seven years later, England has reproduced (Mina and Harker have a child), and society regains its health. Harry Potter has to fight Voldemort to eliminate the threat Voldemort poses, and the last chapter of the Harry Potter series emphasizes that “all [is] well.” Harry, Ron, and Hermione have reproduced and Hogwarts has returned to its usual self. It seems the threat to cultural balance persists through eras and across worlds, and given Dracula and Harry Potter’s lasting popularity, the anxieties they represent persist, too.

The Sherlock Holmes stories delicately balance order and chaos. The premise of detective stories is to restore order where it has been disturbed, and the Sherlock Holmes stories act as a way for readers to feel secure in an age of sweeping change and uncertainty. The Longman Anthology chapter on “The Victorian Age” sheds light on how the Sherlock Holmes stories embody core concerns of the 1890’s.

The Sherlock Holmes stories, particularly A Scandal in Bohemia, are fascinated with crimes we cannot detect; they happen right under our noses. And if they happen right under England’s nose (the most powerful, secure nation in the Victorian Age), what kind of monumental threat do they pose? Who can actually stop them? The Longman Anthology discusses the “age of doubt” (1055) rippling through British culture in the 1890’s. People stopped responding to authority figures, like religion (1056). This scared citizens because it meant they could not impose authority as directly as before (1056). Colonized societies began to rebel, and marital and women’s rights laws passed (1059); generally, every form of social order and regularity began to fall apart in the 1890’s, and Britain stood to lose the most from this shift.

“Each of the issues that threatened to bring the country into open conflict or destroy the social fabric was in the course of the century addressed peacefully through legislation…” (1059). While the end of this statement appeases readers, it also exposes the discomfort prevalent at the time of the Sherlock Holmes stories, and shows that A Scandal in Bohemia, for instance, reflects that unsettled feeling. Many of the Sherlock Holmes stories do not even end gratifyingly; they simply stop, and the “payoff” does not match the story’s suspense. In A Scandal in Bohemia, Irene Adler escapes Sherlock’s grasp, and she even keeps a picture that could destroy a king’s reputation. As the story says, “I keep [the picture] only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which [the king] might take in the future” (19). Arguably, nothing is resolved in the story, except the great Sherlock Holmes does know how Irene committed the crime. Maybe as long as he knows how she did it, we are supposed to forgive Sherlock for letting Irene escape, and we can trust England’s security once more? This lack of a neat, clean ending reflects Fin de Siècle sentiments. Not only is the story unresolved, but Irene Adler could return at any time and use the picture to cause a “scandal.” She continues to threaten the balance Sherlock establishes at the end of the story. Really, though, society does not actually regain balance in the story; instead, Sherlock, Watson, and the rest of England simply proceed as though Irene Adler presents no threat. In this story, ignoring the problem seems to “solve” it.

Ignoring the problem, or pretending there isn’t one, seems to be a common practice in the Victorian Age, according to The Longman Anthology. “[Victorian] novels work within an established social frame, focusing on the characters’ freedom to act within fairly narrow moral codes in an unpredictable universe; they deal with questions of social responsibility and personal choice, the impulses of passion and the dictates of conscience” (1071). So Victorian literature both reaffirms faith in society, because it operates “within an established social frame” (1071), and the works investigate how social order could imperceptibly, and then permanently, crumble. A Scandal in Bohemia and other Sherlock Holmes stories embody this because the crimes themselves are not serious (theft, digging for gold, and royal “scandals” are not so fantastical), but Sherlock and other characters respond to the crimes with an urgency that suggests a far greater threat. Sherlock acts as though solving the crime will provide an eternal restoration of order, which of course it won’t, especially if you solve the crime but have no control over the threat (in this case, Irene).

The stories’ crimes themselves are not dramatic; Sherlock’s reaction provides the fearful quality of the stories. This mirrors Victorian sentiments. Colonization, class equality, and other changes do not threaten society’s health or lifespan, but British society’s reaction to those changes produces anxiety and fear. Thus, the Sherlock Holmes stories deeply resemble how Victorians reacted to the change confronting their established society, and how that reaction posed more of a threat than any change could.

The passage that begins “It may seem a strange contradiction in me…” (72-73) shows Prendick’s realization of the line between animal and humanity, or the more-than-animal. Prendick finds one of Moreau’s vivisected creations just before it is about to be hunted down and killed. Prendick sympathizes with the animal on a level that, ironically, transcends human emotion; Prendick identifies with the animal on a human nature level, rather than the civilized level he has cherished throughout the novel. Although Prendick seems to communicate with the animal on a sub-human, or animal level, Prendick says the moment made him “realiz[e] again the fact of [the animal’s] humanity” (72). This dichotomy warrants examination.

Prendick’s experience is crucial to understanding this novel’s interpretation of the distinction between animal and human, barbarism and civilization, average and superior. Prendick seeks to find that line, and to stay on the human side of it, yet only in a few instances does he blatantly show the island changing his beliefs. This passage represents a moment when Prendick’s beliefs shift. He “realizes” that the animal within us all is as valuable as human characteristics, even though Moreau tries to make animals human-like, implying that humans are ideal. The island forces Prendick to discover the animal within himself because the animal can never be taken out of Moreau’s creatures; by this logic, the animal cannot be taken out of the human, either. This passage exposes the novel’s great dichotomy: all creatures are as valuable as humans, but humans continue to harbor an animalistic nature.

Prendick ultimately decides to kill the animal in this passage. After realizing that these animals have humanity, Prendick chooses to kill this beast, rather than let it “be overpowered and captured, to experience once more the horrible tortures of the enclosure” (72-73). Prendick wants to spare it such compassionless pain; perhaps that is the most human, or civilized, choice he could make. He shoots the animal (and it attacks him, but that instance represents an entirely different message, one I will not attempt to uncover here). What matters in this passage is the empathy Prendick develops for a beast, when he has previously adamantly resisted any connection with the animals, probably fearing that he would become like them if he developed compassion for them. As The Longman Anthology reading states, humans are, according to Tennyson, supposed to “transcend animality by encouraging [our] divine soul to ‘Move upward, working out the beast,/ And let the ape and tiger die’” (1057).

I think Prendick’s empathy for the beast disconcerts and enlightens him. It is disconcerting because it further blurs the line between animal and human, and it threatens the stability humans gain from distinguishing themselves from other animals. But Prendick’s realization is also enlightening because it shows that humans are permanently connected to animals and nature. We may be civilized and socialized, but we are animals, and we cannot weed out our raw, survival-oriented traits. We will always be animals, however hard we try to reject our inclinations. Maybe this ultimately comforts us, because we know we are connected to nature.

Prendick illustrates the animal versus human, animal within the human, human within the animal, dichotomy by saying, “[S]eeing the creature there in a perfectly animal attitude, with the light gleaming in its eyes, and its imperfectly human face distorted with terror, I realized again the fact of its humanity” (72). Prendick only sees the human in the animal when he discovers the animal within himself. And perhaps that discovery, which threatens the basis of society, prompts him to kill the animal – to obliterate the threat.