Author: nomournersnofunerals

Re-introduced as the White King’s Messengers, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland are transformed in Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. In a play on regional pronunciations, the Hare becomes “Haigha” and the Hatter, “Hatta.” However, the recurring characters are only identifiable through the embedded illustrations by John Tenniel. Carroll’s description within the narrative itself completely obscures the character’s familiar identities. Upon approach to Alice and the White King, “Haigha” is described as “skipping up and down, and wriggling like an eel…with his great hands spread out like fans” (Carroll 186). Although the first action suggests the hopping of a hare, the subsequent simile likening him to an “eel” and mention of his large “hands” confuses our understanding of what “Haigha” is. Is he a human or an animal? If the latter, what species?

Immediately following this idiosyncratic description, the White King declares “Haigha” is “an Anglo-Saxon Messenger” and explains his odd movement as a result of his “Anglo-Saxon attitudes” (Carroll 186). Here, Carroll seems to be using the historical definition of “attitude,” meaning “[a] posture of the body proper to, or implying, some action or mental state” (“Attitude” n. 2.a.). The description of “Haigha” as “Anglo-Saxon” also identifies him as human, complicating the initial description. Furthermore, this description displaces this character in time, since the Anglo-Saxons lived several centuries ago, perhaps suggesting that the Looking-Glass World exists somewhere outside of our linear chronology.

“Hatta” is introduced in a similarly vague manner, watching the fight “with a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other” (Carroll 189). While the tea and bread reference the first book’s “mad tea party,” this new version of “Hatta” is neither mad nor a hatter. While identifiably human, “Hatta” is not labeled as “Anglo-Saxon. However, his character is similarly displaced in time, at least within the narrative, as he first appears in the White Queen’s story on page 164 (Fig. 1). The White Queen uses “the King’s Messenger” as an example of “living backwards,” serving a prison sentence for a crime has not yet been tried for, or even committed (Carroll 164). This story is illustrated by an image on the opposite side of “Hatta” chained up in a jail cell, his elusive hat hanging on the wall above his head. “Hatta” is thus aligned with the concept of “living backwards,” jumbling chronological clarity.

 

While “Hatta” appears twenty pages prior to his official entry into the narrative, “Haigha” is not given visual form until noticeably after his introduction. The first drawing of “Haigha” comes on page 190 and pictures him retrieving a sandwich from his bag to hand to the King (Fig. 2). This illustration breaks into the text a full two pages after this action has occurred, scrambling the relationship between the textual and visual narratives that are being told. This divide is accentuated by the recognizability of the March Hare in Tenniel’s drawing as a hare (albeit with hands), opposing the vaguely human description in the text.

 

A second illustration on the opposite page (191) features “Haigha” and “Hatta” at last in the same frame, in which the “latta” (latter) sips from a teacup, a half-eaten piece of bread held in his other hand (Fig. 3). This drawing closely mirrors the character’s textual introduction, yet Tenniel has notably added a top hat, the identifiable accessory of the Mad Hatter. While Carroll’s writing obscures the clarity of these characters’ identities, Tenniel’s images work in contrast to help the reader find familiar faces in a bizarre, unfamiliar world.

Overall, the effect of this dissonance between text and image, interwoven together within this book, disrupts the reader’s perception of time within the narrative as well as its characters. Embodying the uncertain linearity of a dreamscape, the Looking-Glass World confuses our understanding of reality and reliability.

 

Dictionary Source:

“Attitude, N., 2.a.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, December 2024, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/1203692887.

In his article “The New Woman Fiction” from The Victorian Web, Dr. Andrzej Diniejko outlines the socially constructed image of the “New Woman” as it developed toward the end of the 19^th century. As Diniejko describes, the New Woman “departed from the stereotypical Victorian woman” in her desires for independence, education, and employment (Diniejko 2). This departure from traditional femininity was mocked in popular satirical depictions of the New Woman, which “usually pictured her riding a bicycle in bloomers and smoking a cigarette” (Diniejko 2). This image presents the New Woman as markedly masculine: she wears pants to allow her to straddle a bicycle and she smokes cigarettes, a typically male activity (for the time) involving a phallic object.

However, Diniejko qualifies this masculinization, considering Lyn Pykett’s observations of “the ambivalent representations of the New Woman in the late-Victorian discourse: ‘The New Woman was by turns: a mannish amazon and a Womanly woman…’” (qtd. in Diniejko 2). Pykett links these seemingly contradictory descriptions with “and,” illustrating the New Woman as a multi-faceted figure containing both masculinity and femininity. As a result, the New Woman evades gender distinctions as well as any kind of singular identity or face.

Considering these complexities of the New Woman, I will analyze how Mona Caird’s The Yellow Drawing Room engages with the cultural conversation. In the story, Vanora Haydon presents a fascinating take on the New Woman which both holds up and challenges the popular image. Before even meeting Vanora, Mr. St. Vincent learns of her garish decoration of the drawing room and determines that she must be “headstrong” and attention-seeking (Caird 103). He muses plainly, “I hate that sort of girl,” and contrasts her with his idea of the “true woman,” who is “retiring, unobtrusive, and indistinguishable” (Caird 103). Caird sets up Vanora against the image of “true” womanhood, playing into the popular masculinized caricature.

This division is seemingly continued when Mr. St. Vincent considers Vanora’s plain sister Clara as his “ideal woman,” who would never decorate in bright yellow (Caird 104). However, upon seeing Vanora for the first time, Mr. St. Vincent observes her “mass of glistening, golden hair,” her “eyes like the sea,” and her “robust” figure (Caird 104). This description recalls Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, the pinnacle of the female form. Indeed, Mr. St. Vincent goes on to describe Vanora as “supremely, overpoweringly womanly. The womanhood of her sisters paled before the exuberant feminine quality which I could not but acknowledge in Vanora” (Caird 105). Here, Caird overthrows Mr. St. Vincent’s idea of the “true” or “ideal” woman,” because Vanora’s femininity exceeds that of her sister Clara. His “scheme of the universe” (Caird 105) is entirely upended by Vanora’s extreme womanliness and beauty, for although Vanora’s behavior frustrates gendered expectations, her image overwhelmingly fulfills them.

With the character of Vanora, Caird challenges the popular masculinization of the New Woman by presenting an overly feminine figure whose personality contradicts her appearance. Caird engages with the ambiguity observed by Lyn Pykett but completely avoids the “mannish amazon” image. On the outside, Vanora is purely feminine, yet beneath the surface she bewilders traditional gender norms. With this choice, Caird presents her own version of the New Woman which blends with the “true” woman,” casting doubt on the Victorians’ ability to clearly distinguish a traditional woman from a rebel.

In the first scene after the jarring switch in narrative that occurs at the revelation that Laura Glyde/Fairlie is alive, we find Walter, Laura, and Marian hiding out in a two-floor apartment “in a populous and poor neighborhood” in London (Collins 412). Several dramatic shifts have occurred at this point, following the empty one-week period Hartright insists “must remained unrecorded” (Collins 412). The first of these shifts is a matter of class—Walter, Marian, and Laura, who were once well-respected, wealthy British citizens, have been reduced to living in anonymity and poverty.

The second shift which has rattled the story is the change in the dynamic between Walter, Laura, and Marian—particularly the first two. This unsettling subversion is encapsulated in the following quote from Hartright’s story, which is the subject of my focus for this blog post: “In the right of her calamity, in the right of her friendlessness, she was mine at last! Mine to support, to protect, to cherish, to restore. Mine to love and honour as father and brother both. Mine to vindicate through all risks and all sacrifices…” (Collins 414).

My first point of interest with this quote is the conspicuous repetition of the word “mine” four times, emphasized by its placement at the front of each sentence. Each use doubles down on Walter’s possession of Laura after their long time apart. The initial use of “mine” is not capitalized, yet its significance comes from the words surrounding it: “she was mine at last!” This exclamation alludes to Walter and Laura’s previous connection and unresolved longing. The specific term “at last” implies yearning for something, and what has Walter been yearning for? A romantic connection with Laura!

Repetition takes center stage in this passage, appearing as well in Walter’s list of actions which he will perform for Laura. This includes “to protect,” “to cherish,” and “to love,” all words reminiscent of marriage vows. Walter repeatedly pledges himself to Laura in all the ways a husband would…and yet he surprisingly circumvents this expectation soon after.

The crucial paradox of this paragraph centers around the line, “mine to love and honour as father and brother both.” Here Walter takes two positions in relationship to Laura, both of which are familial—a dramatic departure from his previous feelings for her. The word “both” emphasizes the multiplicity of their relationship, and yet “lover” is noticeably left out of the list. The first half of The Woman in White has revolved around Walter and Laura’s budding romance, which had to be suppressed because of her engagement to Sir Percival Glyde. Yet now that Laura has seemingly escaped her marriage—the main obstacle in their way—the romance has been sidestepped.

With this startling shift from forbidden lovers to siblings (or perhaps father/daughter), Collins avoids a potential major sex scandal. If they weren’t posing as a brother/father and two sisters, embodying the roles as if they were real blood relatives, they would be a bachelor living with his mistress and her sister(lover) alone in secret! What a scandal! This move of circumventing a potential illicit sexual relationship marks a very Victorian impulse within the text—to avoid discussion/description of sex at all costs. Collins replaces Walter and Laura’s sexual tension with a familial bond—presumably due to Laura’s ill health, which has reduced her to a childlike invalid. One can’t really blame Walter for avoiding sexual relations with such a woman, but the shift is still dramatic considering his many months of yearning (even on a ship headed to and from the West Indies!). In fact, yearning dominates this quoted passage from Hartright’s log, yet any possibility of a “completion” of this yearning is entirely warded off, as is the Victorian way.

After mildly scrubbing Mrs. Fairlie’s tombstone, Anne Catherick transforms from a peaceful, innocent girl to a ferocious creature at Walter Hartright’s insinuation that she may belong in an insane asylum after all. The change is witnessed on her face, which before was characterized by “nervous sensitiveness, weakness and uncertainty” (Collins 104). These descriptions paint Anne as harmless and helpless, as a Victorian woman is expected to be. However, this softness morphs into “an expression of maniacally intense hatred and fear” (104). Both feelings alter the woman’s passive emotional state in an unfeminine way, making her dangerous. The word “wild” is used twice, as well as “unnatural,” emphasizing Anne’s departure from traditional feminine nature (104). She is specifically described as a “wild animal,” separating her from humanity entirely (104). This description is especially notable since animals are typically associated with the masculine, perhaps suggesting a subversion of gender roles. Lastly, Anne uses her “convulsive strength” to “crush” the cloth she had been using to clean the tombstone, “as if it had been a living creature she could kill” (104). The ferocious violence of this action is emphasized by each descriptor, once again comparing Anne Catherick to an animalistic predator. I think this passage shows a dark side of Anne Catherick lurking beneath her meek demeanor, which is agitated by Hartright’s insult to her mental stability. With this scene, Collins subtly aligns unfemininity with insanity, or mental illness at the least. Here is also an image of a woman overcome by sensations—dark sensations of fear and anger—who is thus transformed into something unnatural, masculine, and frighteningly powerful.