Author: Vicious Cockatoo

The femme fatale is beautiful and powerful—and constantly oppressed. She is viewed as dangerous and because of this is tamed in a variety of ways. As Laura Mulvey argues in her article “The Femme Fatale as an Object”, one of the many ways in which the femme fatale is weakened is through representation in art. She explains that the painted woman has been reduced to “a type of formula of rotund pieces of flesh, hair and facial features. They weren’t portraying individual women, but an idealized composite of recognizable parts”(citation). This argument comes to life in a handful of Victorian works, a good example being Manet’s famous “Olympia”.

This piece is one of many works of art that depict the woman as an object to gaze at and admire. Like Mulvey argues, she is not an individual but an idealized woman. Her tiny feet, daintily covered genital area, stylized breasts, and outward gaze are all details that turn our subject into an object of male pleasure as opposed to a powerful sexual figure. Although the powerful sexual woman in art is elusive, she does in fact exist. Moreau’s “The Apparition” is a perfect example of the unrestrained femme fatale.

Unlike the vulnerable naked figure in the previous piece (and so many others), this woman is not vulnerable in the slightest. She is both naked and powerful—using her own sexuality to her advantage. This piece tells the story of Salome (the woman) who danced so beautifully and sensuously she was granted anything she desired, which happened to be the head of John the Baptist. Salome is sensuous, powerful, and quite obviously dangerous. She is the femme fatale unchecked.

Salome is the free femme fatale for two main reasons. First of all, she stands out. The entire painting focuses on her and her victim. In artworks that repress the femme fatale, the woman is objectified and stripped of her own identity. Salome’s possession of her own name is the possession of her own identity. She is not another woman to look at and gaze upon but a woman to revere. But you couldn’t gaze into her eyes even if you desired to. The objectified femme fatale cannot consent to give her gaze to others for it is always on display at the leisure of the man. But Salome is turned away, almost as if she is dismissing those trying to gaze upon her.

Salome is the reason why the femme fatale is oppressed, restricted and objectified. She wields the unchecked sexual power than men are so afraid of…and maybe this fear is for good reason. Who knows whose head she’ll want next.

Now that we have reached the end of The Woman in White, I see Walter and Laura’s relationship in a completely different light.  At one point I found his sentimental asides about Laura to be tender and affectionate.  But upon taking another look, they seem more cringe-worthy than anything.  This passage in particular is a perfect example:

“Think of her as you thought of the first woman who quickened the pulses within you that the rest of her sex had no art to stir…Take her as a visionary nursling of your own fancy; and she will grow upon you, all the more clearly, as the living woman who dwells in mine” (52).

Laura Fairlie has been generalized.  Walter has molded her into this blank relatable figure in which everyone can use to reflect their own experiences.  As we have discussed as a class, Laura Fairlie, for her entire existence in novel, serves as an empty vessel in which characters see their own desires.  Walter does not change this.  In fact, he perpetuates it. She serves as a gateway to wealth and property for Sir Percival.  And for Walter she is no different.  The artist sees Laura as a blank canvas to paint and color however he pleases.

At one point, Walter describes “the water-colour drawing [he] made of Laura Fairlie” decorating his desk (51).  He describes her as a “light, youthful figure” whose “hair is so faint and a pale a brown—not flaxen, and yet almost as light; not golden, and yet almost as glossy—that is nearly melts here and there, into the shadow of the hat” (51).  The Laura that is being described to us isn’t Laura the person, but rather the Laura that Walter sees her as and wants her to be—Laura the decoration.  She is light, and faint.  Like her hair color, she is there but not quite.  She is even being described from a painting—Walter’s painting.  She is not real.

This excerpt is clearly written from after the events of the novel have occurred at an “after period” when Laura and Walter are married and living at Limmeridge, so why describe a painting of Laura when he could have looked at her actual person?  Because to Walter, she exists as an embodiment of the perfect wife—he doesn’t want to see her as a real person. Walter explicitly states in the main passage above that Laura “dwells” in his “fancy” (52).  The person he wants her to be exists in his imagination only.  The real Laura is repressed.

William Rathbone Greg argued adamantly for the marriage of all women.  His problem was with the “redundant woman”—the unmarried woman who could do what she wanted.  The redundant woman could earn money, forgo the “natural duties” of womanhood, and speak her mind.  Marriage was the solution.  Marriage tethered women to men, eradicated them of their own identity, and turned them into a reproductive machines.  Laura is Greg’s ideal married woman.  She has effectively been silenced and repressed by her marriage—reduced to a watercolor painting adorning her husband’s desk.

For the entirety of the novel thus far, we have been struggling with who and what can be trusted. From the personal accounts, to the shady mystery person who put them all together, we don’t have a firm grasp on the truth. Mr. Fairlie even explicitly states that his account is by no means accurate. How then, do we discern the truth from the falsities of the unreliable narration? I think that we could look to characters that are so far removed from the situation that they couldn’t possibly have a bias.

Nina, Laura Fairlie’s Italian greyhound has no reason (or presence of mind rather) to attempt to deceive the reader. A dog’s reaction to a person is a perfect judge of their character for there are no ulterior motives, simply instinctual reactions. During Mr. Gilmore’s account, he recounts the dog’s reactions to both Sir Percival Glyde and Mr. Hartright. In regards to Sir Percival, Nina “barked and snapped” (134). Dissimilarly, instead of reacting in the same violent manner when in the presence of Mr. Hartright, “the whimsical little brute falsified [Mr. Gilmore’s] expectations by jumping into [Mr. Hartright’s] lap and poking its sharp muzzle familiarly into his hand” (141). There is clearly a contrast in how Nina perceives both men. Her adverse reaction to Sir Percival suggests something threatening about his character.

Here the novel is urging us to see Nina as a perfect and unbiased judge of character. If this is true, we can then derive that Sir Percival Glyde is inherently bad. Though this is not new information, it is the only time we receive this knowledge as fact. This animal does not understand ideas of class, wealth, power or any human social constructs for that matter. It is looking through a lens completely devoid of any of the influencing factors that make the narrators’ so untrustworthy. The dog only knows is who is agreeable and who is not. This simple binary makes her judgment the most reliable.

In the same vein, children possess this same kind of unbiased judgment before they are socialized and introduced to societal teachings and norms. If we equate Anne Catherick, who is described multiple times throughout the book as childlike and innocent, then it would follow that Anne’s judgment is trustworthy as well. Though she is closely involved with the plot, one could argue that she is far enough removed mentally to be trusted. By possessing the mental faculties of a child, she has no reason to deceive us—she may not even be capable. Just like Laura’s dog, Anne possesses the same distaste for Sir Percival. At the mere mention of his name she is sent into a horrified frenzy. Both Nina and Anne are presented as more reliable than the narrators’ and should be trusted primarily.

The issue of trusting the narrator has become very important. As we get more involved with the story, the more imperative it becomes to know what is true and what is not. Those unaffected by society and its influences, in this case animals and children, seem to be the only characters we can trust. I wonder then, what the significance of Count Fosco’s animals is and why he can command them? Or what it really says about Blackwater Park that they senselessly murder stray dogs?