Category: 360: Victorian Sexualities

The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins was widely referred to as a “sensation novel” as it sparked excitement and desire within the reader through crime, mystery, and romantic triangles.  The dramatic tales were scandalous for the era, and particularly worrisome as they appealed to female reader. In William Greg’s essay discussing the Victorian woman, he focuses particularly on the despair and disappointment of single women. He deems them unaware of their ambitions, and accuses them of setting goals too high to be met, which would leave them in “a dreary void of unshared existence.” In The Woman in White, this idea and the belittling of women is made clear through the male characters. However, Marian Halcombe contrasts the typical female character in her often blunt expressions and her “rational” thoughts.

In Vincent Gilmore’s narration, he has a particularly interesting series of conversations with Marian. His descriptions of Marian often include adjectives that would be used to describe males. He uses hard words, like sharp and dark. On page 146, Marian stands up to Gilmore, in a conversation about Laura. Upon calling Laura “weak and nervous,” Marian says to Vincent Gilmore, “you are altering your opinion about Laura, you are readier to make allowances for her than you were yesterday.” He writes, “No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of words with a woman.” This not only shows Marian’s ability and confidence to stand up to men, but also her fierce loyalty to Laura, which becomes more and more evident as the book continues. Gilmore, in his narration, is almost submissive, but alludes to the “irrationality” that women were believed to express through their hysteria. I did not interpret his thought as respectful, but rather a mockery of Marian’s provoking statement. Rather than continuing the conversation, he replies to her, “Let me know what happens. I will do nothing till I hear from you.” His avoidance of the argument, or potential conversation, was, in my opinion to avoid Marian getting “hysterical” by some means.

The Woman in White is full of repetitions, and noticing the differences between these repetitions creates meaning that neither instance can achieve alone. One such replication can be seen in two evenings that Collins describes in detail—one narrated by Walter Hartright at Limmeridge (57-58), and the other narrated by Marian at Blackwater Park (286-287). The scenes are set up to appear almost identical: Laura plays the piano while Marian sits slightly removed at a far window, passing time as the day transitions to night. In the scene at Limmeridge, Walter acts as our guide to appreciating the evening’s qualities of light and sound, while Count Fosco occupies that role at Blackwater Park. Walter’s and the Count’s descriptions of the evening are tied together by common words such as “heaven,” “trembling,” “twilight,” and “tenderness,” as well as by both men’s desire that the torches remain unlit.

However, the differences between the two scenes convey starkly opposing meanings. While Walter describes the light as “shading leaf and blossom into harmony,” Count Fosco twice refers to the light as “dying” against the trees. This reference to death recalls to mind Marian’s first descriptions of Blackwater Park’s decaying forest. Furthermore, while at Limmeridge the lamps go unlit “by common consent,” at Blackwater only Count Fosco “begs” for the lamps to remain dark. These variations reveal that Blackwater is, in actuality, a failed replication of Limmeridge House. Instead of the harmony and easy companionship between Laura, Marian, and Walter, Blackwater is filled with discord and decay, highlighted by Count Fosco’s rejected attempts to become friendly with Marian and Laura.

Since the very beginning of The Woman in White the reader is faced with some statements which foreshadow the conception of the woman’s role at the time the novel was written (1860), considered as subordinate to men’s authority. As Miss Halcombe says: “Being, however, nothing but a woman, condemned to patience, propriety, and petticoats, for life, I must respect the housekeeper’s opinions, and try to compose myself in some feeble and feminine way” (198). In other words, the feminine way at that time, was equal to being a docile and submissive human being, at the mercy of the men’s authority. In order for this to happen, marriage seems to be considered, at that time, the most effective way to put order in society and somehow relegate women to their natural role of subaltern individuals. Once again, is Miss Holcombe to state that: “ For the common purposes of society the extraordinary change thus produced in her (Madame Fosco), is, beyond all doubt, a change for the better, seeing that it has transformed her into a civil, silent, unobtrusive woman, who is never in the way”(216).
Such lines seem to reflect Greg’s considerations that “The residue (of women)-the large excess over this proportion-who remain unmarried constitute the problem to be solved, the evil and anomaly to be cured…” (159). Both Collins’ novel and Greg’s article, even if in different forms (the novel through irony, the article through a more serious tone) refers to women as silly and useless individuals for the society, but at the same time as a threat to get rid of, and the best way to do so is limiting their power by pressuring them to get married and becoming – to use once again Miss Halcombe’s words- their husbands “faithful dog” (216) and, consequently, harmless to the society.
It seems to me that the novel is full of hints which suggest the fear of the 19th century’s patriarchal societies of everything different to their patriarchal values (women in the first place). The fact that Anne Catherick escapes from the asylum and is a kind of ghost for all the other characters of the novel could be a metaphor of the society’s unsuccessful attempt to shut women down. The irony with which women’s silliness is described by Collins all throughout the book could stand for a defensive literary artifice and the novel itself could be seen as a way to release the unconscious 18th century’s fear of women, the ultimate of the threats.

Throughout the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, the reader witnesses drastic changes in many of the characters. Most notably, there are shifts among the female characters between the stereotypical ‘rash and emotional’ woman to a more stable and ‘masculine’ female character. This change in dynamic is witnessed in many of the characters. For example, Marion, who is more masculine and rational than the other female characters, becomes much more unstable and ‘feminine’ as the novel progresses. One of the most subtle, yet pivotal, changes however is seen in Anne, the woman in white.

At first, Anne is described as hysteric. When Walter first speaks with her she is said to have “spoke with unnecessary earnestness and agitation, and shrank back from me several paces” (25). She is uncomfortable and far from calm. This is particularly apparent when Sir Percival Glyde is mentioned and the woman screams uncontrollably. She possesses many of the characteristics a typical Victorian woman would have been said to exhibit. However, Anne’s character begins to change as the plot progresses. In a later passage, Walter sees Anne at Mrs. Fairlie’s grave, and her actions are much different than what one would expect. The novel states, “she then glanced all round her, and, taking a white linen cloth or handkerchief from under her cloak, turned aside towards the brook” (95). This picture of the woman in white is pure and peaceful. “She dipped the cloth then kneel down before the inscription, and apply her wet cloth to the cleansing of it” (95).

The language in this paragraph is particularly descriptive and striking, unlike the rest of the passage. Throughout the first epoch, Walter narrates the story and his tone is observant and at some points critical or unsure of the female characters. Although, his language becomes slightly feminine or more emotional when he describes having ‘strange feelings’. His tone is, for the most part, straightforward. With this description, there seems to be an immense amount of clarity in trying to figure out the mystery that is the woman in white. This passage, and its eloquence, is a turning point in the novel. From this point on, we learn more about Anne and her past and how truly crucial she is to the development of the plot as well as the progression of the other characters. For it is at this point in the novel, many of the other characters, such as Laura, begin to alter too.

I found Marian to be, by far, the most intriguing character in the novel. Her section of the novel propels the plot more so than any other character. It is through her observations of events and her insights of these events that the reader truly begins to comprehend the varied characters traits of each protagonist. But when it comes to her part in the narrative, it seems to be constantly second-guessed and more deeply examined because of the fact that she is a woman. There is a constant obsession in this Victorian setting about the connection between thought and feeling for women and how they can’t seem to distinguish the two. The most interesting aspect of this, in my opinion, is that the narrative includes an internal commentary on Marian’s writing and narration. When Marian falls ill, Fosco takes the liberty to go into her journal and read her inscriptions, about which he exclaims: “Yes! These pages are amazing. The tact which I find here, the discretion, the rare courage […] have all inexpressibly increased my admiration of this sublime creature, of magnificent Marian. The presentation of my own character is masterly in the extreme. I certify, with my whole heart, to the fidelity of the portrait.” (336) These extreme exclamations of surprise are a statement to Fosco’s automatic discrediting of Marian’s work due to her status of being a woman. Fosco most likely believed in this theory that women let their emotions get in the way of everything they do, including writing and especially writing about people. How could a woman judge a person correctly when her feelings would get in the way of their interpretation of that person’s character? The fact that he “certifies” the accuracy of the picture painted of him leads to question if Collins included this to validate what Marian was saying for the reader. There is so much to say of this passage that can veer in so many different directions but I think that it importantly addresses the stigmas around women at the time as well as introducing a very internal commentary on the writing of the book itself. This was an extremely interesting element for Collins to include and I would be interested in how this affects the audience further on in the novel.

Wilkie Collin’s The Woman in White expresses the three personality traits described by Freud, id, ego and superego, through the characters of Sir Percival, Count Fosco, and Laura respectively. Freud’s theory was not published during the publication of The Woman in White. However, critics can retrospectively notice patterns in characters, determine if they become increasingly simplistic like Freud’s model and begin to ask whether Freud drew his simplistic model of the conscious and unconscious from the observations of simplistic Victorian characters or whether the model demonstrates something innately human that many Victorian writers hyperbolized in their writing. This post will focus on mapping Percival, Fosco, and Laura based on their discussion of murder on page 231 in terms of id, ego, and superego. 

The id is described by Freud as being the unconscious, primitive mind. The id only wants to fulfill its own desires without delay or interference. Percival represents the id. During the scene, he speaks and reacts emotionally to the situation. When Fosco tells him the lake is a terrible place for a murder Percival gets defensive and says, “it would take to long to explain” (231). Likewise, when Laura says she believes that crimes cause their own detection he scornfully laughs at her and feels angry when Marian comes to her add. His explosive emotions increase as the book goes on. It is most notable in the following scene when Percival yells at Laura to sign the document that will only serve his interests.

Fosco, who acts as realistic council to Percival, represents ego. He his calm, collected, and looks at the realities within situations. Fosco’s practicality can be seen when he says the lake is too shallow and the sand would leave the murderer’s footprint behind if a murder were to take place. Likewise, Fosco interferes between Percival and Laura, the id and superego if you will. He follows the most rational path, though it may not be the most desirable nor the most moral.

Laura as the superego defends the ideality of humanity by claiming “wise men are truly good men and thus have a horror of crimes.” (231). Her willingness to believe and support “copybook morality” as both Fosco and Percival accuse her of believing. Fosco “admires” her optimism in humanity however, admonishes her for her naivety. Percival laughs at her naivety also, but more from his own disgust with her ideals than for any “rational” reason. The superego is considered the moral voice which speaks for the ideals of society. Laura, then, speaks to the moral notion that murder is wrong and all wrongs will be righted. 

We could say Marian acts as society and comes to the aid of her sister. Madame Fosco, having been identified as the same person as the Count himself, can be considered ego as well. The appearance of Freud’s model in a novel before the publication of his work begs the question, how did both novel and Freud come to a similar distillation of the human psyche.

“Victorian Memory” Variety of Rose

Marian’s narration is preoccupied with assuring the reader of her account of the  “reliability of [her] recollection” (Collins 284). Collins inserts a seemingly redundant scene into Marian’s narration: Laura cannot remember the alternative of taking “bills at three months” presented to Sir Percival by his lawyer if he should fail in obtaining her signature. Marian responds, “‘You complimented me on my ready memory not long since–but you seem to doubt it now. I will get my journal and see if I am right or wrong'” (284). Indeed, Marian’s recollection was correct.

This short scene prompts the reader to wonder why Collins would include it– we, of course, are also privy to Marian’s entries and already know of the second alternative. A similar scene arises later, when Marian reports “the host’s anxiety for a little quiet talk over wine and the guest’s obstinate resolution not to sit down again at the table, revived in my memory the request which Sir Percival had vainly addressed to his friend earlier in the day, to come out of the library and speak to him” (312). While these scenes may seem to be superfluous reminders of plot details, perhaps a product of the novel’s serialization, in a novel that claims “No circumstance of importance, from the beginning to the end of the disclosure, shall be related on hearsay evidence” and events will be related “word for word” (9), we may also take these assertions of the prowess of Marian’s memory to be assertions about the reliability of the text.

These moments where Marian’s memory is discussed so blatantly seem to serve no purpose in the text other than to reinforce what the reader, and furthermore, the characters, already know. We are therefore encouraged to read them more closely and seek a greater significance. Marian reflects “In the perilous uncertainty of our present situation, it is hard to say what future interests may not depend upon the regularity of the entries in my journal, and upon the reliability of my recollection at the time when I make them” (284) and goes on throughout her diary to reference her “faithful memory” (318) and the necessity of recording events “while [her] memory vividly retained them” (335). Collins’s diction, particularly “regularity” and “reliability” make assurances of the authority of Marian’s account. While we might be skeptical of her ability to write conversations down exactly as they happened hours after the fact, Count Fosco commends “the marvellous accuracy of her report of the whole conversation [between the Count and Sir Percival] from its beginning to its end” (337). We can see that the text is making assertions of its own reliability, through Marian’s own claims and their corroboration by Count Fosco.

The Woman in White is therefore not only a text which we as readers must assess the reliability of, but also a text which is aware of its own reliability and takes pains to assure readers of its accuracy. Whether that purported accuracy is substantiated will be revealed as the novel develops and the viewpoints of other characters are incorporated.

Throughout the novel thus far, our narrators occasionally pause their testimonies of the mysterious and sinister events at Limmeridge House and Blackwater Park to describe another character’s manner of dress. Clothes, in literature, are often metaphorically linked to themes of identity and selfhood. In a theatrical novel driven by instances of mistaken or concealed identity, I find such attention to clothing particularly resonant. The bulk of the references to clothing relate to Anne Catherick, Laura Fairlie, and Count Fosco—three characters who are central to the novel’s mystery plot. However, as the title of the novel indicates the importance of the women’s garb and my space here is limited, I will focus my current exploration of this topic on Laura and Anne.

Our first narrator, Walter Hartwright, introduces clothing as an important trope and plot device in the first epoch. For example, his description of Laura’s “white muslin” dress not only foreshadows her link to Anne, but also reveals aspects of Laura’s personality that become important for how we read her relationship with Sir Percival: “It was spotlessly pure: it was beautifully put on; but still it was the sort of dress which the wife or daughter of a poor man might have worn” (56). Hartwright’s allusion to class anticipates the future importance of Laura’s economic status. In an emotional conversation with Marian following her marriage to Sir Percival, Laura explicitly rebukes her wealth as a form of constraint and credits Marian’s “poverty” with saving her sister from the bondage of an unwanted marriage (258).

Furthermore, the simplicity of the dress, which Hartwright stresses, here echoes his description of the dress Anne wore the night of their initial encounter—a dress, “certainly not composed of very delicate or very expensive materials” (24). Hartwright’s implicit linking of Anne and Laura in this passage foreshadows the explicit connection drawn between the two women at the end of the chapter. This explicit association between the two women comes as Marian reads Mrs. Fairlie’s letter detailing her encounters with Anne as a child, noting the troubles the young girl faced. While listening to Marian read about young Anne’s love for the white clothes she inherited from an unknowing young Laura, Hartwright keeps his gaze on Laura: “There stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure, alone in the moonlight… the shape of her face, the living image, at that distance and under those circumstances, of the woman in white!” (62). I find it interesting that Hartwright comes to this startling realization upon learning that Anne grew up wearing Laura’s clothes. Laura and Anne’s identities seem to intertwine at this moment, the similarity in physical features and the sharing of clothes foreshadowing more connections to come. Since the white dress is so connected in Harwright’s (and therefore the reader’s) mind with his vision of Anne on the night of her escape from the asylum, it acts as a marker of sorts—marking Laura for some kind of impending suffering.

P.s. If you’re still looking for a pen name, this is fun: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/31/pen-name-generator_n_5045267.html

The passage in which Marian describes Count Fosco reveals a Victorian anxiety and fascination with androgyny. On the surface, Marian begins her description of the Count by highlighting his masculine qualities: “His features have Napoleon’s magnificent regularity: his expression recalls the grandly calm, immovable power of the Great Soldier’s face” (218). While appearing to suggest the Count’s authority and stoicism, this comparison to Napoleon actually indicates the Count’s “perplexingly contradictory” (219) nature from the outset, since Napoleon was himself a contradictory figure in his short stature yet commanding demeanor.

Two paragraphs later, Marian explains the Count’s “contradictory” nature more fully: “Fat as he is, and old as he is, his movements are astonishingly light and easy. He is as noiseless in a room as any of us women” (219). As the simile “as noiseless in a room as any of us women” suggests, the Count’s incongruousness is rooted in his feminine attributes. Marian’s use of the collective first-person pronoun “us women” situates the Count in direct opposition to women; yet the comparative “as” linguistically bridges this gender divide, connecting the Count to the feminine through his “light and easy” movements.

Marian proceeds to emphasize the Count’s femininity through two more similes: “and, more than that, with all his look of unmistakable mental firmness and power, he is as nervously sensitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises as inveterately as Laura herself” (219). Here, Marian successfully undermines the Count’s Napoleonic appearance of power by not only revealing his womanly nervousness but also linking the Count with the “weakest” of Marian’s sex. This superlative, along with the following direct comparison to Laura, highlights the Count’s feminine qualities.

This passage holds the key to Marian’s complex attitude toward the Count; she is at once fascinated and threatened by him. As Marian’s description reveals, he is both alluring and dangerous, not merely because of his increasingly suspicious behavior throughout the narrative, but because he unnaturally exhibits the qualities of both sexes. Even though Marian does not explicitly identify the Count’s androgyny as the reason for her discomfort with him, the novel’s keen preoccupation with identifying unknown figures by their sex illuminates the anxiety underlying Marian’s description of the Count. For example, when Marian and Laura encounter the figure at the boathouse, the first question Laura asks is, “Was it a man, or a woman?” (263). Marian asks the same question when Laura hears a noise outside of her room: “Was it a man or a woman?” (307). Clearly, The Woman in White, as evidenced by the title itself, consistently seeks to classify characters by sex, with “male” and “female” connoting a corresponding set of traits. Yet the Count complicates those binary categories, and, in true Victorian fashion, his deviance attracts simultaneous fascination and repulsion.