Category: 360: Victorian Sexualities

Laura’s time in the Asylum affected her quite a bit physically and emotionally. The “sorrow and suffering… set their profaning marks on the youth and beauty of her face” (Collins 434), making post-Asylum Laura look almost identical to Anne. Laura also becomes increasingly childish, a trait we previously associated with Anne.

The relationship between Walter and Laura has altered drastically since Laura’s release from the Asylum. As Laura changes to become more like Anne, Walter loses romantic interest in her. Previously in the novel when Walter talked about drawing with Laura, he talked about how he could barely keep his hands and eyes off of her. Now when he talks about drawing with her he simply says he “sat by her side” (Collins 435). Walter never had an inkling of a romantic feeling for Anne, and now that Laura looks and acts more like Anne, Walter isn’t having as strong romantic feelings or any romantic feelings at all for Laura.

This makes me wonder exactly what attracted Walter to Laura in the first place. Clearly her appearance was a significant part of why Walter loved her. Earlier in the novel when Walter gushes about being in love with Laura, all he talks about is her appearance. He sees her as an object. Walter also might be losing romantic interest in Laura because she is someone who he now needs to take care of. Instead of just being able to watch her be pretty, he needs to worry about keeping her occupied and in a good mood.

The way Laura and Walter behave around each other post-Asylum reminds me of a way a dog interacts with it’s owner. Just as if Laura was his dog, Walter takes “Laura out for her walk as usual” (Collins 437). Whenever Walter leaves her, Laura gets anxious, claiming “Don’t be gone long! I can’t get on with my drawing, Walter, when you are not here to help me” (Collins 438). Laura’s anxiety about being separated from Walter reminds me of the way a dog behaves whenever it’s owner leaves. After her release from the Asylum, Laura also acts similarly to Mrs. Vesey, sitting around all day and being a very uninteresting character.

“The most wretched of her sex, if she must give herself in marriage when she cannot give her love” (171) L

“She will be his Laura instead of mine! His Laura!” (185) M

“I [have] just come back from a stolen look at Laura in her pretty little white bed . . . My own love!” (194) M

“My poor, faded flower! my lost, afflicted sister!” (478) W

“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 honor as father and brother both. Mine to vindicate through all risks and all sacrifices” (414) W

“If I am to fight our cause with the Count, strong in the consciousness of Laura’s safety, I must fight it for my Wife.” (559) W

In simplistic terms, Laura Fairlie is the object of desire that The Woman in White works toward possessing.

Laura is loved and desired by Walter Hartright; she is sought and desired by Sir Percival Glyde; she is kissed and loved by Marian; she is stolen from Blackwater; she is cared for and coveted by both Walter and Marian in their tangled ménage á trois. In all these cases, syntactically as well as contextually, Laura is the object of desire: she is passive, the desired rather than the desirer. Similarly, she is spoken about as the possessed object – but not by Percival Glyde or Count Fosco, the ostensible villains of her life: by Walter and Marian, her husband and sister.

In the six excerpts above, Laura gets ten possessive pronouns (or, in keeping with the Laura’s syntax and context, ten are given to her). Laura is “my” love, “mine,” or “his.” She is not her own Laura; she is discussed as an object passed around from hand to hand. Marian discusses her marriage to Glyde in almost economic terms, as if Laura’s marriage is a transaction involving a change of possession. Laura herself, describing marriage, uses the phrase “give herself,” reinforcing the possessional aspects of marriage as a contract and a relationship.

Perhaps the worst instance of Laura as an object of possession is Walter’s in-narrative monologue. He refers to Laura as “mine” four times; the paragraph’s anaphora enforces the possessional language, enhancing the concept of Laura as an object of possession which Walter as “at last” gotten into his own hands.

The description of a spouse as “my wife” doesn’t seem especially ominous until connected with the numerous other instances of possessive language. Walter insists to Marian that he wants to marry Laura because it will enhance his position as Laura’s guardian angel, savior, chevalier, knight in armor, etc. – not because he loves her or is attracted to her, but because his possession of her legally will make it easier for him to “save” her (return her to her legal identity, stolen by SPG and CF through AC’s resemblance). We know this through Walter’s umpteenth use of “my” to describe Laura.

Furthermore, Laura is never given her own narrative; not once, except in her (relatively rare) dialogue, does Laura speak in her own voice. The utter exclusion of Laura as a major figure of the action reinforces her presentation as an object; she is handled, desired, passed around, and exchanged, but she does nothing, acts as nothing, performs nothing. The possessional language consistently applied to her reduces her to a possessed object, and the refusal to let her speak as herself reduces her to a thing.

Laura is reduced and possessed throughout The Woman in White. Whether or not Collins is a feminist, whether or not TWIW is meant to argue for better women’s rights, whether or not Marian is supposed to be an example of a “freed” woman – Laura is an object, through the novel’s syntax as well as its contexts. Her objectification and possession are the root of the novel’s dilemma, and her submission to these concepts is the product of them.

A grand assumption that many readers of Victorian literature seem to make is that every character in the novel is straight. While this assumption is not so far-fetched, given that sex of any kind was considered taboo to speak about, this does not mean that it is always true. Victorian novels are often written in a kind of coded language that allows for the author to talk about sex and sex scandal in a way that would not offend the public. This is the case in Wilkie Collins’ sensation novel The Woman in White, for example when Marian describes how Count Fosco controls his wife using a “rod of iron” that “never appears in company – it is a private rod, and is always kept up-stairs” (Collins 222). This, rather phallic, description of Count Fosco’s control over his wife implies that he is a dominant sexual being.

Many other character’s sexuality is also indirectly talked about throughout the novel, such as the implied homosexuality of Mr. Fairlie. When speaking to Laura’s handmaid Fanny(a name that can sometimes be used to refer to a vagina or a butt), he notes that her name is “a remarkably vulgar one” and becomes incredibly upset at the mentioning of her bosom (Collins 339). The more Mr. Fairlie is forced to think about the female body, the more upset he becomes perhaps because he knows that he does not react in the way that he feels that he should: he feels repulsion where he should (according to heterosexual Victorian societal norms) attraction. Mr. Fairlie is not married and is not a desirable bachelor by any means, and other character in the novel recognize this as well. When Count Fosco asks Sir Percival if Mr. Fairlie is married, he replies by saying “Of course not”, implying that he too is aware of Fairlie’s homosexuality (Collins 326).

Despite restrictive societal norms preventing Victorian literature from openly discussing sexuality, this does not mean it was something that was not acknowledged. Authors, such as Wilkie Collins, were able to use this coded language to explore sexuality that varied from heterosexuality, which was what considered to be normal/acceptable during the time. While an open discussion of sex or sexuality would be much too profane for a Victorian audience, it does not mean that it was not present: just because it was not openly discussed does not mean it was not present.

Like many character in the novel, I find myself attracted to and interested in Count Fosco in spite of myself. As the primary villain and an obvious creep, ordinarily I would turn my attention to other characters like Laura, Walter, or Marian. That being said, I keep returning to Count Fosco.  I simply cannot help myself. Therein lies his power. His character is a true enigma: obviously wicked, but deliciously exciting and charismatic. Perhaps his most fascinating trait is his ability to use sexuality and sex as a means to achieve his desires. He uses the others’ attraction to him for his own ends, and is thus able to control and manipulate all of the other players in the narrative. His wife, for example, literally eats out of the palm of his hand (p. 222) and is complicit in his crimes.  Sex becomes the force through which Fosco creates chaos.  Marian also becomes a victim of count Fosco. She knows that he is dangerous, but still finds herself drawn to his charm and seduced by his charisma. Count Fosco operates as a femme fatale within the novel. He uses sexuality as a means of manipulation. He is an exception to most forms of literature, however, because he is male while most characters who weaponize sex are women. The traditional femme fatale is almost always young, gorgeous, dark, and sultry. Count Fosco, on the other hand, is rotund and old. His allure (and perhaps some of the distrust) can be traced back to the xenophobia surrounding his foreignness (he is an Italian). Like many femme fatales, he appears dark and mysterious, almost exotic in stark contrast to the more delicate female characters who populate the pages of the novel.

The scene where his femme fatale nature becomes most explicit is the moment where he writes in Marian’s journal after she has fallen ill. Like the femme fatale who triumphs after her prey has fallen asleep after sex, here too Marian is at her most vulnerable when she has been weakened (possibly poisoned) by Count Fosco.

“I breathe my wishes for her recovery.  I condole her on the inevitable failure of every plan she has formed for her sister’s benefit.” (p. 336)

Here Fosco makes his wicked nature explicitly known, along with his mocking respect for his mark, Marian.  Marian, like many a character before her, knows that Fosco (the femme fatale) is no good, yet takes the bait anyway.  Fosco even seems to lament this in the postscipt he adds to her diary.  On one hand, he claims wish for her “recovery”, yet as a possible cause (what really made her sick?) of her sickness, this passage reeks of irony.  Even if his wish was sincere, the next statement, offering condolences on her failed plans, makes it clear that Fosco is glad to have bested her.  Like many a great villian, Fosco cannot help but to gloat in his victory.

 

At first glance, Laura Fairlie/Lady Glyde and the victim in the case of “The Abominable Bride” from the BBC Sherlock Christmas special set in Victorian England (Emelia Ricoletti) live out two very different situations.

Laura has survived, with Anne Catherick dying in her place; Emelia pretends to die in an attempt to (literally) get away with murder.

Anne and Laura are the victims of a plot; Emelia is the culprit of a plot. Emelia has one of her friends shoot her in the head after the murder so as to complete her alibi and for her corpse to be positively identified; Anne dies of heart failure and Laura continues to live. Both Anne and Laura have been in asylums; Emelia has never stepped foot in one – although her actions might qualify her for entrance.

All three women are clothed in white – Laura and Anne simply general white clothes, Emelia specifically in a wedding gown (hence the Abominable Bride moniker). All three women are wronged by a man: Laura and Emelia both faced abuse at the hands of their husband, while Anne is hunted down and shut away in an asylum by Glyde. Anne and Emelia were both sick, Anne with a condition of the heart and Emelia with consumption.

In the end, however, the most important correlation between the two stories is their focus on the rights of women. Emelia’s death opens the gate for other women to avenge their suffering at the hands of men, disguising themselves as her ghost to murder the men doing them wrong. Reading Marian’s perspective emphasizes the lack of rights held by women, and Hartwright’s quest is to reveal the wrongdoings of Glyde and the Count to save Laura and give her closure (His stated goal is to “vindicate [Laura] through all risks and all sacrifices” (Collins, 414)). He will not stand for their abuse of Laura, made possible by their patriarchal power over her and Marian. While it may not seem so at first, I believe that The Woman in White is indeed a feminist novel, arguing for increasing the rights of women, so as to prevent more terrible circumstances, like the ones Laura and Marian are forced to go through. I agree with wardka’s conclusions from their last post, that Wilke Collins is advocating for women’s rights.

(As a small aside, one interesting similarity between “The Abominable Bride” and The Woman in White are the mustachioed ladies: Marian is described as having a mustache, and Molly Hooper appears in male disguise during the special:

HT to Noah for sending this my way!  Feel free to post Victorian memes as you encounter them!

Women Rejecting Marriage Proposals In Western Art History

Upon my first time reading The Woman in White, I had an expectation for the interaction of male and female characters and I made certain assumptions about female characters being portrayed through the male gaze. I was surprised by Walter Hartright’s first interaction with the Woman in white who later appears to be Anne Catherick. Walter explains “There was nothing wild, nothing immodest in her manner; it was quiet and self-controlled, a little melancholy and a little touched by suspicion; not exactly the manner or a lady, and at the same time, not the manner of a woman in the humblest rank of life” (Collins 24). Walter did make simple evaluations as he describes what he saw that night. Yet, when I expected him to make significant judgements of this woman, he seemed to refrain. This seemed like an opportunity for a Victorian man to admire the pure white garments even if he did not find the woman particularly pretty, or even to assert that the circumstances create a ghostly presence. Such judgements are completely lacking from Walter’s account of the interaction and his thoughts at the time. To me, this seemed strange on its own, but it becomes more questionable once Walter meets and describes Laura Fairlie.

Once Walter falls in love with Laura Fairlie (which seems to occur pretty quickly upon meeting) who bears a noticeable resemblance to Anne Catherick, I began to question the differences in their meeting and interactions. Walter goes into great detail about Laura’s looks and personality: how lovely and gentle she is (51). He quickly concludes he is in love with her. The idea that this man can have completely different reactions and completely different relationships with almost identical women even after meeting them only once or twice creates some burning questions for me: how and why? Based on Walter’s limited account of what happened, I have to consider a few likely possibilities. The circumstances of Walter meeting Anne as the woman in white are so unconventional that Walter distances himself from the occurrence, there is a stigma against possible mental illness that keeps Walter from becoming close with Anne, or Walter is simply choosing the woman that he concludes could be a more beneficial match. All seem possible; continuing to read from different perspectives may shed more light on why Walter gravitates strongly towards one woman and has less significant impressions of the other.

“Her ‘misfortune’. In what sense was she using the word? … In a sense which might show it to be the too common and too customary motive that has led many a woman to interpose anonymous hindrances on the marriage of the man who has ruined her? …. ‘There is another misfortune,’ I said, ‘to which a woman may be liable, and by which she may suffer life-long sorrow and shame. … The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own virtue, and in the faith and honor of the man she loves'” (Collins 101).

It’s easy to dismiss Victorian attitudes toward female sexuality as prudish and repressive, but this is an oversimplification and a misunderstanding of Victorian sexual mores. In an era when treatment for “hysteria” (a “disease” of the “womb”) involved giving women orgasms, sexuality – even female sexuality – is far more polyvalent and complicated than simply repressed and ignored. In The Woman in White, Anne Catherick’s “misfortune” is not actually sexual, but the way Walter Hartright immediately concludes that it is reveals common Victorian trends of thinking about sex and about women having sex.

The premarital sexual liaison that Hartright attributes to Anne’s misfortune he refers to as “the too common and too customary motive.” Common and customary are close to synonyms, except that “common” carries a connotation of inferiority, poverty, vulgarity, low class status. Although the man in the situation is the one committing the action – “ruining” the woman – the woman’s response is “common,” not merely frequent but vulgar, lower-class. It’s a way of blaming the victim: although the man receives the blame and the agency for the sexual part of the affair, the woman’s response and the consequences are her fault, endowed with negative qualities specifically connected to the woman.

As well, the woman “interposes anonymous hindrances” on her “ruiner’s” marriage. “Interpose” doesn’t carry any distinctly negative connotation but in conjunction with “anonymous” and “hindrance,” the phrase as a whole takes on a sinister quality, suggesting venom or malice on the woman’s part, as she performs deeds meant to prevent the man’s marriage. This marriage would legitimize and validate for good the man’s social and sexual status: as a male with the potential for socially endorsed progeny, his position in society would be confirmed.

However, Walter’s inner monologue doesn’t contain an actual accusation of a woman involved in premarital sex. What he says to Anne, however – the outward expression of his thoughts – does contain an accusation: the woman is “liable” to misfortune because she may “believe too innocently in her own virtue” (101). She believes too innocently, and it’s this, her own surplus of innocence, is what gets her into trouble. The man may have no “faith and honour,” but it’s still the woman’s fault for being “too innocent” and for not having enough virtue.

In this situation the woman is unmistakably the victim. She engages in sex or sexual activities, possibly without consent or understanding; she ends up with “life-long sorrow and shame.” Yet Hartright blames her for her own “misfortune,” and he doesn’t give her any possible agency for engaging in an affair with full consent to and desire for a sexual relationship. Here, as in so many situations, women can’t win: if they don’t understand what’s happening, they “believed too innocently” and had too little virtue. There is not even the possibility of their engaging with their own sexuality in any self-realized way.

Laura Fairlie lies in the center of the romance in “The Woman in White.” Walter Hartwright hopelessly falls in love with her during the period of his narrative, then after the parting, gets reduced to a bitter mess both Gilmore and Marian are surprised and sorry to find. Then there is Sir Percival Glyde, pursuing his engagement with “unchangeable love and admiration of two long years” (174), apparently not only for Laura but her inheritance. And then, there are Gilmore and Marian. They appear to be armed with a different kind of love, but the bitterness by which Marian writes–“She will be his Laura instead of mine!”–makes a reader wonder if she, too, may act as one of the voices driving Laura into confusion.

And yet, for the woman in the center of all this attention, Laura is given very little power. This is not to argue that her environment is at fault. True, the Victorian era gives no legal power for women, but Marian is doing just fine with her “robust nervous system,” to the envy of Mr. Farlie (176). Upon coming of age, Laura is also entitled to an inheritance of twenty-thousand pounds, a sum that is “absolutely Miss Fairlie’s own” (150). And on account of her marriage, it is not, to be strict, a forced one, either. Sir Percival Glyde, as pale as he gets when Laura calls to talk to him (165), still voluntarily leaves one window open by passing onto Marian that he could, under Laura’s desire, “sacrifice himself by leaving her perfectly free to withdraw from the engagement” (138).

She is not yet of age–three months short of being twenty-one (146). And while this puts her in roughly the same area as the readers in our class, her emotional state does not seem to be parallel at all. Again and again, she is referred as not only a ghostly figure in white, but as a child.

Her encounter with Gilmore is especially so. On trying to express her desire to leave some inheritance to Walter Hartwright, she bursts into tears and Gilmore “drie[s] the tears that were gathering in her eyes, with [his] own hand, as if she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten long years ago” (144). And from the way she leans towards him and smiles, she apparently is still a little girl of ten, at heart. The later page supports this by mentioning that she was “[s]till clinging to the past – that past which I represented to her, in my way, as Miss Halcombe did in hers!” (145).

Her love for Walter, too, then becomes questionable not in its existence but its meaning. Is it actually love, or is it a form of idolizing admiration and affection that a little girl might have towards an older man? The time spent alone upstairs looking at the album Walter had given her, the act of pinning her hair to it and asking to give it to him upon her death, and of saying to Marian “say for me, then, what I can never say for myself – say I loved him!” (173) all points to a kind of love that is just pure and selfless. This is comparable to Walter’s remembering “at one time to be bending over her, so close to her bosom as to tremble at the thought of touching it” (65). There is nothing sexual about Laura’s love at all–not just, I daresay, because this is a Victorian novel and women are not “qualified” to have such thoughts, but because her love does not include any at all.

She is, in this way, caged and deprived of power not by her environment or her situation, but by the limits of her own naive self. All she can do in the center of attention, is to do what she thinks she “should do,” then cry in her bedroom in secret. She is too young in spirit to execute her right to refuse her marriage, or pursue her romance–which may not be romance at all.

Throughout The Woman in White, Miss Fairlie is described as a bright figure that “passes by in the moonlight.” (48) It is imperative to take notice of this moon motif because it reoccurs frequently within the text. During class discussions, many people spoke about Walter Hartright’s “supernatural and ghostlike” descriptions of Laura Fairlie, yet no one mentioned the instant link between the moon and lunacy. If we are thinking about lunacy and its implications, single women in the Victorian Era were especially vulnerable and “easily disposable” candidates for the mental institutions. (Victorian Gothic) In this post, I would like to propose a relationship between desire and implications of madness.
Fascinatingly enough, “certificates of lunacy” were easy to acquire. The Victorian Era Asylums essentially severed ties between the “patient” and the outside world and the institution had full invasive power to control which letters the patients could receive from their loved ones. (Victorian Gothic) Unsurprisingly, I suspect that men who felt rejected by feme soles were eager to accuse them and to isolate them whilst chanting the mantra: “If I can’t have you, nobody can.”
Similarly, the issue exists once men ascribe women with emotional undertones where the female “influx of sentimentality” might perhaps be void. Walter focuses on “the white gleam of [Laura Fairlie’s] muslin gown and head-dress in the moonlight” and he is overwhelmed by a slew of “sensations” that “quicken his pulse” and raise a “fluttering in his heart.” (49) However, Laura is simply walking around her yard in the nighttime and she most likely does not intend to arouse any of Walter’s deep sensual “feelings.” Thus, if the idea of lunacy is linked to feelings of desire, what other connections are implied within this relationship? How could this link be dangerous for members of Victorian society?

(Victorian Gothic source) http://www.victoriangothic.org/the-lunacy-of-english-lunacy-laws/

Note: The Woman in White copy that I reference is different than the class edition and therefore it contains different page numbers. (Published by London Chatto & Windus)