Category: Fall 2016

When discussing “In an Artist’s Studio” by Christina Rossetti, we made a point of mentioning the fact that while the muse “fills [the] dream[s]” of the artist (14), clearly his obsession and in many if not all of his waking thoughts, the artist too “feeds upon her face” (9). He is always thinking about her, gaining some sort of sustenance from her even as he is in her thrall – the power balance between genders is unsteady, more of a push-pull than one-way street as one might have expected.

The poem complicates the power struggle between genders, in a similar way to the siren in Supernatural episode 4×14, Sex and Violence. The siren appears to four different men as four different women, and to each of them she was “Perfect, and everything that they wanted” (source).

Once she had them in her thrall – similar to how in thrall the artist was – the siren has become their most important person, and asks them to kill the previously most important person in their life. For the first three men, it was their wives; for the fourth man, his sick and dependent mother; for Dean and Sam, it was each other. The promise each time is that once this other person is dead, the siren can “be with you, forever” (source).

By the time the siren has appeared to tempt Dean, however, she has taken the form of a man rather than a woman – see clip of the confrontation below:[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUreiz4uJKY”]

The siren is seeking to be loved – the subject of an obsessive, destructive love, that will give them the most power over a man, the power to destroy his entire life. This is a similar effect that the female muse has on the male artist in Christina Rossetti’s poem, but in the former, the man has no control and can only destroy; in the latter, the artist has some control – how to represent the female muse – and can use his obsession to create.

Both femme fatales – the muse and the siren – complicate the power struggle between genders. The poem emphasizes that the struggle is not one way, that both the man and the woman can hold power; the episode reveals that the threat of overwhelming power can come from more that one gender. Rather than men being overwhelmed only by romantic or sexual desire (based on the normative sexuality of the Victorian era (at least on the surface), assuming that threat can only come from women), suddenly a man’s weakness can be more personal, familial rather than erotic; suddenly, the overwhelming power can come from a sexual female or a male relative – men’s weaknesses have doubled, men and women rather than just women. But in today’s world, when gender roles, gender itself and sexuality are so much more fluid, do these worries about gendered power struggles still hold power? Or have they become obsolete, in some ways?

“They had passed the hill above the churchyard, when Lady Glyde insisted on turning back to look her last at her mother’s grave. Ms. Halcombe tried to shake her resolution; but, in this one instance, tried in vain. She was immovable. Her dull eyes lit with a sudden fire and flashed through the veil hungover them. Her wasted fingers strengthened, moment by moment, round the friendly arm that they had held so listlessly until this time. I believe in my soul that the Hand of God was pointing there way back to them, and that the most innocent and most afflicted of His creatures was chosen and that dread moment, to see it.” (430)

What immediately shocked me about this paragraph was that Laura has this fleeting moment of extreme determination, that we rarely see in her, especially after her encounters in the asylum and those two awful men. She was “immovable” showing strength. Her eyes “lit with a sudden fire”, flashing through her veil, breaking free of the erasure that Percival and Fosco bestowed on her, even if only for a moment. These “wasted fingers” came alive to her own disposition, breaking free of their listlessness. This is a moment where we see Laura acting on her accord which she doesn’t usually do, but she still has the aura of a daze around her.

Another note is her shocking likeness to Anne, once again. Not only is she hanging around the grave of her mother, in a misty night, but she is followed by a caretaker (Marian resembling Mrs. Clements). And there they find Walter. The last sentence of this passage also proves interesting because it seems as if the hand of god has lumped these two unfortunate souls together of Anne and Laura. Although I’m not sure who this “them” is that god is pointing too. Maybe it’s the grave? It’s also interesting to think about how Anne and Laura are seen as the most innocent, but also the most afflicted, so what does this say? Are the innocent always characterized as the most manipulated? Usually, that’s the case.

“Her fingers had a restless habit, which I remembered in her as a child, of always playing with the first thing that came to hand, whenever anyone was talking to her. On this occasion they wandered to the album, and toyed absently about the margin of the little water-colour drawing. The expression of melancholy deepened on her face,” (142).

I find it very interesting to note that as soon as we discuss Freud’s ideas about repressed trauma through repetitive actions, we get this passage with Laura’s fiddling fingers. But before I get into that, let’s just unpack this a little bit. The word choice in the first sentence proves that it’s not Laura that has a restless habit, but her fingers. In this way, although the audience knows that they are a part of her own body and actions, they are somewhat disconnected. In fact, they almost serve a purpose to distract her from what’s going on around her and more specifically the conversations that she has. Freud would highlight upon the idea that she has been doing this since childhood, and would see this repetitive action as a symptom of some repressed trauma. What that trauma could be, I don’t know, but it’s definitely something that she would have to constantly distract herself from.

However, this repetitive act is a little different because of the object she’s drawn to and what that represents. She moves to the little album of water color drawings that Mr. Hartwright had left, and implicitly we know what’s going on. She misses and loves him. And the fact that her face “deepened with melancholy” proves that. She’s not absentmindedly playing with the thing like she usually does, she’s overwhelmed with emotion.

Finally, Laura consistently gets characterized with child-like associations. Her innocence and pureness radiates throughout the novel, and then with the words in this passage like “restless”, “toyed”, and “playing” it sends the message home.

Because of Laura’s need to distract herself, and her common associations with being a child, it proves that “pure” women need both of these things: to keep themselves busy while also being protected. The Women in White does a good job at implicitly showing this sentiment throughout the novel.

The door opened; and Laura came in alone. So she had entered the breakfast-room at Limmeridge House, on the morning when we parted. Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow and in hesitation, she had once approached me. Now, she came with the haste of happiness in her feet, with the light of happiness radiant in her face. Of their own accord, those dear arms clasped themselves round me; of their own accord, the sweet lips came to mine. ‘My darling!’ she whispered, ‘we may own we love each other, now?’ Her head nestled with a tender contentedness on my bosom. ‘Oh,’ she said, innocently, ‘I am so happy at last!’ (561)

Since Walter’s first departure, Laura has been through hell, to say the least. Following her marriage to the lying and self-righteous Sir Percival Glyde, Laura’s quality of life steadily declines. A quick recap: after leaving Limmeridge House and coming back from Italy, she complies with her abusive husband (who has taken her fortune) only to be kicked out of Blackwater Park. On her way back, she is drugged and abducted by the Count and put into a mental institution. Her identity is given to Anne Catherick, who is then announced dead. Laura escapes from the mental institution with Marian’s help, but then lives a life on the run. She develops PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) from her time in the mental institution and spends months recovering from it. Gradually she returns to her old self, and then, in the passage above, she gets engaged to Walter. Now, after everything she’s been through, she’s finally happy.

When she first said goodbye to Walter, she had everything an upperclass Victorian woman should have. She lived in a large house with servants, she had a suitor, she had an inheritance, and she was talented and beautiful. Why wasn’t she happy before, then? And now that she’s living in poverty and has been through absolute hell, she’s happy?

Her statement to Walter when she first said goodbye to him closely resembles what she says to Walter above: “‘Oh!’ she said, innocently, ‘how could I let you go, after we have passed so many happy days together!'” (126). Collins uses the word ‘innocently’ in both passages, despite everything that Laura has now been through. When Laura was once “strangely pale and strangely quiet,” her face now radiates with happiness (125).

I think this passage ties back to the Victorian views on class and social constructs. When she was wealthy, Laura was expected to marry someone of a high stature, like Sir Percival. It was impractical for her to be in love with a lowly drawing-master such as Walter, because a woman of her status would never marry anyone so beneath her. However, she never wanted to marry Percival, and she was never happy when she was married to him. Now that her fortune is lost, she is free to marry whoever she pleases, regardless of societal status. Thus, in this regard, the lack of social constructs upon the lower class allows Laura more freedom, which is all she ever really wanted. In turn, she’s happier than she was at the beginning of the novel, despite the hell she’s been through.

“If we had loved her less dearly, if the instinct implanted in us by that love had not been far more certain than any exercise of reasoning, far keener than any process of observation, even we might have hesitated, on first seeing her” (Collins 433). The main functions of the similarities in the looks of Anne Catherick and Laura Fairlie have finally been revealed for the most part through this passage. Anne and Laura share similar features because they are likely related, and this feature functions in the plot as both a target for deception by Sir Glyde and Count Fosco, and as an opportunity for love and heroism by Walter Hartright.

The similarities between Anne and Laura allow for Anne to die and to be “mistaken” as Laura, so that Laura is declared dead and the real Laura is believed to be Anne. Walter refers to the similarities between Anne and Laura as the “fatal resemblance” (433). He views the mistake of Laura’s identity as a figurative death of the Laura that he knew. Lady Glyde is gone, and life in an asylum has changed Laura. Laura is no longer herself, she in some ways has taken on both the literal and figurative identity of Anne. She is believed to be Anne, and for that reason, she begins to fulfill Anne’s role as primarily a weak, seemingly child-like patient.

The fatal resemblance that has led to Laura’s dark new fate also allows for Walter to truly profess his love for her as he and Marian are the only ones who recognize Laura, and the only ones who want to reveal her true identity and discover the truth behind the mistake. This is the opportunity for Walter Hartright to be a hero of sorts and to attempt to get his lady-love back instead of being perpetually stuck in a pseudo family created by himself, Marian, and the newly child-like Laura.

Hartright’s account of Sir Percival Glyde’s death appeals to the visual and aural senses to subliminally accentuate a happiness that would be inappropriate, by Victorian standards, to express in correlation to Glyde’s passing. The juxtaposition of the “dazzling brightness of the fire” to the “murky, starless sky” during the burning vestry scene symbolizes a satisfying shift from darkness to illumination; this shift implies that Glyde’s death will eradicate the obscurities that conceal the secrets within The Woman in White (Collins, 463). Since illumination is typically linked to the acquisition of knowledge, a fire is the perfect plot device to signify new opportunities.

Although Hartright’s actions display that he is working diligently to save Glyde from the rising flames, his melodramatic inclusion of details suggests that his actions betray his intentions. Hartright attempts to prove that “All remembrance of the heartless injury the man’s crimes had inflicted; of the love, the innocence, the happiness he had pitilessly laid waste; of the oath [he] had sworn in [his] own heart to summon him to the terrible reckoning that he deserved- passed from [his} memory like a dream (Collins, 463- 464.)” However, Walter’s overcompensation to assure the readers of his noble empathy in which he “felt nothing but the natural human impulse to save him from a frightful death” is something that I cannot buy.

During his description of Glyde’s escape attempts, Walter claims to “hear the key worked violently in the lock” from the other side of the door (Collins, 463). The violent imagery of this sexual euphemism, regardless of whether it represents a literal occurrence, suggests that Hartright is thinking about Laura Fairlie and her function within her marriage as a reluctant lock that refuses to yield to her husband’s overbearing demands. Congruently, I believe that as the light from the fire becomes “brighter and brighter,” Walter becomes increasingly more exuberant.

When one really thinks about it, Mrs. Catherick falls no short of qualifying as the protagonist of this book. She is involved with two of the most evident scandals, two of the most important marriage plots in this book–one having to do with bringing about “the woman in white” and the other, the mystery to bring forth the downfall of Sir Percival Glyde.

Yet, she is nothing. She sits with her hands crossed on her lap, in her little house in the town where the clergyman bows to her. She sends Haltright away the first time he comes–although he wasn’t much better at dealing with her than she was with him–and the second time, sends him a letter in a pretense handwriting to show her “gratitude.” The text goes to much extent, indeed, to make Mrs. Catherick an unlikeable character–and this would be an understatement.

She is extremely vain. She was so when she was young, years ago with Sir Percival, and although she calls herself foolish, she never changed–“the allowance was a handsome one” (534), and she lived on the money from her so-called “enemy” for as along as before Sir Percival died, and her savings from that after. She supports a better house, better carpets, and better dresses–silk–with the money from the man she wished dead than anything else. She enjoyed her “comfortable income, in return, paid quarterly” (534). She was unjustly used by Sir Percival, thus justifying her hatred towards him. Yet it was a bargain and she enjoyed it–how to call that unjust at all? To her, the foolishness was not in vanity, but in not checking if it was safe to do so. Despite of everything that happened due to her longing for it, despite the fact that it directly ruined her life, she still cherishes the watch–“I have got them still – the watch goes beautifully” (532).

Would she ever look back to herself, and consider even remotely the fact that she might, at times, not be in the most correct position? Highly unlikely. She considers herself to “have written in the friendliest possible spirit,” and if Hartright “see[s] the necessity of writing me[her] an apology,” she would be willing to accept it (539). Friendly she may indeed have been, as she is at least being honest with her opinions. She shows without holding back how she hasn’t moved an inch from where she had been years ago, when she couldn’t resist helping a stranger for a golden watch. One might even say she was a better person than she is now, at the time–when she was young and perhaps, less caught in her own shallow pride.

This makes her, despite of everything she knows, despite of the keys she holds to so many of the mysteries throughout this novel, an insignificant character. Could she really have done so little to get revenge on Sir Percival Glyde had she not been caught up in the handsome payment she received four times a year? Had she possessed half the character of Marian Halcombe, would she have been limited her life to the sad person she had become? Yes, indeed, this novel may have never existed, this story and mystery all never created, had this one woman not labled her voluntary, self-imposed inaction as pride.