Cassandra and Charles: Revising Male/Female Relationships in Stoddard's The Morgesons

I’ve been thinking about Elizabeth Stoddard’s The Morgesons ever since I read it, mainly because it’s a really creepy book. Larisa recommended that I blog about it, which I thought was an excellent suggestion to work out some of the weirdness. I’ve been using words like “creepy,” “haunting,” and “weird” to describe The Morgesons, mainly because of the slightly mocking, satirical tone. Stoddard seems to call into question firmly established nineteenth-century (and contemporary) social conventions, mainly through her main character, Cassandra, and her interaction with others. Stoddard criticizes the idea of female solidarity (Cassandra’s relationship with her sister is bizarre, to say the least), the job of the feminine/domestic sphere (the women in the Morgeson family take no part in domesticity), and women’s reliance on familiar male figures for care and support before marriage (Cassandra’s father and cousin both fail her in different ways). Stoddard lays bare the difficulties of these conventions, which she seems to argue are fine in theory but become increasingly difficult when mixed with actual, roiling humanity. I suppose that’s why the text is so unsettling; we still privilege these conventions today, and drawing them into the proverbial light of day is uncomfortable. The entire text deserves far more treatment than I can give it here, but I’d like to isolate one textual moment for further exploration: Cassandra’s relationship with her cousin Charles.

Throughout the semester we’ve discussed writers’ attempts to revise male/female relationships and the institution of marriage. Young lovers are described as brother and sister—Willie and Gerty in The Lamplighter and Ellen and John in The Wide Wide World (among others). Young girls’ relationships with their fathers seem slightly romantic—Gerty and Philip Amory in The Lamplighter, for instance. We’ve generally seen this as an attempt to revise marital relationships; if we transfer lover-like relationships on to caring platonic, familial men (like fathers and brothers) it will model appropriate behavior for future husbands. Stoddard calls idea/practice into question in The Morgesons, playing out her criticism in the relationship of Cassandra and Charles.

Cassandra travels to stay with her cousin Charles and his wife Alice to attend a finishing school. From their first meeting, Charles affects Cassandra physically, though not in ways we’ve seen in other texts. Cassandra is not overcome with feelings of love or goodness; rather, Cassandra narrates, “His face was serene, dark, and delicate, but to look at it made me shiver” (69). She goes on to say that something “intangible, silent, magnetic” existed between them: “An intangible, silent, magnetic feeling existed between us, changing and developing according to its own mysterious law, remaining intact in spite of the contests between us of resistance and defiance” (74). These are not the feelings of “brotherly love” we’ve seen in other novels. These are dark and mysterious, and according to the text, wrong. Even though Charles and Cassandra share a mutual attraction, the consummation of their relationship is marked as a violation in the text.

In a swiftly moving textual moment, Cassandra offers a flower to one of Charles’s associates. The narration continues: “He was about to take it with a blush, when Charles struck it out of my hand and stepped on it. ‘Are you ready now?’ he said, in a quick voice. I declared it was nothing, when I found I was too ill to rise the next morning” (84). Cassandra, who is described as healthy and vivacious in comparison to her sister Verry, has never been sick in the novel. But after Charles “crushes her flower,” she inexplicably falls ill and has a sickly temperament for the rest of her life. The physical/emotional relationship between Charles and Cassandra is certainly a transgression. Charles is married and her cousin, and the consummation of their relationship is shrouded in violence.

As Stoddard revises the platonic, paternal narrative of male relatives in women’s fiction, she seems to argue that the protective paradigm is all well and good until humanity and attraction intervenes. When real-life is thrown into the mix, even familial relations have the potential to fail women. Her father later fails her economically, and Charles fails her sexually. All in all, Stoddard is most certainly questioning the hopeful status quo of “platonic” relationships in fiction as a means of revising the institution of marriage.

The Power of the Erotic: Avis Finds Her Art

We spent a lot of time in class discussing the scene of Avis’s “awakening,” and it made me start to consider alternative/expanded readings of that textual moment. We can certainly read it as a scene of her awakening as an artist—at the end of the experience she sees the Sphinx, which becomes her lifetime masterpiece. But as I was reading, I couldn’t help but notice the sexual language, imagery, and subtext of the passage. I’d like to take a closer look at those textual elements and perhaps make some meaning of their inclusion in her “artist’s awakening.”

When Avis first decides to drink the “Eau de Fleurs d’Oranger,” it is described as an experience reserved only for women: “Leave men their carousel, their fellowship, the heart’s blood of the burning grape. In the veins of the buds that girls wear at their bridals runs a fire of flavor deep enough for us” (79-80). I immediately questioned who “us” was, and I concluded that it encompassed all women. While men are left to their carousel (competitive tournaments or conveyor belts—both are equally daft) and wine, women will find fire in the buds of flowers. Of course, Phelps specifies that it’s the flowers that women “wear at their bridal runs,” immediately linking the liquor to marital consummation and virginity. She goes on: “The wine of a flower has carried many a pretty Parisan to an intrigue or a convent. Could it carry a Yankee girl to glory?” (79-80). Given the sensual nature of the previous sentences, we could read the wine leading a girl to “intrigue or a convent” as leading a young girl to sexual adventure or pre-marital pregnancy. Or both. Either way, the final question about leading a Yankee girl to glory implies that there are other outlets for this erotic energy than sex acts, for Avis’s “glory” rests in her art.

Avis’s awakening is slow, occurring in waves. The imagery is of various mythology, people, places, and periods of history, but it’s always tempered with a description of Avis’s physical reactions. At first she’s “laughing” and “excited.” Next there is a “dull but not painful pressure set slowly in the brain,” and soon after she “felt herself spin round and round” (80). Strangely, she soon after narrates, “Nothing had happened, except that the darkness had become alive” (80). As the scene ends, she “lay back upon her pillow with a sudden, long, sobbing sigh. She was very tired, but she had seen her picture” (83). I initially thought the darkness, which came alive in this scene, was her artistic instinct but it could also be read as Avis’s sensuality. She had been cultivating her artistic abilities from a young age, so describing her artistry as “darkness” doesn’t seem representative. Given the physicality of Avis’s experience, I think we have to read the scene as grounded in the body and potentially sexual, but I’d like to offer the idea that Avis’s artistic awakening and her sexual awakening are intrinsically linked.

Even though I’m highlighting the physical/sexual elements in this scene, I don’t mean to downplay the obvious artistic benefits this awakening has in Avis’s work. In fact, I think describing the two in such complimentary terms (and so closely together, in the same scene) indicates Phelp’s feelings that these two “awakenings” are closely aligned. As she “lay back upon her pillow” with a “long, sobbing sigh” she feels as though she could work. Avis’s personal realization of her sensuality and the agency therein opened up new artistic possibilities. In “The Power of the Erotic,” Audre Lorde argues that if women (who are systematically encouraged to ignore their erotic power) could harness their erotic agency and apply it to all areas of their lives, that they would be unstoppable. Lorde is careful to emphasize that the “erotic” is not “sex,” but rather the power in recognizing one’s own sensuality and harnessing that power. In this scene, it’s clear that Avis finds and recognizes her own power, channeling it to her art. Sadly, the social systems that prevent women from ever accessing this power also prevent Avis from following her awakening to its full potential, for the scene ends with Avis sobbing “like any broken hearted women who was not going to pain a great picture tomorrow” (84).

“Conspicuous Consumption” and Feminity in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth post by Larisa

Lily Bart is what we would today call a shop-aholic. She goes to the best places and buys the best clothes, jewels, hats, umbrellas, shoes, and of course, perfume. As Cynthia Griffin Wolff points out in her introduction, this lifestyle was recognized by social historian Thorstein Veblen who “coined the term 'conspicuous consumption'” (xxi). And indeed we see many examples of such behavior throughout the novel. Lily is able to go through quite a bit of cash in a short period of time. For instance, she gives Gerty $300 at one time and also gambles by playing cards with her friends. As Wolff points out in her introduction Lily is greedy, but she is also a product of her “corrupt society” which is clearly illustrated by the cluttered Victorian home and overly ornamental style of dress (xxi). With these historical ideas in mind, I found it especially interesting to look at how Lily both resists and participates in such “conspicuous consumption”--ultimately becoming a product herself of idealized femininity.

One of the most striking moments of Lily's packaging herself as a helpless female is when she asks for Gus Trenor's help to invest her money and increase her income. By doing so, she transgresses and leaves her female-defined space as a consumer and becomes a participator in the male-dominated economic spaces. Unfortunately for Lily, Trenor does not allow her to enter into a business relationship since obviously doing so is offensive to him and would likely violate societal norms about women earning money. Instead, he positions himself into a pseudo-marriage relationship by giving her money and not allowing her to earn money through investments. Even though Lily tries to escape this consumer experience, she is unable to since she cannot be an agent for herself.

Another striking moment of Lily's evident role as a product or package is when she attends the opera with Mr. Rosedale and Trenor. She is shown as an object to be looked at or visually consumed by the crowd in general, but most specifically by Rosedale, Trenor, and eventually George Dorset. She has to allow all this consumption in order to continue participation in her corrupt “set”.

At the tableaux vivant we again see Lily package herself as a product for consumption. She chooses to emulate a painting that will show her beauty in a flattering light. And while the usual suspects (Trenor, Rosedale, and Dorset) all admire her, it is Lawrence Selden who truly consumes Lily in this moment. And while we see that he does love her, his love does not motivate him to any action beyond some heavy breathing and kisses in the garden.

Interestingly enough, even as Lily's social currency begins to decrease in value, she is portrayed as continuing to maintain the costly persona required in her set. She is described as standing with “admirable erectness” (218) when she is kicked off the Dorsets' yacht; when she is disinherited by her aunt, Mrs. Peniston, she is “all nobility” (223); and even when she must move to a boardinghouse, she continues to “keep up a show of prosperity” (247).

It is not until Lily has been completely displaced from her set of friends that she begins to fade physically as both a model of female beauty and a product for male consumption. Rosedale, who once was eager to marry her, tells her that she is no longer desirable as a wife (255). This rejection by the social climbing Rosedale is the ultimate death knell to her social currency. And yet her final defiant and triumphant act against this conspicuous consumption is her death scene—like the stage in a play, she sets a scene to convey the horrible cost she has had to pay to maintain her self respect. She could have become like Carry Fisher who promotes women's interests and male desires for pay, or she could have used Bertha Dorset's letters to break up her marriage. But instead, Lily withdraws from this consumption by repaying her debt to Gus Trenor with her own limited inheritance and then killing herself. While some may see this moment as a cowardly one, she really is left with very few options to depart with her dignity. And with her death, she inflicts the greatest hurt on her enemies—her check to Gus Trenor will prove that she was not his mistress for pay and will raise questions that will most likely cause others to examine Judy Trenor and Bertha Dorset's supposed friendships with Lily, which may decrease their own societal currency.

The Danger of Sympathy for Women Artists: A Reading of The Story of Avis by Larisa

Apart from being a newlywed and subsequently traumatized by Phelps' picture of married life for women artists, I enjoyed reading The Story of Avis. The language is beautiful. And while I don't think Avis would be my best friend and Philip does deserve to kicked in the kneecaps, this text caused me to think about Phelps' message about the danger of sympathy and sympathetic feelings for the woman artist. Evidently, Avis' feelings for Philip come at a terrible price--her art. In this posting I will look at a few key moments when Phelps shows us the danger.

This compassionate love develops when Avis sees Philip for the first time after he returns from the war. Avis had resolved to stay devoted to her art and not give in to Philip’s marriage proposal, but when she sees him, he is “haggard and gray, tense” and “shattered as a broken column” (99) her artistic eyes are also touched with compassion. Elaine Showalter describes Avis’ feeling as “pity” in her new book A Jury of Her Peers: American Women Writers from Anne Bradstreet to Annie Proulx (176). Whether we see Avis’ emotion as compassion or pity, it is evident that she mistakes it for romantic love. This feeling is manifested physically in Avis as a “marvelous and magnificent change wrought upon [her] face […] by that compassion which steals a regent to the palace where Love the King has been dethroned“ (Phelps 99). And while compassion is a necessary type of love, Phelps’ use of the images of a regent and a king shows us that it is not the type of love that is required for an equalitarian relationship. Unfortunately for Avis, her naïveté lead her to mistake the one for the other and she is swayed by Philip’s physical weakness: Avis’ “heart leaped with the deep maternal yearning over suffering that is more elemental in women than the yearning of maiden or of wife” (102-103). From this moment on, her love is a compassionate and maternal one that brings her only misery.

Avis herself tells Philip that she is “suffering” (105), a suffering she likens to “death” (106). This moment signals the death of her art and her life as an artist. These early scenes before the marriage even begins are merely intimations of what is to come later on. Avis is shown to be more of a mother or caregiver to a husband who is “delicate” (141). He also behaves irresponsibly at the university and shirks the “drudgery of the classroom” (173)--another indicator of his immaturity and questionable masculinity (since a man’s number one job at that time was to provide a financially secure home for his wife and children). Avis calls him her “’poor boy’” and thinks of him as an “excited boy who got into a scrape (176). By portraying Philip in such a light, Phelps is showing to her readers the emotional cost of marriage and mothering for women like Avis. He is described on the next page as “a new burden, as if a third child had been born unto her” (177). And again we see that her love for him has completely altered: “Was it possible that her soul had ever gone upon its knees before the nature of this man? So gentle had been the stages by which her great passion had grown into mournful compassion, her divine ideal become this unheroic human reality, the king of her heart become the dependent of its care” (177).

At the story’s conclusion Phelps shows us that the demands of marriage and motherhood have stripped Avis of all feelings for her husband--“her feeling for that one man, her husband, had […] eaten into and eaten out the core of her life, left her a riddled, withered thing, spent and rent, wasted by the autocracy of a love as imperious as her own nature, and as deathless as her own soul” (244). This terrible price that she pays however is somewhat softened in her daughter’s life. In Wait we see the hope of her becoming a new kind of woman who is “competent to the terrible task of adjusting the sacred individuality of her life to her supreme capacity of love and the supreme burden and perils which it imposes upon her” (246). Phelps envisions a new kind of marriage with a new man, who will not “eat out her core” but will become, “With her, he is a crowned creature; but with him she is a free one” (247). Phelps envisions a more harmonious marriage for Wait, and we can only hope that it happens. And perhaps she is offering her readers the hope also that such a marriage can happen--I hope it can.

Sylvia: The Freak of Moods by Larisa

I read Moods during spring break when I should have been reading Ruth Hall, but I was so entranced by Louisa May Alcott's Behind a Mask that I wanted more. About halfway through Moods, I saw a connection between Sylvia Yule and Jean Muir--even though Jean is an "old" woman at 30 and Sylvia is a young girl of 17--they are both perceived as other than a traditional female. In my previous posting I showed how Jean is likened to a Scotch witch by the men in the story. Well in Moods, Sylvia is never called a witch (most likely because of her age) but she is painted in non-traditional female terms, especially as a trickster or performer like Jean. The passage that really clinches this perception of her occurs on their holiday up the river. Adam tells Geoffrey that they had a wild day while he was babysitting her and describes her as follows: "‘She is freakish and wears as many shapes as Puck,--a will-o-the wisp, a Sister of Charity, an imperious woman, a meek-faced child,--and one does not know in which part she pleases most. Hard the task of him who wins and tries to hold her‘" (220). Not only is Sylvia a trickster in her behavior, but this constant shape shifting is difficult for the men because they are not sure if she will grow up to perform as a traditionally domesticated woman, like her older sister Prudence. But interestingly, neither one of these men are interested in Prudence--they like Sylvia.

While there were not as many scenes of masking by Sylvia as there were of Jean, we see Sylvia's progression from girl to woman, especially in the clothes she wears. For example, when they are on the river trip and visit the family for the golden wedding anniversary, Sylvia changes out of her wet clothes into "Phebe's best blue gingham gown, for the preservation of which she added a white apron" (224). The apron is a clear indicator that she is trying on domesticity, especially as she goes on to put flowers on the tables and hang greenery as a metaphorical mother nature, strewing symbols of fertility about the home. Another time that she is performing womanhood is on her wedding day in which she is described as "a fashion-plate of a bride" (271) and wearing an "unusual costume" (273)--even when she feels like doing so is agonizing and longs to escape. After she is dressed, she sees Geoffrey and Alcott tells us that they “changed characters” (272)--or played different parts. Sylvia is the calm one in this scene while Geoffrey is the one with “pale excitement” (272).

We again see performance by Sylvia when she is a married woman. She and Geoffrey have their fireside fete, she changes out of the clothes (and role) of Mrs. Moor to become Sylvia again, or as Alcott describes it, "to do her part" (286). She puts on "a short, girlish gown,[...and] braided her long hair, with butterfly bows at the ends, and improvised a pinafore" (286). Apparently she could still play either part, and doing so is indicative of her moods, ennui, and general reluctance to become a woman/wife.

In the concluding chapter we see that Sylvia has settled into her role as wife and woman. This time the description of Sylvia is displaced from her physical body onto the house since she now is represented by and contained within the house. Alcott says, "May had come again and the Manse wore its loveliest aspect to greet its master, who came at last and alone. But not to an empty home, for on the threshold stood his wife, not the wayward child he wooed, the melancholy girl he married, but a woman with her soul in her face, her heart upon her lips, and outstretched arms that seemed to hold all that was dearest in the world when they clasped him with the tender cry,--'Thank God! I have my husband safe'" (355). No longer is Sylvia full of moods or performances, but she is easily perceived as a traditional woman, contained within the house and arms of her husband. A happily traditional ending, though perhaps not as interesting as Jean Muir’s story in Behind a Mask.

Narrative Interruptions (or Connections) in Ruth Hall

The episodic nature of Fanny Fern’s Ruth Hall is part of what makes the text so enjoyable and easy to read. The transitions are swift and create an urgent sense of progression from one topic (or household or publishing house) to another, encouraging the reader to keep turning the page. Of course, this structure also allows Fern to drop in chapters that interrupt the narrative flow, making readers pause and ponder. For example, scenes like Ruth’s phrenology exam and her visit to the Insane Hospital seem to purposefully disrupt the reader’s momentum, almost asking them to slow down and making meaning of the narrative departure. I’d like to take a look at one of these narrative “interruptions” in an effort to come to a greater understanding of their inclusion. Sadly, ever since a student mentioned a sexual reading of Ruth’s phrenology exam, I can’t read it any other way, so I think I’ll take on Ruth’s tour of the Insane Hospital.

The physical appearance of the Insane Hospital seems pleasant enough. There are flowers, the building is beautiful, and Ruth’s children aren’t the least bit afraid to wander the grounds. It has all the appearances of a quiet retreat, but alas! Fern’s description of the space is immediately contrasted with the haunting, morbid air invading the grounds: “There was helpless age, whose only disease was too long a lease of life for greedy heirs. There, too, was the fragile wife, to whom love was breath—being!—forgotten by the world and him in whose service her bloom had withered, insane—only in that her love had outlived his patience” (209-10). At no point does Fern describe the residents of the Insane Hospital as mentally deficient. She tells Katy that this is “a place for crazy people” (209), but it’s clear that the people who live here aren’t insane. Or at least they weren’t before their families admitted them. The Insane Hospital is, indeed, a place for crazy people, but all Ruth can see are rich, elderly relatives and used up wives. In any other situation it would seem abrupt, but it seems only natural for Ruth to ask, “Have you had many deaths here?”

We find out that Ruth’s friend, Mary Leon, had recently passed away in the Hospital, and when Ruth asks to see the body we get further evidence that the residents of the Hospital are disturbed by cruelty and ill-treatment rather than natural chemical imbalances. As Ruth walks through the corridor a woman screams for the husband and child who ran off without her. The screams of this woman who is chained and whipped regularly affect Ruth so violently that she nearly collapses against the wall: “’Wait a bit, please,’ said Ruth, leaning against the stone wall, for her limbs were trembling so violently that she could scarcely bear her weight” (212). As if readers needed further proof, Ruth’s physical and emotional reaction to the environment of the Insane Hospital makes it quite obvious that the institution makes the residents insane (and not the other way around). And the deceased Mrs. Leon, once described as quite lovely, reflects the despair of the place. Ruth can hardly recognize the emaciated corpse with “sunken eyes and hollow cheeks” while “the gibbering screams of the maniacs overhead echoed through the stillness of that cold, gloomy vault” (213).

It seems quite obvious that Fern is questioning and critiquing the institution of marriage; especially in the ways it victimizes women. Although there could be men residing in the Insane Hospital, we don’t happen to see any of them. The inmates, so to speak, are deserted wives and mothers. What seems less obvious in the text is the idea that this type of captivity, desertion, and torture isn’t always relegated to the mental institution. Earlier depictions of Mary Leon aren’t exactly happy, but they’re usually hopeful: “Ruth was sure that, under that faultless, marble exterior, a glowing, living, loving heart lay slumbering; waiting only the enchanter’s touch to wake it into life. The more she looked into those dark eyes, the deeper seemed their depths. Ruth longed, she scarce knew why, to make her life happy. Oh, if she had a soul!” (95). As Fern’s initial description of Mary Leon continues, we find that it’s a loveless marriage that weighs on her soul in such a desperate way. She cries out to Ruth, “love me—pity me; you who are so blessed. I too could love that is the drop of poison in my cup. When your daughters stand at the altar, Ruth, never compel them to say words to which the heart yields no response. The chain is not the less galling, because its links are golden. God bless you, Ruth; ‘tis long since I have shed tears. You have touched the rock; forget that the waters have gushed forth” (96). Mary Leon’s pain stems from loving a husband who does not (or cannot) love her in return. He is rich, to be sure, but Mary Leon’s unhappy life calls a marriage based on finance directly into question.

Interestingly, even Ruth, a woman who married for love, is “drawn to Mrs. Leon by an unaccountable magnetism” (94). On one hand, the connection between Ruth and Mary Leon could exemplify the important, compelling relationships between women in the 19th century. Or the inexplicable connection between these women could be further textual evidence that the institution of marriage has the ability to victimize any woman, even one who marries a kind and loving man. As we know, Harry fails Ruth as a husband by failing to arrange his affairs before death. And now that I look more closely, I see that the “Insane Hospital” chapter is sandwiched between two chapters detailing Mrs. Skiddy’s trials with her wayward husband. Mrs. Skiddy, who is never portrayed as angelic, is practically demonic as she responds “like ten thousand serpents” to her husband’s request to come home. A chapter that initially seems like an interruption to the text actually connects to the other chapters in real, visible ways. Time and time again marriage fails the women of Ruth Hall, victimizing them in various ways. As a critique of marriage, the “Insane Hospital” chapter is a physical space connecting all these women together.

Revealed: The Popularity of the Name Capitola

I wanted to see if the was any evidence that many girls were named Capitola, so I went to the baby name index provided by Social Security and looked at all the years between 1880 and 1900 (there are no records further back than 1880). I found the following: in 1882, Capitola ranked 826/1000; 1884 #691/1000; 1885 #938; 1886 #911; 1887 #803, and in 1889 #911. So, it is true, Capitola was a popular name, but not any more popular than Mary, which was the top female name in most years.