“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.

The Liminal Space of Widowhood in Ruth Hall by Fanny Fern

I noticed an interesting similarity between the characters Frado of Harriet Wilson's Our Nig and Ruth of Fanny Fern's Ruth Hall. Both women are powerless and silenced by family and associated characters. While the silencing that happens to Frado—her mouth is literally held open as she is beaten—is a more horrifying example of what can happen to a woman outside of the dominant cult of True Womanhood, what happens to Ruth is equally horrifying because her “fall” is caused by her husband's inability to protect and provide for her. Harry's failure at True Manhood causes Ruth to be silenced in a way. Her widowhood makes her invisible and puts her into a liminal space both physically and socially. The socio-economic class that Ruth was born into creates a glass floor beneath her. She cannot go down in the social hierarchy because she lacks the skills to do hard physical labor and has two small children to care for. While she could descend to the lowest space of all, as a prostitute, we quickly see Ruth rejecting any hints of such a descent. And because Ruth lacks a husband to provide for and protect her, she also cannot be accepted into the social class she once belonged to. In this sense there is a glass ceiling over her head, which a destitute woman, like Ruth, cannot break through it in 1855. All she can do in this liminal space is to either teach or write.

She is also invisible because many in her old class no longer “see” her. This is clearly illustrated when two former friends, Mary and Gertrude, come to visit her, as described in chapter XLI. When they arrive at her new home, Mary asks, “'Is this the house?'” Then Gertrude answers, “'Ruth Hall couldn't live in such a place as this[....] if Ruth Hall has got down hill so far as this, I can't keep up her acquaintance [....] I wouldn't be seen in that vulgar house for a kingdom'” (99). Even though they approach her home they refuse to enter into it because doing so would socially be a descent just as the house is down a certain hill. Mary's reflection on a past visit to Ruth and Harry's home reinforces their unwillingness to cross into the liminal space Ruth now occupies as an impoverished widow. Their reluctance to cross into this space shows how tenuous their own positions may be and their fears of “taint” by association.

Ruth's position in a liminal space is further illustrated by her relationship with her cousins, the Millets. Chapter XLII shows a discussion between two servants in the Millet household who reflect on the meager generosity of Mrs. Millet for allowing Ruth to do her laundry in their kitchen. The irony of this conversation is that Ruth and Harry used to host the Millets at their home in happier times—but now that Ruth has fallen on hard times, she is only afforded the liminal spaces of a servant: the kitchen, attic, and stairwells. Ruth is thus literally pushed into out into liminal social and physical spaces.

Lastly, Ruth's regulation to liminal spaces is illustrated by her lack of a home. Once Harry dies, she is home-less. She and the children live in boarding houses and cheap rented rooms with minimal furnishings, no kitchen facilities, and in close proximity to strangers. Even though Katy is farmed out to her grandparents, their house is never a home for her. We see this when Mrs. Hall tries to force Katy into the cellar to retrieve some hams. Katy refuses to “'go down in that dark place'”--an obvious allusion to hell. When Katy again she won't go, even if her grandmother tries to kill her, Mrs. Hall asserts ownership, not familial ties, as the reason Katy should brave the dark and rats to fetch some hams (237). Mrs. Hall's treatment of Katy as an object underscores her mercenary nature and lack of love in a space that should be very nurturing. Fortunately, Ruth rescues Katy from the descent into the dark cellar. She then whisks their little family off to a fine hotel. This is the first step in their escape from the liminal spaces they have lived in. Now they are reunited and have enough love to share and food to eat: they are on their way to a true home.

And ultimately, like Frado/Harriet, Ruth/Fanny is able to revenge herself by emerging out of liminal spaces with the publication of her book.