Reading Pamela, thinking about Dangerous Liaisons

Samuel Richardson’s Pamela is foundational for the epistolary form. Not the first epistolary novel ever written, but the one to start the craze in the 18th century. Isn’t it interesting to read foundational texts? You read the first modern novel (Don Quixote) and realise it is indeed a contender for the title of greatest novel ever written. You read the first detective novel (The Moonstone) and feel amazed that Wilkie Collins already figured out all the elements of a detective story: locked room, “inside job”, red herrings, professional investigator, large number of false suspects, “least likely suspect”, reconstruction of the crime, plot twist, etc. But then you read Pamela and discover that at this point, in 1740, Richardson didn’t quite know what he was doing, or what could be done with the epistolary novel. 

I can’t help thinking of Dangerous Liaisons (1782), perhaps the most cleverly constructed of epistolary novels.

First of all, Dangerous Liaisons has a range of writers and a range of voices, and some of the characters (Merteuil and Valmont) also adopt different voices for different people, whereas Richardson’s novel mostly has Pamela, and a bit of her parents. I read Dangerous Liaisons and think it has to be an epistolary novel, or at least the form is perfect for it; I read Pamela and think that for a large part, it could just be a standard first-person narrative. Perhaps I’m talking nonsense, as usual, because I’m on page 89 and the book is about 550 pages, but I did leaf through the book. 

Dangerous Liaisons is also more captivating for two other reasons: there are multiple things going on at the same time, and before the reader gets impatient with the slow development of the Valmont – Tourvel plot, Laclos gives us the Prévan plot and grabs our attention again; it is always more interesting when a character may be hiding something, lying to others or lying to themselves, than when a character – narrator is a virtuous girl, a Mary Sue such as Pamela. 

(Frankly, Pamela gets on my nerves). 

As I have recently explained to a friend who didn’t particularly care for the book, I love Dangerous Liaisons because it deals with human complexity and contradictions, because it explores the way people deceive others and deceive themselves, because it’s not always certain whether the characters are telling the truth or playing a role or, whilst joking or being ironic, revealing something about themselves. These are the subjects that interest me in literature. I also like the way Laclos deals with longing, sexual desire, and love. 

Another thing I’ve noted is that Laclos includes the dates (it’s clear that he carefully plans everything), whereas Richardson doesn’t. How much time passes between the letters? How often does Pamela write? How long does it take for the parents to reply? What’s the gap? As Laclos includes the dates, you think about the actions that are happening around the same time; you think about the silence, the gap; you think about the letters that get delayed and perhaps the consequences; you think about the time that an action or a scheme takes, and so on and so forth. 

Such a well-constructed novel, Dangerous Liaisons. 

Let’s hope I later have something interesting to say about Pamela.

Characterisation in Bleak House

Dickens’s detractors always say his characters are caricatures, not complex, multifaceted, and lifelike like Tolstoy’s or Jane Austen’s or George Eliot’s characters. This is something they say over and over again whenever his name pops up, and in a way, they have a point, but I think they’re missing something. There’s something magical about Dickens’s characters: they are grotesque and exaggerated but don’t feel flat and don’t feel two-dimensional—somehow they seem to have a vivid existence within the world of his books, all distinct and striking and memorable. 

How does it work? Dickens characterises each character with a few striking images. Not traits—his caricatures are more than types. Not ideas—his characters are not embodiments of ideas. But images. 

For example, this is how he introduces Mr Krook in Bleak House: 

“He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of snow.” (Ch.5) 

We see him after seeing his shop, full of old rags and shabby old volumes and various kinds of bottles.

“The litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.” (ibid.)

The shop is an extension of the man: the short, cadaverous, and withered Mr Krook is linked to the images of old rags, one-legged wooden scale, and bones.

This is Mrs Pardiggle, one of the women in the novel who do charities but neglect their own children. 

“She was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominent nose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room. And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come in like cold weather and to make the little Pardiggles blue as they followed.” (Ch.8)

Her whole manners are contained in the phrase “wanting a great deal of room”: 

“… pursued the lady, always speaking in the same demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too—and I may take the opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking eyes," meaning very prominent…” (ibid.) 

And:

“When we hastily returned from putting on our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and Mrs. Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light objects it contained.” (ibid.) 

As they leave for the brickmaker’s house, she talks to Ada in the same loud tone for the entire way. And later at the brickmaker’s house, when she’s done: 

“Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped.” (ibid.) 

The depiction culminates in an image that would imprint on the reader’s mind: Mrs Pardiggle taking the entire family into religious custody and rambling on about improving their lives, without noticing a baby dying in a corner. 

In the following chapter, Dickens introduces another character who is also loud and all ferocity but completely different from Mrs Pardiggle: Mr Lawrence Boythorn, a friend of Mr Jarndyce. 

“We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice, and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing.” (Ch.9)

The central image is there: “go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing”. Dickens also gives him a distinct voice, full of superlatives. Then we see Mr Boythorn with his little canary:

“The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good illustration of his character, I thought.

[…] It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country seemed to echo to his "Ha, ha, ha!" It had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he were no more than another bird.” (ibid.) 

He is having a rant about Sir Dedlock. 

“To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought him the gentlest.” (ibid) 

How could any reader of Bleak House forget Mr Boythorn and that contradictory image? It reminds me of Count Fosco and his mice in The Woman in White. I can’t help wondering if Wilkie Collins was inspired by Dickens. Count Fosco is the villain and he is the character with the most vivid existence in The Woman in White. 

Now let’s look at Mr Turveydrop the father:

“Just then there appeared from a side-door old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his deportment.

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must inevitably double up if it were cast loose. He had under his arm a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the brim, and in his hand a pair of white gloves with which he flapped it as he stood poised on one leg in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the world but a model of deportment.” (Ch.14) 

In a lesser writer’s hand, Mr Turveydrop might just be a dandy—a type. But in Dickens’s hand, he’s quite something else, something more vivid and grotesque. Everything about him is unnatural and false, he is “pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and strapped down”. 

Dickens creates a contrasting image of father and son:

“Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire, a model of deportment.” (ibid.) 

The word “deportment” appears a few times in the novel, before this chapter, but the portrayal of Mr Turveydrop transforms the word completely. You cannot see the word “deportment” without seeing Mr Turveydrop—" he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the world but a model of deportment”. 

But the most striking character in Bleak House so far (I’m on chapter 14) is Mrs Jellyby, the other woman who does charities but neglects her own children.

“She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if—I am quoting Richard again—they could see nothing nearer than Africa!” (Ch.4) 

The characters in the novel are all colourful and unforgettable, but Dickens’s depiction of Mrs Jellyby and her household is particularly rich in detail. 

“Ada and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork.” (ibid.) 

Everything is in the wrong place and Esther’s door has no knob. 

“We had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw.” (ibid.) 

And:

“She told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives, and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once.” (ibid.) 

The description of the Jellyby household is rich in detail, I’m just picking out the most interesting images. Later on, when we see her family again:

“… Miss Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical Peepy, whom she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands and making his hair very wet and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Everything the dear child wore was either too large for him or too small.” (Ch.14) 

See that image of the dirt wiped into corners of his face. Some readers are mistaken to look for the kind of psychological realism one finds in Tolstoy or George Eliot—the art of Dickens is in the prose, in the details and images. 

I note that all of these descriptions come from Esther Summerson’s narrative (Bleak House alternates between her and the omniscient narrator). Now she is a very good writer, a very funny writer. 

Mansfield Park: in defence of Fanny Price

Of Jane Austen’s novels, Mansfield Park is the least popular. I’ve been rereading the book lately. In this blog post, I’ll respond to the common complaints, one by one.  
“Fanny Price is insipid.” 
She is quiet and introverted. 
Compared to some other Jane Austen heroines, especially Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse, Fanny may not have the same vivacity and charm, but at the same time, her circumstances are different. Readers who complain that Fanny is quiet and boring usually forget that she’s sent to live with her rich relatives since a child, and always conscious of her own place. 
From the start, Sir Thomas makes it clear that she would not be equal to her cousins: 

““There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,” observed Sir Thomas, “as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of my daughters the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make her remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals. Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different...”” (Ch.1) 

Mrs Norris is always there to remind Fanny of her own place: 

““The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle that.”” (Ch.23) 

She can make no claims, and can never put herself forward. She is raised among snobs—Sir Thomas is kind but condescending towards her, and her cousins except Edmund think that her ignorance of geography and languages and her lack of accomplishments is due to stupidity, not lack of education. 
In such circumstances, how can she be as active, vivacious, and fun as Elizabeth Bennet? Or Mary Crawford? 

“Fanny is not as fun as Mary Crawford.” 
To some extent, I don’t disagree—Mary Crawford is more fun, she is clever and a good judge of character, and charming in her straightforwardness. 
But so what? I for one make a distinction between being fun and being interesting. Mary might be more fun, but Fanny has sensitivity and self-reflection, and also a richer mind. Mary might be perceptive of people, but she doesn’t have Fanny’s sensitivity and depth of feeling to appreciate nature nor feel anything when visiting a house (Sotherton).  
Fanny can sit in quiet and contemplation, whereas Mary gets restless. An example is when they visit Sotherton, Mary can’t sit for long and gets restless and needs to get up to go.   
When Maria and Julia go away, she turns to Fanny, because she always needs excitement, needs someone to talk to. 
Later, when Edmund is also away: 

“What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances.” (Ch.29) 

All these things show that Fanny has a richer mind. Look at what Edmund says to her:  

““I am worn out with civility,” said he. “I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.”” (Ch.28) 

This is something he can’t do with Mary—she is shallow, so she has to fill the emptiness with talk talk talk. 
In addition, people say that Fanny is boring, but look at this passage: 

““This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as they were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years, we may be forgetting—almost forgetting what it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the changes of the human mind!” And following the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.”
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must interest…” (Ch.22) 

It is clear in this passage that she is the interesting one, and Mary can’t follow her and has nothing to say. 

“Fanny is a prig—she makes a fuss about others acting in the play.” 
People who make this complaint don’t seem to think of the context and the rules of the time (Mansfield Park was published in 1814). In No Name, Wilkie Collins also writes about the impropriety of private theatricals, especially when 2 young unmarried people play the roles of lovers. You can’t judge it by modern standards. 
That being said, most of the opposition to Lovers’ Vow comes from Edmund, who openly and repeatedly condemns it. Fanny mostly doesn’t support it because she knows Sir Thomas wouldn’t like it, and it’s not right to do something he wouldn’t approve of, in his absence. 
Mostly, she’s disappointed in Edmund for opposing the play and then agreeing to act in it—he appears inconsistent, and in a way, it’s like he lets the others win.

“Fanny is judgmental.”  
This criticism is mostly because she seems judgmental towards Mary Crawford. What if she’s just a good judge of character? 
Note that the people who use the word “judgmental” for Fanny like Mary, and don’t seem to realise that Mary is actually the judgmental one, who makes sweeping generalisations about the entire Navy and all of the clergy, merely because of the Admiral (her uncle) and Dr Grant (her brother-in-law), and a few things she has heard. 
Mary is also a snob—whilst approving of Fanny’s character, she’s still conscious of the fact that Fanny is beneath her brother, and later, she congratulates her for being liked by Henry. 
Most importantly, Fanny is being called judgmental, but she notices everything and always sympathises with the underdog—she notices Maria’s avoidance and helps Mr Rushworth learn his lines, feels bad for him when Maria and Henry go off without him and he goes back to fetch the key for nothing, notices Henry playing with Maria’s and Julia’s feelings, and feels sorry for Julia for being slighted by Henry. 
In contrast, Mary might step in when Fanny’s scolded and accused of ingratitude by Mrs Norris, but doesn’t help anyone, and doesn’t care when knowing that Henry plays with Maria and Julia without caring about either of them. I do like that she recognises that Maria is also at fault for being intimate with someone else when she’s engaged, it’s not all Henry’s blame, but still, she doesn’t care. 
If you read the book carefully, you can see that Fanny is most critical of herself—she has self-reflection, thinks that she is shy, weak, timid, awkward, nothing special, ponders over her own actions, wonders if she’s ungrateful or unfair, and so on.
It should be noted too that Fanny doesn’t explain to Sir Thomas her reason for refusing Henry, so as not to incriminate Maria and Julia, and she accepts the consequences herself. 

“Fanny is weak and passive.” 
She is physically weak indeed, but mentally strong. Think of the pressure from every side, but she still says no to Henry Crawford. 

“Fanny marries her cousin, ew.”
This complaint is judging the story through modern lens, and should be disregarded. 

“Fanny should choose Henry Crawford.” 
I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll say it again: anyone who thinks so misunderstands not only Mansfield Park but Jane Austen in general. 
Anyone who truly understands Jane Austen knows that she distrusts charming men, disapproves of men who play with women’s feelings, and doesn’t believe that a woman’s love can reform a man. 
For a large part of the book, Henry plays with Maria’s and Julia’s feelings, going back and forth between the 2, charming each of the Miss Bertrams at one time and slighting the other another moment. For example, on the trip to Sotherton, he sits at the front with Julia, neglecting Maria, then afterwards goes with Maria, having fun with her, leaving Julia behind, then on the way back, sits again with Julia on the carriage.  
During the play rehearsals, he flirts with Maria and gives her lots of attention, hurting Julia’s feelings and thinking nothing of the engagement, but without any intention of proposing to her and persuading her to break off the engagement with Mr Rushworth. 
Later, when Maria has got married and gone away: 

“Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected his spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!”” (Ch.23) 

He is clearly a douchebag, having no remorse. 
I don’t say it’s impossible that Henry falls in love with someone like Fanny—in real life that happens often. But she has every reason to distrust it, and even Mary, the popular Mary, doesn’t think it would last either: 

““… I know that a wife you loved would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman.”” (Ch.30) 

There’s another detail I forgot after my first reading of Mansfield Park several years ago: Henry declares his feelings to Fanny right after telling her about her brother’s promotion to Lieutenant, thanks to his doing. It is distasteful—it is like he wants to manipulate her and pressure her into accepting him, to avoid being accused of ingratitude. Afterwards, he makes her more uncomfortable by showing up at dinner, instead of leaving her alone for some time to calm down and decide. 
Not only so, Henry speaks to Sir Thomas about his intentions, despite Fanny's reaction. 
All these actions show that, despite his declarations of love, and his belief, Henry doesn’t have the sensitivity to care about Fanny’s feelings. It baffles me that some people may claim to be a Jane Austen’s fan and think Fanny should end up with Henry. 

In short, this is my response, once and for all, to the idiocy that has been said about Fanny Price and Mansfield Park.

Random musings on No Name (2), with a question of ethics

1/ It’s interesting that Captain Wragge completely steals the scene in Scene 4, but when he’s gone, in Scene 6, Magdalen becomes prominent and interesting again.

2/ Look at the end of Scene 5—Progress of the Story through the Post.
Some of the letters say “From Mrs Noel Vanstone to Mr Loscombe” in the headline, but they are signed as Magdalen Vanstone.
The signature should be Susan Vanstone. Mr John Loscombe is Noel Vanstone’s lawyer, and Magdalen’s assumed name when she marries Noel Vanstone is Susan Bygrave.
This must be Wilkie Collins’s mistake, because it happens more than once and Mr Loscombe says nothing about it.

3/ I forgot that George Bartram was mentioned early in the book, so had to go back to check. He’s the son of Mr Andrew Vanstone’s dead sister (Mr Andrew Vanstone is father of Norah and Magdalen).
Magdalen Vanstone marries Noel Vanstone, and if my prediction from the end of Scene 4 is correct that Norah Vanstone would marry George Bartram, both sisters marry their cousins. 
Not only so, George Bartram looks like Mr Andrew Vanstone in his younger days. That’s kinda gross, no?

4/ From the point of morality, how bad is Magdalen? Who are we meant to sympathise with?
Let’s go back to the beginning—why do Norah and Magdalen lose their entire inheritance? It’s because they’re illegitimate, their parents’ recent marriage makes the father’s previously made will become invalid in the eyes of the law, and the sudden death cuts off the possibility to make a new will. 
In short, stupid laws and unfortunate circumstances. It is clear that if not for the accident, the father would create a new will to provide for them.
So the entire inheritance (£80,000) goes to the dead man’s brother, Michael Vanstone. Norah accepts her situation and is forced to work as a governess to earn her keep, whereas Magdalen thinks the money should belong to her and her sister, so she tries to get it back. Other characters think of it as revenge, but is it not righting an injustice?
As I read the book, I was rooting for Magdalen. Norah might be seen as more virtuous, but Magdalen works to get back what is unfairly taken away from her. Later, when the money goes from Michael Vanstone to his son Noel, Noel is a miser anyway, who doesn’t want money to go out of his pockets and therefore never spends any of his money unless he absolutely has no other choice. Maybe I just really loathe misers.
I have disliked Miss Garth from early on, for having prejudices about forces of evil in Magdalen, based on nothing. I dislike her more for interfering and helping Mrs Lecount. It is partly Magdalen’s fault, for not warning her and Norah, the same way she’s careless with Mrs Wragge, but the old governess is also meddlesome and naïve, easily taken in.
I also dislike Mr Pendril, the lawyer. As I read the exchanges between Miss Garth and Mr Pendril, between the old governess’s treacherous meeting with Mrs Lecount and the news of Noel Vanstone’s death and Magdalen’s 2nd disinheritance, I’m appalled at their reaction. Is there no sympathy? Is there no understanding? Mr Pendril shows no pity in his letter; instead, he warns that Magdalen would continue, and Norah must be careful. 
(This is a comment on the characters, not a criticism of the book).
Miss Garth and Mr Pendril both are insufferable in their virtuousness—they have no empathy.

No Name: is Magdalen’s struggle about ethics?

Several years ago, discussing No Name, Tom at Wuthering Expectations wrote this post about ethics: 
http://wutheringexpectations.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-roused-forces-of-evil-in-herself.html

“"Evil" seems awfully strong, and "ripening ground of the undeveloped Good" is ridiculous, although I too have been lazily accepting the governess’s ethics by describing Magdalen's motivation as "revenge."  What if, instead, she is righting an injustice?  In her mind, sometimes it's the one, sometimes the other, but still, Evil?” 

I agree. Big deal! 
The ridiculous part is that Miss Garth’s worry about good and evil in Magdalen comes right after they talk about the unjust situation, i.e. before Magdalen knows how she’s going to take revenge and try to get her money back, perhaps even before she makes up her mind to do it. 
Miss Garth’s concern about the forces of evil in Magdalen, at that point, is based on nothing. 
Tom wrote another post about ethics in No Name, this time Magdalen’s ethics: 
http://wutheringexpectations.blogspot.com/2012/09/you-forget-how-strong-i-am-she-said.html
The argument is that Magdalen wrestles with her conscience, fearing that “her carefully planned, entirely justified fraudulent marriage will be an evil act”, and the ethics in No Name is not the author’s, but Magdalen’s. Magdalen struggles with ethics. 
But does she? Is her struggle about ethics? 
I didn’t read the chapter (S.4, ch.13) that way. 

“By slow degrees her mind recovered its balance and she looked her position unflinchingly in the face. The vain hope that accident might defeat the very end for which, of her own free-will, she had ceaselessly plotted and toiled, vanished and left her; self-dissipated in its own weakness. She knew the true alternative, and faced it. On one side was the revolting ordeal of the marriage; on the other, the abandonment of her purpose. Was it too late to choose between the sacrifice of the purpose and the sacrifice of herself? Yes! too late. The backward path had closed behind her. Time that no wish could change, Time that no prayers could recall, had made her purpose a part of herself: once she had governed it; now it governed her. The more she shrank, the harder she struggled, the more mercilessly it drove her on. No other feeling in her was strong enough to master it—not even the horror that was maddening her—the horror of her marriage.” 

I read it more as fear of the marriage, repugnance for the future husband, and hesitation about sacrificing herself for a purpose. 
She later says: 

““Thousands of women marry for money,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I?”” 

Again, I don’t think it’s about the ethics of marrying for money, which “thousands of women” do, but about the prospect of marrying someone she despises like Noel Vanstone and pretending to like him. Earlier in the book, Wilkie Collins may not describe the seduction, but he lets readers see that Magdalen finds Noel Vanstone repulsive, and each time meeting him she feels sickened and needs fresh air afterwards and doesn’t want to see more of his face. Once she even decides to go away for a few days just to avoid Noel Vanstone. 
To marry him is indeed to sacrifice herself (imagine being intimate with that sickly, temperamental, stupid, and cruelly stingy Noel Vanstone, ew).
However, Magdalen would have to choose between the sacrifice of herself and the sacrifice of her purpose, but she seems to have chosen to live for the purpose, especially after Frank’s abandonment. She’s like Captain Ahab, and the family of Michael Vanstone and Noel Vanstone is her white whale.  
I wasn’t entirely serious there, but I wasn’t really joking either. 
Magdalen hopes for something to happen, some kind of accident, before the wedding, because she can’t choose. She doesn’t want to marry Noel Vanstone, so an accident would be a convenient way to stop the marriage without her having to intentionally give up her plan. 
Similarly, she wants to kill herself, because now she only lives for a purpose—the revenge, but deep down, she doesn’t want to do it. The man is disgusting. Death would end it all. No more doubt, no more pretence, no more suffering.
She already seems depressed, and in her mind, she has nothing else to live for. Death would end it all. 
When the chapter is read this way, that Magdalen’s struggle is not about ethics, I have to think about the question of ethics in No Name differently.

The battle of wits in No Name

The Woman in White is a reminder that when it comes to literature, you can’t rely on other people’s judgment or even summary of the plot, you need to read the book for yourself.  
The 1st Wilkie Collins I read was The Moonstone, which had several well-drawn female characters, from the colourful and fascinating Miss Clark, to the realistic characters such as Rosanna and Rachel, portrayed with lots of humanity and sympathy. 
When I read The Woman in White, the blurbs and reviews here and there all echoed the characters’ view that Marian Halcombe is an intelligent, independent, and resourceful woman, but everything that happened in the story proved otherwise. The different narrators may tell readers time and time again that Marian’s intelligent and admirable, but as it turns out, she’s frustratingly dim-witted—naïve, slow, not very perceptive, and extremely careless (argued here, here, and here). 
The best character in the book is neither the hero nor the heroine, but the villain—Count Fosco. The Woman in White may be accused of being melodramatic (it is, after all, a sensation novel), and Marian Halcombe’s stupidity may now and then drive you up the wall, but the book is worth reading for Count Fosco alone. 
Now I’m reading No Name. At first, having prepared for a revenge story, I expected the book to be a mind game between Magdalen and her uncle Michael Vanstone, the man who got all of her and her sister’s money. Then Wilkie Collins killed him off. So I expected it now to be between Magdalen and Noel Vanstone, Michael’s son. 
However, I’m in Scene 4 at the moment (Aldborough, Suffolk), and Magdalen, an intelligent character and feminist figure according to many reviews, turns out to be not very smart. She’s not very adept at the revenge game, too hasty to prepare herself fully and too short-tempered to keep up the act, neither experienced nor cunning enough to be convincing in her disguise. At the same time, she’s not very quick. The quick one is Mr Wragge, who notices everything and points things out for her. 
Contrary to my expectations, in Scene 4, No Name becomes a battle of wits between Magdalen’s relative, Captain (Horatio) Wragge and Mrs (Virginie) Lecount, Noel Vanstone’s domineering housekeeper. They are the ones who do the thinking and make the moves, they are the ones who guess the opponent’s next move and try to defeat each other, they are the ones who move the plot forward.  
Not only so, Wilkie Collins focuses on Mr Wragge’s and Mrs Lecount’s perspectives, keeping Magdalen’s point of view hidden from readers, and keeps Magdalen’s seduction of Noel Vanstone entirely off-stage, or if it doesn’t happen off-stage, it’s skimmed over and barely described. 
Nobody knows how Magdalen seduces Noel. I suppose, neither did Collins. 
So strange.

The form of No Name

1/ If you place lots of importance on the social/ political aspect of a novel, No Name is interesting in its examination of stupid inheritance laws in England in the 19th century. I didn’t know these things before reading the book. 
The more interesting part, I find, is that Wilkie Collins creates 2 sisters, Norah and Magdalene, who are very different in personality and temperament, and thereby shows 2 different paths, 2 different responses to the same situation. 

2/ This is not a new observation, but in No Name, Wilkie Collins plays with perspective nicely by switching between the 3rd person omniscient and the 1st person narrator in epistolary form. 
The book is divided into Scenes, each of which has several chapters set mainly in 1 location, told by the 3rd person omniscient narrator, then followed by several documents such as letters, journal entries…, which tell the story from the 1st person point of view.   
This is an ingenious and effective device, especially effective for a mystery and suspense book such as No Name. For example, at the end of Scene 1, when Magdalene disappears, the documents show the events from the limited perspective of the lawyer Mr Pendril and the detectives (which is also the perspective of Norah and Miss Garth), and make readers speculate about what happens, especially when they receive an anonymous letter from a man telling them to drop the pointless search. Which man can it be? Then Collins brings us to Scene 2 and goes back in time to narrate the events from the objective point of view, revealing the truth. 
My only complaint is that I feel Collins doesn’t employ the device to the full—think of the colourful Count Fosco in The Woman in White, and the fascinating Gabriel Betteredge and the unforgettable Miss Clark in The Moonstone, then look again at Captain Wragge’s journal and see how dull it is. From afar (I mean, when the story was in 3rd person), I was expecting a lot more. 
That being said, No Name is very enjoyable. Wilkie Collins is master at keeping readers hooked. 
I don’t know how readers coped with impatience when the book was originally serialised.

Random musings on No Name

1/ Can anyone read the scene of private theatricals in No Name without thinking about Mansfield Park? The concern is the same, Norah Vanstone is on the same side as Jane Austen’s Fanny Price—amateur acting may encourage flirting and intimacy between young people, which is inappropriate. 
Here’s a funny bit, between Magdalen Vanstone and Frank, or Francis Clare: 

“… “It’s a compliment, I know, to be asked to act,” said Frank, in great embarrassment. “But I hope you and Miss Marrable will excuse me—”
“Certainly not. Miss Marrable and I are both remarkable for the firmness of our characters. When we say Mr. So-and-So is positively to act the part of Falkland, we positively mean it. Come in and be introduced.”
“But I never tried to act. I don’t know how.”
“Not of the slightest consequence. If you don’t know how, come to me and I’ll teach you.”
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Vanstone. “What do you know about it?”
“Pray, papa, be serious! I have the strongest internal conviction that I could act every character in the play—Falkland included. Don’t let me have to speak a second time, Frank. Come and be introduced.”” (S.1, Ch.4)   

As someone who was forced to act to fill a role (in my graduation film), I must say that is cute. The experience was mortifying—now that I’ve had the experience of being before the camera, I’ve understood the vulnerability of actors. 
Acting before a live audience is even worse. 

2/ Mr Clare, father of Frank and neighbour of the Vanstones, is an interesting character. He despises his own children, especially Frank, and wants them to fail just to be proven right. 
Sounds familiar. Did Wilkie Collins read Washington Square? 
Except that No Name was published in 1862, and Henry James’s book in 1880. Never mind. 

3/ No Name is about the story of the 2 Vanstone sisters, Norah and Magdalene, who become disinherited because of illegitimacy and some stupid laws. 
The question of supreme importance is: how much should each of the sisters get, if not for the unfortunate circumstances, and how much does each sister actually get from their cruel uncle Michael Vanstone?   
The amounts are, the book says, £40,000 (Mr Andrew Vanstone’s total fortune is £80,000) and £100, respectively. 
But what does that mean? 
The year in the story is 1846. I’ve just used an inflation calculator, and if it’s to be trusted (it’s the website of Bank of England), in 2018 each of the sisters would be entitled to about £4,580,618 and the amount the uncle offers each of them would be equivalent to £11,451. 
For context, the national minimum wage in the UK for over 25s is £8.21, so if we make it simple by assuming that someone works for 40 hours/ week, the annual salary would be £17,076 before tax. You might want to know the amount after tax, but there are lots of factors involved and the calculation is not perfect, especially over such a long period of time, so there’s no need to pretend to be exact—this, I think, is enough to get an idea of the money in No Name.

Reading Dracula with distance

Why am I reading Dracula when the horror genre isn't my thing? 
The same way I can't help comparing her to Tolstoy, Flaubert and Jane Austen when reading George Eliot, I've been silently making comparisons between Bram Stoker and Robert Louis Stevenson, Mary Shelley and Wilkie Collins. Dracula is a classic, sure, but is it serious literature? Never mind. That's probably the wrong question. What matters is that I don't think it's on par with Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, which is a brilliantly written, perfectly controlled and tightly packed work or art, and Frankenstein, which is a fascinating and marvellously rich novel of ideas. I don't mean that Dracula is bad, but I see it as a story, or an elaboration of a myth, more than as a work of art. For example, think about the epistolary form. Dracula is made up of not only journals and letters (traditional in novels) but, as written in the introduction, also "memorandums, telegrams, title-deeds of property, railway timetables, dictionaries, newspaper cuttings, monumental inscriptions, notebooks, phonologically recorded case-notes of psychiatry, and a ship's log translated from the Russian"*. That is very interesting, but I'm afraid that Bram Stoker hasn't made use of all the potential of the form. 1st, I haven't seen any unreliable narrator. 2nd, this can be a means of characterisation. In The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins exploits the form for the creation and depiction of 2 of the most fascinating characters in literature- Gabriel Betteredge and Miss Clack; in The Woman in White, it's Count Fosco and Mr Fairlie. In Dracula, the characters' voices are not very distinctive and distinguishable. 3rd, there's no clash of perspectives. We all know that in life the same thing is seen and experienced differently by different people, and sometimes 2 versions of the same incident can be different beyond recognition. There's no such obvious conflict in Dracula, at least not yet. 
Should I read faster and consume it whole instead of taking it slowly and critically? No, perhaps I shouldn't speed up- I'm highly unlikely to read the book again. 
At the moment I find myself more fascinated by Renfield than by the Count and his prey and his hunters. Renfield's the most intriguing, colourful and mysterious character in the novel. 






*: written by Maud Ellmann. 

Top 10 "Are we reading the same book?" moments

i.e. those moments when I don't understand how some readers interpret a book in a certain way or why they see or don't see certain things in it.

1/ What do you mean Fanny Price should marry Henry Crawford and Edmund Bertram should marry Mary? And you call yourself a Janeite?* 
2/ Heathcliff is a romantic hero and Wuthering Heights is a beautiful love story? What's wrong with you?
3/ You think Mr Darcy is charming? Have you read the book? It's Colin Firth that you're thinking of.
4/ Do you seriously think Madame Bovary is a feminist book and Emma Bovary is a strong, independent, admirable woman who breaks out of conventions and defies public opinion to live for love? 
5/ How is it possible that you regard Rosamond Vincy as a study of female rebellion and criticise Lydgate for not taking her advice?**
6/ Marian Halcombe is a strong, independent and intelligent woman and a great, interesting character? Are you joking?***
7/ Have you read Lolita before calling it a child abuse manual?
8/ Why does the portrayal of Homais in Madame Bovary mean that Flaubert's against science?
9/ How can you not see that Frankenstein's experiment isn't a failed experiment?
10/ 

The 10th spot is left empty. Your thoughts, please. 






*: All of my posts about Mansfield Park are collected here. 
**: Discussed here. 
***: Discussed here, here, here and here. 

Scattered thoughts on Dracula, on the plot, devices, character types, parallels

In Dracula, everyone keeps notes of some sort (mostly journals) and nobody tells anybody anything. The plot of Dracula depends on the characters' silence, or to be precise, their decision to keep information to themselves; especially the 2 persons who know the most, Jonathan Harker and Dr Van Helsing. Their refusal to share information and warn others, similar to Frankenstein's, is necessary for the plot. Bram Stoker needs some other tools to keep the story going. We have Lucy Westenra, who sleepwalks and falls victim to we-know-what. A pure woman, perfect according to Victorian standards, she's reminiscent of Laura Fairlie in The Woman in White. Then we have Mrs Westenra, the silly woman who means well but ruins everything, like Mrs Michelson and Mrs Clements in The Woman in White. 
On page 136. Will write more later, I'm trying to put together some pieces. Perhaps Lucy isn't so pure and lovely after all- she studies her own face, and when telling Mina about her 3 proposals in 1 day, she asks "Why can't they let a girl marry 3 men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble?". 
If we ignore the way the people in Dracula have blood transfusions without regard to blood type, there is something quite erotic, in Bram Stoker's description, about the men giving blood to the woman they love. 
Also, I wonder if there's any significant parallel between Lucy and the 3 suitors, and Jonathan and the 3 female vampires in Dracula's castle. 

Dracula and The Woman in White

Dracula makes me think of The Woman in White. 
Both are novels-as-documents. How many novels of this type have I read lately? Frankenstein is slightly different- the book is a series of letter from Walton to his sister, but embedded in this narrative is Frankenstein's narrative, which in turn frames the creature's narrative (reminiscent of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall- the whole novel is 1 letter from Gilbert Markham to a friend, and within this letter is Helen's diary). Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde isn't strictly an epistolary novel, though there are 2 chapters at the end that are letters. Only The Moonstone is another novel composed of a series of documents: reports, letters, diary excerpts, articles, etc. Like Dracula and The Woman in White. 
It can be felt that in Dracula, the various writings are not put together by Bram Stoker for the benefit of the reader (multiple viewpoints) like A Hero of Our Time for instance, but collected and organised by the people in the book, as in the 2 novels by Wilkie Collins. 
Another thing that unites Dracula and The Woman in White on the surface is the terror, or rather, the mystery and suspense. There are more similarities. Jonathan Harker coming to a strange house and becoming imprisoned in it is reminiscent of Marian and Laura being imprisoned in Percival Clyde's house. If Harker is Bram Stoker's Marian, his Count Fosco is Count Dracula. Fortunately our Jonathan Harker isn't as dim-witted and slow to understand as Marian Halcombe. He observes and notices everything and understands things quickly, which a few times makes me wonder if it's plausible- I mean, if any intelligent person under such circumstances would come to such conclusions, or it's only Bram Stoker answering questions he previously raised and making it easier for us. No, it's probably logical- I can't say because I have something akin to hindsight, I know what Dracula is.
Anyway, I must write again, Harker's smarter than Marian. Look at chapter 3, entry for 15/5: 

"When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket, I felt sleepy." 

That's the way to do it, Marian. Hide your writing away before you may doze off. Why leave everything there for the Count to see. 

Frankenstein: Justine Moritz's trial

I'm reading Frankenstein, the 1818 text. What can I say now that hasn't been said about Mary Shelley's novel? Perhaps nothing. 
Anyway... 
Here are the 1st details that tie Justine Moritz to the murder of William: 

"... the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed; and after several days, 1 of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed to 1 of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their disposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner..." 

At court: 

"Several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about 8 o'clock; and, when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court." 

Here is her own defence: 

"... She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from Geneva. On her return, at about 9 o'clock, she met a man, who asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account..." 

Have I said that I love courtroom films? I do. This case, I initially thought, is mostly based on circumstantial evidence, except for the picture. It makes me think of The Moonstone, in which Sergeant Cuff's conclusion about Rosanna's guilt, based on facts, observations and logical reasoning, makes lots of sense, though it's wrong. Then it's hard to say, the verdict is understandable. The case seems convincing enough, especially because Justine later confesses. Why does she, if she's innocent? The people who believe her to the end do so mostly because of their confidence in her character, in her goodness, and who knows, they may be wrong. I don't know anything- of course Frankenstein's 1 of those famous novels of which (almost) everyone knows something (like Dracula, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Pride and Prejudice, Anna Karenina...), but I know the general plot, not the details, and don't remember having watched any film adaptation (if I have, it must have been a long time ago). Anyhow, that's beside the point. What I mean to say is that, I'm not making any guesses at this state about Justine. The question is: why is Victor Frankenstein absolutely convinced that his monster's the true murderer? What does he have?

"What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chartered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. [...] Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact..." 

He doesn't even have circumstantial evidence! Where does that conviction come from? The monster's created on page 39 in my book. In shock Frankenstein goes away, and upon coming back, finds it gone. The monster appears again on page 56, and disappears. Right now I'm on page 69, there has been nothing new between the creator and the creation. Why is he so sure?

"What a situation! I suggest it to the rising romance writers of England."

Escape from mental asylum, hindered love, mercenary marriage, eavesdropping, spying, stalking, theft, debts, illness, sedation, fraud, kidnapping, mistaken identities, heart attack, chase, violence, threats, scandal, document forgery, affair, illegitimacy, bribery, fire, death, secret political societies, espionage...
The Woman in White is a sensation novel. And it has not 1, not 2, but 4 secrets! 4! I read The Moonstone for the characters, not for the discovery of the moonstone; but I read The Woman in White for the secrets. It was like, okay now I knew the 1st secret, what about the 2nd one, got the 2nd secret, what about the 3rd on, and so on and so forth. 
Okay, no, not only that. I read it, and enjoy it, because of Count Fosco. 
Take this paragraph- Hartright's description:

"He carried his sixty years as if they had been fewer than forty. He sauntered along, wearing his hat a little on one side, with a light jaunty step, swinging his big stick, humming to himself, looking up from time to time at the houses and gardens on either side of him with superb, smiling patronage. If a stranger had been told that the whole neighbourhood belonged to him, that stranger would not have been surprised to hear it..." 

Now, Marian's description: 

"... Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with him to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds, and a whole family of white mice. He attends to all the necessities of these strange favourites himself, and he has taught the creatures to be surprisingly fond of him and familiar with him. The cockatoo, a most vicious and treacherous bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to love him. When he lets it out of its cage, it hops on to his knee, and claws its way up his great big body, and rubs its top-knot against his sallow double chin in the most caressing manner imaginable. He has only to set the doors of the canaries' cages open, and to call them, and the pretty little cleverly trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand, mount his fat outstretched fingers one by one, when he tells them to "go upstairs," and sing together as if they would burst their throats with delight when they get to the top finger. His white mice live in a little pagoda of gaily-painted wirework, designed and made by himself. They are almost as tame as the canaries, and they are perpetually let out like the canaries. They crawl all over him, popping in and out of his waistcoat, and sitting in couples, white as snow, on his capacious shoulders. He seems to be even fonder of his mice than of his other pets, smiles at them, and kisses them, and calls them by all sorts of endearing names. If it be possible to suppose an Englishman with any taste for such childish interests and amusements as these, that Englishman would certainly feel rather ashamed of them, and would be anxious to apologise for them, in the company of grown-up people. But the Count, apparently, sees nothing ridiculous in the amazing contrast between his colossal self and his frail little pets. He would blandly kiss his white mice and twitter to his canary-birds amid an assembly of English fox-hunters, and would only pity them as barbarians when they were all laughing their loudest at him." 

Isn't that fascinating?
And when he loses a mouse? He exclaims: 

"One, two, three, four——Ha! where, in the name of Heaven, is the fifth—the youngest, the whitest, the most amiable of all—my Benjamin of mice!"

Towards his wife: 

"He bows to her, he habitually addresses her as "my angel," he carries his canaries to pay her little visits on his fingers and to sing to her, he kisses her hand when she gives him his cigarettes; he presents her with sugar-plums in return, which he puts into her mouth playfully, from a box in his pocket. The rod of iron with which he rules her never appears in company—it is a private rod, and is always kept upstairs." 

See how those things fit his ruthless nature. 
Look at these lines from his narrative: 

"We both wanted money. Immense necessity! Universal want! Is there a civilised human being who does not feel for us? How insensible must that be! Or how rich!" 

"The scene was picturesque, mysterious, dramatic in the highest degree. [...] I bore my share of that inestimably precious burden with a manly tenderness, with a fatherly care. Where is the modern Rembrandt who could depict our midnight procession? Alas for the Arts! alas for this most pictorial of subjects! The modern Rembrandt is nowhere to be found."

"(Pass me, here, one exclamation in parenthesis. How interesting this is!)" 

"I turned manfully to the future." 

The title of this post is also a quote of the Count. 
What a villain! Next to him, Percival Glyde's so insipid. 
By the way, this is a picture of a cockatoo: 

And another:

Somehow, the image of a cockatoo goes so well with Count Fosco. The flamboyance, perhaps. 
Now that's a villain. Greatest character in The Woman in White. And more interesting than Godfrey Ablewhite*. We need characters like this.





*: The best characters in The Moonstone, in my opinion, are Miss Clack and Gabriel Betteredge. 

The female characters in The Woman in White and The Moonstone

So people*, here and there, tell me that in The Woman in White the sweet, gentle, innocent, trustful but boringly passive Laura Fairlie, the perfect woman according to Victorian standards, is contrasted with the independent, intelligent, sharp, resourceful Marian Halcombe. Excuse me, are we reading the same book? Those qualities, which Wilkie Collins tells us through Walter Hartright and Count Fosco and which others tell me, are not shown anywhere once we come closer to Marian. Marian is interesting at the beginning, in the way she talks freely, has none of the irritating affectation or coquettish behaviour common to many women around that age, makes decisions in the house where others are either indifferent or weak, notices everything, acts with determination, does what she says, talks to Walter with admirable frankness and directness. When Sir Percival appears and later when trouble begins, she loses her strength of mind and remains most of the time confused, indecisive, uncertain about what to do. Several times she wishes Walter to be there, to tell her what to think and how to act. There are about 2 moments when she shows the qualities for which she's so praised. The 1st time is when Laura, for fear of conflict, prepares to accept the date of the marriage decided by Sir Percival and her uncle Mr Fairlie that she finds too early, and Marian bursts out "Who cares for his causes of complaint? Are you to break your heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women." The 2nd time is when Laura, again for fear of causing trouble, suggests yielding to Sir Percival and Marian insists on not signing anything without knowing what it's about. 
Other than these 2 moments, she's passive, indecisive, slow, dim-witted, careless. I've written about these things before, there's no need to repeat. That she's simultaneously charmed by, afraid of and repulsed by Count Fosco makes him a fascinating, colourful character, but it at the same time makes me have some strange feelings about her personality that I can't articulate.
About Laura, there isn't much to write. She's dull in her goodness and virtue. She's not unrealistic, I don't doubt that such women exist, but she's dull in her "perfection". In contrast, Anne Catherick is tedious in her mental deficiency.
The female characters in The Moonstone, in comparison, are a lot better. I like Rachel and Rosanna a lot, who are probably responsible for my high expectations when I got hold of The Woman in White. Rachel Verinder's a wonderful character, who is so real in her love, her resolution to remain silent and conflicted feelings for doing so whilst watching Franklin, and her outbursts for believing that he's a false, deceitful man. Rosanna Spearman's also wonderful, and there's something so beautiful, albeit sad and pitiful, in her unrequited love and sacrifice, which is depicted with understanding and sympathy and which is not at all sentimentalised. Miss Clack is of course another great character, but she's different.
If anything, The Woman in White deserves praise for the variety of female characters. Besides Marian, Laura and Anne, there are 2 women that are also silly and gullible- Mrs Michelson (the housekeeper, who should be praised for having her principles and resigning as her way of reacting against the deceit) and Mrs Clements (the woman helping Anne and being used for the switch), but we have the insolent Margaret Porcher (Percival's housemaid), the quiet but rather "dangerous" Mrs Rubelle (the nurse), the cold, unpredictable, manipulative Countess Fosco and the hard, proud, fearless, self-possessed Mrs Catherick. How I like Mrs Catherick's firm, calm, defiant, no-way-you-can-shock-me attitude in her encounter with Hartright. There should be more room for her.






*: I came across a blog and saw these lines:

"Ms Marian Halcombe is most probably the greatest character in the novel. She is the half-syster of Laura and spends her life protecting her and taking care of her interests. Witty, intelligent, and resourceful, Marian somewhat reminds me of Jane Austen's Elizabeth Benet. The two of them are most probably the finest creatures in the Victorian Age. Strong and independent, they the role of the woman is not merely to be a part of her husband, but to have her own opinion and character. Throughout the story I got to admire Marian, her clever judgment, her strength, and her mind."

OK... OK... "greatest character", Elizabeth Bennet, "finest creatures".... put that aside. Hello, Jane Austen'd died before Queen Victoria was born! 

The Woman in White: scheme, switch, twist

1/ Count Fosco's scheme works well. The Woman in White can drag for a while, mostly through Marian's narrative, but becomes fascinating when Sir Percival accepts the proposal and Count Fosco starts carrying out his elaborate plan (which, incidentally, might have inspired Fingersmith).
I presume the Count's a utilitarian whereas Marian and Laura apparently adhere to duty ethics, so if you allow to have your mind twisted a bit, then from the utilitarian's point of view, the scheme brings about the best outcome- everyone benefits in some way from it, nobody gets hurt, Anne's already sick and Laura doesn't care about wealth anyway. The Count also drops a hint for Marian, which he of course doesn't have to do.
2/ Frankly speaking I think, without the hint, Marian probably wouldn't think of checking the asylum, at least for another while. She's no match for the intelligent, cunning Count. If the women in The Moonstone- Rachel and Rosanna and, in some way, Lucy, obstruct the plot, the women here either get fooled and unknowingly help the villains or stay helplessly passive.
Once Walter comes back and takes over as the narrator, we can see the difference right away. He's smarter, more careful, active, decisive. 
3/ The conspiracy or the result of it is interesting. The discovery however is quite disappointing, like the bit about laudanum in The Moonstone. Again Wilkie Collins needs the naivete and gullibility of a woman, and it's Mrs Clements.
And yet, in spite of everything, I have to keep reading. For the secret. 

The Woman in White: unreliable dim-witted narrators

Earlier I wrote about Marian's stupidity. 
Wilkie Collins needs other tools for his novel. 
Consider all the descriptions: I believe what happens in real life is that tiny details are either unnoticed/ dismissed as insignificant, forgotten and left out of the narrative, or noticed and remembered, seen as suspicious and then pondered over. That a character sees something, then pays it no thought, and yet still remembers it later and writes it down but doesn't treat it as meaningful, is odd. I'm thinking of Marian realising that the letter can be opened right away, Marian noticing the inexplicably strange spot of the seal, Marian having a vague feeling that she's being followed, Fanny noticing the letters are strangely crumpled, etc. There must be more examples that I forgot about (not regarding them as important, perhaps?). The characters thus have to be observant enough, with a memory that is good enough, not to overlook or forget these trifles- Wilkie Collins needs everything to be there, but they also have to be dim-witted enough not to put 2 and 2 together and not to realise their significance, at the time, to know what to do. So far, among the narrators, Hartright's probably the quickest. Other witnesses like Marian, Mr Fairlie, Fanny, Mrs Michelson (the housekeeper) are amazingly, intolerably slow that it makes one impatient after a while. This slowness is necessary for the plot and the presentation of all the important details, it's just repetitive and sometimes, how should I put it, a bit false. 
Hopefully next time I'll write something positive. 

Marian Halcombe's stupidity

1/ Burns Walter's letter for fear of it being read by someone else, and writes about it in her diary?

2/ Realises that Sir Percival is not the honest, courteous, charming man he previously appears to be, believes that there's something suspicious in the Anne Catherick business, knows that Mrs Catherick doesn't want him to know she has been to the house and knows that she has to investigate the reasons, and yet talks about the dog and lets Percival know Mrs Catherick has been there?

3/ Writes a letter in secret and knows she shouldn't cause suspicion (which she warns Laura herself) but doesn't seal it and then places it in the post-bag where she can be seen, and doesn't suspect it when suddenly Countess Fosco wants to speak to her?

Even the fact that Marian doesn't try, in some ways, to find out where Percival goes and what he does in such a hurry, is quite stupid. She knows that it has to do with Mrs Catherick and Anne Catherick, and though there's no proof of Percival having done anything wrong morally or legally, his change in manners, the conversation Marian eavesdrops and some details here and there unveiling part of his true character, should lead her to think more about Anne's letter and wonder how true it is. Perhaps she cannot carry out the investigation herself, but at least should put on her guard and be careful with everything she does. 

Of course these actions are more or less justifiable (e.g. concerning the dog, several people surround her and get stressed out about the blood and ask her repeatedly and force her to blurt out whose dog it is), and they are meant to advance the plot of The Woman in White, but they're nevertheless irritating. Why so slow, Marian? You're supposed to be the intelligent, sharp, independent one. 



Update at 6.30pm: 
I wonder how long it will take the "intelligent" Marian to realise that the Count, with the help of the Countess, spies on her and Laura and apparently sides with them against Percival only to gain her trust. 

Update at 9.40pm: 
The 2nd time Marian has to send letters, she takes care to give them to Fanny instead of placing them in the post-bag, and looks around to check everyone's whereabouts. Then she goes into the house, and goes out again to go to Fanny's place, this time not knowing where others are and not checking. 
Later she rises a bit in my esteem by carrying out some investigation, i.e. following Percival and Fosco, but disappoints me soon afterwards- why continue writing in the diary when not well? At least she should lock the door once inside her own room. 
Her carelessness now appears like a bit of a farce. It becomes a necessary tool for the advancement of the plot, and it is absurd.