The Artifice of a Manless World: A. S. Byatt's "The Children's Book" and the Perils at Women's Colleges

A.S. Byatt's "The Children's Book," is set at a time when college education for women was just beginning to take shape. Two of the female characters--Griselda Wellwood and Florence Cain--attend Newnham College in Cambridge while other characters like Dorothy Wellwood and Elsie Warren find alternate ways to gain the education that enables them to build careers. This novel explores the ambiguities surrounding women's education and questions the ethics built into women’s education system. Although the setting is early twentieth century, I believe many of the issues explored are relevant to the present day.

It is crucial to ask the significance of Byatt’s work: is it merely a quasi-historical narrative to be shelved on the “women’s history” aisle, or is it a cautionary tale—much like a fairy story—that is supposed to warn women about the perils they are in. If the latter is true, then what type of women is the target population? Is it western women or women of color living in the west? Is it women in developing countries? Is it women in a chiefly patriarchal cultural system?

The themes relating to women’s education explored in the novel resonated strongly with me as I am not only a graduate of an elite women’s college, but a subaltern taught under the British system.

Speaking of college women, Griselda Wellwood remarks to Florence Cain:

"I feel a lot of incompatible things. I feel I must think or I'll go mad. And then I think of those colleges full of women--knitting, I imagine them, and flower-arranging, and drinking cocoa. And I think, is it like taking the veil, which is an idea that's always given me the horrors. Unhealthy, part of me says. And part of me says it is all secretly exciting. New. Doing things women haven't done, aren't expected to do. Things brothers take for granted...one would be a new kind of human being--" (495).

I was motivated to apply to women’s colleges because, like Griselda and Florence, I wanted to concentrate on academics without competing with traditional female duties like marriage. I wanted to nurture my feminist leanings and fight against sexism in my society. I thought college would enable me to “do things women haven’t done” (the women in my society, at least.)

It was only later, after graduating, that the reality of what I had chosen dawned on me. For Florence, however, it came early, for Byatt tells us that, "Florence was in a turmoil…And she did see her future as, perhaps, the choice between thinking and sex." (495).

I had chosen to think and before I knew it, four years of my youth flew by, as I abstained from the society of men. Men were scarce at my college and the only ones you would see on campus were men you could not have: boyfriends, fathers, and rarely brothers. Like many a young woman brought up in a traditional home where one needed to “save face” and where a liaison outside of marriage in inappropriate places was forbidden, I had no desire to party the night away in a raunchy frat or risk being date-raped in a bar. In America, unlike other commonwealth nations, communities from my cultural group were hard to come by. As a result, there weren’t enough opportunities to meet men the proper way: in dinners surrounded by chaperones (old aunties) or a quiet event in a religious center. I also was not terribly drawn towards the men who were different from me. I did not even have the opportunity to pick.

When Florence and Griselda discuss their future with Dorothy, who knew "exactly what she wanted" as she was going to be a doctor, Griselda notes that "she half-desired to spend the rest of her life in this College--largely because here she could call her life her own, and do what she wanted to do, which was to think..." (525).

I, too, thought I wanted to get a PhD and work in a liberal arts college—albeit women’s college—and inspire a future generation of young feminists who will change the world. But then I thought: what world will they change? For I wished to do that and the only path I have open is academy if I chose to get a PhD. I knew a PhD didn’t suffice, as Florence remarks to Griselda: "But is this enough, all these earnest women, and timid girls and the artifice of a manless world?"

In another instance, talking to Julian Cain, who questions her if she will settle in Newnham and study for the rest of her life, Griselda alludes to Florence’s point by remarking, "I cannot make my mind up. Sometimes I think a women's college is like the tower Rapunzel was shut in, or even the gingerbread cottage. I don't want to become unreal. Do you know what I mean? I think it is different for men." (537).

Florence and Griselda are both correct in noticing how the women’s college is nothing but “an artifice of a manless world.” I learnt too late how much of an artifice a women’s liberal arts college really is. True, there were opportunities to form strong bonds with women but I believe it could be formed anywhere. I, certainly, would naturally gravitate towards women because that’s what I feel most comfortable with. Having been taught to stay away from men, one becomes expert at forming bonds with women for companionship. Excluding men from women’s colleges creates an artificial world, especially for those women like me who have to go out into the real world and acquaint themselves with men’s ways and may not be able to cope for they were never given the opportunity to mingle with men in that capacity prior to going to college.

I believe, as Florence notes correctly,

"The truth is...that the women we are--have become--are not fit to do without men, or live with them, in the world as it was. And if we change, and they don't, there will be no help for us. We shall be poor monsters, like Viola in Twelfth Night, or Miss Harrison's harpies and gorgons.” (526).

I know now that I cannot do without men, even though I pretended it was possible, or that I could wait until a man will come along who would know the woman I have become. The biological clock waits for no (wo)man. College does not tell you that, hence adding to the artifice. It is so focused on making you smart that it overlooks developing you—especially the shy, subaltern you—as a romantic partner. Even good, respectable men in my community want young wives, not one that is bohemian, seeking self-fulfillment at the expense of her age. Add to that the present economic crisis, when women who pursued the development of their minds and chose dead subjects as their majors found themselves unemployable. There is hardly a sadder sight than a single woman in reduced circumstances, unprotected and alone. While this seems to be something Austen’s Mr. Knightley would take pity upon, the modern world cannot shut a blind eye either. Indeed, for many women, penury is a real threat to forming an alliance by marriage. A woman without connections or fortune is the worst of the lot. Unlike a 19^th century governess who can teach and thereby employ her talents, the poor woman nowadays is lucky if she can scrape floors and diaper other people’s babies.

College does not shield Florence from temptations, however, for within a year, she falls pregnant with an older man's child, and marries another man. Florence escapes college and finds fulfillment in her baby and marriage while taking classes from a tutor. She does not regret leaving college.

Griselda, on the other hand, continues her studies and eventually becomes a research student at Newnham while warding off any idea of romance. Griselda finds that her degree in History, with a concentration in German fairy tales, is useless. She later trains as a nurse and assists in the war efforts. In the end, we see that "Griselda had become fixed, efficient and almost spinsterly as the war went on. [Her mother] was almost resigned to seeing her close herself into a college." (675).

Thus, Byatt ends her novel by showing the options open to women who pursue an education: Florence leaves college to raise a baby; Griselda is set towards a “spinsterly” career as an academic; Dorothy saves lives on the battlefield; Elsie marries and thus has no need to work (teach). Each of them is fulfilled in a different way and neither is fulfilled in both an intellectual and romantic manner. It appears that education is not compatible with family life.

It serves to question how far we have come in the 21^st century. Although we have female doctors who raise children, they have a spouse who helps. If men do not change and adapt to women’s changing roles in society, women—those that desire men, that is—cannot be fulfilled.

Bright Star Movie Review

I had high hopes for this movie, but I must say, now that I've finally watched it, that I was rather disappointed. I thought it would be just as mesmerizing and emotionally compelling as "The Piano," but I found it lacking as a substitute for that former masterpiece.

First, what I found troubling about this movie is that there was little or no friction. By friction, I mean conflict. I just didn't see what the two lovers were so afraid of (besides their nebulous feelings for each other). Fanny's mother is not overbearing and I didn't notice any significant perils in their relationship. In "The Piano," Ada and the men in her life were mysterious and there was such a sexual charge in their encounters together. One is drawn to Ada's story because she is exceptional: she is mute, repressed, and rebellious. "Bright Star" does not really contain exceptional material. In simplest terms, it is a boy-meets-girl tale of first love set in 19th century.

Next, the acting didn't draw me so much. Abbie Cornish was a wonderful actress, however, and I do think she made full use of her role. However, her role wasn't complex enough and I think it could have been written better. Cornish was very expressive, but because there wasn't an explanation of the conflicts (if there were any to begin with) she had to overcome, we didn't know how to place her emotions. For example, her mother seems rather liberal in allowing her to mix with the young Keats rather than fear for Fanny's standing in society. We also don't know anything about her family: there's no indication about Fanny's family's class and wealth. With regard to acting, Ben Whishaw delivered a good performance as Keats and I think I shall remember the poet based on my impression of Whishaw. Still, there was an uncertainty in his portrayal. I wonder to what extent this had to do with the character and what extent it had to do with the actor playing the character. This question would have been clarified if we had been given a better introduction regarding the conflict and setting of the story. As far as the other actors are concerned, they were unremarkable, nothing but "types" rather than rounded characters with unique and realistic conflicts. Again, all the main characters in "The Piano" are unique, unforgettable, and very complex (and I am a Victorian/Postcolonial scholar).

As the movie did not have a proper conclusion regarding Fanny, it negated the centrality of her character in the movie, if not the title. At the end of the movie, we see Fanny cutting her hair, wearing mourning clothes and walking out on the heath as her brother follows her. The writing on the screen blandly notes that Fanny was seen walking on the heath and that she never forgot Keats. It does not contain any statement about how she survived, how she continued living, and how crucial she was to the remembrance of Keats--essentially, for the reason Campion made this movie in the first place. It is as if the story ended just as Keats' life ended, and indirectly, as if Fanny's life ended with that too.

I wanted to see more about Fanny as a woman. I especially wanted to see more of her sewing because I think that's where the real jewel of the story lay. Sewing is given prominence at the beginning of the movie, when Fanny emphatically defends the act of sewing and tells Keats that it is inferior to writing poetry and that she can make a living from sewing while Keats can barely do that from poetry. What appears to be a promising theme in this film is soon aborted and after about the first quarter of the movie, it disappears and I forgot that Fanny was a great seamstress. I was disheartened to see that Fanny swears that she will not sew anymore when Keats leaves her: this is unlike Ada, for whom playing the piano is visceral.

In "The Piano," the message was that women needed to be free, that silence can be a power, that starting life in a New World involves honoring and discovering artistry. But in "Bright Star," the point seems to be that young people fall madly in love (very cliche), that poetry is drawn from real experience, and that death can come at any time. Um...right. So what else is new?

But I will admit that the film had many virtues, besides the few I alluded to earlier. For example, some film techniques and cinematography worked. The close up of the actors' faces that allowed the viewer to discern their physiognomies and thereby discern their inner turmoil; the jarring contrast created by the continuous juxtaposition of light and dark, shown through the contrasting colors of fabric used in the costumes and lighting in the room contrasted with the dreariness of the landscape outside; the reading of the poetry, the lilting quality of the voices, the "sensuousness" of imminent death.

Overall, I wanted to love this movie, to rate it as exceptional, as I did its predecessor. A strong supporter of Campion's work, I expected this film to delve deeper into feminism and art, and as a consequence, am perhaps a harsher critic of this work. A little more conflict and better set up could have helped this film truly shine as the star in its title.

Rating: 3.5/5 stars.

The Enchanted April

I recently read the book 'The Enchanted April' by Elizabeth Von Arnim, and also watched the movie starring Polly Walker and Miranda Richardson. Although the movie was well made, I think the book is an even greater delight to read.

The plot is centered on four women who rent a medeival castle in Italy for the month of April in the 1920s. Each woman, initially, wishes to be alone to contemplate, for each has her own story. There's Lotty Wilkins, who is married to a mercenary solicitor called Mellersh Wilkins; Rose Arbuthnot seeks comfort in religion after a failed marriage to Frederick Arbuthnot, an author of salacious memoirs that she is embarassed to read; young Lady Caroline Dester wants to escape high society and its adoration of her; and old Mrs. Fisher wishes to think back to her childhood in the nineteenth-century when things were more refined and proper. Through the course of the month, the women open up, learn a little bit more about each other, and grow a little closer.

While I was initially attracted to this book because of the spine of the plot: four women stranded in one place, I wasn't entirely happy with the book.

My main problem with this book is the crux of the story. While the women do change, I feel that they do so primarily because of men. Though they go to the Castle to get away from men, it seemed to me that they needed the men to put their lives back in order. Hence, this is the main reason it loses its feminist stance. True, it is probably feminist for its time, considering it was written in the 1920, but as a 21st century reader, I find the book a little problematic.

Lotty and Rose make up with their husbands. Lady Caroline probably marries Mr. Briggs, and Mrs. Fisher is too old to get a man herself, and there's no hint that she will end up with one. Ironically, perhaps this is the book's message: get back with your menfolk and change them by taking them to an 'enchanted' castle, and you may only remain single and retain your independence if you are old like Mrs. Fisher. Perhaps that is the time to be really happy: Mrs. Fisher is the only one who is not attached to a man. And so, the transformation that she undergoes will have a greater efffect on her and for a longer period.

The ending isn't conclusive. Lotty and Mellersh get togther and the latter pays his wife more attention, certainly, but his motivation is entirely different: He only praises her because she got him close to a rich client, Lady Caroline. So though Lotty thinks he is in love with her, his motivations are different. So we do not know how they will live once they get back to their home in England, whether they will maintain a good relationship or whether Mellersh will go back to his old self.

Rose and Frederick make up at the Castle, but Rose has no idea that Frederick was besotted with Lady Caroline and was probably in love with her. What will happen if Rose finds out? Will she have the same feelings for him? Will she be friends with Lady Caroline? Does Frederick have more feelings for Lady Caroline?

Lady Caroline and Mr. Briggs form a pair. However, what becomes of all that thinking that she did in the Castle? She had asked difficult questions of herself and tried to figure out her place in the world. What happens when she marries Mr. Briggs? Would she lose her independence of thought and instead succumb to being a frumpy housewife?

What is interesting is that it is the entrance of Mellersh, Frederick, and Mr. Briggs that catalyses the change in the women. The women, without the men, have been distant from each other, and have not attempted to grow close to each other. They probably have not even desired it. But the sudden arrival of the men changes that. I definitely wanted to see more of what would have happened without any men in the castle. In short, I wanted to see more of women's relationships with each other in the absence of men.

Nevertheless, I maintain that 'The Enchanted April' is a good read, and certainly better than many books in this genre. It's thought provoking in its own way, and its a gem for its humor.

Berkeley Square

I recently watched this drama, and I can't say how much I LOVE it! There was a total of 10 episodes and it's a real shame the producers didn't make more! For this is one drama you need to see a sequel for. It's quite mysterious, really, and I can't find any answers on the internet as to why further episodes were not made. There was no evidence to suggest that the series did poorly the first time around. Almost all the reviewers have praised it so far, and my hunch is it wouldn't have been very different back then. For indeed, the series was released in 1998!

A brief introduction is as follows: the series follows the lives of three young nannies during the turn of the century London. The nannies are employed in Berkeley Square, and work fairly close to each other. Matty--also called Nanny Wickam--is an East End girl, prim and proper at first but who learns to loosen up as the series progresses. Hannah Randall, is an Irish maid who has an illegitimate child and is forced to find work after the child's father tragically dies. Lydia Weston is a simple country girl, who has been raised with country manners, and who learns that affairs are conduced very differently in London. Though the three nannies's lives revolve around their charges, we see other facets of their lives as well. For example, we see the difficulties of working conditions in London, the transition from country to town, and the hypocricy of morality. An interesting component of this series is that it shows people of different social classes (such as the nannies' employers), ages, and genders. and their desires and travails.

I am writing this entry because I wish to articulate my feelings about the ending of the series. A lot happens in episode 10. Ned is sent to Somalia, leaving Matty alone but hopeful of a reunion in a few months' time; Bertie lies to the police about Billy allowing Hannah to keep Billy but also, as a result, sending Mrs. Brunowski to be hanged; Nanny Simmons sees Hannah with Billy; Lydia makes up with Mr. Fowler and they seem to have a promising start; Mrs. St. John finds out she is expecting and is on the verge of taking a drastic action; Isabel Hutchinson is to be married to Captain Mason despite his liaison with Mrs. St. John; Jack does not tell Lydia that he fought for her honor; the Lamson-Scribners might make up with Hugh, and tons more possibilities and hints. I've made up some parts of the continuing story, but I'd love to have seen an actual sequel. I wouldn't mind even if they did a series now...after all, it's been 10 years, and I am sure the actresses haven't aged that much. The children might have, and that's fine, though I'd miss little soulful-looking Bertie, and cheeky Harriet. I looked up some pictures of the actresses now, and they really don't look aged. For example, Hermione Norris, who plays Mrs. St. John, looks decent and only a tad aged, but she is 40, after all.

Anyway, I feel better having written this entry. I think it'll help me learn to let it go.

P.S. I know it's been ages since I've written last. It's been a whirlwind since then, really. However, I've written now and that's what counts.

More than Meets the Eye: Review of The Portrait of a Lady, and Rethinking Henry James

I've finally managed to finish reading the mammoth of a work that is Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady, after having first attempted the task about ten years ago. I never could dive into it then, or the few other times over the years when I took it up again, and I almost gave up on it this time as well. I would have resigned it to mold in the the dusty shelves of unreadable literature in the repertoire of my mind, had I not been encouraged, a while ago, to give up my former prejudice of James.

A few months ago I endured the ordeal of reading What Maisie Knew, which turned me off from James' other works altogether. If I had earlier wanted proof about how odious his works seemed to me, I thought I had it this time. But alas! I was mistaken. An English professor heard of my experiences with Maisie and my distaste for James, and being an Americanist and an ardent James fan herself, she handed me her own copy of The Portrait of a Lady, peered into my eyes, and almost made me promise to give it a good try. Inwardly, I refused to yield, and the book lay where she had left it for a month, by which time she happend to see it, and asked me how I found it. I fumbled for words, making excuses for a busy schedule and the heat of the summer and such nonsense, until her smile fell, she looked at me askance, and said she was sorry and won't ask me again.

A few weeks ago, however, lacking a good book to read, I found James' book and flicked it open to reaffirm my triumph in being right about what a bore it would be. However, I was drawn, somehow, from the first page. It wasn't convoluted like Maisie. And I was genuinely interested in the main characters, though I agree some were "odious" and usettling. I've discovered that James' characters, to me at least, aren't very likeable. They are mostly lofty and distant. However, it's his acute perception of the events in their lives that illuminates the human consciousness that we all share, which makes one reach out to such cold, suave, and often manipulative, characters.

Although I'd agree that James could have made The Portrait half its length, I still think that, if it had to be that long, one ought to read it simply because of the last few chapters. That is where the secrets are revealed and events spiral to a climax. It is the two secrets at the core of the novel that I want to focus on in this post.

The first is Pansy's parentage, and how it links to Isabel, and the second is Isabel's learning that her cousin was the agent of her (mis)fortune.

Like Isabel, even the readers aren't fully aware of the the manipulations of Osmond and Madame Merle, until the very end. James has the satisfaction of manipulating his readers, so that we feel like Isabel in the end. While reading the book, I wondered why hardly any mention was made of Pansy's mother. We never see Pansy talking about her (her father wouldn't have allowed it, no doubt), and even Isabel doesn't push it. Even before the secret is spelled out, we know that three women will be connected: Isabel, Serena Merle, and Pansy. And they are connected not merely by their relationship with Osmond, but also by what he represents. For he is patriarchy at its worst. He controls all three women, and robs them of their freedom. He lusts after Madame Merle (and she for him), but their union is doomed because of her lack of money. While he can afford to act the dillettante, he hasn't the courage or the integrity to take responsibility for his actions. He is too concerned with appearances that would be bought through money alone. Though Madame Merle would have clung to him, he would not let her. The least she could do is look out for her child, and so entrusts Pansy to the care of Osmond. She also believes that money might purchase the happiness she seeks. For all that, Madame Merle is a free spirit. She lives independently and is unobstructed by any man. However, her freedom is circumscribed by her motherhood: She will always be tied to Osmond though Pansy. As a mother she does not want to see Pansy suffer, and has high hopes for her. In the interest of Pansy, Merle manipulates Isabel, evidence as to how the oppressed are driven to become the oppressors.

Both Merle and Osmond conceal the "shame" of Pansy's birth, so that Pansy is elevated to the status of a saint. However, this is an illusion, as Isabel learns later. We do not know if Pansy will ever know the truth about herself, or how she will act. James shows us that neither the shame of illegitimacy nor the devotions belonging to a saint, will bring a woman freedom. Both are just as oppressive. Pansy grows up in ignorance, afraid to even lift a hair to question her father. As Pansy becomes a woman and exhibits a feeble will of her own in her attachment to Mr. Rosier, her father banishes her immediately to a convent. Thus, because of Osmond, we see that sexual awakening is vanquished by the seclusion in a convent. Osmond's actions show men's treatment of women: she is seen as "angel or madwoman"--never a mix of the two, if she was to be accepted. Hence Osmond, though drawn to Serena, rejects her. He tries to "angel-fy" Isabel but when she resists, he abuses her. Only Pansy, ever dependent on him, succumbs fully to his wishes. Pansy is manipulated, just as Isabel is manipulated, but Isabel shows that she is different from Pansy by taking action against her husband. Though we do not know what has become of her in the end, it does her credit, since she can "manipulate" our imaginations into thinking has a chance for a better life.

Isabel's "fate" is set in motion by the actions of her cousin Ralph. Ralph is like God, or the equivalent, providing Isabel with a fortune to dispense with however she chose. One step could lift or ruin her, and poor Isabel makes the wrong choice. Ralph does it out of kindness to Isabel, but he is also interested in spectacle. He wants to see how she fares. As his life is limited, he wants to experience life, in a way, though Isabel. Though he does not confine Isabel in the way Osmond does Pansy, Ralph also gives her something that ruins her. We can only wonder what would have become of Isabel if she never had a fortune. Osmond would never have married her, and she would have sought a less wealthier destiny. Is Ralph to be blamed for giving a fortune to Isabel? Yes, because he wished to view her as an object, and No, because it was also an act of kindness, a chance for freedom for Isabel. However, through Ralph's action, Isabel learns an important lesson in seeing "more than what meets the eye", in questioning her faith in people. She falls from grace, but learns that "if she was hated, she was also loved."

It was over ten years ago since I first saw the film, but I was able to appreciate it more on my second viewing, just recently. The 1996 adaptations did credit to James' work, especially with Jane Campion's mastery of imagery, symbolism, and art direction. There were several notable performances, John Malkovich's Osmond, amongst others.

Though I haven't converted to a James fan, I think he is worth a second look.

A Sign of the Times...

So the Spice Girls have confirmed their reunion.! I was stunned as I watched the news on TV.

I can't think of the Spice Girls without thinking of my past, growing up in the '90s. They were iconic figures during my most formative years. I remember waiting in the stores to buy their CDs, trying to memorize the lyrics to their songs, and figuring out what 'Spice Girl' I was ( I think I was a hybrid, though quizzes don't give that option ;)) The Spice Girls seemed a normal part of life, amidst the family dramas, school exams, sports practices, vacations, and social events.

With the best of the Spice Girls coming to an end after their split, it seemed like an era was past for me as well. Then followed important transitions in my life, more 'growing up' and so forth.

But with their impending reunion, and that picture in particular, it seems as if it was but yesterday that they came out with their first album. Though all except Mel C now have children, or are expecting, it isn't visible in this picture. They all look as trim and young as they were. Of course, fashions have changed, but the Spice Girls weren't ones to fuss about that ;)

I hope their reunion turns out to be as refreshing as the memories it kindles.

*Pictures courtesy: Philly.com

Scandalous Virtue in Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters

"But sometimes one likes foolish people for their folly, better than wise people for their wisdom."--Elizabeth Gaskell, Wives and Daughters (1865)

Elizabeth Gaskell's last novel was a delight to read, and I am only sorry that she never lived to finish it. Although the ending seems clear, I would still have wished to drink more of Mrs. Gaskell's prose, until the very last drop. The writing, thought not dense, had enough wit to hold the reader's interest. The plot, like the writing, can seem unremarkable on the surface. But a closer look beneath the surface is all that's needed to see contradictions.

The novel is, essentially, a story of relationships, and this is what makes it timeless. We can all relate to feelings of filial affection, parental intrusion, neighbors' reproofs, and sibling rivalry. While Molly appears to be a docile, sheltered girl, we know that this isn't really case. She has lost her mother, a traumatic experience for any child, although how much it has affected her isn't clear until much later. Her father, Mr. Gibson, marries another woman when Molly is seventeen and just on the cusp of adulthood. When the new Mrs. Gibson and her daughter arrive, that is when Molly's (seemingly) idyllic life is about to be turned upside down. Molly learns the nuances of social conduct. She learns to balance her own moral integrity with the social restraint that is required. She also forms new relationships with the Cumnors and the Hamleys, and her behavior brings her just rewards.

In the DVD's commentary, one of the crew members remarked something to the effect of: "Molly is like the sun, with everything else fanning out from her". I wondered how much of this was true. I think it is true that Gaskell meant for Molly to be the heroine. But what I find more interesting are the peripheral characters. They are more complicated, well drawn characters than Molly. In fact, without them, Molly's character would lose much of the luster that she is credited for.

As Mr. Gibson says in the opening lines quoted in this post, I think it is the "foolish people" in this story who steal the show. There's Osborne, who trangresses beyond all the bounds expected of him, and whose actions accelerate his doom. When Osborne marries a girl far beneath him, and fails in his examinations, he questions his worth in the eyes of his proud father. Even when his mother, Mrs. Hamley, lies on her deathbed, Osborne still fails to confess to her. His relationship with his father deteriorates as his marital relationship bears fruit. As Osborne worsens, his wife gives birth to their son, and the child blossoms in health and vigor. Already there is a sense that the old order is breaking down. The Hamleys' station in the social ladder, as Squire Hamley knows it, will no longer be the same. The aristocracy will be replaced by a new class, and in fact, one that includes foreigners, as Aimee comes to live at Hamley Hall. The 'old order' also includes old ways of social behavior, and virtue. It is implied that it is no longer a world full of innocence, but is rather one ripe with dangers--the dangers of change. Osborne's world of poetry is now being replaced by one of science: the days of chivalry and arthurian Romance will give way to enlightenment's Rationality.

Osborne's female equivalent is Cynthia. Cynthia's place in the moral spectrum is even more ambigous than Osborne's. She is, nevertheless, very interesting, and we are meant to like and sympthize with her, like Molly, the heroine we are rooting for. Cynthia is, by all appearances, a coquette, but she isn't a simpleton. Throughout the novel, Molly and Mr. Gibson praise her for her wit. She is kind to Molly and Mr Gibson is fond of her. She is vivacious and lively. Furthermore, she listens with enthusiasm. She is not immune to vanity, however, and that does threaten to ruin her. We find ourselves interested in her "imbroglio", just as much as we find ourselves immersed in Osborne's.

Though raised, like Molly, by a single-parent, Cynthia has had a less sheltered life, which speaks to the status of women in nineteenth-century. Unlike Mr. Gibson who can practice medicine and protect his daughter, Cynthia's mother, Hyacinth, could not do any such thing. The only respectable path open to her was to work as a governess, which meant she had to leave her daughter behind in a school. As Margaret Forster has shown in 'Lady's Maid', it must be very difficult for a woman to secure employment if she had a child of her own. Unsupervised, Cynthia has only herself to turn to for moral guidance. Her mother, occupied with earning her keep, and open to flattery and admiration herself, cannot provide that guidance to Cynthia. So Cynthia falls prey to others' good opinion of her: she craves attention constantly, although she cannot "love deeply " as much as Molly.

Cynthia attracts attention simply by being young, beautiful, and interesting. Young men fall for her more for her beauty than for her wit. They imagine Cynthia as the paragon of womanhood, instead of seeing her for who she is. This masculine definition of her is precisely what she must escape from, but in the absence of a network of women to teach her manners, as Molly has, she becomes a victim. Cynthia is a creation of male fantasies: she is everything men want, and yet, they cannot have her faulty. They elevate her, even when she is fickle, they refute her, even when she says the truth. And as men flock to her, she is blamed for attracting them. Mr. Preston gets aggressive about his demands, even though she keeps refusing him. And Mr. Gibson is unsympathetic to her at one point. While it is easier to forgive Osborne for his scandalous marriage, it is harder to forgive a girl for entangling herself in scandal. This just shows how women can be pliant: Aimee is "sweet and submissive" and so easily controlled, while it is harder to believe that a woman could control a man (e.g. if Cynthia or Molly could control Mr. Preston's apparent vulgarity). Although Cynthia does not love Roger very much, he still pursues her, believing in the image of her instead of the reality. In the end, it is by acknowlegding her fickleness to Mr. Henderson that she gains a partner who now accepts her for who she is. Having learned her mistakes, she vows that she will "place her own happiness before anyone else" in choosing a husband.

If scandal has virtue, we see it in Molly's coming-of-age. Though at the start Molly is inexperienced to matters of sexuality, she changes towards the end. Though docile and proper, and in some ways invisible compared to Cynthia, it is Molly who holds the two biggest secrets at the heart of the novel. She is faithful to her promises of secrecy, and we wonder what would have happened if she acted differently: if she had confessed to Squire Hamley, would Osborne still be alive? If she has confessed her love for Roger, would he still have fancied Cynthia for two years? If she has told her father the truth about Cynthia, would Mr. Gibson have doubted her?

It is important that these secrets pass through Molly because they are necessary for her growing up, for her own "awakening". By knowing Osborne's past, she is aware of a passion that trancends filial duty. Early on, Molly was compared to a little French girl, and this echoes later in the novel, when Molly contact Osborne's French wife, and the two grow close.

Through Cynthia's actions, Molly sees the sincerity and falshood in romantic attachments. She also becomes aware of her love for Roger. She sees that her love for him is constant. His love for Cynthia is steady while Cynthia's wavers. Molly also has a chance to act bravely on behalf of another, to take actions into her own hands, when she helps Cynthia to stave off Mr. Preston. At the same time, she learns that Mr. Preston is not wholly bad. Being in company with Cynthia throws Molly into Mr. Preston's way, which symbolically throws her in the way of sexual awakening.

Finally, it is important to note that towards the end, Molly behaves very much like Cynthia. She is sophisticated, witty, and plays hard-to-get, albeit unintentionally. Molly's earnestly talking to another suitor makes Roger jealous, prompting him to pursue her. The more she resists him, the more he is drawn to her. When Molly falls ill, Roger pays attention to her, in very much the same way he paid attention to Cynthia when she was in low spirits. As Molly grows up in the midst of scandal, and as matters are resolved for the other characters, the novel shows that scandal holds a virtue--a different virtue than one defined by conventional (masculine) terms.

*Pictures credit: Masterpiece Theater

The Lawyer and the Leech

Among the many themes coursing through Dickens' Bleak House and Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, the theme of the forbidden love affair takes center stage in both novels.

The Scarlet Letter opens with Hester Prynne, holding an infant at her bosom, standing on a pedestal before the villagers and magistrates who question her regarding the father of her illegitimate child. She refuses to answer such a question and goes on to live a secluded life with her baby girl, Pearl, so that she may pay penance for her 'sin'. However, despite removing herself from the public eye, she is never free from scrutiny, especially from the watchful eyes of her ruthless husband, Roger Chillingworth. The person who shares her 'crime' of adultery is also never far away, and ridden with guilt and remorse, his secret slowly consumes him.

The instigator of wounds in Arthur Dimmesdale, the Puritan preacher who struggles with his love for Hester and his duty towards his faith and community, is Hester's lawful husband, Roger Chillingworth, who claims that he is a physician familiar with herbal remedies. Instead of curing the preacher, who complains of heart troubles, he sets out to do the opposite. As he is aware of his wife's secret, he leaks the information to the preacher by and by in a subtle manner, so that the preacher, naive and unsuspecting, begins to trust his physician and blame himself for his weakness. Eventually, the physician has so much control over his patient that, like a parasite, he gnaws at his flesh and his soul, bringing the pastor to his tragic end.

In Bleak House, Lady Dedlock, who has bottled up a similar secret of her own for many years, finds herself threatened with the risk of exposure, when she recognizes a letter written in the hand of the man she once loved, and then catches a glimpse of their child, whose existence was previously withheld from her.

Here it is the lawyer Tulkinghorn who functions as the leech. Insisting that his only concern is to protect his client, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Lady Dedlock's husband, he makes it knows to the Lady that he will stick to his word at "whatever the cost maybe to others." Once he puts the pieces of the puzzle together, he taunts Lady Dedlock psychologically and emotionally, which wrecks deeper havoc than anything physical would have done.

Though Lady Dedlock, outwardly, wears the icy reserve she has trained herself to wear for so long, inside she is full of turmoil. Only when we see my Lady in her private chambers do we realize the extent of the pain she carries within her. In the innermost corners of the house she finds a private space enough to betray a little of the emotions she keeps at bay. There she is kind to Rosa, her maid, bestowing a motherly tenderness towards that young girl. And when she is finally left to retire for the night, she is driven frantic with worry, her hair and clothes left in disarray.

But Tulkinghorn is the only other person who is a match for her. He watches her every move and sees the flutter of panic in her eyes that would be undiscernible to anyone else, even her husband. Just as she behaves calm and collected on the outside, Tulkinghorn acts as if her secret matters little to him while becoming just as obsessed with it himself. It affords him an opportunity to manipulate her according to his whims, so that she will be supple under his commands.

Both Tulkinghorn and Chillingorth are driven by a ruthless greed for power. They thrive from controlling their victims, from overpowering them, and seeing them destroyed. They are persons who dismiss the idea of personal freedom and human choice. They are self-intersted individuals, the most perverted of villains, who employ weapons of such emotional magnitude.

While Chillingworth is driven to do so primarily out of a need for revenge, Tulkinghorn's motives are not so clear. Though Chillingworth does not want Hester anymore and believes she is punished enough, he still resents her for protecting the identity of her lover so fiercely. Thus, he sets to give just deserts to Dimmesdale so that Hester will never be able to unite with him. Tulkinghorn, on the other hand, has no interests in Lady Dedlock, other than the fact that she is the wife of a powerful aristocrat, who happens to be his client. He is well aware that Sir Leicester adores his wife. I believe that Tulkinghorn resents Lady Dedlock for her power. She is "not of a great family," but has managed to marry well and carry out her duties as a Lady befitting her new station. She instills both fear and respect in other people. She is admired by high Society for her beauty and her conduct. She can dismiss her irate maid Hortense and just as soon welcome another maid, Rosa, who admires her for her kindness, all at her will. Nothing angers Tulkinghorn more than knowing that Lady Dedlock has worked so hard to mask the enormity of her past. And so, he vows to destroy her, admitting that "the power and force of this woman are astonishing!"(Chapter 41).

Though both Chillingworth and Tulkinghorn are bent on destroying their victims' reputations, Chillingworth succeeds in calling Religion into question, while Tulkinghorn's deeds are focused on the boundaries of a woman's power. Between Tulkinghorn and Lady Dedlock lies a battle of the sexes: when the Lady tries to break free fron the chains that bind her, the male, a lawyer, representing the confines of 19th century Society, is determined to bring her down. Unlike Hester Prynne, who shuns the public and meekly pays penance for her sins, Lady Dedlock is at the center of high society, and tries to bravely retain her power and her dignity until the very end. It is important to note that despite differences in their conducts, there are visceral ties that bind the two women: their daughters, born out of the same sin, are a living testament to their mothers' spirits, courage, intelligence, and endurance.

The Fate of Lady's Maids

I've spent the past two weeks with the Brownings while reading Margaret Foster's Lady's Maid and now that I've finished the book, I feel the pangs of withdrawal. I keep waiting to traverse the rooms of Case Guidi, or learn of Mrs. Browning's disposition, or see Pen's frolics, and then it takes a while before I register that it is "all over."

Though I flipped the last page of this book only this morning, I still feel like there is more I'll come home to. The book was long, but I never found it tedious, which surprises me. It was an easy read, and nothing too convoluted or dense like other novels in the same genre that I've read recently. Forster centers the story around Lily Wilson, Mrs. Browning's maid, and so most of the story is told from her perspective. Not being an inquiring sort, or an intellectual, Lily Wilson's life revolves around caring for her own family and her mistress. Thus, the book chiefly, and rightly, deals with the concerns of a servant: we are given insight into the Barrett household, Mrs. Browning's illness and medications, the landscape of different places in England and Italy, and the carnal desires that drive all people, both the learned and the uneducated. In many ways this novel is a study of the 19th century, with a focus on class, especially with regard to that of the working poor.

The novel pays little attention to Mrs. Browning's poetry, or her role as an artist of her time. All we are told is that she is famous, and it ends there. Mrs. Browning also does not discuss her poems with Wilson, and I suppose this is expected as the latter was quite a simpleton compared to the former. But was this so? The novel does not offer easy answers. Lily Wilson, though uneducated, feels a lot more than she is given credit for. She is attuned to the suffering of others, especially that of her mistress, whom she adores. She is not immune to needing companionship and makes a few lasting friendships. She does have maternal feelings and does what is best, in her eyes, for her children. But above all else, she is loyal, and never wavers in her loyalty, even when she is no longer hired by the Brownings.

The fate of Lily speaks to the fate of all women of her class: where does the lady's maid stand in the social ladder? How intimate are her relationship with her employers? How can she continue to be loyal at the price of her family's suffering? Who is to provide for her if she became ill, and more importantly, if she had children?

All these questions point to the "woman question" that was vital to 19th century discourse: What are women to do when they have lost all? How could a single woman surivive if she is barred from advancing professionally like her male counterparts? To what extents would women be driven to stay out of the workhouse and what impact does this have on the rest of the society, let alone the women themselves?

Hortense, Lady Dedlocks's maid in Bleak House, is publicly dimissed by her mistress and struggles to find another suitable position. Unlike Rosa, her submissive rival maid, Hortense is aggressive and unabashed. She is loquacious about her position in life, stressing that she would have no where to go if she were unemployed. This aggression of hers, motivated by the depravity of her situation, does not win her any friends, unfortunately. Everyone rejects her, including Lady Dedlock, who hides behind the veil of her iciness. When Hortense' faith in Mr. Tulkinghorn fails, she takes matters into her own hands. While patience and righteousness might have saved her, or at least prolonged her life, her drastic action, committed out of despair, speeds her downfall.

But I ask: Is the judgement on Hortense fair?

Can a woman, who has lost her employment and is denied help, who is on the verge of entering the poorhouse, only to possibly starve or be exploited there, be expected to make sane decisions? Would it have been far better for Hortense to die than for Tulkinghorn, whose evil deeds wreck havoc on the lives of many more innocent people?

And more importantly, while we cannot esteem Hortense' temper, can we do the opposite for mute submission? Does Lily Wilson's endless sacrifice to her mistress trump over Hortense's efforts to escape poverty?

Who is the better woman?

The Persistence of Memories

In a mini-reading excursion I undertook on my own, I read Kim Edwards' The Memory Keeper's Daughter, and Susan Minot's Evening. Both books deal with the role of memories and how they continue to exert their effects long after the events have taken place. I compared these two novels to Penelope Lively's The Photograph, which I had read not too long ago.


In Evening, 65 year-old Ann Lord, the protagonist, is dying of cancer, and in her deathbed, remembers events that happened over forty years ago. That summer weekend long ago, Ann had traveled to Maine to attend her friend Lila's wedding. That meeting was pivotal in her life, for it was there that she met her true love, a man she loved and lost. Realizing the futility of their relationship, Ann later marries three different men and bears five children. But none of them knows the story of their mother: the passion she harbored, the guilt she has bottled, and her courage in striving to lead a happier life for her children's sake.

As Ann starts hallucinating, she recalls vividly the summer of her youth, and it is at this point that her children begin to understand her. As she lay dying, it is Harris' face that she remembers the most, it is the memory of their time together, however brief, that she clings to. However, in learning to deal with her imminent death, she must learn to see her relationship with Harris as more than what she romanticized it to be. She must see the effects of that relationship: the tragedy that befell the Wintennborn that mirrors her inner turmoil, her misjudgement of love, her hard, practical exterior which masked her inner, more sensitive nature that she concealed. As a result, her children were deprived of knowing their mother for the woman she used to be, which increased the distance between all of them.

In Evening, Susan Minot shows that in the last days of a woman's life, what matters most to her are the few moments of bliss that she tasted in her youth. These memories comfort her towards the end of her life, and paradoxically, help her to 'live' at the same time. Ann does not die grieving, but instead, lives her past, a past she has blotted out of her memories while saddled with responsibilities that come from being a wife and mother. Only by re-living her past, and by coming to terms with its effects, could she finally lay herself to rest: only in living could she die.

In contrast to Evening, The Memory Keeper's Daughter, shows that it is not possible to blot out memories of our past, even for an instant, because the past follows us wherever we go. While Ann Lord manges to blot out her memories until the end of her life, the Henrys face dire consequence throughout Memory Keeper, as a result of a single act committed by David Henry.

In Memory Keeper, David Henry is consistantly haunted by his past and never escapes it: his experiences of living in poverty and watching his sister die tragically propels him to try and fix everyone's problem. He becomes a doctor so that she can cure people of disease. But more importantly, he is concerned with eliminating pain and heartache: he could not endure his loved ones facing pain the way he did when he was growing up.

Thus, when his wife gives birth to twins, he sends away his disabled baby daughter, who is born with Down's syndrome, and orders his nurse to put her in a home. He tells his wife later, as she regains consciousness after her birth, that one of their twins has died. When his wife Norah, stricken with grief, plans a memorial services to bring some kind of closure, David Henry retaliates: in a strained manner, he reproaches his wife for having a memorial service so soon, while his wife accuses him of not feeling enough pain for the loss of their daughter. And so begins their path of misunderstanding, that will eventually lead to the family's downfall. Norah, unable to understand her husband's secrecy and emotional distace, copes in her own way by succumbing to different affairs with other men to find relief. David, ever guilty, permits her to do so, even though he is hurt in the process. And their son Paul, the living twin, is also eager to learn more about his father, and feels the void in the family as he watches his parents drift apart.

Norah remembers her daughter at every instant and she at first cannot see Paul without pain, although she learns to support him for what he wants to do, that is become a musician. David expects more from Paul because he feels guilty for giving up his daughter and robbing her of opportunities that his son, born more perfect than his daughter, is given. And while the Henry family breaks down, Pheobe, the discarded daughter, thrives with her surrogate mother, the nurse Carolyn Gill. Though disabled, she learns to surivive on her own, by getting a good education and then a job, all with the help of Carolyn, who fights for Pheobe's rights to a better life.

David's memories of his childhood, watching his sickly sister June die of a heart condition, haunts him all his life, as do his actions of the day that his twins were born. Phoebe is like a physical representation of memory: as the Henry family cannot let go of its memories, Phoebe continues to exist. She shows that memory will live and flourish, and haunt. Her existence causes both pain and joy, just as memories do, as Ann Lord would find at the end of her life. Knowing that Pheobe is doing well does make her father David Henry proud, but the same time, grossly ashamed for what he has done to give her up and conceal that from his wife.

Kim Edward shows us that memory cannot be defined and it will surprise us. Phoebe trancends classification: she has Down' syndrome, but she is also more self-sufficient that what one would expect of her. She does have feelings like a normal person, and more importantly she has enormous capacity for forgiveness and love. She bridges the gap between the two families: she shows Norah that David isn't the epitome of evil when he gave her away, and she shows Paul that there are things he must understand about his father. By leading her life as brightly as she could every day, Phoebe shows everyone that you cannot take life for granted: it is precious, though conflicted. You have to take it day by day, with both its joys and pains, while cherishing it for what it is.

Similar themes are evoked in Lively's The Photograph. Once again, memory re-enters people's lives and changes it in a manner they did not expect. Here, a single photograph is shown to create chaos in the lives of many people. At the same time, we see that the photograph can bring them together. The photograph, in essence, is the representation for memory, just as Phoebe is in Memory Keeper.

In this book, Lively shows the persistence of memory by weaving this story around the absent Kath. From the opening pages, Kath is always there in the lives of everyone who knew her, though we, the readers, never see her. Unlike Phoebe, who is alive, Kath is dead. While Edwards is of the belief that memory will always exist, and take a physical form, even if it is damaged, Lively believes that memory does not need merely a physical form to represent it: it can exist in a metaphysical manner. Even if the matter of the photograph was never brought up, Kath would still continue to fill the minds of all who knew her. Thus, in The Photograph, memory is shown to be even more abstract, but also very tangible, by its abstractness. Memories of Kath fill others' minds in such a vivid manner that it seems like Kath is alive in the flesh; we sense her just as we sense anything else. It almost feels to the reader as if Kath is not dead after all. Lively creates this effect by the title of her chapters: we find chapters with titles of Glyn and Elaine just as we find chapters with Kath and Elaine.

Just as the birth of the twins catalyses the events to follow in Memory Keeper, Glyn's finding the photograph of his wife catalyses the events in this book. The photograph is crucial for Elaine to understand her sister, just as it is important for David Henry, through his journey in the book, to understand his love for his sister and his parents. The photograph leads Elaine to seek Mary Packard, Kath's friend, and to learn another side of Kath that she kept hidden from the rest of the world. It is in understanding Kath for who she was, instead of re-living the memories of who she was perceived to be, that Elaine finally comes to terms with Kath as a person. Kath is given form, to the rest of the characters who aren't given the same insight as us, the readers, when she is perceived as someone real: when she is seen as someone who has known both joy and sorrow.

Like in Evening, The Photograph shows us that memories are strongly tied around death. All three novels force us to question what makes death such a powerful motive for making us confront our deepest desires and our darkest secrets. While death, either our own, or a loved one's, makes us re-live our past through our memories, such a second 'living' is different for each of us: it can either be transient, or it can have lasting effects. While Ann Lord dies after the powerful surge of her memories, Phoebe lives on, and Elaine mends her relationship with her sister and her family.

Do memories cause death or are they an effect? Are memories the means to escape death, or do they allow us to embrace it, unafraid, unprejudiced, and willing?

Lady Dedlock's Trap

And I've been caught. I am very intrigued by Lady Dedlock and she continues to haunt Bleak House. As for this fabulous production, I can't commend it enough. Suffice it to say, I think I've endured enough sores and pins and needles while attempting to sit still and watch a series that has more than six hours of viewing time.