‘Warming Her Pearls’: Status, Possession and Lust

It is the status of the mistress that separates her from the maid, and acts as a permanent barrier between the two characters. There is no social mobility in the poem, as demonstrated by the description of the pearls as a ‘rope’ (l. 8),[1] symbolising the relationship between master and slave, as one is bound to serve the other. Hallett notes that the symbol of the pearls allows ‘eroticism [to intersect] with ideas of class’[2] as they represent an unattainable, desirable object, much like the mistress to the maid. The maid is unable to break free from her low status, and so cannot enter into a romantic relationship with her mistress.

Duffy’s uses the titular image of the pearls to discuss the idea of possession. The maid is firstly jealous that her mistress dances with ‘tall men’ (l. 7), which heightens her obsession for her mistress, as the image presented here shows how men disrupt, dominate and interfere with female relationships. To combat this, the maid infuses the pearls with her ‘persistent scent’ (l. 11), like an animal marking her territory. The maid tries to use the pearls to claim the mistress as her own, demonstrating her possessive nature.

The maid’s lust remains unchanged throughout the poem and is exacerbated by the absence of the pearls. Duffy’s maid is part of an unchanged cycle, as she warms her mistress’ pearls every day and then gives them up to her. Her lust for her mistress is heightened by the loss of the pearls, as she notes that she feels ‘their absence and I burn’ (l. 24). The burning sensation demonstrates the strength of the maids’ desire for her mistress. Nobody dies in this poem, unlike in the Browning poems I wrote about over the last two weeks. Does this say that the maids’ lust perhaps is not as strong as Porphyria’s lovers’? Is her possessive nature weaker than that of the Duke? Perhaps it is purer, as it does not manifest in any murderous intent. Perhaps it is purer because it is the love of a woman, not a man? Maybe there is no murder because the social status of the maid remains unchanged, unlike Porphyria and the Duchess. Some things to think about…

Thanks for reading!

[1] Carol Ann Duffy, ‘Warming Her Pearls’, in The Norton Anthology of Poetry, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy, 6th edn (London: Norton, 2018), pp. 2117-2118.

[2] N. Hallett, ‘Did Mrs. Danvers Warm Rebecca’s Pearls? Significant Exchanges and the Extension of Lesbian Space and Time in Literature’, Feminist Review, 74 (2003), pp. 35-49, 39.

‘My Last Duchess’: Status, Possession, Egoism and Contempt

In ‘My Last Duchess, the Duchess is killed by the Duke for her failure to recognise his status within society, and his ‘nine-hundred-years-old name’ (l. 33)[1] that she possesses because of him. Her disrespect of the title, and her ability to be ‘too easily impressed’ (l. 23) insults the Duke. The Duke implies that the Duchess was fickle and did not meet the standards of his high-ranking family, as she was pleased by all things, such as a ‘bough of cherries’ (l. 27) and a ‘white mule’ (l. 28). This leads to the Duke giving ‘commands | Then all smiles stopped together’ (ll. 45-46). The abrupt nature of line 46 demonstrates the speed of the death of the Duchess following the Duke’s order and makes for dramatic reading. The caesura caused by the phrase, in the middle of line 46, also gives the reader a moment to digest the barbarity of the Duke’s actions, which were motivated by his wish to preserve his status. Status influences the deaths of both female characters in the poems, albeit it in different ways. The Duchess’ failure to recognise her newfound status leads to her downfall. Here Browning may be criticising the idea of social mobility, as for the Duchess it ends in death.

The Duke’s possession in relation to the Duchess is explored by his keeping of her image ‘painted on the wall | Looking as if she were alive’ (ll. 1-2). This personification of the painting emphasises the detail within it, as well as the Duke’s desire to hold his wife in an infinite moment. The painting is kept behind a curtain so that only the Duke can access and make an exhibition of her, when he pleases. This demonstrates his possessive nature towards his wife, and his desire to capture her in a perfect moment as if she were living. The use of the word ‘my’ throughout the poem, and in the title, emphasises the possessive nature of the Duke towards his wife. Emily Francomano correctly summarises that, for the Duke, ‘true love is equivalent to the complete control that can only be attained by the deaths of the women they desire.’[2] This can also apparent in Brownings other work, ‘Porphryia’s Lover.’ Both women are victims of the desire of their male counterparts, specifically the desire to possess them fully.

The Duke’s killing of his wife is motivated by egoism. Browning ends the poem using an exclamatory phrase in which the Duke describes a statue of Neptune. The Duke casually finishes his tale, about the murder of his wife, and swiftly moves on, downplaying its significance. This alarms the reader, as the Duke appears unremorseful for the role he played in his wife’s demise, and more concerned with himself. The Duke is presented as a figure who lacks ‘human affection,’[3] as he killed the Duchess for egotistical reasons: the protecting of his own status.

The Duke feels considerable contempt towards the Duchess, and when this emotion reaches its peak, he orders for her to be killed. The dramatic shift in tone can be seen in the poem, signifying the peak of the Duke’s hatred for her, as he vows ‘Never to stoop’ (l. 43). This short dramatic sentence encapsulates the strength of the Duke’s contempt and a shift in the tone of the poem. It is clear that the Duke considers himself to be of greater moral standing than the Duchess, prompting him to have her killed. This action abruptly ends their relationship.

Thanks for reading!

[1] Robert Browning, ‘My Last Duchess’, in The Norton Anthology of Poetry, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy, 6th edn (London: Norton, 2018), pp. 1061-1062.

[2] E. Francomano, ‘Escaping by a Hair: Silvina Ocampo Rereads, Rewrites, and Re-Members “Porphyria’s Lover”’, Letras Femeninas, 25 (1/2) (1999), pp. 65-77, 65.

[3] J.R Watson, ‘Robert Browning: ‘My Last Duchess’, Critical Survey, 6(1/2) (1973), pp. 69-75, 74.

‘Porphyria’s Lover’: Status, Possession and Justification

In ‘Porphyria’s Lover,’ the status of the title character heavily influences her relationship with her lover. It appears that Porphyria has been unable to give herself to her lover and set her ‘struggling passion free | From pride’ (ll. 23-24).[1] Porphyria’s passion for her lover has been constrained by her high status. The use of the word ‘murmuring’ (l. 21) also demonstrates Porphyria’s inability to give herself to her lover, as she is not prepared to announce her love for him in society. Her declarations of love for him have been reduced to whispers, demonstrating the significance of her status, as it interferes with their relationship. However, Porphyria’s leaving of the ‘gay feast’ (l. 37) signifies a change in their relationship, as it appears that Porphyria has abandoned her family at a celebratory meal. This indicates that she has abandoned her status, and the constraints that came with her high rank, and is ready to fully give herself to her lover. This is indicated by the removal of her ‘cloak and shawl,’ (l. 11) which implies that she intends to stay with her lover awhile. Her overcoming of her status and eventual acceptance of him, as well as her love for him, leads to her death in the poem, as the narrator wishes to capture the moment in which Porphyria ‘worshipped’ (l. 33) him. Here the cycle of their relationship ends, as the narrator ends the life of Porphyria, holding her forever in a single moment. Browning may be using Porphyria’s story to comment on the negative effects of social mobility.

Porphyria is killed at the moment when her lover is in full possession of her, and when she fully commits to him. He notes that she was ‘mine, mine fair’ (l. 36). The repetition of ‘mine’ demonstrates the possessive and egotistical nature of the speaker, and this acts as his self-justification for killing her. His wish, to hold her in that moment of submission, as well as his possessive nature, leads to her death, as he strangles her with her own hair. He is invigorated by his actions, as implied by the ‘burning kiss’ (l. 48) he plants on her cheek. His possessive nature is symbolised by her corpse, which he happily sits ‘still’ (l. 51) with long after her death. He objectifies her by noting her ‘rosy little head’ (l. 52), reducing her to a doll like figure that he can fully dominate and possess. In this respect the poem comments on prominent themes in Browning’s work, ‘experiencing an infinite moment and seizing love’s chance in defiance of respectability and fear,’ as noted by Eggenschwiler.[2] Porphyria’s lover kills her in a moment of bliss, in the hope of retaining that moment and making it last forever.

Following Porphyria’s murder, the narrator goes on to justify himself and his actions, stating that in killing her he granted her ‘wish’ (l. 57). His self-justification can be seen through the narrators’ use of ‘I’ throughout the second half of the poem, as he takes control and animates his dead lover’s body. The delusion of the narrator prompts the reader to realise his mental instability, which is heightened with the ending exclamation of ‘And yet God has not said a word!’ (l. 60). The exclamation is a rarity in the poem, and initially appears jovial. However, the exclamation could be one of surprise, for it appears that God has not judged his actions. It raises further questions about the narrators’ state of mind, as it is unclear what emotion Browning is trying to convey with this exclamation. The fact that the narrator killed Porphyria in an attempt to grant, what he believed, was her wish, is especially disconcerting. This supports Eggenschwiler’s idea that the poem is a ‘psychologically complex dramatic monologue.’[3]

Thanks for reading!

[1] Robert Browning, ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, in The Norton Anthology of Poetry, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy, 6th edn (London: Norton, 2018), pp. 1057-1058.

[2] D. Eggenschwiler, ‘Psychological Complexity in “Porphyria’s Lover”’, Victorian Poetry, 8(1) (1970), pp. 39-48, 40.

[3] Ibid., 39.

St Patrick’s Day: A Brief History

Saint Patrick’s Day, or the Feast of Saint Patrick, is annually held on the 17th of March and is a religious and cultural celebration. It is celebrated primarily by Christians, and also celebrates the heritage and culture of the people of Ireland. The day is a public holiday in Ireland and has been since 1903. Saint Patrick’s Day is also celebrated globally. Irish emigrants transformed the festival into a secular one in the United States, which celebrates all things Irish. Since 1962, Chicago has coloured its river green to mark the day. The festival is also a public holiday on the island of Montserrat, as it was founded by Irish refugees. Due to the day’s association with Ireland, celebrations there greatly influence celebrations across the rest of the world.

As you may have guessed, the day itself celebrates Saint Patrick, a Christian missionary who lived in the 5th century. Most information about him comes from ‘Declaration,’ which was allegedly written by Patrick himself. The text details a story in which Patrick, at the age of sixteen, was kidnapped by Irish raiders and taken from his home, Roman Britain, as a slave to Gaelic Ireland. After working for six years as a shepherd there, he found faith. Toward the end of this six-year period, he began to hear a voice telling him that he would soon go home, and later that his ship was ready. He escaped, and travelled to a port, 200 miles away. There he found a ship and sailed back to Britain. By the time he returned to his family he was in his early twenties. There, he continued to study Christianity.

Patrick later had a vision, and in it, claimed he was visited by a man named Victoricus, who was from Ireland. The vision told hm that he must return to Ireland and lead them. Acting upon this, Patrick returned to Ireland to introduce his new Christian faith to the Irish people. The 17th of March is traditionally believed to be the day that he died. Although he has never been officially canonised, he is recognised as the primary patron saint of Ireland and is sometimes called ‘Apostle of Ireland.’ He is also regarded as ‘equal-to-the-apostles,’ meaning that his service to Christianity is considered to be on par with Jesus’ original 12 apostles.

The shamrock is a common symbol of Ireland, and legend has it that Saint Patrick used it to aid his teaching. According to the story, which first appeared in writing in 1726, he used it to illustrate the idea of the Holy Trinity. The three leafed sprig was representative of the father, the son and the holy spirit. It is now heavily associated with Saint Patrick’s Day. Allegedly, St Patrick also banished snakes from Ireland, chasing them all into the sea when they attacked him during his 40 day fast on top of a hill.

Green is associated with Ireland primarily because of the image of the shamrock. Other reasons have also been outlined. The story of Goídel Glas was described in the 11th century book ‘Lebor Gabála Éren.’ Glas was bitten by a snake, which was healed by Moses through the use of his staff. As a reminder, Glas retained a green mark that would also lead his people to a land that would be free of snakes. In the 1640s, the green harp flag was used by the Irish Catholic Confederation, further strengthening the link between the colour and the country. The wearing of the ‘Saint Patrick’s Day Cross’ was also a popular custom until the early 20th century. They were Celtic Christian crosses made of paper, covered with different coloured silks, commonly with a rosette of green silk in the centre. The festival is actually celebrated in more countries than any other national festival.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Thanks for reading!

Harry and Meghan: History Repeating Itself?

Harry and Meghan’s interview with Oprah aired in the UK on Monday and was viewed by 12 million people. In the aftermath of its airing, Piers Morgan resigned and many media outlets have spoken in defence of their work and decried the couple. The couple candidly discussed Buckingham Palace, mental health and claimed that they received a lack of support from the family… or the institution… or is it the same thing? Meghan herself recognised it was difficult to separate the two, and Harry later confirmed this idea. In response, the Daily Mail released an article ‘fact checking’ the claims made by the couple: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9338421/Royal-revelations-test.html

Were the couple lying? Dare we have the right to accuse them of it? Why do people feel the need to so staunchly defend the royals? What’s the real difference between Meghan and Diana? Let’s have a think.

I will admit that I was surprised to think that Meghan had not even Googled Harry when she first met him. To debunk this, the Daily Mail quoted couples’ friends, and cited the recent book written about the Duke and Duchess, ‘Finding Freedom.’ Meghan’s maid of honour at her first wedding, Ninaki Priddy, asserted that Meghan was obsessed with the royal family, particularly Diana. Americans especially are interested in the royal family, so I assumed that she would have heard of them and recognised their status. Although Google may be able to give an idea of what being a working royal might be like, I doubt it could tell us what it is like day to day. Google would probably comment on a generalised notion of royal duties, but I doubt there is a comprehensive guide out there for people marrying into the royal family. There certainly was none for Diana, who noted that she ‘was thrown in the deep end,’ in one of the tapes Andrew Morton used to write her biography. Diana specifically here was referring to the Australia tour. Everyone was sympathetic to Diana about this issue, but it seems that Meghan has not been afforded the same sympathy. What is the difference? We do not see what goes on behind closed doors, as Diana’s story proved. We only learned about her experiences when she spoke out as Harry and Meghan are doing so now. Perhaps you would think that Meghan would have Googled Harry, but would it have really helped? Considering what Harry was saying in the interview, his experience in recent years has been as bleak as Meghan’s. It appears that even Harry did not fully realise what being in the royal family was like until now, or how ‘trapped’ he was inside it.

The couple also claim that they were wed secretly before the wedding. The Mail states that this is unlikely, but I cannot fathom what could be gained from the couple lying about this. The Mail says that in reality this just could have been an exchange of vows, not a legally recognised wedding. Perhaps this is enough for the couple, to them that counted as a wedding. Some say this was for publicity, but the couple have their Netflix deals, they were not paid for the interview. I can only think that this interview was agreed on because the couple wanted to tell their story.

Meghan claimed that she was ‘silenced’ by the royal family. The Mail cites evidence from royal insiders that the couple ‘called the shots’ when it came to publicity, but who are these royal insiders? Are they trustworthy? Why should we not trust in what the couple has to say? Diana too experienced similar treatment, her bulimia was overlooked by the family, and her decision to do the 1995 Panorama interview stemmed from her belief that a divorce from Charles would result in a gagging order. Sarah Ferguson also spoke out about eating disorders that she faced during her royal marriage, and she too faced personal criticism from the press. This idea of having a ‘stiff upper lip’ and not expressing ones feelings seems like an all too familiar narrative.

Issues surrounding Archie are both contentious and damning. If history dictates that Archie should not have a title, then fair enough, so be it. This is where facts and perception may get confused. It certainly looks bad, that the first royal baby of colour, will be the only one not to receive a title from an outsider perspective. This also links to Meghan’s treatment by the media. If you put a picture of the family together, the most noticeable difference is that Meghan is a woman of colour. Anything relating to Archie’s race, or colour, be it based on precedent or not, is bound to be inflammatory. If the couples remarks are indeed incorrect, then the palace should issue a statement to correct them. The Queen did step in in 2013 to issue a Letters Patent that ensured that George’s siblings received a title… could she not do the same for Archie? Why is she willing to bend the rules for them and not Archie? I am in no way saying that I believe that this was racially motivated, but if you ask people to look for a link, this is what they will come to – as it is the only difference between Meghan, Archie and the rest of the family.

The issue of Archie’s security strikes me personally as not an issue relating to the monarchy, but an issue relating to family. Archie is still Archie, and Prince Harry will forever be known as Prince Harry. The family will be forever hounded by the media. It appears that in their treatment of Harry and Meghan, the royal family subtracted the fact that they were family. Although people have cried out saying that Harry and Meghan should not have access to money from the taxpayer, and rightly so, surely the other royals would want to support Harry and Meghan in their move abroad? Yes, they wanted to be financially independent, but this does not happen overnight. Could no one have provided them with some money to settle? It does look uncaring on Charles’s part, especially in light of Harry’s remark that his father has stopped taking his calls. Following ‘The Crown,’ and all the history that has been dragged up by it, Charles has not fared well in recent months. Diana detailed Charles’s treatment of her in the biography, and if all are to be believed, it seems that some things are not changing. Harry is right in saying that Archie is still his grandson, Prince or not.

The Mail Online’s stance about Meghan’s requests for help being denied has been labelled as ‘difficult to verify.’ This is just a version of saying ‘we do not know,’ which is only a stone’s throw away from saying that Meghan is lying, as she is not being vindicated. This is insulting to her and others who have had mental health issues. Diana suffered the same treatment, but it appears that everyone’s compassion was then and does not exist now. The Mail even cites the fact that Harry did not know what to do about it, and so effectively blames him for his own wife’s poor mental health.

In terms of stories coming out, and protection from the media, from an outsider perspective it did not seem like the palace did not do much to stop the barrage of abuse Meghan was receiving. Parliament did discuss it, and Harry made a statement but no more was done. This again does not look good. The Mail labels this as ‘contested.’

I suppose viewers cannot really ever know the truth. It is Harry and Meghan’s word against someone else’s. What I will say is that, in my view, the Duke and Duchess did not come across bitter or vengeful in any way, and instead appeared sincere. There was no intense criticism of the character of individual members of the family but a mere description, of what they say, happened. Charles did probably come off the worst, but even then, Harry never made a comment on Charles’s character, just that Charles had stopped taking his calls, and that he felt let down. From an outsider perspective however, it does not look good, and based on what we know, looking at the experiences of Diana, Sarah Ferguson and Meghan, there are certainly common themes. This in itself is unsettling. It made me think of my own time working at Buckingham Palace, and although the situation was completely different, it seems that the harshness of the environment, and at times lack of sympathy, something that these three women described, does filter through to all levels.

What we all should remember is that these people are still people with feelings. They are still a family who fight and disagree with each other. No one is perfect, and no one is blameless, and even though people have come out in staunch defence of the royal family, solely because they are the royal family, they too are people who can, and I personally think have, made mistakes. I do not think people should take it so personally, especially when these people are not our own flesh and blood family… a hint to Piers Morgan, whose vendetta against Meghan seems childish and slightly obsessive. In terms of mistakes, and a totally different context, look at Prince Andrew.

Thanks for reading!

The influence of scripture, tradition and law on the abolition of Sati

‘Women become sites upon which various versions of scripture, tradition and law are elaborated’ – Lata Mani.

Mani’s sentiment rings true, as scripture, tradition and law were used to address Sati, an issue that primarily concerned women. Women therefore did become sites upon which versions of these three sources were elaborated and developed. Although these debates stemmed from a problem exclusive to women, the discussions demonstrated peoples’ desire to ascertain the legality of Sati, not their desire to help Hindu women. This is reflected in the rulings of the Nizamat Adalat, and in the works of Rammohun Roy and Walter Ewer.  The ideas that were generated by the debates concerning scripture, tradition and law impacted on Britain’s understanding of Sati, leading to the generation of colonial discourse on the topic. This cemented the British view that India was an immoral land, a view that validated their own, colonial, Christianising mission. Although scripture, tradition and law directly affected the debates around the abolition of Sati, and by extension women, women acted as passive bodies that these ideas were elaborated from, as their plight was disregarded in favour of assessing the legality of Sati, and later the colonial agenda of the British.

Initially, the East India Company were deterred from abolishing Sati as they did not want to appear as religiously intolerant, and they also worried about the economic repercussion’s abolition would have on the Company.[1] Due to this, there was a lack of legislation that explained Sati.[2] Regional traditions of the practice also varied, such as the direction of the pyre and whether the widow’s body should be placed on the left or on the right of it.[3] This made the practice inscrutable to the British colonisers. To combat this, instead of condemning Sati, they sought to assess how it should be practised, and to enshrine this in law. Enshrining Sati in a universal law meant that Indian widows could still carry out the practice, in a way which the British colonisers understood. The British colonisers believed this was the best way to minimise disruption to the Indian natives.[4]

British Utilitarianists, such as James Mill, advocated a universal code of law based on British values, believing that by reforming society, they could also improve Indian morality.[5] To generate accurate legislation, British colonisers depended on the interpretation of Indian pandits to understand Indian jurisprudence. This was problematic, as regional variations of Sati were largely ignored.[6] Increasingly, dependence on pandits, and the power that they exercised, became unsettling to British colonisers, so they sought new ways of understanding Sati and ascertaining the legality of it.[7] Social reformers such as Rammohun Roy advocated a return to scripture in order to do this.[8]

The influence of scripture over the debates about the abolition of Sati reinforced the authority of the pandits, as the interpreters of Hindu scripture. When attempting to ascertain the legality of Sati, which in this context refers to its scriptural authority, the court of Nizamat Adalat called on the pandit Ghanshyam Surmono.[9] In 1813, Surmono concluded that because the practice was ‘recognised and encouraged by the doctrines of the Hindoo religion,’ it should be legalised.[10] Surmono stressed that the legality of Sati rested on the voluntary nature of it.[11] This is recognised in magistrates’ records of Sati, in which the countenance of the widow was examined to ensure that she was committing the act of ‘her own free will.’[12] This defined the role of woman as the dutiful wife who was obedient to her husband and obedient to scripture.

The court also concluded that widows could only commit Sati ‘provided she has no infant children, nor is pregnant.’[13] If the widow were to commit Sati, she should also make provisions for childcare.[14] This view casts the widow in the role of mother and demonstrates a conflict between this role and her role as wife. The courts advocation of Sati supports the women’s position primarily as wife. Unfortunately, this does not consider the plight of the widows in question, as their lives rested on the presence and age of their children, and not their own will.

Rammohun Roy’s 1818 tract disagreed with the legal rulings of the court, and asserted that Sati had no scriptural authority.[15]  He claimed that corrupt Hindu princes invented the practice, ‘under the cloak of religion,’ to ensure the faithfulness of their widows, and then asserted the legitimacy of Sati in scripture.[16] Roy noted the absence of Sati in the Shashtras, texts which the British colonisers used as principal guides to the Hindu faith.[17] Despite this apparent display of support for women, Roy’s opposition to Sati stemmed primarily from its lack of scriptural authority.

Instead of Sati, Roy advocated ascetic widowhood, which, as described in the Manusmriti, ‘should preserve the virtue required of widows.’[18] Walter Ewer corroborated the importance of the text, seeing it as the ‘parent of Hindoo jurisprudence.’[19] Governor General of India William Bentinck supported this idea, stating that ascetic widowhood was ‘the purest precepts of religion,’ and that, for the rest of her life, the widow would act as a role model for future generations of Hindus. [20] 

In response, supporters of Sati argued that a prolonged life of widowhood would lead to one of prolonged suffering, recognising Sati as the lesser of two evils.[21] It was also feared that widows were a danger to society, as they did not have a husband to contain their irrepressible sexuality, making Sati a more favourable alternative.[22]

Roy’s use of the Manusmriti to support his argument was also problematic, as the text did not address the issue of Sati, rendering it irrelevant.[23] This led to the broader assertion by the opposition that a lack of scriptural basis did not validate the disregarding of traditional practices.[24] The durga puja and dola jatra were cited as examples.[25] Although women acted as sites upon which these debates were elaborated, their plight was disregarded, and instead, the assessment of the credibility of scripture in defining Sati was prioritised. Women were relegated to an inactive and passive role by scholars in the debates about the abolishment of Sati. Britain selected details of these ongoing debates to incorporate into their own distinct colonial discourse on the topic of Sati.

British evangelical missionary Charles Grant decried the treatment of women in India, and saw them as the ‘unfortunate part of the community and greatly to be pitied.’[26] Politician William Wilberforce publicly condemned the ‘fireside evils’ that Indian women were subjected to, which directly contrasted with the evangelical view of the fireplace, as the heart of the idealised Christian family.[27]

Walter Ewer developed this idea further through his conception of the Hindu widow. His 1818 work advocated voluntary Sati, but argued that the widows involved in the practice were enslaved by religion and the will of those around them.[28] Ewer asserted that any normal person would ‘turn with natural instinct and horror from the thought of suttee,’ but that the widow does not because she lacks education and the ability to reason independently.[29] This infantilised the widows, making them occupy the position of wife, mother and also child.[30] This is ironic, as in 1818, sixty-four percent of Sati’s were above forty years of age.[31] Whilst, in a way, defending women by stating that Sati must be voluntarily, Ewer also does them a disservice by casting them in the role of the unintelligent victim, that needed the aid of foreign intervention. This demonstrates Britain’s ability to manipulate certain ideas about Sati to suit their own colonial agenda.

Ironically, Britain’s discourse on Sati increasingly focused on Hindu men rather than Hindu women. Britons viewed Hindu men as effeminate and weak, leading them to the conclusion that they were unable to protect Hindu women from practices such as Sati.[32] The British decided that they needed to intervene to protect Hindu women from Hindu men, the enforcers of Hindu faith and tradition. The selective discourse that the British employed is also present in their commentary on female infanticide. Hindu men interviewed by Major Walker stated that female infanticide ‘belonged to the Nursery,’ attributing the act to women.[33] However, the British elected to blame Hindu men for this, saying that women committed infanticide on the order of their husbands, who enforced the Hindu faith upon their women, even though Hinduism itself made no mention of female infanticide.[34] This suited the British agenda by confirming the superiority of British, Christian moral values, and encouraged the colonial belief that India was a morally corrupt country that required British intervention.

This was vocalised by Wilberforce, who argued that Christian conversion was an ‘imperial duty.’[35] Charles Grant concurred, claiming that the only way to reform India was to reform its morals.[36] Although these ideas stemmed from the practice of Sati, the focus on Hindu men disregarded the plight of the women in favour of validating the British agenda: the Christianisation of India.

Sati was used to appeal to the wifely and maternalistic nature of the British woman and to inspire their sympathy, in the hope that they would travel to India as missionaries.[37] Bentinck wished for this to happen quickly, in contrast to the gradual change that had gone before.[38] Such a mission epitomised the evangelical idealisation of motherhood, as it saw women expanding their domestic role in the English home to include the country of India.[39] The mission of the women was the spread of education, in the hope that intellectual enlightenment would encourage Hindus to convert to Christianity, and thus end immoral Hindu practices, such as Sati.[40] The campaign itself was successful, and by May 1821 over 521 pounds was collected by the Ladies Committee of the British Foreign School Society to send a teacher to Calcutta.[41] Mary Anne Cooke was selected, and in setting up schools throughout Calcutta, educated 800 pupils over three years.[42] Cooke herself styled her work as one of self-sacrifice, as she had left the comforts of Britain to help people less fortunate than herself.[43] Her sacrifice contrasted the self-sacrifice of Sati, serving the British cause further in highlighting the differences between Britain and India.[44] Despite the good intentions of her mission, it is conceivable to think that the story of Cooke would have attracted more attention than the Indian women who she was trying to educate, and also reinforced the British conception that the people of India were intellectually and morally inferior, as illustrated by their selective discourse. In retrospect Britain’s response to Sati can be read as a white saviour narrative, in which Britain’s attempts at helping India were predominantly self-serving.

Sati was abolished in 1829, meaning that British colonisers were successful in intervening in the lives of the Indian natives. As I have demonstrated, although women acted as sites upon which the debates concerning the abolishment of Sati were elaborated, because Sati specifically concerned women, their feelings were disregarded in favour of the debates that ensued between scholars and academics, who sought to ascertain the true nature of Sati. The ensuing discussions cast women in several different roles, such as wife, mother and victim, roles that the women themselves had no control over. Britain chose which ideas to incorporate into their colonial discourse, concluding that the Indian natives needed to be saved from themselves, citing the weakness of Hindu men as the cause of this development. Britain’s solution was the spread of Christian ideals, perpetuating a white saviour narrative. No action which led to the abolition of Sati demonstrated specific concern for the plight of the widows, as, in the words of Gayatri Spivak, it is their ‘testimony’ that is never encountered, rendering them as the unrecognised, eternal victims of Sati.[45]

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[1] L. Mani, ‘Production of an Official Discourse on “Sati” in Early Nineteenth Century Bengal’, Economic and Political Weekly, 21 (1986) pp. 32-40, p. 33.

[2] S. den Otter, ‘Law, Authority, and Colonial Rule’, in Douglas M. Peters and Nandini Gooptu (eds.), India and the British Empire (Oxford, 2012), pp. 168-190, p. 174.

[3] Ibid., p. 38.

[4] Ibid., p. 33.

[5] F. G Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India (Princeton, 1967) p. 10.

[6] S. den Otter, ‘Law, Authority, and Colonial Rule’, p. 172.

[7] Ibid., p. 179.

[8] L. Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, Cultural Critique, 7 (1987), pp. 119-156, p. 104.

[9] Mani, ‘Production of an Official Discourse on “Sati” in Early Nineteenth Century Bengal’, p. 33.

[10] L. Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 94.

[11] Mani, ‘Production of an Official Discourse on “Sati” in Early Nineteenth Century Bengal’, p. 33.

[12] Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 94.

[13] Ibid., p. 98.

[14] Mani, ‘Production of an Official Discourse on “Sati” in Early Nineteenth Century Bengal’, p. 33.

[15] R. Kumar, The history of doing: an illustrated account of movements for women’s rights and feminism in India 1800-1990 (London, 1993), p. 14.

[16] Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 105.

[17] Kumar, The history of doing: an illustrated account of movements for women’s rights and feminism in India 1800-1990, p. 14.

[18] Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 108.

[19] Ibid., p. 108.

[20] Ibid., p. 112.

[21] Ibid., p. 108.

[22] A A. Yang, ‘Whose Sati?: Widow Burning in Early 19th Century India’, Journal of Women’s History, 1 (1989), pp. 8-33, p. 15.

[23] Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 108.

[24] Ibid., p. 108.

[25] Ibid., p. 108.

[26] C. Grant, Observations, on the State of Society among the Asiatic Subjects of Great Britain, Particularly with Respect to Morals and on the Means of Improving it, Written Chiefly in the Year 1792 (London, 1813), in Andrea Major (ed.), Sati: A Historical Anthology (New Delhi, 2007), pp. 75-8, p. 75.

[27] C. Midgley, ‘Female Emancipation in an Imperial Frame: English Women and the Campaign Against Sati (Widow-Burning) in India, 1813–30’, Women’s History Review, 9 (2000), pp. 95-121, p. 97

[28] Mani, ‘Production of an Official Discourse on “Sati” in Early Nineteenth Century Bengal’, p. 35.

[29] Ibid., p. 35.

[30] Mani, ‘Contentious Traditions: The Debate on Sati in Colonial India’, p. 97.

[31] Ibid., p. 98.

[32] C. Hall, ‘Of Gender and Empire: Reflections on the Nineteenth Century’, in Philippa Levine (ed.), Gender and Empire (Oxford, 2007), pp. 46-76, p. 53.

[33] D. J.R Grey, ‘Creating the ‘Problem Hindu’: Sati, Thuggee and Female Infanticide in India, 1800-1600’, in Joanna De Groot and Sue Morgan (eds.), Sex, Gender and the Sacred: Reconfiguring Religion in Gender History (New Jersey, 2014), pp. 104-116, p. 108.

[34] Ibid., 107.

[35] L. James, Raj: The Making and Unmaking of British India (London, 1997) p. 224.

[36] Hutchins, The Illusion of Permanence: British Imperialism in India, p. 10.

[37] Midgley, ‘Female Emancipation in an Imperial Frame: English Women and the Campaign Against Sati (Widow-Burning) in India, 1813–30’, p. 98.

[38] G.D. Bearce, British Attitudes Towards India, 1784-1858 (New York; London, 1961), p. 156.

[39] Midgley, ‘Female Emancipation in an Imperial Frame: English Women and the Campaign Against Sati (Widow-Burning) in India, 1813–30’, p. 98.

[40] Ibid., p. 98.

[41] Ibid., p. 98.

[42] Ibid., p. 98.

[43] Ibid., p. 98.

[44] Ibid., p. 104.

[45] Yang, ‘Whose Sati?: Widow Burning in Early 19th Century India’,  p. 110.

Moll Flanders: Subverting Romance Conventions

Daniel Defoe’s ‘Moll Flanders’ was published in 1722. The passage I will be focusing on comes halfway through the novel as an older Moll recounts a time of high notoriety in her life. Following her failed marriage to the banker, Moll turns to a life of thievery, and following the capture and execution of her accomplice, adopts the name ‘Moll Flanders’ in order to conceal her true identity. In the passage, located in Chapter 18, Moll is seduced by a ‘Gentleman’ that she meets at ‘Bartholomew Fair,’ and following the end of their liaison, she robs him. This passage, like the rest of the novel, continues to subvert traditional romance conventions, by drawing attention to romance conventions in the passage, the setting, actions of characters and by using free direct discourse. 

Romance conventions had been previously established in works of romance prose fiction, and such conventions can be identified in the opening of the passage. Moll’s ‘Gentleman’ is ‘extreamly well Dress’d and very Rich.’ These adjectives illustrate Moll’s suitors’ wealth and status within society, making him a highly eligible bachelor. Suitors would often be of a high status in romance prose fiction, as identified by William Congreve, who noted that stories of this nature involved individuals of ‘the first Rank.’[1] This emphasises that characters involved in romance prose fiction were of the highest status, which mirrors the implied status of Moll’s suitor. This is certainly true of Aphra Behn’s prose romance Oroonoko, in which the title protagonist is a ‘prince.’[2] Moll’s impression that her suitor is ‘civil’ may correspond with Congreve’s assertion that ‘lofty Language’ frequently appeared in romance prose fiction.[3] This could refer to hyperbolic romantic language, which suitors would deploy to incite feelings of affection within their lovers. Moll’s suitor also buys her a ‘Feather Muff,’ in an attempt to win her affections. This could be equivalent to the heroic acts that male suitors in romance prose fiction were supposed to complete in order to win the hearts of their lovers, referred to as ‘invincible courages’ by Congreve.[4] This plays to the idea that as well as words, suitors would have to physically prove their love to their female counterparts. The opening of the passage appears to adhere to conventions of romance prose fiction, as it develops a male character that is of high status who attempts to win Moll’s hand by showing his affection for her by buying her a gift. This then allows Defoe to subvert these established conventions throughout the remainder of the passage and novel.

The setting of the passage confirms that this was Defoe’s intention. Moll encounters her gentleman at ‘Bartholomew Fair.’ The fair had taken place since the twelfth century, in honour of Saint Bartholomew.[5] This specific setting is selected by Defoe as by 1720, two years prior to the publication of Moll Flanders, the Fair had become home to ‘debaucheries, drunkenness, whoredom’ and was deemed unfit for ‘Christians ears and eyes.’[6] This emphasises the immorality and irreligious nature of the fair, as activities within it were condemned by the Church. This foreshadows the unconventional romance between Moll and her lover, despite the initial opening of the passage, which appeared to adhere to typical romantic conventions.

This choice of setting also marks the rise in formal realism, as the novel begins to act as a ‘picture of real life and manners.’[7]  Ian Watt also recognised this as a mark of the eighteenth century novel, due to its attention to particular ‘times and places.’[8] This demonstrates that the novel is reflective of the times in which it was written, thus progressing away from romance prose fiction, which described more fantastical stories of heroism. The setting is an ironic one in which to find a romantic relationship, as those at the fair are generally seen as ‘idle’ or of ‘loose’ morals.[9]

The actions of Moll’s suitor continue to support the assertion that the passage subverts typical romance conventions. The absence of a name removes any identifying feature from the character, and also emphasises his lack of relevance in Moll’s life, as another of her nameless conquests. As the passage progresses, more is discovered about the character which contradicts the readers’ first impressions of him. He ‘press’d’ Moll to drink, implying that he forced her impolitely. He is not heroic and does not go to great efforts to win Moll, as suitors were expected to in other works of romance prose fiction. In Oroonoko, the title character notes that to save his love, he would ‘venture through any hazard to free her.’[10] Moll uses the verb ‘yielded’ to describe how she responded to her suitors’ advances and describes that he ‘did what he pleas’d with me.’ These descriptions make Moll appear passive, as her suitor is actively pushing her to drink. The relationship appears one sided, suggesting an unequal balance of romantic feeling between the two. There is an imbalance of power, as Moll appears passive to the active agency of her suitor. The forceful nature of Moll’s suitor contradicts her initial impressions of him and confirms the constitution of his character to her and the reader.

Defoe uses free direct discourse to expose the true nature of Moll’s suitor, describing him as ‘so absurd, so surfeiting, so ridiculous.’ This list of three emphasises Moll’s disdain for him, and her use of ‘surfeiting’ implies that she has endured too much of his company which has caused her to desire no more. This confirms that he stifled her, as previously suggested by his persistent action in encouraging her to drink. Moll declares that he was ‘in the possession of two devils at once.’ This metaphor emphasises his immoral nature, as he is controlled by not one but two devils, linking back to the idea that the Fair was home to people devoid of Christian moral values.  It is now confirmed that her suitor represents the antithesis of Christian morality, styling him as a devilish villain. Defoe’s use of free direct discourse allows the reader to see Moll’s point of view verbatim as she recounts her own personal experience. The lack of punctuation gives the impression that Moll has launched into a tirade of anger against her lover and is consumed by it. This emphasises her ‘individuality of character,’[11] which was explored in the eighteenth century novel, as it allowed the reader to understand characters fully, and moved them away from the stereotypical archetypes of romance prose fiction.[12] Both Moll and her suitors’ supposed morality depletes as the passage progresses, revealing their true, corrupt nature.

Moll’s own actions display her own corrupt nature. In response to her lovers’ revealed character, Moll ‘pick’d his Pocket of his watch and his purse of gold.’ What originally appeared as a romantic liaison now has descended into petty thievery. This also marks the shift away from romance prose fiction to realist novels, as Moll’s individuality of character dictates her nefarious actions. This reduces the romantic nature of the liaison to something purely economical and confirms that both characters have used each other for mutual gain. The beginning of the passage contrasts the ending, as the morality of the characters declines as the passage progresses, showing their mutual descent into moral degradation. Moll does not intend to marry this man, as one might expect at this point in her life, and the relationship is considerably dishonest as he appears as something he is not, and she robs him. Although she claims that the situation was ‘unlook’d’ for and ‘undesign’d,’ Moll makes great use of it. The unconventional use of the prefix ‘un’ attempts to emphasise Moll’s lack of involvement in the circumstances of the affair, as she tries to redeem herself in the eyes of the reader.

The passage, and novel, display the transition from romance prose fiction to the eighteenth-century novel, by subverting typical romance conventions. Defoe’s focus on setting and individuality of character allowed him to tell a more realistic story that reflected the times in which it was written, unlike the hyperbolic romance fantasies that had gone before. The moral degradation of Moll and her suitor is reflected in the dénouement of the passage, as their true nature is revealed. This is aided by his use of free direct discourse, allowing greater insight into Moll’s mind. Their actions and behaviour fully subvert the previously established romance conventions of romance prose fiction.

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[1] William Congreve, Incognita; or, Love and Duty Reconcil’d (London: Printed for Peter Buck, 1692), A5v sig [Available online: EEBO].

[2] Aphra Behn, Oroonoko (London: Penguin Classics, 2004) p. xxv.

[3] Congreve, Incognita, A5v sig.

[4] Ibid., A5v sig.

[5] Daniel Defoe, Moll Flanders (London: Penguin Classics, 2011) p. 187, n.1.

[6] Ibid., p. 187, n.1.

[7] Clara Reeve, The Progress of Romance (1785), quoted from lecture, Jessica Fay, ‘Moll Flanders’ (9th January 2020, University of Birmingham).

[8] Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel (London: Pimlico, 1957 repr. 2000) p.32.

[9] Defoe, Moll Flanders, pg. 187, n.1.

[10] Behn, Oroonoko, p. 20.

[11] Watt, The Rise of the Novel, p.32.

[12] Northrop Frye, ‘The Four Forms of Prose Fiction’, The Hudson Review, Vol. 2, No. 4 (1950) p. 584.

Valentine’s Day: A Brief History

Nowadays Valentine’s Day is associated with love and commercialism. However, the origins of the day are far more interesting, tragic and violent. In ancient Rome, the pagan fertility festival of Lupercalia was celebrated in from the 13th to the 15th of February. The festival itself honoured Lupa, the wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. The festival also honoured the Roman God Faunus, the God of fertility. Traditions on this day were somewhat more gruesome than traditions today and included animal sacrifice. Young women were whipped with the bloody skin of the animal sacrifices to ensure they were fertile for the next year.

In the 5th century, Pope Galasius I tried to Christianise the day by declaring it Saint Valentine’s day. There were many Saint Valentines that were canonised over the years but the one most associated with the day is the Saint that died in AD 269 in under the reign of Emperor Claudius II. Interestingly, Saint Valentine of Rome is also the patron saint of epilepsy and beekeeping. Saint Valentine was a clergyman who ministered to persecuted Christians, and also conducted secret marriages for them. Emperor Claudius II had banned marriage as he constantly needed men to fight in the army. He did not want men in the army to have a family that they would be attached to, as it became hard for the men to abandon their loved ones. Unfortunately, Claudius found out about Saint Valentine’s secret activities and put him in jail. According to legend, people who he had married posted roses into his cell. There are also rumours about a love story between Saint Valentine and his jailer’s daughter, with notes being exchanged before his execution being signed off with ‘from your valentine.’ He was martyred on February 14th and buried on the hill of Terni. His relics were kept at the Church and Catacombs of San Valentino in Rome, which became an important site for pilgrims throughout the Middle Ages. Valentine’s day is also known as the Feast of Saint Valentine.

Throughout the 14th and 15th centuries the festival became more widely associated with courtly love, spring and fertility, an association that to some extent continues to this day. During the 18th century the day became associated with expressing feelings of love, and in the Victorian age of commercialism, the festival really took off. Cards began to find their way into shops, usually decorated with the image of Cupid. Valentines cards emerged in America during the 1840s also. Different countries have different traditions however, and in Italy Valentine’s Keys are exchanged, giving lovers the power to unlock each other’s hearts. Keys are also given to children to ward off epilepsy. Nowadays, different regional areas have different folk traditions. In Norfolk, a character called ‘Jack’ Valentine knocks on the back door of houses leaving presents for children. In the UK, 1.3 billion pounds is spent yearly on Valentine’s day gifts. Twenty-five million cards are also sent each year. It remains one of the biggest celebrations of the year, after Christmas day.

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Fallenness and Gender in ‘Paradise Lost,’ ‘The Monk’ and ‘Lamia’ – Part Two

The establishment that Fallenness is attached exclusively to the female sex becomes more difficult to uphold when interrogating the texts more deeply, as men exhibit Fallenness like their female counterparts. Ambrosio recognises that he is currently in the ‘period of life when passions are most vigorous, unbridled, and despotic.’[1] This list of three emphasises the uncontrollable and tyrannical nature of Ambrosio’s sexuality, which is already present before he is tempted by Matilda. He recognises the frail nature of man, which in his mind is ‘prone to error.’[2] Ambrosio displays psychological Fallenness before he enters into sexual sin with Matilda.

Ambrosio is tempted by Matilda in a garden, where he is bitten by a ‘serpent.’[3] Matilda in the role of tempter and the presence of the snake alludes back to Milton’s Paradise Lost, and places Ambrosio in the role of Eve, as it is he who is being tempted. Peter Grudin pushes the comparison of Ambrosio and Eve further by arguing that, like Eve, Ambrosio does not understand the consequences of his Fall, as he does not understand the ‘true nature of his tempter.’[4] Ambrosio and Eve’s lack of understanding about Matilda and Satan respectively means that they are oblivious to the questionable intentions of Matilda and Satan. Ambrosio’s ability to be manipulated, and to become passive to Matilda’s advances transforms his masculinity into effeminacy, which further aligns him with the feminine figure of Eve.[5]  Ambrosio displays a similar sexual and psychological Fallenness to that of Eve, meaning that he is just as Fallen as she is.

In creating Eve, Adam asks for ‘thy other self,’ (VIII. 450) implying that he wishes for his partner to be a mirror of himself. One way in which Adam and Eve display equality is in their unanimous lack of knowledge before the Fall. Like Eve, Adam recalls that he does not know what death is, only seeing it as ‘some dreadful thing’ (IV. 426). Eve’s lack of understanding of this concept allows her to be manipulated by Satan, and, as her and Adam have been created equal in Adam’s eyes, it is conceivable to think that Satan could have manipulated Adam using the same concept. As Eve’s lack of knowledge results in the Fall of Man, why would Adam’s lack of knowledge not result in the same consequence?

As previously discussed, following Eve’s eating from the Tree, Adam indulges in her sexual desires and Fallenness with her. Although Eve is portrayed as the instigator of this act, it should be pointed out that Adam himself ‘on Eve Began to cast lascivious Eyes, she him As wantonly repaid’ (IX. 1015). It is Adam who encourages this immoral sexual activity; Eve merely reciprocates his desires and his actions. Here Eve is criticised for her own sexual Fallenness, and yet Adam displays an equal Fallenness and role in their ‘amorous play’ (IX. 1045).

After the Fall of Adam and Eve, the Archangel Michael reminds Adam that ‘From Mans effeminate slackness it begins’ (XI. 634). It is Adam’s defence, crafted by Milton, which states that Adam’s susceptibly to Eve’s ‘female charm’ (IX. 999) and his failure to control her growing independence is what resulted in the Fall. It is Michael’s view that Adam was the superior of the couple but became the inferior when he lost control of Eve and failed to stop her from eating from the Tree. Although this argument still acknowledges, and endorses, the fault of Eve, it does still make the point that, although Adam was blinded by Eve’s beauty, he did not act in any way to prevent her actions, and by extension the Fall of Man, assigning him responsibility for it.

Despite their own Fallenness, both Ambrosio and Adam misogynistically blame their female counterparts for own their transgressions. Milton describes that Adam is enamoured by Eve’s ‘Beauty and submissive charms’ (IX. 498). The inclusion of ‘submissive’ implies that Eve’s beauty is not attractive to Adam unless it is combined with her submission to him, as this reinforces the patriarchal relationship between the two. Following the Fall, Adam declares Eve ‘ingrateful,’ (IX. 1164) and chastises her as, because of her discretion, he too must leave the Garden of Eden. It is after the Fall that Adam’s patriarchy transforms into misogyny, as he solely blames Eve for their expulsion from Eden, a view that is affirmed by Milton.[6]

In his Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce (1643) Milton reduces the role of wife to that of the ‘meet help,’ and her failure to fulfil this role implies her failure as a wife.[7] Milton, articulates these views through Eve, who declares that:

‘Him who worth in Women overtrusting,

Lets her Will rule; restraint she will not brook,

And left to herself, if evil thence ensue,

She first his weak indulgence will accuse’ (IX. 1183-1186).

Milton asserts that those who trust women will suffer for it, as women cannot restrain themselves in the presence of evil. This mirrors the popular cultural belief that women were the cause of the Fall, a view that Milton seems to adhere to.[8] Mary Wollstonecraft attacked Milton for his depiction of Eve, and by extension womankind, saying that through Eve he tries to ‘gratify the senses of man.’[9] Wollstonecraft suggested that Milton’s Eve is only present to play to male misogynistic perceptions of women at the time. This view has since been criticised as reductive however, as an emerging body of female scholarship argued against popular misogyny.

In his work, Feminist Milton, Joseph Wittreich argued that women became increasingly suspicious of the male critical discourse, prompting them to view Milton in an alternative light.[10] These emerging views opined that Milton’s invocation of traditional gender ideas were only present as he was ‘bringing them under review and subjecting them to challenge.’[11] The act of ‘Falling’ should also be critiqued, as in the Romantic sense, it has been attached to the emergence of knowledge, ‘consciousness and imagination.’[12] By pairing Milton’s perceived advocation for female rights and the Romantic view of the Fall, Eve’s desire to ‘feed at once both Bodie and Mind?’ (IX. 779) should be seen as commendable, as Eve embarks on an individual quest for knowledge. This quest for independence and knowledge aligns Eve with the Romantic image of Satan, but ironically, it is the latter who is celebrated despite their equal aspirations.[13] Despite the immediate negative consequences of the expulsion from Eden, the long term effects are more positive, as Eve imparts knowledge to mankind. This thinking acknowledges that Eve’s actions occurred for the better, prompting Wittreich to assert that Milton was encouraging ‘women’s liberation.’[14] This view is interesting as on the surface, Milton appears to support popular misogyny. It is only when looking deeper into the text that a ‘feminist Milton’ seems to emerge. Much like the text, Wollstonecraft herself offered two views on Eve, praising the ‘paradisiacal happiness’ of Adam and Eve, as representative of an ideal marriage. Despite the intense debate that surrounds the text, within its pages, unfortunately Eve is incorrectly labelled as being solely responsible for bringing sin into the world.

The misogyny that Adam displays is also present in Ambrosio. After Ambrosio rapes Antonia, he blames her for his own sins, asking her ‘Was it not thy beauty? Have you not plunged my soul into infamy?’[15] Antonia, or her beauty, cannot be held accountable for Ambrosio’s Fall as she herself was assaulted by Ambrosio. For her role, Ambrosio likens Matilda to a ‘Syren,’ a mythical creature that lures men to their deaths.[16] Unlike Eve and Antonia, when Matilda is reprimanded by Ambrosio for her role in his Fall, she does not accept full responsibility and instead encourages him to accept that he is Fallen. Matilda asks Ambrosio if she herself has not ‘shared in your guilt? Have you not shared in my pleasure?’[17] The italicisations emphasise Matilda’s opinion that both her and Ambrosio are responsible for their giving in to temptation, a view that he does not accept. Ambrosio continues to blame Matilda, declaring that she ‘roused’ his dormant desires.[18] Matilda’s defence appears to incorporate some of the debate that ensued around Paradise Lost, and may imply the latter’s impact on wider society. The female assertion that women should not be fully blamed for the Fall, both inside and outside of the texts, leads to the conclusion that Fallenness cannot be attributed to one specific sex, making it an ambiguous, ‘sexless’ concept. This is better communicated and explored in Keats’s poem Lamia.

In the poem, Lamia first tempts Lycius with the ‘words she sung’ (l. 249).[19]  The mythical creature of Lamia here is likened to a siren, as was Matilda, because Lamia actively seduces Lycius. Upon seeing her, he ‘drank her beauty up, Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup’ (I. ll. 251-252). The power Lamia draws, and exudes, from her endless beauty can also be likened to the powerful beauty of Eve. Although Lamia catches the attention of Lycius, he greedily enjoys and consumes her beauty for his own pleasure. The two then live together in ‘sweet sin’ (II. I. 31). This sin is not attributed to one character alone, and both actors partake in the relationship equally. At the end of Lamia, Lycius dies and Lamia vanishes (II. I. 305-311). Both characters are seen to suffer for their part in the relationship. This Fall occurs due to the intense devotion Lamia and Lycius have for each other, and in this respect, the poem appears to make general comment about the dangers of all-consuming relationships, one that should be heeded by the characters in the works of Milton and Lewis. The ambiguities present in these texts reflect the debates, and eventual conclusion, that Fallenness is sexless.

With the conclusion that Fallenness transcends sex and the cultural construct of gender, it is conceivable to think that Fallenness transcends humanity altogether. When Milton introduces Eve it is made clear that ‘Satan still in gaze’ (IV. 356) is present. Dobranski argued that here, Satan’s gaze was ‘contaminating’ Eve with Fallenness.[20] The present tense of the word implies that Satan’s corruption of Eve was constant and ongoing. The idea is explored more explicitly later, as Satan exploits Eve’s confusion and gains her trust through ‘flattery,’ (IX. 11) an act which ‘induces’ (IX. 18) her to eat from the Tree. Although to Adam, and endorsers of popular misogyny, Eve’s Fall is inevitable and of her own doing, the presence of Satan, and her manipulation by him, should not be ignored. It is also Apollonius’ gaze, much like Satan’s, which causes the downfall of Lamia and subsequently Lycius (II. I. 258).

Satan plays a similar role in The Monk, as it is revealed that He directly targeted Ambrosio and placed Matilda in his ‘way.’[21] Satan was the architect of Ambrosio’s Fall, and as Matilda acted as Satan’s puppet, her role is negated and attributed to him. Satan declares to Ambrosio that ‘I saw your artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver!’[22] Although Satan concedes that Ambrosio was psychologically Fallen before his intervention, without the presence of Matilda, as engineered by Satan, Ambrosio’s Fall may not have occurred, as before the presence of Matilda, Ambrosio did resist temptation. In the above cases, external actors directly manipulate the concept of Fallenness to induce the Fall of others for their own agenda, placing the concept of Fallenness out of the control of the humans who Fall.

Fallenness is a difficult concept to define. Writers during the Romantic period defined it through its exclusive attachment to the female sex. I have demonstrated how the physical and psychological characteristics of Eve and Matilda imply their inherent Fallenness, and also explored how, ironically, their male counterparts are equally Fallen. Adam and Ambrosio’s Fallenness, and their subsequent denial of this, mirrored popular misogynist attitudes which, as in the texts, attributed Fallenness exclusively to the female sex. In response, an emerging body of female scholarship vindicated the actions of Eve, rendering Fallenness as an ambiguous, sexless force. This ambiguity is explored in Lamia, in which the title character and her lover appear as equally culpable for their own destruction. However, the intervention of external actors such as Satan and Apollonius render the other characters powerless, placing Fallenness on a higher pedestal as an external, sexless force that transcends the humans that it directly affects. Perhaps Milton should have blamed not man for our ‘first disobedience,’ but blamed the creator, and creation, of the concept of Fallenness.

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[1] Ibid., p. 18.

[2] Ibid., p. 32.

[3] Ibid., p. 56.

[4] Peter Grudin, ‘“The Monk”: Matilda and the Rhetoric of Deceit’, The Journal of Narrative Technique Vol. 5, No. 2 (1975), p. 142.

[5] E. J. Clery, The Rise of Supernatural Fiction, 1762-1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) p. 103.

[6] Wittreich, Feminist Milton, p. 95.

[7] John Milton, The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce in Complete Prose and Essential Prose of John Milton, ed. by W. Kerrigan, J. Rumrich and S. M. Fallon, (New York: Modern Library Inc, 2007), p. 854.

[8] Walker, Milton and the idea of woman, p. 16.

[9] Mary Wollstonecraft, ‘A Vindication of the Rights of Woman: with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects’, in Romanticism and Revolution: A Reader, ed. by Mee and Fallon, (New Jersey: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011) p. 95.

[10] Wittreich, Feminist Milton, p. 31.

[11] Ibid., p. 32.

[12] Lucy Newlyn, Paradise Lost and the Romantic Reader (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) p. 156.

[13] Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination (New Haven, Conneticut: Yale University Press, 2000), p. 196.

[14] Wittreich, Feminist Milton, p. 46.

[15] Lewis, The Monk, p. 296.

[16] Ibid., p. 173.

[17] Ibid., p. 172.

[18] Ibid., p. 207.

[19] John Keats, ‘Lamia’, in Romanticism: An Anthology, 4th edition, ed. by Duncan Wu (New Jersey: Wiley Blackwell, 2012) pp. 1472-1488.

[20] Dobranski, ‘Clustering and Curling Locks: The Matter of Hair in Paradise Lost’, p. 343.

[21] Lewis, The Monk, p. 377.

[22] Ibid., p. 338.

Fallenness and Gender in ‘Paradise Lost,’ ‘The Monk’ and ‘Lamia’ – Part One

Milton’s use of ‘man’ in Paradise Lost (1667) refers to the entirety of mankind, even though, ironically, it is woman, specifically in the form of Eve, who commits the ‘First Disobedience.’ Eve then draws Adam into sin with her by sharing with him the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. For this, Adam and Eve are expelled from the Garden of Eden, a Fall that signifies a state of transition from innocence to disgrace, triggered by an act of ‘disobedience.’ For Milton, a state of ‘Fallenness’, or susceptibility to temptation, is exclusively tied to the female sex in the form of Eve, as it is she who displays physical and psychological characteristics that make her appear as degraded and vulnerable to temptation. Like Eve, Fallenness is exclusively tied to Matilda in Matthew Lewis’ The Monk (1796) as she also facilitates the Fall of her male counterpart, Ambrosio. Initially presented as a pious, incorruptible monk, Ambrosio is encouraged and succumbs to his temptations upon the arrival of Matilda. Although both women are solely blamed for these occurrences, Adam and Ambrosio also display an equal susceptibility to be drawn into Fallenness. Despite this, Adam and Ambrosio blame their female counterparts for their own Fall. Conversely, in Keats’ poem Lamia (1820) the Fall and destruction of Lamia and her lover Lycius is not attributed to one particular character or sex, and the nature and concept of Fallenness is instead ambiguous. This essay will therefore explore the concept of Fallenness, and by interrogating its portrayal in Paradise Lost, The Monk and Lamia will examine how the concept manifests itself, and will also consider whether the concept transcends humanity altogether.

Initially it appears that Fallenness is exclusively attributed to the female sex. Eve’s ‘golden’ hair is described by Milton as ‘Dishevell’d but in wanton ringlets wav’d, As the Vine curls her tendrils’ (IV. 305-307).[1] ‘Tendrils’ portrays Eve’s untidy hair as winding and flowing, representing a dangerous force that could entrap others. The use of ‘wanton’ demonstrates Eve’s promiscuity, so that her ‘wanton ringlets’ serve as a metonym for her untameable sexuality.[2] These images confirm that, even at her conception, Eve is already licentious and devoid of innocence. Adam has shorter hair which signifies his moral integrity in comparison to Eve (IV. 303). Ambrosio admires his painting of the Madonna and wishes to ‘twine round my fingers those golden ringlets.’[3] Stephen B. Dobranski posits that loose hair was deemed as inherently sexual, because of its association with undressing and ‘sexual availability.’[4] This creates a contention within the painting between the purity of the Madonna and the brazen sexuality that her ringlets imply. The paintings’ resemblance to Matilda also foreshadows Ambrosio’s subsequent Fall by her intervention, but also his desire to be intimate and to become entwined with her. It is the hair of Eve, the Madonna and Matilda that demonstrates one aspect of their Fallenness: their innate sexual degradation.

The untameable sexuality associated with the female is damning for them and those around them, as realised in the figure of the Bleeding Nun in The Monk. The young Beatrice de la Cisternas ‘took the veil at an early age,’ but she soon ‘abandoned herself freely to the impulse of her passions and seized the first opportunity to procure their gratification.’[5] Beatrice’s lack of control is emphasised by the fact that she impetuously sought to sate her desires at the ‘first’ opportunity. ‘Seized’ implies that she did so with suddenness and force. The use of ‘their’ personifies her sexual passions, cementing their status as the dominant force in her life, of which she is slave to. She becomes the mistress of the Baron Lindenburg, and all of Bavaria was ‘scandalised by her impudent and abandoned conduct.’[6] Her sexual appetites control her so completely that she is willing, and conspires with another lover, to murder the Baron, a crime that is ‘attributed solely’ to her.[7] Her multiple sexual partners emphasise her promiscuity, and in the religious world of the novel, this is justification enough for her own murder. Her innate sexual degradation, which is attributed exclusively to the female sex, possesses her so entirely that it results in her death.

Eve also displays a psychological Fallenness. When looking at her reflection, Eve is ‘pleased’ (IV. 463) that ‘What there thou seest fair creature is thyself’ (IV. 468). This alludes to the mythological figure of Narcissus, who fell in love with his own reflection. Like him, Eve exhibits an intense vanity, and it is only through God’s intervention that she pulls herself away from her reflection. Milton demonstrates here that women need God’s help to detach themselves from their materiality and vanity. God lures Eve away from the pool upon the promise of bequeathing her the title of ‘Mother’ (IV. 475), an offer which Eve accepts when she realises that she will see ‘multitudes like thyself’ (IV. 474). This is attractive to Eve, as having humanity made in her own image, mirrors how God made Adam in His own image. This would give Eve an exalted status, similar to that of God.[8] Her desire to recognise herself in her children, and the superior status over them that this would grant her, is attractive, as she wants to replicate the image of herself she saw in the pool. The decision to accept this title of Mother is driven by her own vanity. This quality, attributed exclusively to the female sex, emphasises the Fallenness of Eve’s psyche.

Eve’s confusion and lack of intelligence precipitates the Fall of Man. Eve’s first action when she is born is to look into the ‘Smooth Lake, that to me seemed another skie’ (IV. 459). Eve looks to the ground; Adam looks to the sky. This shows Eve’s confusion between the two, and lack of effective ability to reason. Eve also does not understand ‘God or Death, of Law or penalty?’ (IX. 775) which makes her vulnerable in the presence of Satan, whose actions are based on deceit. Satan uses these flaws to persuade Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge.

Milton’s criticisms of Eve’s psyche are summarised by his assertion that:

‘The Wife, where danger and dishonour lurks,

Safest and seemliest by her Husband staies,

Who guards her, or with her the worst endures’ (IX. 267-269).

The specificity of ‘Wife,’ and the iambic stress that falls upon it, emphasises that part of Eve’s Fallenness stems from the social position she occupies as Adam’s consort. ‘Lurks’ supports this view, as it tells us that her Fallenness remains deceptively hidden. ‘Lurks’ also supports the idea that Eve’s Fallenness was foregrounded by her sex but is elevated by her status as the consort of Adam. This is fully realised and apparent to those around her when she eats from the Tree. Both Milton and Lewis encourage the reader, as well as the male characters in the texts, to view the female sex as solely accountable for the advent of the Falls that occur in both texts. This is foreshadowed by the sexual and psychological Fallenness that Eve and Matilda exhibit upon their introductions. The marriage of sexual and psychological Fallenness render the women as totally Fallen, and totally irredeemable.

Eve and Matilda also have the ability to cause the Fall of others as their own Fallen nature is hidden behind a façade of extreme virtue. To Adam, Eve’s golden tresses enhance and demonstrate her virtuous power as does her beauty.[9] In her presence:

 ‘That space the Evil One abstracted stood

From his own evil, and from the time remained,

Stupidly good.’ (IX. 463-465).

Eve’s beauty is enhanced by her virtuous nature, and is so powerful, that she temporarily exorcises the evil from Satan. Matilda too appears virtuous, as demonstrated by the ‘dazzling whiteness’ of her breast.[10] White is a colour representative of purity, and it is this that attracts Ambrosio to Matilda as well as the painting of the Madonna. Ambrosio is correct in asserting that ‘vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.’[11] ‘Lurking’ echoes Milton’s own description of ‘Wife’ and affirms that Eve and Matilda’s physical exteriors align them with a hyperbolic image of virtue, which shields their Fallen nature. This makes them even more dangerous to their male counterparts, who are unaware of the extreme Fallenness that they are encountering and are at risk to.

Adam falls victim to this, as following her eating from the Tree, Eve ‘wantonly’ (IX. 1015) tempts and encourages Adam to indulge in her sexual desires, and by extension, Fallenness. The repeated use of the word ‘wantonly’ emphasises Eve’s sexual immorality, in contrast to Adam and Eve’s first sexual encounter, in which the two were ‘pure of sinful thought’ (VIII. 504), and Eve is described as ‘blushing’ (VIII. 511) like the innocent morn. Through the use of her ‘contagious fire’ (IX. 1035) Eve diffuses her sin into Adam, meaning that, in having sex with her, he is indulging in her Fallenness with her, and Falls himself. Despite the reader being informed of Eve’s dubious intentions, Adam only sees, and is seduced by, her ‘female charm’ (IX. 999). In this moment it is clear that Adam’s Fall is the fault of Eve. Similarly, Ambrosio has sex with Matilda as he is seduced by her false façade of ‘warmth and passion.’[12] This emphasises the Fallenness of the female sex, as they are so corrupted that they are willing to draw others into their own Fallen state through the use of their manipulative, dangerous sexuality.

Thanks for reading! Part two next week!

[1] John Milton, Paradise Lost, ed. by John Leonard (London: Penguin Clothbound Classics, 2014).

[2] John Wittreich, Feminist Milton (London: Cornell University Press, 1987), p. 87.

[3] Matthew Lewis, The Monk (Oxford: Oxford World Classics, 2016), p. 32.

[4] Stephen B. Dobranski, ‘Clustering and Curling Locks: The Matter of Hair in Paradise Lost’, PMLA Vol. 125, No. 2 (2010), p. 348.

[5] Lewis, The Monk, p. 134.

[6] Ibid., p. 134.

[7] Ibid., p. 135.

[8] Julia M. Walker, Milton and the idea of woman (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1998), p. 151-152.

[9] Dobranski, ‘Clustering and Curling Locks: The Matter of Hair in Paradise Lost’, p. 349.

[10] Lewis, The Monk, p. 51.

[11] Ibid., p. 66.

[12] Ibid., p. 71.