The Possibility of a Politics of Time in The Seamstress

Chapter II of Reynolds' The Seamstress begins with the beginning of the work day, the narrator noting that "the clock of St. Paul's, Convent Garden, is now striking seven, as Virginia rises from her humble pallet (3)," placing both the time, and the time's importance to Virginia explicitly before the reader. The importance time has for Virginia is immediately tied to her working life, with the narrator informing the reader of Virginia's exhausted condition by noting that "for, after twenty-one hours and a half of continuous, unwearied toil, four hours and a half of slumber were but the veriest shade and mockery of rest (3)!" Virginia is not only working a tremendous amount of time with very little rest, but the great deal of time she is working has led all of her life, including the hours in which she rests, to be regulated by and thought of in terms of hours. Hours, opposed to days, is how she experiences her life, an experience of life directly resultant from the wage system under which she labors.
In this way, The Seamstress, by way of Virginia's experience, is able to depict a way of experiencing time which would seem vastly different from that of characters encountered in other novels, characters often drawn from classes other than the laborers. In many of the works we have read up until now, time was measured in days and months, characters shown planning in terms which did not seem to divide individual days into smaller units. The Seamstress, however, offers the reader a different view of time, by extension allowing readers to immerse themselves in and articulate a critique of the realities facing workers. By presenting a world in which time passing in hours rather than days, readers may be able to more fully understand the ways in which measuring the day, even beyond the time spent working, in hours, and see how this conception of time works itself as a form of exploitation.
This different understanding of time presented by the novel can be seen as reflected on the formal level in the very tense in which it is written. As seen in the above quotes, much of the novel is written in present tense, opposed to the past tense which we've encountered up until now. Time, measured in hours, is shown as a constant of Virginia's. The very present in which Virginia lives is already divided up and measured as part of time, rather than becoming inscribed in time retrospectively, when told in past tense, as is oft to happen when one is measuring in larger units, such as days or months. Over the course of days and months, time is allowed to fall from focus of characters, only placed within a narrative across time when recounted. In this way, the very style employed in the writing, as well as what is being written about, offers the reader a chance at analyzing the different ways in which time is divided as a reflection of one's situation in life, providing a site in which to analyze time as a political category.

Marx's Vampires Lurking in The Seamstress

The Seamstress is what I would characterize as the very best a melodrama has to offer. Good characters are really good, society is full of awful people, and our heroine honorably struggles through many trials and tribulations. As one might expect the heroine is all things good and she has an impossible description of her physical appearance to match. I was very struck by the detailed and lengthy descriptions of Virginia’s beauty in the early chapters as well. As Hannah has already pointed out, she seems existence as an unattainable example of beauty that speaks the purity of her interiority. In my experience, when the leading lady is impossibly beautiful and the world around her is dank, dark, and chilling, this leads me to consider the Gothic implications of the text.  

A writer who skillfully employs the use of the Gothic in his writings on capitalism is Karl Marx, specifically in his descriptions of capitalism as a vampire. Jason J. Morrissette, author of "Marxferatu: The Vampire Metaphor as a Tool for Teaching Marx's Critique of Capitalism," explains Marx’s vampire analogy as the “Capitalists are, in effect, draining away the value of their workers’ labor to enrich themselves—just as supernatural vampires drain their victims’ life force to grow stronger” (639). The opening scenes of the text strongly indicate a vampiric relationship between Virginia and Mrs. Jackson. Virginia works on a dress for 21 hours only to have her efforts and skill undervalued significantly. Described as an invalid, Mrs. Jackson seems to be stronger once Virginia gives her the red dress, as Virginia’s labor is literally rejuvenating her. Jane, another servant of Mrs. Jackson’s, is surprised at Virginia’s work ethic and the little regard she seems to have for the longevity of her life: “But you won’t keep it up long miss—you’ll see you won’t. It will kill you right off in a few years if you do “ (7). As Virginia is set upon an errand by Mrs. Jackson that then escalates into her following the exchange of money for the product she has created, she is able to see just how much Mrs. Jackson has taken from her and how little she receives in return. What is most striking is the description of Virginia’s labors over the dress. The description seems to be similar to one affected by the power and attack of a vampire (we’ll say Dracula for a contemporary reference):

But suddenly she starts from that waking trance: the toil is over—the work is done . . . The reaction now commences: the ebb of the tide of energies so unnaturally forced in the same channel for so many hours, begins in terrible earnest. The sensation is as if the warm blood were receding from the heart and flowing out of the veins, bearing away all the vital powers on its crimson current. A feeling of languor, painfully deepening into exhaustion, comes over the maiden. (6)

I do not really know where to go with this Marxist vampire lurking about the text, but I think I will be exploring it further in the longer paper. 

Blog #4: Suffering in The Seamstress

I'll preface my post by saying that I'm only 22 pages into the narrative (my digital version is 145 pages), up until the point that Virginia walks the street with Mr. Lavenham. Therefore, I'll have to limit my response to the beginning of the narrative.

Reynolds' text constructs the vitality of human life as diametrically opposed when it is seen through the lens of class distinction. Virginia, we learn, miraculously maintains a spritely interiority, despite immense suffering. The narrator describes the conditions of penury that afflict Virginia:

"For she thought that it was hard--oh! it was hard to have toiled so much and have rested so little, [sic]--to be compelled to sit up so many hours, and to be enabled to sleep for so short a time,--to plunge herself by sheer labour into such utter exhaustion, and to rise again with the stiffness still in every joint and the aching in every limb!" (3, chp. 2).

Clearly, Virgina struggles against enervation and exhaustion. In this sense, the reader is clearly meant to  understand Virginia's felt sense of life as unjust and unequal. The fact that she is compelled to wake up everyday with "aching in every limb" suggests that Virginia's vitality is determined by her class position. As someone living in conditions bordering complete abjection, she is never afforded the luxury of feeling her own body as secure or comforted. Rather, the trace of her labor pervades every inch of her.

The narrator's description of Virginia's physical beauty, though, suggests that she resists her destitution to an extent: Virginia's "sylphide beauty"(1, chp. 1) is conveyed partly by the vibrancy of her red lips (1, chp. 1), and her skin and ankles are healthy enough to "instantaneously" effect sexual desire within the Marquis (7, chp. 2). While Virginia's vitality is clearly complicated (we should definitely discuss the opening scene in which she pushes her body to its physical limits, which paradoxically invigorates her work and destroys her health), I think that Reynolds suggests that Virginia is "living" in a way that foreshadows continued life.

This sense of life continuing is contrasted by a scene of life ending. Mrs. Jackson, the elderly woman who exploits Virginia's labor, is described as an "invalid" (4, chp. 2) and presumably sick. I think that this image serves a very specific purpose in Reynolds' text. By associating aging and illness with someone from a class that can live relatively comfortably, he underscores the resiliency and initiative of the working class as diametrically opposed to the corruption of the "upper" classes (which are variously defined in the opening scenes). Specifically, Reynolds suggests that it is the working classes who embody "life." The "upper" classes--symbolized by Mrs. Jackson as anyone who can live in relative comfort, free from daily aching limbs--exemplify a type of life that is less than full, and moving downward, rather than upward. Virginia, on the other hand, embodies a vitality that is moving upward, despite her suffering. Therefore, Reynolds suggests that all classes live a life that is "less-than" full; the lower classes are forced to struggle, yet persevere; the upper classes languish, and slowly recede into enervation.

Cry Me a River

Before I wax analytical with this response, I would like to make a small point. While The Seamstress; or the White Slave of England, etc. would not to be classified, at least in my mind, as a piece of Great Literature (whatever that means), I did enjoy reading it. The identity of the true criminal was something of a surprise for me. 

For the remainder of this post, I would like to discuss the use of unconscious physical responses as markers of virtue, particularly in Virginia. Throughout The Seamstress, Virginia breaks into sobs in practically every chapter in which she appears. Her "flush[es] of virgin pride" are also quite frequent (43). The argument that I will develop by examining a few scenes is that Virginia's crying and blushes are physical signifiers of her virtue. This assertion is borne out by the first encounter between Virginia and Mr. Lavenham. When Mr. Lavenham questions Virginia's virtue and ability to refrain from falling prey to the charms of the Marquis of Arden, she bemoans the fact that "no faith [is] put in virtuous intention!" and sets to crying (15). In response, Mr. Lavenham states, "Well I would rather have your indignant grief as an answer to the question I put to you, than a mere verbal protestation which might as well be false as true" (15). Virginia seems to have a habit of responding with tears to any questioning of her virtue or pure motives. Romantic attention results in Virginia blushing, "[a] deep blush spread rapidly over the countenance of Virginia,—the blush of maiden confusion, as she thus acquired the certainty that the elegant stranger was indeed gazing upon herself" (14). 

Of course, the notion that the upright maiden would automatically and unconsciously respond to assaults on her virtue with blushes and tears is nothing new. However, I would like to contrast these tears with the emotional displays of Clementine. As Clementine is priming Virginia with the sad tale of her fallen (but fictional) sister, we see evidence of her prevarication. For example, Clementine speaks of her sister while "suddenly assuming a melancholy look and heaving a profound sigh" (63). Furthermore, the narrator calls this display "the little piece of successful acting with which the wily Frenchwoman had commenced her part" (63). In contrast, Virginia sincerely weeps at the fictional sister's fall. While Clementine is a skilled actress, we see Virginia's tears, figured as beyond imitation, as evidence that she is "artless" and full of honesty and virtue. The text suggests that no matter how well one may act, there are always certain signs of purity and virtue which cannot be feigned.  

Slut Shaming

First, I’ll own that I have not finished The Seamstress yet—with about fifty pages left, I admit that my thoughts may change by the end of the text, though I somehow doubt they will alter much (based on perusal of chapter titles and illustrations).  That said, what I find disturbing in Reynolds’s text so far is the depiction of Julia Barnet and what I wager is the author’s inherent slut-shaming in her depiction.  Julia, from Reynolds’s description, fits “a splendid specimen of woman in the perfection of her vital system” (19), a characterization that we must remember Reynolds himself creates.  The author further notes that “her charms were wholly of a physical nature, blending not in the slightest degree with the softer fascinations which denote the angelic nature of the sex in general.”  What troubles me about Julia’s overall description—beautiful, stately, not quite intelligent, immoral—is the imposition of a particular patriarchal moral dictate on her character and the use of the virginal Virginia (with that heavy-handed moniker) as her foil.

Consider the later scene written as the two friends take their tea together:  “The one was the personification of a luxurious sensuousness; the other was the impersonation of the tenderest sensibilities” and so on culminating in Julia’s depiction as post-Edenic Eve and Virginia as Eve “before the forbidden fruit had stained the virginal purity of her lips” (36).  But here’s the thing:  if Julia embodies the fallen Eve, then she also embodies the very fruit itself because, through her own narrative, it is Julia who opens Virginia’s eyes to knowledge of good and (mostly) evil.  I still obviously need to think through this more, but must Julia’s situation be one of shame implied in her need to “whisper” that she has lost her virtue (39)?

Beauty and Purity

The Confusion of Beauty and Purity

One of the first things that struck me in reading this novel was the conflation of beauty and purity in Virginia in the first chapters. Her beauty is described as both virginal and almost impossible. For instance, she had “a countenance as beautiful as the utmost perfection of features could render it,” a “complexion so dazzlingly fair,” perfectly formed hands, feet, and ankles, “an appearance of virginal artlessness,” and her eyes were “twin lamps of celestial glory” (Reynolds 5). However Virginia, whose beauty and chastity are perfect, dazzle, and practically shoot darts of aesthetic morality, somehow  is not “one of those beings whose beauty blazes upon the eye all in a moment” (Reynolds 5). The contrariness of these descriptions strikes me as both confusing and necessary for Reynolds.  It is necessary for Virginia’s beauty to be virginal for her tragic life and death to take on a Christ-like sacrificial symbol. Part of the chastity of her beauty is the slowness with which it comes on people. If her beauty was one that was immediately apparent (although it seems to be despite the narrator’s dictation otherwise), it would perhaps lead Virginia quickly into a life of sin because of the passion that would overcome others at the sight of her beauty. While Charles does find himself in a passion to follow the young seamstress all over town, he declares his intention not to insult Virginia by his first words being first a series of pardons and then a declaration of meaning only to approach Virginia “with becoming respect” (Reynolds 14). Charles’ recognition of Virginia’s beauty through a series of apologies demonstrates how Virginia’s beauty and Virginia’s chastity are both impossible to ignore.  Additionally and contrarily, the conflation of beauty and purity show how precarious beauty and morality are to a young seamstress whose options are limited to grueling work and prostitution.

Blog #4: Religion and Class: Jewish Characters in The Seamstress and TWWLN

One of the items that really struck me when I was reading The Seamstress was the difference in the portrayal of and attitude towards Jewish characters as opposed to The Way We Live Now and even other “middle-class” literature I’ve read from this time period. This stands out most particularly in Chapter IX “The Three Visitors.—The Catastrophe.” One of the men sent to Duke Belmont to collect on his debt is described as

a tall, good-looking man, with that peculiar facial outline which denotes the Hebrew race: he was well dressed, had a gentlemanly appearance, and wore upon his features a certain air of frankness and good-nature which is not usually ascribed by tale-writers to individuals of his profession. The other two [men who accompanied him]were not of the Jewish family: nor had they at least so far as personal appearance went, anything to be proud of in that respect; —for their sinister countenances and ominous looks contrasted strangely with the frank and open-hearted aspect of the Jew. (27)

Contrast this with what we encountered with Breghert in The Way We Live Now or even the descriptions of Fagan in Oliver Twist or Mrs. Swarz in Vanity Fair. Even a passing familiarity with the characters points to a negative portrayal of the characters by other characters in the novel, if not by the narrator and/or author. While I am not overly familiar with working-class literature, I find it interesting that the stock-character version of the Jew is portrayed so differently and yet with several similarities as well.

Breghert is consistently shown as being respectful, even in the face of insult and blatant antisemitism such as that displayed by Mr. Longstaffe, and the character in The Seamstress is similarly “properly respectful, without being servilely cringing or fawning” (27). Both men are involved in money-matters, Breghert as a banker and Mr. Solomon as a financial agent of sorts employed by Mr. Collinson. Furthermore, it is the aristocracy/landed gentry which appear to hold the most hostility towards Jewish characters. The Longstaffes and the Monograms look down upon Georgiana’s attempted connection with Breghert and in The Seamstress, Duke Belmont “who was so proud—so haughty—and who entertained such an aversion for the race which belongs to the individual to home he was thus anxiously and earnestly imploring a boon” (28).

While both texts portray their Jewish characters as being physically distinctive, Mr. Solomon is still attractive, well dressed, and “had a gentlemanly appearance” while Breghert is described as fat, not-well dressed, known for dying his beard, and overall vulgar in appearance. Furthermore, Reynolds points several times to the “aversion” of the upper-classes, implying that the lower classes (his readers) do not possess the same aversion and as such are better than their higher-ups. The same straightforward denunciations of anti-semitism do not, as far as I can recall, appear in The Way We Live Now or any of the other middle-class literature texts I’ve encountered. That is not to say it does not occur, I have not read enough to draw a sweeping conclusion, but I think it would be interesting to discuss and consider the different class reactions to Jewishness and how they are portrayed.    

Blog #4: Problems with "the White Slave"

The Seamstress; or, the White Slave of England is a jarring title for a reader today, with the experience of nonwhite slaves being appropriated to metaphorically represent the life of a poor white Englishwoman. In using the term “white slave,” George W.M. Reynolds exploits the history of nonwhite slaves, as they become absent referents throughout the text. Carol J. Adams[1] describes the metaphorical absent referent as “anything whose original meaning is undercut as it is absorbed into a different hierarchy of meaning…Some terms are so powerfully specific to one group’s oppression [i.e. “slave”] that their appropriation to others is potentially exploitative” (42, 43). By insisting on the word “slave” in The Seamstress, Reynolds uses the experience of one group to provoke sympathy for another, but the original oppressed group gets lost in the process. Thus, in an attempt to expose one type of violence, Reynolds commits a rhetorical violence against others.

In the title and throughout the text, the understanding of the plight of the nonwhite slave is used to provoke sympathy for Virginia Mordaunt’s desperate social positioning. Julia Barnet is the first to explicitly note to Virginia her slave status under the control of Mrs. Jackson (6.20). Later, the sordidness of Virginia’s slave-like employment with Mssrs. Aaron and Sons is even more vividly drawn: “Its [Mssrs. Aaron and Sons] foundations are built with the bones of the white slaves of England, male and female: the skeletons of journeyman tailors and poor seamstresses, all starved to death, constitute the door-posts and the window-frames;—the walls are made of skulls—the architectural devices are cross-bones—and the whole is cemented firmly and solidly by the blood, pith, and marrow of the miserable wretches who are forced to sell themselves in the Slave-Market of British Labour” (27.77). One would assume that “the white slaves of England” would have greater choice than their nonwhite counterparts, but Reynolds is at pains throughout the text to emphasize the actual lack of choice in the condition of the former, for agency no longer really exists when people are only able to choose between two horrendous options. For Virginia, her only choice is between working herself to death as a seamstress or being a prostitute, which we can presume would also not end well, not to mention the moral sacrifices that would have to be made in that career. So the poor are “forced to sell themselves,” the invariable result of which is death, made all the more horrific because it is the destruction of this one group of people that builds the success of another (very much like slave labor). By highlighting the lack of escape and extreme victimization of the workers, the novel indicts all those who would blindly benefit from this corrupt system and creates sympathy for those who suffer at its hands.   

The novel really seems to privilege looking beyond one’s own self-interest to see the struggles of others. So, for example, in a novel that rivals a good revenge tragedy for the number of deaths at the conclusion, Lady Mary and the Earl of Mostyndale are allowed to both survive and receive an authorial blessing at the end of the text, all because they offered sympathy to others: “little as we like the British Aristocracy generally, we nevertheless record our fervid hope that all possible happiness will await that excellent lady and her generous-minded husband” (43.111). This extension of sympathy, however, does not seem to include nonwhite slaves, who are left as the absent referent in the title and throughout the text. Ultimately, the comparison of Virginia Mordaunt and other desperately poor members of the British lower class to nonwhite slaves is not completely unwarranted, because there is (at least to an extent) a shared experience of being stripped of agency and violently exploited for the gain of others. The problem with Reynolds’ text is that he is not making a comparison, but rather taking advantage of the reader’s sympathetic understanding of one term, “slave,” to focus the conversation on an entirely different group. As Adams states, “the absent referent, because of its absence, prevents our experiencing connections between oppressed groups” (45). By keeping the nonwhite slave absent in his text, Reynolds does not make a much-needed connection (at least necessary if he is going to employ the term “slave”), and thus fails to properly look outward at the lives of marginalized peoples in the way that the text supposedly values.

---

[1] This definition is from Adams’ The Sexual Politics of Meat. While the term “absent referent” certainly did not originate with Adams and she is actually talking about animals being the absent referent in conversations about violence towards women (“she was treated like a piece of meat”) and vice versa (“the rape of animals”), I still feel that her discussion of this metaphorical exploitation is both accessible and applicable to what Reynolds is doing in The Seamstress. However, if anyone could point me in the direction of a more directly relevant discussion of this (or a like) term, I would appreciate it.

Blog 4: post due 5 pm, Sun., Mar. 30; comment due 5 pm, Mon., Mar. 31

1. What possibilities for political analysis or inspiration do you see in Reynolds's The Seamstress?

Or,

2. Free post on The Seamstress.

Blog #4: The Problem of Capitalism

 Trollope’s The Way We Live Now is largely concerned with the pernicious effect of capitalism on who people are and the way they live. One of the profound insights of the novel is that capitalism fundamentally shapes the character of society and the disposition of individuals. Indeed, it is clear that what drives most of the characters in The Way We Live Now is nothing more than a desire for greater and greater wealth—in a word, mammonism. The novel draws a clear connection between wealth—especially the wealth illegally made through financial speculation and commercial enterprises—and dishonesty or greed. The great temptation of the former in a growing capitalist world is intrinsically linked to the pervasiveness of the latter in Victorian society. But this does not answer the difficult question of why some allow this temptation to consume them (e.g., Melmotte and Felix) while others do not (e.g., Roger Carbury). Is it simply a matter of moral integrity, of “honor,” or, as Roger says early in the novel, having a sense of right and wrong? 

Perhaps the better question is whether the answer Trollope proposes in The Way We Live Now is that it amounts to a matter of moral integrity or honor (I am not claiming that Trollope in fact proposes this but rather offering it as food for thought). I think that this is a question worth pursuing as we get deeper into the book. It is also one that the novel itself seems to pose a few times right at the beginning. “Again, who shall say why brother and sister had become so opposite each other,” the narrator asks with regard to Felix and Henrietta, “whether they would have been thus different had both been taken away as infants from their father’s and mother’s training, or whether the girl’s virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in her parent’s heart” (19). A few pages earlier, the narrator tells us that Henrietta has been socialized to think that the contrast between her and her brother was a product of gender difference: “Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank of life in which she had been born always did eat up everything” (16). Of course, the difference in “virtue” here between Felix and Henrietta can be extended to other characters in the novel and approached from a number of angles. I doubt that there is a simple answer to this question, but it is one that I feel is nevertheless worth exploring, not the least because mammonism and the dishonesty and greed that accompany it still plague contemporary society. The critique that The Way We Live Now levels at the Victorian world is one that can certainly be leveled at our own. What Trollope’s novel also shows is how meaning and money are inextricable in a capitalist society (also a major problem today). One would probably search in vain for a page on which money was not on some level in question.

Financial Ethics

For my post this week, I would like to briefly discuss the connections I see between the issue of class and the early game of cards which Mr. Fisker wins. Prior to the game at Mr. Fisker's farewell party, Sir Felix had done quite well for himself. Indeed, Sir Felix notes that "if all were paid,he would have over L3,000" (1.47). However, the "if all were paid" is key because of the shaky foundation for the entire group of card players. So, let us return to the card game. Mr. Fisker is included though the other young men wished that he had retired with the older gentlemen (1.90). It is the introduction of Mr. Fisker to the gambling group that upsets the status quo. Sir Felix loses heavily and is forced to use his I.O.U.'s as payment for his debt to Fisker. This course causes much ado concerning the necessity of being ready to pay any I.O.U that should arise. Fisker, in what is suggested to be American good humor, does not pressure for the immediate payment of the debts. However, the gentlemen arrange to pay him. 

This passage reveals an important fact of British class, at least as presented by Trollope. Entering into the network of credit is an important sign of being a gentleman. Though Fisker suggests that the other players merely send him the money by mail, his lack of ability to enter into the network reveals him as a lower-class character. However, there is another side--the old notion of gentlemanliness. Paul Montague seems to operate by an different system of financial ethics; though he wins in this round of gambling, it seems likely that he would pay for his debts were he to lose. In fact, he offers to undertake the debt of those who have lost in order to pay Fisker. However, he is ineligible for such a thing due to his newness to the club. Montague's values, especially prior to this scene, match up more closely with an upper-middle class family--frugality and a willingness to pay his debts. Of course, given his close association with Roger Carbury, one can almost hear Carbury's voice speaking from the shadows for Montague to avoid foolishness. In one sense, the financial ethics practiced by the members of the club seem reminiscent of eighteenth century aristocratic excess. However, the title of the novel is The Way We Live Now, suggesting a currentness to the practices of the various groups. Perhaps, Trollope is suggesting that the financial ethics, especially of the gamblers, is out of touch with the reality of the day in which it was written.

Blog #4: What Is an American Woman Doing in this Novel?

I have not yet finished Volume II of The Way We Live Now, so I’m going to limit this post to a discussion of Volume I. I was especially intrigued by Mrs. Hurtle’s character; even though she has a dubious reputation both in Britain and America, the narrator portrays her as representative of American culture in its opposition to British culture. Interestingly, her character functions as a double-edged sword. At times, Trollope seems to use her to promote British nationalism and expose what is wrong with America. However, there are other moments when Mrs. Hurtle successfully critiques English customs. Her ambiguous character reveals the ambiguous relationship between Britain and America.

While people in London keep vacillating in their opinions on Melmotte, Mrs. Hurtle decisively claims, “He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors” (26.246). Mrs. Hurtle’s opinion perfectly fits American ideals; she does not have any reverence for outdated European forms of nobility, but she respects the self-made man who has acquired vast amounts of wealth. This moment can be a critique of both American and English ideals. Clearly, Melmotte’s money has not been earned by honest means, so anyone in favor of him comes under the novel’s critique. However, the system of ranks and titles in Britain is degenerating, so Mrs. Hurtle’s lack of respect for “Emperors” and English gentlemen is fitting. For example, many of the gentlemen we meet are in debt. The Longestaffes have to sell family property. Felix is a baronet, yet he is a reprobate gambler. There are clearly issues with the class system in England.

Mrs. Hurtle also attacks the British notion of propriety: “I like good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one’s throat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose what we have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked” (27.262). She conveys the idea that reputation is often more important than actual virtue or goodness. She merely went to a play with Montague, yet this could ruin her reputation (if it wasn’t already ruined enough) because it goes against rules of propriety. She exposes the trivial concern with external appearances that British people care so much about. However, this does not change Montague’s opinion. One’s reputation may be based on rumors, but those rumors often hold some truth, as is the case with Mrs. Hurtle. Montague thinks that Mrs. Hurtle has “the breeding of the wild cat” and would rather marry Hetta Carbury when he thinks of “her breeding” (38.355). Hetta’s propriety is not just an outward show of virtue but is actually representative of her inner virtue. She is considered superior to Mrs. Hurtle both because she does not have a bad reputation and because she actually is a genuinely good person.

What I found to be Mrs. Hurtle’s most interesting critique of British culture was her examination of gender roles. On the one hand, she accuses British men for not being strong and masculine enough. She says, “In this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past thirty” (47.441). She finds it ridiculous that men are still subservient to their elders even when they are already adults themselves. This critique does have a lot of weight, especially when we look at Felix and his friends who rely on their parents for money and spend the majority of their time in leisure rather than working as productive members of society. There is an extended period of adolescence for these young men; they are more boys than men. On the other hand, Mrs. Hurtle also believes that women should be allowed to be strong and powerful. While admonishing Montague for breaking things off with her, she says, “is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary?” (47.447). Mrs. Hurtle secretly wishes she could be more feminine and find love, but she also recognizes that women sometimes have to stand up for themselves and should not be punished for such behavior. The problem in Britain is that both men and women are effeminate. Mrs. Hurtle sees this as a function of British society: “In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity” (47.445).

However, if Britain is too soft, America is too rough. Even when Mrs. Hurtle honestly admits to everything about her troubled past and reveals that she only did what she had to do, Montague still does not want to marry her. He thinks, “She had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man’s work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he assumed to be her master” (47.446-7). He strongly believes in traditional gender roles, and Mrs. Hurtle is too much of a masculine woman, especially when compared to Hetta. The first half of the novel shows that Mrs. Hurtle and Montague do not share enough values. Both of their countries have flaws (even if those flaws may be a little stereotyped), but they cannot reconcile their differences in Volume I.

Narrative, Artifice, and the Middle Class

At the beginning of Trollope’s The Way We Live Now, the reader is introduced to Lady Carbury, a widow with literary aspirations, working to get a particular book, “Criminal Queens,” published when she is introduced. However, as the narrator notes, for Lady Carbury, “that dabbling in Literature which had commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in the work, partly as a passport to society, had been converted into hard work by which money if possible might be earned (16),” pointing out that Lady Carbury’s writing is motivated primarily by a drive to attain wealth as opposed to any sort of artistic will to create. However, instead of being the result of some personal greed, the wealth sought by Lady Carbury by writing is shown to be for a rather specific purpose, that of the upkeep of her son Felix in his profligate lifestyle. For Carbury, the goal is to “add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady Carbury’s look-out into the future, was destined to make all things straight (16),” her literary work thus propelling Felix into the ideal marriage which will bring an end to his, and his family’s, problems.

It should be noted here the ways in which this scheme is tied up with literature: not only is it supposed to be achieved through literary production, the assumption on which it is founded, that the proper marriage brings an end to ones troubles, is itself very “novelistic.” The idea that problems are resolved, that conflict it brought to a close, by a happy (or at least fortuitous) wedding is a common trope within the genre of the novel, used to bring an end to a character’s struggle and therefore the novel itself. In this sense, Lady Carbury is not only trying to use literature to end Felix’s problems, but is also employing literary thinking, particularly novelistic thinking, to formulate what would constitute an end.

One common criticism of the use of a wedding to bring a novel to an end is that it often feels forced, artificial; the closure provided by the marriage is sometimes experienced as an inorganic contrivance used in lieu of any “natural” conclusion to the work. In other words, it comes off as a false or inauthentic action by the writer. This would also seem to hold true for the novelistic manner by which Carbury endeavors to bring Felix’s own troubled story to a happy end. Discussing Felix’s previous attempts to procure “that heiress,” the narrator states that “when he [Felix] talked of love, he not only thought he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought so (19).” For Felix, working to bring about the marriage involves behaving in a way that is far from natural for himself, talking of love is which is forced and artificial in a way that shows. Much like the marriage narrative common in literature, the marriage narrative for Felix is one which is artificially imposed upon him against his character. Felix’s romantic pursuits are invariably colored by this sense of artifice, manifested very clearly at Madame Melmotte’s ball, when the narrator says of Felix’s confession of love to Miss Melmotte that “he had studied the words as a lesson, and repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well (43),” Felix’s romantic confession more a result of something deliberately cultivated with words that seem unlike his own than any sort of expression of feeling. The narrator makes it clear that Felix’s marriage plot is seen as an artificial contrivance.

It would seem, ironically, that this conviction that novelistic narratives such as the marriage plot are a form of artifice is carried all the way to the novel’s own narrative. In several cases, the narrator seems to stop the narrative to directly address the reader and clarify what has just been shown. For instance, when describing a card game between Felix and his friends at their club, the narrator states that “the reader is not to understand that either of them [Felix’s friends] had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained any suspicion of foul play (46),” attempting to head off any misunderstanding on the part of the reader. Yet, why not merely write the narrative in a manner to emphasize the lack of cheating and suspicion, including details that point to such a situation? Why instead stop the narrative to declaim what was really going on to the reader? It would seem to be because much narrative itself is at times distrusted in the novel to convey truth, the truth of events needing to be told, not shown. The narrator here does not seem to think it possible to tell the truths of the card game as part of a story.

The false and artificial nature which the novel seems to attribute to novelistic narrative appears connected to the middle classes, or at least to the non-aristocratic. It is perhaps ironic that the minor aristocrat Lady Carbury connects refusal of the marriage plot to the upper echelons of the aristocracy. Her book, “Criminal Queens,” focuses on powerful women of history of whom Carbury says “of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of lives they consented to be [men’s] playthings without being wives (2).” For Carbury, the main crime of these aristocratic (and royal) women was to decouple love and marriage, through infidelity or fornication, not being “wives,” and thus resisting the marriage plot so common to novels. This is perhaps further manifested in the novel itself, wherein many subplots revolve around the marriage between aristocratic and non-aristocratic individuals, as if the marriage plot cannot be (or at least rarely is) purely aristocratic.