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University M o d in lm s International 300 N. Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, Ml 48106

7922539

Petrick, Joanne Lucklnd

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, HENRY JAMES, AND "THE DEEPER PSYCHOLOGY"

The Ohio State University Ph.D. 1979

University Microfiims International300 N. Zeeb Road, Ann Arbor, Ml 48106

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University Microfilms International

.NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, HENRY JAMES, AND "THE DEEPER PSYCHOLOGY"

DISSERTATION

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

By

Joanne Luckino Petrick, B. A,, M, A.

# # # #

The Ohio State University

1979

Reading Committee: Approved by

Daniel R . Barnes John M , Muste Julian Markels Adviser Department of English For my family and friends, colleagues and advisors— with sincere appreciation VITA

March 19» 1 9 ^ 1 ...... Born - Columbus, Ohio 1 9 6 3 ...... * • B.A. magna cum laude. Ohio Dominican College, Columbus, Ohio

1963-1964 ...... Educational Researcher, Battelle Memorial Institute, Columbus, Ohio 1965-1966 ...... Occupational Information Writer, State Of Ohio, Columbus, Ohio 1966-1968 ...... Assistant Director of Orien­ tation, The Ohio State Uni­ versity, Columbus, Ohio 1969 ...... M. A., The Ohio State Uni­ versity, Columbus, Ohio 1968-197^ ...... Teaching Associate and Lecturer, Department of English, The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio 1975-1977 ...... Academic Counselor, College of the Arts and Sciences, The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio

1977-present Chairperson, Department of English, Ohio Dominicann College, Columbus, Ohio PUBLICATIONS

Critical Skills Lab Workbook. Ohio Dominican College, 1978. "Irving as Lyricist." The Parers of the Bibliographical Society of America, No. 1, 1975* PP* 35-37* "Character Sketches: An Experiment in Classroom Communi­ cation." Moreover. Spring, 197^» PP* 17-19*

FIELDS OF STUDY

Major Field: American Literature Studies in Nineteenth Century American Literature. Professor Julian Markels Studies in Twentieth Century American Literature. Professors Daniel R Barnes and John M. Muste Studies in Romantic and Victorian Literature. Professor James Kincaid Studies in Psycholinguistics. Professor Harold Pepinsky TABLE OP CONTENTS

Page VITA ...... iii Chapter I. INTRODUCTION ...... 1 II. PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DARK: "YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN" AND "THE JOLLY C O R N E R " ...... 16 III. A QUESTION OF INNOCENCE: "RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER" AND DAISY MILLER ...... 3^ IV. THE REJECTION OF EXPERIENCE: "WAKEFIELD" AND "THE BEAST IN THE J U N G L E " ...... 76 V. THE PROBLEM OF THE ARTIST: "THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL" AND "THE AUTHOR OF BELTRAFFIO"...... 10^ VI. THE HAZARDS OF SOCIAL REFORM: THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE AND THE BOSTONIANS...... 133 BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 226

v "Criticism is the only gate of appreciation, just as appreciation is, in regard to a work of art, the only gate of enjoyment." — Henry James CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION T.S. Eliot's famous essay on "Henry James," which first appeared in the August, 1918* issue of The Little Review, succinctly explains the correspondence between James and his early nineteenth-century predecessor in American fiction, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Eliot states: The really vital thing, in finding any personal kinship between Hawthorne and James, is what James touches lightly when he says that 'the fine thing in Hawthorne is that he cared for the deeper psychology, and that, in his way, he tried to become familiar with it.' There are other points of resemblance, not directly inclu­ ded under this, but this one is of the first importance. It is, in fact, almost enough to ally the two novelists, in comparison with whom almost all others may be accused of either super­ ficiality or aridity.1 While Hawthorne and James individually have proved fruitful subjects for literary scholars, few scholars have pursued T.S. Eliot's assertions about the significant corres­ pondences between the two writers. F.O. Matthiessen devoted a few pages to their relationship in American Renaissance. In his chapter on Hawthorne, Matthiessen points out specific similarities in plot, setting, characters, romantic tendencies in style, and narrative and image-making techniques. He notes that James "took generously for granted all that he had learned from Hawthorne" and that his "technical development 1 2

was a direct response to his sense of Hawthorne*s limita­ tions. In 1952, Marius Bewley*s The Complex Fate examined Hawthorne's and James's common awareness of the complexities besetting a nineteenth-century American: "They established a strategy by which the American, cut off from his ante­ cedents and embarrassed by the burden of his 'commonplace prosperity' might develop a refined consciousness of that cultural and racial unit that underlies divisions of the English-speaking world.Bewley devotes two chapters to parallels among the characters, themes, and styles of The Blithedale Romance and The Bostonians, The Marble Faun and The Wings of the Dove. Bewley concludes that Hawthorne compulsively affirmed American values even though, as a writer, he regretted the thinness of American culture. James, however, had the personal security and technical expertise to explore positive European values. In a later chapter, Bewley discusses James's treatment of appearance and reality. He feels that, for James, there is no immu­ table reality behind appearances, but that ambiguity can always be twisted into new and convenient realities. Without elaborating on his position, Bewley maintains that Hawthorne could always resolve ambiguity "within the [comfortably real] framework of a social and political orthodoxy." Comparative studies during the 1950's and 1960's are limited to a handful of critical articles which investigate 3 plot similarities ("The Prophetic Pictures" and "The Liar"), character and stylistic similarities (The Marble Faun and Roderick Hudson), and thematic similarities (The Scarlet h. Letter and Madame de Mauves). More recently, Robert E. Long has examined Hawthorne's strong influence on James during the latter's apprenticeship years. Long believes that, in James's early stories, "there is...a consistent pattern of James's having looked back at Hawthorne for clues to American psychological experience." The critic also affirms that James's indebtedness essentially ends with his writing of Roderick Hudson, at which time he started to develop his posture as a "master realist... from the standpoint of a cosmopolitan understanding."^ It is evident that Hawthorne and James share the same American literary experience. James himself acknowledged Hawthorne as an influential literary forbear in the bio­ graphy Hawthorne and in other writings (e.g. Notes of a Son and Brother). It is equally evident that little has been done to throw further light on the connections between these two writers. Moreover, few scholars have capitalized on recent developments in psychology to investigate these two writers' fascination with the complexities of human behavior. Roy R. Male in the Hawthorne section of American Literary Scholarship for 19&9 suggests that Hawthorne critics would benefit immensely from studying such recent treatises as Jerome L. Singer's Daydreaming (1966), E. H. Gombrich's Art and Illusion (I960), and Peter Berger's and Thomas Luckmann's The Social Construction of Reality (1966).^ In The Passages:of Thought; Psychological Repre­ sentation in the American Novel, 1870-1900 (1969)1 Gordon 0. Taylor provides a critical study of James's gradual fictional realization of the complex fluidity of conscious­ ness, especially as related to his brother William's work on the state of consciousness, and the techniques that n James implemented to record such fluidity. Wherever feasible, this dissertation will give con­ sideration to recent psychological studies as Male suggests and will investigate the relevant psychological influences on Hawthorne and James that Male suggests and Taylor pursues. However, the basic psychological analysis will follow the principles of Gestalt theory. Gestalt is most useful be­ cause it is a present-centered approach which would assume that human behavior as it is presented in a story has suf­ ficient validity in itself for interpretation— without, that is, groundless speculation on what occurred to the characters at a previous time. Moreover, "present-centered- ness" seems to reinforce a New Critical approach to the fiction as it is. Gestalt is also concerned with a holistic understanding of man which "brings the functioning of his physical body, his emotions, his thoughts, his culture, O and his social expressions into a unified picture." A holistic treatment would thus develop an analysis of all 5 the components of the story as fruitful in explaining human behavior. Gestalt emphasizes epistemological inquiry by studying how a protagonist interacts with his environment and how he acquires knowledge about these interactions. Eliot*s essay in The Little Review does not amplify the term, "deeper psychology," but the context does suggest a definition. "Deeper psychology" may be interpreted as Hawthorne’s and James's studies of man's complicated state of existence. Both writers accept the traditional philoso­ phical view that man is an integral composite of mind, body, emotions, and individual will which assumes moral respon­ sibility. Like the fictions of other writers, their fictions are case histories, as it were, which particularize this philosophy; they illuminate a person’s relationships with himself and with the people, situations, and artifacts of his environment. Critical to these investigations is man's continuing quest to define and to deal with reality— moral, psychological, and social reality. In this process of iden­ tification and actualization, man also must confront and manage any corresponding ambiguities in his environment. Moreover, intrinsic to the study of "deeper psychology," is the fact that both writers endow their major characters with a certain consciousness of their fate as complex humans in a complex world. This consciousness allows them to develop their particular faculties and to pursue satisfactory definitions of reality and resolutions to ambiguity. Such a consciousnessf however, may also make a character so aware of and involved with the varied nuances of his own existence that he becomes isolated from his fellow creatures who follow more mundane, superficial lives. He may become so caught up with defining his existence that he does not live it in contact with his fellows in a proper social milieu. Most frequently, both writers choose for their primary subjects American men and women whose developing conscious­ ness forces them to live outside the social mainstream and to judge their society as somehow insufficient to meet their needs. Hawthorne's analysis of "deeper psychology" is grounded in and complicated by his sensitivity to seventeenth-century New England Puritanism. For him, the problems of man's experience may be ultimately posited in terms of moral questions and ambiguities— i.e., is X a sin or no? Is Z a sinner? What are the social consequences of sin for the sinner? However, Hawthorne entertains various answers in his fiction, and he is responsive to relativistic inter­ pretations of human experience, so that he develops what one might call an emotional morality. In his critical biography, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Randall Stewart admits Hawthorne's ties to Puritanism but develops the point that Hawthorne was more concerned with "the truth of the human heart" (from the Preface to The House of the Seven Gables) than with adherence to specific theological tenets.^ And, Hawthorne does pursue important psychological and philosophical questions about man's existence. He may follow a character, such as Wakefield, through a process of self-identification in which the character seeks information about and subse­ quently evaluates his mind, his emotions, his relationships with others. Hawthorne may even pursue the question of reality— i.e., what is more valid, the phenomenological external world or the world of the imagination or the world of the spirit? Young Goodman Brown traps himself between the daylight world of a moralistic community and the mid­ night nightmare of a black mass in the forest. The lover of Beatrice Rappaccini must decide whether to believe in her proclaimed innocence or his observations of her poisonous powers; his fears of her war against his desires for her. Hawthorne*s analysis is limited, however, by his narrow psychological vocabulary and his difficulty in developing appropriate fictional techniques to express his ideas. To develop psychological complexity concerning Mr. Hooper's sudden appearance in a face-covering veil, he posits various explanations among parish members, most of whom are introduced solely to offer their explanations of the minister's conduct. To dispel the ambiguity of Giovanni's attraction for Beatrice Rappaccini, the narrator intrudes into the story to explain to his readers that his protagonist is egotistical and that his emotions are superficial. The gradual development of the plot action itself would have clarified these facts about Giovanni. 8

Accepting his American inheritance from Hawthorne, James expands significantly on the study of the "deeper psychology." He drew from his cosmopolitan life in Europe which did much to literate him from the cultural limitations of America and a Puritan-influenced interpretation of existence. He also acquired a more sophisticated knowledge of man's psyche which came to him from his European exper­ iences, especially his associations and friendship with the realistic and naturalistic writers of England, Russia, and Prance, and from his knowledge of psychology and the vocabu­ lary of psychology, certainly influenced in his later years by his brother William's work. Thus, when James asks questions concerning human morality, these questions are heavily weighted by cultural and psychological considerations. Whereas Hawthorne contends with fixed theological and super­ natural interpretations of morality, James limits himself to a pragmatic morality which is defined by and within the immediate context of the fictional society. The deceit and adultery in The Golden Bowl are examined within the context of that novel. More often than does Hawthorne, James leaves his answers shaded by the ambiguities of human behavior. He becomes involved with the individual's process of self-identification and his testing of the external reality against the reality of the imagination. Spencer Brydon in "The Jolly Corner" tests his real cosmo­ politan self against his imagined self, the hard man of business. Harold Kolb sums up the connections among ethics and psychology and epistemology which the realists-pragmatists (among whom Kolb includes James) maintained: "Since the pragmatist cannot accept given universal truths, he must be concerned with what man knows and how he learns. The problems of vision, knowledge, illusion, and the relation of appearance to reality form a significant part of pragmatic considerations. Both writers are committed to exploring the "deeper psychology" of man, and both develop stylistic strategies for demonstrating it, although James's strategies stem from and improve upon Hawthorne's. However, it must be noted at the outset that the main reason for their differences in technique is that Hawthorne is writing in the romantic genre, while James is primarily a realistic novelist. Thus, Hawthorne is not so concerned about achieving veri­ similitude in his treatment of the external environment— so long as he captures the truth of the human heart, James wants to render both external and internal life with accuracy. Hawthorne's principal techniques for achieving psycho­ logical truths include multiple choices, trait objectification, disguise, dream and supernatural elements, and narrative manipulation. Multiple choices are various alternatives offered to explain a central character's actions or the motivations for his actions. The choices may be offered by the narrator and by various supporting characters; they are 10

usually not developed to any significant degree. The effect is to create an ambiguity which gives the plot some suspense; the ambiguity is also the writer*s realistic attempt to recognize and represent a complicated world. By means of trait objectification, Hawthorne posits an element of a character’s personality in an artifact with which the character is associated. The artifact may have various interpretations. Hester’s "A," for example, obvi-“ ously stands for Adulteress at the beginning of The Scarlet Letter. By the conclusion of the romance, it also repre­ sents "Angel" and "Able." A trait thus has a degree of ambivalence built into it. Various disguises or "public faces" allow a character a double identity; they are an external means of representing different, often conflicting personality traits within an individual. Dreams and supernatural elements may serve as external forms which express a character's internal desires or thoughts (Hawthorne also uses the supernatural as a deus ex machina plot device). Hawthorne, like other nineteenth- century American writers, did not have a sophisticated abili­ ty to analyze the human psyche; dreams provide him with a fairly manageable form for presenting a character's inner world, and they may also introduce plot complication. Young Goodman Brown submits to the black mass nightmare. The reality of this experience is never confirmed, remains richly ambiguous. But the nightmare does provide Brown the opportunity to express his religious questions and fears, 11 which he had, hut suppressed in his daylight environment. However, because dreams are somewhat separate from the person's waking consciousness, any interpretation of them must allow for ambiguity. The ambiguity inherent in these various techniques has epistemological implications— i.e., Hawthorne does not subscribe to a monistic theory of meaning; he acknowledges the validity of various relative interpretations of reality. Concerning the technique of narrative manipulation, Hawthorne generally relies on a limited omniscient narrator in his story-telling who may provide useful information about a particular character's psyche. However, the narra­ tor often loses control and may give away or withhold too much information; he attempts to manipulate the reader. As a theologian-manque, he may pass judgment on the ethics of a character's action— thus disrupting the dramatization of the character himself. Only on infrequent occasions (Coverdale in The Blithedale Romance) is a character al­ lowed to express himself his concern about his behavior. Hawthorne's limited omniscient narrator is thus an awkward convention at times. Henry James inherited Hawthorne's stylistic techniques and improved upon them during the course of his writing career. To borrow Jamesian terminology, Hawthorne "tells" what is relevant; James "shows" it. In lieu of--presenting multiple choices, James develops the interactions between and among the main character(s) and supporting characters. The alternative interpretations of a character's personality are grounded in the actions and conversations of the charac­ ters themselves. Ambiguity results from the complexities of the various characters and their interactions. A trait objectification may supplement other clues, but it does not represent a total personality. The golden bowl in the novel of that title represents the characters and the marriage of the Prince and Maggie Verver. James eschews obvious dis­ guises, but does realize the novelistic value of a "public face" that allows a character to express another facet of his personality, one that he may perhaps consider more accep­ table to society. For the same reason, James takes care with a person's costume. James uses supernatural elements in his gothic fictions for plot development and character development; but his technique is more suggestive than melo­ dramatic. The existence and interpretation of supernatural phenomena may be verified by a central character, The reality of the ghosts in The Turn of the Screw, for example, is never verified absolutely because the answers to the question of their existence lie within the complicated, perhaps neurotic personality of the governess. James develops dream (and daydream) material much more than Hawthorne does. He seems fairly knowledgeable about the phenomena of dreaming, and he uses it to demonstrate the introspective quality of his characters. He seems to realize that, in a dream state, one lets slip the conscious 13 controls of his psyche and allows his wishes or needs to manifest themselves more freely. The dream content is con­ sistently well-structured. Dreaming and daydreaming may even "become cognitive skills, as they certainly do for Isabel Archer. Since the dreams are still'separate from a person's waking consciousness, however, any interpretation of them must remain somewhat ambiguous. James early outgrew the omniscient narrator when he realized its awkwardness as experienced by writers like Hawthorne. He settled upon a third person center of con­ sciousness who is most aware of and allowed to deliberate upon his own psychic behavior. As a realistic human being, however, he is limited by a lack of total self-awareness which other characters may take advantage of. And,.of course, this narrator is totally ignorant of what goes on within the minds of those people who make up his social milieu. Ambiguity results, but it is the subtle, real ambiguity of human interactions. Technically, the center of consciousness speaks for James's own theory about the inherent relativity in interpreting all human behavior. In short, James and Hawthorne are analysts of the American experience as lived by men and women whose struggling consciousness separated them from the social..mainstream. Both are concerned with an individual’s moral responsibili­ ties, but both realize that any definition of ethics is complicated by a study of human behavior within a social context. Hawthorne's sensitive pursuit and fictional development of the "deeper psychology" in the New England of the 1800's sets him apart from most contemporary writers. Because of his wider experience and knowledge, James's later fictions are more sophisticated and realistic in content and technique. 15 Endnotes -*-T. S. Eliot, "Henry James" in The Little Review of August, 1918* in The Shock of Recognition, ed. Edmund Wilson (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1955)» p* 861. 2F. 0. Matthiessen, American Renaissance (London: Oxford University Press, 1968), pp. 293, 298. ^Marius Bewley, The Complex Fate (London: Ghatto and Windus, 1952), p. 73. ^Robert F. Gleckner, "James's Madame de Mauves and Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter." Modern Language Notes. 73 (December 1958), 580-861 Robert J. Kane, "Hawthorne's 'The Prophetic Pictures' and James's 'The Liar,*" M o d e m Language Notes. 65 (April 1950), 257-58; Robert E. Long, "The Society and the Masks: The Blithedale Romance and The Bostonians." Nineteenth Century Fietion. 19 (September 1964), 105-22; Sanford E. Marovitz, "Roderick Hudson: James's Marble Faun." Texas Studies in Literature and Lan­ guage. 11 (Winter 1970), 1427-43; George Monteiro, "Hawthorne, James, and the Destructive Self," Texas Studies in Literature and Language. 4 (Spring I962), 58-71; Edward H. Rosenberry, "James's Use of Hawthorne's 'The Liar,'" M odern Language Notes. 76 (March I96I), 234-38. 5Robert E. Long, "Transformations: The Blithedale Romance to Howells and James, " American Literature"! 47 TJanuary I976), 552-71? "Henry James's Apprenticeship— the Hawthorne Aspect," American Literature. 48 (May 1976), 194-216; "James's Roderick Hudson: The End of the Appren­ ticeship --Hawthorne and Turgenev," American Literature. 48 (November 1976), 312-26. ^Roy R. Male, "Hawthorne," American Literary Scholarship (1969), 20. ^Gordon 0. Taylor, The Passages of Thought: Psychological Representation in the American Novel. 1870-1900 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969). Q Joel Latner, The Gestalt Therapy Book (New York: Bantam Books, Inc., 1974), p^ 7~* ^Randall Stewart, Nathaniel Hawthorne: A Biography (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1948), p. 242ff. lOHarold Kolb, Jr., The Illusion of Life: American Realism as a Literary Form (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1969), p. 95. CHAPTER II PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE IN THE DARKs "YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN" AND "THE JOLLY CORNER" Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" (1835) and Henry James's "The Jolly Corner" (1906) demonstrate notice­ able similarities in their study of human psychology and in the techniques implemented for their study. The writers share an interest in the self-conscious personality who dedicates himself to discovering his moral identity and, by extension, his proper role in society. Such personalities clearly fit the romantic type, as Richard Chase defines it, 1 which is so prominent in American fiction. While neither Hawthorne nor James subscribes to a particular, established religious code, both are very sensitive to what T. S. Eliot called "the spiritual reality" and the complexities inherent in the pursuit of a humanistic ethical code. Goodman Brown and Spencer Brydon undergo essentially "heart of darkness" experiences in their mutual quest for identity. Each story explores what happens when a man, who has presumably been sheltered in a comfortable life, leaves the safety of this environment to learn more about himself— to test the validity of his life against the truth of life itself. Each man seeks knowledge of a sphere of human acti­ vity from which he has previously been excluded. Hawthorne 16 17 uses the harsh world of early Puritan morality for his artistic examination; that is, Goodman Brown becomes in­ trigued by sin, its complicated existence in his Puritan community, and its meaning in his own life. He is invited to explore these questions by the Devil who is represented as an alter ego figure. James's moral spectrum is broader, if more ambiguous; his ethics depend on an appreciation of proper self-development and the expectations of society. Spencer Brydon also pursues an alter ego, the American man of business, whom he fears he may have wrongfully repressed in his choice of a cosmopolitan European lifestyle. Be­ cause of their respective moral-psychological pursuits, these men are atypical in their American societies which endorsed the safe and unquestioning virtues of religious conformity and flourishing commercialism. Goodman Brown is a young man whose family for at least a generation has been firmly rooted in a New England Puritan society. Hawthorne relies on the reader's historical appre­ ciation of the strict bonds of religious observance and social propriety of this environment. By his recent marriage to a woman who is significantly named Faith, Brown would seem to have taken a further step in identification with this society; ironically, however, he is experiencing a crisis of social alienation. He has begun to question the observed lifestyle of his community, and this stance makes him an isolated man. Moreover, Brown's pursuit is primarily confined to moral knowledge; he seeks ultimate incontrovertible answers to questions about the existence of sin and the identifica­ tion of sinners in his community which functions on a basis of common pietistic righteousness that he has come to suspect. Brown does not clarify his motivation for this quest; the narrator implies that self-gratification and a suggested natural human instinct for evil are significant factors. The narrator describes Brown in the wild forest as "in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward, with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil." When Brown gives in to despair ('"My Faith is gone....There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name'"), the most unforgiveable sin in Christian theology, he immediately becomes "maddened," "demoniac," and submits to the hallucinatory experience of the black mass. The forest crisis wrenches the young man from his daytime rationality and plunges him into a dramatic nightmare which is latent with potential knowledge. Yet, the despairing young man is as susceptible to what he sees in the forest as he previously had been to the superficial piety of his community. He wildly hopes at two points in the ceremony that what he is seeing is not real, yet he is unable "to resist, even in thought" the congregation "with whom he felt a loathful brotherhood, by the sympathy of all that was wicked in his heart" (p. 86). Inconsequently to his hallucination, Brown's intelligence and his capacity for discrimination in his environment are 19 definitely limited. He responds only to immediate surface appearance and emotional surges. He consistently interprets appearance as reality. Hawthorne uses Goodman Brown to explore the philosophical theory that man may be innately depraved, but the narrative elaboration of this tale suggests that its hero is not in­ extricably bound to any such theory. And the validity of his dream experience remains undetermined. The narrator asks: "Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest, and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch-meeting? Be it so, if you will. But, alas I it was a dream of evil omen for Young Goodman Brown" (p. 89). The validity of the community's piety also remains ambiguous. What is real is the fact that Brown becomes victimized by his uncritical mind and his forest experience. Despite a last-minute plea for rescue, he is baptized by the Devil: "He staggered against the rock and felt it chill and damp, while a hanging twig, that had been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew" (p. 88). The remainder of his life is spent in frustration and crippling suspicion of his townspeople and even his family. The narrative point of view admits humor to the first part of this gothic tale which provides some comic relief but also acts to diminish the hero's stature to the extent that the reader cannot sympathize with his fate. Brown remains remarkably obtuse when he encounters important representatives 20

of his community on their way to the "black mass. The narrator thus describes Brown's attempts to spy on the minister and the deacons "Goodman Brown alternately crouched and stood on tip-toe, pulling aside the branches, and thrusting forth his head as far as he durst, without dis­ cerning so much as a shadow" (p. 81). His bobbing antics are laughable, and he sees nothing. The Devil is allowed several jokes at the young man's expense. And even Goody Cloyse brands him as a "silly fellow." Hawthorne's purpose in thus ridiculing his hero may be an oblique indication that he does not believe in the validity of such a quest— i.e., man is not innately sinful; to attempt to prove so is ridiculous.

As a psychological-romantic hero, Spencer Brydon in Henry James's "The Jolly Corner" is a direct descendant of Goodman Brown, although Brydon is more complex. Brown's character is revealed through his interactions with other people. Brydon's character unfolds as the narrative ..allows him to express his own thoughts and feelings. Hawthorne indirectly hints at Brown's reason for his forest venture: an egotistical curiosity about sin and sinners. James ela­ borates on Brydon's motivation so that it is the specific causative force of the narration. Overwhelmed by the en­ vironmental changes that have occurred in America during his thirty-three year absence, Brydon becomes obsessed v/ith curiosity about what he might have become had .he not gone to 21 Europe. He is seeking a complex psychological truth, / self-knowledge. Eecause he suspects that his cosmopolitan life may have been frivolous, even scandalous, it may be said that he, like Brown, desires moral knowledge. Because James leisurely sets the stage and prepares his hero for the actual hallucination, it is effectively dramatic. Like Brown, Brydon experiences despair and the failure of response of the outer world (society) on the critical night. The hallucination occurs as Brydon goes down the long staircase of his abandoned house which is faintly illuminated by the early sun coming through a high skylight. James describes the descent as going into a "deep well," "some watery under-world"; these images imply that Brydon is returning to the womb or plunging into the depths of his unconscious in order to be reborn. The sudden, brief appearance of the alter ego horrifies Brydon. He physically surrenders before the force of the attacking stranger but psychologically rejects him as totally impossible and alien to his character. The final validity of the hallucination is not proven, but it does bring Brydon to a new knowledge and peace. He feels self-confirmed about his former lifestyle, but he had also acquired a new sensitivity. He is free enough to respond to Alice Staverton's affection. Unlike Goodman Brown whose dream produced a miserable life, Spencer Brydon is happily redeemed in love for a woman. Brydon is open to the efficacy of love which Brown rejects. 22

James endows his hero with more intelligence and social sophistication than Hawthorne allows his typically narrow,' romantic hero. Like other Jamesian characters, Spencer Brydon has a certain imagination, a cultivated consciousness. At fifty-six, he is an affluent man who has enjoyed a long sybaritic lifestyle. What is most striking about Brydon, however, is his overwhelming egotism. He quite openly admits that he evaluates and responds to everything only in terms of how it affects him. "It was mere vain egotism, and it was...a morbid obsession. He found all things come back to the question of what he personally might have been, how he might have led his life and #turned out,' if he had not so, at the outset given it up. And confessing for the first time to the intensity within him of this absurd speculation — which but proved also, no doubt, the habit of too sel­ fishly thinking— he affirmed the impotence there of any other 3 source of interest, any other native appeal."^ Such vanity makes Spencer Brydon laughable. Moreover, the narrative viewpoint of "The Jolly Corner" is consistently, if lightly comic. As in "Young Goodman’ Brown," the comedy works to diminish the hero's stature, but James's humor is more subtly ironic than Hawthorne's. One of the first pictures of Brydon shows him when, accompa­ nied by Miss Staverton, he argues with the building contractor about some detail in his rising apartment-house. Brydon feels quite knowledgeable about architecture and construction 23 after he has spent only a few weeks observing the site. Alice Staverton compliments Brydon on his quickly acquired expertise: "She had afterwards said to him (though to a slightly greater effect of irony) that he had clearly for too many years neglected a real gift. If he had but stayed home he would have anticipated the inventor of the sky-scraper. If he had but stayed at home he would have discovered his genius in time really to start some new variety of awful architectural hare and run it till it burrowed in a gold-mine" (p. 325)* Brydon takes these words seriously because they feed his egotism. Alice Staverton1s motivation is somewhat ambiguous; she likes Brydon well enough, but she is well aware of the deficiencies in his personality. At any rate, it is obvious to the reader that Brydon has no real knowledge of architecture. References to the inventor of the sky­ scraper and an architectural hare are ironic exaggeration. Brydon has a romantic imagination. He is fond of seeing himself in a romantic context which is comically inappropriate for his character. On one occasion, when he leaves the darkened house and steps into the sunlight, he is reminded "of the assault of the outer light of the Desert on the traveller emerging from an Egyptian tomb" (p. 330). He compares himself to a romantic knight errant when he prowls through the house, but he believes his quest is greater than any knight's: "Since what age of romance, after all, could have matched either the state of his mind or...the wonder of his situation? The only difference 24 would have "been that, "brandishing his dignities over his head as in a parchment scroll, he might then— that is in the heroic time— have proceeded downstairs with a drawn sword in his other grasp" (p. 342). Even though such comic treatment reduces Brydon’s stature, it makes him appealingly human, for what person has not tried to ensure his self-importance "by such fantasies? Moreover, the imaginative sensibility which allows him to picture himself as a knight errant is the imaginative sensibility which urges him on to his moral quest. II. "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Jolly Corner" demonstrate similarities in their respective psychological analyses of two men at a point of crisis in their lives. And both stories develop these analyses in a similar, clear romantic and gothic style. Hawthorne's hero crosses the threshold of his comfortable and happy home to enter a dark and myster­ ious forest at sunset. James's hero crosses a. threshold to close himself in an abandoned and mysterious house for a night. Forest and house provide similar frames for plot action. Moreover, they are significant gothic environments of darkness in which reality and sanity loosen their holds on the individual who undergoes a dream-like hallucinatory experience that culminates with a knowledge, a new reality which determines his future. For these writers, the mystery and darkness of forest and house serve as technical external means to represent the mystery and darkness of the unconscious patterns of the individual psyche. Freeing themselves from 25 the social and moral restrictions of the daytime world, Brown and Brydon pursue the dark recesses of their own minds and cosmic reality, a traditionally romantic quest. Hawthorne's narration "builds on the dream whose validity is rendered ambiguous through the techniques of multiple choice. The story incorporates questions which are either left unanswered or answered equivocally. The most problematic question is the one which ends the story: "Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch-meeting?" (p. 89). The repetition of the word "dream" is especially provocative. The answer throws the responsibility for interpretation on the readers "Be it so if you will." Hawthorne also manipulates light and dark to achieve this ambiguity. For example, Brown thinks he sees the Devil's black staff wriggling like a live snake. But the narrator undercuts with this comment: "This, of course, must have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain' light" (p. 7 6 ). Later, at the climactic service, he-thinks he sees his parents, but certainty is denied him because of the alternating gleams of light .and concealing shadows. Richard H. Fogle maintains that the device of multiple choice in "Young Goodman Brown" helps Hawthorne "suggest something of the density and incalculability of life, the difficulties which clog the interpretation of even the simplest incidents, the impossibility of achieving a single 26

and certain insight into the actions and motives of 4 others." In other words, Hawthorne's use of the device suggests his insight into the complexity of the human psyche. Brown's dream exploration into evil happens via en­ counters v/ith other distinctive individuals, his catechism teacher, the town preacher, and the town magistrate. The identification of the Devil figure as Brown's father who looks like Brown himself is an attempt to represent an alter ego who overpowers Brown for the short time after he sees Faith's pink ribbons fall and races deeper into the woods in the shape of the fiend himself. The plot develops as a debate about the importance of Faith (wife, religion, belief in humanity) and the evil purpose of their journey. Because it occurs during one melodramatic night, the story has a certain intensity. The forest ceremony itself is gothic melodrama. Mingling together,without any distinctions, are the presumed holy and sinful, alive and dead inhabitants of the village. The light for the mass is provided from an unnatural source --"the felled trunks and branches of a clearing have been set on fire, and throw up their lurid blaze against the sky, at the hour of midnight" (p. 84). This unnatural red light alternately brightens and shadows objects and people. Given Hawthorne's use of light and dark to indicate moral verities, it is a suspicious source of illumination. References >such as "veiled female" and "dim features" indicate that visual accuracy is impossible. And yet the despairing Brown is 27 very susceptible to what he sees— or thinks he sees— in this light. Both Hawthorne's and James's heroes are involved with women who influence their lives. In Goodman Brown's case, the woman is his pretty bride of three months. Faith, who wears a cap with pink ribbons. She is a representative Hawthorne light heroine— young and innocent. Her name im­ plies that she is a stock virtue figure, and the narrative plays on its double connotation of wife and virtue. Faith's role in this tale is full of ambiguity. When Brown crosses the threshold of their home, she tries to dissuade him from leaving by whispering in his ear in a charmingly seductive manner and asking him for protection from her terrible dreams. At the outset of the forest episode, the Devil seems most protective of her: '"I would not, for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us, that Faith should come to any harm'" (p. 78). Oblique references to a young woman's voice continue thematically. In a later, critical moment of desperation, Brown screams her name into the night, and, in response, a pink ribbon flutters down. This is what provokes his final despair and madness. At the black mass, he recognizes her by a suspicious light, "the blaze of the hell-kindled torches." Does she follow her husband into the forest? Certainly the Devil, who can command so much in this story, is capable of being falsely solicitous of Faith's welfare in order to urge her husband 28 onward; he is also capable of providing the apparition of the pink ribbon for the same purpose. At the story's conclusion, Faith, her ribbons intact, happily skips down the street to welcome her husband home. The true meaning of Faith is thus hidden behind the validity of her husband's dream experience. What is sure and signi­ ficant is that Faith is powerless to heal her husband. For the rest of their lives, he suspects her virtue and love.

Although "The Jolly Corner" is more realistic in narrative elaboration and technique than "Young Goodman Brown," Hawthorne's affinity with James is demonstrated in these two stories. Both stories relate the dream-like experiences of a man on a quest for knowledge of a certain reality. Young Goodman Brown's experience occurs during one night, and the story has a certain intensity due to this unity of time. James's story proceeds more leisurely in three parts which relate events occurring over several weeks. Part I introduces the characters and prefigures the plot action; Part II slowly builds up suspense for the climactic appearance of the alter ego in the dark house; Part III re-establishes the daytime world in a happy de­ nouement. Moreover, James allows Spencer Brydon's character to reveal itself as the hero expresses his own thoughts and feelings. Narrative intervention is not obvious. Like Hawthorne's forest, James's abandoned house on the jolly corner provides a gothic setting. The house assaults Spencer Brydon with many memories of his family and, especially, his youth before he chose a cosmopolitan lifestyle. It is an appropriate place to stalk his alter ego, the hard man of business. James uses light-dark images but for purposes different from Hawthorne's. Instead of suggesting moral and phenomenological verities, James's images develop a phenomenological and psychological ambiguity. Brydon arranges his visits for dusk or midnight when he prowls through the rooms with only a lit candle. As he becomes more obsessed with the house, it comes to represent "the real, the waiting life" for him. His visual acuity develops to the point that he no longer uses a candle: "With habit and repetition he gained to an extraordinary degree the power to penetrate the dusk of distances and the darkness of corners...putting down his dim luminary he could still wander on without it, pass into other rooms and...see his way about, visually project for his purpose a comparative clearness" (p. 337)• In all probability, Brydon's vision has not improved; he simply memorizes the plan of the house. The effect of this suggested visual acuity, however, is to make the appearance of the alter ego seem credible. It also tes­ tifies to the fact that the hero is developing a real self- knowledge in the process of this experience; in the best Gestalt sense, he is "cultivating his whole perception." 30 Despite his ease in the dark house, Brydon does enjoy opening the windows to look at the "hard silver of the autumn stars" (weak natural light) and the "flare of the street-lamps" (bright artificial light). This light from outside the house suggests that the hero has not entirely cut himself off from human society; the street light is also fitting for the modern industrialized America which Brydon comes back to. James capitalizes on such light-dark ambiguity throughout the story. In his use of light, James is thus following Hawthorne who said that it was the privi­ lege of every writer of romance to "so manage his atmos­ pherical medium so as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich the shadows of the picture."^ Alice Staverton, Brydon's longtime friend, represents the most significant difference between Hawthorne and James. Commonality between Miss Staverton and Brown*s wife, Faith, is limited to their affection for the heroes and the heroes' insufficient appreciation of them. But as a static, roman­ tic character, Faith is not developed. Alice Staverton' is more realistic and, thereby, more complex. She has definite fortitude; she has managed to live in modern New York and still maintain the decencies of a bygone genteel age, an accomplishment that the hero has not measured up to. She has a fine imagination which even Brydon acknowledges. Her imagination allows her to care for Brydon while, at the same time, to admit to his short­ comings. She is capable of subtly ironizing these deficiencies: "Her smile had for him, with the words, the particular mild irony with which he found half her talk suffused; an irony without bitterness and that came, exactly from her having so much imagination" (p. 328). Miss Staverton's ability to ironize leavens the plot with humor and keeps Brydon's somewhat exaggerated, egotistical per= sonality in proper focus. Her imagination also allows her to dream about Brydon's alter ego so that she helps verify its appearance for him and for the reader. In Part III of "The Jolly Corner," she clarifies the meaning of the alter ego: he cannot be dismissed as an impossible monstrosity. Rather, he is a realistic man of business who has suffered during his career; his ruined eye­ sight and mangled hand prove this. Most significantly, Miss Staverton offers a healing love to the hero whose hallucinatory experience has opened him up to receive and respond to love. It is in her lap that Brydon finally returns to consciousness: "It took but an instant to bend her face and kiss him, and something in the manner of it, and in the way her hands clasped and locked his head while he felt the cool charity and virtue of her lips, something in all this beatitude somehow answered everything" (p. 353)*

In "Hawthorne's Provincial Tales." Richard P. Adams argues that his "Young Goodman Brown" demonstrates Hawthorne' knowledge of the process of the integration of the human personality about which Freud and Jung much later elaborated 32 theories. According to these theories, each man must progress from youthful innocence to integrated adulthood by dealing with or submitting to various dangers or1 threats to his psyche. Failure to handle these threats results in a static state of crippling neurosis. Goodman Brown's alienated, misanthropic life after his night in the forest is determined by the fact that he tried to resist the Devil and evil until the end. Adams says: "He should have fallen, should have let himself be tempted and damned.... should have accepted the devil's destructive knowledge, which was death sure enough, but which might therefore have led even- tually to rebirth." This submission is what makes Spencer Brydon a reborn man able to enter a love relationship with a woman. Although fearful of the danger, he stalks his alter ego with deliberate, unswerving determination. Like Hawthorne, James understands the process of personality in­ tegration, but, unlike him, chooses to allow his hero to achieve it in "The Jolly Comer." 33 Endnotes ^"Richard Chase, The American Novel and Its Tradition (New York*. Doubleday and Company, IncT, 1957)* P P • 12-13. ^Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Young Goodman Brown,” in Mosses from an Old Manse, Vol. X of The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, ed. William Charvat et al. (Columbus. Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 197^)t p* 83* All quotations from Hawthorne will be from this edition and, except for first citations, will be identified by page number in parentheses following the quotation. 3Henry James, "The Jolly Corner," in Henry James; Selected Short Stories, ed. Quentin Anderson (New York! Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc., 1957)» p» 330. All subsequent quotes from this edition will be identified by page number in parentheses following the quotation. ^■Richard H. Fogle, "Ambiguity and Clarity in Hawthorne*s 'Young Goodman Brown,'" in Nathaniel Hawthorne; "Young Goodman Brown.* ed. Thomas EL Connolly (Columbus, Ohioi Charles E. Merrill Literary Casebooks, 1968), p. 3 5 . ■^Preface, The House of the Seven Gables. II (1965)* pa la

^Richard P. Adams, "Hawthorne's Provincial Tales." in "Young Goodman Brown." ed. Connolly, p. 60., • CHAPTER III A QUESTION OF INNOCENCE: "RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER” AND DAISY MILLER Hawthorne's "Rappaccini1s Daughter” and James's Daisy Miller question the innocence of a young woman living in an Edenic environment who forms a complicated liaison with a lover who suspects her virtue. Both stories explore the ambiguity between appearance and reality, between evil and good, between what a person says and does and what he is. In both stories, the plot becomes focused more on the lover than the heroine in its process of tracing the evolu­ tion of the lover's feelings for the heroine. Beatrice Rappaccini is an isolated virgin in a sunny Italian garden until she meets the amorous Giovanni Guasconti. Daisy Miller is an irrepressible, happy girl until, dismissing the advice of attentive fellow-countryman Frederick Winter- bourne, she carelessly violates the social conventions of Americans living in Europe. In Hawthorne's story, resolving the question of Beatrice Rappaccini's innocence depends on a valid assessment of her external appearance and behavior and her moral charac­ ter. It also depends on the character of the lover who assesses her and, finally, on the narrator's intrusion into the lives of this young couple. 34 Beatrice is an unusual Hawthorne heroine in that she combines characteristics of both the author's typical dark heroine and light heroine. In physical appearance and dress, she possesses the rich and exotic color of dark heroines like Zenobia and Miriam whose moral virtue, especially concerning sex, is suspect. When she first appears to Giovanni in the garden, the narrator describes her: "Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much." She has an exotic and sensuous appearance. Giovanni notes, on several occasions, that she resembles very much the vivid purple flower which grows by the fountain— the flower that is so poisonous that not even Dr. Rappaccini can touch it. Her poisonous nature is so deadly that she can wither normal flowers, kill in­ sects, and effectively infect Giovanni even though they do not touch. And she lives in isolation from the surrounding community— always a signal of moral errancy in Hawthorne's canon. Yet her face belies her "Oriental beauty," a descrip­ tion Hawthorne also applies with implied suspicions to 2 Hester, Zenobia, and Miriam. When Giovanni sees Beatrice for a second time, he is impressed by the "expression of simplicity and sweetness" on her face. Moreover, the young 36 woman*s behavior supports her characterization as a light heroine who has much in common with Phoebe in The House of the Seven Gables. She is totally guileless and open in her childlike affection for Giovanni; the term "child" appears often in the narrator*s description of her. And she fre­ quently appears in natural sunlight, the Hawthornian light of healthy virtue. She treats Guasconti "with confidence as unreserved as if they had been playmates from early infancy" (p. 1 1 5 )* She is quite candid with the young man when he questions her knowledge of the flowers. ""I know no more of them than their hues and perfumes; and sometimes, methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not the least brilliant, that shock and offend me, when they meet my eye*" (p. 111). A woman with a more developed sense of self-protection would hardly have made such an admission that would leave her and her father so vulnerable to condemnation. In addition to her childlike, trusting behavior, Bea­ trice has a fairly developed religious identity. She crosses herself when the reptile and the insect die in the garden. She unquestionably believes that Giovanni is sent to her from Heaven. When Giovanni turns on her at the story's climax, she invokes the Holy Virgin for aid and steadfastly maintains that "'my spirit is God's crea­ ture, and craves love as its daily food'" (p. 125). She becomes horrified when she learns that Giovanni has become 37 infected "because of his association with her; she has scrupulously avoided allowing him to touch even the hem of her dress. Beatrice has an adequate explanation for her love of the poisonous flowers which she calls her "sisters" and upon whom she lavishes care and physical affection. She has been raised in isolation in the garden without any human companionship except for that of her coldly detached father (no mention is made of her mother who is presumed dead). Yet, she has the healthy Hawthorne instinct toward socialization as the proper mode of life. And so she has developed a communion with the only things available to her — the flowers she tends. The narrator controls and balances the contradictory aspects of Beatrice®s appearance and external behavior (i.e., one never sees into Beatrice's mind, reads her thoughts). She is a typically flat romantic heroine. Hawthorne uses Beatrice as a philosophical mouthpiece to make the point that reality cannot be apprehended and judged exclusively on the basis of sensory evidence. Beatrice earnestly pleads with the questioning Giovanni to put more faith in what she says rather than in what she doess '"Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence. But the words of Beatrice Rappaccini's lips are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believel*" (p. 112). When one weighs the different 38 variables in Beatrice's characterization, the ambiguity is resolved easily in favor of the girl's innocence. Hawthorne ironizes the reader who would condemn her as evil judging on the basis of recognized circumstantial evidence of exotic appearance, observed culpable behavior, and social isolation in his fiction. Beatrice's interaction with Giovanni complicates her characterization— as well as his own role. The young Guasconti is blond and fair which usually suggests moral goodness in Hawthorne's canon. At the story's beginning, he is an innocent and financially pinched scholar who al­ ready misses the warm sunshine of his Southern Italian home. But Hawthorne's superficial introduction of the hero duplicates the heroine's introduction in irony; essentially, Giovanni's appearance masks his weak character. Hawthorne develops his romantic hero with some degree of realistic credibility, especially his involvement with Beatrice. In addition to his acute homesickness, Giovanni has a gothic imagination which is easily influenced by his surroundings; his gloomy palace apartment reminds him that the family who once owned the palace was represented in Dante's Inferno. He is emotionally susceptible to a romantic involvement, and he becomes easily fascinated with the mysterious circumstances surrounding the strange, alluring girl in the garden. His "fancy" fixes on Beatrice whom he suspects at the outset even though he is attracted to her. 39 The narrator points out several times in the course of the story that Giovanni is given to dreaming and day- dreaming about Beatrice. 3 While such dreams technically allow for a hint of suspicion regarding Beatrice°s poisonous behavior with insects and flowers, they suggest, more im­ portantly, that Giovanni's imagination works overtime at the expense of his rational intellect. He cannot deal with information other than that which is immediately apprehensi­ ble to his senses. It is telling that Beatrice chides him to believe what she says, not what he "fancies" or observes about her. Nor does Giovanni have a heart which is capable of love, but he does have superficial (if intense) emotions over which he exercises little control: "day after day, his pulses had throbbed with feverish blood" (p. 109). He is mesmerized by Beatrice and the contradictory mysteries of her personality. When he is away from her, he is ob­ sessed with her sexual attractiveness and apparent evil. When he is with her, he is overwhelmed with her childlike innocence and trust. Giovanni cannot reconcile her innocent childishness with her exotic, implicitly sexual allure and her sus­ piciously evil behavior. And he traps himself emotionally in trying to clarify the girl's mystery. The narrator in­ trudes into the plot to establish Giovanni's character by stating: "Giovanni fought notj to have remained so near this extraordinary being, that the proximity and the possibility even of intercourse, should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing. Giovanni had not a deep heart— or at all events, its depths were not sounded now— but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher fever-pitch" (p. 105)• Giovanni's weakness prevents him from accepting Beatrice on faith. In this respect, he re­ minds one of other Hawthorne heroes whose suspicion of their lovers overrides their faith (significantly, Goodman Brown and Theodore in the Veiled Lady episode of The Blithe- dale Romance). Ironically, like Rappaccini and Baglioni, Guasconti is a scholar, or at least a scholar in apprenticeship. This accounts for his coldly detached observation and testing of Beatrice. He intends to offer her a bouquet of normal flowers to observe what effect she has on them; he tries to pluck a flower from Beatrice’s sister-plant to see how she will react. His scholarly abilities, however, are quite mean in comparison with the older scientists'. He is incapable of apprehending and dealing with abstract and spiritual realities in a consistent, productive manner. The narrator makes it clear that the young man does not know "how to estimate" Beatrice's innocence (p. 122). This is despite the fact that her innocence, on one or two occasions, does penetrate his consciousness "like the light of truth." In essence, Giovanni is determined to learn the girl's mystery but, with too little intellect and love, with too 41 much imagination and emotion, he is doomed to failure. The narrator becomes so intrigued with the workings and contradictions of Guasconti's character that, in fact, it is the hero who dominates the plot— not Rappaccini*s daughter. And Hawthorne does demonstrate some sympathy for this young man who finds himself alone, away from the security of home, and committed to the rigorous challenge of obtaining an education which he naively judges as a wholly worthwhile pursuit. Giovanni naively questions Professor Baglioni about Rappaccini®s "so spiritual a love of science." Likewise, he warms to his exceptional lodgings because they seem so fortunately to open onto a luxuriant garden. "The young man rejoiced, that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language, to keep him in communion with Nature" (p. 98). Evidently, he is sen­ sitive enough to know that a student’s life must not isolate him from an appreciative rapport with Nature. In a sense, Hawthorne offers Beatrice as a test for potential growth for the young man*s rational intelligence and healthy emotionality. He fails miserably, and the moral-social consequences are physical death for Beatrice and psychological impoverishment for Giovanni. Hope for the hero's integration or redemption does not seem imminent. 42 Like Beatrice Rappaccini, Daisy Miller is basically an innocent who is trapped in a hurtful environment. Like Beatrice, Daisy becomes victimized by her affection for a young man who suspects and tests her virtue. However, while Hawthorne®s development of his heroine is realized primarily in moral terms, James, though interested in Daisy*s morality, complicates the question in a specific and complex social context. Neither writer allows the reader a direct look into his heroine"s psyche, but James pursues believable psychological presentation of Daisy by means of her extended interactions with several characters. Daisy is an appealingly pretty young American heiress who is travelling through Europe with her mother and brother for the ostensible purpose of acquiring some appreciation of old-world culture. Aside from frequent references to her attractiveness and occasional remarks about her ex­ quisite wardrobe, James does not supply any details about her physical attributes. Unlike Hawthorne, who plays off Beatrice's sensual appearance against her childlike charac­ ter, James creates an ambiguity by refusing to specify what she looks like; the reader must interpret given psycho-social information. Pamilial interrelationships offer the first key to Daisy's personality. Daisy's mother is a totally ineffec­ tive parent whose main preoccupation is her dyspepsia. She exercises no control over nine-year-old Randolph's ^3 eating habits and sleeping habits or her daughter's social style. It is reasonable to hypothesize that Daisy has grown up as independently and self-indulgently as Randolph is now doing. This upbringing— in addition to her wealth and personal attractiveness— accounts for the fact that she is an extremely spoiled, egocentric woman who is not likely to tolerate anyone's opposition to her desires and plans. On the first evening of their acquaintance, she demands that Winterbourne take her out in a boat at 11 o'clock; she wants him to do so because he has spent some time talking with her mother instead of paying attention to her. When her mother and Eugenio, their courier, express disapproval of her proposal, she becomes more insistent— and gratified by everyone's attention: '"That's all I want II — a little fuss!"' Daisy informs Winterbourne in the Pincio that '"I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do'" (p. 123). Soon afterwards, she refuses Mrs. Walker's strong advice to get into her carriage and thus avoid creating a public scandal by walking around unescorted with a suspicious Italian gentleman. Daisy easily dismisses Mrs. Walker and her advice to pursue her own way. She demonstrates little appreciation for her mother's social gaucherie when she packs her off as an unwilling emissary to Mrs. Walker's soiree to explain her tardiness. Mrs. Miller later admits to W interbourne that she has little control 44 over Daisy’s life, that her daughter will carry on as she pleases with Giovanelli without considering that she owes her mother any explanation of their relationship. When Winterbourne finds Daisy and Giovanelli at the Coliseum, he demands to know why the Italian brought her to such an unhealthy place. Giovanelli answers that Daisy8s determi­ nation to go there could not be broken; the signorina is never prudent. Daisy8s goal in life is likewise egocentric; she desires to enjoy life to the fullest, to seek any source of mean­ ingful gratification. The most obvious source for her is society— and Daisy*s prettiness and easy garrulity fit her perfectly for society. After knowing Winterbourne for only a few minutes, she complains of the lack of society in Europe and plunges into an account of her life in New York: *I*m very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I don’t mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society. Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen ....I have more friends in New York than in Schenectady— more gentlemen friends; and more young lady friends, too.* (p. 97) She emphasizes that she especially enjoys the company of gentlemen. Daisy's mother confirms her interests to Winterbourne. "'She goes around everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances....And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there*s nothing like Rome. Of course, it*s a great deal pleasanter for a young 4-5 lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen®" (p. 119)* Daisy’s natural inclination to he a flirt is thus explained. The appreciation of men is necessary for her happiness. Her mother condones her behavior and implies that she believes it is natural for girls to seek men's favors. Daisy'offers Winterbourne her decided opinion that "all nice girls" are flirts; she implies that flirting is an acceptable social game in her experience. And Winterbourne reflects that he has heard that this behavior is acceptable among young Americans. It is important to note that, for Daisy, flirting does have its limitations: she becomes immediately upset when Winterbourne questions her about "loving" Giovanelli. Love is a separate, serious matter. Daisy's secondary goal also pertains to society. She wants very much to be accepted as one of the socially exclusive. This is why she is attracted to the polished Winterbourne; this is why she wants to meet his aunt whom she describes in an intriguing way to the young man: "'I want to know her ever so much. I know just what your aunt would be; I know I should like her. She would be very ex­ clusive. I like a lady to be exclusive; I'm dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we are exclusive, mother and I. We don't speak to every one— or they don't speak to us. I suppose it's about the same thing'" (p. 1040. Interestingly enough, Daisy does not seem to know the distinction between choosing not to speak to someone and the aunt's choosing not to speak to Daisy. This indicates a lack of intellectual sophistication. The girl does not demonstrate an ability to consider or appreciate anything intellectually. Winterbourne says of their excursion to Chillon: "The history of Bonnivard had evidently, as they say, gone into one ear and out of the other" (p. 112). She easily admits that her nine-year-old brother knows more than she does. Her evaluation of Europe is that it is "perfectly sweet." Daisy makes the same uncritical, emotional res­ ponse to the people she meets— she enjoys Giovanelli be­ cause he is "beautiful" and has polished manners; she enjoys Winterbourne for his distinguished style until that style becomes, equally simplistically, "stiff" in its censure of her flirting. The question obviously arises in Winterbourne®s mind about the parameters of a flirt*s relationships with men. But Daisy's enjoyment of male company and flattery does.not negate her basic childlike character. In this respect, she resembles Beatrice Rappaccini who enthusiastically pursues a relationship with Giovanni. As Mrs. Costello says of Daisy, more truly than she means, "'She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age'" Cp• 13*0 * She unselfconsciously chats away with Winterbourne at their first meeting even though they have not been formally introduced; she even reveals intimate family details about her brother's difficult behavior and her mother's illness. She accepts Giovanelli with the same apparent ease. She responds openly, spontaneously, and trustingly to every­ one. Moreover, she is quite slow to suspect others of less than honorable motives and behavior. She is unaware that Winterbourne could seriously question her virtue or the propriety of her friendship with Giovanelli. Her code of ethics is very childlike. She insists on keeping her date to walk with the Italian in the Pincio because to refuse him when he has planned on it for some time would be cruel. When Mrs. Walker turns away from her at her party, Winterbourne sees that, "for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation" (p. 132). She finds it difficult to believe that others would cut her socially and that Winterbourne would allow them to do so— it would be "cruel." Like a child, she soonforgets her hurts and does not carry grudges? she dismisses Mrs. Costello's refusal to meet her, and she forgets Mrs. Wal­ ker's admonishments in the Pincio to greet her quite warmly on the evening of her party. Certainly, she gives Winterbourne no real reason for suspecting her virtue. He admits that, when he interrupts Daisy's evening tete-a-t&tes with Giovanelli, she is not in the least perturbed as, presumably, she would be if she were developing some intimacy with the Italian. After her death, when he has nothing to gain, Giovanelli testifies that the young girl was "the most innocent." And when 48 Winterbourne questions him, he repeats his conviction that Daisy was most innocent. But Daisy Miller is not without some culpability. She is insensitive to an appreciation of European social ethics. This deficiency may be explained by her American origin, by her social inexperience, by her lack of intellec­ tual sophistication, but, cetainly in part, by her childish self-centeredness. She continually goes against the rigid European social etiquette which would seem to dictate all aspects of intercourse between members of the opposite sex. The novella makes these standards clear: a necessary formal introduction made by someone who can vouch for the gentle­ man's respectabilityj a chaperone on public excursions which are, in themselves, confined to proper places and times; a chaperone during private visits; avoidance of prolonged private conversation or repeated dances with a single individual at a party; conformity to the tight network among Americans traveling and living abroad whibh dictates who is and is not acceptable. Unfortunately for Daisy, she has no prior knowledge of these restrictions. When they are pointed out to her, however, she dis­ misses them lightly to continue with her own plans. The function of Eugenio, the family's courier, is to guide them about the proper way to go about things in Europe. Eugenio apparently attempts to impress such matters on Daisy, but she dismisses him with the conviction that he disapproves of everything. Daisy hereby ignores a means of social

i 49 education in order to indulge her own whims. When Mrs. Walker attempts to dissuade the young girl from publicly promenading with Giovanelli, Daisy dismisses her. "*I don’t think I want to know what you mean....I don’t think I should like it0" (p. 126). Daisy closes her mind conveniently to anything disagreeable. She does not even listen to Winterbourne’s advice when she solicits it on this occasion. "Daisy gave a violent laugh. *1 never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker,’ she pursued, 'then I am all improper, and you must give me up’" (p. 126). Even allowing for the possibility of embarrassment, Daisy stubbornly disregards her compromising situation and care­ lessly condemns herself to impropriety. Winterbourne, on several occasions, tries to tell her to cease flirting so obviously with Giovanelli, whom he has also pointed out to Daisy as not socially acceptable company for a young American girl "’When you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother— (p. 131). Daisy retorts that she and the Italian are too good friends for flirting; she may have a v^ilid point as far as she and Giovanelli are really concerned, but she does not care for Winterbourne’s caution nonetheless. Once more, Winterbourne offers Daisy some advice about her suspicious relationship and warns her that her behavior is causing the social elite to drop her 50 as an unrespectable woman. This conversation reveals much about the girl's character. 'Every one thinks so [I.e., that Daisy sees too much of Giovanelli} — if you care to know, ' said Winterbourne. 'Of course I care to know!* Daisy exclaimed, seriously. 'But I don't believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don't really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don't go around so much.' (p. 138) Daisy claims to be concerned about others® opinions of her, but her claim has little substance because she denies the reality of their concern. "Pretending" is a child's game just as flirting may be; Daisy's choice of terms in= dicates her immature stance. Her association with this community, whom she also accuses of "stiffness" in another passage, should tell her they are not given to pretend games. Finally, she even denies the conduct of which she is judged— another child's maneuver. Why is Daisy Miller attracted to Winterbourne? (Her concern when she is in the coma that he not believe she is engaged certifies her genuine feelings for him.) Winterbourne presents to Daisy the picture of a refined and polished gentleman who is an intimate in exclusive circles. Daisy very much admires and wants for herself social exclusivity. Winterbourne is also slightly aloof to Daisy; he holds back from a total surrender to her charms. Daisy is not used to gentlemen denying her any­ thing, and she finds this gentleman a challenge. She becomes irritated on the first evening of their acquaintance when Winterbourne ignores her to engage her mother in conversation. She dares him to take her out in the boat simply because she wants him to pay attention to her. Daisy is quite impressed with Winterbourne's formal style of speech and manner; he is quite gallant and flatters her in eloquent terms. "®if you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them [i.e. boat£].' Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little light laugh. 'I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared" (p. 109)• On the boat crossing to Chillon, they banter with each other pleasantly. "'I never was better pleased in my life,® murmured Winterbourne. She looked at him a moment, and then burst into a little laugh. "I like to make you say those things! You're a queer mixture I*" (p. 112). When he explains the history of Bonnivard to her, she concludes that she never met a man who knew so much. She is impressed with his knowledge. She wants him to stay in Vevey, to accompany them on their travels so they may learn something about Europe from him. Because he declines, she decides he must be involved with another woman, and she seems jealous. When they meet again weeks later in Rome, Daisy insistently chides Winterbourne for not rushing to visit her as soon as he arrived in Rome. She implies that most gentlemen would have been glad for such an invitation. 52 Daisy seems to have some realization that Winterbourne does care for her reputation and well being which he demon­ strates when he admonishes her about her conduct with Giovanelli. She is not used to having someone countermand her, and she seems to find this novelty attractive enough. This is why she asks Winterbourne his opinion about getting into Mrs. Walker's carriage. At no other point in the story does she solicit anyone's approbation. After the Pincio episode, Daisy brands Winterbourne as "stiff"— by this she implies he is too concerned about propriety as judged by the American colony and, probably, too resistant to her charms to chase after her, to make himself as available to her as Giovanelli does. She con­ sistently tries to break down his barriers: "'If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again'" (p. 131)• "'It has never occured to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,' she said, with her little tormenting manner" (p. 132). Essentially, Daisy wants Winterbourne to break away from the social elite and to declare his affection for her. She may even hope that her association with Giovanelli will make him jealous. She certainly does not want him to think she is engaged to the Italian. Her confession and confusion when they meet at the Palace of the Caesars makes this clear. 'Since you have mentioned it,' she said, 'I am engaged®....Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. 'You don't believe it!* she added. He was silent a momentj and then, 'Yes, I believe it,® he said. ®0h, no, you don'ti® she answered. 'Well, then— I am not!®" (p. 139)• Daisy pursues this topic when they meet the final time at the Coliseum. Winterbourne's remark, "'I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!"’, hurts her quite badly. It is at this point that she (prophetically, as it turns out) declares she does not care if she catches the deadly Roman fever. In comparison with Beatrice Rappaccini, Daisy Miller emerges as a much more complicated descendant. Daisy shares Beatrice's attractiveness to men, childlike character, and basic innocence. In some respects, both are trapped by this peculiar ignorance of the circumstances of their social and physical environment. James develops Daisy much more intently than Hawthorne does Beatrice, however. Daisy has an egocentric personality which makes her partially responsible for her fate. The question of Daisy's moral innocence expands into an investigation of her psychologi­ cal composition. James grounds his pursuit of morality in a complex analysis of psychology. She may be sexually innocent, but this same conduct is, nonetheless, socially reprehensible. 54 If Daisy Miller is a descendant of Beatrice Rappaccini, Frederick Winterbourne is a descendant of Giovanni Guasconti. In both stories, the focus becomes concentrated on the lover as he tests and judges the heroine. In "Rappaccini*s Daughter," this focus, in addition to the obviously censor­ ious narrative intrusion, uncovers Giovanni as more villain than victim. In Daisy Miller. Winterbourne emerges as a complicated young man shaped by the circumstances of his situation as an American living abroad; his culpability for Daisy's fate remains problematic. Winterbourne is a cosmopolitan twenty-seven-year-old American who has been living in Geneva and traveling in Europe for some time. He obviously belongs to a wealthy and socially acceptable family. He is not a representative American male who has devoted himself to business and the ideals of democracy (as is, for example, Christopher New­ man). Even his formal, polished diction is more suggestive of Europe than America— Daisy initially thinks he is German. The narrator introduces Winterbourne with some mockery: "When his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva 'studying'; when his enemies spoke of him, they said— but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked" (p. 90)• Social euphemisms and evasions aside, Winterbourne is an idler who is bent on enjoying life, particularly the society of pretty women. At present, he is much involved in a clandestine affair with an older foreign woman "about whom 55 there were some singular stories." This presentation of the hero does little to his moral stature, and his judging of Daisy's behavior becomes ironic. It is likewise ironic that both Daisy and Winter­ bourne seek personal happiness and meaning in the social sphere. For Daisy, the rules of European socialization are nebulous and hard to appreciate. Winterbourne knows the rules and works them to his favor. As a man, he can enjoy his affair with an older foreigner and still be accepted by the socially elite. And he is evidently well thought of by his exclusive aunt and Mrs. Walker, a Roman social leader; in fact, these ladies fear for his reputa­ tion if he continues to associate with Miss Miller. In illustrating the different social ramifications of Daisy's and Winterbourne®s behavior, Henry James parenthetically makes a subtle point about the unfair victimization of women by the social order. The narrator provides another suspicious hint about the young man's character in explaining his reason for visiting Vevey: "Her £i«e. Mrs. Costello's^ nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one's aunt" (p. 101). Winterbourne courts his wealthy aunt when her sons evidently shun her. The oblique reference to "imbibing" this idea at Geneva just hints that he may be courting an inheritance at the 56 suggestion of his shrewd mistress. Certainly, Mrs. Costello's character does not suggest that her company alone is sufficiently attractive. Why is Winterbourne attracted to Daisy? What is his relationship with her? As Giovanni becomes mesmerized by Beatrice's beauty, Winterbourne is first struck by Daisy's overwhelming prettiness. He carefully catalogues her attributes: "They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman's various features— her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beautyj he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady's face he made several observations” (p.9^)« He is intrigued by the fact that Daisy is an American, an American flirt, a type with which he has little familiarity. He is also charmed by her fresh, spontaneous manner; he finds it immensely refreshing after his long experience with the clever coquettes and stiff matriarches of European society. But Daisy's manner poses a problem for Winterbourne, too. He likes to assess, to be sure of what and whom he is dealing with. He has a difficult time reconciling Daisy's flirtatiousness and her presumed innocence. Like Giovanni who becomes most intent on solving the mystery of Beatrice's character, Winterbourne insists on finding "the formula that applied to Daisy Miller"; he wants to 57 "make up his mind about Miss Daisy." Giovanni is handicapped by his egotism, but Winterbourne*s problem is more complica­ ted. He realizes that evaluating Daisy's behavior is diffi­ cult because he has lived too long in Europe to know how to measure the conduct of a pretty American flirt. "Winter­ bourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him" (p. 98). At first, he assumes that she is simply unpolished, inexperienced in the social etiquette governing Americans abroad. But negative comments from other people about Daisy and the girl's continued recklessness confuse him. Soliciting others' opinions does not help resolve the problem; such advice indicates that she flaunts accepted social mores. The superficial appearance of Daisy's conduct condemns her. But these facts are "reasonable." Deeper consideration of other factors (for example, Daisy does not get upset when Winterbourne breaks in on Giovanelli®s visits to her) make him retain an instinctive belief in her virtue for a time. Another complication in Winterbourne's assessment of Daisy is that he is torn between his instinct to defend her since she appears so helpless and his sexual desire to take advantage of her if she is not respectable. Winterbourne responds intuitively to Daisy's innocence by defending her in an honorable way. He continuously defends her before Mrs. Costello and Mrs. Walker by claiming that 58 she associates with foreigners because "she is completely uncultivated." He tries to hint to Mrs. Miller that her daughter needs social guidance. He gallantly tries to educate Daisy about the proper conduct of a young girl in Rome. Daisy's appeal to him in the Pincio about whether or not she should abandon Giovanelli for the safety of Mrs. Walker's carriage provides significant evidence about the hero's character, "But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry here was simply to tell her the truth" (p. 126). Very gently, Winterbourne suggests that she get into the carriage. The novella early establishes Winterbourne as a connoisseur of women, and thus his honorable instincts are in conflict with his sexual interests in this pretty, open-hearted girl. He often wonders how far he can go with her, if she is the sort of girl to expect a man to carry her off. He even pays off the tour guide at Chillon to leave him entirely alone with her. Despite his conflicting feelings concerning Daisy's conduct, Winterbourne does have a genuine romantic interest in her. He is truly charmed with the girl and, at times, half speculates on pursuing a relationship with her. Having experienced jealousy and intimidation from other women, he carries a romantic image of Daisy in his mind: "the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive" (p. 116). When he learns that Daisy is not 59 pining for him but pursuing the society of foreign gentle­ men, he is much chagrined and postpones a visit to her. Her association with Giovanelli piques him, but he continues to court her while trying to penetrate her inscrutable style. He investigates Giovanelli°s background and damns his good looks. Even his aunt remarks that it must be thoughts of Daisy which have made him so obviously pensive. He is unclear about the girl's feelings for him; indeed, her continued involvement with the Italian and her flirting, teasing manner with him are confusing. Only upon reflection of her last words, after her death, does he realize that "she would have appreciated one's esteem." Winterbourne's culpability for Daisy's death cannot be determined with any certainty. Comparing the circum­ stances of Beatrice's death with Daisy's make it obvious how complicated the question is. Giovanni's egotism and * lack of faith killed a realistically blameless Beatrice. Aside from her childlike personality and excusable social inexperience, Daisy does have certain faults; she is ego­ centric and determinedly willful. She continually dis­ regards the well-meaning advice of others. She knows about the dangers of Roman fever, for example, but she disregards them because she wants to see the Coliseum at night. In part, therefore, she provokes her own fate. Winterbourne's blame, if it is that, lies in his failure to maintain faith in Daisy's virtue. He is not a devoted egocentric by any means, even though he does 60

seek personal gratification in female relationships. However, as one reads the story, the references to Winter- bourne's compulsion to solve Daisy's mystery become more apparent. Thoughts of her consume him, provoke the pen­ siveness which Mrs. Costello notes: "He was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentrici­ ties were generic, national, and how far they were personal"

(p. 137) • His thoughts when he comes upon Daisy and Giovanelli in the Coliseum are telling: Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy's behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect....He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. (p. 1^1) Several days later, he feels relieved that he is no longer seriously wondering and worrying about Daisy. It is to preserve his own psychological stability and emotional security that Winterbourne violently rejects his feelings for Daisy. And it is because she senses his change that she announces she does not care if she catches the fever. Winterbourne's callousness towards Daisy thus stems from psychological weakness, not moral weakness. Hawthorne's skill in psychological characterization is most evident in Giovanni whom he portrays as an ego­ centric man of much imagination and little emotional integrity. What flaws Giovanni's portrait is the persistent narrative intrusion Hawthorne resorts to, James's develop­ ment of Winterbourne and Winterbourne's culpability for Daisy's death does exhibit more psychological subtlety, but what is more significant is the style with which he achieves it. James uses Winterbourne as a center of consciousness whose thoughts and feelings are directly related to the reader. The effect is to make for a more believable hero whose predicament easily engages the reader's interest.

II . Both Hawthorne's and James's choice of an Italian setting for their stories is richly significant. Italy provides Hawthorne with an appropriate backdrop for a romantic story and a dark, exotic heroine such as Beatrice. In terms of popular nineteenth-century interpretations of national psychology, Giovanni's emotionality, his "ardent southern temperament," is accounted for. The garden itself has additional significance. With its rare and vivid flowers, it is dramatized as an inverted Eden. The narrator poses this rhetorical question very early in the storyi "Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world?— and this man [Rappaccini » with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow, was he the Adam?" (p. 96). Hawthorne thus ironizes the garden setting just as he ironizes the roles of his heroine and her lover. Hawthorne also uses architecture to good effect. Giovanni's gloomy apartments work on his gothic imagina­ tion. As long as he hides behind his balcony doors to watch Beatrice, he can maintain the safe stance of removed observer: "He seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered" (p. 101). In an ironic twist to usual love situations in which the tender heroine must wait on a balcony for her adventurous lover, Giovanni, the unworthy lover, is coaxed down from his safety by an innocent heroine. As in Goodman Brown's case, once Giovanni crosses the threshhold, he becomes involved in a situation from which he cannot escape. Equally ironic is the fact that, even though Giovanni forgoes his aloof role of observer (unlike Coverdale who culpably remains apart), he cannot benefit from so doing because of the weaknesses in his character. The theme of "Rappaccini's Daughter" is a question of innocence: how does one determine the moral rectitude of an individual? The question is primarily asked about Beatrice, but it does extend significantly to Giovanni and, in turn, even to Rappaccini and Baglioni*. The question poses the epistemological problem of determining and interpreting reality, both the concrete reality of the body and its senses and the abstract reality of the soul. 63 Hawthorne develops this theme and its attendant problem by several techniques. The most obvious is narrative manipu­ lation. The narrator intrudes into the plot consistently to offer evidence about his characters' moral and psycho­ logical composition. The effect of such pervasive intrusion is, unfortunately, to weaken the ambiguity of the two central characters' moral status. Narrative intrusion supports the case for Beatrice's innocence. The narrator alludes often to her "simple" nature, her "pure whiteness," the "pure fountain" of her heart. He continues to play with the distinctions between what one sees and what one perceives: "These incidents (In garden} , however, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger" (p. 125). What one perceives is obviously more reliable. The narrator echoes and sup­ ports the heroine's own judgment against drawing conclusions from superficial sensory evidence. The narrator likewise intrudes to establish the hero as a man diminished by emotional superficiality and moral weakness. "Guasconti had not a deep heart— or at all events, its depths were not sounded now— but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament" (p. 105). "Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror; a vanity 64 to be expected in a beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character" (p. 121). Although, as discussed earlier, Giovanni is not presented in a totally unsympathetic light, the narrator clearly accuses Giovanni of serious character deficiencies. The narrator continually implies that Giovanni "fancies" or imagines Beatrice's deadly effect on flowers and insects because of his questionable character. His imagination is not in proportion with his heart: such an imbalance is usually a culpable flaw in Hawthorne's philosophy which prescribes, in general, that a human's intelligence and imagination and feelings must function in equally balanced harmony to ensure a proper moral life. The author retains this philosophy in "Rappaccini's Daughter." The general effect of consistent narrative manipulation is to weaken the portraiture of Beatrice and Giovanni and to simplify the thematic question of innocence. But Hawthorne's masterful use of irony provides a counter­ balance with its rich effect on character and plot ambiguity. The Edenic references to Rappaccini*s garden at the story's opening establish an ironic context for the plot action. Hawthorne lavishly ironizes Beatrice in her appearance, behavior, and social isolation. He also ironizes Giovanni's appearance and initial presentation as a homesick young 65 scholar; The cumulative purpose of these ironies is to produce the moral ambiguity necessary to legitimize the question of innocence and, by extension, the problem of interpreting reality. The dream-fantasy element in this tale, which is primarily developed through Giovanni, is discredited as disordered and unreliable. In "Young Goodman Brown," dreams develop the ambiguity of the hero's experience and moral position; they are at least assigned a plausible degree of reality. In "Rappaccini's Daughter," on the other hand, dreams are an indicator and manifested form of Giovanni's overdeveloped and too easily stimulated imagination. "Least of all...ought Giovanni to have remained so near this extraordinary being (Beatrice]] , that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse,' should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing" (p. 105). The hero easily relies on his imagination instead of his intellect to form judgments. Hawthorne is sensitive to the usefulness of artifacts in portraying character. He uses the fountain in Rappacci­ ni's garden as a complement to Beatrice. The fountain is mentioned at several pertinent points, but its introduction is most descriptive: For there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but so wofully [sic]shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sun­ beams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurg­ ling sound ascended to the young man's window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit, that sung its song unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around itj while one century imbodied it in marble and ano­ ther scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. (pp. 9^-95) The fountain represents both aspects of the heroine; it is the key to her character. The original design, the marble immortality of her virgin soul still clearly exists as seen in the water that sparkles and sings in the pure sunshine— if only one is able to apprehend its significanc The decay, the perishable garniture of the fountain, which is less important, refers to the circumstances of Beatrice poisoned body and social isolation. As the fountain's exterior is victimized by time, so is Beatrice victimized by her father. Hawthorne's secondary characters, Dr. Rappaccini and Dr. Baglioni, amplify the plot ambiguity in relevant ways which extend the question of moral responsibility. Dr. Rappaccini is, most obviously, one of Hawthorne's scholar- scientists who puts his research before his fellow-man. •'[He was} a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man, dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin grey beard and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultiva­ tion, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart" (p. 95)• Rappaccini is responsible for his daughter's infection and isolation. But what is his particular motive for in­ fecting her? At the story's dramatic climax, Beatrice asks her father why he has inflicted a miserable doom upon her. The doctor retorts: '"Dost thou deem it misery to be en­ dowed with marvellous gifts, against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy? Misery, to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath? Misery, to be as terrible as thou art beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil, and capable of none?"' (p. 127)• It is unquestionable that Rappaccini has used his daughter for his science; however, this response does indicate that he is aware of the implicit social and sexual vulnerability of a woman, especially a beautiful woman. Even allowing for his devotion to science, perhaps some positive instinct has prompted him to protect his daughter by the means most accessible to him. More­ over, unquestionably aware of Beatrice's lonely isolation, he has attempted to provide her with a husband. His last retort to Beatrice must allow for this ambiguity of motivation. Dr. Baglioni is a similarly complicated man. He is amiable and sociable and sensitive to an obligation he has to Giovanni, the son of a dear friend. He is perhaps too sociable to be ranked among Hawthorne's hardened, mono- maniacal scientists. However, he is consumed by a jealousy 68

of Rappaccini*s scientific fame and academic reputation. He even remarks, half facetiously, that Rappaccini in­ tends for Beatrice to assume his chair at the university. It is Baglioni who produces an antidote for Giovanni and Beatrice— for the avowed sincere purpose of rescuing the young pair. This proposed rescue may be altruistic; it may also be an opportunity for Baglioni to prove that his knowledge of science is greater than Rappaccini*s. Again, at the climax, Baglioni's reactions and words are ambiguous, but suggest the culpable extent of his self-interest. Beatrice dies after drinking the antidote, and Giovanni is stricken. Baglioni appears at Giovanni's window where he can easily survey this miserable scenei " He looked forth...and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to the thunder-stricken man of science: 'RappacciniI Rappaccini! And is this the upshot of your experiment?®" (p. 128). Although it must be assumed that Baglioni is not wholly without compassion for the doomed lovers, his words do express jubilation in finally besting his long-time rival. His strong accusation of Rappaccini also indicates that he disclaims any personal responsibility for the tragedy. In essence, the ambiguity of Doctors Rappaccini and Baglioni is resolved in the irony that they, too, become victims of their love of science. "Rappaccini*s Daughter" is one of Hawthorne's most skillfully executed tales. It develops a significant moral theme with considerable technical expertise, especially 69 in the use of irony. Hawthorne even ironizes certain factors of his usual fictional style (personal appearance, social isolation) to explore the dichotomy between appearance and reality.

Except for the introduction which occurs in Byronic Vevey, Switzerland, Daisy Miller is set entirely in Rome. Like Hawthorne, James capitalizes on common romantic asso­ ciations of Italy for his plot. Hawthorne provides a twist to the specific setting with an inversion of the Garden of Eden. James ironizes Rome, the historic center of Chris­ tianity and culture, by the specific use of a church and the Coliseum for morally significant scenes. On the night that Winterbourne confronts Daisy and Giovanelli at the Coliseum, the couple joke about Winterbourne1s attacking them as the lions had the early Christians. Daisy is seated significantly at the foot of a great cross. The moral-psychological environment is likewise important. Mrs. Costello maintains that Daisy acts as though she were living in the Golden Age, another Edenic time. Unfortu­ nately, the American colony in Rome is not an Eden. The theme of Daisy Miller is also a question of innocence. James asks the same questions as Hawthorne about evaluating moral culpability and interpreting reali-fcy, sensory and abstract, to determine culpability. Like Hawthorne, James extends this question from his heroine to the major characters in the story. The techniques which James employs to develop this theme demonstrate his similarity to Hawthorne; the differ­ ences in technique development may he accounted for by the intrinsic differences between the romantic and the novelistic genres. In both stories, the focus shifts to the hero as he pursues the mystery of the heroine's morality. Hawthorne's shift is somewhat limited: he becomes involved with Gio­ vanni's development and, by persistent narrative intrusion, clearly assigns him the role of egocentric villain. His presentation of Giovanni's dream states, however, is an attempt to present the machinations of the man's mind and feelings. James is clearly interested in Winterbourne but allows the hero to emerge naturally through the eluci­ dation of his own struggle of consciousness and his inter­ actions with other characters, especially the extensively described interactions with Daisy. At their every meeting, James allows Winterbourne to express both his appreciation for and suspicion of the young girl. By virtue of this careful elaboration, Winterbourne emerges as a complex man whose responsibility for Daisy's fate is likewise richly complicated. Like Hawthorne, James depends on irony of situation and character to enrich a superficially romantic tale. The Roman setting is an initial irony. The American colony is likewise ironized. Many of James's stories celebrate Americans for their moral vigor and spontaneity; the Americans in Daisy Miller, however, are conspicuous for 71 their moral rigidity and social arbitrariness. The Christian associations and implications of Rome are lost upon them; they visit religious sites for their social and cultural advantages. James does not exploit his hero's and heroine's physical appearance in order to make ironic implications about their virtue, as does Hawthorne. James does, however, ironize their social circumstances as Americans in Europe. Daisy comes to Europe with honest intentions and a warm nature; she is rebuffed by fellow-Americans for reasons she is largely unable to understand or appreciate. Winterbourne prides himself on his acquisition of a gen­ tlemanly (i.e., European) style, but this style has robbed him of any original American moral sensitivity. He admits ruefully that he has lived abroad too long to understand and evaluate Daisy Miller. James's irony ties into a more significant ambiguity, and this ambiguity complicates the position of Daisy's moral posture— what is Daisy guilty of? how serious is this guilt? what do others juclge her guilty of? The story does suggest that this society has lost sight of the dis­ tinctions between sexual misconduct and social indiscretion. Winterbourne seems unable to understand and maintain de­ finite distinctions between Daisy's imputed social and sexual impropriety. The other Americans do not seem concerned about the distinction. Mrs. Costello dismisses 7 2 the Miller family with this remark: "'They are hopelessly vulgar...whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being "bad" is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life this is quite enough'" (p. 116). Daisy is described in compromising situations. The two most obvious are related through Winterbourne— when he sees Daisy and Giovanelli obscure themselves familiarly behind her umbrella in the Fincio and when he discovers them in an intimate conversation late at night at the Coliseum. Winterbourne is a reliable narrator of what he sees, but what he sees is superficial and circumstantial. He may use this evidence to condemn the girl, but these situations are far from indicting Daisy of real sexual misadventure. The fact that Daisy is never allowed to express her con­ sciousness increases the ambiguity of her position. James incorporates ambiguity into his plot more successfully than has Hawthorne, but both appreciate the value of am­ biguity as a technique for complicating one's ability to learn and to define reality. James does more with secondary characters in Daisy Miller than Hawthorne does in "Rappaccini's Daughter," although the motivations of Rappaccini and Baglioni do admit some interesting complications into the plot. The effect of Daisy's mother is to make the girl's childish willfulness very plausible. Mrs. Miller is a nervous woman afflicted with physical and psychological dyspepsia• (Her character is well objectified by her "much frizzled hair.") She has neither the energy nor the inclination to discipline her children or to exert any influence on them. The children respond by treating her very lightly; they seem to regard her, at best, as a harmless nuisance in their lives. Consequently, Randolph stays up quite late in hotel lobbies and eats all the candy he can get, while Daisy makes her own social plans without consulting her parent's wishes. Moreover, Mrs. Miller is insensitive, for her own health reasons, to social customs in Europe, so Daisy lacks the most natual source of guidance in these matters. In one sense, Mrs. Miller may be partially blamed for her daughter's death. Mrs. Costello, Winterbourne's aunt, is another pivotal figure in the story because she is the man critic of Daisy's behavior and because she feeds this bitter criticism to her nephew. Mrs. Costello herself is discredited, however, by the narrator's ironic introduction of her and others' evaluation of her. Tongue-in-cheek, the narrator identi­ fies her as a "person of much distinction who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick-headaches, she would have left a deeper impress upon her time" (p. 100). The narrator also notes that she has not been able to leave any impress upon her own two sons who successfully elude her company. Her situations as a 7b mother, therefore, is similar to Mrs. Miller*s. Mrs. Costello is also the butt of hotel gossip; Daisy's cham­ bermaid describes her as talking to no one and never dining at the common table at the hotel. At one time, Winterbourne expresses the opinion that she is "a proud, rude woman." Mrs. Costello epitomizes the superficiality and artificiali­ ty of the American colony in Rome. With her credentials for egocentricity and inhumanity, she is hardly a judicious commentator on Daisy's morality. But her presence in the story does provide rich complexity both in regard to evaluating Daisy and the credibility of her judgments of Daisy. Both stories end bleakly with their heroines' deaths. Neither lover seems especially concerned about his share of responsibility for the fate of the girl he has been in­ volved with. The denouement in James's story reveals Winterbourne'still somewhat pensive about Daisy but not to the extent that he gives up his European lifestyle to regain the American moral instinct he felt that he required to appreciate Daisy. Both heroines are victimized by their environments and by the men who are attracted to them. The chances for a humanistic and altruistic love are, there­ fore, refuted in "Rappaccini*s Daughter" and Daisy Miller. Hawthorne's style is not as subtle or as skilled about presenting psychological material as James's is, but both men realize that the question of innocence is as complicated as the people it involves. 75 Endnotes ^"Rappaccini*s Daughter," X (197^)* P» 97* 2Frederick Crews makes this observation about the common Oriental quality of Hawthorne's major dark heroines in The Sins of the Fathers; Hawthorne's Psychological Themes (London: Oxford University Press, 1970), p. 222. ^After he sees her for the first time, his sleep is filled with dreams "of a rich flower and a beautiful girl." Discussing her with Baglioni provokes "strong fantasies in reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice." After a meeting in the garden, he returns to his room with "the image of Beatrice" in his "passionate musings." ^Henry James, Daisy Miller, in The Great Short Novels of Henry James, ed. Philip Rahv (New York:Dial Press, Inc., 1961), p. 1 1 0 . All subsequent quotes from this edition will be identified by page number in parentheses following the quotation. CHAPTER IV THE REJECTION OF EXPERIENCE: "WAKEFIELD" AND "THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE" Hawthorne and James share the conviction that one must live life as fully as possible, must openly embrace the experiences that occur in one's own time and space. It is necessary to do so, both suggest, in order to realize the proper potential of one's humanity. An im­ portant corollary is that one must develop his humanity through the process of developing inter-personal relation­ ships with others in his environment; one must especially open himself to love relationships. Neither writer denies the necessity for maintaining a real identity that is inde­ pendently secure from various social situations, yet they recognize the benefits— moral, emotional, psychological, and social— that one gains from meaningful interactions with others. The protagonists of Hawthorne's "Wakefield" (1835) and James's "The Beast in the Jungle" (1903) reject life and social roles, especially their ties to devoted women who would nurture the healthy development of their humanity. Both protagonists ignore social integration and redemptive love for some private, meaningful experience, but, since both are cold, egocentric, and passive men, neither has the ability either to define adequately what he seeks or to seek it ■ • 76 77 effectively. They pass the prime of their lives without accomplishing anything, without even knowing who they are. Wakefield's small fame in Hawthorne's canon is precisely due to his status as "the outcast of the Universe." To Hawthorne, this term signifies Wakefield's lamentable, ultimate fate which results from his twenty-year desertion of his wife. The connection between the man's act and its consequences becomes clear when one analyzes Wakefield's character and the narrator's role and philosophy in presenting him. Wakefield is a middle-aged Londoner who has been peacefully married for ten years. Unlike Hawthorne's Head scientists or overly emotional heroes such as Giovanni Guasconti, Wakefield is remarkable for his lack of intellec­ tual and emotional vitality; "with a cold, but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor perplexed with originality. Wakefield's mind cannot analyze a situation or problem, nor can he formulate a careful purpose; the narrator makes frequent references to this disability in such terms as "his loose and rambling modes of thought." The narrator further notes that Wakefield does not have a proper imagination. This is a most serious flaw because Hawthorne, like James, considers the imagination as the cause of creative knowledge about self and society; it is what determines an individual's conscious choices in inter-personal relationships. And Wakefield has, at best, only fleeting moments of self-awareness. 78 With his psychological intuition, Hawthorne recognizes that, when a person does not exercise his human faculties in some positive way, he becomes diseased. Thus, "a quiet selfishness...had rusted into inactive mind" (p. 132). He develops a peculiar sense of his own importance, a "morbid vanity," that is demonstrated by the petty mysteries he perpetrates on his wife. When he abandons his home, he is convinced that virtually all of London sees him, recognizes him, and will report him to his wife. However Wakefield apparently has not cultivated interpersonal relation ships; the story makes no mention of any strong ties other than his marriage, and his attachment to his wife is super­ ficial. His conviction of his significance in the lives of others indicates an unrealistic, distorted viewpoint. This same selfishness also demonstrates itself when he refuses to go home after he becomes aware that his mysterious absence has made his wife gravely ill. The manner in which he makes his decision to leave home likewise indicates his abnormality: "the vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man" (p. 13^)* He initiates his project on a whim to see how much his wife will miss him. He is incapable of realizing that his wife is his one link to a normal and ethical life tied to the community; the narrator, however, emphasizes the disastrous moral and social consequences of his disappearance. 79 Wakefield's desertion of his wife provokes the first instance of excitement and emotional energy in his life. He "buys a wig and old clothes and flirts with the possibility of discovery by visiting the site of his former home. But once the temporary energy fades, his lethargic mind estab­ lishes a new, comfortable habit: "The new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position" (pp. 135-36). The only other excitement he ex­ periences in his twenty years' isolation occurs several weeks after his departure when he realizes, by observing the phy­ sician's carriage at his family door, that his wife must be seriously ill and ten years later when he accidently bumps into his wife* on a crowded London street. But neither in­ cident provokes any thoughtfulness or sustained self-examina­ tion of his motivations and actions. Not only is he totally unaware of any changes his isola­ tion has caused in him, he is also unaware that time and circumstances may alter the feelings of his wife and his reception by the world at large. He contents himself for twenty years with the platitude; "'I shall soon go backl"' (p. 138). His only activity during this period is to skulk around his house to see what is going on there, how its in­ habitants react to his absence. He is not conscious of the passage of time: "These twenty years would appear... scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more than an 80 interlude in the main business of his life" (pp. 138-39)• The way he returns is akin to the way he left— on a whim. He walks near his home where he tries to determine what is going on inside, and it begins to rain. He goes in the door— assured of a warm fire and a solicitous wife. The narrator stops at this point to conclude the sketch with a moral, rather than to pursue dramatically the consequences of Wakefield's absence. But the tale has already made it evident that Wakefield has lost his niche in human society and cannot regain it; he must remain "the Outcast." How culpable is Wakefield for his desertion? . It is difficult to establish a satisfactory answer because the story is a brief romantic sketch and totally controlled by a narrator who condemns and ridicules his character. Moreover, since the narrator paints Wakefield as a character who is deficient in creative intelligence and emotionality, it is unlikely that he has a will capable of exercising judgment and choice. Nonetheless, George Monteiro sees Wakefield as Hawthorne's discovery of the failure of modern man to realize any moral development due to the destructive egocentricity of his personality! "The account of Wakefield's experiment marks the beginning in America of the enduring literary con­ cern with the nexus of the critical failure of personality and the destruction of the individual capacity for moral growth. Hawthorne's achievement in this story is neither accidental nor eccentric; it stands as the astonishingly com­ plete detection of one of the prevailing modes of modern 81 man. John Marcher, the protagonist of James's "The Beast in the Jungle," follows in Wakefield's footsteps as "the man to whom nothing on earth was to have happened." Although he does not literally abandon a wife and social role, he deliberately avoids acquiring them because of the same "morbid vanity" and self-aggrandizement that Hawthorne’s character exhibits. James ,does not ignore the immorality of such a pose; however, he exposes it while developing the psychological portrait of the man. Since the critical parts of the narrative are put into the third-person consciousness of Marcher, James achieves a more artistic exploration of his protagonist's mind and morality than does Hawthorne with an intrusive, omniscient narrator. "The Beast in the Jungle" was written and published in 1903i the same year that The Ambassadors was published. Both works exhibit James's concern for the primary uses of life: that one embrace experience, especially the opportunities for love, as fully as possible. Lambert Strether forcefully voices this belief in Gloriani's garden in the often-quoted passage. Strether, unlike Marcher, tries to act upon his belief even though he has reached middle age. From her study of James's Notebooks, Dorothea Krook notes that James himself, at this time, was very much concerned with the opportunities of life he had missed or ignored: "the know­ ledge that he had not 'lived' all he could, the fear that he had perhaps sacrificed too much for the sacred end of 82 art, the deeper fear that there might have been a sharp taint of egotism in the sacrificial business itself, appears in these years to have grown more and more oppressive, and the pain of 'too late' almost unendurable."^ James was much concerned that he not be reprehensibly egotistical, even for the sake of his art. In the first part of "The Beast in the Jungle," the reader learns that John Marcher, who is then thirty-five years old, has already been waiting for the attack of his beast for at least ten years. This figurative beast is defined by May Bartram, John Marcher's confidante: "'You said you had had from your earliest time, as the deepest thing within you, the sense of being kept for something rare and strange, possibly prodigious and terrible, that was sooner or later to happen to you, that you had in your'.'bones the foreboding and the conviction of, and that would perhaps Ll overwhelm you.'" Because of Marcher's absolute faith in the inescapable assault of this beast, he has withheld him­ self from actively participating in life, and, especially, from assuming any real ties in human society, such as friend­ ship and marriage. Aloof passivity is his pose: something terrible will happen to him; he is "being kept" for it. It is true that, to external appearance, he has a conventional place in society. He has a Government appoint­ ment, a library, a garden in the country, and a circle of friends in London with whom he exchanges invitations. He meets May Bartram for the first time in Italy and ten years 83 later in England begins a relationship with her through the mediation of various friends. However, these appearances are artificial and deliberate on Marcher's part: "[He had]

the detachment that and that made of all behaviour, all that could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of dissimulation. What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted with the social simper" (p. 768). For years, he successfully evades in­ terpersonal relationships and commitments. James capi­ talizes on the dichotomy between public self and private self. Marcher's figurative disappearance behind a mask is equivalent to Wakefield's physical disappearance a street away from his home where he hides behind a literal disguise of red hair and a Jew's used clothes. John Marcher's personality bears a significant resem­ blance to that of the earlier Londoner, although their differences are equally significant. Wakefield is a limited character in a romantic sketch; Marcher is a developed charac­ ter in a basically realistic story. Unlike Wakefield, Marcher does have real intelligence and imagination; his mind is capable of conceiving purpose and exercising judgment. He knows that he is clever and capable enough of achieving something in the world of action— if only it were not for the beast. James frequently refers to Marcher's consciousness and imagination; because of his imagination, he "penetrated to a kind of truth that the others were too stupid for" con­ cerning May Bartram's status as a poor, dependent relative at Weatherend, the country house where they meet for the second time. Moreover, it is safe to assume that some special imagination would he necessary to create and sustain this particular fantasy of a beast in the jungle. And Marcher is intelligent enough to realize that almost anyone he would tell his story to would laugh at him, and he has carefully saved himself from "the amusement of the cold world." His singular, long relationship with a sensitive woman like May likewise gives some indirect evidence of his intelligence; for example, according to their conversations, they have imagined and considered every conceivable and inconceivable danger. James, therefore, gives his protagonist full enough intellectual and imaginative power to choose his career; his choice makes him all the more morally culpable. Marcher’s psyche most clearly matches Wakefield’s in emotions. He is a cold, ungenerous man who is motivated pri­ marily by his egotism. His ego is so inflated that he believes he is special enough to be marked out, alone in the world, for some singular disaster which he describes in such dramatic and dangerous terms as "the beast in the jungle." Marcher does thrive on this compulsive fantasy; occasionally, he speaks of the torment of his suspense and the ultimate terror it may culminate in, but the positive sense that it gives some occupation, some completeness to his life is stronger. He is fearful of the "cold world," but he definitely believes that he is superior to the world because of his special des­ tiny. James is expert enough in developing his protagonist 85 that Marcher is somewhat, sometimes aware of his own egotism, although he does not admit the extent to which it controls his life through the beast obsession which he successfully c omp artmentaliz es. Marcher is aware of what he calls "occasional warnings against egotism." These usually occur in the context of his relationship with May Bartram. Because she has agreed to wait with him for his tragedy and because she listens to his fears and consoles him as years pass by, he tries to remember that she is entitled to his kindness and interest. He realizes that he owes her "endless gratitude," but he demonstrates it in miserly ways. He never forgets to buy her an expensive trinket for her birthday, and he frequently visits her and escorts her to the opera. He does have a great appreciation for May's sensitivity and generosity as they are extended to him. He does not question her know­ ledge of what his fate will be when she tells him she knows what it is; in fact, he gives her credit for being more in­ tuitive than he is. Despite all this, his egotism blinds him to the fact that May loves him in such a way that she wants to be his wife. Given the social context of late nine­ teenth-century England, he should marry her. She seems to hint at her marriage hopes in conversations in which she acknowledges that their relationship has caused her to be talked about and in which she hints that they have saved each other from conventionally boring lives by their own special closeness. In turn, he realizes that the proper 86 course of action would be to marry May, but his egotistical obsession neatly rationalizes an excuse: "Something or other lay in wait for him, amid the twists and the turns of the months and the years, like a crouching beast in the jungle. It signified little whether the crouching beast were destined to slay him or to be slain. The definite point was the in­ evitable spring of the creature; and the definite lesson from that was that a man of feeling didn't cause himself to be accompanied by a lady on a tiger-hunt" (p. 766). When they first meet, Marcher tells May with conviction that love is too petty and common to provoke the upheaval in his life. He has selfishly closed himself off from love's possibilities. What is Marcher's motivation for rejecting life and creating a cult of his own personality? James does not pro­ vide his character with any background on which to speculate. The narrative does not even mention anything akin to Wakefield's "sluggishness." The only hint comes from remarks which in­ dicate that Marcher feels he is different from the rest of the world; he is extremely cautious and defensive with May at their meeting at Weatherend until he is convinced that she is not amused by him, that she is sincerely interested in him. He jokes about being an "ass" and having "a screw loose," Perhaps his egotism and.'its consequent beast is a defense mechanism to overcompensate for his sense of his own inade­ quacies. James does not provide any clear explanation of motivation; his primary goal is to chart the course bf Marcher's hunt for the beast. It is "because John Marcher has some imagination and some sensitivity which continually clash with his egotistical obtuseness that his long career is fascinating. This moral- psychological complexity also makes possible his awakening at the end of the story, even though it is too late for him to redeem his life through May's love. Because James allows his protagonist to develop slowly through various stages towards a final dramatic conversion, Marcher's career is realistic. Years pass by without Marcher's awareness until, when May first becomes ill, he realizes suddenly how much older she looks and, consequently, how much older he is. They have been waiting for years. Wakefield’s sluggish mind in­ sulates him against the passage of time, but May protects Marcher. Her illness provokes his first awareness of the years and their uneventfulness. He does not want to lose May, but his egotism finds the idea of her loss as his disas­ ter "an abject anticlimax." He becomes worried that he has not experienced anything: "It wouldn't have been failure to be bankrupt, dishonoured, pilloried, hanged; it was failure not to be anything" (p. 778). His images of disaster are still passive and sensational; however, he is aware that the absence of experience is itself a disaster. He begins to be "nervous, which was what, in all the other years, he had never been" (p. 780). Marcher experiences his first psycho­ logical disequilibrium. At the climactic point of the story, he fails the critical test of his life and his relationship with May. It is an 88 April evening, and May receives him for the second last time. With visible effort, she rises from her chair to walk to him in a tacit offering of her love. . But Marcher does not exercise his intelligence or imagination to appreciate the significance of this moment. Instead, his egotism seals his fate. As May's imminent death becomes more real to him,he slowly begins to realize how great her loss will be. "He had lived'by her aid, and to leave her behind would be cruelly, damnably to miss her. What could be more overwhelming than that?" (p. 787)- When she dies, he learns that, as only a friend, he has no recognized status as a mourner; selfishly, he resents that society does not recognize him as a man be­ reaved. But this fact does work on him to make him feel May's loss even more acutely. However, he has not stopped thinking about his own fate. May has told him that he will never know what the beast is; now he becomes obsessed with discovering its identity, and he feels that it is the one last thing in life he must do. He begins to resent the "lost stuff of consciousness." In a year of traveling, he learns or gains nothing from the places and sights he visits. Again, he remains aloof to the possibilities of experience, but this time he feels that, without May, he cannot appreciate anything. Her loss is still painful to him. His memories of their association are, in fact, the only thing that is still meaningful to him; his obsession with the beast and its identity has faded. He returns to May's grave as to a haven: "Thus in short he 89 settled to live— feeding only on the sense that he once had lived, and dependent on it not only for a support but for an identity" (p. 796). His long, slow realization of May's significance in his life has brought him, finally, to a key point of vulnerability. In the cemetery, when he confronts the man who so ob­ viously is ravaged by the death of his loved one, the full extent of Marcher's loss crashes upon him with devastating effect. He remembers the April evening when May silently offered her love to him for the last time, and he believes that, if he had reciprocated it, he could have saved her. He sees that his egotism has kept him blind to her feelings. For a moment only, egotism encourages him to wallow in this realization because it, at least, gives him some meaningful pain. But Marcher's conversion is complete; the bitterness of the truth, "the cruelty of his own image," overwhelms him completely and finally. The beast leaps victorious. An evaluation of Marcher’s moral culpability must be tied to a psychological assessment. James's masterful characterization presents a man of sufficient intelligence and self-consciousness. Yet his driving egotism determines much of his behavior. Marcher sees the beast as his fate; one cannot escape his fate, so Marcher absolves himself from responsibility in pursuing a life in the normal social con­ text. However, even if one is tempted to accept his egotism merely as a psychological state, the story makes it obvious that his persistent indifference to May's love is wrong. May 90 is the instrument which would make his humanistic redemption from narcissism possible, yet his ego defeats her, and she dies as a result. Marcher is the tragic opposite of Spencer Brydon, the hero of "The Jolly Corner," who does allow the love of a woman to redeem him for a new, meaningful life. Clearly, like Hawthorne, James feels that love is a necessarily beneficial psychological and moral force in human life. II. It is not uncommon for Hawthorne to assume the narrative pose of a storyteller who offers his readers a history of a supposedly real man; such is the case in "Wakefield." His interest in Wakefield— and, consequently, his stated motivation for telling the story--stems from his fascination with what he judges as a uniquely bizarre case of human behavior: "as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities" (p. 130). The sketch develops as the narra­ tor's explanation of this freak case; in true romantic fashion, he fills in the concrete details of the man's character which were ignored by the supposed original newspaper report. He justifies his fascination to the reader by stating, somewhat self-consciously, "Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it," and "Thought has always its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral" (p. 131)- The narrator proceeds to develop Wakefield but never gives up control of the story to his emerging character. He maintains the storyteller's intrusive pose consistently: 92 "What sort of man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name" (p. 131)» "Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife" (p. 132); "Wakefield! whither are you going?" (p. 13^)• Moreover, the narrator makes it clear that he finds Wakefield morally cul­ pable for deserting his wife whose chaste matrimonial love secured for Wakefield a niche in the sphere of human relations. By abandoning her, the narrator implies in the course of the story, Wakefield abandons human society which, in response, closes itself off from him. During his own lifetime, Hawthorne was concerned about the necessity for interpersonal relationships to help a man maintain a moral life, to help him cultivate proper Christian virtues. He felt that his own relationship with his wife Sophia was extremely important in this regard. The theme of the man who alienates himself from his fellow to his own moral peril is frequent in his fiction. "Wakefield" is shaped by the writer's personal convictions; unfortunately, the moral gains control over the limping narrative. The narrator rebukes his protagonist: Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself, even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be woe­ fully conscious of a change in thy true wife, forever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in human affections; not that they gape so long and wide— but so quickly close again! (p. 133) 93 Personal rebuke ("Go... foolish man") is one technique the narrator uses to express his disapproval. The use of the archaic personal reference ("thee," "thy") lends a shade of the biblical injunction, but it also indicates a lapse in narrative continuity. The narrator also refers to Wakefield as a "crafty nincompoop" and "feeble-minded man." Frequent rhetorical questions offer another indication of the narrator's censure: "Whither are you going?"; "Can it be that nobody caught sight of him?"; "Would you go to the sole home that is left you? Then step into yoimr grave!" The narrator does alternate his censure with continued interest in what happens to a man in this situation; the story is, in part, Hawthorne's attempt to understand the psychology of his protagonist: "It would be a most curious speculation, to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect, separately, and in unison" (p. 138). Wakefield’s rejection of life reminds one of his fictional contemporary, Bartleby the Scrivener, whose existential experience Melville analyzes so expertly. Hawthorne's basic propositions about Wakefield's actions are realistic enough in terms of behavior analysis, but he does not pursue them. Instead, the moralizing instinct overwhelms him, his character, and the story. While Hawthorne does hold his protagonist responsible for his actions, he also admits of a force or fate that is beyond human control and influences human life. "Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article or a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify how an influence beyond our control, lays its strong hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity" (pp. 136-37).^ Hawthorne is not referring to some naturalis­ tic fate here. The term, "iron tissue," is itself a paradox and fittingly represents his double meaning. Hawthorne believes a man can determine his own actions (and, consequently, is responsible for them). However, he cannot always foresee the consequences his actions will have for himself and others; moreover, he does not have absolute control over the actions of others. In this case, what Hawthorne knows that Wakefield does not is that, because he deserted his wife and society, they deserted him— that is, their affection and interest in him died because he was not there to keep them kindled and growing. "It was Wakefield's unprecedented fate, to retain his original share of human sympathies, and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them" (p. 138); "Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another, and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever" (p. 14-0). Hawthorne is knowledgeable enough about human psychology to make distinctions about a man's actions, his responsibility for them, and the means and ex­ tent of his influence on others. Unfortunately, he does not give that knowledge to his protagonist. Keeping tight strings on his narrative, Hawthorne does not develop secondary strategies which illuminate his prota­ gonist's psyche, as he does in other stories. The journey motif, which might he representational for an identity quest, is not elaborated; the purpose and the process of the quest are, respectively, vague and uneventful. The rich compli­ cations of multiple point of view and trait objectification are absent. The only use of dream material is the brief reference to Mrs. Wakefield's fantasies about what might have happened to her husband. Because he wears his crafty smile in her fantasies, she never feels truly convinced that he is dead; this adds a small touch of irony to the plot. The use of disguise suggests potential effect. "We may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of brown, from a Jew's old- clothes bag. It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man" (p. 135)* In other words, he buys himself a double identity which offers the possibilities of exploring facets of life heretofore unknown to him. However, his lethargy prevents him from seeking anything. The disguise— with its reference to red hair and clothes from a Jew— becomes merely a manifes­ tation of Wakefield's moral errancy; it is the outward sign of the "great moral change" which has transformed his soul. The narrator's reference to his appearance ten years later is a similar indication: "He is meagre; his low and narrow fore­ head is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to look inward" (p. 137)* As in many other of his romantic stories, Hawthorne includes a woman whose love is a pivotal key to the fate of his protagonist. Mrs. Wakefield is such a figure even though she is not developed to any extent. She is apparent­ ly a placid woman of his own age who quitely accepts her husband's indulgence in petty mysteries; she is "partly aware" of his selfishness and vanity but does not provoke him to change. Her grave illness several weeks after his disappearance indicates her genuine feeling and concern for him; it contrasts with his selfishly observing her situation and remaining in hiding.

James's narrative technique in "The Beast in the Jungle" greatly differs from Hawthorne's'in "Wakefield." Although the subject of these stories is personally significant to both writers, James manages to effece himself from his es­ sentially realistic plot, while Hawthorne's sentiments largely control and, consequently, weaken his romantic tale. James's effective technique is to present at least critical parts of the narrative from the third-person point of view of John Marcher and, occasionally, May Bartram. James operates as narrator to set various physical stage for example, the scene at Weatherend which opens the story, for synthesizing what occurs during long passages of time, and for providing pertinent information about the characters' 97 actions and thoughts. Rarely, however, does James allow the machinery of the narrator to show itself; it is "barely visible in such references to "our gentleman" and "our point" and infrequent remarks like "as I have said." The greatest liberty James takes as narrator is to inform the reader that, subsequent to Marcher's awakening, he accomplishes very little during the rest of his life. Hawthorne catalogues Wakefield’s personality traits at the beginning of his story as a preamble to explain the reasons for his protagonist's behavior. John Marcher's character traits manifest themselves as the story progresses through his extensive conversations with May and the development of his point of view. The great amount of conversation in this story is unusual for a James story, but it does work to make real and reveal both characters. Even while each may withhold certain thoughts from the other or respond obliquely to ques­ tions, the conversations still demonstrate that these charac­ ters are truly aware of and interact meaningfully with each other. The perspective of Marcher's point of view blends so unob­ trusively with the narrator's that, quite often, it is difficult to distinguish when one stops and the other begins. Perhaps tjhis is an indirect indication of James's similar concerns about his own life. Marcher's first major realization— concerning the passage of time— at the end of Part III is presented from his perspective: "He didn't care what awful ^ > crash might overtake him, with what ignominy or what monstrosity he might yet be associated— since he wasn't, after all, too utterly old to suffer— if it would only be decently propor­ tionate to the desire he had Kept, all his life, in the promised presence of it" (p. 778). The climax when Marcher confronts the mourner shifts back and forth between the narrator and the protagonist; it has the distance of the former ("The extraordinary thing we speak of was the sudden rush of the result of this question," p. 798) and the im­ mediate intensity of the latter ("The name on the table smote him as the passage of his neighbor had done, and what it said to him, full in the face, was that she was what he had missed," p. 798). Similarly, though much less fre­ quently, James presents the perspective of May Bartram, and it is through her perspective that the reader knows that she does not present a totally candid picture of herself and her affections to John Marcher. The achievement of narrative technique is that it produces a complexity of viewpoints, a sophistication over the method of multiple interpretations often used by Hawthorne. Marcher's opinions of himself and May are only informed by his egotism. His thoughts provide additional evidence about his egotism, and his interactions with May are revealing for what they offer about each person's need for love and se­ curity. Marcher's fantasy of the beast in the jungle is worked consistently throughout the story as everpresent in his mind. 99 Its implication of drama and unexpected danger allows Marcher a sense of courage, and, indeed, he is very con­ cerned that May think he is consistently courageous. The fantasy also serves as an image pattern to knot the story together. It may also b,e interpreted as a symbol for Marcher's character as a psychological "beast of egotism." Indeed, the story may be read as a tragic play on the fable of Beauty and the Beast. Like Hawthorne, James incorporates only one relation­ ship into his story— that of the protagonist's with a dedi­ cated woman who offers him the opportunity for redemption from his egotism through love. Mrs. Wakefield is the prototype of May Bartram, although James carefully elaborates on May's character and her relationship with the protago­ nist in order to make her presence in the plot realistically convincing. May is an attractive, intelligent, and sensitive woman. When she inherits money from an aunt's estate,she becomes financially secure enough to establish herself in a modest London home. She devotes her abilities and sensitivities exclusively to John Marcher while shunning the rest of the world. What redeems her and justifies her exclusivity is precisely the love she has for Marcher. In keeping with May's character, James allows this love to develop and demonstrate itself by subtlety and indirection. At their reunion at Weaterend, May learns by questioning 100

Marcher gradually about the topic that he believes that love is not in his destiny. Yet later in the same conver­ sation, she pledges herself without reservation to watch with him for the beast. And she keeps her pledge. Only occasionally does she hint at the awkward circumscription of their arrangement. After one conversation during which Marcher effusively applauds her generosity and asks how he can repay it, she hesitates for an answer, then chooses to respond that he should continue on as he has. She consis­ tently believes in him and bolsters his own faith in "the real truth" about his fate. So, while they grew older together, she did watch with him, and so she let this association give shape and colour to her own existence. Be­ neath her forms as well detachment had learned to sit and behaviour had become for her, in the sacred sense, a false account of herself. There was but one account of her that would have been true all the while, and that she could give, directly, to nobody least of all to John Marcher. Her whole attitude was a vitual statemfent,';.btit the perception of that only seemed destined to take its place for him as one of the many things necessarily crowded out of his consciousness. If she had, moreover, like himself, to make sacri­ fices to their real truth, it was to be granted that her compensation might have affected her as more prompt and more natural, (p. 768) This passage clearly reveals May's position and why she con­ tinues to maintain it; she finds at least sufficient satis­ faction in being Marcher's exclusive confidante. She may love Marcher and know that he relies on her for honesty, courage, and wisdom, but she is aware that he denies any need to give and receive love. That she must live her life 101 in figurative, silent isolation because of her love is heroic in James's mind. Only as her illness progresses does she chafe at her situation. On the climactic April night, she challenges Marcher with the fact that they have not looked at each other honestly, With considerable physical and psychological courage, she rises from her chair to confront him with her love. She knows intuitively that ""it's never too late.*" "It had become suddenly, from her movement and attitude, beautiful and vivid to him that she had something more to give him; her wasted face delicately shone with it" (p. 78*0. Marcher clings to his obtuseness, and May collapses in pain. But even after this, when her final, desperate hope has been destroyed, she sees him again to reassure him about his life for the last time. As part of May's characterization, James develops one of Hawthorne's favorite symbolic devices, that of light, to indicate his approval of her. May's light is one of honesty, wisdom, and love. Marcher recognizes the honesty and wis­ dom. He believes that he brought the "buried treasure of her knowledge....to light" (p. 76*0 , and he depends utterly on it: "'I feel your beliefs are right. Therefore if... you give me no more light on it, you abandon me'" (p. 783)* Unfortunately, Marcher denies the necessary light of her love so he cannot profit in any way from her light. After her death, he haunts her grave for an answer about his fate, but "no palest light broke." At the moment of Marcher's 102 awakening, James describes his blindness as dramatically cured by the light of fire. The sight of the mourner that had just met his eyes named to him, as in letters of quick flame, something he had utterly, insanely missed, and what he had missed made these things a train of fire, made them mark themselves in an anguish of inward throbs... now that the illumination had begun, however, it blazed to the zenith, and what he presently stood there gazing at was the sounded void of his life" (p. 798)* By confronting the fact of the stranger8s mourned love, he realizes the fact of May8s unanswered love. Her light finally transforms him.

As these two stories demonstrate, Hawthorne and James are concerned about the primary uses of life. Both identify the immorality of egotism and selfish isolationism. And both recognize the redeeming quality of love which, if denied, destroys the meaningfulness of human life. Haw­ thorne8 s narrative intrusiveness for the sake of moralizing, however, controls his romantic sketch and weakens the development of his protagonist. James8s narrative techniques of the third-person reflector and extensive conversation achieve psychological, as well as moral,complexity in character and plot construction. 103 Endnotes ^'Wakefield," IX (197*0* p. 131. o George Monteiro, "Hawthorne, James and the Destruc­ tive Self," Texas Studies in Literature and Language. A (1962), 71-72. ^Dorothea Krook, The Ordeal of Consciousness in Henry James (Cambridge: University Press, 1962), p. 351* ^Henry James, "The Beast in the Jungle," in The Great Short Novels of Henry James, p. 760. All subsequent quotes from this edition will be cited by page number in paren­ theses following the quotation. CHAPTER V THE PROBLEMS OP THE ARTIST: "THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL" AND "THE AUTHOR OF BELTRAFFIO" The fiction of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry James demonstrates their natural concerns for the artist who realizes that he must pursue a demanding profession and yet secure supportive relationships with sympathetic in­ dividuals in his environment. In "The Artist of the Beauti­ ful" (18*14), Hawthorne's Owen Warland achieves his creative goal after long years of struggle. Although he loses the love of his youth, his realization of his self-worth makes him successful and strong. In "The Author of Beltraffio" (1884), James's Mark Ambient achieves a career as a writer and a family of his own. His literary success springs from his ability to capture the beautiful reality of life. Ironically, his marriage is an ugly sham, and his wife's determined destruction of his son foreshadows their own deaths.

Hawthorne's story develops a dual focus: the artist's struggle to create his art and his simultaneous and equally difficult struggle to forge his consciousness as an artist. The struggle occurs in four stages. Owen Warland’s quest is to create a mechanism which so perfectly imitates natural creation that it seems alive. He has devoted himself to this quest since he was quite young. The narrator describes 105 him as "attempting to imitate the beautiful movements of Nature as exemplified in the flight of birds or the activity of little animals."'1' Aside from its lifelikeness, Owen's only other requirement is that his creation capture the beauty that nature's works demonstrate. Owen strives for a pure grace that is completely divorced from any coarse utilitarianism. His esthetics are simply grounded in Nature as the source and evidence of life and beauty. His attempt to re-create Nature implies that the artist sees himself in a God-like position. And Owen does have some sense of his ability which he relies on to pursue his goal. He describes it as "my musings, my purposes, my passion for the Beautiful, my consciousness of power to create it" (pp. 453-5^)• Owen believes that he has a "spiritual" power, by which he means a power to create something beautiful; this power is the opposite of earthly power which the tale represents as employed to construct something utilitarian. The artist's small physical frame and his small and delicate, ingenious hands match his psyche. Owen Warland's ideals and pursuits understandably alienate him from the community in which he lives. He has been trained as a watchmaker and repairer, a very respectable profession in a town that values time and the achievable, useful projects of time carefully spent. The community shuns the artist's shop because, in addition to fixing their time pieces, he is known to decorate them with a dance of funeral procession or to install a musical operation in them. The 106 townspeople want only accurate time, not silly decorations. Peter Hovendon, Owen's former master, was a perfectionist in his trade and much respected by the community. He resents Owen's delinquency from his useful trade. Robert Danforth, the brawny blacksmith, in opposition to Owen Warland, uses time to make useful utensils of iron; he even designs an instrument for Owen's use. Although Danforth is cordial enough to Owen, he has scant respect for the frail-looking man and his incomprehensible pursuit. Annie Hovendon, old Peter's lovely young daughter, is basically indifferent to Owen, although, at times, she demonstrates some appreciation of his sensitivity, and she is curious about his project. At the beginning of the tale, Owen has been at work on his mechanism for six months, during which time he has ig­ nored his trade. Overhearing Annie and her father in the street one night, he becomes quite agitated. He is deeply in love with the girl, whom he has known since childhood. He says that his work is solely dedicated to Annie: "'If I strive to put the very spirit of Beauty into form, and give it motion, it is for thy sake alone'" (p. ^52). Owen is unlike other of Hawthorne's heroes who develop their intelli­ gence or creative powers and neglect their emotional develop­ ment (Dr. Rappaccini and Aylmer are appropriate examples). Owen at least realizes the value of love and the necessity of its supportive encouragement in the life of an artist. That is why he becomes puzzled initially when Annie's mere nearness causes him to tremble: "'Dearest Anniei thou 107 shouldst give firmness to my heart and hand, and not shake them thus'" (p. ^52). His agitation is the furst sign that nothing will come of his love. In truth, he does not ac­ tively pursue Annie as a lover, and the girl remains ignor­ ant of and indifferent to his feelings. Shortly afterward, Robert Danforth visits Owen's shop and cheerfully reminds him of their respective differences in size and occupation. His huge frame and hearty laughter fill the shop with their coarse reality. The blacksmith means Owen no harm; he is a simple man who cannot compre­ hend the mystery of Owen's work, although he wishes him "suc­ cess" as he leaves. Already upset by the Hovendon^1 visit, Owen feels especially vulnerable to Danforth at this point. Owen understands all too well the significance of Danforth and his work. As an artist of the beautiful, he feels threatened by the blacksmith; his ability and struggle, '"all, all look so vain and idle whenever my path is crossed by Robert Danforth! He would drive me mad, were I to meet him often. His hard, brute force darkens and confuses the spiritual element within me*" (p. 4-5^)* Although he resolves to persevere, this momentary lapse of faith in himself has an immediate, fatal effect on his mechanism. He strikes the wrong blow and so destroys the work of six months. The narrator intervenes at this point to make plain the moral of the first phase of Owen’s struggle: "It is requisite for the ideal artist to possess a force of charac­ ter that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy; he must 108 keep his faith in himself, while the incredulous world assails him with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and be his own sole disciple, both as res­ pects his genius, and the objects to which it is directed" (p. *4-5*0 • Owen must struggle to strengthen his belief in himself and in his art. The narrator insists that he must learn to look solely to himself for encouragement and praise in the face of a hostile world. Owen succumbs for a time to defeat. He takes up his watch trade with such apparent sincerity and gravity that he wins the applause of the town. When summer arrives, however, Owen abandons his work to roam the fields and woods where he becomes absorbed in studying the movements of butterflies and other insects. His imaginative con­ ception of the beautiful and his desire to give it reality become strong again. Nature, in which herfinds artistic inspiration, heals his soul, too. He feels.the artist's romantic compulsion to give eternal form to the real visions of his mind; at the same time, this task does intimidate him. He prefers to work at night in whose darkness his creative musings are both protected from others and made in- more manageable for himself. While thus engaged in his struggle for a second time, he is visited by Annie Hovendon whose seeming sympathy makes him reach out to her for companionship in his quest. Annie, unfortunately, is motivated more by curiosity than by sincere interest, and her slight touch of the mechanism 109 destroys it completely. Owen is likewise crushed. The narrator comments on the rightness of his impetus toward love as a potential resource for the artist: "Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred, yet pardonably; for if any human spirit could have sufficiently reverenced the processes so sacred in his eyes, it must have been a woman's. Even Annie Hovendon, possibly, might not have disappointed him had she been enlightened by the deep intelligence of love" (p, 460). Owen's failure is in not realizing the shallow quality of the girl's interest in him. He may be artisti­ cally gifted, but he has no sensitivity concerning the psyche of a woman he loves. He reaches to her in a des­ peration inspired by her visit, and, inevitably, he fails. He spends the subsequent winter pursuing visions in a drunken haze. He has again lost the battle in his ambition to become a strong artist. "When the ethereal portion of a man of genius is obscured, the earthly part assumes an influence the more uncontrollable, because the character is now thrown off the balance to which Providence had so nicely adjusted it" (p. 461). When spring returns, Nature beckons to him again in the guise of a butterfly, and the artist takes up the challenge once more. Owen studies and contemplates the movements of butterflies in the day and toils behind shuttered windows at night. He isolates himself from all human contact. However, when Peter Hovendon visits him one night to announce Annie's engagement to the blacksmith, 110 Owen feels crushed again "by an incomprehensible fate that seems to turn its back on him in favor of a "crude man of earth and iron.” This time, it is Owen himself who destroys the machinery that "cost him months of thought and toil" because he has lost Annie's love forever. The artist, despite Annie's demonstrated lack of sympathy earlier, has persisted in idolizing her as "the visible shape in which the spiritual power that he worshipped...was made manifest to him" (p. 464) . Indeed, Owen Warland is victimized by his own imagination which has not yet been strengthened and shaped by a proper, positive perspective. It has not yet been tempered by a sufficient acknowledgment of social reality. The narrator makes this clear by revealing to the reader that Annie had none of the attributes Owen believed her to have. Owen recovers from this disappointment by becoming, for a time, an existentialist of sorts who accepts every­ thing in the world as absurd, including his own artistic endeavors. Ironically enough, he seeks more contact with the villagers and babbles to them about the absurdity of his dreams, and also ironically, these people do not become any more appreciative of him. Fortunately, however, this period also ends as Owen, for the fourth time, realizes the worth and attainability of his spiritual goal. He renews his dedication with a clear determination to succeed. "'Now for my task,' said he. 'Never did I feel such strength for it as now'" (p. 466). His artistic identity has been sorely Ill tried and forged in the crucible of life’s experiences. And Owen succeeds in creating the ideal butterfly which commands the perfection of. nature and the idealistic conception of such perfection. The reason for its perfection is, in Owen’s words, that it represents "’the intellect, the imagination, the sensibility, the soul, of an Artist of the Beautiful!!" (p. ^71)• More significant than his material achievement, however, is Owen's psychological achievement as an artist. In the process of creating the butterfly, he has recognized that the reward for such work is found only in the achievement itself. This realization secures his strength to inure him to whatever praise or blame may come from those in his environment who are unable to attain his spiritual, nonutilitarian clearsightedness. He offers the butterfly to Annie as a much belated bridal gift with some lingering hope that it might awaken her soul to the value of beauty. He is not perturbed, how­ ever, when he perceives her "secret scorn" of his work, of which even she is probably unaware. Owen is so secure in his identity and the worth of his accomplishment that he denies the butterfly safety when it seeks his hand again after in­ tuiting danger from Annie’s and Robert’s child who crushes the insect. Owen is not destroyed this time with his dream because "when the artist rose high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses became of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possessed itself in the enjoyment of the Reality" 112 (p. ^75)* The tale climaxes dramatically for the artist who has completed his masterpiece and validated his integrity after many years of failure, self-doubt, and social hostility. Surrounded by his various enemies, Owen proves his triumph.

Henry James wrote several stories about the artist as an artist and as a social being. "The Author of Beltraffio" (188^) is one of the earliest. Although its central charac­ ter, Mark Ambient, is a novelist with an established reputa­ tion, and the locale is late nineteenth century sophisticated England, Hie narrative demonstrates interesting similarities in theme and technique to "The Artist of the Beautiful." Mark Ambient, like Owen Warland, and, indeed, like Henry James, feeds his inspiration on what he observes in his environment. Unlike Owen's immersion in the natural world, Ambient's immersion is in human society, tte gathers impressions by studying people and their social forms and activities as operating in particular locales (for example, Rome and Florence) which, in themselves, are fertile in artistic associations. His basic creative goal is to capture the reality, the truth of these societies as he intelligently and sympathetically observes them. Owen Warland strives to create a perfect imitation of the natural world in the butter­ fly, and his motivation lies in the fact that he sees the natural world as a source and expression of beauty. Mark Ambient similarly wants to capture "an impression of life itself" which he defines as the beauty of novelistic art: 113 "•Perhaps I care too much for "beauty— I don't know; I delight in it, I adore it, I think of it continually, I try to pro- 2 duce it, to reproduce it.*" Warland's esthetics are ambigu­ ous, but Ambient explicitly expresses equal concern about the beauty of form of his novels, and he elaborates on the problem of esthetics. As he tells the narrator, he is striving harder than ever before to rid his work of the "horribly little flabby spots where I have taken the second- best word*" (p.442). "'This new affair [novelj must be a gol­ den vessel, filled with the purest distillation of the actual; and oh, how it bothers me, the shaping of the vase— the ham-? mering of the metal! I have to hammer it so fine, so smooth; I don't do more than an inch or two a day'" (pp. 4^1-42). Unlike Hawthorne's young artist, Ambient is forty-one years old and a seasoned writer. Presumably by virtue of his years of experience, Ambient is self-confident about his artistic ability and his worth, and he continues to struggle to achieve the beautiful with a real sense that he can do so. Nor does he question the validity of his art itself. Ambient has forged his consciousness as an artist, and, in this matter, "The Author of Beltraffio" picks up where

"The Artist of the Beautiful" leaves off. However, the Englishman's artistic goal is encumbered by an ironically inherent problem. What his novels achieve is a social reality that is somehow deficient in its apprecia­ tion of moral values, and this deficiency has earned him the accusation of being a scandalous writer. Whether or not the 114 moral deficiency exists in the societies Ambient portrays is not explicitly questioned in the story; it is clear that he does choose historical periods and locales, such as Italy and the East, which are presumably less developed in moral consciousness than his own Victorian England. The American literary aspirant who narrates the story explains the signi­ ficance of Ambient's masterpiece, Beltraffio; " It was the most complete presentation that had yet been made of the gospel of art; it was a kind of aesthetic war-cry. People had endeavored to sail nearer to 'truth' in the cut of their sleeves and shape of their side boards; butthere had not yet been, among English novels, such an example of beauty of execution and genuineness of substance. Nothing had been done in that line from the point of view of art for art" (pp. 417-18). And art for art's sake implies a disregard for the various ethical proprieties upon which society depends. Purely by virtue of their vocations as artists and their honest, imaginative pursuit of the real and the beautiful, Owen Warland and Mark Ambient are sentenced to social dis­ approval and alienation. •^art of Owen Warland's story is concerned with his response to those in his environment whose open hostility and indifference make his life and his career difficult. Ambient's environment and his reactions to it are more com­ plicated. The narrator admits that Ambient, because of his scandalous interpretation of life, is not a popular writer, and Ambient himself is aware of adverse criticism which is 115 frequently published in English newspapers. The narrator takes care to point out that Ambient does not act as though he is damaged by such hostility. "Ambient had an air of thinking it quite natural that he should be offensive to many minds, and that he very seldom talked about the news­ papers, which, by the way, were always very stupid in regard to the author of Beltraffio. Of course he may have thought about them--the newspapers— night and day; the only point I wish to make is that he didn’t show it; while, at the same time, he didn't strike one as a man who was on his guard" (p. 4^1). Ambient’s conversations with the narrator indicate that he is much more concerned with improving the form of his novels than with the scope of his audience. His artistic confidence does not, however, immunize him against a need for love and appreciation. As in Hawthorne's tale, a woman plays an important role in the artist's life. Owen idealizes a romance with Annie Hovendon who persistently rejects him because she cannot realize the worth of his am­ bition. Ambient is married to a wife who, as a properly scrupulous Victorian lady, acts as his harshest critic. She sees his genius and judges it immoral. This judgment is all the more ironic because, as his wife, she has the oppor­ tunity to know that his ambition is to create beauty, not scandal. As Annie is a product of a time that values prac­ tical industry, Mrs. Ambient is a product of a time that values moral scrupulosity. 116 Ambient's feelings for his wife have a complicated history. He sees her beauty and her intelligence. He admits that he was unaware of the magnitude of their differences when they were first married, and he hoped— with waning con­ fidence over the years— that they could become reconciled eventually as husband and wife. Although intellectually gifted, he, like Owen Warland, does not have the ability to see his woman as she is in reality. But he now realizes that she will never become reconciled to his interpretation of a novel or, by extension, to his novelistic career. While he judges her generously in other matters, he vehemently denies her any ability to interpret art: "'Her conception of a novel ...is a thing so false that it makes me blush. It is a thing so hollow, so dishonest, so lying, in which life is so blinked and blinded, so dodged and disfigured, that it makes my ears bum'" (p. kk-S) • He even goes so far as to warn the narrator about becoming entangled in a marriage like his. Moreover, he and Beatrice openly war over their son. Ambient frankly voices his bitterness to the narrator who is a stranger to him. He and his wife virtually wrestle for physical possession of Dolcino in front of the narrator and the embarrassed vicar's wife. Inevitably, the Ambients' strong hostilities kill their child. Nevertheless, the writer demonstrates needs and abilities for human affection and approval. That is why he is so open, almost pathetically so, to the overtures of the unknown and undistinguished young American whom he invites to his 117 country retreat. He treats him most warmly and welcomely as an equal. He does not abuse the American's admiration for him by using him to expostulate at length about how great he and his novels are. Only at the narrator's encourage­ ment does he solicit his honest judgment about the novel he is currently working on. What is most noticeable about Ambient's exchanges with the narrator are the painful reve­ lations about his personal life— his relations with Beatrice and his love and concern for his son. Unhappy and deprived in his marriage, Ambient vents pent up feelings on the only reasonable adult in his environment— a sympathetic stranger. Ambient's deep love for his beautiful little boy also demonstrates his realization of the preciousness of close emotional relationships. Moreover, the narrator notes his tenderness and love on several occasions. Most distinct is his great concern when the child becomes ill. His regard for his son and his desire to interact with him are totally divorced from his role as a writer. Moreover, he does-not choose to use the child as a battleground for his hostilities with his wife; it is she who takes the initiative in keeping Dolcino from his father's presumably contaminating influence. And he is aware and fearful of the harm that will result to the child from these hostilities. Very clearly, the child returns his father's love. Essentially, Ambient's relation­ ship with the narrator and, more importantly, his relationship with his son validate his worth as a human being. Like Hawthorne, James acknowledges the artist's basic need of love 118 relationships which make his life whole. II. "The Artist of the Beautiful" clearly represents Hawthorne's own concerns about the peculiar dilemmas of the artist. Hawthorne developed no systematic theory of esthetics for his work, and Owen Warland's alternative probing--of his own imagination and imitations of natural perfection mirror this ambiguity. What the artist does work through are the psychological problems faced by a man who wishes to pursue an artistic profession. He must remain apart from society in order to have the time and solitude necessary to cultivate his mind, his creative imagination which is his only tool. It is difficult to rely on the reality and the ability of such a tool. It would truly be difficult for Owen Warland to do so when he is confronted by the old watchmaker and blacksmith whose tools are graspable and precise. For Hawthorne as a nineteenth-century artist, the difficulty would be sharpened when he compared himself with or was compared with practical men of business who con­ sidered it their patriotic duty to build a nation by making and selling material goods. Robert Danforth and Peter Hovendon also serve as static, representative producers and society-builders for Owen. Danforth is superficially genial, but totally insensitive to the artist's work. Hovendon is a patriarchal, social gate­ keeper whose blunt, critical cynicism shuts out the artist whose apprenticeship and shared profession could have, 119 idealistically speaking, allowed some sympathy to he estab­ lished. Hawthorne realizes, however, that the artist in his isolation must cement a relationship with at least one member of society, preferably a loving, supportive wife. This relationship enables the artist to maintain a social bond with his fellow humans and to foster the healthy spiritual value of love. It prevents him from becoming a cold, intel­ lectual egomaniac. The difficulty of finding a responsive mate is evident in Owen's infatuation with Annie. That such a sensitive man could be so blind to Annie's shortcomings perhaps indicates Hawthorne's realization that the artist must forego his meditations long enough to discover just what ingredients are available in the individuals around him. Owen's failure to recognize Annie's worth and, later in the tale, the significance of her child, prove that the artist is not himself a creature of infallible perceptions. The most difficult lesson for the artist, however, is the realization and acceptance that, in the final analysis, he has only himself to rely on. The only valid and lasting reward for his achievement is in the achievement itself. Whatever the public reaction, the artist must keep himself philosophically aloof. Only this acceptance secures the ar­ tist's identity and peace. This is a most difficult lesson— one that takes years to learn perhaps. Owen's rebellion against the truth of this lesson is evident in his destruction of his own work when Annie forsakes him; he cannot rely on 120 his imagined goddess, and he cannot rely yet on himself. In crushing the piece, he hopes to destroy himself. Likewise, his bouts of drunkenness and frivolity are self­ destructive . The passage of time encourages the artist to face this hard realization, however. As years pass, the artist sees that his chance for achieving success is narrowing. He must achieve his goal before death or the senility of old age cuts off his dreams. Owen also accepts this inevita­ bility. Warland's final peace and victory over these various obstacles represent what Hawthorne would have liked to achieve for himself. Hawthorne's personal involvement in this tale might be indicated by its fairly straightforward linear, four- part development. Narrative manipulation is not excessive, but obvious. As indicated above, it clarifies the significance of plot happenings and philosophizes on the plight of the struggling artist. It does not stop, however, to indulge in the ornamentation of gratuitous supernatural elements or multiple choices, for example. Hawthorne does develop some interesting ambiguity in the character of the Danforth child who suddenly appears on the last scene "mysteriously out of the infinite, but with something so sturdy and real in his composition that he seemed moulded out of the densest substance which earth could supply" (pp. ^68-69). The child obviously represents another creation, but of what nature and significance? As 121 an innocent straight from the celestial realm, he might logically be assumed to be sensitive to the butterfly. And, in fact, when it first alights on his finger, it glows most brilliantly. But the child is the offspring of Annie and Robert who are not sympathetic to Owen's work. The child especially appears to have inherited a resemblance to his grandfather, the old watchmaker: "The artist was disturbed by the child’s look, as imagining a resemblance between it and Peter Hovendon’s habitual expression. He could have fancied that the old watchmaker was compressed into this baby-shape, and looking out of those baby-eyes, and repeating— as he now did— the malicious question:— 'The Beautiful,Owenl How comes on the Beautiful? Have you succeeded in creating the Beautiful?'" (p. 469). The child crushes the insect in a dramatic manifestation of his grandfather’s scorn of the creation. Brute strength proves more powerful than artistic beauty. As the inheri­ tor of the human race, the infant seems to signify the successful hostility of the world to esthetic endeavor. And this destruction becomes particularly poignant when one considers Annie’s remark that "'the darling knows more of the mystery {of the butterfly] than we do'" (p. 474). The story has no disguise, although the artist's physical appearance, briefly given, manifests various con­ ditions of his psyche. Warland's dreams are the realistic ones of any artist and are not symbolic or allegorical. The butterfly is the only extraordinary object in the plot. 122 It may be considered a trait objectification of the artist, a Hawthornian symbol of the beauty and power of the artist's creative genius. Millicent Bell states that the butterfly is "an organic achievement, a miracle of artistic creation which rivals nature. It is an authentic Romantic symbol of the work of art. And yet, being a mechanism which duplicates only an insect's soulless beauty it cannot represent human love for the human.... is the work of idealism, but not 3 of human love." Because Owen does not realize Annie's character and establish a love relationship with her, Bell's qualification of the butterfly's value is apt. The ebony box that contains the butterfly is a richly meaningful artifact. Owen carved on it the pursuit of a boy for a butterfly; the pursuit climaxes (or continues) with both boy and butterfly ascending to a "celestial atmos­ phere." This scene represents Owen's acknowledgement of the necessary perseverance of artistic endeavor and its essen­ tially spiritual reward--!.e., the artist achieves a godlike stature perhaps only he can appreciate in his creative accom­ plishment. In Keatsian terms, the scene also represents Owen's faith in the timeless beauty and value of art. "The Artist of the Beautiful" thus provides valuable insight into Hawthorne's concerns about the artist. It demonstrates that what was most important to him was the artist's psychological achievement of a secure identity for himself and the value of his work. It shows his desire for love and spiritual support for the healthy development of 123 his humanity. Interestingly enough, the question of esthetics and the artist's moral and social obligations to his community are practically nonexistent.

"The Author of Beltraffio" may be viewed as a sequel to "The Artist of the Beautiful." James does not play am­ biguously with esthetics; Ambient's inspiration comes surely from his observations of society upon which he works his generous imagination and sensitivity to form beauty, although James, like Hawthorne, does express the artist's continuing need to improve his work. Nor does James trace the long and arduous process by which a man comes to respect himself as an artist and to maintain the validity of his art against various societal hostilities and the passage of time. Mark Ambient is a self-secure and established writer, yet he demon­ strates Owen Warland's youthful need and appreciation for emotional commitments and support from people in his environ­ ment. This gives James's story more poignancy than Hawthorne's story, especially in view of the fact that, eventually and climactically, as an accomplished artist, Owen educates himself beyond a need for such professional support and personal affection. Criticism of Ambient's work and his immorality have not embittered the man at all. It is in­ teresting to note that he even sustains an acquaintance with the vicar's wife who, in theory, should scrupulously avoid contact with him; and yet they can exchange their mutual delight in a natural, beautiful creation, the 124- chrysanthemum . In this sense, James is more realistic— and perhaps less cynical about the fate of an artist. James himself was an occasional target of criticism for his choice of a nonutilitarian working career, and he also debated the ques­ tion of his responsibilities to his art which conflicted with conventional social responsibilities and commitments. Perhaps Mark Ambient mirrors his general acceptance of his lot, and this expains the absence of cynical narrative in­ trusion in "The Author of Beltraffio." James works contentedly and quietly behind the scenes to dramatize ironies and develop interesting ambiguities. One successful effect is his choice of the first-person narrator, an American writer who greatly admires the literary genius of Mark Ambient. The American relates his youthful encounter with Ambient and his family from the perspective of a matured age and opinion. His maturity strengthens the validity of his appreciation for the writer and the reality of Ambient’s tragic domestic situation. The fact of the narrator’s nationality in a Henry James story, however, in­ dicates an intrinsic lack of knowledge or experience of the possible ramifications of European culture. His youth at the time of the experience explains, for example, his blunders with Mrs. Ambient in insisting that she read and, inevitably, appreciate her husband's work. W. R. Macnaughton suggests that the narrator's disastrous attempt to reconcile the Ambients is an indication of his 125 ' romantic naivete; that is, he "wants to turn life into 4 art." Because of his uncritical youth, he sees— or wants to see— romance in every aspect of the Englishman’s life— his looks, his home, his beautiful wife and child. This gives a natural credence to his description of Ambient's artistic appearance: He looked to me at once an English gentleman and a man of genius, and I thought that a happy combination. There was just a little of the Bo­ hemian in his appearance; you would easily have guessed that he belonged to the guild of artists and men of letters. He was addicted to velvet jackets, to cigarettes, to loose shirt-collars, to looking a little dishevelled....There were other strange oppositions and contradictions in his slightly faded and fatigued countenance. He seemed both young and old, both anxious and indifferent. (p. 420) Ambient's appearance thus fits his career and his domestic trauma, but the fact that a romantic admirer relates it makes it more subtly effective than Hawthorne's equally suitable, yet obviously proferred description of his fragile-looking artist. Because of his romantic imagination, the American nar­ rator observes everything in terms of its pictorial quality. Miss Ambient, for example, perfectly fits his conceptions of a medieval or Rossetti portrait: "She looked pictorial and melancholy, and was so perfect an image of a type which I, in my ignorance, supposed to be extinct, that while she rose before me I was almost as much startled as if I had seen a ghost" (p. 430). Mrs. Ambient and Dolcino look like a Reynolds portrait: "The only use I made of my freedom was to linger still in my chair and say to myself that the light hand of 126 Sir Joshua might have painted Mark Ambient's wife and son" (p. 4^9). He even describes the Englishman’s conversation as "flooded...with light and color." In spite of his sometimes unrestrained gushing about Ambient, the narrator is a self-aware, perceptive, and in­ telligent man. He realizes that he pushes Mrs. Ambient on the subject of her husband when she would much prefer not to talk about him or his novels at all. He likewise realizes that his insistent admiration is, at times, embarrassing, but he feels that he cannot stop himself because his feelings are so strong that they demand verbal expression. Likewise, he is perceptive enough to realize rather quickly that Mrs. Ambient dislikes him as a "very pushing and talkative young man." He sees through Miss Ambient's artificiality immediately; her romantic appearance and conversational pretensions never delude him. He also realizes the fragility of Dolcino: "I declared that I wouldn't for the world take any liberties with his little future--it seemed to me to hang by threads of such delicacy" (p. ^29). Ambient responds to this remark by saying that Americans are very sharp ob­ servers . However, the mature American does admit his ignorance about the whole reality of the Ambient home. As a scru­ pulously honest narrator, he provides the reader with various clues at appropriate times, but he is careful to tell the reader that he did not realize the significance of certain exchanges and events until much later. The fullest statement 127 of this situation occurs after his first shocking conversation with Mrs. Ambient: "In looking back upon these first moments of my visit to him, I find it important to avoid the error of appearing to have understood his situation from the first....This later knowledge throws a backward light, and makes me forget that at least on the occasion of which I am speaking now...Mark Ambient struck me as a fortunate man" (p. 4-28). The American is also a kind, well-intentioned person. His interest and affection for Ambient are sincerely genuine, based on extensive study of Ambient's works. His interest and concern for Dolcino are likewise genuine. When he suggests that he might save Dolcino from his parents, Ambient acknowledges that, were it possible, that would be a fine, solution. The narrator extracts a solemn promise from Miss Ambient not to tell her brother that his wife deliberate­ ly let Dolcino die. As for his own questionable responsibility for the child's death, it might serve as a motivating factor for his present revelation of this story. Never once, however, does he demonstrate the manipulation, self-seeking curiosity, and cruelty that the admirer-narrator of The Aspern Papers does. Because of his demonstrated intelligence and kindliness--which are also verified by Mark Ambient— he is a sympathetic narrator. His romantic imagination which paints the plot as picture is effective. His narrative posture as a mature man who can see the foibles and ignorance of his younger self validates his credibility. James's 128 narrator shares with Hawthorne's narrator a concern for the plight of the artist. But in developing a sympathetic "I" persona. James's story has a more consistent tone than does Hawthorne's with its persistently intrusive, editorializ­ ing third-person narrator. The narrator controls Hawthorne's story so much that little interaction is developed between Warland and the other characters. The American narrator pursues a credible relationship with James's writer and records the latter1s relationships with his family. Judging by appearance, the narrator decides that Beatrice Ambient is a wife worthy of a great man. Ambient hoped for a sympathetic union with her when he married her. He is human enough to appreciate the value of marriage. It is indeed an ironic twist, typical of James's style, that the woman who should be his closest admirer is his most militant critic. Ambient, like Warland, is frustrated in love— perhaps even more so. The Ambients' son, who is consistently described as both beautiful and fragile, provides interesting speculation as does the Danforths' son, although Hawthorne works more possibilities into his child than James does. The artist's reciprocated love for the child is another proof of his human warmth. Dolcino1s beauty is naturally explained by his parents' handsomeness. It might also represent his father's wonderful imagination aznd his mother's wonderful conscience. His fragility is due to his parents' tearing him apart; he dies because he cannot be split between them. Both Ambient 129 and the American foresee his doom. As an innocent, the child is a source of ambiguity about the morality or worth of his father's novels. Ambient declares that his son shall not read his books until he is quite old enough to appreciate them. He flippantly remarks that the books, not the child, would suffer if Dolcino read them before he was old enough. Mrs. Ambient thinks that she must protect the child from his father's books now. And her fear seems justified when Dolcino asks the American narrator to read him what his father has written. And yet, one must remember that Beatrice's conscience is narrowly Victorian. Miss Ambient completes the family picture by providing an original flourish. According to the narrator, she is a possibly disastrous and cheap result of appreciating and living Mark Ambient's novels. After observing her affected dress and manner, the narrator realizes, "Her affectations rubbed off on her brother's renown, and as there were plenty of people who disapproved of him totally, they could easily point to his sister as a person formed by his influence. It was quite possible to regard her as a warning, and she had done him little good with the world at large. He was the original, and she was the inevitable imitation" (p. 431). Even allowing for the fact that Miss Ambient is trying to woo the American bachelor with her Rossetti quaintness, her character is a possible moral indictment against her brother. This must be played against the narrator's unswerving admiration 130 for the beauty of real life which the Englisman's novels capture. James's technique in "The Author of Beltraffio" depends almost exclusively on the multifaceted presentation of the characters and their interactions. Mark Ambient's work, notably Beltraffio, may serve as a trait objectification, in which case, the artist is, indeed, a creative genius with a fine appreciation for life. James does little with back­ ground, but the setting is the lovely, quiet English country­ side, and the characters do make reference to the natural beauty surrounding the cottage. In an Edenic garden setting, discord between man and woman ends with fatal consequences.

In essence, Hawthorne's and James's work demonstrates similar concerns for the artist in his pursuit of his art and meaningful interpersonal relationships. Hawthorne con­ centrates on the many trials of the artist who achieves self-recognition and creative perfection in spite of the hostility of those around him, especially the woman he loves. James's hero is an accomplished artist with a seemingly perfect family. His art and self-worth are not able to sustain him in face of his familial tragedy. Ambient dies not long after his son and his wife. Technically, Hawthorne's story works at character inter­ action but is limited by an intrusive third person narrator who continually evaluates and judges the stages of Owen's career. He does provide some psychological ambiguity in 131 Annie Hovendon who is not quite sure or aware of her responses to Owen. The Hovendon child is not a realistic child, but, nonetheless, gives the story a rich measure of ambiguity. James's first-person narrator is successful; he relates a sympathetic story about a writer he admired as a youth and as a mature man. The Ambient child is not very credible either, but he, too, is intrinsic to the plot. James also relies on character interaction to carry his plot and in­ corporates sufficient irony and ambiguity into this interplay to achieve a highly successful narrative.

Owen Warland is alienated because of the impracticality of his beautiful appreciation of life; Mark Ambient, because of the immorality of his appreciation. In both cases, society exacts a heavy price from the man who would be an artist. Endnotes 1,'The Artist of the Beautiful," X (197*0, p. 450. ^Henry James, "The Author of Beltraffio.11 in The Great Short Novels of Henry James. t>. 444. All subsequent quotes from this edition will be cited by page number in parentheses following the quotation. •^Millicent Bell, Hawthorne*s View of the Artist (New York: State University of New York, 1962), p. 86, R. Macnaughton, "The First-Person Narrators of Henry James," Studies in American Fiction. 20 (1974), pp. 145-64. 134 the psychic wholeness of their humanity in proportion to their dedication to social issues.

Zenobia, certainly the most vibrant character in The Blithedale Romance, is Hawthorne's spokesperson for the social liberation of women. More importantly in terms of the romance, she presents a study of the passionate, self-libera­ ting women in nineteenth-century New England society. In his Preface, Hawthorne introduces her as "the high-spirited Woman, bruising herself against the narrow limitations of her sex."'*' Henry James calls her "the nearest approach that 2 Hawthorne has made to the complete creation of a -person." In' simplest terms, she is a representative Hawthorne dark heroine, developed with the expected ambiguity and contra­ dictions. Moreover, since The Blithedale Romance is narra­ ted by Miles Coverdale, one of .the four main characters and Zenobia*s compatriot, the illumination of her personality and role is further complicated. Zenobia*s pseudonym and physical appearance fit a description of the dark heroine. Her pseudonym is that of an ancient queen- On their first meeting, she immediately fascinates Miles Coverdale who finds her "an admirable figure of a woman, just on the hither verge of her richest maturi­ ty, with a combination of features which it is safe to call reasonably beautiful, even if some fastidious persons might pronounce them a little deficient in softness and delicacy. But we find enough of these attributes, everywhere. Preferable CHAPTER VI -THE HAZARDS OF SOCIAL REFORM: THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE AND THE BOSTONIANS Although Hawthorne often employed historical settings in his fiction and James employed foreign environments for his, the two writers also demonstrate a sensitive awareness to the interests and concerns of their respective nineteenth-century

American milieux in their works, The Blithedale Romance (1852) and The Bostonians (1886). The Blithedale Romance is grounded in Hawthorne's personal experience with a utopian community. The Bostonians takes place in the New England-New York milieu James knew well. The plots of "both fictions capitalize on similar topical issues: women*s rights, philanthropy, utopian ideals, and popular psychic phenomena such as mesmerism. However, plot examinations are more concerned with the psy­ chology and morality of the issues and the people concerned with them than with the given sociological features of the issues. Although obviously interested in social betterment projects and fascinated by the personalities connected with them, Hawthorne*s judgment of them is cynical. The characters of his romance become trapped in conflicts involving personal love and social commitment which they find difficult, even self-destructive to resolve. James is equally skeptical of the social crusades and crusaders of his time. His characters pannot seem to reconcile public and private interests and lose 133 135 ••.was Zenobia’s bloom, health, and vigor, which she posses­ sed in such overflow that a man might well have fallen in love with her for their sake only" (pp. 15-16). As generous as Coverdale*s tribute is, it is not without some qualifi­ cation about her lack of softness and delicacy, presumably desirable traits in women. Zenobia wears a hothouse flower in her luxuriant black hair as her single adornment. Cover­ dale describes the flower as "exotic," "brilliant," "costly"; it symbolizes for him the "pride and pomp" of her character. She is a robust woman with a well-developed figure which her manner of dress makes evident. Over and over, Coverdale finds his eyes glued to her figure which, when he gives into a brief, but strong impulse,on one occasion, he ima­ gines in "Eve’s earliest garment." Zenobia*s sexuality is obvious and overpowering, and her exotic flower and dress style indicate that she realizes and enjoys her attractive­ ness; this would not be acceptable in a virtuous heroine, but it is appropriate for a woman who is trying to develop and appreciate herself without regard to the narrow strictures of a puritanical society. Zenobia*s personality is also vital and vigorous, but also open to censure. She alone of those who first arrive at Silas Foster’s hearth is self-assured and outgoing. While the other aspiring idealists awkwardly and shyly huddle around the fire to escape the cold of the unexpected snow­ storm, she easily makes them welcome and assumes the role of hostess at their first meal. She warmly introduces herself to Coverdale as a faithful and sincere admirer of his poetry and begins a bantering con - versation with him. The poet quickly intuits her open, self- assured manner: "Her free, careless, generous modes of expres­ sion. ..imputed...at that time, to Zenobia’s noble courage, conscious of no harm, and scorning the petty restraints which take the life and color out of other women's conversation" (p. I?). And, again, Coverdale compares her with Eve who, he feels, did not observe any artificial restraints in her behavior in Eden. The narrator offers Zenobia another compli­ ment— with another obvious qualification: she does not have the retiring gentility so generally prized by men in women's social interactions. Coverdale*s comparison of Zenobia's figure and personality with Eve 's is ironic. Eve may have lived in Paradise, as his references literally allude to, but her beauty and behavior also made her the first temptress, a fact that Coverdale, at least, does not acknowledge. Hawthorne, behind the scenes, triggers the image of Eve as the first dark heroine of her race and Zenobia as her daughter. Zenobia's free speech and actions continue their hold on Coverdale's interest and mixed judgment. She is fascinating because she is a nonconformist in a society which applies rigid rules to women; by the same token, she is blameworthy. When ill, Coverdale imagines that, at some time in her past, Zenobia has experienced an intimate relationship with a man. "What girl had ever laughed as Zenobia didJ What girl had ever spoken in her mellow tones I Her unconstrained and inevitable manifestation, I said often to myself, was that of a woman to whom wedlock had thrown wide the gates of mystery" (p. 47). Coverdale acknowledges that such thoughts as his are gross and all too commonly directed by men at women, but still he continues to pursue them. In today's terms, Zenobia is a sex object for Coverdale. She intuits the course of his thoughts about her and boldly questions him: "'I seem to interest you very much; and yet— or else a woman's instinct is for once deceived— I cannot reckon you as an ad­ mirer. What are you-seeking to discover in me?'" (p. 47). When Coverdale is shocked into admitting that he wants to learn "the mystery" of her life, she steps closer, looks directly at him as if to challenge him "to drop a plummet- line down into the depths of her consciousness'.' The poet turns away. Zenobia recongizes Coverdale as a man whose criticism and judgment about the role of women has kept women uneasy or fearful about their sexuality— and, by extension, about their womanhood. She has the ability to challenge him because she knows that she is stronger than he and his un­ feeling curiosity. Coverdale's speculations on Zenobia's hot=house flower are similarly exaggerated. He is amazed that she appears each day with a fresh blossom that has "sprung passionately out of a soil, the very weeds of which would be fervid and spicy" (p. 45). For him, it is a "subtile expression" of the woman’s personality. While sick, he becomes so obsessed with this idea that he tells Hollingsworth that the flower 138 is so much an expression of Zenohia that she would disappear if the flower were removed. Again, Zenohia bravely receives Coverdale's accusation. She offers the flower to Hollings­ worth because she "scorns to owe anything to magic." And she openly offers a reasonable explanation for wearing the blossom: "'It is the one relic of my more brilliant, my happier days!'" (p. ^5)* The woman demonstrates her strength again when she has been misunderstood or misjudged by the poet. Zenobia, on the other hand, seems a rather accurate judge of Coverdale. She is aware of his speculations and prying into the lives of Hollingsworth, Priscilla, and herself. She soornfully notes that, like his countrymen, the "trans­ cendental Yankee," he feels entitled to investigate all matters that happen in the range of his vision. Evidently, she has been victimized by such men before who may have found her a peculiar specie of public woman. Zenobia especially resents Coverdale’s prying when he tries to make her confess her feelings for the philanthropist. In a dramatic outburst she 'confronts him: " * It is dangerous, sir, believe me, to tamper thus with earnest human passions, out of your own mere idleness, and for your sport. I will endure it no longer! Take care that it does not happen again! I warn you!"' (p. 170). Zenobia's warning sparks a reminder of other Hawthorne protagonists like Giovanni Guasconti and Ethan Brand, who have pried into the hearts of women for their own gratification. By virtue of her beauty, strength, 139 and mystery, Zenobia, like other of Hawthorne's women, comes under investigation and attack from men. But no one fights so dramatically as Zenobia for the right to do as she chooses with her life. Zenobia's vocation is women's rights— especially as regards their abilities to promote and secure social reforms (which neither she nor Hawthorne specifies). She indicates that social reform would best be accomplished by allowing women to speak freely and honorably in public on what must be done; women's natural eloquence and sense of moral justice suit them to this role. Although the romance keeps her career on the periphery of the plot in order to develop her involvement, as a self-liberating woman, with the other characters at Blithedale— especially Priscilla and Hollings­ worth— , it is worthwhile to examine the evidence of her professional and intellectual life. Coverdale notes that she is a successful magazine writer of short stories and tracts in defense of her sex; indeed, he assumes that "the reader" of his autobiographical tale is familiar with her. Likewise, he admits that she has a fine intellect even though it has been misdirected toward social reforms "She made no scruple of oversetting all human institutions, and scattering them as with a breeze from her fan. A female reformer, in her attacks upon society, has an instinctive sense of where the life lies, and is inclined to aim directly at that spot. Especially, the relation between the sexes is naturally ■among the earlies to attract her hotice" (p. 44). iko (Coverdale follows up this dictum with a remark on how magnificent looking a specimen she is.) At another point, he states his belief that women like Zenobia become involved in social reform only when "their own individual affections chance to be in idleness, or to be ill at ease," which may be interpreted as meaning when they do not have a man to reciprocate their affection. He maintains that women are not "natural" reformers. In spite of the poet's deprecation, Zenobia does demon- 3 strate an awareness of the social strictures women live by. She sees that woman has but one choice in life, marriage "which she must contrive to make the substance of her whole life" (p. 60). She feels that such limitations can only result in unhappiness, since they do not allow women freedom to develop many of their natural talents. In a sympathetic moment after her death, Coverdale does admit that "masculine egotism" restricts a woman's life and happiness solely according to her love relationship with a man. At Eliot's Pulpit with her three friends one afternoon, Zenobia pas­ sionately protests against "the injustice which the world did to women, and equally to itself, by not allowing them, in freedom and honor, and with the fullest welcome, their natural utterance in public" (p. 120). Men, she notes, have innumberable choices in the world. She realizes that, when men grant women their rights, they themselves will reap the benefits of the good work women will accomplish for social improvement. 1^1 Zenobia would like the life style at Blithedale to offer more to women: "'We women...will take the domestic and indoor part of the business, as a matter of course.... these, I suppose, must be feminine occupations, for the pre­ sent. By-and-by, perhaps, when our individual adaptions be­ gin to develop themselves, it may be that some of us who wear the petticoat, will go afield, and leave the weaker brethren to take our places in the kitchen'" (p. 16). Her plan seems reasonable enough; it certainly does not propose an immediate and total overthrow of social custom. It is clear by her free and generous participation in the Blithedale scheme that she is sincere in her own attempts to make their life work. And later, she is clearminded enough to realize that the socialist project is a sham. Coverdale is partially right when he views Zenobia's flower as symbolic of her regal pride. Probably her wealth and beauty have contributed to her pride. But she needs the strength of pride to liberate herself from the restraints of society. Her pride does not alienate her from other people. And she needs it to help other women liberate themselves. She is very much aware that, the more timid and withdrawn a woman is, the more she invites a man's dominance. This explains why she is harsh and impatient with Priscilla on some occasions albeit supportive to her on other occasions. Priscilla represents everything that a woman should not be if she is to realize her equality with man. When she first meets Zenobia, she goes down on her knees and raises her arms 14-2 in a mute supplicatory pose while she looks pathetically into the older woman's eyes. Coverdale remarks that she looks so pitiful and depressed that "it was hardly possible to help being angry with her, from mere despair of doing anything for her comfort" (p. 26). Yet Coverdale becomes angry when Zenobia does not comfort the girl. And Hollings­ worth adds his rebuke for her lack of warmth towards the "poor child." Zenobia proves her charity by promoting Priscilla in many ways during their Blithedale sojourn; she wants her to have opportunities to become healthy, strong, and attractive. It is when Priscilla demonstrates some facet of meek "poor child" behavior that Zenobia be­ comes impatient. Zenobia's pride, however, is a source of moral fault. It is responsible for her attempt to destroy the relationship between Priscilla and Hollingsworth. She does not believe that the girl is capable of giving the philanthropist the unflagging support and encouragement he needs for his criminal reform project. Egotistically, she feels that she has the qualities he needs in a companion. Were Hollingsworth open to receive her full measure as a woman, Zenobia would be right in her assessment— though this does not excuse her behavior concerning her sister. Precisely what she does con­ cerning the girl is not clear in the romance. Coverdale can only speculate that Zenobia returns Priscilla to the mys­ terious influence of Westervelt. At their last meeting at Eliot's Pulpit, Zenobia sincerely apologizes to Priscilla 143 for whatever harm she has caused her. Zenobia1s pride is compensated for by ‘her humanity. Zenobia*s greatest flaw, however, is also her most magnetic trait— her willful, romantic passion. She has been raised with abundant money and without maternal discipline and so has not learned to check her will or control her pas­ sions. (She is an interesting counterpart to Hawthorne heroes who are distinguished by a self-gratifying intellectual indulgence.) This is what apparently made her an early victim to the handsome and bright, but unprincipled Westervelt. Her passion flames again for Hollingsworth. She freely offers the whole of her fortune and herself for his scheme of criminal reform— without any conditions concerning their personal relationship. She earnestly hopes that helping him will make her a better woman. Her generosity and sincerity are noteworthy. However, her adoration for Hollingsworth conflicts with her own personality strengths and her championship of women's rights. Hollingsworth frequently makes it very clear that ■ women's only place is to be a dutiful support to men. In his fullest statement on this subject, he says: 'Her place is at man's side. Her office, that of the Sympathizer; the unreserved, un­ questioning Believer; the Recognition, with­ held in every other manner.- but given, in pity, through woman's heart, lest man should utterly lose faith in himself; the Echo of God's own voice, pronouncing— "It is well done I" All the separate action of woman is, and ever has been, and always shall be, false, foolish, vain, destruc­ tive of her own best and holiest qualities, void of every good effect, and productive of intolerable mischiefs 1 Man is a wretch without woman; but woman is a monster...without man, as her ack­ nowledged principal!' (pp. 122-23) Hollingsworth demonstrates as much passion on this subject as Zenobia does. Implicitly, he is calling her a monster, Zenobia never rebukes Hollingsworth for such libelous pro­ nouncements, however, even though she always pounces on Coverdale for his taunts and cuts. Her romantic love and belief in Hollingsworth make her want to constrict herself to be the woman he desires— although she reasons clearly enough at other times that what he really needs is a strong and independent woman as his helpmate. These conflicting, complicating thoughts and feelings torture her. Zenobia's passion for the philanthropist makes her unable to see him for the cold fanatic that he is, although Coverdale reminds her so often enough. It is interesting to see how she justifies him to herself and the poet: "'Blind enthusiasm, absorption on one idea, I grant, is generally ridiculous, and must be fatal to the respectability of an ordinary man; it requires a very high and powerful character, to make it otherwise. But a great man...attains his normal condition only through the inspiration of one great idea1" (p. 166). Clearly, to her, Hollingwroth is that man, however much she sees that he is consumed with his philan­ thropy .

The passionate intensity even of her conflict with Hollingsworth makes her suicide inevitable. At their last encounter, she dramatically and bitterly accuses the blacksmith 1*K5

of being a selfish monster. After he leaves, however, she defends him to Coverdale. She says that he is right in casting her off because she is guilty of some past sin, and, therefore, unworthy of him. She passes the blame on to "the world" which will never let a woman redeem herself once she has erred. In despair, her self-esteem collapses and she drowns herself. Coverdale remarks that she chose this death because of her romantic illusion about how gentle and peaceful drowning would be; just as plausible is the fact that drowning is the only means of suicide readily available to her. Zenobia1s fate indicates that her society— more parti­ cularly, the men in her society as ..’represented by Coverdale and Hollingsworth— cannot accept a strong woman as an equal. Feminism is dangerous and immoral. But most tragic— even though it is most human— is this woman's inability to maintain her integrity when it is opposed to her need to love and to win the love of a man. Priscilla is Zenobia's foil in every respect. Although her character development is meager, her character itself is meager. She is the traditional comic, light heroine, a fragile, docile creature whose only goals are moral pro­ priety and man's protective love. Priscilla's appearance is delicate and pale. When she arrives at Blithedale, Coverdale describes her in pitiful terms: "She was seen to be a very young woman, dressed in a poor, but decent gown, made high in the neck, and without any regard to fashion or 146 ' smartness....her face was of a want almost sickly hue, "betokening habitual seclusion from the sun and free atmos­ phere, like a flower-shrub that had done its best to blos­ som in too scanty light" (p. 27). Her frailty coupled with the mystery of her origins and her attraction to Zenobia fascinates Coverdale immediately. Hollingsworth, too, is touched by the "poor child." As she becomes a part of the community, she begins to look healthier and to act more freely by romping with other young girls through the fields and woods. But she stays close enough to Zenobia and Hollingsworth to ensure herself of their protection. She remains aloof to Coverdale, even when he is sick, because she intuits that he needs no excuse to train his probing eyes on her. As it is, she often demon­ strates peculiar behavior— suggestive of listening to unseen voices— which Coverdale accounts to her "extreme nervous susceptivility." Her frailty commands her friends' attent- tion and care; it makes her especially attractive to the men. Coverdale's reaction to the manner in which she races attests to this*. "Priscilla's peculiar charm, in a foot-race, was the weakness and irregularity with which she ran....she ran faulteringly, and often tumbled on the grass. Such an inci­ dent... was a thing to laugh at, but which brought the water into one's eyes, and lingered in the memory after far great­ er joys and sorrows were swept out of it, as antiquated trash" (pp. 73-74). Coverdale also notes that even the .iron Hollingsworth, because he recognizes that she was 147 "not quite able to look after her own interests, or fight her battle with the world" (p. 74), takes special care of her. Unlike Zenobia whose strength challenges men, Priscilla's weakness makes men feel strong and,,as a result, tender towards her. Although she has some psychic sensitivity, Priscilla's intellectual and moral development seems as meager as her body. She finds security and happiness at Blithedale and so blots out all unpleasantness. She believes that she will spend the rest of her life in the commune, "'where everybody is kind to me, and where I love everybody1" (p. 75)• When the other three heatedly discuss women's rights at Eliot's Pulpit, Priscilla offers no opinion of her own; she asks Hollingsworth for the "true" answer, and, of course, he gives it to her. Priscilla goes to the city with Zenobia at her and Hollingsworth's command— even though it seems that, by going there, she is again within the sphere of Westervelt's malicious influence. She tells Coverdale that she does what the others ask because '"I am blown about like a leaf ....I never have any free-will'" (p. 171)- The girl is a perfect blank tablet on which others may write what they wish. Without any formed ideas or codes, she is attrac­ tively pliant to a man like Hollingsworth who can easily mold her to suit his needs. Coverdale emphasizes that, in her role as the Veiled Lady in which she often appears before the gross eye of the public, she still maintains a virginal reserve and purity of soul. 1 4 8 Priscilla does have one strength— her ability to love— which is a match for Zenobia's passion. In "Fauntleroy," Coverdale records that, from her mother, Priscilla inherited a profound capacity for love which she bestowed on her father and the unknown sister her father told her of. Her love is the sole reason she has been able to survive a poverty-stricken and socially barren upbringing. "It gave her soul the refreshment of a purer atmosphere. Save for this singular...affection, the child could hardly have lived; or, had she lived, with a heart shrunken for lack of any sentiment to fill it, she must have yielded to the barren miseries of her position, and have grown to womanhood characterless and worthless" (p. 186). For Hawthorne, the ability to love is absolutely necessary to achieve a wholesome moral and social life. Thus, despite her other frailties, Priscilla bears the writer's essential approval. It is this love— now directed at Hollingsworth— which eventually frees her from Westervelt's grasp. Priscilla represents the ideal woman in Hawthorne's canon. Her physical frailty, moral innocence, and intellec­ tual docility coupled with a great capacity for love make i-c only natural that she should be the woman whom both Coverdale and Hollingswotth cherish. She complements, notcompetes (like her older sister). The silk purses which she so artfully makes so that no one can find the opening unless told are a perfect "symbol of Priscilla's own mystery" as Coverdale suggests. She is as valuably created as her 1^9 purses are, as much to "be appreciated as the silk. He who has the knowledge to realize this gains an entrance to Priscilla's love. Priscilla's marriage to Hollingsworth, as Coverdale judges when he sees the couple in later years, seems ful­ filling enough for her. Since Hollingsworth has become a broken man, he is dependent on his slender wife who enjoys protecting him. The poet notes her "deep, submissive, unquestioning reverence" and "veiled happiness." But one wonders what to conclude from this marriage. Is this Hawthorne's idea of a fulfilling relationship? At their last meeting, Zenobia expresses some apprehension about Priscilla's alliance with the philanthropist: "'Poor child! Methinks you have but a melancholy lot before you, sitting all alone in that wide, cheerless heart, when, for aught you know--and as I, alas! believe— the fire which you have kindled may soon go out'" (p. 220). It is clear that his guilt for Zenobia's death has replaced Hollingsworth's zealous philanthropy, and so Priscilla is effectually shut out of his heart as Zenobia foresaw. In an oblique way, therefore, Zenobia has the last word. Women who are content to lead the life of the "gentle parasite" or unquestioning supporter can expect to be cheated by life. The marriage of Priscilla and Hollingsworth is the only one in Hawthorne's full-length romances; it does not suggest much real happiness or self-fulfillment for the wife. 150 Like Priscilla, Hollingsworth is a fairly one-dimen­ sional character, the Hawthomian egomaniac. In his personality, Hawthorne examines the philosophy of philan­ thropy. As a burly matter-of-fact blacksmith, Hollingsworth reminds one of Robert Danforth in "The Artist of the Beautiful" (and that invites further comparison between the self-confessed delicate poet Coverdale and Owen Warland). At any rate, Hawthorne seems to equate physical brawn with insensitivity. His burly physique aid resonant voice are, however, part of what makes Hollingsworth so attractive to women and other men. He has no great intellect or culture. His views on women and their rights (as quoted above) are very narrow. He cannot reasonably argue wj th Coverdale about Fourierism. He chides Coverdale for a life wasted on literature. He finds the Blithedale project likewise ridi­ culous. What defines the man is simply a passion for his philanthropic project to which he is ready to sacrifice everything. It is fairly clear that his reason for joining Blithedale is to wrench the Utopians away from their scheme in favor of his— at least to wrench away the farm property which he considers an ideal site. As Coverdale and Zenobia come to realize, to their re­ gret, his courtship of them is to win their support. One of the most dramatic scenes in the romance is the chapter en­ titled "The Crisis" in which Hollingsworth makes a powerful attempt to get Coverdale to commit himself forever to his 151 criminal reform scheme. But Coverdale and Zenobia do recognize that the philanthropist has a great capacity for human affection. He tenderly nurses the poet when the latter is ill, and Coverdale believes that few men are capable of such womanly tenderness: "Hollingsworth must have been originally endowed with a great spirit of benevo­ lence, deep enough and warm enough to be the source of as much disinterested good, as Providence often allows a human being the privilege of conferring upon his fellows" (p. 5^) The poet goes on to note (ironically) that Hollingsworth was becoming so enthralled in his project, despite its questionable virtue and success, that he "was fast going mad." Originally, Zenobia finds Hollingsworth most attrac­ tive because of the noble heart she believes he has. After he spurns her, she, too, cries that he has no self separate from his project. Her last words to him are: '"A great and rich heart has been ruined in your breast'" (p. 219). For Priscilla alone does Hollingsworth retain the ability to be affectionate. His decision to marry her is credible because he well knows that she is totally helpless and innocent and needs him and because she will support him without question or reservation. Yet Priscilla is not enough to redeem himj Hollingsworth's fate as a broken man made mad by guilt is clearly his punishment for killing Zenobia. Because of Zenobia's one crime against Priscilla or the mysterious "crime" in her past, he rejected her. For his crime against Zenobia, his life is ruined— an appropriate 152 double twist of irony for the man who believed that criminals could and should be redeemed by appealing to their higher instincts. Coverdale, clearly speaking for Hawthorne, draws an emphatic general conclusion from the blacksmith's lifes philanthropy may be useful for "society at large, but it is perilous to the individual, whose ruling passion, in one exclusive channel, it thus becomes. It ruins, or is fearfully apt to ruin, the heart; the rich juices of which God never meant should be pressed violently out, and dis­ tilled into alcoholic liquor, by an unnatural process; but should render life sweet, bland, and gently beneficent, and insensibly influence other hearts and other lives to the same blessed end" (p. 2^3)• Hawthorne is sensitive to the fact that even worthy causes can become unnatural and immoral when they separate the individual from his society; Hawthorne thus reconfirms his belief in the essential l± brotherhood of man. The roles of the two minor characters, Westervelt and Old Moodie, need to be mentioned briefly. Westervelt is a one-dimensional villain whose treachery is made obvious by the fact that his teeth are artificial— signifying that his dandified good looks and debonair, ingratiating manner are, likewise, artificial. What is real is his mysterious power which he has used to ruin Zenobia in the past and is trying to use to control Priscilla now. He gives public demonstrations of mesmerism. Coverdale/Hawthorne is not sure of what lies within the mystery of mesmerism, but does believe that it 153 destroys the integrity of the human soul. Westervelt is another unpardonable sinner. Coverdale's final judgment on him is merciless: "Heaven deal with Westervelt according to his nature and deserts!— that is to say, annihilate him" (p. 2^1). Old Moodie, the father of Zenobia and Priscilla, is a piece of the romance's business; he provides some mys­ tery about Priscilla's background and her connection with Zenobia. His "Fauntleroy" story finally clarifies this connection in a believable fashion and initiates the interest­ ing twist which threatens to make Zenobia penniless at a critical point in her life. Coverdale's role as a character in the romance is naturally complicated by his role as the narrator of the fates of his co-utopians and himself; the result is an interesting psychological portraiture. Coverdale opens the romance by describing himself as a rather self-pampered man of letters who is curious and hopeful enough to venture into the utopian scheme whose history he wishes to offer the reader. Coverdale thus becomes a spokesman for this social idea; his observations reflect some of his creator's since Hawthorne was drawing on his own experience at Brook Farm for the background of this romance. Coverdale admits at the outset that the project is a "day-dream" (Chapter 3 which recounts their first night on the farm is entitled "A Knot of Dreamers"), but that he, among others, has enough faith and confidence to make at least an honest attempt to realize the dream; in retrospect, at the end of the romance, 15^ the aging bachelor confirms the rightness of his dream be­ cause he still believes it is better to act positively upon one's faith in brotherhood than to isolate oneself from the world and its problems. One of the chief goals of the project is to work in community— to share all labor and reward and mutually support one another in order to counteract the unscrupulous, selfish competition of the world. When the very realistic Silas Foster explains to the would-be farmers the facts about vegetable growing and market competition, Coverdale realizes quickly that "as regarded society at large, we stood in a position of new hostility, rather than new brotherhood" (p. 20). The fact that an unseasonable snowstorm initiates their venture and depresses them (even makes the pampered poet ill), also suggests that there is a significant chasm between their dream and their abilities to make the dream reality. After the project gets started, it offers mixed, unanti­ cipated fruits to its cultivators. Coverdale especially enjoys the wholesomeness of the country environment, the feeling that he is living in harmony with nature. He is gratified by the physical strength and hardihood that come with days spent outdoors in physical labor. What is dismay­ ing is the realization that physical work is incompatible with mental activity; their "delectable visions of the spiritualization of labor" are the product of naive, romantic imaginations. Coverdale's elaboration on this lesson is rueful: "The clods of earth, which we so constantly belabored 155 and turned over and over, were never etherealized into thought. Our thoughts, on the contrary, were fast becoming cloddish. Our labor symbolized nothing, and left us mentally sluggish in the dusk of evening. Intellectual activity is incompatible with any large amount of bodily exercise” (p. 66). Another said realization is the fact that people find it impossibly difficult to submerge or surrender their in­ dividuality in favor of the general needs of the society— especially in a case, like Blithedale, in which the community is not bound together by a common religious creed or struc­ tured social philosophy. The Blithedale inhabitants' only explicit common goal is the desire for brotherhood and social reform— nebulous ideals which vanish when confronted by urgent personal ambitions. As Coverdale puts it: "Persons of marked individuality— crooked sticks, as some of us might be called— are not exactly the easiest to bind up into a fagot" (p. 63). The clash of strong personalities like Zenobia's and Hollingsworth's, which affect the lives of Priscilla and Coverdale;, ends the utopian project for these four at least. Because all live in such close communion, Coverdale notes that any disharmony between certain members spreads and affects all members as well. Essentially, Hawthorne uses Coverdale to judge kindly if cynically of utopian communes; they are a morally laudable dream of per­ fecting society, but, realistically, they cannot succeed for any period of time. 156 Coverdale's experiences and acquired knowledge about utopian communes generally mirrors Hawthorne's own life at Brook Farm and reveals his judgment about one of the popular movements of his time. But Coverdale*s account/Hawthorne's romance achieves a fascinating fictional validity by peopling Blithedale with personalities like Zenobia, Hollingsworth, and Priscilla. If anything, Coverdale is a perceptive analyst of others' characters and behavior; in this respect, Cover­ dale proves Hawthorne's ability as a psychological writer. While he demonstrates a condescending, baiting attitude about women's rights, Coverdale does quickly grasp the main ingredients of Zenobia's character— pride and passion. In a similar fashion, he intuitively discovers the essence of Priscilla and Hollingsworth. He bases his opinions on what the others say and do— to him and each other. His careful eye does not miss a thing— Zenobia carelessly tossing away her exotic flower or Priscilla acquiring the look of Margaret Fuller when she holds Miss Fuller's letter in her hand. Henry James describes Coverdale as a man "whose happiness lies, not in doing, but in perceiving--half a poet, half a critic, and all a spectator" (Hawthorne, p. 105). And to test his opinions, Coverdale often asks questions— even though they might not be too well received. He nurtures periods of reflection during which he synthesizes and judges what he observes and hears according to his past experiences with people. For example, Hollingsworth's tender care of him when he is ill makes him aware, upon reflection, that the 157 philanthropist has a generous heart which, he notes, is very unusual in men who have a seemingly inhorn aversion towards illness of any .kind. In his critical book on Henry James, Charles Anderson calls this habit of mind "retrospec- ■ tive meditation" and affirms that James, although he refined the technique, was influenced by Hawthorne's use of it.^ Because of his poetic, imaginative mind, Coverdale sometimes allows his reflections to grow into daydreams. While musing in his hermitage, he admits his feelings for Priscilla because of her adaptability to his dreams: "Say that if any mortal really cares for her, it is myself, and not even I, for her realities— poor little seamstress, as Zenobia rightly called her!— but for the fancy-work with which I have idly decked her out!" (p. 100). Although he sees her reality, Coverdale prefers to imagine Priscilla as a blossoming sprite full of tender and innocent affections of which he would like to be the recipient. His analytic ability, however, does not make the poet an admirable character or a totally successful narrator. This is evident because Coverdale is a faithful— if not always fully conscious— narrator. He records the fact that Zenobia and the others are very much aware and resentful of his ceaseless observations and probings. He regrets that he is always left on the outside— especially in regard to the women's affections. He knows and confesses that it is dangerous and unfair to allow oneself to indulge too much in an examination of individuals' behavior. The consequences 158 could be a diseased heart for the observer or the creation of a monster in the place of the observed (p. 69)• Yet he feels that he is a harmless observer and so the others should not resent him. But Zenobia, for example,while she is con­ fident that he means her no harm, still can see no real reason for his curiosity beyond the cheap gratification of learning the secrets of others' hearts. Coverdale himself cannot offer a sufficiently valid reason for his curiosity. He compulsively feels that the mystery of their interactions is "my business to solve." His one excuse— meager as it is— is that he sympathizes with the sad fate he sees the others locked into. Reflecting on his speculative interests, he absolves himself with these words: "It now impresses me, that, if I erred at all, in regard to Hollingsworth, Zenobia, and Priscilla, it was through too much sympathy, rather than too little" (p. 15^)• Zenobia, for one, never senses this sympathy. As the crisis of the three becomes more imminent, Coverdale justifies himself more frequently. He thinks he must enact the role of the Greek chorus to comment on the tragedy; he does so "often against my own will, and to the detriment of my own comfort"; God himself has put Coverdale into the company of these people. His rationalizations are as compulsive as his pryings. Quite possibly, he must ration­ alize to compensate for his lack of action to do whatever he could to avert the nearing catastrophe. Ironically, the others' natural defensiveness towards him would not open them to his help or advice in any case. In this respect, 159 Coverdale's inability to act anticipates the characteri­ zation of Henry Jame^ emotional cripples (for example, John Marcher and Frederick Winterbourne). Ultimately, Coverdale's failure to interact with others becomes his own tragedy. He never had the courage to seek out Priscilla's love, and he confesses on the last page of the romance that he feels he truly loved Priscilla. He realizes the forlorn fate of the skeptical Theodore who could not nurture any love for the Veiled Lady before dis­ covering her secret. He notes that his bachelor life since Blithedale has been empty: "Life, however, it must be owned, has come to rather an idle pass with me" (p. 2^7). It is no wonder that he retells the story of the utopian experi­ ment; it was the most vital, dramatic adventure of his life. In Coverdale, Hawthorne presents a full and complicated portrait of the artist who uses the lives of others as a source of inspiration for his art, but who, in so doing, must keep some objective distance which, unfortunately, as it is recognized by others, bars him from any chance of intimacy. In Richard Chase's words, Coverdale/Hawthorne: "As a novelist... is more than likely guilty of the Unpardonable Sin. He must perforce pitilessly scrutinize his characters without being able to share with them their imperfect hu­ manity, to acknowledge his kinship with their experience and destiny."^ This social paradox of sympathy versus objecti­ vity is a problem that Henry James was sensitive to in his life and his works about artists. 160 Henry James scrutinizes the social and political scene of the metropolitan center of New England in The Bostonians as Hawthorne had done for Boston and environs thirty-four years earlier. Like Hawthorne, James takes note of various reform movements and popular parlor phenomena, such as mesmerism; however, his novel differs from Hawthorne’s romance in that it does concentrate on one issue— women's rights. James thoroughly examines the variety of late nineteenth-century New England women and their involvement with this issue; furthermore, he analyzes how their involve­ ment affects their behavior with men and other women. Essentially, this analysis produces a social commentary. The two central women in The Bostonians, Olive Chancellor and Verena Tarrant, parallel, in many critical respects, Zenobia and Priscilla in The Blithedale Romance; the develop­ ment of Olive's and Verena's relationship is also similar to that of the earlier heroines. However, with its concen­ trated focus on women's rights, the former couple dominate James's novel as the latter pair do no Hawthorne's romance. Olive Chancellor is certainly Zenobia's equal in social status and emotional intensity, although she has none of Zenobia's dark beauty which fascinates men and complicates her life. Quite the contrary, she is distinguished by a total absence of physical attractiveness. "She had absolutely no figure, and presented a certain appearance of feeling cold."' "Cold" is a description frequently applied to her; her eyes, for example, have "the glitter of green ice." 161 Her hair is "colorless," and she dresses in severe, dark gowns without any ornamentation. Although a young woman, Olive emhodies the stereotypical picture of a repressed, defensively virginal spinster. Olive's unappealing, unremarkable looks, however, camouflage a passionate, complicated personality. She is intelligent and educated. Financially and socially, she belongs securely to the Bostonian elite, and, as a result of her heritage, has a highly refined taste which detests vulgarity in any form. "Her most poignant suffering came from the injury of her taste. She had tried to kill that nerve, to persuade herself that taste was only frivolity in the disguise of knowledge; but her susceptivility was con­ stantly blooming afresh" (pp. 29-30). For example, she finds her flamboyant, openly flirtatious sister Mrs. Luna offensive. Such narrowly refined taste also makes her suspicious of men who, she feels, are guilty of various unspecified vulgarities in their demands and expectations of women; however, Olive tries not to be victimized by her selective taste; she continually drives herself to enter into situations, to become involved with issues and people which, potentially either repugnant or dangerous, nevertheless, develop her moral worth. Moral rectitude is important to her. Olive is an intrinsically private, shy woman who "had a fear of everything, but her greatest fear was of being afraid" (p. 1*0 . She goes to great lengths to overcome this fear. 162 She initially welcomes Basil Ransom to her home from a sense of obligation to a distant relative left destitute by the Civil War. The fact that he is male tries her duty all the more strongly. "It was her nature to look out for duties, to appeal to her conscience for tasks" (p. 12). Zenobia has a worthy code of ethics, although she does not always live up to them--a normal human frailty. Olive's iron resolution to prove herself morally perfect is sus­ piciously neurotic. Olive's fastidious taste and unrelenting conscience give her a pride quite equal to, if different from Zenobia's; for both women, pride in themselves and their capabilities proves disastrous. Zenobia's pride had blinded her to Priscilla's capability to win the love of Hollingsworth, the man Zenobia felt was hers due to her wealth, personal strength, and at­ tractiveness. Pride had encouraged her to attempt to mani­ pulate those in her environment to achieve her own desires. And fatally injured pride had forced her to suicide. Olive Chancellor's pride, although it perhaps springs from neurotic roots, is a fundamental key to her personality and her fate in the novel. At their first meeting, Basil Ransom recognizes his cousin's aloof, grim determination to do what is right regardless of personal cost. Verena Tarrant also recognizes Olive's immense capacity to suffer in order to achieve a defined goal. Olive believes that martyrdom is the highest success possible to mankind, and, quite consciously, she wants this success for herself: "The most secret, the most 163 sacred hope of her nature was that she might some day have such a chance that she might be a martyr and die for some­ thing" (p. 13)* Olive's pride impels her to seek martyrdom. Olive’s impulse to duty and martyrdom is not only self­ punishment; it is romantic. A romantic imagination is another key to her personality. Her interest in the cause of women's rights is a part of her romanticism and her need for martyr­ dom. It is motivated by a blanket hatred for men. Her thoughts about women's history are intense, dramatic: "She would do something to brighten the darkness of that dreadful image that was always before her, and against which it seemed to her that she had been born to lead a crusade— the image of the unhappiness of women. The “unhappiness of women! The voice of their silent suffering was always in her ears, the ocean of tears, that they had shed from the beginning of time seemed to puur through her own eyes. Ages of oppression had rolled over them; uncounted millions had lived only to be tortured, to be crucified" (p. 37)* Although never married nor apparently abused in childhood by a cruel, father (her father is never mentioned), Olive sees men as cruel beasts whose only honest relationship with women is continual warfare. She is dedicated to helping women avenge themselves against men. What she particularly wants to achieve for women is never clarified— fittingly so, because her aspirations are shaped by her romantic imagination. In fact, she is much less specific than Zenobia is, and this is surprising because 164 James's novel relies more heavily on the specific issue of women's rights than does Hawthorne's romance. And James customarily does present more topical details than did his predecessor. The lack in Olive's case only serves to em­ phasize the emotional, partially irrational nature of her commitment. Generally speaking, Olive feels that her age is vulgar, weak, and demoralized (p. 127), and she believes that liberated women can correct it. Olive's admiration for Miss Birdseye is based on the old woman's long dedication to humanitarian causes, the latest being women's liberation. Olive sees Miss Birdseye as an effective martyr, an ideal. Recognizing her own lack of charisma, Olive is jubilant in her discovery of Verena whose pretty face and magical voice will guarantee an audience. Verena will be the sibyl of her message, the "envelope" for her "conscience." Olive's romanticism explains her immediate dramatic attraction to Verena whom slie sees as a miraculously un­ spoiled (i.e., not tainted by vulgarity) daughter of the democratic masses. Olive "had long been preoccupied with the romance of the people. She had an immense desire to know intimately some very poor girl" (p. 35)* Verena's poor, queer childhood, spent in boarding houses and lecture rooms, fascinates her. She believes that she can save, educate, and cultivate Verena and, with her, energetically enter the battle for women's rights. Moreover, Olive is sufficiently intelligent to perceive Verena's virtues of simplicity and generosity. Appraising Verena's virtues and 165 considering her own educational and cultural bent and emotional needs, Olive fantasizes a perfect, eternal "union of the soul" with the girl. When Verena first visits her, Olive immediately confronts her: "'Will you be my friend, my friend of friends, beyond every one, everything, forever and forever?’" (p. 81). Olive's words convey how passionately and idealistically she conceives their possible alliance. Olive's romantic attraction for Verena, while not overtly sexual, resembles Zenobia's attraction for Hollings­ worth. Both women try to maintain the belief that they are the best possible mates for their lovers despite certain personal handicaps— in Zenobia's case, her suspicious past; in Olive's case, the socially unnatural union of two women. Both women use their wealth, intelligence, and passion to convince their lovers of their suitability. Both women believe that their unions should be blessed because they will achieve significant social good: Zenobia will help Hollingsworth in his criminal reform project; Olive and Verena will be victorious in the cause of women's rights. Unfortunately, both women's pride and romanticisih allow them to underestimate the strength of their competitors until too late and, ultimately, to fail in mortal despair.

Zenobia's wished-for alliance with Hollingsworth, however, is based on the socially acceptable principle that an ambitious man needs a strong woman as his helpmate in the world. Olive’s intended soul union with Verena is basically warped. She wants the young girl to sacrifice the socially 166 defined normal goal of marriage, to give up men entirely ■because she considers them selfish, greedy brutes. Olive believes that suffering for women's rights justifies, even demands, this sacrifice. Essentially, Olive wants Verena.to share her dream of martyrdom. In another early moment of their relationship, Olive passionately quotes Faust to Verena: "'Thou shalt renounce, refrain, abstain I'" (p. 87). She offers these words to the naive Verena as a commandment for life. They recall Hollingsworth's pleas to Goverdale to join him in his reform project. Olive's absorption in women's causes, in fact, does make her into an image of the philanthropist. Olive so desperately wants to keep Verena that she pays off her father to allow the girl to live with her. With equal determination, she tries to entangle Basil Ransom with her husband-hungry sister to get the Southern gentleman away from Verena. Both acts she squares with her conscience. She also tries to convince Verena of the selfishness of all men so that the girl will ignore the flattery and attention men offer such an eloquent, pretty young girl. She subtly refuses Verena's vow of constancy, but passionately, again and again, she cries: "'Don't fail me— don't fail me, or I shall die!'" (p. l4l). Olive does pour her soul into her relationship with her protegee. As promised, she takes her to Europe, educates her, and improves her culturally. She grooms Verena for her public career with unflagging dedication. To her credit, she is not jealous that Verena is in the 167 spotlight while she remains in the shadows. When Olive and Verena visit the Burrages in New York, they have been together for approximately two years. Verena enthusiastically warms to the city and to the hospitality of the socially elite Burrages. Olive, in turn,becomes hostile and suspicious of the girl's relationship with Henry Burrage, a former suitor. When Basil Ransom appears unexpectedly, Olive becomes more upset. She resents the possibility of anyone interfering in her relationship with the girl, and she is most hurt that Verena can be gracious and enjoy any­ one's company but her own. As Basil Ransom emerges as the greater threat, Olive even briefly contemplates marrying Verena off to Henry Burrage because he, at least, would be controllable, unlikely to interfere in their work together for women's liberation. Olive is determined to hold onto Verena; Ransom becomes bolder in his crusade to wrench the girl away. Olive realizes the girl's weakness for the Southerner when she finally reveals the fact of his secret visit to Cambridge. Thus begins Olive's dreamed-of martyrdom as she painfully and helplessly watches the girl, despite her own protests of remaining faithful to Olive and their cause, fall under Ransom's spell. On their last day at Marmion, Verena runs away with Basil for' the day after promising Olive that she only wanted to see him for a moment to send him away for good. Wandering over the beach, Olive spends the day in lonely desolation. For the first time in two years, however, 168 she lifts the veil of romance on her relationship with her protegee: She knew, again, how noble and beautiful her scheme had been, but how it had all rested on an illusion of which the very thought made her feel faint and sick. What was before her now was reality.... the reality was simply that Verena had been more to her than she ever was to Verena, and that, with her exquisite natural art, the girl had cared for their cause only because, for the time, no interest, no fascination was greater....Verena had submitted, she had responded, she had lent herself to Olive's incitement and exhortation, be­ cause she was sympathetic and young and abundant and fanciful; but it had been a kind of hothouse loyalty, the mere contagion of example and a sen­ timent springing up from within had easily breathed a chill upon it. (pp. *1-22-23) Olive honestly confronts the humiliating truth of their soul union. In generosity, she does not blame Verena for fal­ sity or superficiality; she realizes that the girl has acted only according to her simple nature which was partly the reason for her original attraction for Olive. Olive realizes, too, that what has happened between them is the result of Olive's stronger, more ambitious personality. The real knowledge of these facts begins to "burn...within her like a fire" (p. ^23). While she desperately kidnaps Verena from her cousin in a last attempt to regain the illusion of their alliance and their cause, she knows that her struggle is doomed because Verena, recognizing her love for Ransom, is beyond Olive's influence. Olive is prepared for the Southerner's dramatic appearance at the Boston lecture hall on the evening of Verena's major debut. She knows that he will be the one to seal her fate. Ignoring her pleas, he does spirit Verena away. But Ransom realizes the fate he has left for his cousin: he sees her "pale, glittering eyes straining forward, as if they were looking for death" (p. 4-62). Olive is left to face the taunts of Mrs. Farrinder and the Burrages and the humiliation of the vociferous crowd. The narrator notes her final act of rushing to the stage as if "she hoped to find the fierce expiration she sought for in exposure to the thousands she had disappointed and deceived, in offering herself to he trampled to death and torn to pieces" (p. 462). Olive passionately hurls herself to a figurative suicide after being rejected by her lover just as Zenobia sought literal death to end her agony at being abandoned by Hollingsworth. Reader sympathy for Hawthorne's heroine is easily aroused because Zenobia's positive features far outweigh her faults. Reader sympathy for Olive, however, is mixed; Olive's as­ pirations for Verena and women's rights are well-meaning in themselves, but she becomes fanatical in trying to achieve them. James grants her intelligence, generosity, and a measure of dignity* Essentially, she is as tragic as she is neurotic. Verena Tarrant resembles Hawthorne's Priscilla even more than Olive does Zenobia. The one difference, again, is in appearance. Priscilla is a fragile, pale girl when she comes to Blithedale where she gradually blooms. Verena's good looks are important to her character; they are initially what draws people to her. Oddly enough, she, like Priscilla, 170 has such white skin that she looks anemic. Her skin is set off by rich, abundant red hair and "curious, radiant, liquid eyes." (She reminds Basil Ransom of an "Oriental" which is an interesting analogy when one remembers Coverdale's com­ parison of Zenobia to an Oriental. Both Hawthorne and James apparently associate dramatic looks with the East.) Verena's similarity to Priscilla is obvious in her naive simplicity, her natural desire to please others so much that she becomes submissive, and her ability to love. What is distinctively her own is her intelligence. In an early scene between Verena and her mother, the narrator points out that she is "both submissive and unworldly." Because she is so, she listens to her mother's advice to cultivate Olive Chan­ cellor, and, immediately, she falls under the influence of Olive's intense personality. Like other Jamesian heroines, Verena has "the consummate innocence of the American girl" (p. 12*0. It is this innocence and simplicity which Olive prizes as a rare gift and upon which she wants to capitalize to shape Verena as her soul sister. Olive notes, for instance, that Verena has an "abstract, platonic" conception of "the cruelty of man, of his immemorial injustice {to womenj"; Olive wants Verena to real-ize this cruelty so that she will re­ nounce men forever and join forces with Olive for women's rights. Verena's simplicity also allows her to speak frankly about what is on her mind. She has no self-consciousness or coquetry— a fact that charms Basil Ransom. 171 In the development of their relationship, Verena is extremely dependent upon and submissive to Olive and her plans for their future. Like Priscilla, she totally trusts her adopted sister. She becomes caught up in the romance of Olive's wealth and the possibilities it offers for education, cultivation, and social and professional privileges. She trusts her own gift of an eloquent voice, but she also trusts Olive's promise to give her eloquent words and a responsive, responsible audience. The undiscriminating girl also con­ siders Mrs. Luna and New York romantically appealing, but Olive pulls her away to a more austere romanticism— working dedication for women. Verena submits, and they spend hours poring over "the history of feminine anguish." An indication of the degree of Verena*s dependence on her sponsor are the repeated pleas she makes to Olive to save her from falling in love with Basil Ransom. Another part of Verena's submissive character is her ability to offer love to others. The narrator reveals that a part of "her essence was the extraordinary generosity with which she could expose herself, give herself away, turn herself inside out for the satisfaction of a person who made demands of her"(p. 292). She offers her love to Olive in sisterhood--and even offers to make a vow of a permanent relationship. Verena's impulse for joining Olive is simple enough. She believes in and admires the older woman's knowledge of various subjects ranging from Bach and Beethoven to the chronicles of suffering women— all of which Olive 172 passes on to her with an eloquent intensity: "Miss Chancellor was historic and philosophic; or, at any rate, she appeared so to Verena, who felt that through such an association one might at last intellectually command all life" (p. 1^1). Verena needs to be rescued from the low, stifling atomosphere of her parents' environment, and Olive offers her this escape. „ Verena also commits herslef to Olive because, given her generosity of spirit, she does want to please a woman who evidently cares for her so much and who also agonizes over and tortures herself about the many disappointments and dis­ pleasures she meets in life. Verena gives herself up to this soul union, but recognizes that it does not engage her com­ plete, deepest emotions. Basil Ransom recognizes Verena's gift for love and works to substitute himself as the recipient. In doing so, he tries to convince Verena both of her distinct capability for a male-female relationship and of the natural and social priori­ ty of heterosexual marriage over a soul union with another woman. He tells her how artificial her life in gaslit lecture halls is, how preposterous it is for her to sacrifice herself for worthless causes when she could "stand...forth in... freedom" in a marriage— i.e., marriage would allow her to do what she wants for herself and her chosen husband instead of the nameless, countless undeserving multitude. Moreover, he insists that "the use of a truly amiable woman is to make some honest man happy" (p. 2^4). Such arguments may be specious and sententious, but, hearing them again and again, 173 Verena falls under the spell of the Southerner's eloquence. She naively admits him into her life because, trusting to her own power to influence people, she is intent on converting him to their cause. She fights the conflict of feelings he arouses in her, but inevitably yields to an emotion more passionate than she had ever thought herself capable of: "She loved, she was in love--she felt it in every throb of her being"(p.396). And, as Ransom predicted, Verena discovers that she does like herself better as a future wife than as a glamorous public speaker. Priscilla's attachment to Zenobia is complete and trusting, having been nurtured by stories their father told in her childhood. She surrenders herself to Zenobia's guidance in her development, as may be inferred from the fact that she becomes healthier, prettier, more charming in their associa­ tion. The reader is not privy to Priscilla's thoughts; however, it would seem that Priscilla recognizes the natural precedence of Hollingsworth's claim for her devotion in a heterosexual marriage over the claims of sisterly fidelity. This is basically the pattern in the situation of Verena, Olive, and Ransom— except that Verena's attachment to Olive is not complete, does not engage her deepest loyalties. And it is because of her passivity that Ransom can sweep the girl away in thrilling new emotions. In both Hawthorne's and James's works, however, the female union is viewed as deficient because it does not develop the total capacity for love and individual identity of which human beings are capable. By l?k inference, one may conclude that the heterosexual union makes this growth possible. In giving his second heroine more interest than Hawthorne does, James develops Verena's intelligence in a way that is missing in Priscilla's characterization. Both heroines are essentially simplistic, but James takes pains to demonstrate that Verena's mind is as uncritical as her feelings are easily touched. For instance, Verena's idea of enjoyment is putting on a new hat with splendid feathers; she thinks twenty cents is a large sum of money. Likewise, her knowledge of and appreciation for the women's cause is that of a child with her favorite fairy tale. She has absorbed and accepted the interest from her parents as far back as she can remember: "She had long followed with sympathy the movement for the liberation of her sex from every sort of bondage; it had been her principal interest as a child (...at the age of nine she had christened her favorite doll Eliza P. Moseley, in memory of a great precursor whom they all reverenced), and now the inspiration...seemed to flow in that channel" (p. 56). The narrator’s remark about Verena's doll indicates her un­ sophisticated commitment. Likewise, Verena is ignorantly charmed by her age which she thinks is enlightened and vigorous— as judged by the multitude of reform projects and reformers. Olive Chancellor recognizes the girl's naivete, but also credits her with an ability to learn the truth and to publish it with her eloquent voice. Olive strives hard to educate l IS her protfegfee who repays the work by becoming an effective spokeswoman. It is Verena's gift, in fact, to be able to persuade those who are particularly prejudiced or uninterested. This is why she is so confident of changing Basil Ransom. She fails, of course, because she is too inexperienced, too naive to evaluate properly the gentleman's considerably more cul­ tivated knowledge and eloquence. Because Olive Chancellor can appreciate the intellectual disparity between these two, she becomes most fearful of Ransom overwhelming Verena. Verena does have, however, some intuitive capabilities regarding people. She is most sensitive to Olive's intensity from the very beginning of their relationship. She sees that Olive has an enormous capacity for suffering from which Verena tries hard to spare her. Verena also quickly recognizes that Basil Ransom's Interest in her is "personal," not poli­ tical; it is Ironic that she subsequently judges her intel­ lectual force to be stronger than his. To her credit, Verena is capable of analyzing her growing feelings for Ransom and the measure of her ties to Olive and to their joint crusade. After a short time of confusion, she recognizes that she is in love with the Southerner and that being in love makes her happy. Unfortunately, as her love builds, her ability to study him decreases. After he offers her his fairly cynical, brutal view of humanity, Verena responds simply by rationaliz­ ing that something tragic had probably happened in his life to make him so cruel. She does not challenge very far his sententious arguments about the proper place for women. She 176 does not recognize the hollowness of his promises about her own blossoming personality: she surrenders herself completely to his care, as he finally kidnaps her from Olive, her family, and her career. Olive's great fear for women is thus realized for her dearest friend. This is an awful fate in which the narrator concurs, for the last sentence of the novel reads: "It is to be feared that with the union, so far from brilliant, into which she [verena] was about to enter, these were not the last ^tears^ she was destined to shed" (p. 464). Like Priscilla, therefore, Verena chooses marriage and enters upon a life which robs her of an opportunity to develop a^distinct identity, a life which substitutes sacrifice and unhappiness for the gratification and comfort of the male partner. Unlike The Blithedale Romance, The Bostonians includes several minor female characters. One plausible explanation for this is that, in a novel concerning itself with women's rights, these women appropriately demonstrate several facets of the nineteenth-century American woman. Despite the doubt that James expressed in a letter to his brother about the novel in 1885, that he had "the sense of knowing terribly O little about the kind of life I had attempted to describe," Sara deSaussure Davis, in a carefully researched article, demonstrates that James was much aware of the feminist activi­ ties of his time: He drew his knowledge from the circumstances of his travels and friendships, using not only the general subject matter of the debate over feminism but specific figures and events associated with it. From 1865 to I885, his trips back and forth among the three major cities of feminist activity— London, Boston, and New York— increased his sense that feminism was a powerful, important aspect of social change. Additionally, James was personally acquainted with various people associated with the movement, including Louisa May Alcott and Julia- Ward Howe. Most influential on the novel as con­ temporary, real-life sources were Anna Dickinson the model for Verena Tarrant and her relationship to three of her supporters: Wendell Phillips, Susan B. Anthony, and Whitelaw Reid. James knew the two men well; and if he did not know Anna Dickinson personally, he knew of her, as his early writing reveals.9 In the measure that each woman abandons the traditional role of supportive wife and helpmate in The Bostonians, she is found lacking. By implication, society suffers from this abandonment. Thus, Olive Chancellor's assertion that libera­ ted women can correct social ills is judged as wrongheaded. Miss Birdseye, the famous octagenarian spinster, has spent her life on various popular humanitarian causes, the latest of which is women's rights. The narrative treatment of her is complicated; at some points, she is venerated for her life of services; at other points, she is held up to genteel ridicule. Olive Chancellor sees her as a successful martyr, and Verena Tarrant treats her with reverence. Even Basil Ransom admits her nobility. The narrator explains the reason for Miss Birdseye's distinction: "It was the perennial freshness of Miss Birdseye's faith that had had such a con­ tagion for these modern maidens [verena and OliveJ , the un­ quenched flame of her transcendentalism, the simplicity of her vision, the way in which in spite of mistakes, deceptions, the changing fashions of reform...the only thing that was still actual for her was the elevation of the species by the 178 reading of Emerson and the frequentation of Tremont Temple" (p. I83). The references to Emerson and Tremont Temple may­ be oblique sarcasm, but the compliment to her sturdy faith remains. The shabby humanitarian does have an unquenchable faith in the goodness of mankind. And yet this faith, as wonderful as it is, is also romantically naive. For instance, she is totally blind to the neurotic impulses of Olive's character; she sees her only as a proven benefactress. Worse yet, she romanticizes Ransom as a delinquent Southerner whose eyes have been opened to women's emancipation by the progressive Boston women. She even tells Verena that she is convinced Ransom will defend their cause as a leader. Miss Birdseye's death clearly indicates— at least to Ransom— how pitiful her life essentially was. After a lifetime of dedication, he reflects, "the only persons, apparently, to whom her death made a real difference were three young women in a small 'frame-house' on Cape Cod" (p. ^-1^) . It is not difficult to see in Verena Tarrant a younger version of Miss Birdseye. And it is not difficult to regret that she should follow the footsteps of such a figure. Miss Birdseye thus represents the heroic, but pitiful public figure of a female humanitarian. The acknowledged leader of the feminists, Mrs. Farrinder, is presented in a humorous if distinctly critical light. She has long been a successful crusader for temperance and women's rights. She is also taken with her own importance and infallibility and apparently is an expert in manipulating 179 people. Olive persistently seeks her approval of Verena in their work, but Mrs. Farrinder is not about to share her limelight with such an unproven ingenue. Mrs. Farrinder puts Olive in her place by reminding her of her social position and consequent responsibility to "wake up the Back Bay," a class with which Olive has no emotional affinity. After a one-page description of Mrs. Farrinder’s brilliance, the narrator adds, abruptly, "She had a husband, and his name was Amariah" (p. 31). Clearly, Mrs. Farrinder is the asser­ tive, ambitious masculine force in this marriage. Mrs. Tarrant, Verena's mother, is portrayed as a morally, socially, and financially destitute woman— the result of an ill-favored marriage to a charlatan, vagabond husband who has spent a lifetime espousing various reforms and causes, including, always, his own. The narrator describes Mrs. Tarrant's life: "She had lived with long-haired men and short-haired women, she had contributed a flexible faith and an irremediable want of funds to a dozen social experiments, she had partaken of the comfort of a hundred religions, had followed innumerable dietary reforms chiefly of the negative order, and had gone of an evening to a seance or a lecture as regularly as she had eaten her supper" (pp. 72-73). Mrs. Tarrant desperately wants Verena to escape a life such as this, and, to achieve this goal, she joins her husband in "selling" their daughter to Olive Chancellor. Mrs. Tarrant offers a good example of the moral destitution of an age which is so caught up with reform. Mrs. Burrage, the widowed mother of one of Verena*s admirers, is a socially secure and affluent New York matron who is also used to achieving her goals without undue opposi­ tion. An intelligent woman, she realizes that, to keep her son's affection, she must secure Verena Tarrant as his wife. And to win Miss Tarrant, she must convince Olive Chancellor that the Burrages will support their cause. To that end, she has given the cause the largest contribution they have ever received and promoted Verena1s appearance at the Wednesday Club, a cultural gathering for wealthy New Yorkers seeking weekly enlightenment or entertainment. She promises future social and financial support if Olive will persuade Verena to accept the proposal. As Olive notes, Mrs. Burrage is "absolutely unscrupulous," and she proves this by reminding Olive that Verena*s marriage to her son would protect the girl from real danger— subtly implying an involvement with Basil Ransom. The socialite's clever thrust throws Olive into a near panic. But Mrs. Burrage remains urbane and con­ ciliatory throughout this interview— despite the fact that she intensely dislikes the Bostonian. Mrs. Burrage is thus another example of a woman living without the taming influ­ ence of a husband. Her interest in Verena and the feminist cause is thoroughly self-serving and hypocritical. Two women in the novel remain apart from the liberation reform, and yet, they, too, are not admirable characters. The better of these is Dr. Mary Prance, Miss Birdseye's physician and neighbor. Dr, Prance is quite involved and happy with 181 her medical career, and she thinks women involved in the reform movement are too sentimental and talk too much. She apparently does not feel handicapped in her profession by being female, but she does not want to neglect her studies which might allow "gentlemen-doctors" to get ahead of her. "Spare, dry, hard, without a curve, an inflection or a grace, she seemed to ask no odds in the battle of life and to be prepared to give none" (p. 41). Basil Ransom approves of her tough and forthright cynicism, but he relates to her as a man. It is obvious that, likeable as she is, Dr. Prance is divorced from all that is feminine and domestic. She is a product of a society that allows its women to stray beyond the confines of a home into a typically male profession. Mrs. Luna, Qlive Chancellor's widowed sister, also has no use for women's causes, but her reason is simply that she much prefers the society of men. Mrs. Luna is an indefatigable gossip and manchaser. Once she sets eyes on Ransom, whom she admires as a member of the fallen Southern aristocracy, she goes after him with flattery, assumed graces, threats, cries of help to manage both her money and her son— in short, all the ammunition she can muster. When she become suspicious of the Southerner's interest in her sister's protegee, she becomes openly critical of the girl's looks, background, and association with Olive. Mrs. Luna is totally self-deluded; she considers herself attractive, intelligent, discreet, and genteel. In actuality, she is frivolous, strident, moronic. Deprived of her husband's guidance, she is ruining her life 182 and that of her son who is growing up to be pampered and selfish. One man interacts with and judges most of these women — Basil Ransom— whom the narrator introduces as "the most important person in my narrative" (p. '5). Certainly, this is accurate because his interest in Verena and animosity for the women's cause change the lives of the characters in the novel. His importance is thus similar to that of Hol­ lingsworth in The Blithedale Romance who sets off a rivalry between Zenobia and Priscilla and who destroys Zenobia in his rejection of her and what she represents. Basil Ransom is very much like the philanthropist in his physical appeal, his forceful character, his dislike of women's liberation, and his dedication to a single cause (in Ransom's case that cause is securing Verena Tarrant as his wife). James develops Ransom's character significantly more than Hawthorne does Hollingsworth's, but the philanthropist is presented through the eyes of the narrator Coverdale who himself competes for the women's affection. On the other hand, Ransom sometimes shares the narrative burden— for instance, giving his inter­ pretations of the various women— and James wants to make the salient features of this man's personality clear so that the reader can intelligently interpret his biases. To this end, James gives Basil Ransom a lengthy intro­ duction at the beginning of The Bostonians. The narrator describes his appearance, in part, in these words: " ^The] magnificent eyes...of Basil Ransom were dark, deep, and 183 glowing; his head had a character of elevation which fairly added to his stature; it was a head to be seen above the level of a crowd, on some judicial bench or political plat­ form, or even on a bronze medal. His forehead was high and broad, and his thick black hair, perfectly straight and glossy, and without any division, rolled back from it in a leonine manner" (pp. 4-5)* The young man is strikingly attractive, especially his compelling eyes. He is a man who easily commands the attention of women. Ransom*s Mississippi drawl adds to his distinctiveness. A lawyer, Ransom has come North to seek professional oppor-

i tunities which will redeem his mother and sisters from their genteel poverty, a result of the Civil War's destruction of their once vast estate. As a Southerner and a veteran of the turbulence of the war and its aftermath, Ransom is an extremely conservative person. He has no sympathy with the mania for seemingly innumerable reforms which Northerners engage in for an apparent lack of something better to do. Ransom finds it particularly offensive that women have gone public to crusade for these reforms, including the cause of their own liberation. And yet these are the Northerners he meets on his first visit to his cousin, Olive Chancellor. Ransom is an intelligent and educated, if narrowly opiniated, young man. He is grimly determined to find success in New York, but, after a year and a half of no advancement, he is forced to re-evaluate his position. His soul-searching makes him realize that he is more interested in the theory 184 of the law than in the practice of it. He is fascinated with large social, economic, and governmental issues about which he finds his own age either ignorant or wrongheaded. "He was by natural disposition a good deal of a stoic, and that, as the result of a considerable intellectual experience, he was, in social and political matters, a reactionary. I suppose he was very conceited, for he was much addicted to judging his own age. He thought it talkative, querulous, hysteri­ cal, maudlin, full of false ideas, of unhealthy germs, of extravagant, dissipated habits, for which a great reckoning was in store" (p. 194). Ransom decides to put his own ideas into articles which, after several initial rejections, seem welcome to a particular editor. This minor success reassures him about a career as a political writer, perhaps as a poli­ tical representative. It also convinces him of the right­ ness of his opinions. The fact that he feels assured about his personal and professional future on the basis of these slim successes indicates the extent of his conceit. One of the Southerner's strong opinions is that women are inferior to men and that their only suitable sphere of influence is domestic: women are created by God for the con­ solation of man. What is demanded of men is that they treat women with respectful chivalry, and he always tries to do this. However, his social opinions find their foundation in his own strong needs for importance and esteem. As Ransom becomes more interested in Verena Tarrant, he becomes deter­ mined to wrench her away from a public career, to rescue her 185 ' "by marrying her. He goes about this with the eager single- mindedness that Hollingsworth put into his criminal reform project. And his easy judgment about Verena*s life recalls Coverdale's similar assumptions about Zenobia. In fact, it is difficult to ascertain whether Ransom truly loves the girl because his conversations with and about her and his thoughts concerning her are mostly con­ cerned with rescuing her for himself. James does not provide Ransom with a sustained self-examination of his feelings for Verena as the author allows Verena, at several points in the novel, for her growing awareness of her love for Ransom. The most loving thoughts he ever has for her occur on the evening he goes to hear her address at Mrs. Burrage*s: She [Verena] was a touching, ingenuous vic­ tim, unconscious of the pernicious forces which were hurrying her to her ruin.... there had al­ ready associated itself in the young man's mind, the idea ...of rescue; and it was the disposition to confirm himself in his view that her charm was her own and her fallacies, her absurdity, a mere reflection of unlucky circumstances, that led him to make an effort to behold her in the position in which he could least bear to think of her. Such a glimpse was wanted to prove to him that she was a person for whom he might open an unlimited cre­ dit of tender compassion. He expected to suffer — to suffer deliciously. (pp» 253-5*0 • Obviously, Ransom makes severe distinctions about Verena*s person— all that is public is odious; all that is personal is worthy. His thoughts about the girl reveal, moreover, his own self-aggrandizements he will rescue, and he will suffer in the rescue. No thought is given to Verena*s wishes for her life. Yet, that evening, he decides that he 186' definitely is falling in love with her. Prom this point on, Ransom sets out to win Verena in the manner of a knight errant after a precious, well-protected prize. He is convinced that she is made for love. He recognizes her simple, generous natrue and submissive per­ sonality. He wants this for himself, and he feels very con­ fident that, if he continues to press her, to ridicule her public life, and to remind her of her wifely qualities, he will eventually be victorious. With his wide education, legal mind, and ample store of words, Ransom is quite able to ex­ pound his philosophy on women. For instance, he blames women for the weakness of their age. He passionately declaims to Verena on the lamentable feminization of their times: "‘The whole generation is womanized; the masculine tone is passing out of the world; it‘s a feminine, a nervous, hysterical, chattering, canting age, an age of hollow phrases and false delicacy and exaggerated solicitude and coddled sensibilities, which, if we don’t soon look out, will usher in the reign of mediocrity, of the feeblest and flatterst and the most pre­ tentious that has ever been" (p. 3^3)* Verena is often over­ whelmed by such an oration, and, secretly, feels that some­ thing dreadful in his past must have made him so bitterly satirical. The result is that her heart goes out to him. On other occasions, she rises to his bait and tries to counterargue. For instance, to his remarks that women belong in the home, she reminds him that millions of women have no husbands or home. He lightly responds that he would not mind 187 if one man had several wives. Reminded of a culture that approves of polygamy, she then asks if he approves of the Turkish civilization. He brushes this aside with the remark that it does not matter because Turkish women are not as charming as American women could be if they made themselves agreeable to men who would then ask them to marry. And he abruptly concludes the argument by asserting that Verena is the most charming of American women, perfectly designed for marriage to some man (by implication, him). And, of course, when Ransom gets this personal, Verena withdraws from the argument because of her new and confusing feelings for him that oppose her avowed cause. But Ransom, by whatever devices he chooses, wins these confrontations because he can depend on the girl's inferior, unformed intellect, but, more especi­ ally, her overwhelming desire to please others. And so he continues his courtship with such argumentation and with charming pleas to her to spend only a little time with him to discuss mutual matters of interest. He admits to her, on one occasion, that he is poor and, if she should be his wife, she could only expect a life of poverty. But at this point, Verena is too enamoured of him and too convinced of his no­ bility and his promise to achieve social regeneration to think seriously about financial matters. Ransom's thoughts and words about Verena as his wife confirm that he sees her as an object to be won in competi­ tion. After her talk at Mrs. Burrage*s, he expresses the conviction that, should they marry, he will "strike" her dumb." He realizes that she begins to fear him and the rupture he will cause with Olive. This encourages him "to press" her harder, to make her substitute self-trust entirely with trust in him. He becomes very bitter when Verena pleads with him to consider how her surrender would hurt Olive: "She forebore to plead that reason after she had seen how angry it made him, and with how almost savage a contempt he denounced so flimsy a pretext" (p. 402). He even begins to enjoy contemplating her kidnapping from Olive and her asso­ ciates; he pities her for not realizing how serious he is. When Olive beats him by kidnapping Verena from Marmion, Ransom becomes^ quite intent on regaining the girl before she can make her popular debut in Boston. He feels prepared to accomplish this adventure which "challenged all his manhood." Ignoring Olive's groveling humiliation and Verena's tortured pleas to give just this last lecture, he insists on whisking her away from the clamoring audience. Confident of her love and submission, he laughs: "'Keep your soothing words for me --you will have need of them all, in our coming time'" (p. 4-61). Ransom covers Verena with her long cloak and "thrust [Is] the hood...over her head to conceal her face and her identity"

(p. -6H-). Basil Ransom thus achieves his goal of securing Verena for himself and destroying her opportunity to develop a separate identity in, perhaps, a public career. He is aware that he has dealt a death-blow to Olive; he sees it in her eyes as they leave. But Olive has never meant anything to him; 189 he has consistently disapproved of her hard, zealous dedica­ tion to women’s rights as unnatural for a female. In contrast, Hollingsworth's remembered affection and subsequent cruelty to Zenobia overwhelms him so drastically that he totally

gives up his criminal reform project after her suicide, and, apparently, he is so destroyed by guilt that he cannot experi­ ence much joy in his marriage with Priscilla. Zenobia once remarked that Hollingsworth was admirable because he had a great heart, a great capacity for feeling. This feeling attribute is what is lacking in Basil Ransom whose professions of love for Verena seem feeble when compared to his heartless goal of acquiring her to feed his own gratification and narrow convictions of male supremacy. Ransom's shortcomings in his relationship with Verena indicate his general inadequa­ cies as a social spokesman or critic. His views on the age are as narrow and prejudiced and no more guaranteed to pro­ mote personal happiness than are Olive Chancellor's. But the Bostonian and the Southerner are intelligent and sensitive to the ills of American society; however, since both are themselves crippled by neurotic egos, their remedies are ineffective for society and harmful to the integrity of individuals within that society. * That Verena falls prey to Basil Ransom is not surprising! she has little knowledge of men. Her only prolonged experi­ ence has been with her father, a morally repulsive character who has also manipulated her to achieve his own ends. He fits the description of Westervelt, the unquestionable villain in 190

The Blithedale Romance who has total disregard for anyone's integrity. Like Westervelt, Tarrant is noted for "a set of big, even carnivorous teeth" (p. ^7), which he is fond of displaying often. Tarrant is also fond of making dramatic gestures with his indispensable waterproof as Westervelt is with his magician's cape. Tarrant has spend a lifetime following various popular reforms, including membership in a commune which advocated free love. Despite his superfi­ cially humanitarian projects, Tarrant is eager to acquire money and, even more urgently, fame. "His ideal of bliss was to be as regularly and indispensably a component part of the newspaper as the title and date, or the list of fires, or the column of Western jokes. The vision- 6f ithat, publi­ city haunted his dreams, and he would gladly have sacrifi­ ced to it the innermost sanctity of home" (p. 1 0 3 ). Tarrant, like Westervelt, is unscrupulous about using other people, including his family. At the beginning of the novel, Tarrant's role is to serve as the indispensable medium through which "the spirits" come to Verena so that she may speak confidently and elo­ quently. His approach is to mesmerize her into a state of calm lucidity (which recalls Westervelt's treatment of the Veiled Lady)• He places his hands upon her head: "Doctor Tarrant looked at no one as he stroked and soothed his daughter; his eyes wandered round the corner of the room, and he grinned upward, as if at an imaginary gallery. "Quietly,1 — quietly,' he murmured, from time to time. 'It will come, • 191 my good child, it will come. Just let it work— just let it gather. The spirit, you know; you've got to let the spirit come out when it will.' He threw up his arms at moments, to rid himself of the wings of his long waterproof, which fell over his hands" (p. 6 5 ). No one in the audience is much impressed with Tarrant's grotesque routine, but they are pleased with the fresh elo­ quence of his pretty daughter. Olive Chancellor and Basil Ransom are quick to identify him as a vulgar charlatan. And this makes it easy for her to "buy" Verena from him. Indeed, Tarrant is not at all perturbed by handing over his daughter to a virtual stranger. He deposits the check in his water­ proof, membles a few words about the girl's development, treats Olive with a "large joyless smile," and disappears, literally enough, from Verena*s life. Through his daughter, he has won money and, as her promise as a feminist speaker becomes realized, he will win some public notice due to their relationship. Essentially, James paints Tarrant as an un­ equivocal villain just as Hawthorne denounces the magician; both men are culpable for their blatant disregard of the integrity ancLrights of other individuals. As James provides a realistic backdrop to the cause of women's rights with a gallery of minor women characters, he balances the novel by incorporating two minor male charac­ ters— Matthias Pardon and Henry Burrage— who are as equally deficient in morals and manners as the women characters. Pardon is a Dickensian caricature of a nosey newspaperman who is romantically interested in Verena Tarrant. He is very alert to all issues and subject of his time, about which he can prattle on for hours without encouragement. He believes in the absolute right and glory of the newspaper: "All things, with him, referred themselves to print, and print meant simply infinite reporting, a promptitude of announcement, abusive when necessary, or even when not, about his fellow-citizens. He poured contumely on their private life, on their personal appearance, with the best conscience in the world" (p. 125)* At age twenty-eight, he is con­ sidered the most brilliant interviewer on the Boston press. When Olive removes Verena from his sphere, his personal in­ terest in her dies. Yet he is quick to realize that much can be made of the girl's public life. He proves this on the night of Verena's Boston debut by trying to stir Mrs. Luna up to say something hostile— and, therefore, of reader interest— about her sister and her protegee. Pardon thus ironically exemplifies both Olive's conception of the cruelty of men and Ransom's conviction of the degeneracy of his age. Henry Burrage has his share of faults, too. Belonging to a wealthy and prestigious New York family and educated at Harvard, he is a sophisticated, charmingly spoiled young man. He is attracted to Verena because she is so completely different from any girl he has ever known. Burrage's idea of a good life is to enjoy it as much as possible. To this end, for instance, he collects various art treasures. He 193 would like to collect Verena also. "jHe told herj that he liked her for the same reason that he liked old enamels and old embroideries; and when she said that she didn't see how she resembled such things, he had replied that it was be­ cause she was so peculiar and so delicate" (p. 151)* When Verena rejects his first marriage proposal, he persuades his mother that Verena is essential to his happiness and con­ vinces her to bribe Olive and Verena to accept his offer. Henry Burrage is deficient in moral development; his only principle for action is self-gratification. He, too, proves the respective accusations against men and the age made by Olive Chancellor and Basil Ransom. II.

The Blithedale Romance is an achievement for Hawthorne. He creates psychological complexity in two major characters, Zenobia and Coverdale, and demonstrates at least an awareness of the psychological verities of human behavior in two other characters, Priscilla and Hollingsworth. The book is ostensibly a romance, but it has a realism which conveys the ambiguities and mysteries of life to which Hawthorne is so sensitive. It also illuminates the complications of social issues of the times as they affected the people who experiened them. Hawthorne uses trait objectification, disguise, dream material and the first-person narrator especially well in this major work to develop his characters and themes. Trait objectification in The Blithedale Romance achieves a comparatively sophisticated level of symbolization wherein 194 objects reveal several truths about the characters and their interactions. Hawthorne's use of this technique in the romance definitely anticipates Henry James's similar experi­ ments and refinements in character development. As noted in Part I, Zenobia is represented by her exotic hot-house flower. Hawthorne allows Coverdale to say bluntly that it is the symbol of her personality. But no further heavy- handed explantation of the flower is offered to the reader, although Coverdale is so intrigued with it that he mentions it often enough. The meanings of this flower symbol are multiple— some obvious, some subtle. The fact that Zenobia can daily afford a hot-house flower indicates her wealth. Her choice of a richly exotic speciment points to her own exotic appearance and her vain pride in it. She claims that the flower is the sole leftover of happier "more brilliant" days, and one can intuit from this remark that she has enjoyed her past brilliance. The flower is clearly foreign to the Blithedale environment and suggests that its wearer is, too, and, moreover, that her success and longevity in the community are as doomed as the flower’s. But Zenobia is a wealthy woman and could easily afford more expensive ornaments; her choice of a flower says that she does appreciate nature and its beauties. This appreciation of nature may be ja qualified sign of sympathy because Hawthorne traditionally associates love of nature with a morally healthy person. When Zenobia takes Priscilla to the city and Westervelt, she replaces her hot-house bloom with an artificial jeweled flower iwhich 195 fittingly symbolizes an estrantegment from nature at the time she is betraying her young sister. Priscilla's initially musterious character is similarly symbolized by the silk purse. But Hawthorne uses a second image to express Priscilla— the flower. Unlike Zenobia, Priscilla is associated with various unspecified delicate blossoms that are indigenous to the New England environment. The language that Coverdale uses to record Priscilla's growth is that of a thriving flower or plant. Shortly after her appearance at the farm, Priscilla reminds the ,poet "of plants that one sometimes observes doing their best to vegetate among the bricks of an enclosed court, where there is scanty soil, and never any sunshine" (pp. 50-51)• During the summer she keeps "budding and blossoming." Coverdale declares that her heart is "a rosebud." Clearly, the continual description of Priscilla's growth as a natural flower is a sign of Hawthorne's blessing on her. Although it is not elaborated on, trait objectification is part of the character development of the men, too. Cover­ dale states that his hermitage "symbolized my individuality." He speaks perhaps more truly than he intends. He ostensibly enjoys the hermitage because it allows him the privacy and solitude he needs from living in the commune. However, the hermitage also allows him to spy on Zenobia and Westervelt without their even guessing his presence.^ By extension, one can see that Coverdale always hides or protects his individuality in a figurative/psychological hermitage in order 196 to indulge his habit of probing others' behavior. It is interesting to note that, when he feels safe in his literal hermitage, he can speak out loud about what he observes concerning his friends: he asks a bird to warn Priscilla about putting too much faith in Zenobia and Hollingsworth, and he can also admit the inevitable failure of the Blithedale project: "Our especial scheme of reform, which, from my ob­ servatory, I could take in with the bodily eye, looked so ridiculous that it was impossible not to laugh aloud" (p. 101) Hollingsworth is represented by Eliot's Pulpit, a shattered granite boulder between twenty to thirty feet high. Although Coverdale does not explicitly make the con­ nection between the man and the boulder as he does with the other characters and their symbols, it is obvious that the rock is a natural complement to Hollingsworth's hardened heart and iron resolve concerning his criminal reform scheme. Fittingly, Hollingsworth uses the rock as a pulpit to preach to Zenobia, Priscilla, and Coverdale; in truth, he is always trying to convince them to join him in his project. The few flowers that grow near the rock remind the poet of Priscilla: "A tuft of pale columbines £grewj...in their season and violets, sad and shadowy recluses, such as Priscilla was, when we first saw her" (p. 119). The only affection that grows in Hollingsworth's heart is for Priscilla. The granite also forms "a shallow cave" where the foursome seek shelter during rainstorms. The shelter is shallow and superficial, indeed, for Hollingsworth' abandons Zenobia and Coverdale in 197 their turn at the same site. The Blithedale Romance studies in great detail the dis­ crepancies "between how a person represents himself to others and what he truly isj it coincides with the romance's theme about the conflict between an individual’s self-interests and his commitment to the community's interests. Because of this study, the motif of disguise is important in the romance. Hawthorne does an excellent job with disguise by relying to a significant extent on the natural discrepancy between public versus private faces in his major characters (as opposed to the obvious and clumsy artifical masks assigned only to minor characters). Zenobia's appearance and manner are such that she reminds Coverdale of a "great actress." Part of his difficulty is that she is a very dramatic looking woman with a self-confidence and passion that are clearly visible in her interactions with others? apparently, Coverdale’s only experience with a woman of this force has been in the theatre. But Zenobia's self- confidence is, in part, a convenient disguise; she uses it as a front to mask her passionate feelings for Hollingsworth. While she does believe in the ^lithedale scheme, she admits that she has no intention of devoting her life to it. She wants especially to be there because she knows Hollingsworth will be there and, in the common environment, they can meet naturally and become acquainted gradually. In fact, the philanthropist is the first topic she mentions when she arrives. She generously praises him to Coverdale: "'What a 198 voice he hasl And what a man he is! Yet not so much an intellectual man, I should say, as a great heart; at least, he moved me more deeply than I think myself capable of being moved, except by the stroke of a true, strong heart against my own'" (p. 21). These words are not lost on the poet who charts the growing intensity of her love as she amd Hollingsworth develop a relationship. Likewise, the poet notes how she backs down from her stand on women's rights on numerous occasions because she does not want to offend the philanthropist. No wonder that she resents Coverdale*s prying --it threatens her public face and image. It is important to note, moreover, that her posture as Hollingsworth's lover is a disguise which she uses to hide a part of her real self from herself. An essential part of Zenobia is her oherished championship of social reform for women— and her independence and assertiveness which would certainly be threatened by a relationship with Hollingsworth. Zenobia is a case of the divided self. Like James's Isabel Archer, she tries to minimize herself, to adapt herself to an acceptable image of woman for the man she loves. Zenobia's pitiful, sobbing breakdown and suicide are certain indications of how much her love for Hollingsworth has cost her, for she has lost not only her lover but her reasons for self-esteem. Coverdale, too, wears a mask, and one wonders how aware he is of it. He hides behind the pose of the congenial gentle­ man and poet who is willing to offer friendship and sympathy to his co-workers. However, Zenobia and Priscilla see him as a determinedly trash snoop. In fact, the only occasion on which Priscilla shows any spirit is when the poet taunts her about how remarkable a couple Zenobia and Hollingsworth make in order to elicit her feelings about the philanthropist. In a sense, the hermitage is a literal extension of Cover- dale's disguise; it hides him from others he can observe, and, safe behind it, he can utter his true feelings about his fellow Utopians. Even from the vantage point of his later years, he still maintains that he intended nothing but sympathy for their fates. As narrator of his own story, Coverdale does not resolve the discrepancy between what he thinks he is and what others think he is. Hawthorne is skilled enough to maintain this discrepancy in human inter­ actions . Priscilla's disguise is her role as the Veiled Lady which, in keeping with her virginal character, is forced on her by others who are strong-willed. The purpose of the Veiled Lady in the romance is to give the plot some interest (Coverdale mentions the Veiled Lady on the first page)and to give Priscilla an appealing mystery. Parenthetically, she gives Hawthorne an opportunity to denounce mesmerism, a popular fad of the times which he considered most dangerous to the integrity of the human soul. Hawthorne manages the identity of the Veiled Lady and her connection with Priscilla well; at no time does he resort to far-fetched or preternatural means or explanations. Even Priscilla's psychic sensibilities are credible enough for the modern reader. Priscilla's 200 dramatic release from Westervelt when Hollingsworth beckons her in love may be read as an indication that true love allows one to shed her unhappy, complicating selves in order to develop her real self, in this case, the devoted wife. This is an ironic reversal of Zenobia's fate. Hollingsworth's disguise is clearly the pose he assumes by joining the socialist community. He admits to Coverdale his belief that Blithedale is a farce and his intention of acquiring the property for his own scheme. When Coverdale warns and pleads with him to inform the community of his in­ tentions, he responds adamantly: "'It does not suit me.... nor is it my duty to do so1", (p. 133)* Zenobia, too, finally realizes the philanthropist's real self; in her view, he has posed as a man of generous, noble heart when, in actuality, he is an iron-hearted egomaniac. Her accusation, which comes at the point of her breakdown, is passionately dramatic: "'It is all self1....I see it now! I am awake, disenchanted, disenthralled! Self, self, self! You have embodied yourself in a project. You are a better masquerader than the witches and gypsies yonder; for your disguise is a self-deception*" (p. 218). Although delivered emotionally, Zenobia's analysis is accurate; ironically, Hollingsworth deceives himself and is unaware of it. The tragedy of an exclusive devotion to philanthropy, as Coverdale/Hawthorne points out, is an atrophied heart and a diseased, divided self. Even the minor characters, Wiestervelt and Old Moodie, wear disguises, but theirs are simple pieces of the romance's 201 business. Westervelt's disguises are his artificial teeth, which are the one clue to the fact that his handsome appear­ ance hides a corrupt soul, his professorial title, and his Eastern costume— both of which also mask his evil. Old Moodie is the transformed Fauntleroy who holds the secret about the connection between the two women. Moreover, he wears a patch on one eye and acts as though he is trying to hide behind it. One of the most reprehensible things Cover­ dale does is to ply the old man with liquor in order to discover his identity and secrets. In addition to its development in individual characters, the disguise motif is carefully threaded throughout the plot of the romance. Because the socialists have left one life to take up the fragile life of the commune— most of them without any real knowledge of farming— the Blithedale experience appears like an adventurous masquerade to Coverdale at times. Zenobia's realism provokes this comparison on the first night: "The presence of Zenobia caused our heroic enterprise to show like an illusion, a masquerade, a pastoral, a counter­ feit Arcadia, in which we grown-up men and women were making a play-day of the years that were given us to live in" (p. 21). When the neophytes first go into the fields they wear the worn out, unfashionable clothes they brought from the city which are totally inappropriate. Coverdale remarks on how ludicrous a lot they are; but they soon learn to wear simple homespun as the only suitable garments for farm labor. If they want to pursue the country life, they must cast aside all remnants of their city life. Ironically, near the end of the romance, the Utopians enact a real masquerade; the disguises they choose are very discordant: an Indian Chief, the goddess Diana, a Bavarian broomgirl, a negro "of the Jim Crow order," and two foresters of the middle ages among them. Although real, this scene is reminiscent of the one Goodman Brown hallucinated in the forest. Like that scene, this one's discordancy is also indicative of something tragic or wrong. Its very disorder represents the imminent destruction of the Blithedale utopia where the enthusiasts could not give up their clashing individualities for the sake of the common good. Fittingly, Zenobia is the proud queen of this crew; the next scene shows how Hollingsworth rejects her and how humiliated and incurably distraught she becomes. The chapters on "Zenobia's Legend" and "Fauntl roy" also weave the disguise motif into the plot. In his discussion of the disguise motif, Robert Emmet Long also points out: "The peculiar shifting perspective of the novel, the fact that Coverdale, from his pine tree eyrie and at his hotel window, catches only glimpses of the other characters, 11 adds to a screening effect." In essence, Hawthorne exploits the disguise motif to illuminate the psychological truth that man is not always what he seems to be— even to himself. And those who wear disguises may destroy the real selves they are trying to hide. When he is in the city, Coverdale makes a critical observation about houses that is pertinent: "It is likewise 203 to be remarked, as a general rule, that there is...more truth to native and characteristic tendencies, and vastly greater suggestiveness, in the back view of a residence, whether in town or country, than in its front. The latter is always artificial; it is meant for the world*s eye, and is therefore a veil and a concealment. Realities keep in the rear, and put forward an advance-guard of show and humbug" (p. 1^9)- In similar fashion, Zenobia, Hollingsworth, and Coverdale keep their realities hidden and their con­ cealments ruin them. The Blithedale Romance also uses dreams and fantasy material extensively, but for various purposes and with varying success. However, this technique, too, is developed without any reliance on supernatural gimmicks. In his Pre­ face, Hawthorne himself says he capitalizes on experiences at Brook Farm which are "essentially a day-dream" to create the romance. And he goes on to plead a case for the American romance that colors reality with a free imagination. Be­ cause he controls the narrative, Coverdale provides the dream material, but he does so, more importantly, because he has cultivated a lively, romantic imagination. In the poet, Hawthorne provides a full psychological picture of the imaginative artist. Coverdale admits to and indulges his fancy on his cohorts; he pictures Zenobia, the exotic woman, as Eve and Priscilla, the pallid seamstress, as a fragile sylph. As he admits about Priscilla, he often pre­ fers his fancies about others to that which he observes about them; he rationalizes that, sometimes, his fancies get nearer to the reality of the people than the faces they present to the world. And he is sometimes right. His preference for the idealized still life pictures of food which hang over the bar of the city tavern are a subtle clue to his personality. He says he likes them because, / although "so perfectly imitated," they have "yet an indes­ cribable ideal charm"; they "took away the grossness from what was fleshiest and fullest, and thus helped the life of man, even in its earthliest relations, to appear rich and noble" (p. 17 6 ). In Coverdale, Hawthorne even records how obsessive and distorted one's mind becomes when he is victimized by fever and illness: "The soul gets the better of the body, after wasting illness....Vapors then rise up to the brain, and take shapes that often image falsehood, but sometimes truth" (p. 46). It is at this time that Coverdale becomes convinced that Zenobia is no longer a virgin. Whether she is or not is never actually made clear, so the dream introduces this interesting ambiguity about the woman's past. Perhaps Hawthorne uses the illness as a censored vehicle by which he could speak of such a delicate issue. Likewise, the poet is sensitive to his environment; when he observes the neophyte Utopians in the warm firelight, they become, to him, heroic figures: "If it £the abundant fire] served no other purpose, it made the men look so full of youth, warm blood, and hope, and the women...so very beautiful, that I would 205 cheerfully have spent my last dollar to prolong the hlaze" (pp. 23-2*0 . Coverdale is one of those highly self-conscious people who records and relies on his dreams. Thus, he can say, early in the romance, that much of what happened at Blithedale he foresaw in his dreams. When he returns to the city, dreams of Zenobia, Hollingsworth, and Priscilla haunt him, and he consequently feels that some catastrophe is imminent. That is why he must go back to the country— to witness whatever tragedy takes place. His dreams even warn him, in some un­ defined way, of Zenobia*s suicide in the pond. The two women characters also exhibit sensitivity to dream and fantasy material. Zenobia is a fiction writer, and Coverdale notes her ability to weave stories to entertain the Blithedale residents. "Zenobia*s Legend" is one of her fantasies. Zenobia must have a rich fantasy life} she dreams of winning Hollingsworth when they meet at the utopia despite her suspicious past which would seem to offer an impediment to their relationship. She may also fantasize about how graceful a death drowning is. One wonders if a romantic imagination is an acceptable attribute for a Hawthorne woman, since Zenobia gains nothing from it but real disillusionment. Priscilla has "sibylline attributes" which may be interpreted as some sort of ESP. Notably, she often hears disembodied voices. Her sensitivity makes her a prefect medium for the mesmeric talents of Westervelt so that she, like Zenobia, does not profit from her talents. Hollingsworth, it must be 206 assumed, frees her from everything that does not befit her role as his wife. The dream motif, like the disguise motif, is part of the romance's plot. The Blithedale project is presented as a dream— certainly for Coverdale, Zenobia, Hollingsworth, and Priscilla— and for the other unnamed Utopians. The narrator discusses their "delectable visions of the spiritu­ alization of labor" and their attempts to build "splendid castles" and picture "beautiful scenes" at their country re­ treat. It is Zenobia who pronounces a sentence on the Blithedale dream in her bitterness at Hollingsworth's re­ jection. "'Of all varieties of mock-life, we have surely blundered into the very emptiest mockery, in our effort to establish the one true system....It was, indeed, a foolish dreamI Yet it gave us some pleasant summer days, and bright hopes, while they lasted. It can do no more; nor will it avail us to shed tears over a broken bubble'" (p. 227)• Un­ fortunately, she does not accept her own advice. Coverdale, from the vantage of later years, does confirm the rightness of a man offering his energy and his dreams to work for the betterment of society if he does so without losing sight of his personal needs for human interaction and affection. The last use of dreams is to provide Coverdale a way of knowing and recording what goes on between two charac­ ters when, realistically speaking, he is not in a privileged position to know such. On two occasions, Coverdale dreams or "fancies in brooding" what happens. The first 207 occasion occurs between Zenobia and Westervelt in which she speaks of the conflict about Priscilla. The second occasion occurs when Zenobia meets Old Moodie who warns her to be kind to Priscilla. Although both scenes are so short and nebulous that they are not critical to the plot advancement, Hawthorne does handle them fairly well within the range of the first-person narrator. Because Coverdale has such an inquiring and fanciful mind, it is plausible to believe that he would imagine such scenes to fill in the blanks of his 12 friends' mysterious relationships. % w t h o m e is experimenting with narrative point of view in his creation of Coverdale. The poet's narrative task has already been discussed in Part I of this chapter. It remains to be said*however, that Coverdale is a modestly successful experiment. Coverdale presents a consistent picture of a sensitive and imaginative poet at a dramatic period in his life. His ability to analyze himself and others coupled with his romantic outlook on life and people definitely prove Hawthorne's capabilities in psychological characterization and his kinship with Henry James whose early years might well have produced a Coverdale. Indeed, the American narrator of "Four Meetings" is a replica of the Blithedale historian. F.O. Matthiessen even sees the link between Coverdale and Lambert Strether of The Ambassadors: "The stages of develop­ ment between these two are precisely those of James's experi­ ments, for which a natural starting point was provided by 13 Coverdale’s own recognition of his role." J Both The Blithedale Romance and The Bostonians record the changing patterns of American society which brought so much conflict to the individual. In his Introduction to The Bostonians. Irving Howe writes: "In the mass industrial society that was coming into existence toward the end of the nineteenth century [[and the beginning of which was certainly felt in Hawthorne's New England] , the role of the sexes with regard to one another was no longer clear, the centers of authority and affection had become blurred, the continu­ ity of family culture was threatened, but most important of all: the idea of what it meant to be human had come into question" (p. xviii). Hawthorne's romance explores these issues in four representative characters who experience con­ flicts between their involvement in social reform or public demands and their needs for private, traditional interper­ sonal relationships. The Bostonians picks up on these same conflicts in similar representative characters in the same milieu nearly half a century later. Both works establish the immediate social context and then refine their concentration on certain personalities in­ teracting with each other and on pertinent social issues. Hawthorne's narrative approach, however, varies significantly from James's. It depends on trait objectification and dis­ guise to build characters, and it incorporates dream and fan­ tasy material to develop plot. It recounts the story through the eyes of a prejudiced first-person narrator. The result of these various techniques is to tilt the emphasis of 209 the work overwhelmingly on the side of the personal conflicts so that the reality of the larger social conflicts fades considerably, although, ostensibly, the experiment of communal living is the trigger for the work. And certainly, the failure of the four main inhabitants of Blithedale to achieve brother­ hood offers a paradigm for the failure of the utopian commune. James's work, on the other hand, realistically keeps its tie to the social milieu while developing interpersonal conflicts. James achieves balance between these spheres primarily through the use of an omniscient narrator (who is occasionally relieved by certain characters for special ef­ fects). He sharpens the tension between social and personal needs in continual scenes of verbal debate between key charac­ ters (which also build characterization). However, James does follow Hawthorne's example in certain ways. Olive and Verena are given romantic qualities by virtue of their fantasy lives. The women are represented in a small way by association with objects in their environment. Selah Tarrant's teeth are as false a disguise as Westervelt’s , and Verena's theatrical posing may be considered an assumed front which hides her true nature. In a notebook entry for 1883, James discussed his plans for The Bostonians; "If I could only do something with that pictorial quality of Daudet's Evangeliste. At any rate, the subject is very national, very typical. I wished to write a very American tale, a tale very characteristic of our social conditions, and I asked my self what was the most salient 210 and peculiar point in our social life. The answer was: the situation of women, the decline of the sentiment of sex, the agitation on their behalf.”1^ James is successful in giving his book a pictorial quality which makes the Boston milieu come alive. One such passage describes Miss Birdseye's place: She Gtfiss Birdseyq] received Miss Chancellor in the hall of the mansion which had a salient front, an enormous and very high number— 756— painted in gilt on the glass light above the door, a tin sign bearing the name of the doctress (Mary J. Prance) suspended from one of the windows of the basement, and a peculiar look of being both new and faded— a kind of modern fatigue— like certain articles of commerce which are sold at a reduction as shopworn. The hall was very narrow; a considerable part of it was occupied by a large hat tree, from which several coats and shawls already depended, (p. 26) James's sharp eye for detail is evident in this description of an old Boston mansion divided into modern apartments. This passage provides a clear introduction to the scene in which Olive Chancellor and Basil Ransom first meet Verena Tarrant. James provides a similarly detailed description of Marmion where the feminists take a brief vacation: The ripeness of summer lay upon the land, and yet there was nothing in the country... that seemed susceptible of maturity; nothing but the apples in the little tough, dense orchards, which gave a sug­ gestion of sour fruition here and there, and the tall,bright goldenrod at the bottom of the bare stone dykes. There were no fields of yellow grain; only here and there a crop of brown hay. But there was a kind of soft scrubbiness in the landscape, and a sweetness begotten of low horizons, of mild air, with a possibility of summer haze, or unregarded inlets whereon August mornings the water must be brightly blue. (p. 356) 211 This is a sensuous, idyllic picture of the Cape Cod regions it captures the essence of natural peacefulness--a peaceful­ ness dramatically broken by Ransom’s visit to Olive's cottage. James is equally adept at capturing the activities of nameless persons in an environment which, inconsequential in themselves, give his novel its realistic force. Such is the effect of the picturesque description of Ransom's hotel at Marmions Local worthies...lounged there Q n the hotel office^ ...by the hour. They tipped back their chairs against the wall, seldom spoke, and might have been supposed with their converging vision, to be watching something out of the window, if there had been anything at Marmion to watch.... There was a tradition that a 'boy' exercised some tutelary function as regards the crumpled register; but when he was inquired about, it was usually elicited from the impartial circle in the office either that he was somewhere round or that he had gone a-fishing....Anxious ladyboarders, wrapped in shawls, were seen waiting for him, as if he had been the doctor, on horsehair rocking chairs, in the little public parlor, (p. 358) These fine details create a convincing picture of the ac­ tivities at a nineteenth-century American resort. Charming in themselves, they also build a realistic background for the main plot action. Hawthorne occasionally offers a glimpse into the life of the commune, but James builds al­ most every scene with a similar graphic representation of the locale-and, when pertinent, the people in it. Another characteristic of The Bostonians' omniscient narrator is the objective distance he maintains from all of the characters. The specific intention of such objectivity is to illuminate the weakness of personality or limitation of 212 perspective involved in each one's conflict between personal feelings and public interests. It is a technique appropriate to a social novel. The cumulative effect of this approach is to give the novel a synergistic tension. Olive Chancellor is a man-hating neurotic, but she is accurate about men's cruelty towards women. Basil Ransom diagnoses the moral weakness of his age, but his egocentric pursuit of Verena is immoral. Miss Birdseye may be a great humanitarian, but she is sentimentally shortsighted about Ransom's interest in the feminists. Mrs. Luna may be a strident gossip, but she can see the narrow frigidity of her sister's life. And Verena Tarrant may be an intelligent and charming innocent, but her inability to develop her own identity and self-reliance makes her of no more value than a passive, pitiful pawn. The narrator achieves this objectivity in reporting the characters’ conflicting opinions as expressed in their thoughts and exchanges with each other. More interesting, however, is the way he ironizes their thoughts or even lightly burlesques their appearance. The narrator often ironizes Basil Ransom's convictions about the inferiority of women: "That was the way he liked them {women] — not to think too much, not to feel any responsibility for the government of the world, such as he was sure Miss Chancellor felt. If they would only be private and passive, and have no feeling but for that, and leave publicity to the sex of tougher hide! Ransom was pleased with the version of that remedy; it must be repeated that he was very provincial" (p.11). 213 With similar, continuous "brief thrusts, Ransom is portrayed in the novel as provincial and ignorantly obtuse about the dignity and capability of women. In describing Ransom’s appearance, the narrator gifts him with an impressive height, compelling eyes, and a "leonine" head. The narrator under­ cuts his appearance with the suggestion that it "might have

. . - * . indicated that he was to be a great American statesman; or, on the other hand... it might simply have proved that he came from Carolina or Alabama" (p. 5)• The narrator treats Olive Chancellor with similar acerbity. In presenting her as emotionally hostile to men, he remarks that her smile at Basil Ransom "might have been likened to a thin ray of moolight resting upon the wall of a prison" (p. 8). Olive maintains, like Ransom, that their age is morally degenerate, but she blames the situation on ineffectual men: "Olive had a standing quarrel with the levity, the good-nature, of the judgments of the day; many of them seemed to her weak to imbecility, losing sight of all measures and standards, lavishing superlatives, delighted to be fooled. The age seemed to her relaxed and demoralized, and I believe she looked to the influx of the great feminine element to make it feel and speak more sharply" (p. 127). Olive's implicit contention that men are responsible for social ills that great women will heal is a simplistic remedy that the narrator subtly exposes. James is also adept at burlesquing minor characters in sharp, almost parenthetical, comments. Thus, Selah 214 Tarrant "looked like the priest of a religion that was passing through the stage of miracles." Matthias Pardon, the successful journalist, "regarded the mission of mankind upon earth as a perpetual evolution of telegrams." Miss Birdseye "belonged to the Short-Skirts League,-as a matter of course; for she belonged to ary and every league that had been founded for almost any purpose whatever" (p. 27). The omniscient narrator often relinquished, the story into the hands of Olive Chancellor and Basil Ransom, the chief contestants over women's rights and Verena Tarrant. Their narratives reveal the intensity of their own convictions, their hostility for their opponents, and the opposing nature of their attachment for the young girl. Verena also assumes the narrative role to reveal her character. Essentially, the narrative technique of The Bostonians is atypical for James who perfected the use of the third-person center of consciousness. But James loses nothing in The Bostonians; its style allows him to maintain sufficiently objective distance from all of the characters, to ironize them as in­ dividuals and representatives of their society. It allows him to present fully a portrait of the zealots, humanitarians, frauds, and reactionaries of the Boston scene. It allows James to present a very different portrait of his social en­ vironment than Hawthorne achieves with his biased first-person narrator in The Blithedale Romance. Another technique which develops character as well as increasing the drama and conflict of The Bostonians is scenic 215

confrontation among characters. Hawthorne uses scene for confrontation, notably between Hollingsworth and Coverdale when the philanthropist forcefully tries to recruit the poet for his crusade and with all four characters in the last climactic scene at Eliot's Pulpit. James works scene into his novel much more consistently and systematically. Almost every scone is introduced by a picture as described above. The characters' dialogue almost always involves either some contention and/or expression of emotion. Moreover, the dialogue moves back and forth between personal matters and social concerns (this continual reference to the social environment gives the work its realistic force in dealing with representative ideas and causes of the time). One notable scene in the novel takes place between Verena Tarrant and Basil Ransom on the day they spend together in New York City. During their long talk, Basil expounds on his philosophy on the "damnable feminization" of the age and his conviction that women belong at home where they can tend their husbands and children. In the personal sphere, he admits his failure to get published and his appreciation for Verena. He becomes offensively presumptuous in his interpretation of Verena's involvement with the feminist cause: "'You think you care about them, but you don't at all. They were imposed upon you by circumstances, by un­ fortunate association, and you accepted them as you would have accepted any other burden, on account of the sweetness of your nature. You always want to please someone, and now you 216 go lecturing about the country, and trying to provoke demonstrations, in order to please Miss Chancellor, just as you did it before to please your father and your mother. It isn't you, the least in the world'" (p. 3^6). Ransom's attack could not be any more complete or devastating; it demolishes Verena's identity, her life experience, and her motivation for interpersonal relationships. Ironically, Ransom depends on this same desire to please to convince Verena to spend the afternoon with him. For her part, Verena defends their "age of conscience," the right of women to work for social welfare, and her own role in such work. She questions Ransom intently to see how serious his denunciations are. She commiserates with his inability to get published. When Ransom delivers the above harangue about her involvement with women's causes, however, she feels hopelessly angry, yet afraid of the strange feelings his personal remarks arouse in her. She breaks off their conversation shortly after this point. Rushing away from him, she makes the enigmatic statements '"I want you to remain as you are!'" (p. 350)* Verena's retreat and last words predict her eventual capitulation to the Southerner. This same drama is captured in many other scenes throughout the novel— Mrs. Luna's challenge to Ransom at Mrs. Burrage’s and in her own New York home, Olive's first meeting with her protegee in her Boston parlor and, almost two years later, her confrontations with Verena when they discuss the proposed stay in New York, Olive's exchange with Mrs. Burrage 217 about Verena's marrying her son, and, climactically, the final scene in Verena's dressing room among Olive, Verena, Ransom, the Tarrants, and the other minor characters. This incrementation of scene keeps the action of the novel moving at a rapid, brilliant pace. The technique shows James as a master in capturing the rhythms of speech, of verbal nuance, and implications which express the drama of intense human emotions. Unlike The Blithedale Romance, The Bostonians is bereft of fantasy material; its omniscient narrator, quite the opposite of the poetically imaginative Coverdale, is an objectively removed skeptic who treats his characters realis­ tically, The narrator does, however, take cognizance, of the fact that an important element in the personalities of Olive Chancellor and Verena Tarrant is their romanticism. As Richard Chase noted of Isabel Archer, they are romantic heroines in a realistic novel.Olive Chancellor is es­ pecially romantic; the narrator credits her with a "rich moral consciousness" which allows her to see men, as indi­ viduals and a group, as ignoble brutes, to believe as force­ fully in the cause of women's rights, and to visualize herself as a martyr for its hallowed cause. For instance, her "image" of Henry Burrage is quite complete in its denunciation: "He was weakly pretentious, softly original, cultivated eccen­ tricity, patronized progress, liked to have mysteries, sudden appointments to keep, anonymous persons to visit, the air of leading a double life, of being devoted to a girl whom 218 people didn't know, or at least didn't meet" (p. 173)* The judgmental thoroughness of her conception of Henry Burrage illuminates her own hostility towards men. In similar fashion, Olive romanticizes Verena as a precious daughter of the poor with whom she can be victorious in her crusade for women's rights. As they begin their work, she forms a new image of her protegee; "When Verena should appear it would be armed at all points, like Joan of Arc (this analogy had lodged itself in Olive's imagination)" (p. 1^7)* For herself, she begins to taste "something of the ecstasy of the martyr" (p. 1^7)* It is certainly in the role of the frenzied martyr that Olive rushes onto the stage to meet the howling audience after Ransom kidnaps Verena from her Boston debut. For her part, Verena, too, is a romantic. She initially conceives of life with Olive as a "fairy tale." In her simplicity, she can idealize the nobility and rightness of the cause she works for, her own ability to work for it, and their eventual triumph. But she can equally idealize, for instance, a woman like Mrs. Luna, an outspoken enemy to their cause. She would even enjoy being like Mrs. Luna who "fascinated her, carried off her imagination to strange lands; she should enjoy so much a long evening with her alone, when she might ask her ten thousand questions" (p. 110). It is precisely because Verena is so uncritical in her judgments that Ransom can demolish them. What he does, in effect, is to substitute for Verena a picture of himself as a suffering 219 hero and a picture of the supposedly real happiness she will f enjoy as his wife. The ability and seeming need to romanticize important issues and persons in their lives is precisely what proves so fatal for Hawthorne's Zenobia and Priscilla as well as James's Olive and Verena. Hawthorne spends a great deal of effort in The Blithedale Romance to incorporate objects which express some facet of an individual's personality, most notably Zenobia's exotic flower. This is also a technique common to Henry James as Charles Anderson demonstrates in Person, Place, and Thing in

*| the Novels of Henry James. The Bostonians is unusually lacking in trait objectification, however; the burden of the characterization depends upon the scenic pattern dis­ cussed above. An undeveloped association between Verena and flowers does exist, interesting because of the flower imagery characterizing Priscilla. Verena, like Priscilla, is viewed as an uncultivated innocent who grows physically and psy­ chologically through the help of an older women. The narrator, in noting Mrs. Tarrant's love for her unusual daughter, remarks that the mother "was only vaguely aware of the fact that she had at her side the sweetest flower of character (as one might say) that had ever bloomed on earth" (p. 108). Verena grows under Olive's careful tutelage; as the narrator admits, "Verena herself bloomed like the flower that attains such perfection in Boston" (p. 177)- When she lectures at Mrs. Burrage's home in New York, a significant occasion in her projected career, she wears flowers on her bosom. On 220 the night of her Boston debut and kidnapping, she is dressed simply in a white gown without any ornamentation. This absence of a flower may signify that her period of blossoming has been cut short; like a pale, fearful virgin, she is led off to a martyrdom of her own. Equally undeveloped is Olive's association with narrow rooms and water. Olive's home demonstrates her wealth and intellectual refinement. It is also notable for its narrow parlors where she receives guests. One parlor opens onto a view of brackish brown water across which one can see "the chimneys of dirty 'works'" and rows of modern tenement houses." Olive’s parlor matches her own narrow views on society. The dark water suggests a near threat, a threat Olive would wel­ come in her desire for martyrdom in a social cause potentially represented by the factories and tenements. At Marmion, Verena deserts Olive to spend a day with Ransom on a boat. Olive haunts the beach all afternoon while imagining horrible thoughts of losing Verena to her cousin— or even to drowning. And it is on this day that Verena apparently decides that she is unavoidably in love with Ransom. The threat of danger associated with water becomes imminent. Olive's rushing onto the stage at the Boston lecture hall to surrender herself to the howling audience is not unlike an irrational person plunging into a tumultuous river. Olive and Zenobia thus achieve a sort of martyrdom; figuratively and literally, water is instrumental in their fates. 221 Disguise plays an important function in The Blithedale Romance where it is important to the characters to hide parts of their personalities to their fellows; as the disguises are cast off or, more often, penetrated, the tragedy of the plot unfolds. The Bostonians, for the most part, confront each other in the nakedness of their emotions which is what makes them and the plot so unusually intense and vibrant. Selah Tarrant, a charlatan with a fraudently generous, toothy smile, is an essentially grotesque character. The only other use of disguise is reminiscent of Hawthorne's romance. Priscilla experiences an unhappy career as the Veiled Lady, a career from which Hollingsworth rescues her in order that he might make her his wife. Verena Tarrant is promoted by her mesmerist father with an artful theatricality, of which she is unaware; in fact, she considers it an attribute of her peculiar gift: "She had expressed herself, from the first word she uttered, with a promptness and assurance which gave almost the impression of a lesson rehearsed in advance. And yet there was a strange spontaneity in her manner, and an air of artless enthusiasm, of personal purity. If she was theatrical, she was naturally theatrical" (p. 53)* Olive Chancellor dispenses with her father's role in Verena’s performance, but she helps the girl to cultivate her gift for speaking. However, Basil Ransom considers Olive's influence equally detrimental. He affirms that Verena's words are empty schoolgirl phrases and, indeed, her particiaption in the feminist group an artifical life which 222 she has consented to because of her own submissiveness and Olive's persuasive force. It is this artifical self from which he wants to liberate her: isn't you, the least in the world, but an inflated little figure...whom you have invented and set on its feet, pulling strings, behind it, to make it move and speak, while you

try to conceal and efface yourself there"1 (p. 3^6). Ransom promises her that she will be able to develop her real gifts in natural freedom as his wife. The last sentence of the novel indicates otherwise. Like Priscilla, Verena gives up one role for another that just as truly limits her growth and denies her identity. Ironically, both women are unaware of the full consequences of their wifehood. Priscilla perhaps is content with her duties as Hollingsworth's nurse and companion. In Verena Tarrant's case, on the other hand, there exists the slender, but real possibility that she might have discovered a happier life had she managed to refuse the imperious, impoverished Southern gentleman. The novel rests on the irony of this possibility.

Hawthorne's romance and James's novel demonstrate their equal interest and concern about the social forces which were changing the lives of Americans in the nineteenth century. The Blithedale Romance, by reason of its narrative techniques, especially the first-person narrator, becomes more concentrated on the personal, love conflicts of its characters. Its resolution is that love is a noble, if often tragic human endeavor. Concerning the role of women, ' Hawthorne acknowledges that they are made to seek proper fulfillment as the wives of men. The narrative approach of The Bostonians ties the love element of the plot closely to the elaboration of the public, social conflict. The resolution of the novel is incomplete and ambiguous. James clearly legitimizes the feminists* complaint that men seek women for their own selfish gratification. On the other hand, he gently satirizes the feminists for their abstract or neurotic militance against men. The possibility of a true love relationship which is equally beneficial to both the woman and the man is viewed with reserved cynicism. Perhaps it may be said that Nathaniel Hawthorne meliorates the conflict he observed in society; Henry James kept his stance as a critical skeptic. 224- Endnotes •^The Blithedale Romance, III (1964), p. 2 2Henry James, Hawthorne (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1966), p. l 6 T . 3zenobia's questioning echoes Hester Pryrme's in The Scarlet Letter. Hester's solitary reflections about women's restricted status— even their existence in the world— horribly depresses her. The narrator of the earlier romance foreshadows Coverdale when he censures Hester for her thoughts: "A woman never overcomes these problems by any exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. If her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus, Hester Prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clew in the dark labyrinth of mind." The Scarlet Letter. I (1962), p. 166. Hester's speculations — divorced from her heart— put her immortal soul in con­ siderable peril. Fortunately, Hester repents; Zenobia does not and is punished by rejection and a suicide of despair. ^0n the subject of philanthropy, as on many other subjects in this romance, the intellectual or moral dis­ tance between Coverdale and his creator is, essentially, negligible. Hawthorne critics have requently made this observation. See, for example: Leslie A, Fiedler, Love and Death in the American Novel (New York: Criterion Books, i960), p. 223. Indeed,Hawthorne drew freely from his experiences at Brook Farm to develop Coverdale's experiences at Blithedale. See The American Notebooks. VIII (1972).

•^Charles R. Anderson, Person. Place, and Thing in Henry James's Novels (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1977), p« 34. 6 Richard Chase, The American Novel and Its Tradition. p. 87. ?Henry James, The Bostonians (New York: Random House, Inc., 1956), p. 19* All subsequent quotes from this edition will be cited by page number in parentheses fol­ lowing the quotation. forhe Letters of Henry James, ed. Percy Lubbock, I (New York: Scribner's, 1920), pp. 115-16. 225 ^Sara de Saussure Davis, "Feminist Sources in the The Bostonians.” American Literature. 50 (January 1979)» 571. l^The voyeur pose is not uncommon in Hawthorne. The narrator of "Sights from a Steeple" states his belief that "The most desirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow, and re­ taining no emotion peculiar to himself." The narrator's motivation, like Coverdale's, seems torn between a de­ sire for gratuitous information about those he spies on and a wish to, by virtue of his recording of their actions, make some feeble connection with them. Twice-Told Tales. IX (197^), p. 192, -*-lRobert Emmet Long, "The Society and the Masks: The Blithedale Romance and The Bostonians." Nineteenth Century Fiction, 19 (Spring 1964),117. ^Hawthorne often allows his narrative -personae to fill in plot details created by their romantic imaginations. As noted in Chapter IV of this disser­ tation, the narrator of "Wakefield," struck by a brief factual account of the peculiar Londoner, enjoys ela­ borating extensively on his situation. Similarly, in "The Custom-House," the narrator admits to embroidering on the historical record of Hester Prynne: "I must not be understood as affirming, that, in the dressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes of passion that influenced the characters who figure in it, I have invariably confined myself within the limits of the old Surveyor's half a dozen sheets of foolscap. On the contrary, I have allowed myself...nearly or altogether as much license as if the facts had been entirely of my own invention." (The Scarlet Letter. I (1962), p. 33. 13f. 0 . Matthiessen, American Renaissance, p. 297* l^Henry James, The Notebooks ed. F, 0. Matthiessen and Kenneth B. Murdock (New York: Oxford University Press, 1961), p. 4 7 .

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