Criminal Conversation and Complicity in Sarah Fielding's Ophelia Nancy Paul
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Document generated on 09/28/2021 3:28 a.m. Lumen Selected Proceedings from the Canadian Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies Travaux choisis de la Société canadienne d'étude du dix-huitième siècle Is Sex Necessary? Criminal Conversation and Complicity in Sarah Fielding's Ophelia Nancy Paul Freedom and Boundaries Émancipation et frontières Volume 16, 1997 URI: https://id.erudit.org/iderudit/1012444ar DOI: https://doi.org/10.7202/1012444ar See table of contents Publisher(s) Canadian Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies / Société canadienne d'étude du dix-huitième siècle ISSN 1209-3696 (print) 1927-8284 (digital) Explore this journal Cite this article Paul, N. (1997). Is Sex Necessary? Criminal Conversation and Complicity in Sarah Fielding's Ophelia. Lumen, 16, 113–129. https://doi.org/10.7202/1012444ar All Rights Reserved © Canadian Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies / Société This document is protected by copyright law. Use of the services of Érudit canadienne d'étude du dix-huitième siècle, 1997 (including reproduction) is subject to its terms and conditions, which can be viewed online. https://apropos.erudit.org/en/users/policy-on-use/ This article is disseminated and preserved by Érudit. Érudit is a non-profit inter-university consortium of the Université de Montréal, Université Laval, and the Université du Québec à Montréal. Its mission is to promote and disseminate research. https://www.erudit.org/en/ 9. Is Sex Necessary? Criminal Conversation and Complicity in Sarah Fielding's Ophelia In 1776 James Fordyce wrote of the civilizing influence of the conversa• tion of ladies: 'Men will be found much the more courteous and amiable, as well as entertaining and accomplished, for their constant intercourse with a sex whom they are taught from the beginning to treat with attention and respect ' (Georgia 29). The reference to 'intercourse' in this passage is incongruous to a modern reader who associates the term with sexual rather than verbal relations. A reader in the eighteenth century encountering the word 'conversation' out of context might have experienced a similar hesitation affixing meaning; although its sense as discourse dated from at least 1560, a prominent early definition is evident from the legal use of the term 'criminal conversation' to denote illicit sexual intimacy (Georgia 252). The linguistic confounding of carnal and conversational interactions provokes comparison, even evaluation. Can one kind of intercourse be successfully substituted for the other? Along with humourist James Thurber, we might ask: Is sex necessary? In Sarah Fielding's last novel, The History of Ophelia (1760), sex is conspicuous by its absence. The heroine falls in love with her abductor's voice, his persuasive language, but demonstrates a surprising absence of overt sexual desire for him. Early in the narrative Ophelia realizes her Lord's 'continual Conversation' has already become 'absolutely neces• sary to [her] Ease of Mind' (1: 89). When she is abducted by mistake and her supposed lover (she assumes Dorchester) comes to her in the dark, she is disconcerted: The Rapidity with which he flew to me, and the Eagerness of his Embrace, astonished and startled me: I never had seen any Degree of such Familiarity in him. I was not sensible of any Impropriety in the Expressions of Affection; but without knowing a Reason for it, I was disturbed with this Address. I could not think such Violence the necessary Consequence of Love; I was as much rejoiced, I imagined, as he could be, and yet such Behaviour did not appear natural to me. (1:104) LUMEN XVI/ 1997 1209-3696 / 97 / 1600-0113 $8.50 / ©CS.E.CS. / S.C.E.D.S. 114 Nancy Paul What indeed is 'natural' behaviour? Ophelia can find no reason for a violent expression of affection; what does it mean to be rational? Fielding poses these questions for her readers. There is a strong satiric vein in this romance: society and its affectations are critiqued, and the assumption that women were incapable of reason is challenged. Ophelia is intro• duced as a wild child foundling living in paradisal isolation with her aunt. When the 'fair Savage' is brought into the urban world she re• sponds like Gulliver to the Lilliputians, describing the antics of civilized man with an ingenuous delight and attention to detail. Innocent she may be, but not simple; Ophelia is deceptively complex, and in her self-deception lies her complexity. Fielding's avowed aim in her often experimental writings was to explore the labyrinths of the mind.1 Ophelia professes not to understand why she has quickly come to love Dorchester better than her aunt (1:79). She represses her sexuality but learns to recover it in language; she substitutes verbal intercourse for sexual. Silence, which is identified in the first part of the novel as the space of youth and innocence, takes on new significance in the world of sexual difference. Within the construct of conversation as the prime medium of male-female communication, the ecstatic, breathless silence comes to be symbolic of the ultimate punctuation. It is suggestive to view Ophelia as a kind of 'writing back' to Samuel Richardson's Clarissa, which Fielding greatly admired. Both novels are epistolary in form and tell the story of an abduction. Clarissa concludes with the heroine's rape and tragic death, while Ophelia ends happily; the heroine triumphantly retains her chastity and reforms her rogue admirer Dorchester into a lover worthy of marriage. Yet Fielding's novel has an undercurrent of melancholy which belies its professed romantic-comic structure, and personalizes its satiric thrust. Ophelia's long letter to 'her Ladyship' is a form of extended conversation, as the periodic intrusions of the narrator remind us. It also represents, to some extent, the ration• alizing ramblings of a mind circling around its own guilt and complicity. There is a despair in Ophelia's story which will out. Patricia Meyer Spacks suggests that such an underlying tone of unhappiness is typical of epistolary fiction of the period written by women. She finds in these works a 'troubling message of despair' and 'demonstration of female ineffectuality' ('Female Epistles' 75). Even when they end in marriage, 'dreadful happenings precede the happy ending' (72). Fielding's Remarks on Clarissa (1749) helps us to understand the author's attitude to Richardson's heroine, and thus the later construction of her own. The work is an unusual piece of literary criticism. Clarissa is the subject of conversation among 'a pretty large Assembly of mix'd Company' (4); Miss Gibson, Fielding's own representative (Remarks, 'Introduction' v), speaks on behalf of the novel and defends its heroine's Is Sex Necessary? 115 virtue and honesty against others in the group critical of her actions. Clarissa is a woman aware of the power a husband would have over her, claims Miss Gibson, and she is thus unwilling to grant that power to one unworthy — even if she is attracted to him, as she is to Lovelace. Comparison of Clarissa and Ophelia casts the latter in a less than flattering light: although naive, Ophelia is not honest. Naturally vain, she is vulnerable to admiration and therefore corruptible; she is intelli• gent but not principled, and she is determined to embrace as a husband a man she knows to be a villain. In her preface, Ophelia defends the length and level of detail of the story she tells; she defensively, wearily chastises 'her Ladyship' for what was probably a lightly extended request for 'an exact Account of every Circumstance of my Life, and even of my Thoughts.' She is surely correct in surmising that her correspondent did not expect so extensive an epistle. Ophelia herself has a need to self-construct retrospectively, to apply a shapely moral configuration to the past. Looking back, she sees circumstances through which she passed safely, naively, but which she now realizes were overwhelmingly dangerous to her integrity, her san• ity, her virtue. It is a terrifying vision. Even more frightening, however, to our chaste, rational heroine is the shadow of belief that she might have been unconsciously complicit — that she had somehow desired the danger. The horror of this spectre keeps Ophelia's sexuality buried; it surfaces in her story through the metaphor of language, in the alternating media of silence and conversation. II In her discussion of relations between women in the eighteenth century, Betty Rizzo suggests that 'the problem of women's sexuality' was 'most difficult for women writers of the period to manage': Already in the eighteenth century the concept of proper and improper sensibility conveniently divided women into the sexless good ones and the sexual bad ones. The virtuous heroines of women's novels love, and even love passionately, but they appear to save their sexuality for a proper consummation, expressing it only obliquely by fainting, hysterics, or some other intensely emotional display. (323) Even granted that virtuous young women of the time were instructed never to shock their lovers with a sexual response, it is worth noting that Dorchester himself eventually wonders at his paragon's apparent cool• ness to his increasing familiarity and intimacy with her: T already begin to suspect that Miss Lenox sprung from another Creation, and was made 116 Nancy Paul out of some more icy Composition than the rest of Woman-Kind' (2:173). Ruth Perry argues that the very format of the epistolary novel dictates the primacy of words over action, that all the relationships are verbal, and that letter writing (as private intercourse) functions as a prelude to sexual relations (161). Perry suggests that seduction in epistolary novels written by female eighteenth-century authors is 'a matter of will power rather than desire/ 'an attempt to change another's mind': 'an actual sexual encounter is less to the point than the psychological capitulation which precedes it' (161).