F is for Fantomina…and Facebook Stalker?
Yes, Eliza Haywood lived in the time before electric lights, (hence the limited believability in Beauplaisir’s being deceived), let alone the Internet, but wouldn’t our desperate little heroine here think she’d died and gone to heaven in the world of facebook? All of her correspondences from different identities – imagine the wall-to-wall conversations that those would lend themselves to! And all of her super-stalker abilities as she traces his whereabouts and travel routes and times – how much easier would it have been for her? And can’t you picture Beauplaisir’s profile page? Single; Male; Interested in Women;Looking for Random Play or Whatever He Can Get. Beauplaisir is gullible and horny. Really though, it makes me wonder how many other women Beau is having his way with…even Fantomina can’t be everywhere at all times and if he can screw around with all of her various personas, who’s to say that there aren’t a few more on the side. It seems unwise for her to place all of her eggs in one man basket…
Actually, eggs make a nice segue at this point in my entry, as I am fascinated by the effect that the presence of Fantomina’s mother hen, as well as her own nesting situation, has upon the end of the story. I was surprised at the ending, actually. I was hoping that she would come to him in her true identity at last, and he, being charmed by her on account of the wealth she could bring to him, would agree to get hitched. Then she could, and would, continue to dress up and allow him to keep mistresses, such being herself, until old age succeeded in cooling his blood as much as satisfaction had been wont to do in his yough. But, alas, Haywood would not have it that way.
Although it made me sad that Fantomina’s power ended so abruptly and with such seeming permanence, I was intrigued by the role that maternity had to play in it. It is the coming of her domineering mother, coupled with the state of motherhood in which she finally finds herself that causes Fantomina to be thoroughly ‘undone’ and ties her down to a single identity for Beau. I suppose the ending is a good way for her adventures to end without an agonizingly preachy moral of double standards. What really undeniably sets women apart from men of course is that child-bearing ability, and so I suppose it is fair that that is what ‘weakens’ her, or at least removes her from a level playing field with Beau. Also, there is such a struggle for Fantomina/Celia/Mrs. Bloomer/Incognita/a “Lady of birth, beauty, wit and spirit” to keep up a barrier between her inside and outside identities, her private actions and her public reputation, that her amourous affairs become nothing but an exercise in crafting new, deceptive beings. So, it is upon reflection rather fitting that, just as her sexual ‘undoing’ is an act which affects more than merely the outside reputation for which she fears, her discovery spawns (excuse pun) from the transition of love’s seed sown within her to the outside world, in a literal creation of a new being.
So then, like the introductory material posits, Fantomina’s move to a nunnery is perhaps not the defeat it seems at first glance. I mean, the genre of scandalous nun fiction they mention is enough to convince me, but really, in a convent the whole idea is to forfeit any personal identity and take on another; this is right up her alley! Now I’m dying for a kinky convent sequel…I imagine Darel could do it justice if he chose…
Now, (and soon I will shut up…), why the title “Love in A Maze?” I think that Beauplaisir is looking for exactly that, to be able to explore a myriad of new directions, preferablywith many dead ends, and soaking up whatever he encounters on the way. But this maze, although he is being blindly led (as though with some aromatic hunk of cheese in a laboratory) has all paths leading to Fantomina; wherever he goes, she is still with him. Sounds like some circle of hell, really. Is there any connection between the etymology of “maze” and “amaze”? With the inverse relationship this story plots between the wonder needed for arousal and the apathy of sexual satisfaction, it seems as though the only way to keep up any level of alluring amazement is to put one’s profligate rodent love thorough a tangle of maze-like snares.
(Okay, what a wonder are dictionaries. So, “maze” can be a verb, as well as a noun, meaning to bewilder or confuse – indeed the only way to amaze)
Philadelphia’s Freedom ~ or ~ That ‘Nun’ From the Naughty House
Well, like most of the class, as I could gather, I appreciated “The Unfortunate Happy Lady: A True History” for its brevity before all things, but the more that I looked at it, the more interested I became. First off, as far as the title goes, my first thought was how much this was like, in both name and headlines, an issue of True Confessions. As far as the epithet ‘The Unfortunate Happy Lady’ is concerned, however, I must say that I am kind of at a loss. It seems to me at first glance, reading this in our own century here, that it is pretty unfortunate for her that this kind of life makes her happy, but I suppose that really, as Behn might have meant it, her unfortunate trials are necessary for her eventual power over her world and resulting happiness.
Anyway, this story made me think about issues of lineage and inheritance and, similarly, what exactly defines a person’s character. At the outset, Behn establishes William’s character as a man with a benevolent father and yet who inherited “all that belonged to him, except his virtues,” which suggests immediately an emphasis on the need to cultivate virtue rather than the possibility of inherent goodness. Unfortunately it takes Philadelphia (who, I will admit, seems to have acquired virtue like falling off a log – some girls get all the luck) some time to grasp this idea, because, while on her way to the brothel and its mistress, she “was very desirous to be planted in the same House with her, hoping she might grow to as great a Perfection in such excellent Qualifications, as she imagined ‘em.” Thankfully, Philadelphia does not allow the seeds of Lady Beldam’s nature to germinate in herself and comes into her own as a soldier for feminine virtue. However, Lady Bedlam, referred to both as Eve and Satan, this serpent-tongued temptress, in keeping with the role of Eve, does pass on worldly knowledge to the naive Phil. that allows her to eventually gain her position of power in the world. Also, on the topic of Philly’s stay at the house of ill repute, I can suspend my disbelief in many, many situations throughout this story, but I certainly let out a giggle at the thought that anyone could mistake a house filled with frilly-clad women and chocolate for a nunnery.
Now, as far as identity goes, it is Behn’s characterization of Gracelovethat interests me the very most. I wonder if I am supposed to trust Behn’s narrator, when she says “To say Truth, Gracelovewas a very honest, modest, worthy and handsome Person [...] a Man of just Principles, and of inviolable Friendship”? I can grant that he is true to his word once he gives it, but are my code of morals just too far removed from this world to see how a man out to purchase some maidenhead can be termed “modest” and of “just Principles?” Also, when Philly convinces him, through tales of her inheritance, to leave incomplete his deflowerment (I say it’s a word…) transaction, she says “‘I love you dearly now, because I see you are going to be good again; that is, you are going to be your self again.’” On what grounds can she judge who he really is? How could she possibly know? Unless Philadelphia, like the female mind behind her creation, not only knows, but has a role in the creation of, who Gracelove really is. She controls him through his sense of pity, and use of flattery, to the point that he is who she says he is, simply because she says it.
The idea of Philadelphia creating identities for the men around her seems clearest to me when looking at the similarities between this story and the prodigal son parable. Behn even refers to William as a prodigal, making the similarities overt, but it is key that, unlike the story of the biblical son, there is no father to tell (even if he had the gonads to do so…) that he has sinned; this world is decidedly matriarchal. When Philadelphia calls William and Gracelove back to the fold, as it were, she goes one step further than the biblical father example, who can only restore the son’s former position, and actually raises both men to new identities – and potentials – as husbands. I am also intrigued by the detail that she not only prepares new wardrobes for these men (therefore endowing them with new public identities) but gets them new swords as well. Even without delving into the phallic vibe one gets from that, weapons certainly are a symbol of these characters’ manliness, and so Philly also seems to be restoring their manhood after their periods of shame and degredation. Go Philadelphia! With her crazily awesome maternal powers, she almost plays a role of Virgin Mary to Lady Beldam’s evil Eve…or maybe I am ready waaaaaaay too much into a short romance story…
Molling It All Over
Well, to be perfectly honest, I cannot say that this was a particularly enjoyable read…but the frustrating thing is that I am unable to articulate just exactly why that is…I mean, when I read the full title, my first thought was ‘well, I know the whole plot – now what?’ and yet, that isn’t really what bothered me. I suppose that helps to link it to the New Gate records and broadsheets; reading up on someone about to be hanged already has a pretty predictable ending to it too. Perhaps it is just that I expected that, since what Moll did was no surprise, howshe did it, the way the narrative unravelled itself, would be riveting.
Sadly, I was wrong.
I found myself checking off, not only all of the clauses in the title as they happened, but all the common features of the New Gate readings as well. A countdown is never the best attitude for book reading. However, I didn’t find it to be completely a lost cause. In the title itself, I am decidedly pleased with the order of her actions, she who “at last grew rich, liv’d Honest and died a Penitent.” Living honestly and remaining penitant are made conditional by this chronology on her having first grown rich. It reminds me of Jane Eyre’s or Becky Sharp’s musings on how easy it would be to be good with a large enough income. Even the description of her moment of revelation reeks of insincerity and social self-awareness, for the woman who felt “a secret and surprising Joy at the Prospect of being a true Penitent, and obtaining the Comfort of a Penitent, I mean the hope of being forgiven” (285). For a true, earnest penitence, it seems to me that the overwhelming sense of joy should spring from a love of, and desire for service toward, God, but not so for Moll. She delights in having the recognized title of “Penitent,” and although she decides to rephrase and emphasize her new-found hope for forgiveness, it is still a desire for reward which spurs her to action and gives her comfort. Even her interaction with God is one of commerce. Also, this seems to gain support by the word ‘secret,’ rather than, say ‘personal’ to qualify her joy; on one level at least, Moll is aware that such a feeling is not what her good minister might wish from her in this process of conversion.
So it appears to me that, in Defoe’s work, penitence, just like everything else that money could procure for the comfort of those in prison, was a luxury for the wealthy. This idea of penitence as a commodity fit only for the rich is echoed in the nature of the crimes for which most of the New Gate prisoners were incarcerated, being those driven by poverty and committed only for a subsistence existence. Only for the wealthy is there any real cause for penitence as well. Of course, I recognize that is a sweeping generalization, but it works for me at this moment.
Finally, although this has positively no academic merit whatsoever, did anyone else find the need to stop before saying “Maud Flanders” instead? I mean, is it possible to get more starkly opposed pictures of Christian femininity?
Hmm, actually…now that I think about it, Ned’s words to her as a memorial (thank you Wikisimpsons…) “She taught us the joy of shame and the shame of joy” ties in shockingly well with my point about the cynicism to be found in Moll’s words of repentance {almost as if I planned it that way…}, who revels in telling the tale of her ‘shameful’ deeds and whose only transformation goes no further than to infuse that joy with a tinge of shame.
Between the Lines Behind the Bars
So, from the Newgate Calendar I read the story of Thomas Dun, who was the “Head of a Gang of Outlaws, on Account of whom King Henry I. is credibly supposed to have built Dunstable. Executed Piecemeal.” Reminiscent of the long title to Moll Flanders, but there is something infinitely more intriguing about the phrase executed piecemeal than anything Defoe’s book has to offer. But anyway, the audience for this calendar seems not to have been of such a wide variety and such a common sort as the broadsheets or even the proceedings, because there does not, at least with this story, the constant attempts at preachy moralizing, and Mr. Dun is even painted, despite the whole piecemeal ending detail, as a kind of hero.
Even the narrative standpoint that is taken at the beginning, with the words “It is said,” put this account more into the realm of a legend than an objective, or even remotely journalistic one. Furthermore, the description of his life of thievery begins with the claims that “everything he touched stuck to his fingers like birdlime, and that, the better to carry on his villainies, he changed himself into as many shapes as Proteus.” This use of figurative language and a classical allusion gives Thomas a poetic beauty and establishes his position as a kind of hero, and almost something to aspire to. Also, he is portrayed as a capable and talented leader of his outlaw gang, who, before going out on a spree “read to them some few comments on the art and mystery of robbing on the highway.” He is not in this instance a crude man, but a kind of beloved teacher and keeper, not of evils, but of a mystic knowledge, on which he takes the time to discourse intelligently.
In a twist much like Richardson’s Miss Andrews, Dun also has amazing peace of mind in the midst of panic, as he can outrun an angry mob and bridle his horse along the way, or outrun them all on foot before escaping all pursuit by swimming after “resuming his courage, he pushed valiantly through them.” Because these efforts come to at least the temporary fruition for which they are employed, it does not seem possible that the ‘courageous’ and ‘valiant’ attributes are applied out of an attempt to be ironic, and his bravery and skill really are acknowledged as remarkable. Finally, even as his death, by a slow removal of limbs (leaving him rather like that Knight from Monty Python’s The Holy Grail) adds to his legendary status, and the fact that the members of this one lowly man, are “a terror to such villains as survived him” drives home is legendary status, and although it ends on this note of fear, so that his entire life becomes a didactic tale against evil, his life is still shown as one full of grandeur and power.
Now, in contrast to this, perhaps because it was a woman, or perhaps the audience for whom it was desired was one of a lower class, for whom the author felt it necessary to moralize more heavily, but Amy Hutchinson, executed in 1750 for the murder of her husband, is not a woman to idolize. She gets no figurative language to describe her situation and offers of course the token “advice to her own sex.” In this generic confession I found it interesting the emphasis that is placed upon walking a fine line between public and private affairs. Her first wise words she imparts instruct young women “to acquaint their friends when any addresses are made to them” and yet, once those addresses have been accepted, it becomes imperative that they solve disputes between them so that they “afford no room for busy meddlers to raise and foment jealousy between two who should be one.” I also think it is a bit ironic that her ‘parting words’ emphasise the danger in meddlers when she was only caught for the poisoning as a result of her neighbours who thought it strange she should devote herself to another man (her accomplice) so soon after her husband’s death. Just like one cannot blame a man for his indecent addresses unless she has found witnesses in the friends to whom she decides to tell of it, poisoning your husband is only truly wrong if someone finds out.
Finally, I have to say I enjoyed the newspaper stories, with their chronological unfolding of the criminal and victim’s lives, the very best of all. Always one to be done in by a snazzy title, I looked at the criminal journey of “The Rape-Master General of Britain” and I must say I like him. It left me, these reports, a little confused as to what to think of the man. I mean, yes, he was convicted of having raped Anne Bond, his serving girl, but his other servants “made a vigorous defence” when authorities came to seize his property, and one of his (non-raped…I assume…) serving girls even “fired a pistol from a window.” And yes, as the stories progress, it becomes evident that he has paid off everyone in any position of authority and so bought himself out of trouble, but I get a kick out of Anne Bond getting 1. Media attention 2. A husband and 3. A tavern outside of which the couple posts a sign with the Rape-Master’s head on it all because of this crime. She is no Pamela for whom virtue is all, and it seems as though he has more than made up for his transgression on practical terms. So, imagine my surprise when the final report of this man declares that “he died on 24 February 1732, and the London crowds threw dead cats into his grave.”
My Delay Belies My Enthusiasm – Really!
Quick greetings! Technology consistently conspires against me, in a passionately unhealthy love-hate relationship. Thankfully, our latest lover’s quarrel has ceased and I am here, with at least the spirit of a blaze of glory…
I had absolutely no interest in this course when I saw it available in March, especially as I struggled through the slog – yes, slog – of Restoration and 18th century drama. Sad, but true. However, in London this May (as I got up every morning in hopes of finding my marks on webct) I found myself genuinely excited to see the portrait of William Congreve in the National Portrait Gallery and had a genuine (and not as perverse as it may sound) desire to try on Horatio Nelson’s cute little trousers. By a surely providential coincidence I then found myself employed, here at home, at the Loyalist House (a most delightful, albeit a tad fraudulent and equally musty, little tourist trap. There, wearing a sad excuse for 18th Century-esque garb (already mystifyingly out of place in a house built in 1810 and furnished with pieces from about 1830, but who am I to question?), and perusing the antique book collection of the New Brunswick Historical Society, I began to read Pamela for pleasure, and the course of my life (meaning my fall term) changed forever. And so here I am.
