THE EXPENDABLE VICTORIAN:

A GIRARDIAN APPROACH TO FEMALE SACRIFICE

IN THE 19TH

CENTURY BRITISH NOVEL

Leigh M. Gardner

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of

the requirements for the degree of

Master of Arts

Department of English Language and Literature

Central Michigan University

Mount Pleasant, Michigan

February 2011

ii

Accepted by the Faculty of the College of Graduate Studies,

Central Michigan University, in partial fulfillment of

the requirements for the master‘s degree

Thesis Committee:

Anne Hiebert Alton, Ph.D. Committee Chair

Peter Koper, Ph.D. Faculty Member

Ron Primeau, Ph.D. Faculty Member

February 11, 2011 Date of Defense

Roger Coles, Ph.D. Dean

College of Graduate Studies

April 19, 2011 Approved by the

College of Graduate Studies

iii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank the members of this Thesis Committee: Dr. Anne Hiebert Alton,

Dr. Peter Koper, and Dr. Ron Primeau. I owe my deepest gratitude to Dr. Alton, my

Committee Chairperson, for her continued support and dedication throughout this

process. I am also particularly grateful to Dr. Koper for his willingness to take part in this

project as an emeritus faculty member and for his discussions of Girardian theory. I am

indebted to all of these faculty members for their time commitment and their direction.

Lastly, I wish to acknowledge the support of Central Michigan University in producing

this work.

iv

ABSTRACT

THE EXPENDABLE VICTORIAN:

A GIRARDIAN APPROACH TO FEMALE SACRIFICE

IN THE 19TH

CENTURY BRITISH NOVEL

by Leigh M. Gardner

The following thesis uses René Girard‘s Violence and the Sacred as a basis for

examining the relationship between female death and the woman‘s role as scapegoat in

select Victorian fiction novels. With theories on the sacrificial crisis, mimetic desire, and

the sacrificial ritual, Girard‘s text helps to explain why women that either overtly oppose

the Victorian feminine ideal of the ―Angel in the House‖ or fail to fully play this role

within Victorian culture have a tendency to perish at the close of novels. This study

considers Thomas Hardy‘s Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the Obscure

(1895), Emily Brontë‘s Wuthering Heights (1847), Mary Elizabeth Braddon‘s Lady

Audley’s Secret (1862), and Elizabeth Gaskell‘s Ruth (1853). While much criticism has

pointed to reading Victorian texts as sacrifice, this analysis aims to illustrate the precise

Girardian nature of these works. Analyzing Victorian texts through a Girardian lens

offers a fresh and new way to look at a body of literature that has been thoroughly

examined over the last century.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION………………………………………………………………………..v

CHAPTER

I. THE ARCHETYPAL SCAPEGOAT: THOMAS HARDY‘S TESS OF THE

D’URBERVILLES…………………………………………………………………1

II. LACK OF DIFFERENTIATION AND MIMETIC DESIRE IN EMILY

BRONTE‘S WUTHERING HEIGHTS AND THOMAS HARDY‘S JUDE THE

OBSCURE………………………………………………………………………..20

III. THE FEMININE AS WICKED OTHER AND INSTITUTIONALIZATION

AS SACRIFICE: MARY ELIZABETH BRADDEN‘S LADY AUDLEY’S

SECRET………………………………………………………………………….53

IV. RELIGION AS HIGHER LAW: ELIZABETH GASKELL‘S RUTH…………..71

CONCLUSION…………………………………………………………………………..92

BIBLIOGRAPHY………………………………………………………………………..96

v

INTRODUCTION

―I have been thinking that the social molds civilization fits us into have no more relation

to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real

star-patterns.‖

- Sue Bridehead, Jude the Obscure (197)

In Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy‘s female protagonist Sue Bridehead

contemplates the flawed, restrictive, and erroneous nature of social classifications,

suggesting that these classifications only serve as ambiguous outlines of actual human

behavior. As a woman pressured to marry a man that physically repulses her, Sue feels

that the label of wife is a fallacious description of her domestic reality. Sue‘s thoughts

touch on an important problem in all societies: that an individual‘s personal desires often

conflict with what society wants her to desire. Following Elizabeth Langland‘s assertion

that novels are ―not simply fictional representations but the interacting texts through

which a culture represents itself‖ (3), it can be reasoned that Sue‘s dilemma does not

solely exist in the world of Victorian fiction, but is mirrored in the culture in which

Hardy was writing. Yet, while Sue expresses the inaccuracy of classifications, at a very

basic level societies are founded on power structures and hierarchies that depend on the

use of strict categorizations for stability and organization. In Violence and the Sacred,

René Girard argues that distinctions and hierarchical structures are imperative for the

survival of a given society and that when these distinctions between individuals are lost, a

community experiences tensions and inevitable violence. Girard posits that the

community suffering from a loss of distinctions must project their tensions onto a chosen

vi

victim, then perform a ritual sacrifice in which the victim—or scapegoat—is eliminated,

resulting in a return to working differentiations and social harmony. The following

analysis considers Thomas Hardy‘s Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the

Obscure (1895), Emily Brontë‘s Wuthering Heights (1847), Mary Elizabeth Braddon‘s

Lady Audley’s Secret (1862), and Elizabeth Gaskell‘s Ruth (1853) in light of Girard‘s

theory regarding the sacrificial ritual and the role that sexually subversive women play

within this paradigm. In relation to Victorian culture and the era‘s rigid expectations for

ideal femininity, Girard‘s theory offers an insightful explanation of how Victorian society

deals with the women that pursue their actual desires and defy the Victorian Angel

classification within these narratives.

Of the social categorizations prevalent in the Victorian era—ranging from 1837 to

1901 and mirroring the time of Queen Victoria‘s rule—the differentiation between the

male and female genders was undeniably one of the most prominent. The role that

women played within the family structure was foundational to the prosperity of the

middle class, which contributed to the formation of an inflexible belief in what a

Victorian woman should be—coined the ―Angel in the House.‖ This Victorian Angel was

a model of female perfection to which girls and women were expected to aspire. In her

work The Victorian Girl and the Feminine Ideal, Deborah Gorham offers an effective

definition of this stereotype: ―The ideal woman was willing to be dependent on men and

submissive to them, and she would have a preference for a life restricted to the confines

of the home. She would be innocent, pure, gentle and self-sacrificing‖ (4). As the phrase

―Angel in the House‖ suggests, Victorian women were commonly defined through their

position within the domestic sphere and subsequently were viewed as having two primary

vii

purposes: wife and mother. James Eli Adams, in ―Victorian Sexualities,‖ suggests that

the Victorian wife and mother was at the heart of the ―conception of ‗home‘ as an ideal

repository of sympathy and tranquility,‖ a woman who puts her personal requirements

aside in order to unconditionally love and care for her husband and children (129).

Victorian women were taught from an early age that they held a secondary position to

their male counterparts, and that they should not merely accept this status but desire this

subordinate rank.

The passive characteristics of the Victorian Angel extend to the sexual

expectations of women as well. Throughout much of the Victorian era, female bodies

were considered the property of men, and as such the moral code demanded that women

remain virgins until marriage and only have sexual relations with their husbands

thereafter. In order to promote the chastity of women, Victorian girls were brought up in

a state of sexual ignorance in attempts to keep them marriageable, a subject

comprehensively examined by Joan Perkin in Victorian Women and Peter T. Cominos in

―Innocent Femina Sensualis in Unconscious Conflict.‖ By keeping young ladies unaware

of their instinctive sexuality, they were raised to believe that erotic desire was both

shameful and unnatural, and the ―ideal woman‖ was passionless (Cominos 163).

Furthermore, Adams argues that the emphasis on the desexualization of women led to a

dichotomy between dignity and sexual desire; essentially an unwed Victorian woman was

either respectable or sexually active with no room in between (129). This ideology is also

found in the classifications of pure and impure, definitive labels forced upon Victorian

femininity stressing that once an unwed woman had sexual intercourse, she was

irrevocably stained and consequently socially ostracized.

viii

Male ownership over female bodies is further exhibited in the Victorian double

standard regarding sexual indulgence as well as the laws on adultery. While women were

taught to disregard their sexual impulses and to remain sexually innocent, it was

commonly believed that male sexuality was natural and that, as a result, men‘s dalliances

prior to marriage were unavoidable. In her discussion of sexuality in Britain, Lesley A.

Hall argues that Victorian men were even encouraged to have premarital sex, so long as

they chose sexual partners of the lower classes (37), an assertion that is supported in

Fraser Harrison‘s The Dark Angel. In this sense, as long as conflicts did not erupt within

the same class, male sexuality was given free reign. This lack of restraint is further shown

within marriage, as adultery committed by Victorian wives was considered a grave

offense, while the same act by husbands was a superfluous concern. According to

Elizabeth Helsinger‘s The Woman Question: Social Issues, 1837-1883, within Victorian

judicial law, husbands could divorce their wives on the grounds of infidelity alone, while

wives could only procure a divorce through evidence of adultery coupled with another

offense—including incest, rape, abuse, or abandonment, among others (II: 27). In

addition to sexual possession, Victorian wives were the property of their husbands in

every imaginable sense. As Sally Mitchell points out in Daily Life in Victorian England,

a Victorian marriage all but eliminated a woman‘s separate legal existence. Everything

became the possession of her husband, including her money, land, and children (Mitchell

104). Furthermore, while men were defined through their lineage and occupation, a

woman‘s social position was determined by whom she married (Mitchell 21). In this

sense, as she was first defined by her father, followed by her husband, a Victorian

woman‘s status was constantly determined by her relations with men.

ix

The sanctioning of the ―Angel in the House‖ ideal and female sexual purity was a

direct result of the importance that the patriarchal family structure held in Victorian

Britain. Perkin goes as far as to suggest that the patriarchal middle-class Victorian family

was ―the essential building block of a civilized society‖ (74). Victorian middle-class men

had a personal investment in forming an affluent and prosperous middle-class family, as

this was a way to solidify their prestigious social position. Harrison argues that Victorian

men viewed marriage as a way to expand and spread their wealth through the production

of offspring (4). Ursula Vogel‘s work on nineteenth-century law suggests that the

primary rationality behind the double standard was a question of lineage. Essentially, a

wife‘s sexual fidelity was the only assurance for a husband that the children that she

birthed were his rightful heirs, rather than ―imposter[s] and false claimant[s] of property‖

(Vogel 161-162). In order to maintain the success and survival of the Victorian

patriarchal family, particularly for those who consider themselves respectable or refined,

the ―Angel in the House‖ and all of its behavioral and sexual implications was an

inflexible social philosophy. This emphasis on the endurance of the Victorian family

caused a stigma to be attached to not only female sexual transgressions, but also on

couples that refused marriage. Helsinger emphasizes that any movement towards

women‘s rights was heavily combated by both men and women alike due to the threat

this posed to the Victorian family, political structures, and to the foundation of Victorian

culture (39).

Several scholars are adamant in their assertion that the ―Angel in the House‖ is a

falsified assumption rather than an accurate depiction of gender relations in Victorian

England. Two main proponents of this belief are Martha Vicinus and Elizabeth Langland,

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both claiming that the Victorian feminine ideal is a social myth. While Vicinus argues

that the ―Angel in the House‖ as a definition of Victorian women is too narrow and few

women could afford to fulfill this role (x), Langland suggests that since the identity of

Victorian women was multi-faceted—including gender, class, race, and ethnicity—

defining them solely through their gender is misleading. Additionally, since the

expectations of women in Victorian England changed over the nearly seven decades that

spanned the Victorian period, no one view of women can be upheld as a factual ―Angel in

the House.‖ Mitchell argues that while in the early Victorian period (1837-1851) women

were making some strides towards acquiring an education, the middle class woman‘s

work was limited to the role of governess. Yet, in the mid-Victorian period (1851-1875)

women‘s universities began to form and women found jobs in nursing and social work.

Eventually by the late Victorian period (1875-1901) women could also find clerical work

and began to involve themselves adamantly in local politics. Known as the ―widening

sphere,‖ this progression illustrates that throughout the Victorian era, women expanded

their lives to include much more than the domestic sphere. Yet, significantly, while it

became accepted that middle-class women may have desired or required work, this work

remained characteristically feminine as it was typically in the form of teaching or nursing

(Gorham 28-29). Furthermore, while changes undeniably took place, only a minority of

Victorians actively participated in these movements. With the multi-faceted nature of

identity and the changes that occurred over the Victorian era, the ―Angel in the House‖ as

a classification is a myth in the sense that very few women could epitomize this ideal.

Yet, what is critical to recognize is that the Victorian feminine ideal was nevertheless

presented as a desirable and attainable reality.

xi

Relating to Sue Bridehead‘s assertion that individuals do not fit civilization‘s

molds, in Violence and the Sacred theorist René Girard discusses the social consequences

of when individuals resist the shapes that a given society provides for them. At the heart

of Girard‘s theory is the assertion that distinctions are the ―cultural foundation‖ of society

and that when these differences begin to deteriorate, social regulation and peace is

directly threatened, therefore leading to violence within the community and

confrontations between citizens (49). This leads Girard to reason ―If perfect equilibrium

invariably leads to violence . . . it follows that the relative nonviolence guaranteed by

human justice must be defined as a sort of imbalance‖ (51). Essentially, when individuals

are placed in categories and hierarchical structures, and therefore not viewed as being

equal with one another, social regulation is possible. Yet, once the disparities between

groups are blurred, violence, tension, feuds, and rivalries are inevitable. Girard uses the

term ―sacrificial crisis‖ to mean the lack of strict categorizations that are so imperative to

a successful and tranquil society, defining it ―as a crisis of distinctions—that is, a crisis

affecting the cultural order‖ (49). Since these distinctions are closely aligned with an

individual‘s cultural identity, the sacrificial crisis takes place when identities are in flux,

when individuals are not able to be readily labeled by social classifications. Girard argues

that in a state of sacrificial crisis, ―institutions lose their vitality; the protective façade of

society gives way; social values are rapidly eroded, and the whole cultural structure

seems on the verge of collapse‖ (49). Girard also emphasizes that the distinctions with

the greatest ―hierarchical distance‖ are the most threatening to the fabric of society when

overtly rejected (47). In other words, when one group is much more valued than another

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and the boundary between the two groups is blurred, this sacrificial crisis is more socially

dangerous than if the difference in esteem is not so great.

Girard also emphasizes the threat posed by both ―mimetic desire‖ and ―monstrous

doubles.‖ Girard uses the term mimetic desire to refer to situations when an individual

abandons his/her actual desires to mime the desires of another. Girard terms the target of

the desire the ―object,‖ the initial desirer the ―model,‖ and the ―subject‖ what desires the

object because the model does so (146). Mimetic desire causes tensions, rivalries, and

inevitably violence: ―Mimetism is a source of continual conflict. By making one man‘s

desires into a replica of another man‘s desire, it invariably leads to rivalry; and rivalry in

turn transforms desire into violence‖ (169). Similar to the distinctions that are lost when

individuals resist social classifications, mimetic desire creates a confusion of identity as

people‘s true selves and desires begin to resemble those of others. His theory regarding

doubles suggests that they also lead to a lack of differentiation and individual identity.

Girard stresses that in ―the monstrous double the differences are not eliminated, but

muddied and confused. . . They thus occupy the equivocal middle ground between

difference and unity‖ (161). When a double is formed, there is a constant exchange of

differences and the double is therefore characterized by its duality, making it a source of

tension, conflict, and violence. Girard suggests that the double is always monstrous and

evil, appears at the height of a sacrificial crisis, and must be eliminated for the well being

of society.

In order to ward against the social deterioration and violence inherent in the

sacrificial crisis, Girard suggests the threatened community must choose a victim—a

scapegoat upon which they can project their social tensions and subsequently eliminate

xiii

them. The community not only projects their conflicts onto the victim, but they view the

scapegoat as ―the single ‗polluted‘ enemy who is contaminating the rest‖ (Girard 81). By

placing the sole blame for the looming violence and chaos on a single victim, the

community members can convince themselves that the victim is responsible for the loss

of distinctions within their society and, therefore, the fatal removal of that individual will

coincide with the eradication of the conflict. Girard emphasizes that for the sacrificial

ritual to be successful in the restoration of social peace, the scapegoat must be a lone

individual ―who can be easily disposed of‖ (80), one who is connected to the community

which is engaging in the ritual, but on the periphery of that same society. The sacrificial

victim must be distinct from the majority of community members, ―so they can be

exposed to violence without fear of reprisal‖ (13). Therefore, the violence enacted on the

sacrificial victim differs from the pent up violence within the community, leading Girard

to suggest that the violence inherent in the sacrificial ritual is beneficial, while the

threatening chaos of the sacrificial crisis is destructive in nature.

Girard explicitly describes the qualifications that the sacrificial victim must have

in order for the ritual to be successful in the restoration of social harmony. Since the

community is projecting their conflicts onto the scapegoat and subsequently eliminating

that individual, Girard claims that the victim acts as a substitute for the community

members themselves. As such, the scapegoat is characterized by his/her duality of being

both similar and separate from the community he/she is meant to represent. The victim

must be enough like the society in order to succeed at being its surrogate, but enough

unlike the community so that there is no vengeance as a result of his/her sacrifice. In this

sense, the scapegoat is not wholly outside of the community, but rather can be seen as

xiv

residing on the periphery or ―fringes of society,‖ and a ―crucial social link is missing‖

between the scapegoat and the community to which he/she presumably belongs (Girard

12-13). Girard acknowledges that the ritual victim‘s position between placement on the

outside and the inside of the community is a delicate balance. He suggests that the

community can consciously position someone in a ―wholly sacrificeable‖ state by

engaging in preparation which either ―make appear more foreign a victim who is too

much a part of the community‖ or ―reintegrate into the community a victim who is too

foreign to it‖ (272). While the community can act to force a victim to be sacrificeable,

Girard suggests that the victims tend to come from certain categories, including slaves,

children, and animals (271). While slaves and animals are viewed as subhuman, Girard

claims that children, particularly infants, have minimal agency and have not wholly been

integrated into the society into which they were born (12). The commonality among all

sacrificial victims is found in their distance from the community, while maintaining a

connection to it.

Once the victim has been chosen and the physical sacrifice performed, the

principal outcome is the restoration of harmony and working social distinctions. As the

scapegoat is characterized by duality and the dismantling of classifications, his/her

sacrifice coincides with a return to static identities and a purification of the society

contaminated by violence. The society that was once threatened by the blurring of

distinctions such as male/female, wealthy/poor, pure/impure, good/evil, among countless

others, witnesses the reaffirmation of these presumed-to-be fixed concepts after the ritual

is complete. The return of essential categories is a form of social cleansing, as social

structures and hierarchies are once again ratified and conflict is reduced. Girard claims

xv

that it is social purification and renewal of stasis that are most important in the sacrificial

process, and as a result the victim is viewed as the acting agent in this transformation: ―It

is not enough to say that the surrogate victim ‗symbolizes‘ the change from reciprocal

violence and destruction to unanimous accord and construction; after all, the victim is

directly responsible for this change and is an integral part of the process‖ (Girard 86).

The scapegoat‘s leading role in the survival of society causes him/her to be viewed as a

―savior,‖ ―hero,‖ and ―redeemer,‖ but only after the conclusion of the ritual (86-87).

Thus—following the victim‘s tendency to be characterized by duality and paradoxes—

the community that once rejected the scapegoat also owes their continued existence to

that same individual.

Most important, for the purposes of this study, is Girard‘s assertion that women in

general meet the criteria for the position of scapegoat: ―Like the animal and the infant,

but to a lesser degree, the woman qualifies for sacrificial status by reason of her weakness

and relatively marginal social status. That is why she can be viewed as a quasi-sacred

figure, both desired and disdained, alternately elevated and abused‖ (142). This claim

seems more than applicable to Victorian England with its expectation that women hold a

secondary status to their male counterparts. Victorian women are vital for the survival

and success of the Victorian family—at the very least for their reproductive

capabilities—but at the same time they are given little privilege within that same society.

Also notable is Girard‘s claim that married women are not sacrificeable (12-13). He

emphasizes the ties that married women have as ―the property of her husband and his

family,‖ suggesting that while they still have a ―marginal social status,‖ they are more

accepted and belong to the community through a matrimonial link (13). In addition to this

xvi

argument regarding marriage‘s role in identifying women that are inside the community

or on the periphery, Girard also stresses that dissenting sexualities are a threat to any

given society. He suggests that sexual relationships can be a cause of jealousies, rage, and

quarrels (34). Girard defines ―legitimate sexuality‖ as ―matrimonial unions,‖ and by

extension, implies sexuality that is given free reign outside of marriage is somehow

socially criminal and dangerous (219-220).

This idea that a sexually transgressive woman can act as a scapegoat—a ―slayer

of distinctions‖ that threatens the very fabric of hierarchical culture and can thus be

subsequently eliminated on the behalf of the restoration of harmony—is particularly

helpful in the examination of why female protagonists often perish at the close of

Victorian narratives. For Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Jude the Obscure, Wuthering

Heights, Lady Audley’s Secret, and Ruth, Girard‘s theories offer a fresh way to examine

texts that have already been the recipient of much scholarship. An immense amount of

criticism has already been published on these works and authors due to the length of time

since publication and the significance of the texts themselves. Similarly, because of the

relevance of gender power structures in the Victorian era, feminist readings and criticism

focused on the sexuality of Victorian female protagonists is extensive. Curiously,

however, the connections between the female deaths in Victorian literature and Girard‘s

theories regarding the sacrificial ritual and the communal benefits of sacrifice has been

generally unacknowledged.

A common theme running through the criticism on these five texts is the

argument that beauty, passion, and determination is socially dangerous as these features

serve in opposition to the Victorian expectation that women be both sexually pure and

xvii

passionless. Concerning the argument that beauty and sexuality is dangerous, notable

criticism includes Paula Alida Roy‘s ―Agent or Victim: Thomas Hardy‘s Tess of the D’

Urbervilles‖ and Terence Wright‘s ―Women, Death and Integrity 2: Ruth.‖ Both Roy and

Wright argue that Tess‘s and Ruth‘s physical attractiveness fatefully leads to their

downfall. While excess beauty can be socially threatening, so too is female ambition for

nearly anything outside of their domestic station. In the case of Sue Bridehead from

Hardy‘s Jude the Obscure, this passion is found in her intellectual pursuits, an argument

exemplified by Cedric Watts in ―Hardy‘s Sue Bridehead and the ‗New Woman‘.‖

Similarly, Nicole P. Fisk‘s work on Catherine Earnshaw of Wuthering Heights describes

Brontë‘s protagonist as generally antagonistic and overly passionate in her love for

Heathcliff. Lastly, Jennifer M. Woolston, in her work ―Lady Audley as the Cunning

‗Other‘: An Economic, Sexual, and Criminal Attack on the Victorian Patriarchal

Mindset,‖ depicts Braddon‘s Lady Audley as socially dangerous due to her skillful and

cleverly plotted plan for social mobility. The argument that these female protagonists

violate Victorian social law is hardly profound, and in fact very few critics have read

them to be otherwise.

Many other scholars have moved beyond suggesting that these female characters

are socially transgressive to discuss their role in creating a ―loss of distinctions‖ within

the texts. The two primary texts where loss of distinctions is most apparent are Wuthering

Heights and Jude the Obscure, yet critics do not put it into such Girardian terms. The idea

that Brontë‘s Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, as well as Hardy‘s Sue Bridehead and

Jude Fawley, blur their identities with one another is a common site of literary analysis.

Notable works that have dealt with this phenomenon in Brontë‘s novel include John

xviii

Allen Stevenson‘s ―‗Heathcliff is Me!‘: Wuthering Heights and the Question of

Likeness,‖ Graeme Tytler‘s ―‗Nelly, I am Heathcliff!‘: The Problem of ‗Identification‘ in

Wuthering Heights,‖ and Marci M. Gordon‘s ―Kristeva‘s Abject and Sublime in Brontë‘s

Wuthering Heights,‖ which all focus on the image of Catherine and Heathcliff as a single

being. Similar work has been published on Hardy‘s text, the most significant perhaps

being Martin Wilson‘s essay ―‗Lovely Conundrum‘ and Locus for Conflict: The Figure

of Sue Bridehead in Hardy‘s Jude the Obscure‖ which argues that Sue and Jude‘s

identities are so entwined that their physical existence relies on the presence of the other.

A somewhat similar theme runs through the criticism on Braddon‘s Lady Audley’s Secret,

focusing on the confusion of identities within a single individual—Lady Audley; the most

compelling work on this premise is Lynn M. Voskuil‘s ―Acts of Madness: Lady Audley

and the Meanings of Victorian Femininity.‖

Another way in which the current criticism on these five novels points to a

Girardian reading is in scholars‘ acknowledgment that the sexual and social

transgressions of the female protagonists are linked to their deaths. However, rather than

seeing these women as the acting scapegoat in the community‘s sacrificial ritual, critics

are stopping their analysis at the argument that the women are simply being penalized for

their denial of the Victorian moral and social code. For example, Sarah Nicholson‘s ―The

Woman Pays: Death and the Ambivalence of Providence in Hardy‘s Novels‖ bluntly

argues that Tess‘s death is a symbolic punishment for her sexual immorality. Similarly,

Fisk‘s work on Wuthering Heights and Susan Rubinow Gorsky‘s ―‗I‘ll Cry Myself Sick‘:

Illness in Wuthering Heights‖ both claim that Catherine Earnshaw‘s illness and

subsequent death are a direct result of her failure to play the role of Victorian wife as well

xix

as her more fervent qualities. Criticism on Lady Audley’s Secret follows a similar pattern

of viewing Robert Audley as an investigator looking to sentence Lady Audley to life in

an insane asylum for her sexual crimes, as Vicki Pallo argues. Lastly, in Ruth the death of

Gaskell‘s protagonist has caused scholars such as Hilary Schor and Terence Wright to

reason that Ruth‘s martyrdom and death is the only possible outcome of the narrative due

to her sexual impurity.

While some critics have connected the deaths of Victorian female protagonists to

their sexual ―crimes,‖ fewer have drawn attention to the harmony resulting from these

fatalities, which Girard stresses as the most significant part of the sacrificial ritual. Some

valuable scholarship on this social stasis appears in Jeffrey Berman‘s ―Infanticide and

Object Loss in Jude the Obscure,‖ in which Berman emphasizes the purification of Sue

after the sacrifice of her children. Similarly, Herbert G. Klein and Lynda Hart have

performed analyses of the return of distinctions and classifications present at the close of

Lady Audley’s Secret. While both critics focus on the masculinization of Robert Audley,

Klein additionally examines the domestic submission of Alicia Audley as a direct result

of the institutionalization of Lady Audley. Also noteworthy is Katherine Retan‘s ―Lower-

Class Angels in the Middle-Class House: The Domestic Woman‘s ‗Progress‘ in Hard

Times and Ruth,‖ a work insisting that Ruth‘s death leads to the restoration of Jemima‘s

role as Victorian Angel and subsequently the well being of the middle-class. However,

while critics have noted both the social accord and return to distinctions present at the

close of these narratives, and furthermore connected it to deaths of socially offensive

characters, they still have failed to acknowledge the Girardian nature of these texts.

xx

This thesis addresses this oversight by providing an analysis of select Victorian

novels in light of Rene Girard‘s sacrifice theory laid out in Violence and the Sacred. The

first chapter discusses Thomas Hardy‘s Tess of the D’Urbervilles as a conventional

Girardian narrative where Hardy‘s protagonist Tess Durbeyfield defies the Victorian

classification of impure women by losing her virginity and pursuing marriage regardless.

This lack of distinctions leads to socially threatening reciprocal violence and the eventual

sacrifice of Tess in order for a return to social harmony. The second chapter examines

both Hardy‘s Jude the Obscure and Emily Brontë‘s Wuthering Heights to explore the

Girardian concepts of lack of differentiation, mimetic desire, and the monstrous double.

The third chapter analyzes Mary Elizabeth Braddon‘s Lady Audley’s Secret, looking at

the social threat that Lady Audley poses through her clandestine denial of classifications

and society‘s use of psychiatric institutionalization as a form of sacrifice. Lastly, the

fourth chapter analyzes Elizabeth Gaskell‘s Ruth demonstrating that her narrative offers a

Girardian plot, while simultaneously suggesting religious judgment may be a higher

authority than the Victorian social code. In this sense, Gaskell‘s text is unique in regards

to Girard‘s theory as it works within the Girardian framework, which advocates that

social law is the supreme power, in order to reveal that in fact it is God that serves as

ultimate authority.

1

CHAPTER I

THE ARCHETYPAL SCAPEGOAT: THOMAS HARDY‘S

TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES

In the 1891 novel Tess of the D’Urbervilles, the topics of gender and sexual purity

are raised by Thomas Hardy‘s strategic subtitle, A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented.

Hardy‘s assertion that Tess is a ―pure woman‖ directly opposes Victorian perceptions of

female innocence as the luminous and virginal Tess introduced at the onset of the

narrative becomes the vengeful and violated woman of the novel‘s close. This allusion to

Tess‘s purity before the narrative begins forces the reader to consider gender and

sexuality as primary sites for textual analysis. In her essay ―Pure Tess: Hardy on

Knowing a Woman,‖ Kathleen Blake sees Tess as both an individual and an

―everywoman‖: ―The novel‘s title names the particular and attaches it to the universal in

the subtitle. Tess bears a proper name as a unique person, while she is universalized as a

pure woman‖ (205). Tess is both described as a conventional Victorian woman while

simultaneously differentiated from that collective. Tess does not overtly oppose Victorian

domestic ideology, nor does she wholly resist Victorian marriage as a concept. Rather,

what separates Tess from the Victorian Angel is her unwillingness to marry any man to

fulfill her expected role as wife and her intention to choose the man that she marries for

reasons of love and adoration. This mindset of Tess‘s directly challenges gender mores as

Tess attempts to possess agency and control over her own body, which according to

Victorian gender ideology she does not own. As a result, Tess blurs both the distinctions

of male/female and active/passive, initiating a chain of reciprocal violence that ends in

her communal sacrifice.

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Hardy begins with a May Day dance taking place in the small village of Marlott

where women, primarily young women, are ―all dressed in white gowns‖ and hold ―a

bunch of white flowers‖ (13-4). The image of youthful women, decorated in white,

parading through the village serves as a commemoration of womanhood and, more

specifically, a celebration of virginity. The white color of the women‘s dress, as well as

the flowers, is symbolic of the desirable untouched, untainted, and unpolluted nature of

the sexually innocent woman. Amongst this prevailing symbolism, Tess is singled out by

a red ribbon that taints the ―spotless‖ imagery of the May Day march. Hardy writes, ―She

wore a red ribbon in her hair and was the only one of the white company who could boast

of such a pronounced adornment‖ (14). Paula Alida Roy suggests that it ―foreshadows

her fateful sexual attractiveness and impinges on her innocence by suggesting dangerous

sensuality‖ (277). Similarly, the color red also foreshadows the blood drawn during

Tess‘s murder of Alec D‘ Urberville towards the close of the narrative. Although Roy

does not address the sexual blood shed during the act of rape and defloration, red also

warns of these more violent sexual acts to which Tess later falls victim. Girard similarly

argues that the presence of blood ―proclaims murder and announces new upheavals to

come. Blood stains everything it touches the color of violence and death. Its very

appearance seems, as the saying goes, to ‗cry out for vengeance‘‖ (34). Tess‘s garnish

with a red ribbon foreshadows her future label as impure woman, the forthcoming

violence that she will both enact and become victim to, and ultimately her role as

sacrificial victim.

Despite Tess‘s participation in the May Day celebration, her sexual innocence is

quickly called into question by both the narrator and the inhabitants of Marlott. Tess is a

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virgin, yet beautiful, powerfully attractive, and sexualized from the onset of the narrative.

She has a ―peony‖ and ―pouted-up deep red mouth‖ (Hardy 14-15) and ―bouncing

handsome womanliness‖ (15). The villagers recognize the power of and danger in her

beauty. One advises that ―Joan Durbeyfield must mind that she [Tess] don‘t get green

malt in flour‖ (28), a local phrase warning that Tess is in danger of pre-marital

pregnancy. Sarah Nicholson further suggests that Tess is in a sense ―doomed‖ to lose her

virginity, arguing that in many of Hardy‘s novels there are ―divine and supernatural

forces in destroying a great number of his female characters: forces over which they have

no control‖ (32). Nicholson uses the expression ―Providence‖ to best describe this

ambivalent power, arguing that it is ―particularly appropriate as an umbrella term for

these forces because of its association with the idea of events being ordered or arranged

for a purpose‖ (32). Whereas many critics have not named this determinism present

within Tess of the D’Urbervilles, it is Tess‘s role as sacrificial victim and savior of social

harmony that does not allow her to escape the tragic events of her own life. Both the red

ribbon and Tess‘s beauty can be seen as her initial ―mark‖ in a Girardian sense. While

Tess is clearly a part of the Marlott community, she is sexualized and stands out as a

result.

Although it is easy to feel a sort of fatalism from the beginning of the narrative

and view Tess as a woman lacking autonomy, it is precisely Tess‘s initial attempts to

exercise agency that propel her into a cycle of reciprocal violence and position her as the

community‘s scapegoat. As a young woman, Tess craves love, which is not necessarily

synonymous with marriage in Victorian England. Through her demand for love Tess is

attempting to make marriage a personal act rather than a social one. This would

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inevitably threaten Victorian social considerations such as class, education, and family

ancestry, as they would not likely be measured in choice of partner. Tess‘s ―private‖ view

of marriage is heavily contested in her first encounter with a potential suitor, Alec

D‘Urberville. Alec‘s social reputation precedes him, and Tess‘s parents intend to use her

as a bargaining chip to ―claim kin‖ with the wealthy D‘Urbervilles with whom Tess‘s

family (the Durbeyfields) is distantly related. Joan Durbeyfield states, ―Tess ought to go

to this other member of our family. She‘d be sure to win the lady—Tess would; and

likely enough ‘twould lead to some noble gentleman marrying her‖ (Hardy 27). Alec,

being this ―noble gentleman‖ to which Joan refers, offers Tess precisely what Victorian

woman are expected to desire: the potential for a marriage that would better her and her

family‘s situation. This would be particularly advantageous for Tess, as her family falls

further and further into poverty. Tess travels to Trantridge in order to work for the

D‘Urbervilles and ―claim kin‖; however, she leaves without any romantic or marital

intentions.

Despite marriage‘s social advantages, Tess clings to her desire for love and as a

result fails to entertain Alec‘s romantic advances that begin the day they first meet. Tess

is plainly unwilling to give her body over to a man who does not hold her affections.

After working for the D‘Urbervilles for some time and withstanding Alec‘s flirtations, he

questions ―Tess, why do you always dislike my kissing you?‖ receiving Tess‘s blunt

reply: ―I don‘t love you‖ (Hardy 69). Nicholson similarly notes Tess‘s desire for a

romantically genuine relationship, one of mutual affections: ―Part of the problem for

Hardy‘s female characters is that they experience sexual desire as real human beings,

which is contrary to the sexual ideology of the narrative world or of the Victorian World‖

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(30). The fact that Alec‘s affections are unrequited is irrelevant to Victorian society and

Tess is expected to reciprocate them regardless, as she is subordinate to Alec in both

male/female and wealthy/working class social distinctions. Rather, Tess consciously

rejects her family‘s expectation that she marry for economic reasons and pursues her own

happiness. The sexual freedom that Tess longs for not only threatens the Victorian

domestic sphere, but Victorian social structures on a larger scale that rely heavily on

gender differentiation.

Girard‘s theories become more pertinent at the onset of violence in the narrative:

Alec‘s rape of Tess.1 Girard argues that when classifications are dismantled and

hierarchies begin to break down, tensions and conflicts between community members are

inevitable. By rejecting Alec‘s romantic and sexual advances, Tess is denying Alec‘s

authoritative position as a middle to upper-class man. The disparity between Tess‘s

actions and those expected of a woman in her social position creates a clash between Tess

and Alec. This conflict ultimately leads Alec to rape Tess, an act of violence that Tess

does not return until the close of the narrative. This sexual violence enacted against Tess

serves as a reaffirmation of Victorian gender and social hierarchies as Tess is forced to

submit to male power. Through violence, Alec is attempting to right the hierarchy which

Tess dismantles in her demand for love; he responds to Tess‘s defiance of his authority

by taking her sexual innocence. This act pushes Tess into the Victorian categories of

impure and fallen, where marrying Alec is the only means to salvage her public

1 The Oxford English Dictionary defines rape as ―Originally and chiefly: the act or crime, committed by a

man, of forcing a woman to have sexual intercourse with him against her will, esp. by means of threats or

violence. In later use more generally: the act of forced, non-consenting, or illegal sexual intercourse with

another person; sexual violation or assault.‖ This definition of the term was used prior to, and during, the Victorian era. For the purposes of this chapter, I will assume that Tess was raped by Alec D‘Urberville and

that consequently her loss of sexual innocence was not voluntary.

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reputation. Alec shows affection toward Tess in the days following the rape, still

receiving no response. Alec complains, ―You don‘t give me your mouth and kiss me

back. You never willingly do that—you‘ll never love me, I fear‖ with Tess‘s reply, ―I

have said so often. It is true. I have never really and truly loved you, and I think I never

can‖ (Hardy 78). While Alec has stolen possession of Tess‘s body, she persistently

attempts to exercise her female agency by denying Victorian society‘s post-coital

expectations for her. Therefore, what places Tess on the periphery of society is not

merely her loss of virginity, but also her conscious decision to deny her opportunity of

escaping this impure label.

That Tess loses her virginity through rape is to some extent irrelevant to Victorian

society as it is Tess‘s physical body that is being labeled impure. Essentially, sexual

innocence is not an ethical issue but a fact of the flesh. Virginity is Victorian society‘s

sole consideration and consequently Tess is impure because she has been penetrated.

Tess‘s refusal to marry Alec after the rape and subsequent pregnancy is grounds for

social ridicule as within Victorian culture sex and marriage were expected to be

synonymous. Tess is subsequently ostracized by her mother and blamed for her inability

(or lack of attempt) to obtain Alec as a husband. Joan Durbeyfield responds to Tess‘s

pregnancy by exclaiming ―And yet th‘st not got him to marry ‘ee! Any woman would

have done it but you!‖, followed by Tess‘s admission ―Perhaps any woman would except

me‖ (Hardy 81). Joan blames Tess for her own sexual suffering by which she was not an

acting agent, but Tess is clearly cognizant that her rejection of the expectation that she

wed Alec distinctly separates her from Victorian women as a whole.

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Although Tess ignores her post-coital Victorian expectations, she is not

impervious to the shame felt in regards to birthing and raising an illegitimate child.

Tess‘s pregnancy causes her to be unable to disguise her lost innocence, and therefore her

child becomes the embodiment and proof of Tess‘s impurity. While beauty served as

Tess‘s first ―mark,‖ her illegitimate child acts as a second ―mark.‖ Now Tess is further

separated from the community through her lack of chastity. Throughout her infant‘s short

life, Tess does not readily view her child as a human being until its impending death.

Both the newborn‘s name and gender are not referred to until the child grows ill and Tess

frantically attempts to baptize him. Once Tess does decide to name her child, she fittingly

names him ―Sorrow.‖ Tess‘s choice to name her infant after the feeling he generates,

rather than a more suitable name, further suggests that Tess views the infant as merely a

function of her exclusion.

Once Sorrow‘s death nears, Tess treats him as a scapegoat. Girard argues that

children are common sacrificial victims as they are subhuman due to their non-agency:

―In many primitive societies children who have not yet undergone the rites of initiation

have no proper place in the community; their rights and duties are almost non-existent‖

(12). Therefore, Sorrow‘s ―double doom for lack of baptism and lack of legitimacy‖

(Hardy 93), makes him a potential sacrificial victim. Hardy illustrates Tess‘s instinctive

love and hatred for Sorrow, writing, ―the young mother sat it upright in her lap, and

looking into the far distance dandled it with a gloomy indifference that was almost

dislike; then all of a sudden she fell to violently kissing it some dozens of times . . . the

child crying at the vehemence of an onset which strangely combined passionateness with

contempt‖ (Hardy 90). In the same vein, Tess has inconsistent reactions as Sorrow falls

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ill. The narrator claims that Tess desires to preserve the life of her infant despite his

―offence against society‖ (92), yet when Sorrow does die, Tess‘s immediate reaction is

one of relief. Tess herself believes that Sorrow will in fact play the role of sacrificial

victim and, in doing so, lead to a renewal of social stasis. Hardy writes, ―Was once lost

always lost really true of chastity? she would ask herself. She might prove it false if she

could veil bygones‖ (Hardy 99). Rosemarie Morgan calls attention to this function of

Sorrow, writing, ―In her sacramental cleansing of the infant Sorrow‘s guilt Tess enacts

her own desire to liberate the innocent soul from damnation, to ‗bury‘ guilt and sorrow

purged of all stain‖ (103). Although Tess is attempting to cleanse Sorrow of sin before

his death, Tess‘s self-interests cause her to project her own crimes and offenses onto the

infant in hopes that through his baptism and death, she herself can also be purified. Tess

readily believes that as the living proof of her impurity, Sorrow‘s death will essentially

erase her sexual experience.

To a certain extent, Sorrow‘s death does reinstate a kind of freedom for Tess. The

death of Sorrow eliminates the visible proof of Tess‘s impurity, and as a result, Tess

leaves the village of Marlott for a dairymaid position in Talbothays in attempts to start

anew. Having visibly lost her second ―mark,‖ Tess believes that she has been given a

second chance at domestic and social success and as a result she begins to concern herself

with social expectations rather than personal desires. Hardy implies that the death of

Sorrow led to an altering of Tess‘s identity, writing, ―Almost at a leap Tess thus changed

from simple girl to complex woman. . . her soul that of a woman whom the turbulent

experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world‘s

opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education‖ (Hardy 99). By

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identifying Tess as a member of the generic group ―women‖ after the death of Sorrow

suggests that Tess will now abide by Victorian gender ideology. Similarly, the

―education‖ that Tess received, namely that women do not possess ownership over their

own bodies, appears to have been effective as Tess quickly desires to give her body to the

next man she meets. Upon arrival at Talbothays, Tess almost immediately becomes

romantically involved with Angel Clare, the young farmer‘s apprentice. Although Tess

convinces herself that her love for Angel is genuine, Hardy writes, ―She had bowed to the

inevitable result of proximity, the necessity of loving him‖ (Hardy 170). Although this

generally suggests that Tess grows affectionate toward Angel due to their day-to-day

closeness working in the dairy, the term ―proximity‖ can more specifically suggest time

and space, rather than distance alone. While there clearly is some authentic romance

between Tess and Angel, Angel can also be viewed as simply the successive suitor to the

violent Alec; therefore, loving Angel is a ―necessity‖ to combat Tess‘s failure as a

Victorian woman.

Angel‘s role within Tess‘s efforts for domestic redemption is further shown in the

way in which Tess amplifies Angel‘s good qualities. Although it is tempting to

sympathize with Tess and read Angel as the antithesis to Alec, several similarities exist

between the two men. Joanna Devereux highlights the more unpleasant characteristics of

Angel, suggesting that ―Angel is by no means the chivalrous, disinterested lover that Tess

imagines, but a snob, a hypocrite, a misogynist, and an impractical dreamer‖ (116). More

importantly, he holds the same violent and possessive ideology in regard to women as

Alec, only Angel does not physically act on it. Although Tess eventually agrees to marry

Angel, her initial negative response to his proposal causes Angel to pursue Tess

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aggressively as if her rejection fuels his passion: ―His experience of women was great

enough for him to be aware that the negative often meant nothing more than a preface to

the affirmative,‖ and Angel blatantly tells Tess, ―Now—you did not mean it, sweet?—I

am sure you did not!‖ (Hardy 174). While Alec countered Tess‘s denial of his affections

with an act of violence, Angel similarly will not take no for an answer and demands that

Tess promise not to let any other man possess her but himself.

Although Tess‘s desire to marry Angel acts as a second chance at domestic

success, the socially transgressive and consequently tragic nature of their union is shown

immediately when the couple chooses to elope. Not only does Angel and Tess‘s wedding

have the impression of a clandestine operation through their neglect in telling family and

friends of their intentions, but their marriage is not allowed to flourish due to Tess‘s lack

of innocence. Angel is unaware of Tess‘s sexual impurity and only thinks that he is

marrying outside of his social class. Notably, it is Tess‘s ignorance of the Victorian

double standard that makes her sexual impurity known to Angel. On the night following

their elopement, Angel confesses to having previously had sexual relations with a woman

on a trip to London. Angel‘s decision to fall ―into eight-and-forty hours‘ dissipation with

a stranger‖ is something he describes as a ―folly‖ (Hardy 225). Angel‘s remorse ends at

the acknowledgement that his sexual dalliances were foolish and reckless, and Tess

immediately feels relief, as she naively assumes that Angel‘s premarital liaison parallels

her own fallenness that she has been hiding from him. In reference to the gravity of her

secret in comparison to Angel‘s, Tess wrongly thinks, ―No, it cannot be more serious,

certainly‖ (Hardy 225). Tess follows Angel‘s admission with her own confession of lost

chastity, but Angel responds by questioning if she is ―out of her mind‖ and refusing to

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answer her pleas for forgiveness and mercy. Tess assumes that her and Angel‘s affections

for one another are stronger than Victorian society‘s standards; however, as a man Angel

has higher investment in the maintenance of patriarchal social structures and is unwilling

to look past Tess‘s sexual impurity. Tess attempts to appeal to Angel‘s emotions by

questioning ―Having begun to love ‘ee, I love ‘ee for ever—in all changes, in all

disgraces, because you are yourself. I ask no more. Than how can you, O my own

husband, stop loving me?‖ (228). Conversely, Angel is reluctant to view marriage as an

act of love, rather than primarily a social institution, and consequently cannot initially see

past Tess‘s sexual transgressions.

The Victorian double standard—of which Tess is ignorant—further appears in

Angel‘s adamant assertions that the ―fallen Tess‖ is not the woman that he desired to

marry. In response to Tess‘s appeals for forgiveness, Angel reasons, ―Forgiveness does

not apply to the case. You are one person; now you are another‖ (Hardy 228). Angel‘s

claim that Tess has changed identities through the loss of her virginity shows the

essentialist nature of Victorian classifications, particularly for women. While Angel was

allowed to engage in premarital sex without any substantial repercussions, Tess is either

perceived as sexually pure or fallen, with no room for exceptions. Angel further

exemplifies this ideology in his definitive statement, ―The woman I have been loving is

not you‖ (Hardy 229). Here Angel is suggesting that the woman he desired to marry was

sexually pure and thus represented the Victorian feminine ideal, something that Tess

could not achieve from her rape onwards. Angel‘s condemnation of Tess‘s lack of

innocence illustrates the enormous significance Victorian society placed on female

chastity as he decides to overlook Tess‘s lower social position and his family‘s

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disapproval, yet, once Tess admits to her sexual impurity, Angel is unwilling to forgive

her marginality.

Angel‘s claim that Tess was one person and now another demonstrates the

Victorian view that women were defined through purity, sexuality, and ultimately their

body. As was the case for Alec, Angel can only see Tess‘s flesh and is chiefly concerned

with issues of physical possession. Angel makes references to Tess‘s innocence,

admitting that Tess was ―more sinned against than sinning‖ (Hardy 232), similarly

arguing, ―I wish half the women in England were as respectable as you. It isn‘t a question

of respectability, but one of principle‖ (Hardy 241). Angel does not blame Tess for her

lost chastity and does not claim to love her any less because of it, yet he is merely

unwilling to act as husband to a woman that, according to Victorian standards, physically

belongs to another man. Angel reasons, ―How can we live together while that man lives?

. . . Think of years to come, and children being brought to us, and this past matter getting

known‖ (243). As the initial possessor of Tess‘s body, Alec remains in Angel‘s mind

Tess‘s ―master‖ until his death. Ellen Rooney argues that Angel cannot see past Tess‘s

body, writing, ―Hardy insists on Angel‘s refusal to see the meaning of the events in The

Chase as Tess sees them, that is, to see them as forgivable . . . Angel, like the narrator,

persistently reads Tess‘s flesh‖ (474). Although Tess felt that the death of Sorrow was

enough for her to have a chance at domestic success, her body remains impure—a

definitive label that she cannot escape.

In response to Tess‘s admitted sexual impurity, Angel attempts to evade the social

ridicule of their union by departing for Brazil, leaving Tess behind and subsequently

sending her into a further state of degradation. The fact that she is unable to keep her

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virtue until marriage and is consciously abandoned by her husband once successfully

married causes Tess to isolate herself from society in shame of her dual disappointment

as a Victorian woman. Falling further and further into poverty and being forced into hard

field labor for subsistence, Tess begins to give up hope of Angel‘s return. Alec

D‘Urberville—who has reappeared in Tess‘s life after a chance run-in—offers Tess a

way out of her destitution, to live with him and be financially supported. Despite her

hatred for Alec, Tess considers the proposition made to her: ―She did for one moment

picture what might have been the result if she had been free to accept the offer just made

her of being the monied Alec‘s wife. It would have lifted her completely out of

subjection, not only to her present oppressive employer, but to a whole world who

seemed to despise her‖ (Hardy 319). Yet, it is not until Tess‘s father dies, leaving her

family with no income or home, that Tess finally resolves to live with Alec. Once Angel

returns from Brazil, ashamed of his previous harshness and abandonment of Tess, he

finds her living in a state of financial luxury. Angel describes the town of Sandbourne in

which Alec and Tess live as a place of ―wealth and fashion‖ (Hardy 376). Similarly,

when Angel calls upon Tess at her residence at The Herons, Hardy writes, ―Her great

natural beauty was at last rendered full justice by her attire. She was loosely wrapped in a

rich cashmere dressing-gown of gray-white, embroidered in half-mourning tints‖ (Hardy

378). Although Tess has managed to aid her family in their monetary crisis and enhance

her own social situation, the ―mournful‖ color of Tess‘s dress suggests that she herself

remains desolate. By submitting to Alec D‘Urberville, Tess has at last fully deserted her

original demand for love and essentially prostitutes herself, desperately giving up her

body for survival.

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Angel‘s return causes Tess to become vengeful, leading her to violently remove

Alec from her past, allowing her to take a proper matrimonial place at the side of Angel

Clare. Tess‘s murder of Alec serves as reciprocation for his act of rape—the onset of

violence in the narrative. The murder is a distinct reversal of Alec‘s rape of Tess; whereas

the act of rape is grounded in notions of male superiority, Tess‘s act of murder overturns

Victorian gender hierarchies. While in the rape scene Tess is a passive participant and

Alec actively claims possession over Tess‘s body, within the murder scene Tess actively

ends Alec‘s life. Therefore, Tess not only blurs the opposition man/woman by placing

herself in an authoritative position, but she similarly obscures the active/passive Victorian

distinctions expected of the differing genders. Furthermore, by taking justice into her own

hands and punishing Alec for his crimes against her purity, Tess is disregarding Victorian

judicial structures which would not penalize Alec for his crimes. Yet, unlike Alec, Tess is

punished for her act of violence and for ignoring social distinctions. Throughout Hardy‘s

narrative, Tess complicates the distinctions between pure and impure that are so

fundamental to Victorian society. While Tess has undoubtedly lost her sexual innocence,

this loss was forced upon her by Alec, and therefore was not of her choosing. Through

murdering Alec, Tess is releasing the tensions resulting from the differentiations that

have been blurred, but Tess‘s act of violence is destructive due to its personal motivation.

Nicola Harris similarly points out the criminal aspect to Tess‘s violence. Harris argues

that Tess‘s violence is ―individual as opposed to communal murder‖ and that through her

murderous act Tess becomes ―taboo, ‗unclean‘, impure, herself and the cycle is

perpetuated as she is offered as a sacrifice to those powers and laws that have been

offended and contravened‖ (18). As a result of this personal act of violence, a communal

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and beneficial act of violence becomes necessary to eliminate this dissention, namely, the

sacrifice of Tess.

To read Tess‘s death as anything other than sacrifice is difficult due to the manner

in which Hardy sets up her detainment. After Alec‘s murder, Tess and Angel flee the

scene of violence and roam aimlessly, avoiding towns and high roads in attempts to

evade notice. Once Tess feels that she can walk no longer, she and Angel stop for rest at

the abandoned Bramshurst Manor-house. Tess is fully aware of the threat that her violent

act poses to society, claiming that she has become a changed person through her violence.

Tess confesses to Angel, ―How wickedly mad I was! Yet formerly I never could bear to

hurt a fly or a worm, and the sight of a bird in a cage used often to make me cry‖ (Hardy

390). Tess and Angel are spotted by the caretaker of the cottage, and are forced to leave

and continue their march. The couple fittingly stumble upon Stonehenge, as Tess states, a

―heathen temple‖ (Hardy 393) used as both a burial ground and a site for ritual sacrifice.

As Angel desires to move on and continue walking, Tess feels that Stonehenge is the

proper place for her journey to end, claiming, ―So now I am at home‖ (Hardy 393).

Similarly, as Tess lies down from exhaustion, Angel proclaims ―I think you are lying on

an altar‖ (Hardy 393)—furthering the sacrificial imagery. Tess nonchalantly replies to

Angel‘s concern: ―I like very much to be here‖ (393). This assertion that Tess is at home

in her capture at the close of the narrative signifies that this is the event that her entire life

as been working towards: her role as sacrificial victim. Furthermore, the irony behind

Hardy‘s use of the term ―home‖ has appropriate domestic connotations. While Tess has

spent the entirety of the narrative failing at her life‘s purpose to build a home and family,

Tess finally seems content in her purpose as scapegoat.

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In opposition to Tess‘s individual act of violence against Alec, the community as

a group participates in the seizure and execution of Tess. After Tess has been sleeping

serenely for some time, Angel notices the approach of several men. Hardy writes, ―He

heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw over the prostrate

columns another figure; then, before he was aware, another was at hand on the right,

under a trilithon, and another on the left. . . They all closed in with evident purpose‖

(Hardy 395). As Angel attempts to protect Tess, the nearest man states, ―It is no use, sir.

There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole county is reared‖ (395). Here, not only

does the community display its manifest intent on obtaining Tess as their sacrificial

victim, but the claim that ―the whole county is reared‖ shows the communal aspect of the

sacrificial process. Tess herself does not even dispute her victimization as she states, ―It

is as it should be. Angel, I am almost glad—yes, glad!‖ (Hardy 396). Tess‘s acceptance

of her ―marked‖ role illustrates her awareness that the elimination of her body is best for

both society as a whole and Angel more specifically. Once again, Hardy‘s strategic

choice of title, ―Fulfillment‖ for this final section helps to make clear Tess‘s function as

scapegoat. Annie Ramel similarly argues ―Through the sacrifice, the victim is brought to

naught, but the Other is fulfilled, made complete and given consistence‖ (99). Tess‘s

constant location on the periphery of Victorian society throughout the narrative

culminates in her capture and subsequent sacrifice, as the elimination of her body is

essential to the unity of the community.

Tess is positioned into her role as sacrificial victim by her infant-like and

subhuman qualities during the Stonehenge scene. Firstly, the illustration of the villagers

closing in with ―evident purpose‖ shows the community encircling Tess: the community

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gathering around with the victim located at the center. Secondly, the community stands

over Tess watching her sleep, as a parent may keep guard over an infant. Tess is further

shown as being subhuman as Angel ―went to the stone and bent over her, holding one

poor little hand; her breathing now was quick and small, like that of a lesser creature than

a woman‖ (Hardy 395). By Victorian standards, to be ―lesser than a woman‖ Tess can

only be an animal or child. After Tess‘s execution, Ramel argues that Tess has in a sense

been absorbed by the community and reduced to the black flag flying above the prison.

Ramel writes, ―Tess, as she reaches the end of her tragic course, has become one with the

destructive Other who comes to lay hold of her. She has become ‗intextuated‘ to such a

point that she is reduced to a mere sign‖ (102). Therefore, as the novel progresses, Tess

descends from a young woman to an infant-like state, and ends the narrative as

completely non-human symbolized by a flag. This sequence closely follows Girard‘s

emphasis on the function of the scapegoat as having to be both inside and outside the

community. Although Tess is readily recognized as a female member of Marlott society

(shown in her active participation in the cultural May Day dance), she is gradually

dehumanized as the narrative develops. In a Girardian sense, this works to place her at

the periphery of society.

The community uses Tess as a sacrificial victim in order to return to a sense of

harmony and restore the distinctions that have been destroyed. With the elimination of

Tess, the reciprocal violence between her and Alec is stopped as the destructive violence

is ended by a single act of beneficial violence. Furthermore, Angel is offered a second

chance at a socially sanctioned marriage to a virtuous wife, something Tess‘s sexual

impurity prevented. Just before her sacrifice Tess seems aware of her role in restoring

18

social peace. She attempts to convince Angel that he should pursue a respectable

marriage with her younger sister ‘Liza Lu. Tess refers to ‘Liza Lu as ―good and simple

and pure,‖ ―gentle and sweet,‖ and pleads with Angel: ―If you would train her and teach

her, Angel, and bring her up for your own self! . . . She has all the best of me without the

bad of me‖ (Hardy 394). Essentially, ‘Liza Lu serves as a potential Victorian Angel. She

is pure, passive, and tender, and Angel can mold her into the woman that he desires to

marry. Therefore, just as Angel functioned as a potential new start for Tess, ‘Liza-Lu is

almost identically offering a form of social rebirth for Angel. Furthermore, as a Victorian

male, Angel is allowed this second chance, while for Tess, her initial failure

predetermined her tragic fate.

The social stasis provided by Tess‘s sacrifice is also illustrated by Hardy at the

symbolic level. Whereas the novel began with imagery of female purity through the

metaphoric ―white‖ of the May Day scene, Hardy brings his narrative full circle by

similarly ending with the prevalence of the color white during Tess‘s execution. Ramel

draws attention to the ―paleness‖ of the last chapter, writing, ―As the novel draws to a

close, we feel that nature, in pathetic likeness to Tess, has been bled white. The milestone

where Angel and Liza-Lu have stopped is described as ‗standing whitely on the green

margin of the grass‘. The two survivors . . . are deathly pale, and all the life seems to have

been drained out of them‖ (102). Although Ramel‘s analysis is persuasive, when

considering the role of sacrifice within the community it is perhaps most effective to

consider white as a symbol of cleanliness and purity in addition to the draining of life.

While life and blood is literally drained out of Tess through her execution, the pale of the

white faces of Angel and ‘Liza-Lu as they embrace one another offers the hope of

19

renewed order and innocence. This future optimism is further shown in Hardy‘s

suggestive last sentence, ―As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again,

and went on‖ (Hardy 398). Here Hardy emphasizes that Angel and ‘Liza-Lu are affected

by the death of Tess as they must gather courage to proceed with their lives, but most

importantly, together they will inevitably move forward. Accentuating the perseverance

of social ―life‖ after Tess‘s death illustrates both the rationality and the success of the

sacrificial ritual.

20

CHAPTER II

LACK OF DIFFERENTIATION AND MIMETIC DESIRE IN

EMILY BRONTE‘S WUTHERING HEIGHTS AND THOMAS HARDY‘S

JUDE THE OBSCURE

Within both Emily Brontë‘s Wuthering Heights and Thomas Hardy‘s Jude the

Obscure, the intense bonds formed between Catherine/Heathcliff and Sue/Jude act to

create sacrificial crises. While all four protagonists threaten Victorian distinctions as

individuals, when combined with their counterparts the social threat that they pose

proliferates. The fact that the union of these characters is the fusion of a member of each

gender is vital to the danger that they create, as each couple defies the separation of the

sexes so fundamental to a patriarchal Victorian social ideology. While gender is the

primary distinction threatened in Jude the Obscure, in Wuthering Heights classifications

of gender, class, and family are also transgressed. Furthermore, the combinations of

Catherine/Heathcliff and Sue/Jude create a sort of monstrous double, where the

distinctions between the individuals are muddled, leading to a confusion of the most

fundamental of all distinctions: the difference between Self and Other. While both the

male and female characters serve as threats to a Victorian classification system, it is

distinctly the female protagonists, Catherine and Sue, who serve as the primary

instigators of the loss of individual identity within the narratives. Both Catherine and Sue

participate in mimetic desire where they confuse their actual desires for what they falsely

believe they should want. This mimesis leads to rivalry, jealously, tension, and violence

that can only be stopped through sacrificial ritual to eliminate their threat and return to

working, patriarchally motivated social distinctions.

21

Despite Catherine‘s centrality to the ubiquitous sacrificial crises throughout

Wuthering Heights, it is with the male protagonist Heathcliff that Brontë begins her

narration and introduces the theme of plurality. Heathcliff‘s destruction of

differentiations is shown from the onset of the narrative as Lockwood is unable to

categorize his landlord. Upon their first meeting, Lockwood describes Heathcliff as ―a

dark skinned-gypsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman‖ (Brontë 3). Similarly,

although Lockwood admits to having thought Heathcliff a ―capital fellow‖ he also

describes his landlord‘s tone and behavior as ―savage‖-like (9). Once Nelly begins her

narration of Heathcliff‘s past, this plurality characteristic of Heathcliff becomes even

more apparent. As an abandoned child that Mr. Earnshaw sympathetically picked up on

the streets of Liverpool, Heathcliff is introduced to the Earnshaw family by the father‘s

statement, ―you must e‘en take it as a gift of God, though its as dark almost as if it came

from the devil‖ (31). This implication that qualities of both heaven and hell, good and

bad, reside within the young Heathcliff exemplifies his resistance to definition. John

Allen Stevenson uses slightly different terminology to demonstrate a similar argument,

suggesting that Heathcliff embodies ―remarkable indefiniteness‖ (67). Heathcliff‘s

identity also avoids classification through his lack of knowable origins. Aside from the

details regarding Heathcliff‘s lack of parentage, the Earnshaws know nothing of his

history. Therefore, the Earnshaws can only regard Heathcliff as a general outsider or

―other.‖

Even Heathcliff‘s status as ―other‖ is complicated by the mere fact that it is the

Earnshaw patriarch (the ruler and authority figure) who desires to bring the orphan quite

literally through the doors of Wuthering Heights that divide their family from the outer

22

world. Mr. Earnshaw further includes the child by christening him ―Heathcliff‖ after a

son who had died during childhood. This metaphoric initiation into the Earnshaw family

is rejected by the Earnshaw mother and son Hindley, as well as the servant/narrator

Nelly, who even in her retelling of the events dehumanizes Heathcliff by not giving him

the respect of using his name or gender, shown through her constant allusions to

Heathcliff as ―it‖ or a ―gipsy brat‖ (Brontë 31). From a Victorian perspective, this

exclusion of Heathcliff seems more than sensible as Heathcliff has penetrated the

Earnshaw family system that has occupied the Heights for three centuries. Hindley is

threatened by the metaphoric adoption of Heathcliff as he appropriates the affections that

Hindley, as the only son and heir, is accustomed to receiving.

Although Heathcliff is ostracized by the mother, Hindley, and Nelly, Catherine

follows in her father‘s footsteps and accepts Heathcliff. Due to the relatively close

proximity of Heathcliff‘s induction to the family and the death of Mr. Earnshaw,

Catherine arguably is the acting agent in Heathcliff‘s immersion into the family. Whereas

Mr. Earnshaw physically brought him from the social periphery into the Earnshaw home,

Catherine is the one to fully embrace Heathcliff both emotionally and corporally.

Therefore, Catherine Earnshaw serves as the more dominant threat to the Earnshaw

family structure, rather than Heathcliff. While Heathcliff‘s need to bond with Catherine is

understandable, Catherine‘s excessive reciprocation is less rational. Due to Heathcliff‘s

unknowable origins, an attachment with Catherine is a means by which he can form a

sense of identity. Stevenson similarly writes, ―We can say something about the origin of

Heathcliff‘s identity: more than any place else, his self seems to originate in Catherine‖

(72). Catherine, on the other hand, has multiple sources of identity found in the Earnshaw

23

family, her beauty, wealth, and education. The independence from, and defiance of, her

family heritage that Catherine exercises in choosing to accept Heathcliff as a childhood

brother and future lover endangers the longstanding Earnshaw family structure. Graham

Holderness correspondingly places blame on Catherine for Heathcliff‘s position within

the family, writing, ―He emerges from the darkness which is the outside of the tightly

knit family system: an outsider who tests the family . . . Catherine takes the opportunity

of loving him, and thereby disturbs the family‘s equilibrium‖ (30). Although the

Earnshaw mother, Hindley, and Nelly view Heathcliff as the evil offender of their family

system, Catherine acts as the vehicle by which Heathcliff is allowed to be a menace.

Although it is difficult to pinpoint the exact root of the connection between

Catherine and Heathcliff, he serves as an outlet for the built-up passion, emotion, and

energy that, as a female living in Victorian society, Catherine is expected to suppress.

Susan Rubinow Gorsky suggests that Brontë‘s novel was written just before the peak in

the ―cult of the delicate woman‖ and argues that this mindset idealized ―fragility and a

restricted social role‖ (174). While the conventional Victorian female was characterized

by a frail and feeble body, ―robust health in girls signified an unacceptable hoyden or

tomboy‖ (175). Catherine—undoubtedly belonging to the latter of these two groups of

women—finds that with Heathcliff her ―spirits were always at high-water mark, her

tongue always going—singing, laughing, plaguing everybody who would not do the

same‖ (Brontë 36). Catherine is found to be ―mischievous and wayward‖ (32), ―reckless‖

(40), ―naughty‖ (40), ―revengeful‖ (40): all active rather than passive actions or feelings

and, for that very reason, not conforming to the feminine ideal. Although Catherine

clearly demonstrates these mannerisms prior to Heathcliff‘s arrival at the Heights—at six

24

Catherine could ―ride any horse in the stable, and chose a whip‖ (30) as the desired gift

from her father—the presence of Heathcliff allows her passionate and energetic spirit free

reign.

In Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy begins his narrative by introducing Jude as a

displaced young orphan. Living with his aunt Drusilla after the deaths of his mother and

father, Jude becomes an outcast and unwelcomed child in the town of Marygreen.

Although not maliciously, Jude is ridiculed by the community for the domestic social

flaws of his deceased parents, as they were unable to maintain a successful marriage.

Ostracized by the town in which he lives, Jude lives a life of loneliness and alienation.

When Mr. Phillotson, Jude‘s schoolmaster and father figure, leaves for the nearby city of

Christminster to pursue higher education, he feels deserted. Young Jude is cognizant of

his status, feeling as if he is ―living in a world which did not want [him]‖ (Hardy 9).

Jude‘s aunt bluntly suggests the inconvenience of Jude‘s existence, stating, ―It would ha‘

been a blessing if Goddy-mighty had took thee too wi‘ thy mother, poor useless boy!‖

(7). Her coldness adds to his estrangement from the community, leaving him searching

for something or someone with which he can align himself.

Jude attaches himself to the nearby city of Christminster—a center of academic

scholarship and religious worship—in attempts to mend his lacking sense of self and aid

in the formation of personal identity. Jude forms fantastic and embellished notions of

what life would be like at Christminster, a place in which Jude can be valued and

respected by society. Hardy writes, ―He was getting so romantically attached to

Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his mistress, he felt bashful at

mentioning its name again‖ (Hardy 18). Christminster is an ideal that Jude needs to

25

conquer or enter in order to attain the sense of identity and worth that his youth in

Marygreen has not provided. Despite his passionate desire for education, the ideal is less

than easy for Jude, as being a scholar comes unnaturally for him. In reference to Jude‘s

attempt at gaining scholarly knowledge, Hardy writes, ―There were no brains in his head

equal to this business . . . he wished he had never seen a book, that he might never see

another, that he had never been born‖ (Hardy 25). The fact that scholarship—at the high

quality they are learning at the schools in Christminster—is not an inherent quality of

Jude‘s character causes him to blur the distinctions between his lower-class/uncultured

upbringing and the affluent/learned state to which he aspires. Jude spends his time

preparing to leave for Christminster and his initial time in the city in a sort of limbo

between the oppositions of laborer and academic. For instance, in order to raise money

for his move to Christminster, Jude takes it upon himself to become the student of a

stone-mason in Alfredston and learn ―the rudiments of freestone-working‖ (Hardy 29).

Although Jude convinces himself that his labors are only temporary, what he terms a

―prop to lean on‖ (30), once arriving in Christminster, Jude‘s physical labor never ceases.

In Marygreen Jude was distinguished by his desire for knowledge; in Christminster,

Jude‘s background suits him to work on the city‘s walls, but not to enter the colleges.

Exceeding Jude‘s more subtle lack of distinctions, Sue (Jude‘s cousin) more

noticeably disregards common Victorian attitudes towards both religion and gender.

Having lived in the Christian city of Christminster long before Jude‘s arrival, Sue

worships pagan gods and goddesses, exercising independent intellectual thought. Her

free-thinking acts in stark contrast to the conformity of Christminster, a city built on

established religion and education. Sue distinctly combines the concepts of religious

26

worship with sexuality. In the overly religious house of Miss Fontover, Sue conceals her

statues of Venus and Apollo (symbolizing youth and sexual desire). She is clearly

rebellious and regards her statues ―as treasures,‖ fearing that they be found by Miss

Fontover (Hardy 89). Sue‘s blending of sexuality and worship is mirrored in the psyche

of Jude, shown in the strategic locations in which Jude begins to form a physical

attraction to Sue. For instance, while working a stonemasonry job in one of the

Christminster churches Jude realizes his attraction to Sue is sexually motivated. As Sue

enters the church (unaware of Jude‘s presence or of their familial relation), Jude

immediately ponders, ―he dared not, in this holy spot, confront the woman who was

beginning to influence him in such an indescribable manner. . . his interest in her had

shown itself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind‖ (Hardy 91). Martin Wilson believes

that Jude‘s ―one-sided encounters with Sue occur in mainly ecclesiastical surroundings is

significant. Sue becomes implicated in Jude‘s mind with the blending of eroticism and

religion‖ (93). Due to this correlation between religious and sexual scenes, Sue becomes

a sort of living sexual Goddess of whom Jude is the sole disciple.

In addition to her unconventional relationship with religion, Sue even more

defiantly destroys Victorian principles regarding strict distinctions between men and

women. While Jude refers to Sue as having an ―unconsciousness of gender‖ (Hardy 143),

Sue can be seen as perhaps more accurately exhibiting gender duality, both male and

female, as opposed to operating completely outside of gender expectations. From a

Victorian perspective, Sue is in a sense intellectually male, but biologically female.

Considering herself mentally equal to the male gender, Sue tells Jude, ―My life has been

entirely shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me. I have no fear of men, as such,

27

nor of their books. I have mixed with them . . . almost as one of their own sex‖ (Hardy

141). Sue‘s assertion that she is not fearful of men and ―their books‖ implies that she is

not apprehensive of scholarly knowledge, stereotypically a male attribute in the Victorian

era. All of Sue‘s close relationships are with men and have intellectual roots. Sue tells

Jude of her previous relationship with an undergraduate, where they would ―go about

together—on walking tours, reading tours, and things of that sort—like two men almost‖

(Hardy 142). In her decision to marry Phillotson, Sue is uniting herself with her academic

mentor and multiplying the amount of knowledge in her environment. Lastly, Jude and

Sue have formed a commanding intellectual bond: ―If he could only get over the sense of

her sex . . . what a comrade she would make; for their difference of opinion on

conjectural subjects only drew them closer together on matters of daily human

experience‖ (Hardy 147). Therefore, although Jude finds it remarkable that he can form

such a strong philosophical connection with a woman, he admits this is a significant

reason for the powerful union between him and Sue.

In contrast to Sue‘s stereotypically male pursuit of scholarly knowledge, she is

cognizant of her biological femininity and uses this physical part of her being in order to

place herself in a position of control and dominance over the men in Hardy‘s narrative.

Cedric Watts argues that Sue is the fictional ―new woman‖ characteristic of the late

Victorian period: a woman that is ―intelligent, lively, articulately forthright, capable of

pursuing her own career, sexually daring (whether in seductive action or defiant

abstinence), and resistant to the conventional claims of marriage‖ (154). Watts is correct

in highlighting these innovative attributes of Sue‘s character, yet regarding sexuality, Sue

does not demonstrate ―seductive action‖ or ―defiant abstinence,‖ rather she displays

28

―seductive action‖ and ―defiant abstinence.‖ These two actions provide Sue with the

immense amount of power she holds. Rosemarie Morgan emphasizes Sue‘s tactical use

of her femininity, writing, ―In order to achieve the most meager of ends she had to play

heavily on all her so-called ‗feminine‘ qualities effectively to gain male approval or

patronage vital to her success‖ (114). Sue recognizes the social expectations of women

(namely, that they are the physical possessions of men) but strategically denies her male

counterparts this authoritative position while simultaneously suggesting that she will

sexually give in. This concept is best shown in Sue‘s relationship with the anonymous

undergraduate. Sue tells Jude of her power over the young scholar: ―He wanted me to be

his mistress, in fact, but I wasn‘t in love with him—and on my saying I should go away if

he didn‘t agree to my plan, he did so. . . . He said I was breaking his heart by holding out

against him so long at such close quarters; he could never have believed it of woman‖

(Hardy 142). While Sue agrees to live in the same residence with the undergraduate, she

maintains control over her body, an act that places her outside of the generic category of

Victorian lady. Sue‘s threat to depart if the young man cannot agree to celibacy implies

that Sue is ironically using her physical presence, quite literally her female body, in

attempting to take on the role of authority and, therefore, the masculine position by

implication. Moreover, Sue‘s emphasis on the fact that the undergraduate agreed to ―my

plan‖ suggests that Sue functions as the decision-maker and regulator of their

relationship.

Just as Sue used her body to gain power in her romance with the undergraduate,

she similarly uses this ploy in her relationships with Phillotson and Jude. By agreeing to

marry Phillotson, Sue is at the most basic level promising by law to hand over possession

29

of her body. Yet in defiance of Victorian law, Sue acts as the controller of their marriage

as she recoils from her husband physically resulting in a platonic relationship. Sue enacts

the same stratagem with Jude, suggesting sexual desire without acting upon it. She writes

passionate letters to Jude during her romance with Phillotson calling on Jude‘s company,

claiming to be ―quite lonely and miserable‖ (Hardy 124), and likewise giving Jude

permission to express his romantic feelings, writing, ―If you want to love me, Jude, you

may: I don‘t mind at all‖ (149). Morgan correspondingly suggests that this oscillation

between a defiant ―bad-little-Sue‖ and an angelic ―good-little-Sue‖ (119) allows Sue to

―secure recognition of her needs‖ (116), namely, her desire for mental knowledge as well

as her acceptance as an intellectual being. Sue‘s sexual and romantic intimations without

the promise of culmination cause Jude to bluntly state, ―Sue, I sometimes think you are a

flirt‖ (Hardy 196). Although Jude intends this as an insult, it is precisely this

―flirtatiousness‖ which allows her to be a force governing the lives of the men around

her. Therefore, both Sue‘s attainment of intellectual knowledge as well as her

exploitation of the social expectations of women places her in a revolutionary position.

By exhibiting gender duality, Sue distorts male/female differentiations and serves as the

primary threat to social stasis in Hardy‘s narrative.

While the individual characters in both Brontë‘s and Hardy‘s narratives resist the

boundaries and social limits placed on them as individuals, through forming the

combinations of Catherine/Heathcliff and Sue/Jude, the couples lack the fundamental

differentiations of Self and Other. This confusion first occurs in Wuthering Heights, with

the bond between Catherine and Heathcliff causing them to resemble Girard‘s monstrous

double. Catherine and Heathcliff‘s intense connection defies complete understanding and

30

explanation. Patrick Kelly chooses to address the incomprehensible nature of

Catherine/Heathcliff, by arguing that they have reached a state of ―sublimity‖, which

produces feelings of fear and awe. Kelly couples the sublime with ideas of ―infinity or

immortality‖ and ―Grand spectacles, especially those which appear boundless‖ (25). It is

precisely these ―boundless‖, interminable, and unpredictable aspects to Catherine and

Heathcliff‘s union that defy hegemonic control. Similarly, Marci M. Gordon uses Julia

Kristeva‘s theories to suggest that Catherine and Heathcliff are frightening and

antagonistic to Victorian society because they willingly collapse their individual

identities into one another. Catherine and Heathcliff long ―to break through the

impediment of the body‖ leading ―to devouring of self, and each other as ‗other‘‖

(Gordon 47-48). As a couple, they dissolve the barriers between inside and outside, self

and other, life and death‖ (48), as well as the more social distinctions of wealthy/beggar

and sibling/lover, all classifications that aid in their division.

Through the abandonment of their individual selves, Catherine and Heathcliff

form a shared ―oneness‖ that proliferates through the majority of the narrative, and only

ceases due to Catherine‘s death. Catherine makes ambiguous references to their ideal and

almost euphoric relationship stating, ―he‘s more myself than I am‖ (Brontë 71) and ―I am

Heathcliff . . . not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself—but, as

my own being‖ (73). Here Catherine expresses that she and Heathcliff have become a

single being, as one cannot exist without the other. By stating that she is Heathcliff ―not

as a pleasure,‖ she implies that her bond with Heathcliff is not merely one of enjoyment

or gratification, but rather one of intrinsic necessity. The unity of Catherine and

Heathcliff defies understanding in the sense that Catherine herself linguistically struggles

31

to communicate the intensity of their connection. Graeme Tytler argues that Catherine‘s

proclamation ―I am Heathcliff‖ (Brontë 73) is ―a manifestation of perfect love‖ (167).

This exemplifies Catherine‘s true and genuine desire: an ideal and loving unity with

Heathcliff. Brontë‘s protagonists identify with one another to the extent that they are

characterized by the duality of being both Self and Other, and consequently acts as a

double that threatens the concept of a single individual identity.

Catherine further confuses the concepts of Self and Other following both the

death of her father and her introduction to life at Thrushcross Grange—her behaviors

becoming emblematic of Girard‘s concept of mimetic desire. Despite Catherine‘s father‘s

trip to Liverpool and minor references to Gimmerton, Wuthering Heights and

Thrushcross Grange make up the singular world of Brontë‘s narrative and as such the two

families/properties serve as two metaphoric types of society. Wuthering Heights acts as a

world of non-conformity: where classifications are destroyed, Victorian conventions are

many times ignored, and family structure is unsound. Paralleling Wuthering Heights is

Thrushcross Grange—and the Linton family that resides there—an emblem of Victorian

society and its standards. Yet, with the death of Mr. Earnshaw, Hindley as the biological

son takes his position as patriarch and immediately attempts to restore control, beginning

by attacking the oneness formed between Catherine and Heathcliff. After being bitten by

the Linton‘s dog, Hindley orders Catherine to reside at Thrushcross Grange for five

weeks to physically separate the two children. Hindley‘s wife uses this time to encourage

Catherine to embrace the manners and values typical of Victorian middle-class ladies, by

traveling to the Grange several times during this interval in order to improve Catherine‘s

refined qualities. Nelly narrates, ―The mistress visited her often, in the interval, and

32

commenced her plan of reform by trying to raise her self-respect with fine clothes and

flattery‖ (Brontë 46). As a result of this rectification of Catherine‘s conduct, once

Catherine returns to Wuthering Heights her family witnesses the emersion of a ―very

dignified person‖ as opposed to the ―wild, hatless little savage‖ (46) of the past. Hindley

and his wife praise Catherine‘s more feminine qualities, exclaiming, ―Why, Cathy, you

are quite a beauty! . . you look like a lady now‖ (46). In addition to highlighting

Catherine‘s femininity, Hindley ensures the separation of her and Heathcliff by class

upon her return to Wuthering Heights: ―Heathcliff, you may come forward. You may

come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants‖ (47). The accentuation

of Catherine‘s title as ―miss‖ and Heathcliff‘s position as ―servant‖ serves to place the

two protagonists at opposing ends of a wealthy/non-wealthy spectrum.

While Catherine‘s actual desire is to love Heathcliff, Catherine comes back to the

Heights with a newfound longing to become the Victorian Angel. Rather than pursuing

what she truly wants, Catherine has shifted to using Victorian society (personified in the

Lintons) as her new model and now desires to attain feminine virtue. Residing at

Thrushcross Grange, Catherine is exposed to Victorian expectations which she somewhat

internalizes, yet she cannot fully let go of her true desire for independence and a loving

relationship with Heathcliff. Upon her return, Catherine concedes to her expected role by

informing Heathcliff, ―If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will be all right. But

you are so dirty!‖ (Brontë 47), yet Catherine is unable to fully conceal her emotions, as

she ―flew to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the

second‖ (47). These two instances show the conflicting desires that Catherine is

experiencing. On the one hand, Catherine is imitating the Victorian feminine ideal, yet

33

when she returns to Wuthering Heights her true desires for Heathcliff are reignited and

due to their genuine nature she is unable to suppress her affection. This confusion of

desires between what Catherine wants and what society expects her to desire causes

tension between her and Heathcliff from this point on. Catherine and Heathcliff never

completely return to her innocent connection, untainted by her newfound knowledge of

her social role. Therefore, Catherine‘s time spent at Thrushcross Grange serves as a sort

of instruction where she becomes cognizant of a society outside of Wuthering Heights,

and can now more accurately see the non-conformity of her immediate surroundings. As

a result of this social education, Catherine spends the remainder of her life grappling

between Heathcliff (emblematic of her interior passions) and the son and eventual master

at Thrushcross Grange, Edgar Linton (emblematic of Victorian expectations), which are

in direct conflict with one another.

Once Catherine and Edgar‘s courtship culminates, Catherine naively believes that

a potential marital union with Edgar will have no bearing on her attachment with

Heathcliff, and that she can be dually possessed by both men. While discussing her

acceptance of Edgar‘s proposal with Nelly, Catherine is able to recognize all of the

practical and social rationalities behind their marriage: namely, Edgar‘s wealth, social

position, youth, and gentlemanly demeanor. In contrast, Catherine‘s loyalty to Heathcliff

surpasses social expectations and understanding. Catherine can consciously state, ―It

would degrade me to marry Heathcliff‖ (Brontë 71), while simultaneously making

reference to the perfection of their union. This separation between Catherine‘s internal

identity and desire for loving unity, as well as the external expectations being placed

upon her, is a source of great conflict in Brontë‘s narrative which peaks at Catherine‘s

34

acceptance of Edgar‘s marriage proposal. Despite the transcendent nature of Catherine

and Heathcliff‘s love, Heathcliff becomes jealous and vehement at the thought of Edgar‘s

lawful possession of Catherine. As a result, Heathcliff leaves Wuthering Heights and

does not return until he is able to enact terrible revenge.

During Heathcliff‘s absence, Catherine fully accepts her role as wife to Edgar.

Without Heathcliff‘s presence, Catherine is able to subdue her actual desire for love and

more fully imitate what society tells her she wants—Victorian domestic success. Nelly

narrates, ―She seemed almost over fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his sister, she showed

plenty of affection‖ (Brontë 81). Nelly‘s emphasis of Catherine‘s ―over fondness‖ for

Edgar suggest that Catherine is in a sense merely performing her role as wife,

endeavoring to be overly successful in both the domestic sphere and the femininity she

has spent her life opposing. Jennifer Beauvais argues that Victorian women that deviate

from the social norm can hide their digressions. Beauvais writes, ―By practicing a

disciplined self-control they can dissemble their way into the domestic space

. . . They are both persuaded to the benefits of pushing aside their wild ways and

embracing the ideal of femininity‖ (13). Without Heathcliff‘s presence to remind her that

she is acting against her desires, Catherine is able to embrace domestic life and a

newfound sense of ―self-control.‖

While Catherine has yielded lawful ownership of her person to Edgar through

marriage, Heathcliff remains the recipient of her affections and love, further illustrating

Catherine‘s internal separation between personal desire and social expectation. In

addition to Catherine‘s blunt denial of her duty to show complete loyalty to her husband,

she attempts to fuse Edgar and Heathcliff into one being, so that her passions and social

35

obligations will align. Catherine quite literally tries to combine the two men physically,

when upon first sight of Heathcliff following his return, Catherine ―sprang forward, took

both his hands, and led him to Linton; and then she seized Linton‘s reluctant fingers and

crushed them into his‖ (Brontë 84). The quixotic nature of Catherine‘s desire to unite the

two men is clearly illustrated in the ―crushing‖ rather than joining of hands. Similarly,

while in his youth Edgar seemed to tolerate the relationship between Heathcliff and

Catherine, the returned Heathcliff (with the appearance and demeanor of a gentleman)

supplies a threat that Edgar cannot ignore. Nelly describes Heathcliff‘s transformation:

―He had grown a tall, athletic, well-formed man, beside whom [Edgar] seemed quite

slender and youth-like. . . it looked intelligent, and retained no marks of former

degradation‖ (84). Heathcliff‘s improved disposition makes him appear a gentleman, as

opposed to the ―ruffian‖ of their childhood, and as a result, Edgar feels that his one lawful

hold on Catherine is in jeopardy. Edgar cannot consent to Catherine‘s devotion to

Heathcliff, and as a result he gives her an ultimatum, demanding, ―Will you give up

Heathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me? It is impossible for you to be my friend and

his at the same time‖ (104). Catherine refuses to abide by Edgar‘s and society‘s beliefs

once they are irrevocably placed in such blunt terms, once again showing the falsity of

her act of mimesis.

Unlike the immediate sublime amalgamation formed between

Catherine/Heathcliff, the bond produced by Sue/Jude takes longer to develop. Other than

his anti-domestic roots and desire for social mobility, Jude does not take on a subversive

demeanor until well into his romance with Sue. Jude initially accepts the Victorian

domestic ideology in which his parents failed and his romance with Arabella towards the

36

beginning of the narrative helps to illustrate acknowledgment and approval of a Victorian

marital status. At their first meeting, Jude alludes to Arabella as ―a complete and

substantial female animal—no more, no less‖ (Hardy 33), and Arabella‘s and her friends‘

body language as ―the unvoiced call of woman to man‖ (35). Hardy‘s language positions

Arabella in the role of ―generic woman‖ whom Jude sexually desires. Jude sexualizes

Arabella, drawing particular attention to her ―round and prominent bosom, full lips,

perfect teeth, and the rich complexion of a cochin hen‘s egg‖ (Hardy 33). Arabella uses

Jude‘s sexual desire to her benefit to seduce Jude and insist she is pregnant and trick Jude

into an obligatory marriage. Learning of Arabella‘s pregnancy, Jude is critical of the

social law in these situations, yet willing concedes, bluntly stating, ―Certainly we‘ll

marry: we must!‖ (Hardy 51). Jude‘s agreement to marry Arabella not only demonstrates

Jude‘s recognition of Victorian social law which links sex to marriage and ostracizes

children born out of wedlock, but their marriage also causes Jude to abandon his earlier

desire for educational/class mobility. In order to support his soon-to-be family, Jude must

―sell his books to buy saucepans‖ (Hardy 52), illustrating Jude‘s choice to privilege the

Victorian family and domestic sphere above all other personal desires.

Jude and Arabella‘s marriage is short lived, and although Jude gives Arabella his

blessing to depart to Australia with her family when their marriage goes sour, Jude‘s

reception of Victorian gender ideology surprisingly remains intact. Although Sue is

nothing like the ―generic woman‖ that Arabella is made out to be, Jude‘s initial (one-

sided) encounters with Sue are comparable with his first meeting with Arabella. Just as

Jude sexualized Arabella, he similarly has immediate sexual passion for Sue. In his first

few days in Christminster, Jude follows Sue, gazing upon her and observing her actions.

37

Hardy writes, ―He felt very shy of looking at the girl in the desk; she was so pretty that he

could not believe it possible that she should belong to him‖ (Hardy 82). Through the act

of gazing, Jude is placing himself in a position of dominance over Sue (in the subordinate

position of ―watched‖). Furthermore, Hardy‘s emphasis on Sue ―belonging to Jude‖

suggests Jude‘s desire to possess authority over Sue. Jude also feels he must compete

with Phillotson for Sue‘s affections, thinking, ―He felt he might have been pretty sure of

his own victory if it had come to a conflict between Phillotson and himself for the

possession of her‖ (Hardy 149). This almost primitive view of sexual relations places Sue

at the core of a Victorian gender ideology as a generic female available for subjugation.

Yet, despite these hints at Jude‘s more conformist views, it is precisely his romance and

alliance with Sue that causes him to shift into a state of social disobedience.

While Catherine in Wuthering Heights imitates the Victorian ideal, Sue‘s

imitation serves as Catherine‘s reversal as Sue emulates the concept of the ―new woman.‖

While Sue demonstrated qualities of a ―new woman‖ prior to her relationship with Jude,

he essentially presents a willing male over whom Sue can exercise her female power.

Sue‘s gender philosophy—namely her belief that men and women can feel desire for one

another beyond ―relations based on animal desire‖ (Hardy 160) and that women are not

―domestic animals‖ (163) given from one man to another—is readily internalized by

Jude. Aside from the occasional expression of sexual desire or suggestion that they wed,

Jude consents to their celibate relationship, at least vocally agreeing that sexual relations

are not vital to their romance. Jeffrey Berman similarly notes Sue‘s power, writing, ―Sue

depicts herself as a victimizer, the person who controlled and determined the outcome of

their relationship. . . she also feels satisfaction over her power‖ (163). Therefore, Girard‘s

38

concept of mimetic desire is found in both Sue and Jude. Whereas Sue desires sexual

abstinence because she believes she should as an intellectual and independent woman,

Jude tolerates abstinence because he uses Sue as a model and abstinence appears to be

her desire. This mimetic triangle is the source of much tension between Sue and Jude as

they have a platonic relationship for the majority of Hardy‘s narrative. While Sue‘s actual

desire is to have a loving relationship with Jude she denies the sexual expression of that

love which prevents them from attaining true happiness.

The theme of mimesis in Jude the Obscure takes a turn when Arabella is

reintroduced into the narrative, returning from her stay in Australia and asking Jude to

help her through a financial crisis. Sue is immediately threatened by the presence of

Arabella and pleads with Jude to not return any communication with his past wife. Sue is

fully aware of the sexual attraction that Jude once had for Arabella and finds her as a

danger to their platonic lifestyle. While Sue once prided herself on her refusal to marry or

have sex with Jude, Sue‘s model shifts from the concept of the Victorian ―new woman‖

to the sexualized Arabella. Arabella is flirtatious and sexually provocative and Sue,

believing that Arabella is still attracted to Jude, imitates that desire. Sue responds to

Jude‘s decision to talk to Arabella with proclaiming that she is now willing to marry:

―Very well then—if I must I must. Since you will have it so, I agree! I will be. Only I

didn‘t mean to! And I didn‘t want to marry again, either! . . . But, yes—I agree, I agree! I

do love you‖ (Hardy 256). Although Jude and Sue never end up following through with

the act of marriage, this is the first time in the narrative that Sue communicates any desire

to marry. Sue is also aware of the rivalry and jealousy that Arabella‘s presence and their

clashing desires are causing. She confesses to Jude, ―Love has its own dark morality

39

when rivalry enters in—at least mine has‖ (257), and later finds pleasure in the

disheveled physical appearance of Arabella, ―wickedly‖ wishing that Jude could see

Arabella‘s ―frowziness‖ in comparison to her own ―fresh charms‖ (258). Sue‘s switch

from imitating the ―new woman‖ to imitating Arabella, leads not only to tensions

between the three characters, but also to a lack of differentiation between actual desires,

the wants of society, and the desires of others.

In addition to the sexual mimicry in the narrative, Sue and Jude also distort

personal identification. From the first time Jude sees Sue in Christminster, she appears

the embodiment of intelligence and an emblem of an intellectual ideal for Jude. Sue takes

on the studious and thoughtful qualities that characterized Jude‘s image of Christmister as

a city of knowledge. Morgan notes this connection, writing, ―As he gazes at her

illuminating texts in an Anglican bookshop so she seems to personify the very essence,

the very atmosphere of Christminster, his own atmosphere, he thinks!‖ (Hardy 141).

While Jude spent much of his childhood and young adulthood working to acquire

scholarly knowledge, Sue‘s work with books reminds Jude of his lost ambitions. Cedric

Watts highlights Sue‘s scholarly achievements: ―She is naturally intelligent and interested

in ideas; . . . before meeting Jude, she has taught for two years in the city; and, after

meeting Phillotson, she wins a Queen‘s scholarship to attend the Training College at

Melchester and qualify fully for a career as a teacher. . . her more modest educational

ambition gains, at first, easy fulfillment‖ (154). In this sense, Sue is arguably the

successful female version of what Jude had hoped to become academically. Despite their

differing genders, Sue is positioned as a sort of intellectual mentor for Jude if only

40

metaphorically. Therefore, Jude‘s attraction to Sue takes a narcissistic turn, as it is Sue‘s

likeness to Jude‘s ―ideal self‖ that aids in the stimulation of his romantic interest.

Similar to Catherine and Heathcliff‘s complete abandonment of a separate Self

and Other, Jude and Sue are described as forming perfect unity and also act as doubles.

Hardy‘s protagonists have collapsed the distinctions between themselves to the extent

that they have tremendous insight into one another‘s thoughts and emotions. This affinity

between Sue and Jude is one of ―complete mutual understanding, in which every glance

and movement was as effectual as speech for conveying intelligence between them, made

them almost the two parts of a single whole‖ (Hardy 281). This attribute of their romance

is similarly remarked upon by Phillotson, suggesting that their romance has produced a

single solitary being. Phillotson anxiously states, ―I have been struck with these two

facts; the extraordinary sympathy, or similarity, between the pair. . . They seem to be one

person split in two!‖ (221). That Sue and Jude are both unusually ―sympathetic‖ and

―similar‖ implies that their bond is both emotional and physical. Sue/Jude offers a sort of

natural mental exchange of thoughts and feelings that negates their bodily division.

Hardy writes, ―Indeed when they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there was ever

a second silent conversation passing between their emotions, so perfect was the

reciprocity between them‖ (195). The fact that Sue and Jude possess an intense bond is

further indicated as Jude tells Sue in a moment of emotional conversation, ―you are just

like me at heart!‖ (Jude 194). Without acknowledging Girard, Penny Boumelha refers the

duality of Sue and Jude ―as a kind of double‖ (141), noting the ―oneness‖ that is formed

between them. Following Girard‘s assertion that doubles are both wicked and malevolent

typifies the threat that Catherine/Heathcliff and Sue/Jude pose, which results in sacrificial

41

ritual being required to enforce their division and end the violence that their duality and

mimetic desires are causing.

The sacrifice and subsequent harmony within Wuthering Heights occurs in two

phases. Catherine‘s death at the close of the first half of the novel does not act as the

sacrifice within the narrative, but several of the same themes are present and a certain

level of peace is restored. Nelly bluntly implies the social necessity of Catherine‘s death,

arguing, ―Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker

to all about her‖ (Brontë 143). Once Catherine dies, she is transformed from being an

ardent social liability into a figure of tranquility and placidity. Nelly narrates, ―Her brow

smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile, no angel in heaven

could be more beautiful than she appeared . . . My mind was never in a holier frame than

while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest‖ (145). Catherine is ―angelic‖,

―divine‖, and ―holy‖ in death, which directly contrasts with her chaotic and unstable life.

Gordon similarly writes, ―No longer posing a challenge . . . Catherine (re)gains angelic

beauty. No longer an unsteady subject, she becomes an object of ‗perfect peace,‘ ‗infinite

calm‘‖ (54). Catherine‘s passing is socially beneficial as her physical absence abolishes

her potential to be socially injurious, her false imitation of the Victorian ideal ceases, and

her role as Heathcliff‘s double comes to an end. Yet, despite Catherine‘s death, many

social distinctions are not immediately amended and the reader must look to the next

generation for complete social stasis.

The chance for social harmony and the renewal of distinctions after the sacrifice

of Catherine occurs through the life of the young Cathy Linton. That Catherine died

while giving birth to Cathy, and that Cathy was christened in the likeness of her mother,

42

connects their history thematically. Even within Edgar‘s psyche the young Catherine

represents her deceased mother: ―The little one was always Cathy: it formed to him a

distinction from the mother, and yet, a connection with her; and his attachment sprang

from this relation to her, far more than from its being his own‖ (Brontë 162). Linda Gold

similarly deems Cathy as the reincarnation of her mother, arguing that ―the entire saga of

two generations of Earnshaws, Lintons, and Heathcliffs is the odyssey of a single

personality‖ (38). With the birth of Cathy, the character of Catherine is given new life as

well as a chance for social and domestic redemption. Even in Cathy‘s early childhood

Nelly sees the likeness between the young girl and her mother but notices fundamental

differences: ―Her spirit was high, though not rough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and

lively to excess in its affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of

her mother; still she did not resemble her; for she could be soft and mild as a dove . . . her

anger was never furious; her love never fierce‖ (Brontë 167). Cathy is not her overly-

passionate mother and her ability to be ―soft‖ and ―mild‖ suggests that Cathy can

potentially be the delicate woman that Catherine was not.

Furthermore, Cathy diverges from her mother in that she concerns herself with

hierarchical distinctions. Whereas Catherine wholeheartedly rejected the financial, racial,

and educational boundaries that separated her and Heathcliff, Cathy is appalled when she

learns that Hareton is her biological cousin. Cathy considers Hareton to be a ―clown‖,

―rude-bred kindred,‖ and ―she surveyed him with a glance of awe and horror‖ (Brontë

173) upon learning of their familial relation. When young Linton informs Cathy of the

transgressive nature of the relationship between Heathcliff and her mother, stating, ―Your

mother hated your father, now then. . . And she loved mine!‖ (210), Cathy reacts

43

violently: ―Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to fall

against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough that soon ended his

triumph‖ (211). This forceful and fiery Cathy acts in opposition to the ―mild‖ and ―soft‖

girl that Nelly previously described her to be. Interestingly, when Cathy is confronted by

the lack of social distinctions around her, she responds by liberating the fervent women

(Catherine) that is internally repressed. By feeling as if she needs to defend social

structure, Cathy gives in her internal passionate impulses.

In order for her to successfully perform the social stasis desired through

Catherine‘s sacrifice, the sole remaining social threat needs to be eliminated: Heathcliff.

Although Catherine‘s death ended her imitation and her and Heathcliff‘s physical unity,

her death causes Heathcliff to become even more violent and vengeful. Heathcliff takes it

upon himself to punish the Earnshaw family and Hindley more specifically. Heathcliff

views Hindley as the primary contributor to his childhood degradation and his disparate

social position to Catherine as well as the acting agent in her imitation of the Victorian

feminine ideal, the source of their tensions. Having robbed Hindley of the Earnshaw

estate and eventually driving him to his death, Heathcliff does not end his menacing spree

and targets Hareton and Cathy as the only remaining members of the Earnshaw family—

looking to ensure their financial and social failure. Heathcliff attempts to distress the

social order by firstly demeaning Hindley‘s son Hareton. Heathcliff fashions Hareton in

the likeness of himself as a youth through treating him as a servant, discouraging his

education, and not providing him with the knowledge of his wealthy familial origins. In

contrast Heathcliff gives his own son, Linton, a proper education and brings him up as a

gentleman, thus inverting the positions that Hareton and Linton were biologically

44

intended to hold. Heathcliff bluntly acknowledges the reversal between his own and

Hindley‘s offspring, stating, ―Mine has nothing valuable about it; yet I shall have the

merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go. His had first-rate qualities, and they

are lost—rendered worse than unavailing‖ (Brontë 193). Heathcliff similarly attempts to

destroy the Earnshaw structure by forcing a marriage between Linton and Cathy. By

doing so, Heathcliff fully abolished the original class hierarchy at the beginning of the

narrative and ensures that the entire Earnshaw estate would be placed in the possession of

both himself and Linton.

The death of Heathcliff acts as a symbolic sacrifice. Whereas Catherine became

―angelic‖ only after her death, Heathcliff shows signs of social renewal just before his

passing. Heathcliff, suddenly turns amiable, blissful, and happy; as opposed to the

angered and vengeful fiend of past. On the threshold of death, Heathcliff feels close to

the deceased Catherine and, as a result, he welcomes his imminent earthly departure.

Heathcliff tells Nelly of ―a strange change approaching,‖ admitting ―I take so little

interest in my daily life‖ (Brontë 287). If we are to understand Heathcliff‘s ―daily life‖ to

be the enactment of revenge against the Earnshaw family, then along with physical death,

the change of which Heathcliff speaks of is arguably the transformation to social peace

which will accompany his passing. Similarly, Heathcliff tells Nelly, ―My whole being

and faculties are yearning to attain it. . . I am swallowed in the anticipation of its

fulfilment‖ (289). Although Heathcliff is viewing ―fulfillment‖ as his spiritual reunion

with Catherine, Heathcliff‘s death also serves to fulfill the role of ―other‖ and sacrificial

victim. Heathcliff‘s purifying function is further symbolized in his manner of dying, as

Nelly describes his corpse: ―his face and throat were washed with rain; the bed-clothes

45

dripped, and he was perfectly still‖ (298). The fact that Heathcliff is found as ―washed

with rain‖ implies a sort of cleanliness or innocence through the sacrificial act, which acts

in stark contrast to the filthy and ―dirty boy‖ of his youth.

With the sacrifice of Heathcliff and the elimination of the final source of conflict,

the tensions, violence, revenge, and lack of differentiation characteristic of Wuthering

Heights is eliminated. In regards to class, Hareton is able to properly take his place as

patriarch of both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, his birth-right as the

biological son of Hindley. In addition, Cathy instructs Hareton in both reading and

writing, giving him the education of which he was deprived. Hareton is transformed from

the bad-mannered, uneducated field worker, to ―a young man, respectably dressed, and

seated at a table, having a book before him‖ (Brontë 273), with an ―intelligent nature‖

which ―shook off rapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been

bred‖ (286). Cathy can now take her position as wife and channel her internal passions

into an appropriate outlet according to Victorian standards. Furthermore, only through

marrying Hareton can Cathy come full circle and become the domestically successful

revival of her mother, even in name. Linda Gold highlights this transformation in Cathy,

writing, ―Through the marriage of these two, Catherine becomes Catherine Earnshaw

again‖ (40). Quite literally, by taking the name of her husband (and carrying out an

acceptable marital union), Cathy is simultaneously taking over the name and identity of

her mother.

In addition to repairing the mistakes of their deceased parents, as a couple, Cathy

and Hareton live the socially acceptable life that Catherine and Heathcliff could not due

to their powerful accord. Along with distinguishing between rich/poor,

46

educated/uneducated, and man/woman, Cathy and Hareton obey the most basic social

distinction that between Self and Other. Susan Rubinow Gorsky writes, ―Catherine

Linton can unite with Hareton Earnshaw because their relationship fulfills the obligations

of social codes and because they are two separate individuals . . . their relationship is less

intense - - or less abnormally intense‖ (188). Although there is clearly genuine affection

between Cathy and Hareton, the young couple arguably does not serve as a manifestation

of ―perfect love‖ as did their predecessors. While Catherine and Heathcliff‘s intense bond

caused them to act as doubles to one another, Cathy and Hareton‘s attachment appears to

be much less threatening. Therefore, Cathy and Hareton will potentially abide by the

Victorian belief that marriage is a social institution meant to monitor gender distinctions,

as opposed to an institution promoting gender equality. By choosing New Year‘s Day as

the date of their marital union, Cathy and Hareton are illustrating their intention to begin

anew and commence a second chance at domestic success, righting the wrongs of the

generation before them. While Catherine‘s actual desires for love and unity with

Heathcliff conflicted with her imitation of the desires of Victorian society as a whole, the

young Cathy‘s actual desire for a loving marriage with Hareton correlates with society‘s

desires. Therefore, with the close of Wuthering Heights, Cathy is seen as not engaging in

the mimesis that destroyed her mother and Heathcliff.

While the sacrifices within Wuthering Heights are more symbolic in nature, in

Jude the Obscure the act of sacrifice is more forthright. There are two sacrificial rituals

which take place within Hardy‘s narrative: firstly, Little Father Time‘s sacrifice of

himself and the other children, and secondly, the sacrifice of Jude at the novel‘s close. As

the physical performer of the initial sacrifice, it is vital to consider what Little Father

47

Time signifies to Victorian society as a whole. Little Father Time is the only of the three

children technically born in wedlock, being the child of Jude and Arabella. As a result,

Little Father Time represents legitimate marriage and sexuality, and simultaneously

Jude‘s failure to maintain his lawful marriage. Suzanne Edwards similarly writes, ―As the

product of a conventional marriage, Father Time . . . serves as a dismal reminder of social

conventions Sue and Jude cannot escape—social conventions which threaten to destroy

them from without, in the form of public opinion‖ (37). Little Father Time symbolically

acts as a vehicle through which Victorian society‘s conventions are forced on Sue and

Jude, working to punish them and eliminate their dissention.

Even as a young child, Little Father Time explicitly acknowledges his own, as

well as the other children‘s, surplus status. Mirroring Jude‘s own unwanted state as a

child, Little Father Time makes such blunt claims as ―I ought not to be born, ought I?‖

(Hardy 321) and similarly, ―I think that whenever children be born that are not wanted

they should be killed directly‖ (323). Yet, despite the child‘s conviction that he is

worthless, Little Father Time is the only legitimate and socially sanctioned child. Sue

also recognizes Little Father Time‘s role by stating ―Arabella‘s child killing mine was a

judgment; the right slaying the wrong‖ (338). By referring to Little Father Time as

―right‖ and her biological children as ―wrong,‖ Sue is adopting the ideology suggesting

the ―appropriateness‖ of infant legitimacy and the unsuitable nature of illegitimate

children. With the deaths of her children, Sue immediately recognizes the rationality

behind the sacrificial act, naming her and Jude‘s ―oneness‖ and identification as one

another‘s doubles as the motivation for the sacrifice. Sue proclaims, ―O my comrade, our

perfect union—our two-in-oneness—is now stained with blood‖ (Hardy 327). By

48

recognizing their merger as being ―stained with blood,‖ Sue places the guilt of the deaths

on their lack of differentiations, and therefore, sees the necessity of separation. Sue tells

Jude, ―We must conform! . . we must submit. There is no choice. . . whoever or whatever

our foe may be, I am cowed into submission. I have no more fighting strength left; no

more enterprise. I am beaten, beaten!‖ (331). Sue‘s admission that she has lost her

―choice‖ implies that she is surrendering the agency that she has spent the novel

exercising through her relationships with both Phillotson and Jude.

As the sacrifice of Catherine and Heathcliff led to a renewal of several

distinctions, the sacrifice of Sue‘s children primarily motivates the renewal of gender

classifications. While throughout the narrative Sue was characterized by her

―sexlessness‖ and possessed an authoritative and masculine position over Jude and

Phillotson, through the sacrifice of her children, Sue is transformed into a ―generic

woman.‖ Jude specifically recognizes Sue‘s conversion to social obedience and fittingly

alters his opinion of her. Jude retaliates to Sue‘s desire for conformity: ―What I can‘t

understand in you is your extraordinary blindness now to your old logic. Is it peculiar to

you, or is it common to Woman? Is a woman a thinking unit at all, or a fraction always

wanting its integer?‖ (Hardy 339). Jude‘s insinuations that Sue is acting according to

what is expected of ―common women,‖ as well as his assertion that Sue is no longer

thinking independently, suggests that that sacrifice has successfully righted the

male/female binary which Sue and Jude collapsed. Jude similarly refers to Sue as ―the

woman‖ and their relationship as merely being one ―between man and woman‖ (Hardy

342), not only separating them from one another, but reducing them further to solely

49

gender roles. The deaths of their children led to the reaffirmation of their gender

differences and to the breakdown of their loving union.

Sue takes it upon herself to end her romance with Jude and return to Phillotson,

her husband. Sue rightly assumes that this is the desire of the society which symbolically

enacts the sacrifice. The deaths of her children have frightened Sue into not stopping her

mimesis, but changing what she is imitating. While Sue spent the narrative imitating the

―new woman‖ through her intellectual pursuit and abstinence, she now gives up that

desire to imitate the Victorian feminine ideal. Sue tells Jude of her decision to go back to

Phillotson: ―He is going to marry me again. That is for form‘s sake, and to satisfy the

world . . . But of course I am his wife already. Nothing has changed that‖ (Hardy 348).

Sue‘s assertion that she is Phillotson‘s wife implies that Sue is giving up her desire for

self-definition and willingly concedes to her expected role. As a result, despite Sue‘s

physical aversion to Phillotson, she readily surrenders to him sexually, exclaiming, ―It is

my duty!‖ (386). Although Sue had sexual intercourse with Jude, this is the sole scene in

the narrative where Sue has sexual intercourse without any true desire to do so. In this

sense, while Sue is allowed to live, she does suffer the loss of her personal ownership of

her body and similarly sacrifices her ethics, what Hardy terms ―the self-sacrifice of the

woman on the altar of what she was pleased to call her principles‖ (356). In order to

successfully follow society as the model and imitate the feminine ideal, Sue must

completely sacrifice her real desires for sexual agency and a loving relationship. Jeffrey

Berman suggests that Sue‘s return to Phillotson is a form of female self-defilement which

she has been working against the entire narrative. Berman writes, ―Sue‘s remarriage is

perhaps the most repellent action in the novel. She returns to her former husband to

50

reestablish an unhealthy bond in which self-debasement is a necessary precondition for

survival‖ (168). Although Berman finds Sue‘s reaction to be ―unhealthy‖ and sickening,

Sue is acting in accordance with the conventions of Victorian patriarchal society. Sue‘s

behaviors are personally unhealthy in the sense that she is acting against her true

passions, but socially beneficial as she is reestablishing gender differentiations.

Through taking on this stereotypical ―female‖ position and abandoning her ―new

woman‖ philosophy that marriage is not a profession, Sue not only rights her personal

social waywardness, but gives Phillotson the opportunity to return to the socially

privileged status he occupied before he and Sue‘s separation. Hardy writes on

Phillotson‘s prospects: ―By getting Sue back and re-marrying her . . . he might acquire

some comfort, resume his old courses, perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to

the Church as a licentiate‖ (346). In addition to rectifying his social downfall, Phillotson

is given a fresh start where he can adjust his gender ideology so that his marriage will be

successful according to Victorian standards. Phillotson‘s friend Gillingham (one

character emblematic of Victorian social conventions) advises Phillotson, ―The only

thing you can do to retrieve your position and hers is to admit your error in not

restraining her with a wise and strong hand . . . and be firm in the future‖ (Hardy 355).

Whereas previously Phillotson was sympathetic to Sue‘s desire to remain celibate and

express her affection for Jude, Phillotson will ensure domestic success by placing Sue in

a position of subjection.

To contradict Sue‘s response to the sacrifice of her children, Jude is surprisingly

more defiant in his assertions of social disobedience and denies the harmony expected of

the sacrificial ritual. Although Jude remarries Arabella after hearing of Sue‘s second

51

marriage to Phillotson, he does so with less conviction having been enticed into marriage

via a three day drunken binge. Despite Sue‘s decisive choice to return to Phillotson both

lawfully and physically, Jude‘s presence serves as a constant reminder of her actual

desire for a loving union and intellectual companionship. Jude writes to Sue requesting

her presence due to his looming illness and, upon receiving no reply, Jude calls on her at

Phillotson‘s place of residence. After offering unpersuasive resistance to Jude‘s advances,

Sue ―rushed up to him . . . with her mouth on his‖ (Hardy 377), assuring Jude that her

true desires have not changed despite her new model. Yet upon Jude‘s reference to their

deceased children, Sue returns to protesting their romance, stating, ―I mustn’t—I can’t go

on with this! . . . I give you back your kisses, I do, I do!‖ (378). Therefore, Jude‘s

presence renews Sue‘s vacillation between her actual desires and her following of

mimetic models. Just as Heathcliff‘s death was necessary in order to ensure social

harmony at the Heights, Jude is the last remaining barrier to social stasis. On his return

journey in the rain from visiting Sue, Jude‘s illness turns fatal and leaves him is a state of

impending death. In a sense, the social cleansing granted through Jude‘s death resembles

that of Heathcliff‘s, found in the metaphoric water which purifies both individuals during

their respective acts of passing.

Jude‘s death implements the ultimate division upon the union of Sue/Jude,

namely, that of mortality. Sue‘s rejection of Jude, establishing her final resolution that

she and Jude can no longer entertain romantic notions for one another, inspires Jude to

embrace the end to his life. Martin Wilson similarly argues that Sue‘s ―drive towards

self-destruction subliminally entails Jude‘s destruction as well‖ (99). Jude is unwilling to

change desires as Sue has, and subsequently would rather die than abandon his passions.

52

On the contrary, Sue feels that the death of her children ―blots out all that life of mine!‖

(Hardy 385), and the death of Jude is the final sacrifice necessary to fully enact a sort of

social amnesia regarding Sue‘s actual desires. Without Jude serving as a reminder of her

past, Sue can complete the act of social purification initiated by the sacrifice of her

children. Although Sue claims she has found peace via the sacrificial process, she clearly

does not love Phillotson or truly desire a marriage with him. Despite Arabella‘s final

claim that Sue has ―never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till

she‘s as he is now!‖ (Hardy 397), the only valid and required tranquility when

considering sacrifice is that of the community. In a sense, Sue‘s presumed lack of

serenity at the narrative‘s close is a symptom of the success of the sacrificial ritual.

Through her separation from Jude and the subsequent surrender of her mental astuteness,

Sue is miserably and pathetically placed in the role of ―delicate woman‖—precisely

where the Victorian status quo requires her to be.

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CHAPTER III

THE FEMININE AS WICKED OTHER AND INSTITUTIONALIZATION AS

SACRIFICE: MARY ELIZABETH BRADDEN‘S LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET

Mary Elizabeth Braddon‘s Lady Audley’s Secret depicts the story of a solitary

woman who undergoes a self-transformation from the poverty stricken Helen Maldon to

the monetarily content Lady Audley. Moving rapidly up the Victorian social ladder, Lady

Audley abandons each previously held identity in order to fully embrace the promise of a

better social station. Utilizing her femininity and beauty as a decoy through which she is

able to subversively use men in order to achieve social mobility, Lady Audley acts as

both a source of danger and desirability. As an individual who confuses concepts of static

identity, gender, and class, Lady Audley directly threatens the Victorian status quo—yet,

her feminine lure allows her some semblance of social power due to her overwhelming

irresistibility. Furthermore, Braddon‘s narrative illustrates a power struggle between her

two protagonists, Robert and Lady Audley. Whereas Robert begins the narrative with

little sense of identity and purpose, through pursuing Lady Audley to reveal her past

domestic failures and lower class status, Robert is able to solidify his place within

Victorian patriarchal society. In doing so, Robert places Lady Audley in an insane

asylum, removing her from the society that placed her in a position of desirable object.

This institutionalization serves as a more modern form of sacrifice, as Lady Audley‘s

feminine influence is rendered powerless in its invisibility. As a result, society

experiences a return to social stasis, complete with the full masculinization of Robert

Audley.

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As Braddon‘s protagonist, Lady Audley works within the Victorian social code by

strategically manipulating the expectations for Victorian women in order to achieve

wealth and mobility. Lady Audley both uses her body and relies on her feminine charm in

order to gain social power. In the short glimpse the reader receives of the first meeting

between the young Helen Maldon and her future husband George Talboys, Braddon

illustrates a young woman essentially being prostituted willingly into marriage. Due to

the financially deprived state of both Helen and her father Captain Maldon, marriage is

viewed as a means by which monetary support can be ensured. As a result, Helen is

perceived in merely physical terms as an object to be sold, promising to hand over bodily

possession to ―the highest bidder‖ (Braddon 18). Although George Talboys is convinced

of his immunity to this tactic, as the actual ―highest bidder‖ he himself is clearly the man

to fall most prey to this father-daughter scheme. Furthermore, despite George‘s

proclamations of love, the newly wed Helen Talboys is primarily concerned with the

position that this marriage has afforded her: that of the moneyed wife of a military man

boasting a wealthy heritage. George is clearly aware of Helen‘s financial aspirations—as

well as the fact that their marriage was more of a ―purchase‖ than a loving union—as he

confesses ―I took my darling to Italy, and we lived there in splendid style‖ (Braddon 19),

despite his waning finances due to being cut off by his father as a consequence of his

unacceptable marriage. Therefore, while George Talboys deserts Helen at their highest

point of financial crisis, it is not surprising that the monetarily and materialistically driven

Helen should put domestic expectations aside and make attempts to better her station in

her husband‘s absence.

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Although Helen was successful in obtaining the once wealthy George for a

husband, George‘s decision to abandon her and their child (even for the purpose of

monetary gain) leaves Helen in a position of ―discarded wife,‖ left to raise her child in

both poverty and solitude. Although Victorian conventions suggest that Helen should

continue to be a devoted mother to little George and anxiously await the return of her

husband, Helen similarly chooses to leave her seaside home in pursuit of both economic

and social leisure. Although she initially abides by her duty and labors to earn money for

her and her child, Helen eventually abandons her child to take a position as governess. At

the home of the wealthy surgeon Mr. Dawson, the now Lucy Graham has become a

woman whom everyone in the village ―loved, admired, and praised‖ (Braddon 6). The

emphasis here on Helen‘s strategic choice to change her identity to Lucy Graham is two-

fold in its implications: first, by becoming a governess, she displays her understanding of

the social ideology of her time, namely, the acceptability and necessity of governesses to

interact with members of the upper-class. She uses this understanding to embark on a

newfound occupation that primes her for a socially sanctioned and advantageous

marriage to Sir Michael Audley. Here, Helen strategically and ironically uses Victorian

classifications in order to become covertly classification-less. Rather than accepting her

place as a lower-class, domestic failure, Helen consciously and determinedly changes her

identity, essentially selecting her own status within society. Jennifer M. Woolston

correspondingly asserts that ―rather than embracing the subservient female status

afforded to her, she surreptitiously transforms her alienation into aggressive avenues of

manipulation‖ (156). In a society that believes the differentiations between individuals to

be innate and static, Helen exploits this system in order to counteract it.

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A second and strongly related outcome of Helen Talboys‘s transformation into

Lucy Graham is found in Helen‘s knowledge of the social policy regarding her domestic

abandonment. Helen recognizes the status of lower-class domestic failure that George has

left her in and that social mobility is not an option for the piteous Helen Maldon/Talboys,

and chooses to change her identity accordingly. However, Helen cannot merely change

her identity, but she must leave the remains of her past behind her fully; therefore, Helen

participates in a sort of metaphoric or ―mock sacrifice.‖ Helen decides to remove all

traces of her previous marriage in attempt to become marriageable once again. By

feigning her own death, Helen Talboys uses extreme, but perhaps the only possible,

means of ridding herself of her past and potentially allowing a return to social stasis.

Through sacrificing her old identity, Lucy Graham can now have a real chance at

domestic, monetary, and social success, an accomplishment that the destitute Helen

Maldon/Talboys was incapable of.

Through altering her identity and class, Braddon‘s protagonist progresses from

Helen Maldon to Helen Talboys to Lucy Graham to Lady Audley, eventually embodying

all four identities simultaneously. This multitude of identities makes Lady Audley the

embodiment of plurality and as such she rejects the concept of a single and stable Self. In

reference to Victorian England‘s need for a constant female ideal, Lynda Hart writes,

―That the path from ‗normal‘ femininity to ‗fallen‘ womanhood was a slippery slope, not

two parallel lines incapable of meeting, could not fail to have disconcerted the keepers of

a social order who relied on a stable and circumscribed image of woman‖ (1). The mere

fact that the unfortunate and domestically unsuccessful Helen Talboys occupies the same

body and psyche as the domestically superior and elegant Lady Audley directly confuses

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ideas of both static womanhood and fixed identity. Lynn M. Voskuil similarly argues that

Lady Audley plays the part of the ideal Victorian wife while simultaneously acting out

personal desires of ―brazen materialism and a murderous self-assertion‖ (615). Pointing

to Lady Audley‘s manifold identity, Voskuil contends, ―Theatricality . . . disrupts and

disables selfhood, rendering the self multiform rather than uniform, shifting rather than

coherent, constructed rather than (at some level) essential‖ (615). In this sense, Lady

Audley arguably fits a sort of ―everywoman‖ status, as she personifies a vast spectrum of

female identity within a single individual. Lady Audley is the lower-class sexualized

woman, trusted governess, and beautiful Victorian lady all in one body.

While Lady Audley denies a static identity, Robert Audley complicates male and

female differentiations. Throughout the first half of the narrative Robert Audley is

excessively feminized. The reader finds Robert living a dainty and somewhat frivolous

lifestyle, in sharp contrast to principles regarding Victorian masculinity. Whereas

Victorian men were expected to concern themselves with the public sphere and gender

superiority, Robert shows little interest in either his career or women. Robert is a reserved

and inactive individual caring very little for his position within Victorian society.

Braddon describes Robert as preferring ―lounging in the drawing-room‖ (114) with his

cousin Alicia over joining in lively and communal sport with the other men at Audley

Court. Similarly, Braddon almost humorously depicts Robert as effeminately ―dawdling

over a slice of bread and marmalade‖ as his male companions spend dinner filling ―their

mouths full of cold sirloin‖ (113). Herbert G. Klein draws attention to Robert‘s indolent

habits, noting, ―In blatant contradiction to Victorian ideals of manliness, he idles away

his time without any purpose apart from smoking and novel reading‖ (163). Klein‘s

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emphasis on Robert‘s more introverted habits points to the heart of Robert‘s socially

disobedient behavior, his detached attitude toward Victorian society and the public as a

whole. Robert chooses to be an introverted, self-indulgent, uninvolved man, yet this very

choice defies stereotypical ―manliness.‖ Therefore, although Robert is feminized, it is his

decision to remain withdrawn from a society that privileges him for both his biological

sex and his class (as the wealthy nephew of Sir Michael) that makes him an unintelligible

man.

Similarly, Robert‘s career as a barrister further complicates his interactions with

both Victorian gender expectations and society at-large. As a barrister, Robert‘s

occupation is among the most socially and legally recognized authorities. Robert is

essentially meant to be a defender of the status quo, an enactor of Victorian social (and

legal) law, as well as a marker of social classifications: right/wrong, good/evil,

guilty/innocent. Robert not only disregards the role that he is supposed to play in society,

but quite paradoxically blurs the very dichotomous logic that he is meant to uphold. In a

sense, Robert seems to be lacking any social identity at all: as Lynda Hart writes, ―What

is immediately at issue here is Robert‘s identity; he lacks the requisite fit between his

name and his actions, not only as a barrister, but as a man‖ (5). While Robert possesses

the title of a socially respected occupation, he distances himself from the ideals of that

very same society. Yet, in opposition to Lady Audley‘s active attempts to eliminate her

marginal status as lower-class domestic failure, Robert seems more than content at the

periphery of society.

Despite the similarities in the ways through which Lady Audley and Robert

disrupt binary logic and confuse concepts of gender and identity, the differing sexes of

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these two protagonists prompt very different reactions from the community around them.

As a woman, Lady Audley serves as a direct danger to patriarchy through her forceful

and uncompromising qualities. In contrast, Robert‘s dissent is much less threatening and

merely acts as a sort of mystery, bemusing and perplexing those around him. Robert‘s

femininity and passive behavior is described as being ―unworthy of remark‖ (Braddon

113) and he himself as ―an inoffensive species of maniac‖ (Braddon 113). By

acknowledging both Robert‘s ―maniac‖ and ―inoffensive‖ qualities, the narrator implies

that although he confuses the Victorian differentiations between male and female, Robert

does not directly serve as a social risk. The perplexing and mystifying nature of Robert‘s

lack of interest in women (ignoring his gender privilege) leads Sir Michael to bluntly

state ―There‘s some mystery—there‘s some mystery!‖ (Braddon 127). However, while

Victorian society seems to tolerate Robert‘s failure to pursue marriage and his lack of

male authority with a sort of light-hearted disdain, Lady Audley‘s undisclosed

transgressions (should they be made known) are much more insufferable.

Many critics have remarked upon the way in which Robert Audley becomes a

valid member of society as Lady Audley is dismissed. Within the narrative, it seems

Braddon‘s two protagonists cannot coexist within Victorian society and as the novel

progresses we see the eventual triumph of Robert and the defeat of Lady Audley. Jennifer

M. Woolston perceptively argues that Lady Audley‘s ―descent eerily mirrors Robert‘s

ascent . . . While Lady Audley sinks from view, Robert becomes celebrated as a proper

gentleman‖ (165). Woolston‘s emphasis on Robert‘s destination as a ―proper gentleman‖

is vital to the outcome of the narrative as Robert is altered from the feminized idle man

introduced at the onset of the novel to a masculine and active man at its close. Whereas

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both Lady Audley and Robert begin the narrative as characters confusing concepts of

gender and identity, Robert ends as perhaps the largest proponent of the social code. By

revealing Lady Audley‘s domestically disloyal and adulterous past, Robert is himself

acting as a vehicle of patriarchal judgment. Fiona Peters correspondingly contends that

―Robert is both misogynist and controlling, able to accept only women who conform to

the ideal of the ‗proper‘ Victorian woman‖ (199). Robert is able to move from

submissive outcast to the very heart of Victorian patriarchal society only through a

predatory attack on Lady Audley‘s social status. Herbert G. Klein similarly suggests that

it is through detective work, what he refers to as the ―powers of ratiocination,‖ that

Robert becomes the manly ―hero‖ of Braddon‘s narrative (161). Regarding the scenes in

which Robert is pursuing Lady Audley, Klein argues, ―It is in these encounters that the

previously weak and indolent Robert most demonstrates male supremacy, indeed even

savageness, until he has vanquished his foe‖ (164, my emphasis). The stress here placed

on the ―savage‖ qualities of Robert suggests that he has exceeded mere male superiority,

and even borders on a brutish or cruel determinism in his hunt of Lady Audley. It is not

enough to say that Robert becomes an acceptable man through the ruin of Lady Audley;

more specifically, Robert becomes the epitome of Victorian patriarchy and all of its

implications.

In addition to exhibiting qualities of action, intellectual pursuit, concern for the

public sphere, and social purpose, what Robert Audley demonstrates at the close of the

narrative is an almost exaggerated dichotomous ideology. Vicki A. Pallo discusses

Robert‘s role as detective, writing ―their presence usually signaled the enforcement of

social laws and controls rather than the complete antithesis . . . Eventually he [Robert]

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becomes an agent of societal control, wielding his power in order to maintain the

acceptable standards of law and discipline within his society‖ (470-71). In a sense,

Robert shifts from rejecting his classification as a Victorian male to becoming one who

classifies. This new enthusiastic acceptance of Robert‘s occupation as barrister places

him as a social ―labeler,‖ making a career of differentiating the good from the evil and

the guilty from the innocent. Furthermore, Robert does not merely begin to abide by this

philosophy, but he excessively does so, leaving absolutely no room for individual

circumstance.

This newfound either/or mindset of Robert‘s is shown towards the close of the

narrative as Lady Audley attempts to receive some sort of sympathy from Robert once

she is accused of murdering George and her past is revealed. Lady Audley attempts to

reason with Robert by explaining the conditions that have lead to her threatening

behavior. Citing her poverty-stricken youth, her abandonment by both parents as well as

her mentally ill mother, being raised by an abusive woman whom Lady Audley claims

―vented her rage upon me when my father was behindhand remitting her money‖, and her

eventual desertion by George Talboys (Braddon 348-353), Lady Audley receives no

compassion from Robert. Rejecting any sort of sensitivity, Robert proceeds to have her

admitted to the mental institution, as Lady Audley‘s past does not alter her position as a

wrong, evil, and wicked female criminal. Fiona Peters similarly argues that ―any hope of

some understanding from Robert for the hardships of her life that have had some bearing

on her actions are disallowed‖ (205). The once marginal Robert prohibits any form of

bonding between him and Lady Audley despite their similar socially transgressive pasts.

Furthermore, Robert‘s act of unveiling Lady Audley‘s lower-class and bigamous status is

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vital to the process of sacrificial ritual which takes place at the novel‘s close. Had Lady

Audley remained a part of the British aristocracy and her past left undisclosed, she would

not have been acknowledged as a member of the social periphery. By exposing Lady

Audley as Helen Talboys, Robert has successfully uncovered her plurality and placed her

on the periphery, a necessary step towards her sacrifice.

While it is easy and common to read the conclusion of Braddon‘s narrative as the

punishment of Lady Audley for her bigamous and murderous actions, Girard‘s sacrificial

theory offers a reading that is perhaps more pointed in both its language and analysis.

Nicole P. Fisk argues that Lady Audley is ―guilty of overstepping a woman‘s boundaries‖

and that ―Robert attempts to kill off female independence by removing her‖ (25). While it

is true that Lady Audley‘s actions directly threaten Victorian patriarchy and therefore

must be punished in order to repress this menace, her punishment is directly linked to her

role as surrogate victim. Girard suggests that the death penalty—and the judicial system

more generally—is a way in which the polluted or accursed individual can be eliminated

from society (298). He further argues that capital and legal punishment is a more modern

form of sacrifice and arises from the same communal motivation, writing, ―The concept

can be traced back to spontaneous unanimity, to the irresistible conviction that compels

an entire community to vent its fury on a single individual‖ (299). Although Lady Audley

is not legally tried for her bigamy and the attempted murders of both George Talboys and

Robert Audley, she is institutionalized in an insane asylum for the remainder of her life,

essentially serving a death sentence. Lady Audley herself understands the implications of

her confinement, stating, ―You have brought me to my grave, Mr. Audley, you have used

your power basely and cruelly, and have brought me to a living grave‖ (Braddon 391). In

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the same vein, just as Lady Audley had constantly changed names with the recognition

that for a new identity to begin another must end, Robert Audley changes Lady Audley‘s

name for a final time, rendering her Mrs. Taylor and simultaneously offering a

metaphoric sacrifice of the identity of Lady Audley. Therefore, the community uses Lady

Audley/Mrs. Taylor as their surrogate victim through which they are able to reaffirm

social distinctions—labeling her as evil, bad, guilty, and wrong—subsequently abolishing

her from society and returning to a sense of harmony.

Lady Audley‘s disappearance from Victorian society has two direct implications:

first, by removing Lady Audley, Robert renders her beauty invisible, therefore ensuring

that she can no longer serve as a figure of desire. There has been much debate over what

Dr. Mosgrave observes when consulting with Lady Audley, causing him to decisively

shift from an almost sympathetic attitude regarding her circumstances—particularly the

―intelligent means‖ by which she escaped her ―desperate situation‖ (Braddon 377)—to

definitively claim ―She is dangerous!‖ (Braddon 379). While Fisk suggests that ―the

doctor recognizes intelligence . . . as well as self-assertion‖ (25) and Voskuil contends

that it is Lady Audley‘s ―theatricality‖ which threatens Dr. Mosgrave (634), it is perhaps

more compelling to consider that it may have been solely Lady Audley‘s beauty that

instigated her label as ―dangerous.‖ It is Lady Audley‘s combination of being both an

object of desire and a subversive being that positions her as a menace to social order. As

was the case with both George Talboys and Sir Michael Audley, Lady Audley has relied

on her attractiveness and her ability to act out the Victorian feminine ideal in order to

move up in the social ladder. While Robert had informed Dr. Mosgrave of Lady Audley‘s

dissenting behavior—her murderous impulses and active bigamy—the doctor seems to

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feel that there is no justifiable evidence to warrant her institutionalization. Yet, it takes

only a brief interview with Lady Audley for Dr. Mosgrave to support her confinement

unconditionally; he merely needs to witness first-hand Lady Audley‘s beauty and charm

in order to fully grasp the severity of the danger that she poses. Lady Audley herself

understands the power that her beauty holds and she is knows that her captivating

femininity is the source of her reproof. Braddon writes, ―The days were gone in which

her enemies could have branded her with white-hot irons, and burned away the loveliness

which had done such mischief. Whatever they did to her, they must leave her her beauty,

she thought. At the worst they were powerless to rob her of that‖ (373). Yet, despite the

accuracy in Lady Audley‘s assumptions that her beauty would remain intact through her

punishment, Robert and Dr. Mosgrave ensure that she is separated from the society in

which her beauty held influence. By rendering her socially invisible, Lady Audley‘s

feminine allure loses all of its manipulative effect.

In addition to Lady Audley‘s newfound powerlessness, her role as sacrificial

victim allows a return to social stasis. The titles of Braddon‘s two final chapters—

―Restored‖ and ―At Peace‖—cannot be dismissed as the scapegoat is responsible both for

the restitution and harmony which occurs through the sacrificial ritual. Following

Girard‘s argument that the change from ―reciprocal violence and destruction to

unanimous accord‖ is something ―the victim is directly responsible for . . . and is an

integral part of the process‖ (86), it is fitting that the narrative moves directly from the

institutionalization and sacrifice of Lady Audley to the tranquility of Braddon‘s

remaining protagonists. These final chapters illustrate a very different world from that of

the chaotic, scandalous, and intense plot that made up the vast majority of the narrative.

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Rather, order is restored through Lady Audley‘s sacrifice and an almost quixotic return of

gender, sexual, class, and identity distinctions are achieved.

One aspect of the social order present at the close of the novel appears in the

complete masculinization of Robert Audley. Throughout Braddon‘s narrative, Robert has

showed little interest in women, has openly criticized marriage, and has ignored his social

role as Victorian male. Yet, shortly after the institutionalization of Lady Audley, Robert

excessively declares his love for Clara (George‘s sister) and asks her hand in marriage,

proclaiming ―I love you, Clara. I love you. . . I shall love you for ever and ever, whether

you will or no‖ (Braddon 440). Similarly, after Clara agrees to marry Robert and they

plan to go to Australia in search of George, Braddon describes Robert as ―a new man,

with new hopes, new cares, new prospects, new purposes; with a life that was so entirely

changed‖ (441). The new Robert not only marries Clara Talboys, but Clara almost

immediately becomes pregnant with their first child. With the formation of a family,

Robert becomes a patriarch, leader, and head of his household, therefore accepting the

gendered position he was meant to have within Victorian society. In addition to Robert‘s

recognition of his male duty in regards to marriage, with the death of Lady Audley,

Robert similarly fully embraces his social position as a barrister. With little over a year

passing since the death of Lady Audley, Robert shifts from caring little about his

occupation to becoming ―a rising man upon the home circuit by this time, [who] has

distinguished himself in the great breach of promise case of Hobbs v. Nobbs‖ (445).

Robert‘s quick and newfound occupational success has caused him to move from being

content on the social periphery to acting as a thriving and ―distinguished‖ citizen located

at the very heart of Victorian society.

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Although Robert‘s masculinization is vital to the novel‘s plot as he has found his

purpose through the persecution and sacrifice of Lady Audley, perhaps more intriguing is

the way in which the female characters Alicia Audley and Clara Talboys retreat to their

expected roles as both Victorian ladies and wives in the final chapter. From the beginning

of the narrative, Alicia Audley is portrayed as a determined, self-willed woman who is

both conscious of her passions and actively pursues their achievement. Alicia is in a

sense portrayed as the antithesis to Robert‘s feminized and indolent self. Alicia

participates in a hunting breakfast as Robert leisurely waits in the drawing-room and is

described by Robert as ―banging doors, bouncing in and out of rooms, talking of the

stables, and riding cross country‖ (Braddon 125), all things that he cautions are

preventing Alicia from attaining the husband she desires. Similarly, Alicia‘s romantic

passion for Robert causes her to react aggressively when faced with his unwillingness to

reciprocate her affections. She complains of Robert‘s selfishness in his decisions to

isolate himself, as well as his lack of emotion, comparing him to the affectionate yet

unintelligent Harry Towers. Alicia argues, ―Sir Harry is worth twenty of you . . . He can‘t

spell, or lift his eyebrows to the roots of his hair; but he would go through fire and water

for the girl he loves; while you—‖ (Braddon 115). Alicia‘s fervent temperament creates a

sort of defensiveness in Robert, as Robert can only describe Alicia as ―hasty‖,

―impetuous‖, and ―violent‖ (Braddon 114), and the narrator similarly states ―his

[Robert‘s] cousin was in a passion‖ and identically refers to her ―violence‖ (Braddon

115). The more fierce and rash characteristics of Alicia place her in stark contrast to the

Victorian ideal of femininity characterized by passivity, reservation, and docility.

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In addition to her determined and passionate personality, Alicia disregards the

social conventions and advantages that a Victorian marriage can offer, but rather desires a

romantic relationship that is grounded in intellectual companionship. Upon Alicia‘s

refusal of Harry Towers‘ marriage proposal, Harry proclaims his shock concerning

Alicia‘s indifferent attitude towards his wealth and prestige, exclaiming, ―What‘s the

good of being rich, if one has no one to help spend one‘s money? . . . It‘s a hard thing that

a girl can refuse a true heart and such stables as we‘ve got at the park. It unsettles a man

somehow‖ (Braddon 126). Harry willingly admits ―I haven‘t got much brains‖ (Braddon

127), but is ―so used to the adulation of mothers who had daughters to marry‖ (Braddon

126) that he assumes any Victorian woman would be lucky to be the recipient of his

proposal. Yet, it is precisely Harry‘s lack of intelligence, and Robert‘s almost

disproportionate interest in scholarly subjects rather than physical exertion, that causes

Robert to be the target of Alicia‘s affections. Alicia‘s lively, fiery, and even fanatical

personality positions her as a recognized source of social threat, much like Lady Audley

is covertly.

While Alicia works against gender expectations in a blunt fashion, Clara Talboys

is situated into a sort of ―sexless‖ state, resisting any real gender definition. In contrast to

Alicia, Clara Talboys is reserved, cultivated, beautiful, and possesses a ―suppressed

passion‖ (Braddon 200). Nevertheless, Robert‘s constant comparisons between George

and Clara Talboys portray her as holding a somewhat manly disposition. The narrator

refers to the likeness between the Talboy siblings stating, ―she was so like the friend

whom he had loved and lost‖ (Braddon 202), and later in nostalgia for George‘s company

Robert contemplates ―If poor George were sitting opposite to me, or—or even George‘s

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sister—she‘s very much like him—existence might be a little more endurable‖ (Braddon

208). This direct connection Robert has formed between George and Clara essentially

forces Clara into a dual identity as both herself and the simultaneous embodiment of her

missing brother. Hart even goes so far to bluntly assert, ―Clara is nothing more than a

patent copy of her brother‖ (8). In this sense, George and Clara act as Girardian doubles

but interestingly this only seems to be the case in Robert‘s psyche. Robert even

recognizes this duality is a simple letter: ―Yes, from Clara Talboys, most decidedly; I

recognize a feminine resemblance to poor George‘s hand; neater than his, and more

decided than his, but very like, very like‖ (Braddon 209). Here Robert points to a further

way in which Clara transgresses gender boundaries; not only is she described as a

duplicate of George, but as the female sibling she is also the more decided one. Despite

Clara‘s more feminine qualities, she is determined, unwavering, and firm in her relentless

search for George, unwilling to cease until the mystery is resolved. Klein correspondingly

argues that Clara ―differs from her brother, namely in her strength of character and

decidedness of action. . . she demands further search for George without her father‘s

knowledge and against his express wish‖ (168). Therefore, although Clara does present

many more feminine qualities than does Alicia, she nevertheless occupies a genderless

identity, even if this identity is only seen by Robert.

Within Braddon‘s closing chapter, the reader is given an almost euphoric

depiction of the domesticated Alicia Audley and Clara Talboys. Both women have

submitted to the ideal of Victorian marriage, placing themselves in the position of wife.

By marrying Sir Harry Towers, Alicia has given up her passionate infatuation with

Robert and surrendered to the Victorian belief that marriage is not based in romantic

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affection so much as social expectations. Through marriage, Alicia has become the Lady

Towers ―with a superb estate in Hertfordshire, summer quarters for our hunters, and a

drag with outriders to drive us across to papa‘s place in Essex‖ (Braddon 124) which she

had previously refused with a fervent disregard. Similarly, while Alicia once insisted

upon intellectual companionship with her male counterparts, she now settles on spending

the remainder of her life with the brainless and dense Harry Towers. Klein notes Alicia‘s

submission, arguing, ―Alicia is rather aggressive in her hapless attempts to catch Robert,‖

yet she ―only gets the wealthy but obtuse Harry Towers‖ (171). Giving up both her

romantic passions and scholarly aspirations, Alicia has taken her place as acceptable

Victorian lady. In the same vein, by marrying Robert and becoming the mother of his

child, Clara Talboys becomes the epitome of a proper Victorian lady. Additionally, with

the feminization of Clara occurring alongside the safe return of George Talboys, Robert

can now effectively separate the two individuals and their role as doubles is eradicated.

Whereas previously Clara was made to serve simultaneously as the embodiment of

herself and George, with the physical presence of both individuals, Robert is forced to

acknowledge the separation of their identities and treat them as distinct and solitary

persons.

While all of Braddon‘s protagonists return to a sense of social harmony at the

close of the narrative, Braddon‘s final chapter also significantly holds reminders of the

death of Lady Audley. During the narration of Robert, Clara, and George‘s peaceful

existence at their ―fairy cottage,‖ Braddon breaks this utopian scene to inform her reader

―It was more than a year since a black-edged letter, written upon foreign paper, came to

Robert Audley, to announce the death of a certain Madame Taylor‖ (445). In the same

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vein, Braddon breaches her idealistic image of Robert and George smoking on the Swiss

boathouse and Clara and Alicia eating ―strawberries and cream upon the lawn‖ (446),

with an abrupt reminder of the shut-up Audley Court which houses ―inquisitive visitors‖

that ―ask many questions about the pretty, fair-haired woman, who died abroad‖ (446).

The very fact that Braddon‘s final chapter titled ―At Peace‖ illustrates both the social

accord of society and the death/recollection of Lady Audley suggests that these two

outcomes are not mutually exclusive. Rather, Braddon‘s integration of her protagonists‘

tranquility and Lady Audley‘s sacrifice illustrates the essential role that Lady Audley

plays in this euphoric reconciliation of distinctions.

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CHAPTER IV

RELIGION AS HIGHER LAW: ELIZABETH GASKELL‘S RUTH

Elizabeth Gaskell‘s Ruth begins to offer an archetypal plot of sacrificial ritual,

depicting Gaskell‘s protagonist Ruth as a young woman marked by her beauty. Ruth‘s

beauty serves as the catalyst for her downfall as she is seduced by the socially prestigious

Henry Bellingham. Impregnated with an illegitimate child, Ruth hides her sexual

transgressions through a change in identity, agreeing to convert herself into Mrs.

Denbigh, a presumed widow. Hiding her fallenness through her name change, Ruth

moves up the social ladder quickly, becoming the loved and trusted governess to the

prominent Bradshaw family. Yet, once Ruth‘s sexual impurity becomes known, the

community that once accepted her and her son now rejects her, consequently placing her

at the margins and priming her role as sacrificial victim. Ruth embraces her role as

scapegoat, actively pursuing her self-sacrifice that serves both literally and figuratively to

absorb the community‘s contagion and eventually lead to social renewal. Along with this

conventional sacrificial plot, Gaskell engages in two distinctly nontraditional narrative

outcomes: first, Gaskell shows the absurdity of virtue/vice and good/evil logic by taking

it out of the realm of the sexual and placing it into spheres of law and religion. Second,

Gaskell uses religion to demonstrate that God serves as the ultimate judgment, rather than

social law. The idea that God possesses the utmost authority regarding the evaluation of

individuals‘ behaviors takes power away from the elite that require the maintenance of

hierarchies to preserve their power. Gaskell‘s text uniquely works within a sacrificial

framework which privileges social law to encourage the belief that there are multiple

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forms of judgment, rather than merely social law, as the supreme determiner in identity

and fate.

Following Girard‘s theory regarding the necessity that sacrificial victims have a

mark, Gaskell‘s Ruth is distinguished from the onset of the narrative by her exceptional

beauty. Ruth is characterized by her ―waving outline of figure, her striking face, with

dark eyebrows and dark lashes, combined with auburn hair and a fair complexion‖

(Gaskell 13). Ruth‘s superior beauty is even more significant as it serves in opposit ion to

her inferior social status. As a member of the working class laboring at dressmaking for

Mrs. Mason‘s shop, Ruth‘s beauty acts as her sole noteworthy trait in her disagreeable

surroundings. Ruth is fully aware of the paradox between her physical attributes and her

social station, showing little modesty regarding her attractive qualities. Ruth‘s beauty is

the acting agent in Henry Bellingham‘s (her future seducer‘s) attraction to her. On their

second meeting Bellingham becomes transfixed by Ruth: ―The strong perception of

Ruth‘s exceeding beauty came upon him. He almost lost the sense of what he was saying,

he was so startled into admiration‖ (24). This relationship between Ruth‘s beauty and her

downfall elicits Hilary Schor‘s interpretation of Ruth‘s ―sad beauty‖ as ―what makes her

an object of interest in the novel. It is what causes her to have any story at all‖ (166-67).

Similarly, Carol Lansbury and Terence Wright both argue that Ruth‘s beauty is the

deciding factor in her fate. While Lansbury suggests that ―Ruth is a predetermined victim

made all the more vulnerable by her beauty and inexperience‖ (58), Wright argues that

―[Ruth‘s] whole life from seduction onwards could be said to be a kind of penance,

culminating in her ultimate sacrifice‖ (83). Although these interpretations of the role of

Ruth‘s beauty vary slightly in language, they all point to the Girardian concept that

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Ruth‘s beauty is her mark which initiates a determinism leading to her eventual role as

scapegoat.

Not only does Ruth‘s beauty act as her initial mark, but her attractiveness also

causes Bellingham to view her through her body and to dehumanize her into an object to

be bought. Although Bellingham does not literally purchase Ruth as a prostitute, he

insinuates that he can offer her both of the socially valued categories that she is lacking:

monetary wealth and a prestigious family ancestry. Bellingham shows his financial status

by giving Ruth his purse of gold to ensure that the child that he has rescued from

drowning is taken care of, though Ruth ―did not like the charge of such riches‖ and was

―rather afraid of the responsibility implied in the possession of so much money‖ (Gaskell

24). Similarly, Bellingham alludes to his impressive ancestry by asking Ruth to obtain an

old family relic for him: ―Mrs Mason lives in Heneage Place, does not she? My mother‘s

ancestors lived there; . . . There was an old hunting-piece painted on a panel over one of

the chimney-pieces; the figures were portraits of my ancestors. I have often though I

should like to purchase it‖ (29). By asking Ruth to investigate the existence of his desired

family relic, Ruth is forced to entertain the idea of association with members of the

upper-class. Although Ruth is never definitively labeled a prostitute, the implication that

she is conceding to sex with Bellingham in order to gain social advantages is agreed upon

by the townspeople, Bellingham‘s mother, and to some extent Ruth herself. In response

to Bellingham and his mother attempting to pay off Ruth via fifty pounds, Ruth tells Miss

Benson, ―He gave me many things—my watch—oh, many things; and I took them from

him gladly and thankfully because he loved me . . . This money seems—oh, Miss

Benson—it seems as if he could comfort me, for being forsaken, by money‖ (Gaskell

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106). Although Ruth finds this association with prostitution distasteful, she nevertheless

acknowledges that her relationship has turned into a sort of transaction between her and

Bellingham.

In addition to being regarded as an object for purchase, Ruth is also dehumanized

as an animalistic character. Both Bellingham and Mr. Benson refer to Ruth as animal-

like, with similar implications. Ruth is described as a physical, almost carnal, subhuman

being, a female that Bellingham intends to dominate into submission. Bellingham thinks

―It would be an exquisite delight to attract and tame her wildness, just as he had often

allured and tamed the timid fawns in his mother‘s park‖ (Gaskell 31). By indicating that

Ruth is both ―wild‖ and one to be ―tamed,‖ Bellingham is comparing Ruth‘s uncultured

demeanor to the ―wildness‖ of an animal and presenting her as an object to be conquered.

Bellingham‘s thoughts suggest that he is the predator while Ruth is acting as his prey.

Mr. Benson gives a similar description of Ruth after Bellingham abandons her,

continuing the imagery of Ruth‘s victimization by depicting her as a ―hunted creature,

with a wild, scared look of despair, which almost made her lovely face seem fierce‖

(Gaskell 81). Whereas Mr. Bellingham sees the degradation of Ruth as a game which

would be pleasurable to play, Mr. Benson‘s observations of Ruth confirm that

Bellingham was successful. Ruth has been caught, seduced, and abandoned, leaving her

in a further state of deprivation than she began.

While Ruth‘s beauty is the mark that instigates her relationship with Bellingham

and leads to her debasement, the birth of her son Leonard serves as a second mark.

Through her pregnancy, Ruth‘s impurity gains observable proof, something that can only

be veiled through a change of identity into a presumed widow. While Mr. Benson is

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accepting of Ruth and her future child, Miss Benson acts according to social standards in

her initial aversion to Ruth‘s fallen state. Miss Benson refers to Ruth‘s future child as a

―disgrace‖ and a ―badge of shame‖ (Gaskell 100), essentially an attestation to her sexual

impurity. Lansbury emphasizes Leonard‘s role as verification of Ruth‘s sexual status,

arguing that ―The important social issue was that an affair could be concealed but a child

was a noisy testament to its mother‘s behavior‖ (55). Due to Leonard‘s symbolic

function, Victorian ideology suggests that death should be preferable for both Ruth and

her son. However, Ruth does not abide by this mindset and embraces her child as a means

by which she can achieve salvation. Ruth‘s acceptance of her son is unconventional and

unintelligible according to Victorian social standards, as Miss Benson‘s astonishment

regarding Ruth‘s positive attitude towards Leonard suggests. Lansbury writes ―It is

incomprehensible to Miss Benson that any young woman in Ruth‘s plight would not be

praying for kindly death to intervene and save her child from a life of shame‖ (55).

Regardless of Ruth‘s philosophy, those around her understand the social expectations

concerning fallen women and their illegitimate children, and as a result Ruth‘s name and

history must be changed in order for her to pass as a widow. Miss Benson acknowledges

the implication that a name change could have, stating: ―My brother and I think it would

be better to call you—as if in fact you were—a widow. It will save much awkwardness‖

and ―mortification‖ (Gaskell 109). In order to save both her child‘s and her own

reputations, Gaskell‘s protagonist transforms from the destitute and fallen Ruth Hilton to

the humble and righteous Mrs. Denbigh. In this sense, Ruth‘s name change serves as a

metaphoric sacrifice as her previous identity must be fully eliminated, even in name, for a

chance to move past her seduction and achieve peace for her and Leonard.

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In order for Ruth to attempt some semblance of stasis after her abandonment and

subsequent pregnancy, however, it is not enough to change her name and therefore

provide a presumed legitimacy for Leonard; the Bensons understand the danger of her

beauty and make an effort to remove that mark as well. The scene in which Sally cuts

Ruth‘s hair in order to appear a widow is symbolic of an attack on Ruth‘s beauty and on

her indiscriminate sexuality. Gaskell goes as far as to claim that Sally is ―shearing

[Ruth‘s] beautiful hair into the clipped shortness of a boy‘s‖ (121). Here the act of cutting

Ruth‘s hair not only acts to damage her beauty, but it goes even further and removes her

from the category of feminine altogether. Moreover, in this scene Gaskell uses images of

purity shown in the presence of the color white and the description of Ruth‘s demeanor:

―[Sally] walked up to the beautiful, astonished Ruth, where she stood in her long, soft,

white dressing-gown, with all her luxuriant brown hair hanging disheveled down her

figure‖ (121). Similarly, after the task is complete Sally is described as ―placing her hand

under the round white chin‖ of Ruth (Gaskell 121). Gaskell‘s use of white imagery

implies the role that the removal of Ruth‘s beauty plays in her transition into an

unpolluted state. Similarly, rather than the animal-like and carnal Ruth that was seduced

by Bellingham, this Ruth acts the perfect Victorian lady as Sally proceeds to cut her hair:

―Ruth was still and silent, with meekly-bowed head,‖ she had ―large, quiet eyes,‖

exhibiting a ―sad gentleness‖ and ―soft, yet dignified submission‖ (Gaskell 121). This

description of Ruth‘s conduct is reminiscent of ideal Victorian femininity, and therefore,

this scene operates as Ruth‘s transition into this state.

Moreover, Ruth‘s conversion from Ruth Hilton to Mrs. Denbigh is not a simple

switch of name, but rather a movement from being defined through the physical to

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becoming a spiritual being. While Ruth was previously seen only through her physical

attractiveness, Mrs. Denbigh is similarly beautiful, but is defined through her devotion to

both Leonard and God. Through this transition, there are essentially two women in one

body shown in Ruth‘s newfound duality. Throughout the narrative, Ruth blurs two

distinct differentiations in Victorian culture, those of purity and class. Siv Jansson notes

that although Ruth is defined by her fallen state, she is simultaneously ―the helper, the

support, the nurturer‖ (71), all characteristics of the ―angel in the house,‖ rather than the

fallen woman. Jansson goes on to suggest that Ruth‘s change in name from Ruth Hilton

to Mrs. Denbigh is emblematic of the transition from fallenness to virtue, but Jansson is

quick to observe that ―Ruth Hilton is, however, also a virtuous woman, and Mrs. Denbigh

is a fallen woman: the Madonna and the Magdalene may have different names, but they

are the same woman‖ (71). Although this duality is known to the reader, those characters

who are ignorant of Ruth‘s impurity describe her as wholly righteous. She is illustrated as

―lovely, quiet Ruth, with her low tones and soft replies, her delicate waving movements .

. . the very type of what a woman should be – a calm, serene soul, fashioning the body to

angelic grace‖ (Gaskell 254). Katherine Retan similarly suggests that Ruth is a sort of

―fallen angel,‖ one that exhibits qualities of domestic flawlessness, but is simultaneously

imperfect. Retan argues, ―Gaskell represents Ruth‘s fall as both fitting her for the role of

angel and ultimately disqualifying her for the part. Ruth is both impossibly pure and

irrevocably stained‖ (195). Retan‘s choice of language here is important as she describes

Ruth‘s purity to be the ―impossible‖ quality and her ―stain‖ to be what is permanent

about her character. Although Ruth illustrates both decency and disgrace, it is her

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impurity that is everlasting, and therefore no attempts to hide her fallen identity will be

ultimately successful.

In addition to Ruth‘s distortion of purity as a fixed concept, she serves as a threat

to Victorian middle class life by almost effortlessly experiencing social mobility and

infiltrating the middle class community of Eccleston. Within Gaskell‘s novel, the

Bradshaw family represents the archetypal Victorian middle class home. Tatsuhiro Ohno

argues that the Bradshaws ―are the quintessence of fictional Victorian middle-class

families. In this sense, Richard Bradshaw and his family are designed to embody the

mentality of ordinary Victorians‖ (27). Therefore, Mr. Bradshaw‘s offer to Ruth of a

position as governess to his two youngest daughters due to Ruth‘s caring and

compassionate demeanor gives her not only access to the Bradshaw‘s middle class home,

but also power and influence over his children. Ruth does not merely serve as the

governess to his daughters, but acts as an accepted part of their family, making her appear

a member of the middle class in direct opposition to her poor upbringing and fallen

status. Gaskell writes, ―six or seven years ago, you would have perceived that she was not

altogether a lady by birth and education, yet now she might have been placed among the

highest in the land, and would have been taken by the most critical judge for their equal‖

(173). While Ruth is fully treated as a middle class lady, her social mobility is further

shown in her relationship with Jemima Bradshaw. As the eldest Bradshaw daughter,

Jemima is nearing womanhood and regards Ruth as a figure worth idolatry. Jemima sees

Ruth‘s beauty—her mark—as superior and admires her much for this quality, ironically

the one that leads to Ruth‘s demise. Jemima‘s esteem for Ruth goes so far as to reverse

the class hierarchy altogether and place Jemima in a second-rate position to Ruth. Jemima

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thinks early on in their friendship, ―At present it was enough for her, if Mrs. Denbigh

would let her serve her in every possible way. Her admiration for beauty was keen‖

(Gaskell 153). Similarly, Mr. Bradshaw confesses that he ―never dreamed that his

daughter could feel herself inferior to the minister‘s protégée, but so it was‖ (158).

Although Ruth in actuality is defined by her lack of parentage, poor origins, and sexual

transgressions, through veiling these identifiers she not only acts as equal to the middle

class community in which she lives, but in some cases serves as their superior.

While Ruth can only blur the dichotomies of pure/impure, virtue/vice, and

wealthy/poor through a covert change of identity, Gaskell skillfully shows the Victorian

double standard through her male protagonists‘ effortless defiance of the same binary

logic. While Victorian ideology considers the rejection of differentiations to be a

punishable act when committed by women, the men within Ruth take vast liberties with

their own categorical disobedience. Male figures in Gaskell‘s narrative illustrate a

hypocritical relationship with social law, where they take an anti-law stance with the

hopes of law reformation. Believing that English law is corrupt, Mr. Bradshaw and Mr.

Benson join a group of men—also consisting of Mr. Donne (Bellingham), Mr. Hickson,

and Mr. Farquhar—in attempting to get a majority of liberal party members into

Parliament. In order to do so, the men agree that they themselves will need to take part in

similar acts of corruption and dishonesty that they are fighting against. This hypocritical

methodology that one must act immorally to fight evil raises a debate among Gaskell‘s

male protagonists. Mr. Benson seems to be the only male character opposed to the idea

that an individual can rightly take part in acts of vice in order to reach a state of virtue,

bluntly stating: ―We are not to do evil that good may come‖ (Gaskell 210). More

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specifically in relation to the act of buying-off politicians that the men are contemplating

participating in, Mr. Bradshaw acknowledges that bribery is a vice in the eyes of the

church: ―he had an uncomfortable idea that by the Christian standard—that divine test of

true and pure—bribery would not altogether be approved of‖ (214-15). Yet, this

knowledge is not enough to stop Mr. Bradshaw‘s decision to partake in these acts of

corruption, as he concludes: ―No! in this one case bribery must be allowed—was

allowable‖ (215). This scene highlights the hypocrisy present in Victorian society. For

the men in the narrative, what is ―good‖ or ―best‖ is a situational decision: these concepts

are not absolutes. Gaskell‘s narrative portrays Victorian society as a culture in which men

are allowed to choose when it is appropriate to dismantle binary ideology, yet women

must consider these concepts to be essential and wholeheartedly obey them.

Throughout the narrative, Gaskell mirrors the male character‘s blurring of

distinctions between right and wrong with Ruth‘s situation. While the male characters

must only overcome an internal conflict regarding essential categories of good/evil in

order to fulfill their desire to transgress these boundaries, Ruth is forced to undergo a

complete identity change to do the same. This double standard in regards to Victorian

gender expectations is perhaps best shown in the actions of Mr. Bradshaw. As a sort of

delegate for Victorian society in general, as Ohno noted, Mr. Bradshaw is the

personification of strictness, yet he himself is an active political and religious dissenter.

Mr. Bradshaw hypocritically overcompensates for his personal transgressions by

increasing his inflexibility. In regards to Mr. Bradshaw‘s acts of bribery, ―His uneasy,

fearful consciousness made him stricter and sterner than ever; as if he would quench all

wondering slanderous talk about him in the town by a renewed austerity of uprightness‖

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(Gaskell 253). Similarly, Mr. Bradshaw is the first to unflinchingly condemn Ruth for her

fallenness once it becomes publically known. He sanctimoniously accuses Ruth of

―wantonness,‖ coming into his family with her ―sickly hypocritical face, imposing upon‖

them all (277). Here Mr. Bradshaw reprimands Ruth for the very same actions of

―wantonness‖ and hypocrisy that he openly participates in. While Ruth is defined through

her impurity, Mr. Bradshaw and his fellow men are never labeled through their

dishonorable actions. Gaskell strategically makes Mr. Bradshaw‘s self-righteousness and

hypocrisy apparent, therefore effectively illustrating the inconsistencies in social law and

increasing the possibility for readers to feel compassion regarding Ruth‘s position.

Although Ruth‘s role as sacrificial victim has been set up from the beginning of

Gaskell‘s narrative, as illustrated in her marks of beauty and illegitimate child, through

the revelation of her actual identity as a fallen woman, her function as scapegoat becomes

evident. While Ruth is viewed as the ideal woman—trusted to play a motherly role to

three middle class girls and worthy of the affections of Mr. Farquhar, an upper class

gentlemen—once her identity is made public the community shifts to perceive Ruth

disapprovingly. Mr. Bradshaw, as the primary ―speaker for society,‖ is instantly appalled

by his newfound knowledge of his governess, of whom he himself spent much time

adoring. The scene in which Mr. Bradshaw chastises Ruth for her past acts is full of

Girardian language regarding the diseased nature of the scapegoat. Girard argues that the

scapegoat is ―the single ‗polluted‘ enemy who is contaminating the rest‖ of the

community (81). This language of disease and pollution is mirrored in Mr. Bradshaw‘s

reprimand of Ruth. In response to Jemima‘s defense of Ruth‘s character, Mr. Bradshaw

states ―It only convinces me more and more how deep is the corruption this wanton has

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spread in my family‖ (Gaskell 279). Stating that Ruth‘s immorality has been ―spread in

my family‖ implies the existence of a contagion within Ruth, which is furthered in Mr.

Bradshaw‘s expression of hope that his children ―are not contaminated‖ (279). The

Girardian language continues as Mr. Bradshaw makes direct reference to the ―mark‖ that

Leonard serves as the illegitimate child: ―Do you suppose that he is ever to rank with

other boys, who are not stained and marked with sin from their birth‖ (Gaskell 279). By

referring to Leonard as ―stained‖ and ―marked with sin,‖ Mr. Bradshaw emphasizes the

role of outcast and ―untouchable‖ status that Ruth‘s sexual transgressions have given

them within society. The public knowledge of Ruth‘s fallenness has thus fully sent in

motion the sacrificial ritual, encouraging Ruth to act out the physical sacrifice that she

has thus far only enacted at a metaphorical level. Ruth seems aware of her duty as

scapegoat and the death that is involved. Leaving the Bradshaw house, Ruth immediately

finds her son, essentially to give a parting goodbye. Gaskell writes, ―Leonard threw

himself into her arms, and hugged her with all his force, and their lips clung together as

in the kiss given to the dying‖ (281). Although Ruth is yet to partake in any action that

threatens her life, there is a sense that her death has become imminent.

While Ruth has in a sense begun the process of martyrdom early in the narrative

through her impervious devotion to both Leonard and God, her act of self-sacrifice takes

a more physical form with Ruth‘s decision to become a nurse to her community while the

typhus fever sweeps over Eccleston. Girard writes, ―If the sacrificial catharsis actually

succeeds in preventing the unlimited propagation of violence, a sort of infection is in fact

being checked. . . The tendency of violence to hurl itself on a surrogate . . . can surely be

described as a contaminating process‖ (30). This emphasis on the surrogate‘s role as

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absorber of the community‘s tensions, dissentions, conflicts, illness, and violence takes

on quite a literal meaning within Ruth. As one of the few individuals willing to risk the

high probability of contracting the fever, Ruth partakes in an act of self-sacrifice where

she voluntarily nurses the diseased and dying. As a result, Ruth becomes the recipient of

the community‘s contagion and becomes the actual embodiment of the disease that

threatens the disintegration of Eccleston. Ruth‘s association with the community‘s ills

becomes known to all as she is described as being ―so often in connexion with Death that

something of the superstitious awe with which the dead were regarded . . . surrounded

her‖ (Gaskell 321). Becoming the quintessence of death and disease, Ruth has fully

accepted her role as sacrificial victim and is recognized by the community as such.

Ruth‘s purpose as scapegoat transforms her from the disgraced fallen woman into

rescuer of the community. Her role as communal redeemer is shown through her image

as a Christ-like figure and in her devotion to the community in which she is ostracized.

Both Siv Jansson and Terence Wright comment on Ruth‘s saintly obligation, Jansson

specifically arguing that Ruth‘s role as nurse is similar to the power of angels. Jansson

suggests that ―Ruth not only ‗saves‘ her seducer and her community through her healing

powers, but sacrifices herself for them, which elevates her beyond angel status to a

Christ-like figure‖ (74). Similarly, Wright notes the Christian overtones in Ruth‘s

sacrifice implying that she is self-punishing herself ―in the course of seeking her own

salvation‖ (91). While both of these critics are making claims directed towards sacrificial

ritual, Girard‘s theory offers more pointed language to explain specifically the reasons for

Ruth‘s demise. Ruth‘s self-sacrifice is working towards salvation, not just for herself, but

also for her community and her son. Girard describes the sacrificial victim as ―a

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mysterious savior who visits affliction on mankind in order subsequently to restore it to

good health‖ (86). As a voluntary sick nurse, Ruth is sacrificing her own life in attempts

to rid her community of their infection and affliction, thus placing herself in a position of

martyr. This quite literal purification of the town, decontaminating the residents of the

disease which threatened their livelihood, directly correlates with Ruth‘s death, and

therefore her death is the acting agent in this restoration.

The success of Ruth‘s self-sacrifice is illustrated in both the revival of her good

reputation and the community‘s eventual acceptance of her son. Girard argues that the

scapegoat is viewed in an auspicious light directly after the sacrificial ritual has taken

place. He writes ―the hero appears as a redeemer as soon as he has been eliminated‖

(Girard 87). The harmony resulting from the elimination of the fever and the role that

Ruth‘s death plays within the community‘s survival causes them to forget her fallenness

altogether. One of the community members goes as far as to claim ―Such a one as her has

never been a great sinner‖ (Gaskell 351). Therefore, while Ruth‘s sin served as her mark,

it is subsequently the same sin that is forgiven through her sacrifice. Wright likewise

suggests that ―Once the woman has lost her virginity . . . only death can retrieve that

wholeness she once enjoyed‖ (92). Ruth‘s complete act of martyrdom allows the

community‘s compassionate attitude toward her to be formed. Similarly, Leonard is left

with a fond memory of his mother not as a sinner but as a savior. After Leonard hears the

community members talking fondly of his mother, he no longer fears social interaction,

but rather ―From that day forward Leonard walked erect in the streets of Eccleston, where

‗many arose and called [Ruth] blessed.‘‖ (Gaskell 352). In addition to a newfound pride

in his mother, Leonard is welcomed by the community which at one time viewed him as

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a bane to their well being. Leonard‘s transformation into an established member of the

community is most thoroughly illustrated in the way in which he ends the narrative as

wholeheartedly accepted by Mr. Bradshaw—the character whom Gaskell portrays as the

epitome of Victorian rigidity. While Mr. Bradshaw had originally described Leonard as

accursed due to his mother‘s fallenness, in the final scene of the novel, the reader sees

Mr. Bradshaw ―leading and comforting‖ Leonard after Ruth‘s funeral (Gaskell 375). Mr.

Bradshaw refers to Leonard as ―my poor fellow‖ and ―my lad‖ (374). This final scene

gives the impression that Mr. Bradshaw will take some form of guardianship over

Leonard in his mother‘s absence, treating him as a child worth acceptance.

While the positive perceptions of Ruth and her son are direct results of the

sacrificial ritual, Ruth‘s death also leads to more implied social harmony found in the

renewal of friendship between Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Benson as well as the

domestication of Jemima Bradshaw. Once Ruth‘s fallen past is revealed, Mr. Bradshaw

and Mr. Benson‘s amity is shattered due to the betrayal that Mr. Bradshaw feels at Mr.

Benson‘s having hidden the truth of Ruth‘s past from him. Whereas the two men were

once strong allies in both religious and political dissention, Mr. Benson now views the

Bradshaws‘ ―large square pew empty on Sundays‖ and he only heard of the Bradshaws‘

―doings by chance‖ (Gaskell 298). While all communication between the families has

ceased—aside from a few run-ins with Jemima—Ruth‘s sacrifice initiates a reunion

between the two men, which significantly occurs at Ruth‘s funeral. As Mr. Benson takes

the pulpit to speak Ruth‘s funeral sermon, Gaskell writes, ―Mr. Benson saw one and all—

the well-filled Bradshaw pew-all in deep mourning‖ (373). This scene of seeing the

―well-filled‖ Bradshaw pew serves in direct contrast to the previously empty pew.

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Although the narrative ends before the reader can have assurance that the two men will

resume their friendship, Gaskell‘s last line reads ―and, for a moment, [Mr. Bradshaw]

could not speak to his old friend, for the sympathy which choked up his voice, and filled

his eyes with tears‖ (375). Gaskell‘s choice of final words indicates that Ruth‘s death is

the acting agent in a renewed sense of understanding and bonding that has formed

between these two male protagonists.

Perhaps the most vital harmony resulting from Ruth‘s self-sacrifice concerning

Victorian gender hierarchies is the domestication of Jemima Bradshaw. Early on, Jemima

is characterized by her more passionate and rash qualities. She is described as one who

―rebelled against every law, and was only guided by impulse‖ (Gaskell 179). Jemima is

further illustrated as exhibiting ―indignation,‖ ―angry and irritable‖ temperaments, acting

argumentatively, ―provoking‖ others, and possessing vehemence (179), all qualities

typically viewed as objectionable to the Victorian female ideal. Jemima similarly

challenges Mr. Farquhar, the man whom her father wishes her to marry, intellectually.

Rather than allowing Mr. Farquhar to express his opinion unquestionably, Jemima

vocally defies his views and judgments. Furthermore, Jemima is against the idea of an

arranged and ―beneficial‖ marriage: ―There was something degrading, Jemima thought,

in trying to alter herself to gain the love of any human creature‖ (Gaskell 182). In this

sense, Jemima wholeheartedly believes that she should not change herself to fit society‘s

forms, and therefore acts as an independent and liberated Victorian woman, which

clashes with the restrictive household in which she lives. Through learning of Ruth‘s

fallenness, Jemima and Farquhar‘s romance is rekindled, and it is significant that their

concern for Ruth‘s well being is the reason for their reunion. Much of their reconciliation

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begins through conversations regarding when they will next see Ruth and what they can

do to better Leonard‘s station.

Through her marriage to Mr. Farquhar, Jemima ceases in her desire to defy him

and similarly abates her more fervent behaviors. The revelation of Ruth‘s fallenness and

her subsequent death essentially act as a second chance for Jemima; once threatened by

Ruth‘s ideal femininity and the potential loss of Mr. Farquhar‘s affections, Jemima now

fully takes on the role of Victorian wife. Retan argues that ―the middle-class daughter can

permanently control her unruly emotions through the socially sanctioned avenue of

marriage‖ (197). Gaskell leaves her reader with a sense that Jemima is in a state of

transition between her previous passionate self and a reformed Victorian lady. Even in

their rekindled romance, Jemima shows signs of clinging to her earlier wayward qualities,

warning Farquhar, ―You won‘t forbid my going to see Ruth, will you? Because if you do,

I give you notice I shall disobey you‖ (Gaskell 307). Yet, even with this threat of

rebellious behavior, it is clear that Jemima no longer intends to be so errant, as Farquhar

contemplates the prospective power structure that marriage will place them in: ―The arm

around her waist clasped her yet more fondly at the idea . . . of the control which he

should have a right to exercise over her actions at some future day‖ (307). Although

Gaskell‘s novel ends before the reader can receive a full picture of the reformed Jemima

Farquhar, with her marriage as well as her ensuing motherhood, it can only be assumed

that the transformation is well underway and that she will likely continue on a domestic

path. Jansson pinpoints the importance of motherhood for Jemima, arguing that it is an

avenue through which she can enter ―a state approaching angelic herself‖ (72). Some

critics have focused on Jemima‘s refinement to the extent that they argue that it acts as

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the primary outcome of Gaskell‘s narrative. Retan claims that Jemima‘s story takes

precedence over Ruth‘s, arguing that ―The taming of the rebellious middle-class

daughter, her transformation into domestic angel, becomes the novel‘s central plot‖

(194). Retan expands this argument to contend that Ruth dies in favor of the middle-class

family‘s well being in a general sense (200). Along with the sacrifice of Ruth, not only is

the Bradshaw family released from their tensions, but Jemima and Mr. Farquhar set out to

successfully create a middle class family of their own. While it is difficult to agree that

the restoration of Jemima and the middle class is the principle outcome of Gaskell‘s

narrative, it is certainly one of the most prevalent. The Victorian middle class had the

most to gain through the maintenance of strict gender differentiations, and therefore in a

Girardian sense, they would have been the most threatened by Ruth‘s lack of

classifications.

While it is apparent that there is peace, harmony, and social stasis at the close of

Ruth—indicating that the sacrificial ritual was successful—Gaskell leaves her reader with

the message that social law may not be the highest power. The religious overtones of

Gaskell‘s narrative suggest that religious law, rather than social law, is the ultimate form

of judgment. According to most characters in the novel, Ruth‘s fallenness is considered a

social offense. Society views her as having directly disobeyed her expected role as a

Victorian female, requiring her to remain a virgin until marriage. While this is the

commonly held view on Ruth‘s impurity, Ruth herself views this as a religious crime,

something that is redeemable. Terence Wright identifies this function that religion plays

in Ruth‘s transgressions and her later sacrifice, writing, ―the role of martyr alone may

atone for the sin she has committed against God‖ (83). Therefore, while Ruth is clearly

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cognizant of the social connotations regarding her impurity, she herself only desires

forgiveness from God, and consequently immerses herself in religious spirituality. Ruth‘s

spiritual transformation occurs with the help of the minister, Mr. Benson, who upon Ruth

first entering his household he proclaims to Miss Benson, ―You yourself have not greater

sorrow over this young creature‘s sin than I have: the difference is this, you confuse the

consequences with the sin‖ (Gaskell 101). Here Mr. Benson is making a firm statement

that while ―sin‖ is a single act, the ―consequences‖ (everything occurring after the sin)

are separate. Therefore, while a person may participate in an act of sin, that act does not

predetermine her future as a sinner. Essentially, Mr. Benson is proclaiming that a person

can change. This perspective regarding a person‘s ability to change contradicts a

Girardian reading which focuses on a scapegoat‘s ―mark,‖ arguing that once an

individual is marked her fate as sacrificial victim is determined. While acts of labeling

are vital to the persistence of hierarchical ideology, Mr. Benson believes that in the eyes

of God identity is not so fixed. Mr. Benson acknowledges this difference between

religious and social law by telling Miss Benson, ―She must strengthen her child to look to

God, rather than man‘s opinion‖ (Gaskell 102). Rather than abiding by the Victorian

belief that Leonard is disgraced as a result of his mother‘s impurity, Mr. Benson‘s

nonconformist beliefs are sympathetic to Leonard‘s position and see him as having

potential for redemption.

If religious law is to take precedence over social law, then even though Gaskell‘s

plot clearly demonstrates the process of sacrificial ritual, she seems to at the very least to

be tempting a non-Girardian reading. Since religious law claims that Ruth has a chance at

redemption after her initial act of sexual sin, Gaskell allows Ruth to transform in this very

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way to become an angelic and virtuous idol. Ruth is beloved by all those around her, and

if it had not been for Jemima learning of her fallen status, it can be assumed that she

would have remained an icon of righteousness for the community. Even in her sacrificial

act Ruth is noble and exemplary in her altruism. She accepts her fate as sacrificial victim

without resistance, nursing the dying of Eccleston. Wright describes her self sacrifice as

―not merely unflinching but very close to courting death‖ (88). Ruth not only nurses her

fellow townspeople, but she goes out of her way to heal Bellingham despite his primary

role in her sexual degradation. This altruistic act shows Ruth‘s ultimate loyalty to her

martyrdom. Ruth is described as controlling ―herself from expressing any sign of

repugnance‖ and allowing ―herself no nervous haste of movement or touch that should

hurt the feelings of the poorest, most friendless creature‖ (Gaskell 320). Ruth‘s

benevolence is further illustrated in the widespread mourning after her death. During Mr.

Benson‘s funeral sermon, the entire community appears to be in attendance to pay their

respects to the honorable Ruth. While religious judgment identifies Ruth as virtuous, the

reverse of this concept is illustrated in religious law‘s view of Henry Bellingham as a

sinner, while society does not label him as such. As far as society is concerned, Henry

Bellingham walks free from his seduction of Ruth and while she is the one who must

perish, he is allowed to live on shamelessly. Yet, Gaskell‘s religious overtones suggest

that in the afterlife where Ruth is praised, Bellingham will be conversely punished. Mr.

Benson warns Bellingham of his religious fate: ―Men may call such actions as yours,

youthful follies! There is another name for them with God‖ (Gaskell 371). Here Mr.

Benson is making a definitive claim that while Victorian society condones the sexual

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dalliances of men regardless of their impact on the lives of women, God is a higher

power that will not find these actions permissible without any attempt to seek salvation.

While following a sacrificial plot that enforces social law, Gaskell calls on her

readers to question the validity of this law in relation to religious philosophy.

Significantly, Gaskell does not seem to be asking for an acquittal of law altogether—

which is imperative for the existence of any society—but for a reexamination of

priorities. Perhaps the inherent principle in Ruth lies in Mr. Benson‘s inquiry: ―Is it not

time to change some of our ways of thinking and acting?‖ (Gaskell 288). While Gaskell‘s

novel does not ask for revolutionary change in Victorian England, it does subtly invite

readers to acknowledge that there are other forms of judgment outside of Victorian moral

code. This consideration alone is enough to question the definitive power of social law

and the labels that society enforces.

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CONCLUSION

Applying a Girardian paradigm to Victorian literature is something that critics

have implied, but few have acknowledged. That Victorian women are marginal members

of society in the nineteenth century has been explored repeatedly by scholars and

academics; similarly, the tendency that subversive women in Victorian literature are

punished for their social crimes is also widely recognized. However, employing a

Girardian approach provides a complex and thorough explanation to what appears to be a

simple phenomenon: that sexually transgressive women have a tendency to die or be

killed at the conclusion of Victorian fiction. Girard‘s theories emphasize that the reasons

for these deaths is the elimination of tensions and violence that threatens to destroy an

entire community. Rather than simply punishing women, the sacrificial ritual serves the

distinct purposes of rectifying lost differentiations, reaffirming social order, and returning

to harmony.

Using Violence and the Sacred to analyze selected works by Thomas Hardy,

Emily Brontë, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, and Elizabeth Gaskell has illustrated the sorts of

conflicts created when those rigid categorizations placed on Victorian women clashed

with their actual desires. In order to maintain a patriarchal structure, Victorian society

viewed women as belonging to essential categories. Women—especially middle-class

women—were expected to emulate the ―Angel in the House‖ ideal, or be regarded as

domestic failures. All five women in these novels had personal desires and goals that did

not match this definite idea of femininity and, therefore, are portrayed as falling

somewhere in-between these extremes. In this sense, Tess, Catherine, Sue, Lady Audley,

and Ruth can be viewed as powerful individuals that represented a truth of their culture:

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namely that human behavior does not readily fit into rigid categories and that identity

belongs on a spectrum rather than being boxed into dichotomous opposites. The five

women discussed in this study are all victims of these social constraints and often go to

great lengths to attain personal happiness. The authors of these texts seem aware of the

gap between expectations and true desires and could be perceived as writing critically

against their society. Interestingly, it is Gaskell‘s Ruth (written at the close of the early

Victorian period) that seems the most critical of Victorian expectations of women,

illustrating that human behavior is a result of circumstances. Gaskell shows that a fallen

woman can be the epitome of virtue in 1853, yet it is not until after the Victorian era that

this ideology fully takes hold.

While working on this project, several digressions arose that could not have been

adequately addressed within the scope and length of this thesis, but are worthy of

attention and future study. First, the ways in which Hardy‘s Tess of the D’Urbervilles and

Gaskell‘s Ruth mirror one another seems obvious within the Girardian paradigm. Both

Tess and Ruth are young women marked by their beauty from the onset of the narrative

and have unsuitable parents or no parents at all. They are thrown into financial crises,

causing them to be put into compromising positions with men and are either raped or

seduced (both in undisclosed scenes leaving room for reader interpretation). Tess and

Ruth both become pregnant as a result of their sexual act, one illegitimate child dying and

the other living, and their pregnancies serve as a second mark. At this point, the two

narratives diverge in separate directions as Tess loses this mark through the death of

Sorrow and Ruth wholeheartedly accepts Leonard. Furthermore, while in Tess of the D’

Urbervilles Alec can only be punished through an unacceptable violent act committed by

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Tess, within Ruth there is a sense that men have a higher authority to answer to, shown in

the assertions that Bellingham will be punished by God. Lastly, though the final

judgment of Tess occurs purely at the social level, Ruth‘s final judgment is religious in

nature. While both women participate in a final act of sacrifice, Tess‘s sacrifice is

socially forced while Ruth‘s is an act of martyrdom. These are just a select few of the

ways in which these two novels could be viewed as parallels of one another, and analysis

examining these texts in relation to one another would be fruitful ground for criticism.

Second, although Charles Dickens‘s Bleak House was not discussed in this study,

Dickens‘s text offers some interesting connections to Gaskell‘s Ruth when considering

Dickens‘s Lady Deadlock as a sacrificial victim. Lady Deadlock and Ruth act as covertly

fallen women, as they both had illegitimate children but have since hidden this aspect of

their identity, albeit in different ways. Furthermore, both women demonstrate a level of

loyalty to the men that have placed them into their fallen states, as Lady Deadlock‘s

desire to see the body of her deceased lover and Ruth‘s nursing of Bellingham suggest.

Lastly, both women become the literal recipient of the community‘s contagion and die as

a result of disease, yet are subsequently mourned by the community in which they lived.

Future criticism on these two narratives could look at the ways in which they mirror one

another and address the complexity of the community‘s bond with Lady Deadlock and

Ruth as scapegoats.

Other studies that could be performed using the theories of René Girard in

connection to Victorian literature involve the bodies of work by Thomas Hardy, George

Eliot, and Wilkie Collins. While this thesis addressed Hardy‘s Tess of the D’Urbervilles

and Jude the Obscure, the possibilities for scholarship are not limited to those two texts.

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Although these are two of Hardy‘s more popular novels, his Two on a Tower (1882) and

The Return of the Native (1878) also prompt a Girardian reading. Similarly, George

Eliot‘s work was not discussed in this project, but her The Mill on the Floss (1860) and

Adam Bede (1859) also address the sacrifice of women and children. Lastly, Wilkie

Collins‘s The Woman in White (1860) addresses the use of psychiatric institutionalization

as sacrifice—as was the case in Braddon‘s Lady Audley’s Secret. Collins uses the

Girardian themes of the ―monstrous double‖ and loss of differentiations through his motif

of identity confusion. A look at Hardy‘s, Eliot‘s, and Collins‘s works in relation to

Girard‘s theories could produce substantial literary scholarship.

While the scope of this study focuses on gender as the primary site of literary

analysis as well as the rationale for the choice of sacrificial victim, other studies could

look beyond gender to find similar patterns in victims, possibly children as in Adam Bede

or others on the social periphery. Work on Victorian literature could also use other texts

containing Girard‘s theories and expand on specific elements of his argument. For

example, a detailed analysis of mimetic desire in Wuthering Heights using Girard‘s

Deceit, Desire and the Novel (1961) could be used to explore the relationship between

Heathcliff and Hindley, or Hareton and Heathcliff. Girard‘s themes offer several new

areas for textual analysis and as his theories become more commonly read, this may be

place where new and innovative work could published on these popular Victorian texts.

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