Chapter XI- The Labyrinth

At the end of “The Invisible Flaneur,” Elizabeth Wilson describes the heroic act by which the flaneur and flaneuse survive the “disorienting space” space of the city through an act of creating meaning.  Dorian Gray attempts this early in the story in his relationship with Sybil Vane, but their engagement to her proves fatal to both Sybil and to any heroism in Dorian; their relationship becomes fatal the moment he actually gets to know her.  Sybil, the person whom Dorian imagines he understands better than anyone else, is far from the person that Dorian imagined her to be.  In revealing her personhood, she becomes a stranger, destroying the meaning that Dorian built up around her.  This causes Dorian to lose faith in his ability to find meaning in the city.  Beginning from this point, the story of Dorian Gray is one of self-destruction.

With the loss of Sybil Vane, Dorian must find different ways to cope with the city.  He falls into the trappings of the flaneur that Wilson describes.  She says that in the labyrinth-like obscurity of the city, the flaneur’s life loses meaning:

Life ceases to form itself into epic or narrative, becoming instead a short story, dreamlike, insubstantial or ambiguous [ . . . ] Meaning is obscure; committed emotion cedes to irony and detachment; Georg Simmel’s ‘blasé attitude’ is born.  The fragmentary and incomplete nature of urban experience generates its melancholy—we experience a sense of nostalgia, of loss for lives we have never known, of experiences we can only guess at (Wilson 107-08).

Dorian’s detachment from life as narrative is strongly emphasized through the book the Henry Wotton sends to him after the death of Sybil vane.  The book itself is very much like the dreamlike existence of the flaneur.  The book is “a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own” (Wilde 106-07).  The focus on a Parisian obviously compares Dorian to the French flaneur, but more telling is the plotness nature of the novel.  Years pass in Chapter XI, which focuses on Dorian’s symbolic obsession with (descent into?) the book.  When we find him again in Chapter XII, Dorian is suddenly thirty-eight years old, but still looks as though he is in his early twenties.  His life has become one with Lord Henry’s book; time passes in the world, but no time passes for Dorian.  He is stuck in a single moment in time and the plot ceases to move forward.  The focus of Lord Henry’s book is also indicative of Wilson’s focus on nostalgia and experience.  Wilson’s flaneur is incapable of accessing the narratives of life; in the case of the Parisian in Wotton’s book, this leads to a life removed from his own life.  Such is Dorian’s fate; he seeks out new sensations and passions, but once he has “caught their colour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, [he would] leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament” (112).  This sensational wandering leads him to indulge in Catholicism, the study of perfumes, the study of jewels, clothing, and more.  However, he has no real attachment to any of these things, and even the deeply spiritual is reduced to aesthetics.  Dorian becomes lost in the labyrinth of the city and, it seems, hardly bothers with finding his way out.

            The effect of this eleventh chapter is profound.  It is a chapter that draws us into Wotton’s book and, living up to the reputation of the book, it is a chapter in which nothing happens.  The experience of reading chapter XI is incredibly blasé.  I found myself as bored with life as Dorian Gray himself.  In fact, even though Dorian becomes far from heroic in his surrender to the labyrinth, Wilde’s writing in this chapter makes me feel a certain degree of sympathy for Dorian.  After inching my way through seventeen pages that stretch across what seems like a decade, I can say with certainty that Dorian’s fate is far worse than Sybil’s.  Leave it to Wilde to make an artwork of even the blasé experience.

In the “Invisible Flaneur”, Wilson picks up the theme that has followed us throughout the quarter, starting with Simmel.  Where Simmel discusses the self-isolation that city folks use to preserve their sense of self in the overwhelming anonymity of the city, Wilson shows us the complementary argument.  The flaneur’s gaze and his intense involvement in urban space seem to have self-destructive results.  Wilson claims that the flaneur is annihilated by anonymity which destabilizes him and leads to transgressive desires (perhaps as a way of asserting one’s will or individuality?).  Wilson assures us, however, that this is not the inevitable end of the flaneur: the heroism of living in the city “lies in the ability to discern among the massed ranks of anonymity the outline of forms of beauty and individuality appropriate to urban life.  The act of creating meaning, seemingly so arbitrary, become heroic in itself” (110).  I am not entirely reassured.  I have trouble finding meaning in the final passages of Wilson’s essay.  I can’t tell what is meant by “creating meaning” or “the outline of forms of beauty.”  Beauty seems clear enough, but these are only forms of beauty, and only outlines of those forms.  Discerning these outlines hardly seems to provide any reliable understanding of anything.  It seems possible that in an urban environment, these outlines of forms become empty vessels to be filled up with meaning.  Like Simmel’s city-dweller, the flaneur seems to shut out others in order to keep himself from annihilation.  This creation of meaning then might merely be a projection of personal desires into a person who is hardly perceived as a person at all.  This is perhaps not sexual objectification—it is perhaps not the same as turning someone to stone, but I still find it somewhat creepy.

If I have read Wilson correctly, then there is something to be said about a couple of the Symons poems as well.  In “To a Dancer”, the narrator describes a woman (a flaneuse?) dancing for an audience.  He says that “The eyes of all that see / Draw to her glances, stealing fire / From her desire that leaps to my desire; / Her eyes that gleam for me!” (ll. 4-7).  Although he is only an anonymous member of the crowd, he protects himself from anonymity by imagining that she is performing solely for him.  If all of the other “eyes” are doing the same, then every individual makes himself an individual in the audience by making a public show into a private one.  All are projecting their desires into a single woaen, creating a shared cultural delusion.  –Sounds like what has become a typical Hollywood icon.

Perhaps the more disturbing example is in the following poem, “Renee.”  The first four stanzas focus largely on her beauty, which is in line with the sexual objectification that Wilson discusses.  But this is no such reduction of meaning: The narrator says that Renee approaches him: “Renee, who waits for another, for whom I wait. / To linger a moment with me” (ll. 19-20).  The final assertion that Renee is thinking about him at all suggests a creation of meaning.  It seems much more likely that Renee is walking by.  I think if Renee is lingering at all, it is only as a consequence of waiting for someone else.  The lingering one, the narrator seems to project this lingering into Renee as though he were the one being pursued.

Fault and misfortune—agency and chance—keep creeping up in Bleak House.  Esther’s story starts with this theme; she is considered a disgrace by her aunt at no fault of her own.  After her aunt’s death, when Rachael emotionlessly sends Esther away, Esther says, “I felt so miserable and self-reproachful, that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!”  Rachael responds, “’No, Esther! . . . It is your misfortune!’” (35-36).  With this theme in mind, and at risk of abusing my topic from last week, I can’t help but return to Jo during his final days.

I have said already that it is Jo’s sympathy (and the sympathy of the poor for the poor in general) that causes his downfall.  After my reading for this week, I might add that his sympathy causes him to avoid assistance from others.  He does not wish to be at fault for the injury of any other that might occur as a result of their sympathy for him—he does not wish to share his misfortune. In chapter 46, Allan Woodcourt finds Joe passing through Tom-all-Alone’s after his sudden disappearance.  The narrator says that Jo “is so intent on getting along unseen, that even the apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back” (713).  Of course, Joe’s isolation is, as he claims, partly due to his fear of Detective Bucket.  Still, in his dying condition, his unwillingness to appeal to Woodcourt for help, reveals an independence perhaps born from a fear of being a burden.  Jo’s incredible misfortune is only his fault to the extent that it may have been caused by his generosity in trying to help others—the last of his agency is used up in resisting the help of others in order to avoid being a burden.

Jo’s shock at finding that Esther has fallen ill after trying to help him further reveals his self-isolation.  After being accused of ungratefulness, Jo “excitedly declares, addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he’d sooner have had his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos wery good to him, she wos” (717).  Even though Jo was taken by force from Esther’s care, he seems to assert his resistance to fault—he does not resist his own misfortune of which he is already certain at this point in the story.  He prefers self-destruction to his being at fault for Esther’s harm.  It seems he can exercise control in his life and remain blameless only through his removal from the world.

As Woodcourt talks to Jo about prayer, one of his final reflections questions whether anyone can truly be in control of their fate.  He says that he has seen “genlmen” who come to pray in Tom-all-Alone’s, but he professes that he knows nothing about prayer.  He says they “all mostly sounded to be a talking to theirselves, or a passing blame on the t’others, and not a talkin to us” (733).  His understanding of prayer as talking to oneself draws a clear distinction between the hopes of the relatively well-off and the hopelessness of the poor.  Jo can imagine no power that might come to his rescue at his request.  He simply understands the life that has happened to him, and tries to act well in that life.  Those who can pray and imagine that their prayer will have some effect must be those who have, at least on occasion, had a prayer answered.  They have not been kicked in the teeth quite so much that they imagine their agency to be so limited as Jo understands his own.

Their remove from Jo’s naturalistic perspective is forcefully asserted by Dickens in the following chapter—Tulkinghorn, who seems to know all, cannot prepare for his death.  Only pages prior to being shot, Tulkinghorn seems supremely in control of his own fate as well as the fate of others.  He is killed at home, in the place where he most certainly feels safest.  But, all seems as usual to him as he heads home.  Dickens takes pains to show (and show again) that there is no sign that might warn Tulkinghorn: “Don’t go home!”

                Throughout Bleak House, a story very much concerned with lords and ladies and heirs, I could not help being struck by the children in the story who are so often neglected by everyone until they can be of some use.  I am reminded of Gavroche in Les Miserables, a book almost contemporary with Bleak House.  Gavroche is a larger-than-life character with far more agency than Jo.  He lives almost entirely on street smarts, yet he has practically raised himself, having been put out by his parents, the Thenardiers.  In the story, Gavroche, having found out that his father was trapped during a jailbreak and faces imminent recapture, immediately runs to the rescue of his father and, after successfully saving him, is entirely ignored.  After impatiently waiting for some recognition, he runs off claiming that he has to look after his children.  These children, however, have no relationship to Gavroche.  In fact, he meets them only the day before.  This subtle condemnation of those responsible for the poor reappears in Mary Barton and in Bleak House.  Throughout all three stories, assistance from the poor often comes from other poor people due to the suffering they share.  The consequences often include the suffering of children like the Wilson twins in Mary Barton whose parents are unable to help them while the factory owners, the patriarchs of Manchester, are unwilling to help at all.

                This tendency is intensified in Bleak House as children are not only neglected, but like Gavroche, they are also placed in parent-like conditions.  The children who can hardly support themselves sacrifice their scant resources to support others.  In chapter 15, Esther and Mr. Jarndyce meet Charley, a young orphan girl who takes care of her two siblings after the death of their parents.  While she has some assistance in that she does not need to pay rent, it is still her responsibility to feed the younger children.  Esther tells us that “the little orphan girl had spoken of their father, and their mother, as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work, and by her bustling busy way” (247).  The little girl is empowered to some extent by her ability to work.  She becomes a mother figure, unable to indulge even in grief because of the necessity of being a provider.  This sets her in opposition to some of the childlike characters in the book like Richard, who squanders all of his money, and especially Skimpole, who leeches off of others and dodges his debts.  Still, Charley’s relative helplessness, despite her complete eagerness to work and provide, is highlighted by the fact that she is allowed to keep their home without paying rent and benefits from Esther taking her as a maid.

                Jo is perhaps an even more heroic character.  He is also empowered to some extent.  He seems usually able to make enough to support himself by sweeping; also, despite his persistent claim that he “don’t know nothink”, Jo seems always to have a scrap of information to sell.  He is always in the know about the things that the primary characters of the book need to know, and this is a marketable commodity.  Like Charley, he is able to provide and produce, but unlike her, he has no one who relies on him.  However, even Jo is willing to provide for others who have no relation to him.  When Snagsby and Detective Bucket are searching or Joe in an attempt to discover the identity of the woman whom Jo led to the cemetery, they find that he has been on an errand to get medicine for Liz, a poor woman who has fallen ill (362).  As he only recently received a gold coin for leading Lady Dedlock to the cemetery, it is probable that he spent this money on the sick woman.  While Mary Barton places all of the working class in the charge of their neglectful capitalist parents, Bleak House inverts this relationship.  Instead, the poorest of the poor are put in parenting rules, but these responsibilities seem futile.  While children like Charley and Jo are able to provide, it always seems that sympathy holds them back.  Because they cannot ignore the plight of others, they remain stuck in the same plight themselves.

            In the battle of “all against all” described by Engels in “Competition”, there seems to be little hope for the proletariat to escape the misery or, at best, subsistence afforded to them by the bourgeoisie.  The basic human drive of hunger seem enough to coerce any man to turn against his fellow men.  It was due to this expectation that John Barton impressed me so much in this week's reading.  His willingness to suffer and starve in order to provide for others is extraordinary; certainly, there is no other character in Mary Barton who gives so much.  However, I can't help but wonder at the motivation of John Bartnn.  Is his self-sacrifice the result of his incorruptibility or the result of his unwillingness to be corrupted?  Is he immune to the forces of the industrial revolution or is does he simply resist being controlled out of spite?  It is a subtle distinction and, to be honest, I don't think more or less of his character in either case, but the answer could hold significant implications for Gaskell's view of the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.

            Barton, perhaps more astute than most workers, is not merely powerless against the bourgeoisie; he is also eerily aware of these powers.  This is perhaps why he seems to suffer more than others.  While others are content to take what they need when they need it, Barton is skeptical of receiving charity.  When she sees her father's suffering, Mary asks why he doesn't seek the help that, as an able-bodied man, he is certain to get from his union.  His response is perhaps overly idealistic: “I don't want money, child! D—n their charity and their money!  I want work, and it is my right.  I want work” (112).  Barton refuses money in a society where nothing at all can be had without money.  While he understands the need to work for the factory owners in order to survive, his assertion that he has a right work might as well be an Edenic fantasy—he yearns for a world in which he can gather fresh water from the same source that waters the crops he has nurtured for his food.  However, hew has no power to return to such a world.  He understands that men starve who, like himself, are fully willing to work.  It is only natural, then, that he should be aware of the consequences of taking charity without work.

            His refusal of the support in his unemployment stems from his knowledge that the unions and the town have a limited amount of money to give.  Were Mary younger and unable to work, he might be willing to accept charity for her sake, but he is unable to do so for his own.  Even though the Trades Union would have given him money, he instead says, “Give it to Tom Darbyshire [ . . . ] He's more claim on it than me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children” (113).  knowing that every thing he might take could be given to another, he cannot indulge in this charity without setting himself in opposition to other members of the proletariat.  He yields to opium addiction and even murder to avoid playing a part in the forces of competition explained by Friedrich Engels.  However, his apparent loss of humanity and starvation do not truly release him from the forces of the bourgeoisie.  By coming to the rescue of others, he leaves himself powerless to save himself.

            Therefore, I wonder whether the climactic murderous act of John Barton's story is not an act of spite.  By shooting Harry Carson, John Barton exerts control over the bourgeoisie that have since exerted control over his own life.  Without this crime, Barton is only reluctantly subject to their control but not free of it.  Such is the role of John Barton's decay in Mary Barton.  Barton uses his character to illustrate how the proletariat are driven to crime in order to maintain any semblance of control over their own lives.  In short, Barton is driven to inhumane means in order to preserve his own humanity and avoid becoming an easily replaceable cog in the capitalist machine.

            The loneliness of Eliot's weaver, Silas Marner, is attributed less to the rise of capitalism and more to personal relationships.  The story begins with Silas’ loss of his membership in his original community of Lantern Yard.  As a result of this expulsion, he becomes like an animal until Eppie becomes a part of his life.  His hoarding of gold only comes as a side-effect of his lack of a loved one on whom he might spend his earnings.  He enslaves himself to his loom even without any oppressive capitalist exploitation.  Even though the industrial revolution doesn't feature prominently in the book, Silas Marner still has a lot to say about the industrial revolution, considering that readers in Eliot's time would have understood the effects of industrial revolution that are only hinted at in the book.

            The simplicity of the people of Raveloe illustrates their potential vulnerability to the apparently progressive forces of the industrial revolution.  The class structure of Raveloe echoes Engels' introduction in The Condition of the Working Class in England, in which he asserts that pre-industrial people “were, in their unquestioning humility, exceedingly well-disposed towards the 'superior' classes.  But intellectually they were dead” (Engels 17).  Engels goes on to explain that such people are entirely absorbed in “their petty, private interest”, making them unable to consider the forces at work beyond their small town.  Of course, Eliot is not so bleak about this condition.  In fact, the force of Eppie in saving Silas from his self-enslavement to his loom suggests that these people are able to remain in a satisfied state only through their communal relationships.  Early in the story, having been exiled from his original community, Silas is depicted as a machine or an animal: “He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without reflection.  Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself” (Eliot 11).  For Eliot, the “unquestioning humility” described by Engels is not so negative so long as a person has a reason for living outside of him or herself.  Still, the two agree on the vulnerability of the common people to alienation.  The alienation of labor that Engels understands through an economic perspective is understood by Eliot to be a process that a laborer can undergo without any external influence.  In fact, it is because Silas has no external influence on his life that he becomes spider-like in his work.  Still, however romantic Silas' salvation from this unthinking state may seem, Eppie serves as only an incredibly tenuous thread that holds him from falling back into isolation.  Without her, Silas would have no hope of venturing into the world in any way beyond his weaving.

            As such, the alienation of labor is understood in Eliot to be made possible by an alienation from other people.  Of course, this does not undermine Engels' argument.  It is still easy to see how workers can fall prey to the forces of capitalism and devolve to an almost subhuman state.  Still, this tendency is reliant on the tendency for capitalism to remove from laborers the means by which they can have hopes and dreams in the world beyond their individualistic needs.  Engels talks about the intellectual development of the individual in an industrial society; as they are stripped of independence, they are “[forced] to think, and demand a position worthy of men” (17).  However, this is not necessarily a purely positive development.  Georg Simmel has a similar interest in intellectual development in “The Metropolis and Mental Life.”  However, he understands it is a force that further isolates people from one another.  According to Simmel, “All emotional relationships between persons rest on their individuality, whereas intellectual relationships deal with persons as with numbers, that is, as with elements which, in themselves, are indifferent, but which are of interest only insofar as they offer something objectively perceivable” (12).  This trend to avoid personal relationships is the true threat that workers like Silas Marner face in the process of industrialization.  Nowhere in the text is this more apparent than in the final chapter of the book when Silas returns to his hometown.  The town has been replaced by factories and no personal relationship can be established between the townspeople and Silas and Eppie.  Indeed, the people of the manufacturing town are all nameless and faceless men and women.  The most developed character in the town is hardly a character at all.  He has no dialogue and is only identified as a “brush-maker”, stripped of any identity beyond his occupation (148).  Of course, within Silas Marner, the characters are protected from this depersonalizing force by the distance of Raveloe from industrial centers.  The story can still end with a wedding, and Dolly can still insist on speaking to Mr Macey on their way to the wedding for fear of hurting his feelings (150).  Such interpersonal relationships place community on a pedestal to which people can aspire.  Still, the contrast between Lantern Yard and Raveloe at the end of the novel reflects a deep concern for what has been lost to the 'progress' of industrial revolution and the hopelessness of regaining it in a highly mobile, intellectual, and money-centered society.