Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century (71 page)

Read Angels and Absences: Child Deaths in the Nineteenth Century Online

Authors: Laurence Lerner

Tags: #History, #Modern, #19th Century, #Social Science, #Death & Dying, #test

 
Page 197
patriarchal, or white literary criticism are so varied, and so full of contradictions, that it is almost impossible to set up an alternative set of criteria for proletarian, feminist, or black literature. Tompkins's rejection of stylistic intricacy, psychological subtlety, and epistemological complexity could easily be seen as a conservative strategy, offering to readers a directness of experience that will reinforce their stereotypes and discourage any questioning of the established world view. Indeed, the death of Little Eva is a very questionable example of enacting a philosophy of reform and a radical cultural intervention: to radical movements, dying is a form of defeat; only to an otherworldly ideology can it be seen as victory.
47
Next, it is necessary to question the version of cultural history put forward by the critics we are discussing. Does sentimentality belong to the female sphere? Behind Hemans lies Wordsworth, behind Stowe lies Dickens. Hemans was a passionate disciple of Wordsworth ("During the last four years of her life she never, except when prevented by illness, passed a single day without reading something of Wordsworth's"
48
and Wordsworth's claim to be considered a poet of the affections was universally admitted. Ross's attempt to place Hemans in a specifically female tradition therefore involves an ingenious attempt to "contradict" the view of her as a female Wordsworth, but most of what she sees as a contrast looks, to the unprejudiced eye, like similarity.
49
Tompkins's book, dealing only with the Americann experience, ignores the history of sentimentality and the enormous importance of Dickens in Victorian culture and does not, therefore, confront the question of the male sentimentalist at all. Virtually all the testimonies to the emotional impact of Nell and Paul quoted earlier in this chapter came from men, and in the case of Mrs. Greene's uncle the sentimental response seems to belong more to the man than to the woman. Within the novels there is very little to identify the pathos as predominantly feminine. "Anyone familiar with Victorian life," writes Philip Collins, "can remember many anecdotes of the manly tear being shed'';
50
and indeed the changing meanings of "manly" show the changing fortunes of sentimentality. Nowadays its usual opposite is
womanly
or
effeminate
, and one of its main characteristics is emotional control; but early Victorian manliness was contrasted quite as much with childishness or beastliness, and even when contrasted with effeminacy did not necessarily exclude weeping, so that "manly tear" was not then the oxymoron it has since become. It is not even clear that
Uncle Tom's Cabin
itself should be placed all that firmly in a feminine tradition. Not only is Tom a man, but the main example
 
Page 198
of resistance to sentimentality is Eva's mother Marie. Furthermore, she uses explicitly feminine attitudes and clichés to justify her indifference, telling St. Clare that he speaks like a man and does not understand a mother's feelingsin every way exploiting her identity as part of a misunderstood woman's world.
Of course there is a reply, but as usual it raises a problem as serious as the one it resolves. That is to distinguish the female from the feminine and to claim that feminization is not gender specific. Thus Elizabeth Ammons claims that "Eva's father is admirable in direct proportion to the extent of his womanishness (his inclination to follow the dictates of his heart rather than his head)" and that Marie, on the contrary, exhibits a kind of masculine selfishness.
51
I have already quoted, as an extreme example of this position, Ammons's claim that Tom is the ultimate heroine of the novel.
The issue raised here is central to feminist criticism and has tended to divide the movement. Is feminism to identify itself in contradistinction to men or to patriarchy? Is it to tell the story of womenall womenor the story of radical challenges to masculine values? In the first case, it will concentrate on what women actually said and did, collecting its material by using the purely mechanical criterion of the sex of the writer; in the second, it will look for subversions of the dominant ideology, whomever they come from, and will be comparatively uninterested in the writings of conservative women. Charlotte M. Yonge and Queen Victoria are important figures for the first, John Stuart Mill and Henrik Ibsen for the second.
Both these tendencies are of great value, and neither can simply be rejected. But we can say that the dichotomy should not be used for the purposes of slippery argument, gliding from one to the other when the going gets awkward; also that the first can never be completely eliminated, for if "femininity" is as common among men as among women then the term itself has become misleading, and we can fall back on perfectly adequate vocabulary such as the contrast between reason and feeling, toughness and sensitivity. To call Tom the heroine of
Uncle Tom's Cabin
is a striking paradox, but we need to preserve our awareness that it is a paradox. Sentimentality cannot be equated with femininity unless there really is some correlation with gender.
 
Page 199
An Experiment in Criticism
So is evaluation possible, desirable, inevitableor even impossible but desirable? The question is about evaluation of literary quality, distinct from the value of the doctrinal or political position of a work. Though literary judgments may be governed more than we used to admit by ideological considerations, I refuse, for the reasons given, to translate them into a mere screen or rationalization for ideology.
I begin by observing that evaluation is inescapable for practical purposes. The British Library and the Library of Congress contain hundreds of times as many novels as any person can read in a lifetime; publishers receive more manuscripts than they can possibly publish, and they publish more than one reader can possibly keep up with. Anthologists, teachers and common readers have to select the poems they will look at (or require others to look at). An evening at the theater can only be spent seeing one play. Choices must always be made, and so a filter is necessary. The game we play of which books to take to our desert island, or the grim reality of the political prisoner grateful to lay his hands on even a single volume, are ways of releasing ourselves from this need, but at the price of no longer belonging to society. For the most part, choosing the most worthwhile is an essentiall task. But to show that it is pragmatically necessary proves only that it iss pragmatically possible, not that the choice can be principled and objective.
It is of course possible to study the past without passing value judgments: that is what historians do. The historian of Victorian religion or cabinet government may or may not feel emotionally involved with his subject, and historians differ on whether this is inevitable, optional, or undesirable. But insofar as he is detached from his subject, the historian's experience is quite different from that of the Victorian evangelical trembling in fear of hell or the politician scheming for office. Should the historian of literature be equally detached, making no choice between those who loved Wordsworth and those who preferred Hemans? Sould he rigorously exclude his own concern for and love of poetry? If we set out to explore (either as detached historians or as ideological unmaskers) what lay behind the preferences of past readers, we are removing ourselves from their concern with poetry: we are no longer studying literature, but what people have thought about literature. Literature matters to its readers, or they would not read it; but to the detatched observer it no longer matters. There is no doubt a place for both kinds of critic, but the deconstruction of
 
Page 200
why poetry matters to its readers requires the existence of readers; if poetry ceases to matter to anyone, there will no longer be an object of study.
52
To discover whether evaluation is necessary not just for practical purposes but in order to perceive fully what a text is like, I propose to conduct a small experiment. For this, I must ask the reader to turn back to the discussion of Lydia Sigourney's poem in chapter 2: for convenience, I here give the text again:
The Mother's Sacrifice
"What shall I render Thee, Father Supreme,
For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?"
Said the young mother, as she fondly watched
Her sleeping babe. There was an answering voice
That night in dreams:
"Thou hast a tender flower
Upon thy breastfed with the dews of love:
Send me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven."
But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,
Breathless and terror-stricken, that the lip
Blanched in its trance.
"Thou hast a little harp,
How sweetly would it swell the angels hymn!
Yield me that harp."
There rose a shuddering sob,
As if the bosom by some hidden sword
Was cleft in twain.

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