An Absurd Existence: Freedom and Guilt in The Fall and The Trial

It can be said that one of the trademarks of twentieth century philosophy and literature is the abandonment of the strict ethical forms of previous centuries. Human nature has come to be seen as more broad in definition than simply good or evil, right or wrong, and true or false. A more vivid and accurate account of mortality lies in the spectrum between these extremes, and is indeed a combination of them. While such a fluid moral stance can be seen in older works— Flaubert’s Madame Bovary is an immediate example—it was not until this century that the idea of ambiguous morality became widespread. Indeed, such events as the first World War, which did not have a distinct moral centre as atrocities were exhibited by both sides, forced intellectuals to re-evaluate man’s moral stance in such a world. The primary concern was how humanity was to exist in an absurd universe. Previously in the nineteenth century, Nietzsche had proposed that man became alienated by attempting to conform to the polar morality of good or evil. His philosophy in particular was of great influence to both Albert Camus and Franz Kafka. Pressed into an absurd world the main characters of The Fall and The Trial, Clamence and Joseph K. respectively, attempt to orient their moral compasses, and consequently determine the purpose of their existence. Their feeling of estrangement is closely tied with feelings of guilt, the sense that the hardships that each of the characters endures is in a manner deserved. In both cases this guilty conscience is reflected in and created by the protagonists. Clamence faces his own culpability when he remains inanimate as a young woman kills herself and he is compelled to question the integrity he once cherished. He concludes with the belief that no such concept as innocence should be applied to the human condition; every man in inherently guilty. Similarly, through his rejection of the judiciary processes in which he is engrossed, Joseph K. is the architect of his own guilt and consequent judgement in view of the presiding authority. In this sense, both Clamence and Joseph K. can be seen to have authored their own degeneration. A second facet relates the two characters, summed up by a quote from The Fall: “the keenest of human torments is to be judged without a law” (Camus, 117). Neither character has a reference point with which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, and thus each is left, alone and alienated, to question his own existence in a world of absurdities.

An absurd world is indeed to be found in The Fall. Yet in the novel, ‘the absurd’ does not signify an implausible or even an illogical setting for the characters. Another meaning of the word is intended: the world in which Clamence exists is entirely real and understandable, yet it is fallacious. Initially, ‘the absurd’ applies to Clamence himself, as the reader is to question the authenticity of his character. Over the course of his monologue, the reader begins to understand Clamence’s moral ambiguity. He initially states that he was considered a good man, a respected lawyer, who earned praise for his compassionate deeds. By the end of the text, however, the reader has learned the subconscious purpose of his benevolence. It is merely a public display, an act to appease his vanity and endear him to the masses. Indeed, he admits himself to be an actor: his is “a double face, a charming Janus...Don’t rely on it” and “After playing my part, I would take the bow” (Camus, 47). Though he would gladly aid a blind man to cross a busy street—indeed, he yearned for the opportunity to display his altruism—he could not aid a person who in fact needed to be rescued. When he does not attempt to save the woman who threw herself from the Pont Royal, an incident which did not allow him to demonstrate his nobility to an audience, Clamence proves the duplicity inherent in his nature. All of his moral self-satisfaction is shattered by this event. Yet, while he could not jump into the river to save the woman, the excuse he provides for not doing so is natural and even universal:

I was trembling, I believe from cold and shock. I told myself that I
had to be quick and I felt an irresistible weakness steal over me. I have
forgotten what I thought then. “Too late too far...” or something
of the sort. (Camus, 70).

This incident of cowardice periodically haunts Clamence in the guise of disembodied laughter; the world is now mocking his supposed innocence. He changes from living in a state of judging others, of being a lawyer, to repenting the guilt he feels for the artifice of his character and becoming the penitent. Stifled by the guilt that weighed down on his conscience, he wanted to remove the mask that he had been wearing, to “reveal to all eyes what he was made of...[and] break open the handsome wax-figure I presented everywhere” (Camus, 94). This feeling of liability had alienated him from others, and to alleviate his estrangement he attempted to implicate and deride himself: “I wanted to put the laughers on my side, or at least to put myself on their side” (Camus, 91). Unsuccessful, he reverted to his past ways of consuming women and alcohol, although this time he recognized his faults. Indeed, he soon came to the conclusion that he had found a way out of this circle of moral duplicity: acceptance of falsehoods.

It is at this point that Camus implicitly explains the meaning of the novel’s title. Clamence becomes the confessor not to absolve his past sins, but instead in order to repeat them:

I permit myself everything again, and without the laughter this time.
I haven’t changed my way of life; I continue to love myself and make
use of others. Only, the confession of my crimes allows me to begin
again lighter in heart and to taste a double enjoyment, first of my
nature and secondly of a charming repentance. (Camus, 141-2)

As he judges himself, thus he is able to judge others and to call himself a “judge-penitent”. Thus, he remains true to his nature at night, a deceptive man who requires supremacy over others, and in his mind ‘preside’ over the patrons at the Mexico City. Indeed, it is only in these immoral experiences that he finds truth: “No man is a hypocrite in his pleasures” (Camus, 66). It is in fact through the act of confession that Clamence tries to implicate others in his own guilt and thus vindicate his own character. Thus, after his debaucheries, the fall from which the novel takes its name occurs. The fall is in effect a vindication of a guilty conscience. Clamence does so by stating that no one is in fact innocent; every person, even Christ, feels guilt. This guilt does not derive from original sin—the Fall is not the Fall from Eden—but instead has its origins in freedom. Freedom allows no innocent actions, as Clamence learned when he allowed the young woman to die—“on the bridges of Paris I, too, learned that I was afraid of freedom” (Camus, 136)—and is thus just as guilty as a murderer: “I haven’t killed anyone? Not yet, to be sure! But have I not let deserving creatures die? Maybe. And maybe I am ready to do so again” (Camus, 95). Freedom condemns the free because it allows them to be judged; Clamence can be proclaimed guilty. The only way to avoid judgement, Clamence quickly learns, is to incriminate everyone else. Man becomes the Last Judgement for himself as “every man testifies to the crime of all others” (Camus, 110).

Religion recognized the dangers of freedom: “since they don’t want freedom or its judgements, they ask to be rapped on the knuckles, they invent dreadful rules, they rush out to build piles of faggots to replace churches” (Camus, 135). Conversely, while Clamence does not have a belief in a god or higher authority, he does in fact desire one to control him. He has no reference point to which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, no higher authority telling him how to act, and therefore in his mind his reaction on the Pont Royal seems justified. Thus Clamence praises the bonds of slavery, and indeed the circular nature of his debauchery-and-repentance lifestyle has placed him in chains. At the same time, by implicating all of humanity along with himself Clamence relieves the alienation he had felt when he believed himself to be guilty as others were innocent. He feared death, which is “solitary, whereas slavery is collective. The others get their too, and at the same time as we—that’s what counts” (Camus, 136). Confession is a dialogue, an act of inclusion, and by engaging in it Clamence feels part of a whole. Yet, he places his experiences above himself; they become representative of the whole of humanity. Again deception is apparent, as Clamence states that he adjusts his story to represent the listener as well as himself:

I choose the features we have in common, the experiences we have
endured together, the failings we share...[to] construct a portrait which
is the image of all and of no one...the portrait I hold out to my
contemporaries becomes a mirror. (Camus, 139-40)

The irony of this statement may not be lost on him however; he may not view himself in fact with such high esteem. Even though he frequently proclaims his life as judge-penitent to be superior to the false masks worn by most people in their lives, and that “false judges are held up to the world’s admiration and I alone know the true ones” (Camus, 130), by the end of his confession he states that he is in fact a “false prophet” (Camus, 147). When he says “I feel at last that I am being adored” (Camus, 143), the reader has to question the sincerity of his confession; indeed, as he stated before, he may be “about to dress the corpse” (Camus, 120). This conclusion leaves the reader to contemplate the moral ambiguity and perhaps even hopelessness of the vicious circle of sin-and-absolution in which Clamence finds himself.

Joseph K. finds himself ensnared in a similar cycle. The world that he had created for himself was one of meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established routine. Such an artificial construct ostensibly granted him control over the world outside of his own; K. is terrified of losing control of his environment. Nevertheless, such occurs when the door to his apartment is forced open and he is arrested by the Court. He is promptly condemned as a guilty man, yet no evident laws or authorities govern this conviction. Thus he becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality and he is compelled to endure its labyrinthine operations. Yet, unlike Clamence, Joseph K. never acknowledges his guilt. In the very first line of the text K. proclaims himself innocent: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1). For the remainder of the novel he fights the judgement brought against him. These efforts only prove to escalate his guilty status and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. The first such escalation occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet never having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for tardiness. Subsequently, he attempts to determine the underlying structure and methodology of the Court and to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not adhere to his logically organized world. Thus he cannot function within its framework, and to the end of the text remains impotent to act against it. This is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed, this episode is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill at the offices—”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68)—his physical condition correspondingly worsens as the narrative continues.

In order to escape from the machinations of the Court, K. needed to recognize that he is indeed guilty. Yet, while he proclaims himself innocent, the mere fact that he has been condemned by the Court proves his guilt. Through his mere existence he has condemned himself and is guilty, as are all men. The Court eventually condemns all men who do not acknowledge the guilt inherent in their existence. This fact is confirmed in a conversation between K. and the clergyman:

“I am not guilty,” said K.; “it’s a mistake. And if it comes to that,
how can any man be called guilty? We are all simply men here,
one as much as the other.” “That is true,” said the priest, “but
that’s how all guilty men talk.” (Kafka, 210)

Indeed, as Clamence had stated, every man becomes a judge of all the others and similarly in The Trial there is a Court under every roof in the city. To understand Joseph K.’s predicament, it is necessary to apply the metaphor of the ‘little-ease’ found in The Fall. Like the operations of the Court, the confining walls of the little-ease—an oubliette of sorts—do not allow the prisoner to live comfortably or function properly. Life inside is in direct opposition of life outside: “one had to take on an awkward manner and live on the diagonal; sleep was a collapse, and waking a squatting” (Camus, 109). Similarly, the operations of the Court were contrary to K.’s ideologies and he was unable to function within its context. The analogy becomes even more explicit when Clamence states that the prisoner experiences an “unchanging restriction that stiffened his body” (Camus, 109). K. did indeed experience a stiffening of his body as has been stated, and more significantly he likewise felt his freedom curtailed. The Court repeatedly emphasized that he was free to live his life as he had before his arrest, yet when he deals with the clergyman, who is a representative of the Court, he feels compelled to remain in its presence. The conversation is abbreviated as follows:

K: “I must go.” “Well,” said the priest, “then go.” The priest had
already taken a step or two away from him, but K. cried out in
a loud voice, “Please wait a moment...Don’t you want anything
more from me?” “No,” said the priest...”But you have to leave
now”. “Well, yes,” said K., “you must see that I can’t help it.”
(Kafka, 221)

From this incident, it is possible to infer that K. had in fact recognized the authority of the Court despite his remarks otherwise. Yet, unlike the prisoner mentioned by Clamence, he never “learned that he was guilty and that innocence consists in stretching joyously” (Camus, 109-10). K. adamantly proclaims his innocence even after he had been sentenced and was being executed. His defiance can be explained by the lack of an external reference by which he can calibrate his guilt. The Court officials act apathetically to him and his questions remain unanswered. Similarly, there are no concrete references in the Law itself to measure K’s guilt: the books of the Examining Magistrate prove to be filled not with law codes and precedents but with pornographic pictures. Despite a similar lack of external reference point for guilt, however, Clamence had accepted his guilt; indeed he had revelled in it. Yet, Joseph K. could not do the same. He continued to press his innocence and thus was found ever more guilty. Indeed, like the prisoner in the little-ease, the proceedings for K. did “gradually merge into the verdict” (Kafka, 211).

The issue of a guilty existence permeates the entire texts of both The Fall and The Trial. Indeed, in each of the two novels guilt is a direct consequence of existence. “Man is seen more as continually falling than fallen.” This fall originates in freedom, mainly the freedom to judge and be judged. For both Jean-Baptiste Clamence and Joseph K., a guilty conscience becomes all consuming. Clamence accepts his liability almost passionately, and through his confessions attempts to convert others to his ‘new-found religion’. Conversely, Joseph K. refuses to acknowledge his guilty status even as he accedes to the proceedings of the Court. This renunciation proves to be his downfall. Yet, arguably the reader is in disagreement with the narrators of the two texts. By the end of The Fall, Clamence is seen to be a somewhat repulsive character whose sincerity is never entirely believed. Alternately, Joseph K. is held in high regard; to the modern reader his defiance and perseverance are commendable. Perhaps the universal guilt espoused in each of the texts remains unacceptable and even odious to the modern conscience; both Clamence and the Court would proclaim the reader guilty.

Bibliography

Camus, Albert. The Fall. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International, 1991.

Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.


Supplementary:

Amoia, Alba. Albert Camus. New York: Continuum Publishing Company, 1989.

Cruikshank, John. Albert Camus and the Literature of Revolt. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1966.

McBride, Joseph. Albert Camus: Philosopher and Littérateur. New York: St. Martin, 1992.

Rhein, Phillip A. Albert Camus. Revised edition. Boston, USA: Twayne Publishers, 1989.

The Gracchi and the Roman Elite

By the middle of the second century BCE, Rome had established its dominance over the majority of the Mediterranean, either through direct conquest or treaty. This period was a prosperous one, although not equally so for all roman citizens. Predictably, the majority of wealth and power in the Republic was in the possession of a select group of elites. This senatorial oligarchy controlled virtually all the economic production of the state through their vast landholdings, while simultaneously controlling its political operations. Yet, there were many, even among the elite, who were critical of the situation at Rome. Foremost among these antagonists were the Gracchi brothers. To the ruling oligarchy, the laws proposed by each of the Gracchi were seen as encroaching on or even subverting their powers. During his tribuneship in 133, Tiberius propsed and passed legislation that directly opposed the authority of the Senate. While he was hardly a democrat, Tiberius believed that the Republic could only survive and progress if power were apportioned otherwise than it was at Rome. The Senate obstructed the improvement of the Republic, and thus it had to be circumvented. Ten years later, his younger brother Gaius continued along a similar ideology, although in several respects he surpassed his older brother’s contention to senatorial authority. Yet, he did not wish to obliterate oligarchical rule through democratic revolution; he merely wished to broaden it. Ultimately, the Roman elite maintained its supremacy in the Republic, and the Gracchi and their followers were killed. Indeed, the issuance of the senatus consultum ultimum by the Senate in order to deal with Gaius forcibly demonstrated its authority.

The expansion of the empire created many opportunities for the Roman elite to amass power and wealth. Military conquest itself proved to be highly profitable: plunder from war added greatly to the coffers of the generals and other senators, while hardly being noticed by the soldiers themselves. Those who supplied the armies also benefitted greatly by war. Additionally, the land conquered by Rome within Italy was largely in the hands of the wealthy. Many peasants in Italy sold their plots of land to the rich, either because they were forced or less likely because they wanted the money to climb the social hierarchy themselves. Increasingly prevalent, however, was the appropriation and exploitation of ager publicus—the public land in Italy. While Roman law prohibited ownership of more than 500 iugera of ager publicus, the law was rarely adhered to. While large estates, or latifundia, began to become evermore conspicuous in rural areas, the majority of land held by the elite was to be found in many smaller plantations. Indeed, such monopolization of land was a virtual necessity as the wealth gained by the aristocracy during the wars had to be spent in an honourable trade such as property ownership; senators themselves were barred from trade and thus maintained their prestige through their landholdings. At the same time however, these estates were worked by the large number of slaves captured during Rome’s conquests. Increasingly, therefore, poor citizens, already having been evicted from their land, found themselves lacking employment as well. They found no recourse in the army, however, as minimum property requirements to enter the legions remained in place. Even if they met the requirements many plebeians did not wish to enter into military service as there was little opportunity to gain from the experience. Previously, veteran soldiers received plots of land upon retirement, yet by the mid-Republic, most of the land in which such colonies could be created was in the hands of the elite. Consequently, recruitment declined and the army suffered due to the lack of soldiers. It can be seen that the gap between the rich and the poor was increasing, and indeed, the failure of the latter was a direct consequence of the success of the former. By 133 the condition of the plebians seemed desperate.

It was from this dire economic climate for the plebeians that the Gracchi brothers emerged as tribunes, Tiberius in 133 and Gaius in 123-2. The laws proposed by both Tiberius and Gaius would have indeed ameliorated the situation of the poor and middle-class, and at the same time angered many in the aristocracy. The most potentially damaging to the Senate and to wealthy equites was the lex agraria, proposed by Tiberius in 133. The law was a measure to redistribute ager publicus in order to enfranchise the dispossessed urban poor and rehabilitate them “both as farmers and soldiers”. Landowners who possessed more than 500 iugera of ager publicus were to relinquish the excess land. Yet, while ager publicus was supposed to indeed be public, its possession was assumed “to be perpetual and hereditary”. A great deal of capital had been invested in these lands: households, industries, and lodgings for slaves were built. Obviously, landlords did not therefore wish to lose this land and simultaneously a portion of their wealth. The empowerment of the country poor would have affected the patron-client relationship however. In addition to slaves, many wealthy landlords employed indebted peasants, who were their clients, on their estates. Indeed, it was important that these clients remain indebted to the wealthy, as their vote was important in the tribal assembly. While many of the registered citizens of the country did not vote on a regular basis, the importance of their support for their patrons is evidenced simply in the constitution of the tribal assembly: thirty-one rural and four urban tribes. Thus, while the urban poor may have voted for legislation removing power from the elite, the numerical dominance of the rural tribes would have ensured the dominance of the aristocracy. If they were to acquire land themselves through the lex agraria, they would be freed from dependence on their patrons for survival, and consequently would vote according to the interests of their own socio-economic class.

Yet, while this law would have affected the elite, it was not the content of the law but rather the means by which it was passed with directly threatened senatorial authority. The law itself was not new; C. Laelius, consul in 140, had proposed a similar law to ameliorate recruitment in the legions but withdrew the measure, according to Plutarch, after protests by the “influential”. The means of passing the law were novel however, and greatly agitated the oligarchy. Disregarding legislative traditions, Tiberius circumvented senatorial consultation and advanced the lex agraria before the concilium plebis. This action itself was not entirely revolutionary however, and Tiberius himself viewed it as traditional. Indeed, through the potestas tribuni plebis he had the power to do so, and in a sense he was restoring the office to its traditional function as protector of the plebeians. More significantly however, he most conspicuously threatened the authority of the ruling oligarchy when he eliminated their means of legal recourse against the lex agraria. By unseating M. Octavius, the only tribune who had vetoed his motion, Tiberius explicitly demonstrated his contention with oligarchical rule; many authors stress the ‘democratic’ nature of Tiberius’s argument for the deposition of Octavius. The bill was passed into law and a council (triumviri agris dividendis adsignandis) was established to oversee the details of land distribution and settlement. Thus, the Senate was forced to exhibit its financial power by withholding funds from Tiberius’s council. Yet, when Tiberius appropriated the inheritance of Attalus III of Pergamum to fund the council, the Senate became obstinate. The legacy was bequeathed to the Roman state, and therefore Tiberius interpreted the funds as being under his jurisdiction as tribune. He wished the money to be given to the plebs along with their section of ager publicus in order for them to establish small farms and achieve a degree of economic independence. Additionally, the establishment of the new colony would be administered by the Assembly. Consequently, the Senate viewed Tiberius not only as an obstacle to its authority—he was intervening in its main realms of power—but he was also threatening to become too powerful, perhaps even a tyrant. If he were to supervise the establishment of colonies, he would gain numerous clients. Such a possibility was unthinkable to the Senate, and Tiberius and his followers were killed to maintain command by the ruling elite.

Shortly after obtaining the tribuneship in 123, Gaius proved that he was as equally opposed to oligarchical control of the state as his brother had been. He did not wish power to be maintained solely in the hands of the traditional elite, and consequently he proposed laws which pandered to the equites, the Italian non-citizens, the impoverished citizens, and the provincials. He re-proposed an agrarian law, nearly identical to Tiberius’s earlier measure; he also provided for the poor with the lex frumentaria, a measure to provide cheap grain for the destitute in Rome. Additionally, he proposed a lex de abactis which would have given further sovereignty to the Assembly and curbed the power of the Senate. The sovereignty of the people was also evidenced by the lex de capite civis romani, which held that only courts appointed by the people could inflict capitol punishment, a right which was up to then had been held by the consuls. Moreover, Gaius was passing laws which directly affected the behaviour and authority of the Senate, and thus it became increasingly hostile toward him. One of these laws controlled the assignment of provinces, a device frequently used to reward or punish magistrates. He appealed to the equites by giving them jurisdiction over the publicani, who were their peers, in extortion trials; by this law, governors lost control over taxation in their provinces. This law in particular was of great consequence to senators, as it “fundamentally altered the balance of power between [them] and knights [equites]”. Thereafter, the equites were bound to Gaius and offered him their support; indeed, perhaps Gaius wanted to elevate many of the equestrians to senatorial status in order to establish support therein. Most controversial, however, was the proposal to grant citizenship to all Italians. This measure was held in equal contempt by the Senate and nobility, who feared that Italian franchise would upset the balance of “clientage and electoral corruption”, and by the plebeians, who did not wish to extend the privileges of Roman citizenship to “outsiders”. The oligarchy also feared that the newly-franchised citizens would become clients of Gaius, and therefore support his more revolutionary measures. Consequently, he failed to be re-elected for his third tribuneship, and became once again a private citizen. Similarly to his brother Tiberius, however, throughout his tribuneship Gaius continually threatened to become overly powerful and dominate Rome. Once again the Senate and consuls could not remain inert, and in 121 the consul L. Opimius persuaded the Senate to rule Gaius and his supporters as traitors and issue the senatus consultum ultimum, which authorized their deaths.

Rome by the time of the Gracchi was ruled by a senatorial elite; in many respects the Gracchi were a threat to this hegemony. Yet, it must be noted that neither Tiberius nor Gaius wanted to revolutionize the government of Rome. They merely wanted to diversify and enlarge the oligarchy, allowing equites into the tightly controlled circle of governmental authority. That ruling class greatly feared the brothers, not so much because of the equites but instead because it seemed to them that both Tiberius and Gaius were setting themselves up for one-man rule of Rome, of tyranny in a sense. Indeed, they believed that the Gracchi were in fact doing harm to the state, and thus their countermeasures—notably the senatus consultum ultimum—seemed justified. Each of them pronounced their popular focus however, and thereafter the term populares was applied to politicians who followed the same path. There fates of the Gracchi cast a more ominous shadow on popular measures, as the bloodshed in 133 and 121 had proven the danger inherent in opposing the Senate.


Bibliography

Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 10. Trans. Bernadotte Perrin. London: William Heinemann, 1921.


Bernstein, Alvin H. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus: Tradition and Apostasy. Ithaca, USA: Cornell
University Press, 1978.

Boren, Henry C. The Gracchi. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1968.

Crawford, Michael. The Roman Republic. Sussex, UK: Harvester University Press, 1978.

Marsh, Frank Burr. A History of the Roman World From 146 to 30 B.C. London: Methuen
& Co., 1967.

Masson, Georgina. Ancient Rome from Romulus to Augustus. New York: Viking Press, 1974.

Richardson, Keith. Daggers in the Forum. London: Cassel, 1976.

Shotter, David. The Fall of the Roman Republic. New York: Routledge, 1994.

Smith, R.E. The Failure of the Roman Republic. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1955.

Stockton, David. The Gracchi. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979.

Fear and liability in the Book of Job and The Trial

In comparing the thematic nature of the Book of Job and The Trial, one becomes aware that these two temporally disparate works share a central ideology. The protagonists in each of the two texts were the prime instigators of the crises contained within each narrative; the fear exhibited by each for circumstances that opposed their convictions resulted in the materialization of such occurrences. In this sense it can be seen that both Job and Joseph K. administered their own degeneration. The phrase that provides the most comprehensive synopsis of their respective dilemmas can be found in the Book of Job: “Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me” (Job 3:24-25). In each text, the paranoia inherent in both Job and Joseph K. literally surfaces as a higher authority imposing its condemnatory judgement. Yet what differentiates the two protagonists are their particular responses to the accusations brought against them.

As described in the Book of Job, the extent to which the protagonist recognizes his personal accountability in determining his fate is the crisis to be reconciled in the text. By conceding to his fears, which are centered upon his loss of control, Job actualizes his condemnation. He reasons that the authority that he publically displays over his family and his business affairs might be compromised by the actions of his children, who in his eyes act immorally. Yet such parental consideration is superficial: indeed Job worries about the state of his children not for their moral benefit, but for the maintenance of his own public image as “blameless and upright” (Job 1:1). Such an egotistical aesthetic is Job’s fundamental flaw and is destined to incur punishment from a more powerful source, which in this narrative is God. Thus the sacrifices that he performs in the stead of his children draw the attention of the Lord, who promptly casts judgement down upon him and dispossesses him of the personal and financial aspects of his power. Job becomes ostracized by his society, he becomes “a byword to them... [and] they do not hesitate to spit at the sight of [him]” (Job 30:9-10). Throughout his ordeal he proclaims his innocence vehemently and bemoans his miserable fate, and he questions the justice of God’s punishment: “does he not see my ways, and number all my steps?” (Job 31:4). By continually questioning the Lord’s judgment, Job merely furthers his vanity and thus increases his guilt in the eyes of the divine. Apparently Job has some grasp of his situation, yet he does not fully appreciate the consequences of his actions until the Lord speaks to him personally. Thereafter he realizes the consequences of his vanity and renounces his former ideology:

See, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand
on my mouth. I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but
will proceed no further....therefore I despise myself, and repent in
dust and ashes. (Job 40:4-5, 42:6)

Job realizes that he must not fear the anger of the Lord else such wrath will befall him; he must exist knowing that every action performed by God is executed because it is just. Upon apprehending this truth--”I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42:5)--Job regains a prosperous life.

The Trial contains a much more obscure, and ultimately malicious, embodiment of the culpability of the protagonist. The world that Joseph K. created for himself revolves around meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established structure. Such an artificial construct ostensibly grants him control over the ‘outside’ world in which he lives, being in K.’s mind the realm of chaos. The nature of K.’s fear is akin to that of Job: he too is frightened by the prospect of losing control. As the Lord was attracted to Job, similarly the Court is to Joseph K, who is promptly condemned as a guilty man. However, no evident laws or structures are governing his conviction. Thus K. becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality. He immediately blames another for such an intrusion: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1); analogous to Job he does not place blame upon himself. Thereafter, K. endeavors to prove his innocence and assuage the Court from its decision, yet his efforts continually escalate his guilty status. His efforts prove to actuate and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. One such example occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet not having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives only to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for his tardiness. Subsequently, K. ventures to determine an underlying structure and methodology to the Court in an attempt to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not follow such a constitution--indeed it is the antithesis to K.’s analytic and logical ideology--and thus he cannot function within its framework.

The loss of his ability to function is another detail that greatly agitates Joseph K, a fear that increasingly emerges as reality. Escalating productivity that led to ascendency of the social and economic hierarchy marked his ‘normal’ life. Such was the structure to be found at the bank, an institution that was greatly synchronized to K.’s philosophy. It was ordered and compartmentalized for efficient production and allowed K. the optimal setting in which to function. K. himself states that in such a milieu he would have the mechanisms to deal with the confusion of the Court:

In the Bank for instance, I am always prepared, nothing of that
kind could possibly happen to me there....and above all, my mind
is always on my work and so kept on the alert, it would be an
actual pleasure to me if a situation like that cropped up in the
Bank. (Kafka, 20)

However, as K. pursues a model of order and efficiency in the apparent contradictions of the Court, he is clearly impotent to act against it. He cannot operate within the confines of the Court’s formalities and operation; this is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed his episode at the offices is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill in the offices--”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68), correspondingly his physical condition worsens as the narrative continues. His impotence to act extends beyond the boundaries of the Court however, as he loses his ability to perform his responsibilities at the bank to such a degree that the Assistant Manager must conduct them in his place. While he greatly fears such intrusions into his professional life, especially by someone he considers a rival, he does not attempt to regain control for himself. Unlike Job, Joseph K. never acknowledges his impropriety, he never views himself as the instigator of his afflictions, and thus he never redeems himself in the eyes of the superior power. Truly he views himself blameless and remains insubordinate to the very end, yet remains inanimate and powerless against the Court: “He could not completely rise to the occasion...the responsibility for this last failure of his lay with him who had not left him the remnant of strength necessary for the deed” (Kafka, 228). Taken to its logical extreme, Joseph K. encountered that which he feared the most.

While the outcomes of the Book of Job and The Trial are vastly different, they are in accordance when viewed through the personal accountability of the protagonist. The beliefs, actions and anxieties of Job and Joseph K. precipitated their adversity. Yet each of the two reacted differently to the judgement cast upon them. Job, by sublimating himself to the higher authority, becomes reconciled with his situation and afterwards prospers. Conversely, Joseph K. never accedes to the Court--indeed he actively disregards its procedures, and is thus marked for execution. In such a context, each conviction concurs with the protagonists’ reactions to their judgement.

Bibliography

Book of Job. Holy Bible with the Apocrypha, New Revised Standard Version. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1989. 498-539.

Book of Job. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Gen. ed. Maynard Mack. 6th ed.
Vol. 1. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992. 69-86.

Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.

Apollo/Dionysus and Inspiration - Mann's Death In Venice

While emotional inspiration is often seen as being contrary to intellectual introspection, most art theory suggests a balance of the two to be more desirable than either extreme. Such a view of art, and of the artist, can be found in Mann’s Death in Venice. This dichotomy becomes manifest in two of the recurring themes of the novel: Apollo, the giver of light, depicting intelligence; and Dionysus, the bringer of ecstasy, illustrating the emotional component of humanity. Mann’s philosophy is also reflected in the perception of age in the novel. From the outset, youth is associated with Dionysus and emotion, while old age is correlated with Apollo and reason.

Aschenbach is himself the apotheosis of the intellect as instrument to artistic creation. Continually likened to Apollo, the author in his older years has become a consummate craftsman of his medium. His life has become ritualized in order to provide an undisturbed environment in which he can compose, and indeed, this orderly life has caused him to become static in his writings. His style is described as “traditionalist, conservative, formal, and even formulaic” (p. 10), and interestingly was the culmination of a lifelong ambition. He had always sought the wisdom and craftsmanship of age, and thus to achieve perfection in his art, he began as a young man to “[curb] and [chill] the emotions” (p. 5) and to be constantly working—indeed “he had never known idleness...[nor] the carefree recklessness of youth” (p. 6). Therefore it is no surprise when Aschenbach shows a great deal of contempt towards the dandy, who is the other elderly figure in the novel, on the boat to Venice.. The dandy attempts to rejuvenate himself by living as the young around him, dressing in their style and copying their mannerisms. Yet Aschenbach quickly sees through this façade to the wrinkles, wig, and died hair, and is disgusted. The reason for this abhorrence becomes explicit when he sees the dandy inebriated: the old man has rejected the natural consequence of his years—the astuteness and discretion inherent in Apollo—for the drunken illusions of Dionysian ecstasy. He has lost his balance, both literally and figuratively, and Mann makes an effort to demonstrate this extreme.

The proper balance between the Apollonian and the Dionysian is embodied in Tadzio; indeed, when he is likened to a Greek statue one is to recall classical teachings of beauty. This form first attracts Aschenbach to Tadzio, and he philosophizes about it: beauty is the perfect symmetry of regularity and individuality. Indeed, the youth displays both characteristics: Aschenbach is as equally drawn to the disciplined respect paid by Tadzio to his governess, as he is to the youth’s ‘rebellious’ seclusion in a few instances. It is also reflected in his features: his classically constructed face contrasts perfectly with the careless abandon of his hair. For this reason, Aschenbach is attracted to the boy and not to any of his sisters. The beauty of their youthful forms is subverted by their “uniform conventlike garb” and hair “plastered down close to the head” (p. 21); their youth has been controlled by reason to an unnatural extreme. Yet, the ideal of youth remains important in deciphering Aschenbach’s behaviour. The balance between emotion and intellect is only available in the passionate energy and beauty of a young person. For Plato and equally for Mann, a youthful form is a beautiful one, and beauty inspires the philosopher to imagine the divine. Through the most graceful Tadzio, Aschenbach is inspired to create, and indeed, as the translation notes, he becomes enraptured by enthusiasm. It is at this point that he is compelled to write, or in Mann’s words, manifest the “idea that can be totally transformed into emotion, and the emotion that can be totally transformed into an idea” (p. 37). By assimilating the “boy’s form as a model for his writing” (p. 38), Aschenbach regains the joy he once felt for words. The description of his work is fundamental: the balance between the Apollonian and the Dionysian is readily apparent in prose of “purity, nobility and pulsating emotional tension” (p. 38).

Simultaneously however, Aschenbach’s previously conservative conscience warns him of such emotional excess. He does not in fact demonstrate any such intemperance until he begins to hunt the boy. It is at this stage that he becomes wholly possessed by Dionysian ecstasy. The hunter motif indeed represents Aschenbach’s mindset by the end of the novel: he becomes, in effect, the tiger that haunted his dreams early in the text; simultaneously, it suggests the consummation of flesh which is the culmination of the Dionysian ritual. Indeed, he begins to fall in love with Tadzio as a person and not for the ‘divine balance’ that he represents; his worship becomes readily apparent when Aschenbach follows the boy into a church. He loses the reason he once applied to Tadzio and begins to delude himself, believing that “his friendly feelings and attention were not wholly unreciprocated” (p. 41). By rejecting reason, Aschenbach also demonstrates the hatred that he now feels for his old age, which he had once longed for. In order to appeal to the youth, he paints his face in the same artificial manner as did the dandy that he once abhorred. Other symbols demonstrate that this is in fact as hopeless a cause for Aschenbach as it was for the dandy: the “overripe, soft” (p. 59) strawberries that he eats in Freudian terms represent a man incurably past his sexual prime.

Desiring the ecstasies of youth and emotion, the entire fifth chapter quite literally is a quest by Aschenbach to rekindle the fires of youth that he had in fact never experienced. Ultimately, he is consumed by this pursuit. Speaking through the guise of Plato, Mann questions whether Aschenbach was in fact doomed to such an end, as “poets cannot travel the path of beauty without Eros joining company...and taking the lead” (p. 60). Aschenbach was indeed led by Eros; “form...lead to intoxication and desire” and ultimately, “to the abyss” (p. 60). The abyss for him turned out to be a solitary death transfixed by the sight of his beloved.

Bibliography

Mann, Thomas. Death in Venice. Trans. Stanley Appelbaum. New York: Dover Publications, 1995.


Supplementary:

Hamilton, Edith. Mythology. Boston, USA: Little Brown and Company, 1942.

Mann, Thomas. Death in Venice. Trans. David Luke. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Gen. Ed. Maynard Mack. 6th ed. Vol. 2. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992. 1555-1610.

Women and the Western Frontier

The West offered many economic and social opportunities to those who braved the difficult task of establishing themselves therein. Contrary to popular belief, many of these prospects were available to women as well as men. Indeed, the occupational allowances of the west greatly differentiated frontier women from those in the East. The traditional roles of 19th century domesticated women became blurred on the frontier. This is most markedly seen in the interchange and sharing of labour between men and women in the domestic sphere. Additionally, many single women obtained land in the west, and they subsequently earned some degree of the economic independence allowed by such holdings. While most women worked in traditional jobs related to their household duties, many others were employed in occupations which were limited or closed to them in the east; indeed, many single women traveled west in order to obtain such jobs. Yet, in spite of such possibilities, most women were forced to care for their homes and their families, although such work was frequently accomplished jointly with their husbands. Despite the more liberal trends in the west however, the sex roles of women cannot be seen as fundamentally different from those in the east, even though in some cases the boundaries between the genders may be muted. One historian argues, in fact, that the domestic ideal did in fact shape frontier life for women.

The most important facet of a woman’s life in all parts of the country was her domestic role: principally, she was to care for the family and the household. Indeed, these tasks became vastly important to families initially trying to establish themselves in the west. Upon settlement, many women found their frontier households barren and decrepit. Elevating these ramshackle hovels into ideal households must have been intimidating and perhaps even demoralizing, although conditions did improve as the settlement prospered. In light of these somewhat desperate situations, the ingenuity displayed by women in order to survive and maintain their families is quite remarkable; women themselves acknowledged their accomplishments with pride. There was a great deal of work involved in establishing a new household, and both men and women had to share the workload more or less equally. Indeed, in many instances the traditional divisions of labour were not adhered to as conditions forced men into domestic roles and women into “masculine” functions. Men did perform traditionally feminine tasks, such as washing, cleaning, and sometimes even sewing, although usually only when the women in the family were somehow incapacitated. They also shared in caring for the elderly and infirm, as well as in the establishment of social institutions like schools and churches. Women frequently helped in the fields on farms and ranches, and they also aided in building construction, an enterprise deemed too extreme for women. Indeed, women even actively participated in the most tangibly masculine activity of frontier life—defense of the home. Women were also an integral part of the family income, especially during the first few years of settlement. By selling some of their domestic product—textiles and foodstuffs—women contributed greatly to the household economy, especially in lean times.

Domestic skills were applied to the job market as women brought in extra money as cooks, launderers, tailors, and boarders, all jobs which could be accomplished from the home. These occupations therefore did not greatly interfere with a woman’s primary duty to her family, nor did it conflict with the belief in female domesticity. They were also vitally important to the initial settlers of the west—miners, cowboys, and other males who never learned such skills, or more likely didn’t want to “degrade” themselves by performing feminine tasks. Many single women traveled west during the early period of settlement to hire themselves out for the relatively high wages such in-demand jobs offered. A number of these women were blacks emigrating from the south to escape from social limitations and find opportunities in the west. While economic prospects for blacks were even more favourable than in the north, some social limitations remained. Many working women found employment in other ventures. They could, of course, control the family business if their husbands were incapacitated or killed, and many demonstrated the aptitude and business acumen they acquired while working alongside their mates. Teaching was also a popular occupation, although primarily the domain of single, childless women. Artistic and journalistic professions were also open to women. Yet, for women it was in land acquisition and trade that western economic opportunity differed from that of the east. Women could make land claims just as men could, and many exercised this right. While the majority of these women were young, single, and native-born, a significant portion of older women, especially widows, as well as new immigrants took claims in the west. Although some attempted to homestead on their own, most women who claimed land did so to sell it for profit. Land speculation companies were formed by some women, and a few in fact became quite rich. Women who indeed wanted to manage land successfully did so in conjunction with others, sometimes friends, but usually relatives: “two, three, and even four sisters often claimed adjoining land”. Various factors determined the decisions for and patterns of female homesteaders, and here historians are not in accordance. Garceau argues that some women acquired land next to future husbands, and then married them after proving up in order to increase the couple’s assets. Lindgen refutes this argument, alleging that most women married after arranging their land holdings. He also states that others wanted to provide land for relatives, including their children.

In either case, it is important to note that women themselves felt empowered by their opportunities to homestead. The most important aspects of frontier life for women were the greater amount of liberties they received. Indeed, the idea of female homesteaders became symbolically linked with the new freedoms of the west, and a romantic mythology developed around them. Female writers, in themselves symbols of western liberty, serialized the lives of frontier women and commanded a sizeable readership in the east. They stressed the independence and self-confidence of women that was being actualized on the frontier. While in actuality only a small portion of female homesteaders were in fact independent, these literary claims were not without some degree of truth. Growing up without the strict domesticity found in the East, many young western women found themselves freed from the limitations of solely being a housewife. However, the expanded sphere of work that was available to women in the west was less accessible and desirable to women who emigrated from the east than to their daughters born on the frontier. These young women felt more inclined to leave the domestic sphere, and as stated above, many did so to work and support the family. Additionally, the more liberal western universities allowed women to receive an education, and thus potentially make them eligible for careers in medicine, law, and other professions. Political activity by women was also accepted: while they could not run for political offices themselves, women were granted suffrage in the west before their eastern counterparts received it. Such freedoms at the community level reflected the greater degree of equality enjoyed by women in the domestic microcosm. Husbands recognized the importance of their wives to the survival of the family, and thus western women enjoyed a greater level of authority in the home than those in the east. It also seems clear that when men did not allow such equality, women increasingly turned to divorce as an option. Yet, not all historians believe that the west was indeed liberating for women. Many such detractors criticize the belief that domestic ideology became loosened in the west. Griswold argues that divorce was directly related to women’s sense of domestic morality. He also concludes that the cult of domesticity bonded women together on the isolating expanses of the frontier. This unification occurred at both the micro-structure of friendships and at the macro-structure of community projects to “civilize” the west. By loosening the concept of domestic ideology, Griswold argues that it becomes a moot point in comparing the freedoms of western women with their eastern counterparts.

Despite both the disagreement whether the notion of domestic ideology limited the freedoms of women in the west and the controversy surrounding the autonomy of western women, all historians agree that life for women living on the frontier was vastly different than in the east. The initial settlement was indeed hard for both men and women, yet the arduous labour required to succeed greatly equalized power between husband and wife. The majority of historians cited for this paper agree that the west offered a much wider occupational diversity for women than was available in the east. Although women could venture outside of the home to work, it is important to note that to a great extent they remained in “domestic” roles. A few brave others, however, were employed in strictly masculine occupations. Indeed, the participation of women in all aspects of settlement proved necessary for success, and the importance of women was recognized by the men who gave them a greater degree of social and political independence. For both sexes, the west was literally an open frontier.

Bibliography

De Graff, L.B. “Race, Sex, and Region: Black Women in the American West, 1850-1920,” Pacific Historical Review 49 (1980), 285-313.

Garceau, Dee. “Single Women Homesteaders and the Meanings of Independence: Places on the Map, Places in the Mind,” Frontiers 15 (1995), 1-26.

Griswold, R. “Anglo Women and Domestic Ideology in the American West in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,” Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives. Ed. L. Schlissel et al. University of New Mexico Press, 1988. 15-33.

Harris, K. “Sex Roles and Work Patterns Among Homesteading Families in Northeastern Colorado, 1873-1920,” Frontiers 7 (1984), 43-49.

Lindgen, H.E. Land in Her Own Name: Women as Homesteaders in... N. Dakota Inst for Reg Studies, 1991. 1-55.

Myers, S.L. Westering Women and the Frontier Experience. University of New Mexico Press, 1982. 141-66, 238-70.

An Analysis of the Barnard Translation of Correspondances

While the peculiarities of language render completely accurate translations impossible, by following certain criteria the translator can ensure that the author’s creation is well preserved. Most important is the preservation of the theme and style of the text, after which a literal translation may be attempted. The original text should be adhered to; the translator’s biases should be minimized, if not entirely disregarded. Ultimately, the translation must exist as an effective poem in English. For these reasons, I much prefer Patrick Barnard’s translation of Baudelaire’s Correspondances to the other three.

The prevailing themes in Baudelaire’s poem are man’s reverence for his environment, and simultaneously his symmetry and connection with it. These themes are adequately conveyed in Barnard’s translation. Notably, unlike the other three translators, he keeps Baudelaire’s intentions for the first four lines intact. It is in this first stanza that the author establishes the canvass on which the details of the subsequent stanzas are to be painted. I did not receive the same sense of man placed in context with nature as effectively from the other translations; Arthur Symons’s translation, with “birds watching [man’s] illusions” and “Sperpent’s mesh”, seems to be an entirely different poem. Barnard uses the same metaphors and symbols as Baudelaire: Nature’s pillars utter confused words (confuses paroles) in line 2; echoes long and distant (longs échos qui de loin...) in line 5; life and death, symbolized by the contrary smells of lines 9-11, are shown to exist harmoniously in line 12. These images are vital to the original text, and changing them, as for example Richard Wilbur has, proves to greatly disturb the poem. By changing “Qui chantent les transports de l’esprit et des sens” to “that excite/ The ecstasies of sense, the soul’s delight”, the reader loses the transcendency of the soul apparent in the original. While none of the translations adequately captures this final line, Barnard’s translation proves to be the most exact in emotional and thematic composition; in my view, changing the word “raptures” to something like ‘the transport’ or ‘the transcendency’ would better preserve Baudelaire’s concluding line. The organic quality of Baudelaire’s descriptions are preserved throughout Barnard’s text. In the original, the reader tangibly perceives the descriptions of the senses; this culminates in “parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants”, which conveys the smells of both a newborn child and a dead one. This sense is only kept in Barnard’s text, although were it not for the word “succulent”, Richard Howard would have been close. Such ‘earthy’ descriptions are very important to Baudelaire’s poetry, and it is nearly sacrilegious to remove them in a translation. Indeed, as a side-note it is interesting to observe the biases of the authors changing over time. The earlier translations modified “parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants” to avoid the reference to children, which greatly dilutes the emotional charge of the original. Yet, several decades later this reference became less questionable and was included in translation. In addition to the aforementioned themes, Barnard’s translation conveys to the reader the sense of mild bewilderment and sensual delight found in the original text. His text twists and turns through the descriptions of the various sensations, which much more effectively conveys the sense of helplessness—much like being forced upon an amusement ride—found in the original text. In contrast is the translation by Arthur Symons, which leads the reader through the descriptions in a “logical”, and therefore less emotive, manner. Barnard preserves the emotion from Baudelaire’s text. It is interesting to note that in this instance a literal translation proves to be the most effective. It retains all of the impact of the original text, yet it can stand on its own as a poem in english. Barnard did not force the text to rhyme, which I view as a common error of translation. Such an intention is found in both the Symons and Wilbur texts. By forcing the text to rhyme they seem very contrived; in some instances the order and even the entire meaning of a line has been reconstructed or omitted to suit this purpose. Barnard retains the free-flowing text of the original, and one can follow the aforementioned circuitous descriptions more easily than in the other translations.

While I stressed the importance of the translator’s objectivity toward the original text, I cannot relieve this essay of my own biases. I prefer Patrick Barnard’s translation of Correspondances because it most aptly preserves the themes, style, and images of Baudelaire’s text. Superficially, by being a literal interpretation, it can be seen to have followed the easiest method of translation. Yet the judgement and objectivity required in order to produce such a translation is sometimes hard to attain. A translator’s conceptions of the text may mask those of the author; certainly Symons’s translation is an example of such an occurrence. Barnard’s text in comparison proves its worth to those not fortunate enough to understand the original french.

Freedom in Arthur Gordon Pym and My Last Duchess

At the start of the nineteenth century, many authors began to indicate a desire for emancipation from the rigid social standards of the previous century. A call for individuality began in the romantic period, and was accomplished through the examination of emotion and the resultant evaluation of the self. A few decades later, such compositional ideologies were embedded in many works of literature. Poe’s Arthur Gordon Pym and Browning’s My Last Duchess can be seen as studies of an opposing nature. Throughout Poe’s work, Pym seeks freedom; in fact, he seems impelled toward liberty by means out of his control. Yet it is not merely physical deliverance that he attains, but the infinitely more sublime and important goal of the soul’s release from the torment of the mortal world to the realm of the divine. Conversely, the protagonist of Browning’s narrative has most certainly destroyed the freedom of the subject of the poem—his previous wife. Indeed, to a great extent he represents the retaliation by society against the enfranchisement of the younger generation. It is interesting to note that the agents of physical confinement for both Pym and the Duchess—a boat and a picture frame respectively—form the structural basis for each narrative.

The concept of physical and mental confinement can be seen throughout The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Although it was probably not Poe’s intention, setting the narrative on the sea presents an interesting dichotomy: the physical confines of the boat, especially notable when it was sinking, emphasized Pym’s lack of immediate freedom while the vast expanse of the sea allowed a great deal of freedom. Indeed this dichotomy seems to be the thematic basis for the novel: by emerging from the various traps which confine him, Pym traveled on a spiritual journey toward unification with the divine. In order to obtain salvation, he experienced a purification of the soul from the corruption of mortality; it is notable that this process of purification operates inversely to the life cycle. Therefore, Pym’s first imprisonment in the novel—inside a small coffin-like box on board the Grampus—is most akin to death. Indeed, it is vitally important that Pym does indeed symbolically die at the start of the text, as this allows him to relinquish his mortality and begin his quest for purification. In such a dream-like narrative as Poe created, birth and death are somewhat interchangeable: the coffin also bears a great resemblance to a uterine environment. Thus, he emerged from his captivity “redeemed from the jaws of the tomb” and relieved of the “insufferable torments [of his]...dreary prison” (p. 31). Poe establishes a reoccurring theme which Pym replays throughout the text: death and rebirth. Through the remainder of the text, Pym engaged in a Dante-like traverse through an earthbound hell. He was forced to endure a variety of torments and abhorrent experiences: the observation of the horrific remains of a Dutch ship and its crew set adrift; the consumption of one crewmate; the death by starvation of his friend Augustus; and the murder of the crew of the Jane Guy by the natives of Tsalal. Yet, similar to Dante descending through hell, it seems inevitable that Pym had to endure these hardships in order to purify his soul. By experiencing the extremes of human existence, he is able to remove the defects of mortality from his own being. Yet Pym himself did not notice this change until he had actually faced death on the cliff-face on the island of Tsalal in the second-last chapter. He then came to the realization that he had been reborn and “felt a new being” (p. 148).

It is this realization which allows his journey to proceed to a higher level. Pym and his company leave Tsalal and continue south, entering warmer waters. Here, Poe uses his most subtle graphic symbolism. The water gradually turned milky white, a likely allusion to breast milk, and the party entered into a region of extreme whiteness and illumination. While there is a great deal of mystery and tension in this passage, there is no hint of trepidation or terror in Pym. When he describes the immense shrouded figure at the end of the text, he does not use such nomenclature as “dreaded” or “diabolical” as he did with virtually every other creature in the novel. Indeed, this figure seems to be the object of Pym’s quest: such is virtually confirmed when he “rushed into the cataract” where the figure was (p. 155). The entire episode, therefore, is the conclusion of Pym’s spiritual journey. Through the journey itself, he had purified his soul, which had in this passage been incorporated into the divine. It is notable that several aspects of this section can be seen as a return to infancy then to birth. In addition to the aforementioned milky water as breast milk—an obvious symbol of feminine sustenance—the party entered a cataract “where a chasm threw itself open to receive [them]” (p. 155), ostensibly symbolizing the reverse of the birthing process—a return to the womb. It is interesting that Poe equates divinity with motherhood; other than these oblique references there are few instances of women in the text. Indeed, one can only speculate about the relationship Pym had with his own mother as she is not mentioned: perhaps she died in childbirth and Pym was impelled on this journey to atone for his ‘guilty conscience’. Yet such conjecture is largely incidental to the outcome of the journey itself. Ultimately, Pym had succeeded in liberating his soul from earthly boundaries and transcending to the divine.

In examining My Last Duchess, it becomes readily apparent that Browning was attempting to illustrate the extent to which society was protecting itself from the new liberalism of youth. While not explicit in the text, it is likely that there was a great difference in age between the protagonist and his former wife. He attempts, almost desperately, to portray the duchess as an unbound and disruptive force. Indeed, his resentment of her character is quite noticeable. He continually describes her as disloyal and adulterous, claiming that “t’was not/ Her husband’s presence only, called that spot/ Of joy on the Duchess’ cheek”(13-15), that “she had/ A heart...too soon made glad/...she liked whate’er/ She looked on, and her looks went everywhere” (21-4), and that all “who passed [received]/ Much the same smile” as he (44-5). From these details an inference into the character of the duchess is possible. She was obviously free and unrestrained in her expression of emotion, and was most likely curious of and delighted by the many social contacts available to her aristocratic standing. It was her interest in the many aspects of life which most offended the narrator; it is clear that he wanted her to be interested solely in him. The narrator is quite indignant that his duchess values a sunset and her mule equally with his sexual advances. His inadequacy as an aristocratic man further manifests itself when he states that “she ranked/ [his] gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name/ with anybody’s gift” (32-4). Thus, the relationship between the two characters presents itself. The duchess acted in such a manner as to threaten the narrator’s power and perhaps his image in the eyes of his peers. He was then forced make attempts to control her will—to “[give] commands” (45). Yet, he also states that he could not explicitly tell her what he viewed as her faults as he felt that such was below his station; it seems that he expected her to know the etiquette of her class. Abruptly he divulged the outcome of his inability to establish his authority over her. “All smiles stopped together” (46), and the duchess’s death becomes clear. Whether she was killed by the narrator—the ultimate act of control—or alternately she killed herself to escape his torment remains unclear. Yet both instances have an equal meaning symbolically: the duchess was unable to live outside of the traditional roles for her class and act as an individual. Her death can be seen as traditional society attempting to remain in control of her will and to quell her individual personality.

One can argue, however, that ultimately she was indeed successful in establishing herself as an individual and that the narrator was himself socially deviant. There is no mention of those whom the duchess smiled at being offended by her demeanor, nor was she shunned by her peers. It therefore seems likely that the faulty character was the narrator and not his wife. His desire to remove the liberties of his duchess stem from his objectification of woman; this is obvious when he describes his new bride as “[his] object” (53). Indeed, the basis of the poem is the objectification of a woman: the duchess is not a living woman but a portrait on a wall. Her physical freedom has been finally curtailed by the confines of the picture frame, and her character is wholly controlled by the narrator. Every action and observation is dictated by the narrator to the reader in the first person. Indeed, the reader is forced to share in the duchess’s confinement as the poem itself seems claustrophobic and limiting. He says that the reader is “not the first/...to turn and ask thus” (12-13) when no mention of the reader having done so is given; similarly, near the end he bids, or rather commands, the reader to rise and follow him to meet other guests. His attempts are ultimately unsuccessful, however, as the reader is free to determine the true nature of the character of the duchess. Yet, regardless of the reader’s view of her, the duchess remains solely as a picture on a wall.

Both Arthur Gordon Pym and My Last Duchess can be seen as exemplary of the romantic period due to the emphasis on freedom in both texts. Each portrays the central character’s search for liberty, yet they differ somewhat in outcome. The protagonist in Poe’s work ultimately achieves freedom by the emancipation of his soul from the mortal plane. Alternately, the attempts for independence by Browning’s duchess were circumscribed by her husband, who sought to control her ‘free spirit’. Whether he ultimately achieved such control is somewhat arguable, yet the poem as a whole remains a testament to the duchess’s fatal pursuit of liberty. Indeed, the two texts emotionally contrast each other quite nicely: Pym portrays the voyage of the protagonist through horror to liberty, while the duchess’s seemingly blissful experiments with freedom ended in tragedy.

Bibliography

Browning, Robert. My Last Duchess. The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces. Gen. Ed. Maynard Mack. 6th ed. Vol. 2. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992. 296-303.

Poe, Edgar Allan. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Boston, USA: David R. Godine, 1973.

Hercules Metamorphosed

By the far the most renowned hero in ancient times was Heracles / Hercules. While tradition held a certain ‘pattern’ for his character—an average or expected set of characteristics—authors and poets were continually re-conceptualizing him to suit their own times and their own purposes. It is quite possible to view explicitly many interpretations of the Hercules myth in their respective historical contexts. Whether a writer admired or condemned the character of Hercules greatly determined the role that he was given in the narrative. Both positive and negative perceptions can been seen in Greek and Roman texts; this flawed character was especially suited to tragedy. Although authors reinterpreted the basic myth to serve their own ends—of which Vergil with the Aeneid is exemplary—a pattern of development emerged. Hercules became more of a metaphorical construct, representing the struggle of life over death and conflict within man. Thus two patterns of development can be observed in the character of Hercules: adaptations according to the purposes of individual authors, and a trend toward greater spiritual sophistication.

By examining Hercules in all of the myths in which he is present, it is possible to determine a prototype of his character. Indeed, in doing so, one can associate the origins of the character with Mycenaean times. Exemplary of the highest virtues desired in that era, Hercules possessed enormous strength and physical endurance and was the bravest of men. This in turn led to his importance in the religion and folklore of Mycenae and later Greece. Therefore, explicit within this context, one can see acclamatory sentiments toward Hercules in many authors. Frequently, he is seen as a civilizing force in a world of barbaric chaos. This ‘sophisticating’ aspect of his character can be discerned in the nature of the monsters that he has to overcome in his labours. All of them were supernatural creatures who threatened civilized society: the Hydra and the immortal lion can be seen as encroaching barbarism. Pindar, Timaeus, Aeschylus, and Pisander all praise the hero for these achievements. Yet, such affirmations of Hercules seem merely an appeasement and a supplication to his status as a hero. In the Aeneid, Vergil used Hercules as a means to political and social ends. To a great extent Aeneas was a Roman reincarnation of Hercules, created to exemplify Roman imperialism and unite the populace behind the empire much as Hercules consolidated the disparate Greek city-states. While not nearly as physically imposing as Hercules, Aeneas was nevertheless the most strong and agile warrior in the Aeneid. Additionally, he shared with the Greek hero the utmost self-assurance which his elevated physical ability allowed. Akin to Heracles, he does not check himself in battle but rather relishes it: upon returning to his besieged encampment, “Aeneas was the first to charge against the levies of country-folk...and he was the first to strike Latins down” (Aen. 10, p. 260). The two characters also correspond as founders and defenders of civilization. In addition to his labours, an account of Hercules as civilizer is given in Book VIII of the Aeneid, in which he liberates the people of King Evander from the monster Cacus. The light of civilization was spared from barbarism as Hercules slew the monster and “tore down the doors and the murky den was thrown open” (Aen. 8, p. 209). Aeneas realized a similar achievement: to found Rome he first had to subdue the native Italians. His chief opponent, Turnus, was the absolute embodiment of barbarism; in many ways he was comparable to the opponents of Hercules. Importantly, like Hercules, Aeneas becomes elevated above mortal status by his heroic exploits. Indeed, the comparison between the two heroes in this context was of vital importance for Vergil—and indeed, to his sponsor Augustus—in declaring Roman dominion as having a mythological basis. This belief is implicit in Book VI when Aeneas declares that like Hercules, he too is “descended from highest Jove” (Aen. 6, p. 151). Hercules was thus used as a mythological stamp of approval for Roman imperialism.

Yet Vergil is not in complete accordance with Hercules as a respectable hero. In several manners he seems to view Aeneas as being superior to the Greek hero, partially to reflect a belief in superior Roman morality. Vergil frequently emphasizes that Hercules’s weapon was a club —a primitive bludgeoning device that requires relatively little skill to employ. Alternately, Aeneas wielded spears and more importantly a sword, armaments that can only be constructed in more advanced societies and require an equally elevated sophistication in their handling. Similarly, at times Vergil displays a dislike towards the violence inherent in Hercules’s nature and reflected in Aeneas; several instances in the Aeneid document Aeneas’s tendency to lo losing control to his impulses. As Troy is being sacked, his fury over the loss of this beloved city allowed “madness [to master his] judgement and [gain] complete control” (Aen. 2, 68), and nearly caused him to attack a defenseless woman. When compared to Hercules’s killing of his music teacher Linus, it is easy to note Vergil’s contempt. Indeed, the denunciation of Hercules can be seen in the works of several other authors. Chiefly, they asserted that his extreme strength was dangerous and capriciously applied. One can see such criticism even as early as Homer, who mentions the hubris that Hercules displays and the odious killing of a host, Iphitus (Il. 5.403, Od. 21.28). Yet the most scathing reproach came from Sophocles in the Trachiniae. He portrayed Hercules as a drunk whose vengeance brought the death of Iphitus, whose passions brought the downfall of Oechalia, and whose neglect is painfully felt by his wife and children. A more lighthearted approach to objection can be seen in The Voyage of Argo by Apollonius of Rhodes. In this text, Heracles is gently satirized in a variety of situations: his physical size is noted for the first time in literature as he is forced to sit in the middle of the ship, and he is too strong for his oar to bear (Book 1, p. 67). Yet such docile humour is counterbalanced in the text by a recounting of the murders that he committed, and his last appearance is wholly unflattering. Indeed, Apollonius portrays the irrelevance of such an archaic hero as Hercules for the age in which the poem was written, the Hellenistic period—a time of great scientific and artistic achievement, and an age in which warfare differed greatly from combat portrayed in traditional myths of Hercules. Therefore, in this context it is no surprise that he can not even complete the voyage but is instead drawn away by his passions (Book 1, pp. 70-1). Hercules was further condemned for his hubristic violations of nature. This seems the basis for Seneca’s Hercules Furens, as the hero is seen as the exemplar of human hubris.

While such praise or condemnation of Hercules continued throughout the Greek and Roman periods, one approach to the myth did indeed change over time. Over the centuries, the Hercules myth altered from representing the physical achievements of the hero to symbolizing more metaphysical issues. The true worth of the deeds of Hercules began to be questioned: Lucretius condemned Hercules for ignoring the challenges of the mind and spirit. Yet authors started to merge the two into one concept—the deeds of the hero deriving from spiritual perfection. Thus, the conquests of the hero began to symbolize spiritual accomplishments. Two plays by Euripides exemplify these tendencies. In both Heracles and Alcestis, the hero is forced to confront mortality. Indeed, in the latter play Hercules is seen to overcome death quite literally as he goes down to the underworld and returns with Alcestis. When associated with his ascension into heaven, it can be observed that Hercules became a guarantor of immortality; in reality he was frequently represented in later Roman funeral rites. By the Roman period, the re-evaluation of Hercules as a hero of a spiritual nature became common. In addition to condemning the hero in Hercules Furens, the supreme nature of his spirit in conquering death is emphasized. It is stated that by his virtus he would be able to return from the underworld (312f., 319-24), and constant reference is made to his deification (438ff., 959). By this period, therefore, Hercules can frequently be seen as a symbol of immortality and the struggle of life over death.

From such evidence as has been noted above, admittedly limited to only a few of the multitude of possible authors, it is possible to observe the evolution of the Greek hero from the physical to the spiritual realm. Indeed, in light of the criticism accorded Hercules over the centuries, this transformation conceivably occurred to justify and reaffirm the importance of his character within Greek and Roman society. What is clear about the mythology surrounding the hero is that it was continually being adapted to suit the needs of individual authors. Therefore it is easy to see the protean nature of the Hercules character following two paths: at the same time he transformed in a linear sequence over time, and alternately he was being separately reconstructed by each author in a lateral fashion. Throughout the many changes in Greek and Roman mythology, however, Hercules never lost his importance.

Bibliography
Apollonius of Rhodes. The Voyage of Argo. Trans. E.V. Rieu. London: Penguin Books, 1971.

Fitch, John G. Seneca’s Hercules Furens: A Critical Text with Introduction and Commentary.
Ithaca, USA: Cornell University Press, 1987.

Hamilton, Edith. Mythology. Boston, USA: Little Brown and Company, 1942.

Vergil. The Aeneid. Trans. W.F. Jackson Knight. London: Penguin Books, 1972.

Urban Women in Late Medieval Europe

In examining the lives of the various townswomen of the late middle ages, it must be noted that there was no single mode of existence throughout all of Europe. Laws and cultural traditions varied quite dramatically with geography; therefore, a manner of life which existed in Florence may not have been reflected in London or Hamburg. There is one constant among all the cases examined, however: without few exceptions, life in a mid- to large-size town was more prosperous, varied, and free for urban women than their rural counterparts. The much greater circulating wealth and occupational diversity of the towns allowed women to be well represented in the economy. To a large extent the majority of the professional work done by women was an extension of their domestic service. However, one must beware not to devalue such occupations on this basis; the work that women performed for their communities was of great importance. A woman’s civil liberties can be seen as linked with the occupational foundations of the town in which she lived. In towns whose economy is based on the trade of goods for which women are the main suppliers, a high degree of freedom and legal support is given to them. The nature of the data that have survived must here be noted. First-hand or other direct accounts of the lives of average urban women are quite rare; indeed, most of the few records that have survived that provide direct access into the experiences of urban women are literary. Therefore, one has to extrapolate from the extant data to provide a more complete picture. In doing so, however, one encounters the problem inherent in medieval data sources: they are neither complete nor continuous. Yet, an admittedly blurry picture of urban women does emerge from these sources. Many are shown to be industrious and successful, even in light of laws in certain regions which greatly prohibited their activities.

To a great extent, the move to an urban setting emancipated women from a short life of hardship and dependence. Their lifespans increased, quickly surpassing that of men. Coupled with the propensity for men to marry younger brides, there was a large number of women outliving their husbands. In order to accommodate such a situation, property and inheritance laws were gradually modified to preserve women’s liberties. The most universal and important safeguard for women was the emergence of the dowry and dot, the portion of wealth that a bride was required to bring to a marriage. The dowry kept women from utter poverty when they became widowed or were otherwise separated from their husbands as it could not be given to heirs without her consent. Additionally, while the dowry could be freely invested by the husband, it could not be claimed by creditors for any debts owed by him. In many parts of Europe, women could legally disassociate themselves from their indebted husbands and withdraw their dowry. As an adjunct to this ‘guaranteed’ wealth of the dowry, women could inherit the property of their father or husband, either whole or in part. There are many cases of women independently managing the family lands or businesses. Alternately, they might become business partners with their children, the intended heirs of the property. Importantly, women had the right to determine their marital status after the death of their husbands; they were not legally forced into remarriage. Women were also allowed to make their own wills and bequeath property at their discretion, although they frequently needed permission from their husbands while he was still alive. Even though a man had legal control over his wife’s property—indeed, in many regions she had no property of her own save her dowry while her husband was still alive—in practice many women acted independently with their wealth, buying and selling at their desire. In a few regions women had the authority to represent themselves in the courts as well, further suggesting their legal independence. They did not gain complete personal freedom in the domestic or civil spheres however. In very few regions could women engage in politics, either as guild masters or on town councils. Inheritance laws were modified to arrest the concentration of wealth within a few families. Marriages could no longer be arranged among heirs: widows were restricted from marrying a brother of their deceased husband. Indeed by marrying outside of their own households, rich women circulated wealth among the townspeople. Men could still abuse their wives and daughters with impunity, although they could not kill them. Additionally, the threat of withholding the dowry forced daughters to accept the wishes of their fathers, including the arrangement of marriages. In conclusion, it can be seen that with the advent of urban life, women gained a great deal of legal freedom, although they were far from being completely independent of men.

The modern stereotype of a woman in medieval Europe places her in domestic servitude under the authority of her husband. Yet modern scholarship has proven such a situation as unrepresentative of most of the women in the towns and cities of Europe. There was indeed a great deal of work to be done in the urban household: they had to nurse children, cook for the family and guests, manage the goods-stores of the house, spin and weave, and supervise servants. Through the high and late middle ages the role of women in ‘external’ occupations becomes ever more clear. However, the nature of the data must be examined: there is no single source which provides a true picture of the working life of an average urban woman. Thus, as an example, tax records can not be completely relied upon to determine the number of women who engaged in commerce; alternately, they do provide some insight into the extent to which women did participate. As many men performed their trade or business at home, women were actively involved in the process. By observation and participation, they would learn the techniques and intricacies of the crafts first from their fathers and later their husbands. Indeed, these skills were of crucial importance, as women would take over the business when their husbands were away. There are also many instances of women acting on their own, either alongside their husband or in their own separate business affairs. In a few cases, husbands drew up a legal agreement entitling their wives to act on their behalf; the most common of these were not documents but official seals. Women were not limited to participation in the business of their husbands however. Frequently, they established themselves completely independently, either inheriting a business from a parent or commencing one anew. The majority of occupations by which they did so can be seen as extensions of domestic labour: cloth-making, fishing, the selling of foodstuffs and other provisions, and tavern-keeping. While some men objected to dealing with businesswomen, most records demonstrate that women were indeed accepted into the economic sphere as ordinary participants.

Guilds allowed membership to women, and in certain occupations they could become mistresses, although their activities were occasionally limited. The simplest route to membership was through the husband; most guilds allowed a woman to continue practicing the craft after her husband’s death, even though she may not have been a master. As marriage provided such an easy avenue into the fellowship, members were required to have their spouses approved by the guild; it is easy to envisage men who had been rejected by the guilds seeking marriage with a widow who had membership. Several occupations, such as embroidery, brewery, and silk-spinning were almost exclusively female, and this was reflected in the restrictiveness of the respective guilds. Young girls were apprenticed in the same manner as boys, usually entering apprenticeship in their early teens, although by the late medieval period they rarely received guild membership through such means. While the guilds seemed to protect the business interests of women, they became increasingly restrictive towards them towards the end of the middle ages. Men were appropriating occupations which had largely been the domain of women: brewing and cloth-making guilds began to exclude women. The sole occupations which remained exclusively female in the late middle ages were in the silk industry. They could receive a formal education, however for the most part it consisted simply of basic literacy. Indeed women in merchant families were required to be literate to conduct the family business. Yet, with the advent of universities and grammar schools women became increasingly excluded. As many occupations began to require some form of education, women became increasingly marginalized.

The majority of the economic activity described above pertained to the middle class. However, neither the upper or poor classes remained on the fringes of economic society. Indeed, upper class women could all but remain unoccupied: their husbands possessed the majority of the wealth of the urban centres. Cases have survived which demonstrate the extent to which a woman of the upper class engaged in business alongside her husband: she might enter important trade agreements. Additionally, when they inherited the estates of their fathers or husbands, they could come into control of sizeable property and might head a highly successful business. There are several instances of women acting independently as moneylenders and tradeswomen. Women of the lower classes were more restricted in the opportunities presented to them. Domestic service was the most accessible occupation, yet it was not an easy or highly profitable life. Entering into the households of the middle and upper classes, they were expected to work hard in order to allow their masters to concentrate on the family business. These servants were frequently children of poor parents, or even orphans, who would work for their board and perhaps to receive a small wage to put towards their dowry. Distinctions among the classes were just as important to urban-dwellers as to the aristocracy. Sumptuary laws were passed to keep women from dressing ‘above their station’, and there are many records of merchant women wanting to flaunt their modest wealth. The extremely wealthy did have a very high standard of living; indeed, they attempted to live in a similar fashion as the aristocracy. Yet individuals were mobile within the social structure: an increase in wealth gave individuals more power and respectability in the town. There are many cases of men and women marrying wealthier spouses and thus elevating their social positions. This did not occur among the extremely poor and the extremely rich, however. Within this social context, women can be seen as having established themselves as solidly middle class. They were rarely part of the extremely wealthy upper class, unless they had married into or inherited wealth, but they nevertheless enjoyed financial independence. Such was not the case for rural women; it can be seen that within a social context, the city allowed a degree of mobility unknown in the country.

It is impossible to form a complete picture of the typical European urban woman of the late middle ages. The closest that one can come to this goal is to create a broad generalization which may not apply to all regions and circumstances. As has been noted above, women’s legal rights differed greatly from country to country, and even among individual towns. Yet one constant aspect of urban life can be seen throughout Europe: women gained some measure of liberty and financial independence with the move to an urban setting. Their importance in the economic life of cities has been repeatedly proven and is no longer a basis of debate. Yet, in many ways such freedoms were being curtailed in the later medieval period. Thereafter, women would not enjoy the same level of civil freedom that they had in the high and later middle ages until this century.


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Goody, Jack. The Development of the Family and Marriage in Europe. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1983.

Heer, Friedrich. “The Social Status of Women,” Everyman in Europe. Ed. Allan Mitchell & Istvan Deak. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1981. 125-132.

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Herlihy, David. Medieval Households. Cambridge, USA: Harvard University Press, 1985.

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Rowling, Marjorie. Everyday Life in Medieval Times. London: B.T. Batsford, 1968.

Seccombe, Wally. A Millennium of Family Change. London: Verso, 1992.

Sheehan, Michael M. Marriage, Family, and the Law in Medieval Europe: Collected Studies.
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Stuard, Susan Mosher. Women in Medieval Society. USA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1976.