Having finished "Fantomina" and Oroonoko, I understand why Janet Todd's introduction to Behn's novel cautions the reader against interpreting Behn's work through a postmodern viewpoint. Approaching either work from a postfeminist, postcolonial viewpoint leads the reader to adopt a skepticism that obscures what is valuable in both readings.
For example, I had difficulty reconciling the ending of "Fantomina" with the assertion that Haywood's protagonist is exercising an unusual amount of freedom. As a consequence of Fantomina's affair(s) with Beuplaisir, she is left with an illegitimate child. It would seem to me, the postmodern reader, that despite the arguable "freedom" she had enjoyed, it is Fantomina and not Beauplaisir who is left with the consequences of their illicit affair.
In the beginning of "Fantomina," Haywood describes the young lady as having "distinguished Birth, Beauty, Wit, and Spirit" (Haywood 227). Her gifts seem to be doing her little good, as she can only use them to their fullest extent after abandoning her identity as a well-born noblewoman. By rejecting this identity and adopting one of a lower-class prostitute (although possibly higher-class within the caste system of prostitution at the time), Fantomina is free to exercise all of her attributes in pursuit of Beauplaisir.
Haywood makes several generalizations regarding the nature of men and women, of whom Beauplaisir and Fantomina serve as a sort of embodiment. Haywood writes that "he (Beauplaisir) varied not so much from his Sex as to be able to prolong Desire, to any great Length after Possession: The rifled Charms of Fantomina soon lost their Poignancy, and grew tasteless and insipid" (Haywood 233). Fantomina is then still the pursuer, as she employs several different ruses in order to continue enjoying the attentions of Beauplaisir. Fantomina has "constancy," as Haywood puts it. She is unable to be satisfied with anyone but Beauplaisir, while he is the exact opposite, constantly craving novelty and growing quickly tired of Fantomina's various disguises.
In the end, however, it is Fantomina who is packed off to the convent, although if the footnote is to be believed, that might not be such a bleak fate, and possibly more of a vacation.
Behn's Oroonoko presented me with the same quandary. How am I, the modern reader, to reconcile Behn's description of Oroonoko as seemingly possessing both the best attributes of European and "savage" cultures, with the fact that he himself caused the enslavement of many of the characters introduced later in the story?
In the character of Oroonoko, it seems that Behn has created a hybrid of what she considers the best qualities of both cultures. Oroonoko is well-learned and articulate, with courtly manners, but also has a sort of Edenic quality that Behn attributes to those living in the "state of nature" that she finds the natives in. Even his appearance, as described by Behn, has a sort of hybridity to it, blending attractive European features with a "perfect ebony or polished jet" (Behn 15). Interestingly, the picture on the cover of the Penguin Classics edition of Oroonoko looks nothing like this description.
However, it seems to be this nobility of character that is Oroonoko's downfall, as he makes the mistake of taking the ship's captain, and later the governor, at their word, with dire consequences.
Behn presents a series of contradictions. Oroonoko is so noble as to be unfit for slavery and to make those who have befriended him question the institution entirely; yet he has enslaved prisoners himself.
Behn and Haywood present a considerable challenge to the modern reader. Is Fantomina really exercising freedom, given that she bears the consequences of her affair? Can Oroonoko be read as an indictment of slavery if the titular character keeps slaves himself?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Haywood and Behn-revisionist history?
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4 comments:
I want to reply to Alana's wonderfully insightful post with a couple questions of my own, prefaced with a comment. First, what Alana has clearly pointed out is that we read in historically determined ways, many of which are determined by important critical and cultural events--like the advent of feminism, the fall of major colonial operations, and the conceptual logics that accompany such real world events. My question is this: to what extent are we able "to read" these texts? What are our readerly assumptions? Can we ever read these texts "accurately"? If so, according to what critera do we measure success? If not, what are our goals? Excellent reading, Alana--I hope we have time to discuss these apparent contradictions in more detail this Monday. What does everyone else think?
To give my own "tasteless and insipid " two cents, I loved Alana's observation that Fantomina's "bleak fate" is "possibly more of a vacation." In terms of her character, this certainly seems true, and leaves this historically-determined reader pleasantly vexed - because Haywood's style urges me toward a sort of pity, which my interest in Fantomina strongly opposes.
I did notice in my emotional response to the ending that my reading was informed by trying to find a deeper cohesion of Fantomina's character and I was frustrated by the uncomic ending. Perhaps such a reading is a mistake. The text doesn't lend itself to a deep psychological study due to its implicit (and explicit) comedy. It doesn't lend itself entirely well to comedy, either, due to the sobering protagonist's fate. On the other hand, she could certainly be interpreted as a completely unique character hoisted and strapped by the same tethers, a much more "modern"-minded piece that recognizes that humor and utter humility are often very much the same.
I think, Dr. Howe, it is near impossible to really remove oneself from an historical mindset. One can maybe research prior responses and critique that, or simply critique the work according to the literary sensibilities up to that time, but it is difficult to forget the major literary discoveries and changes that have occurred between now and Haywood's time. And leaving such fruitful interpretations in favor of the Grail of Accuracy seems wasteful and brief. As such, I couldn't put too many restrictions on "successful reading" since I find the reading of a text to be conversational (a la Iser and Rosenblatt) and my particular historical reading to be an important link and exchange in that long talk.
In Kris's comment on Alana's post, he mentions something very much like what recent critics have described as "resistant" about early women prose writers like Haywood--the unresolved quality of their endings, sometimes referred to as an "open endedness" of sorts. Often, we find these conclusions unsatisfying, largely because they don't conform to our expectations of or desires for closure. "Closure" means that things are all tied up at the end, no messy questions have been left floating around willy-nilly, forcing us to wonder. Whose interests does "closure" serve? Why do we seem to "want" closure? What is it supposed to give us? I'm thinking here of that commonplace about victims of violent crime and so on--everyone says the death of the offender will "give the family closure." What does this really mean, and why do we want it? Or rather, why are we encouraged to want it?
The question of closure is a good one. What is closure? What will give you closure? I hear that word so often in the context of relationships that that is what immediately springs to mind. Haven't most people (at least those who have had a few relationships end badly) experienced unresolved feelings long after they thing they should "be over it?" I think of "closure" as really the desire to have a chance to say, "you were wrong and I was right, now admit it!" and actually have that happen. In reality, you hardly ever get that. In the context of Fantomina, what I really wanted to see happen was Beauplaisir get his comeuppance and experience a moment of forehead-slapping, I-was-an-idiot emotion. Does this happen? Nope. Am I disappointed? A little.
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